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mollysunder · 7 months

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On Silco and Molatovs

I still think about how the creators of Arcane wanted the opening scene to be a young Silco throwing a molotov cocktail during the Day of Ash on the bridge. It's supposed to be implied that Silco's actions were the trigger for why that day escalated to such violence and death. But honestly, all it does is vindicate the success of Silco's leadership in Zaun.

Most of the problems Silco faces in Act 2 & 3 are practically the same challenges Vander faced, but worse. His kid blew up a building and intentionally murdered people while doing it. The operation he had his kid go on got interrupted by a rival gang of young people with the objective literally up in flames. Piltover's putting (economic) pressure on Zaun to find the culprit on the Progress Day attack. Silco also has to put up with upstarts attempting to undermine his leadership position as tensions starts to mount. In spite of all the pressures Silco faced, he was able to manuever around them all a lot better than Vander did.

Let's take Jinx's hexgem heist for the first example. One building robbed and vandalized, another building set on fire and bombed, and six enforcers killed. Yet the only enforcer that was in Zaun for that escapade was Marcus, because Marcus couldn't treat Silco like Grayson treated Vander.

When the kids accidentally blew up the Kiramman building during their heist, no one died, but enforcers were flooded into Zaun, because Grayson saw it in her capacity to do that. Even when Grayson goes to calmly speak with Vander, she's still flanked by aggressive underlings who consistently escalate tensions. Grayson, as the Sheriff Vander trusts, either can't control the enforcers in her charge or is incredibly lax with how they operate, and that's because Grayson had no incentive to be genuinely effective.

Grayson and Vander operated on knowledge where both assumed Piltover's forces had the upperhand on Zaun and could demolish them. No matter how cordial Vander and Grayson were to eachother, Grayson held the cards in that dynamic. There was nothing Vander could do if Grayson just changed her mind about keeping enforcers out of Zaun. Grayson just believed it was for the good of both cities to avoid further bloodshed (that Zaun risked) by delegating responsibility of Zaun to Vander. They manage to work together essentially through Grayson's grace, rather than Vander's own legitimacy as a leader.

Marcus however, must actually attempt restraint because both he and Silco have actual stakes in their relationship. So Marcus enters Zaun ALONE to figure out a solution with it's defacto leader, Marcus is just upset about it the whole time. Frankly that's why I think Jinx intentionally caused as much loud and obvious damage because she KNEW she would get away with it, she still kind of has (she isn't in Stillwater). Jinx has been with Silco for at least seven years, she knows he's got Marcus in bind that's only getting tighter, and knows Silco won't hesitate to throw someone (the Firelights) under the bus for it, unlike Vander.

And even when passage through the bridge is shut down and Zaunites are out in anger protesting, no one dies. Some Zaunite there literally threw a molotov cocktail at the enforcer line and yet violence on the scale of the Day of Ash didn't transpire, because Silco put them, specifically Marcus, in a position where the had to be restraint. In every aspect of Vander's leadership that's about real material gain, Silco has managed to succeed where he failed. Practically every act of aggression at Piltover under Silco's regime never saw the same level of retribution that Vander's did. Sevika chose Silco over Vander because she believed he truly was a more effective leader, and she was right! In the end, she didn't betray Silco because he easily outpaced all the other contenders.

Tldr: Whenever the writers bring up Silco's faults, sometimes it just makes him look better than his counterparts in terms of skill and effectiveness. Silco managed to get Zaun treated like a separate nation faster than Vander could have dreamed.

#arcane silco #arcane #silco #jinx arcane #vander arcane #grayson arcane #arcane meta #zaun #i feel like a lot of people based their opinions on silco and vander as leaders based on vibes alone #like some argue vander was more community oriented #and I'm like... based on what #we saw his gang operate at his base of operation which is the The Last Drop

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sculptorofcrimson · 27 days

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Smokefields

Synopsis: Valdor bathes his lord

Relationships: Valdor x female Emperor Shard

Warnings: Bathroom sex, minorly dubious consent, vaginal fingering, nsfw

Wordcount: 3057 Possible continuation of Snowfields! Had another free 20 minutes to write, enjoy!

It wasn’t a calculated move.

Valdor had carried her into the baths, she still clinging onto him, bleary and half-conscious and half-asleep from the drugs the medicae had given her. Curiously, she seemed to have taken no damage from the lightning at all. Most of the damage inflicted had been sustained while recovering her. She had no doubt Valdor had already laid waste to all that upon that mission, if there were any other than himself, but she no longer found it in herself to despair.

It was simply a rite of Valdor. The price for ruling the world, if it may even be called that.

He had settled her into the warm water with the carefulness of a man caretaking a particularly fragile piece of china, gently lowering her inch by inch, and prying off her hands. She hadn’t even realized when he had stripped her, or if he had ever done so. Valdor seemed to have no concept of shame, humiliation or dishonor, none that he could fathom in any clearly defined way anyways. He was simply here to clean the blood from her frame, there was nothing else in that broken, ironclad mind of his.

She had startled when he had approached her, even while she was lying limply in that bath, head cocked to one side. The Custodian knelt down, soapy sponge in hand, gently reaching out to grasp one of her arms. His grip had tightened when she tried to yank it away. Rhythmically, he had begun to scrub at the skin, firm but gentle. She had watched him continue for a few moments, until he moved lower, until he was working at her stomach, and then her abdomen, and then her thighs. And that was when she had moved.

Valdor had lifted one of her thighs - gently of course - and began to scrub over the skin. The water was warm, his movements swift, and the scent of soap soft and light. He passed over her limbs without even a hint of recognizing this as anything more than a habitual practice, a way of cleaning the filth off a precious piece of jewelry perhaps. She had caught his hand when he tried to move away, and pressed it against her. Something had come undone, something vicious and broken and keening. Something that howled so pitifully out into the encroaching dark, begging for someone, anyone, to listen to her, even if they were her jailer, and his love just as cold as his wrath.

“Constantin.” she had rasped. Her voice was shaky. She didn’t remember what words he had spoken then. Perhaps one more of his habitual declarations of loyalty as he had tilted his head, and waited for her command.

“Yes, my lord?”

Her command was as curt as it was direct. “Bed me.” Something had broken inside of her, alright. Something that had once cared, and was now charred to ashes. Ashes, what an ugly word. It was almost as ugly as “immortal”.

Valdor's reply didn't even change his usual cadence. "Absolutely not, my lord. Your current state-”

She no longer cared enough to fear the consequences of interrupting him. “Surely you know alternatives. Your fingers.” she nodded at him. “I command you to, Constantin.”

He could not resist a direct command. For a moment, Valdor was silent, the sponge held in one loose grip. Then he gave a nod, and set it down, turning to face her entirely.

“Do you remember the first time you had me, my lord?” his question was stated more like a declaration than an actual question. His gaze was eerie. For one, he didn’t seem to be in need of blinking. For another, she felt as if this was an interrogation, even if he had smiled - surprisingly genuine - when he had asked it. It was not a gloating smile, but there was triumph in it anyways, a bitter, victorious smile of a madman that had finally been vindicated in his delusions.

She didn’t know what came over her then. What spiteful, ancient entity had latched onto her limbs and forced open her mouth.

“Constantin.” she spoke. Her voice resonated dully, and instinctively she felt herself raising her chin, straightening her spine, looking him dead in the eye even if her stomach coiled itself into knots at the mere thought of looking into that dreaded, insane gaze.

Valdor was staring back at her with the same fervour of a man that had grovelled in the icefields for centuries, who had finally seen the flame, and was now willing to burn for it. “Yes, my lord?”

She didn’t know what possessed her then, what cruel, vengeful part had snapped out to command him. “Be quiet.” she hissed.

Valdor stalled. He looked at her, as if gauging the seriousness of her command. She spoke nothing, simply calmly held his gaze with one of her own, and impatiently bucked her hips. She had no intentions of hearing him. She would enjoy herself, even if this was the only way she would accept it.

“Be quiet.” she repeated. Then, she grasped his hand, and pressed it against her, and impatiently waved at him to continue.

Valdor simply gave a short nod to show he understood and slipped a finger into her, slow and gentle and without rush.

She inhaled sharply, arching her back as his fingers found her bud and flicked at it. Valdor’s strokes slowed, as if calculating how to approach a particularly complex problem, his grip tightening and pressing down upon her hip until she grumbled in frustration and leaned back down.

He only waited until her movements slowed, then leaned forwards with that maddening grace, as delicate as a dancer performing a pirouette. Valdor lapped gentle kisses against her neck, whispering half-audible words of loyalty she no longer cared for as he freely and gently teased against the wetness of her folds.

“More.” she whispered, gasping. Her shoulders - so thin compared to his bulk - shook in the warm water. Desperately wanting to feel full, desperately wanting to feel loved, to forget the weight of the storm and the snow. Valdor obeys with only a cold smile, something close to satisfaction igniting in his gaze as he traces her entrance with a light touch, brushing against her folds.

A finger, calloused from weaponry and thicker than any mortal man’s digit, gently probes against her one last time, slipping inside with a gentle pressure, curling just to hit the spot that made her mewl and hiss. He strokes her with a slow, wave-like rhythm, holding her against him with a gentle, almost lazy touch. She clenches, feeling Valdor shift with her movements, and rocks her hips back against him.

She was mewling, hissing, clawing at him now. Water splashed around her, droplets sinking into the finery of his robe as she dragged at him, never seeming to make a single difference against his silk. Here he would be, perfect, elegant, without flaw, without even a droplet of water upon his immaculate features. She dragged at him, pulling him closer until she could tilt her head up and kiss him.

The angle was wrong. He was too tall, too large, and he was holding her too tightly to allow for any proper manuveering. Stubbornly, she persists, mouthing against his jawline and dragging at him until he returns it. There was no passion from him, no corresponding joy as he reciprocates. It was as if she had been kissing a corpse. No. Worse. Even corpses can be loved. It was as if she was kissing a statue, one without a heart and without a mind to care.

There was no passion in this. No love. Simply the movements of a primal dance He had beaten out of Valdor long ago, the emotions behind it lost forever, but the movements still remain. He was as utterly obedient as a machine would be, without complaint, and without even resistance. It was, in some horrible, twisted way, submission.

His free hand was no longer wandering through her hair. It had instead braced itself against her hip to steady her. She exalted softly as he slipped another finger inside of her, the movement so damnably gentle. Valdor was a large man, and yet he always took such care in bed. Growling, she reached for him again, seeking to kiss him again. Again, his lips on hers. Cold, mechanical, without passion. He simply opened his lips and let her explore as she wished, he let her taste the taste of incense and parchment and gold and blood upon his tongue, he let her trace his insides without protest. He simply hummed around her tongue, hunching over so that he could reach her, letting her explore the sharp tips of his canines carefully. He pulled away first, right at the edge when she was about to run out of air. He was still there, resolute, his chest barely even moving as she gasped and writhed as his fingers curled up to hit just the right spot. When he felt her relax around him again, he resumed his moments.

She cried out as his fingers found her clit, pumping slowly, gently, yet with that dreaded assurance. The pleasure was almost too much to handle. He wasn’t smiling, not quite, but there was that careful, attentive zeal in those eyes again, dark and calculating as he wrung cry after moan from her, his fingers moving with the same efficiency and grace he had displayed in combat. One moment rubbing against her inner walls, another moving against her clit in a hypnotic pattern.

His hands. Carefully manicured nails, surprisingly slender and graceful fingers, calloused from years of weaponary but still gentle. Those hands. He had killed a man with those hands. Slit his throat and watched him die. She couldn’t divorce the image from her mind, even as she keened and squirmed and danced beneath his grip. His fingers kept their quick rhythm in and out of her cunt, making no other sound except for the skin against skin as he honed in with brutal efficiency upon that spot that made her tremble. She keened at a particularly sharp thrust of his hand, sharper than his normal movements, but not enough to hurt her. His fingers were much thicker than a mortal’s man’s, but so infinitely gentle, even as he relentlessly targeted the spot that made her scream.

She bucked against his grip, sobbing out moans of lust and overwhelming emotion combined, knowing she was in his grasp, knowing he had his free hand holding her down. Smelling that incense, feeling his terrible, murderous presence, and knowing she couldn’t escape as her weeping cunt was fucked with that slow, gentle, yet ruthless pace.

He could have her moaning in minutes. His fingertip, teasingly this time, curls against that sensitive spot. Desperately, she clamps down, rolling her hips as she chases the high. Water splashes from around her as she grasps onto his shoulders, clawing at his robes, trying to find something - anything - to grab onto.

His finger curls against that spot again. She growled a groan of pure lust as he resumes pumping, rubbing against her walls, and her breath was stolen away in a sharp pitched whine. He had been so perfectly trained, so calm and collected even as his grip shifts to rub against her clit. He had been so utterly built to satisfy any purpose, it was inconceivable how he could fail. Hungrily, she clenched around his hand, accepting the only touch he would offer her. Still obedient from her earlier command, Valdor purrs, and moves close. Uncaring of the water now soaking into his robes, he gently spreads her thighs so his hands could have greater room to work. His strokes were faster now, tracing against her walls, leaving her a squirming, writhing mess, the pleasure rising and ebbing like a wave. That sight of him, his hands fisted around a dying man’s neck, was all but forgotten now, beneath that ache, the lust building and rearing until it was nearly unbearable. She squirms, her hips pumping and buckling against him, even as he lets her move as she desires, never letting go nor forcing her still, simply silent and obedient and somehow mechanical. It’s cold, it’s freezing and passionless and heartless, but it’s perfect , as if he had been trained to every cell of her body, programmed to please every inch of her.

“Con…Constantin!” she gasps. The sound was nearly lost over the sloshing of water, and the rhythm of his fingers through her cunt.

He was not yet commanded to speak. Instead, Valdor only tilts his head, like a curious dog listening in. He knows. Of course. He could smell weakness like blood on the water. The movements of his fingers are faster now, her walls clenching and unclenching around him, working her with a simple, brutal efficiency.

Her hands had tangled against his back, tracking small handprints of water. In the places where the water touched, fabric hung dark over his tall frame, draping over lean muscle and perfectly gene-carved tissue. Valdor still holds himself with that perfect, immaculate, dancer's grace, even half-hunched over, his face without even a trace of expression as he works at her, without pause and without hesitation, his eyes occasionally roaming over her flesh as if to verify she was still there, and not a creation of bone or metal. She shudders, and closes her eyes, and loses herself in the mechanical sensation of his fingers. She could feel herself nearing, her walls clenching around his fingers, so close to the edge, hips pumping up and down against him as his movements never pause, guiding her over it with the same, insistent gentleness he had always shown.

She cries out when she comes, the waves both intense and shattering. It crashes over her, raw and brutal like a wave of frost, shockwaves reverberating through her core and her abdomen. For a moment the world dissolves, the scent of incense fading, as her mind fades to nothing but sobs and screams. Valdor works her throughout, strokes slowing down so as not to overstimulate her.

She returns slowly, through blurry eyes, hips still dully rocking as she rides his fingers, waiting for the aftershocks of her orgasm to fade. Valdor’s hand had slowed, free hand now petting her thigh, as if waiting for her to appraise his performance.

Just another dance for him, just another dance. She comes back to herself in pieces, surfacing from the afterglow with a sensation almost like dread as the world refocuses itself with jarring clarity. She could feel the weight of the laurel on her head, the scent of incense from his robes, and the mechanical way he was waiting at rest. She was still clinging to him, her hands having tracked trails of droplets over his robes.

She shudders, and turns away from him. She retreats back into the water, the hot waves lapping gently at her shoulders as she sinks down, facing away from him. He was holding the sponge again, carefully reaching over to bathe her hair, continuing on as if nothing had changed.

Mutely, Valdor tilts his head. He did not have many expressions, and there was nothing except the usual neutral expression he wore while caring for her, as if this was no more important than a routine inspection of a machine for him. He was questioning her, she gathered. Waiting desperately for her approval, or her dissatisfaction.

She closes her eyes, and sinks into the warmth of the bath. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed at all, utterly nothing at all. She was still under his grasp, except she felt so tired, as if the weight of the world had crushed her down and shattered what remained of her.

Valdor’s fingers were brushing past her face now. He held her gently, yet with insistence, waiting for her to open her eyes. When she did, he was staring back at her, sponge held in one perfectly maintained hand.

“Was that satisfactory, my lord?” He brushes her hair with an air of careful reverence, before stepping back and waiting for her response. Streaks of wetness were already drying on his robe, leaving not even the semblance of a blemish nor scar against him. He was immortal, wasn’t he? Immortal, and utterly without change.

She resisted the urge to snort a laugh. Instead, she smiled, tired and exhausted and having all the fight broken out of her.

“Yes, Constantin.”

Valdor smiles coldly, as if those were the words he had scripted beforehand, as if this was a performance, and he had taken a bow after a particularly trying dance. There was nothing behind that smile, nothing but a mind that did not know how to love.

“Thank you, my lord.”

When Valdor returned to his ministrations as if nothing had changed, she closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to gaze upon him, or to feel his cold, appraising gaze upon hers. And she was tired.

So tired. So utterly tired. The water was warm around her naked form, Valdor’s movements slow and soothing as he continued the bath, but she was cold. So utterly cold, and so utterly tired, as if the heart beating inside of her had burst and revealed nothing but gold inside. For a moment she understood what the Thunder Warrior Primarch must have felt, feeling the lifeforce bleed from him but not even bothering to stem the blood dripping from his slit throat, no longer having the strength to fight but still helm turned up, still snarling at an empty sky, mouth twisted into a fading growl. He hadn’t died then, not yet, but the years he spent in purgatory after the betrayal must have been no better. Waiting, seething, decaying in his own misery and loss, nothing but shadow now, nothing but decaying, waiting, and watching, simply waiting to die. A prisoner just hoping his gallows could be constructed even a day earlier. A corpse. That’s what they both were. They were the dead, taking part in the future only as handfuls of ash and splinters of bone.

She was already dead, even the ship knew it, even the world itself knew it, even she herself knew it, it was only Valdor who refused to confess to that.

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#warhammer 40k #wh40k #sculptor of crimson #constantin valdor #Yandere Constantin Valdor #adeptus custodes #warhammer #wh40k writing prompts #constantin valdor x reader #valdor x oc #yandere adeptus custodes #male yandere #I am terrible at tags #unhealthy relationships

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weixuldo · 10 months

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Enigma// ch 18

anakin x reader

a/n: shit man, stuff is getting tough! i really didn’t think this fic was gonna b as long as it’s becoming hahaha/ ngl even if ppl r losing interest, im still gonna continue it for me heheh- i really like this story :)

The night gets worse and worse

warnings: cursing, cannon disabled character, insecurity, alcohol abuse, emtephobia (barf and stuff…), DONT DO WHAT ANAKIN DOES PLS LORD, ableist comments

_______________________________

As it does, time went by and you tried to move on.

When school ended you moved in with Ahsoka and split rent; it was nice having your best friend around whenever you needed it, plus the two of you shared groceries so the cost of living was much more affordable than if you had gotten your own place.

As much as you tried to remove Anakin from your mind, he just wouldn’t seem to leave so you enlisted the help of a professional.

You would go to therapy sessions twice a week; not solely because of Anakin but he definitely was part of it.

Mainly you went to try and deal with the reality of being such a young mother and work on letting your stress out in positive ways: though on occasion you would try to gain insight on your relationship with the older man.

When the therapist asked about him, you explained all he had been through and let her know you knew some of the reasons he acted the way he did; but your therapist assured you no matter the reasons, that didn’t negate the validity of your feelings.

The first few times you went you were skeptical; how was talking to some random person supposed to help you feel relieved and emotionally stable?

But after a few sessions, you started to see a difference in your moods and outlook on things.

It was a few days after Anakin’s results came in that Ash told you about the visit she paid Anakin; she recapped her argument with him, his relapse, and that she made him go to the clinic, she told you that she would relay his results to you as soon as she could.

You worried that she would be upset that you didn’t tell her that he was the father or that the two of you were together, but she brushed it off, “I kinda had a feeling, ya know?”.

You felt bad that he relapsed and was all alone, but then you remembered he was alone on his own merit, his behavior pushed those who cared most away… it wasn’t your fault.

You didn’t know how long fertility tests usually took, but you awaited the results anxiously.

Every day you woke up hoping that maybe he would reach out or that maybe he would show up at your door, but each time you only set yourself up for disappointment.

It had been around a week after Ahsoka told you he got the test; sure these things took some time, but he should have the results by now.

You weighed the option of just asking him flat out because you were frankly over his asshole hermit bit.

The weather was nice and you didn’t have any responsibilities today… ok, maybe you would pay him a visit. You rested a palm on your stomach as you bent over to grab your shoes from the shoe rack; you were definitely showing much more than you were during the first trimester.

You were about to head out when your phone began to ring; it was Ahsoka.

“Hey Ash, what's up?” you asked as you searched for your keys.

I finally got it

“Got what?”

It took a lot of coaxing, but I finally got the results

You stopped at the door and placed your keys back onto the counter top; maybe you wouldn’t have to see him.

y/n…he’s viable.

A weight felt like it had been lifted from your chest, now he had undeniable proof you were telling the truth the whole time- everything he said was for nothing and you were vindicated.

“That’s amazing news'' you exclaimed into the phone; surely your friend could hear the huge smile on your face just from your voice.

Yea, but what are you going to do now? He’s the father and now he knows it… you aren’t just going to let him back in after all he did, right?

“No Ash, He knows the truth now and if he wants this or is mature enough, he will come to me and apologize. The ball is in his court” you explained.

Atta girl

You smiled at your friend’s support, “Thanks Ahsoka”

Anytime

The phone call ended and you went back to your room- hopefully you would be hearing an apology soon or at least hearing from him in general.

_______________________________________

Across town Anakin sat on his couch and absentmindedly flipped through the channels on his tv; he told Ahsoka the news this morning and it drained him to make the call.

Ahsoka thanked him for getting the test and asked how he felt about the news. He answered quickly and hung up. He knew she was going to tell you and that he should tell you himself and apologize. But what would that do?

It would just solidify that he was a complete asshole- you deserved so much better. Surely you would do the same that he did to you…shut you down completely and demand you leave.

Maker, why was he such an arrogant shit?

His half drunk mind wasn’t operating at full capacity and he was making a lot of dumb rationalizations to his problems;

You already thought he was an asshole, so why even bother telling you the news himself?

You deserved better so he should just disappear from your life and not weigh you down.

He really nothing going for him, so fuck it- he was gonna get shitfaced.

Soon he had made his way back to the couch with a six pack of bud lite and he cracked the first one. Cheers to the pathetic joke that was his life. He gulped them down one by one and sooner than he thought, the pack was already gone.

He had a good buzz going and went to fetch more but when he scanned his messy fridge for the tinted glass bottles he couldn’t find any.

“Fuck” he muttered, that was his last case.

He groaned and slammed the fridge door shut. There was nothing here to cure his itch for alcohol, so he decided tonight would be a great night to go out and get shitfaced in public, cause why the fuck not?

He got his phone out and grabbed one of the many styluses he had scattered through the house for his convenience. He called for an uber to pick him up.

As he waited he changed into pants, a long sleeve, and his gloves- it had been awhile since he had gone out and he forgot what a hassle it was to put all of that shit on.

By the time he was dressed and collected his wallet, the uber was there. Anakin was an experienced drinker, so even though he already had six beers packed away, he could sober up if he needed to be able to get into the bar.

The car he rode in was a nice sedan, it was silver and looked like a new model; the problem for Anakin was getting in. All of the cars he usually rode in (yours, Ahsoka’s, Ben’s, and his own) were bigger and sat higher up, so he wasn’t used to having to crouch down to get in.

He sighed and placed a stiff hand on the roof of the car to steady himself as he lowered himself into the car; he sat with a thud and grunted.

The driver was probably only a few years his junior- he wore big circle glasses, a patterned button down and had a clean shaven face. He looked like a pushover.

Anakin winced at the overwhelming smell of eucalyptus that entered his senses; he wondered how this guy was driving for a job like this- how would he defend himself against a potential threat? By throwing his eucalyptus at them?

Ahh, what was he doing? He was being judgmental for no reason.

“Are you alright sir?” the man asked.

“Yea, i’m fine,” Anakin said, crossing his arms.

The man nodded and began to drive to the bar Anakin had entered into the app.

The bar he wanted to go to was one in the heart of the city, he didn’t want to talk to anyone tonight, but he also didn’t want to be alone; this bar was perfect for that because there were always people doing some random shit that he could eavesdrop on.

They pulled up to the curb and the driver parked the car. Anakin thanked the man and opened the door to exit. Maker, he was getting nauseous from that fucking air freshener.

He swung one leg out of the car and pushed himself up with his opposite hand. He stood and grabbed onto the hood of the car with his hand; that was harder than it had to be… damn these prosthetics.

Once he was standing he shut the door just as the driver was asking if he needed any assistance.

Groups of people crowded around the entrance of the establishment. Some were old regulars whose teeth looked like they were gonna fall out from all of the substances they abused and on the other side there were a group of younger kids who were trying to figure out who was going to try out their fake ID first.

He scoffed as he pushed through both groups to get inside. The bar was warm and smelled of weed, smoke, and liquor- relief washed over the melancholic man, this is where he would be able to forget.

An open barstool was soon occupied by him and a bartender quickly made her way down to his seat.

“I’ll have some of that honey bourbon I've been hearing people rave about” he said, a $10 bill folded between his fingers.

“Alright, hun, that’s commin’ right up” the busty lady on the other side of the counter said as she grabbed the 10 from his hand, her hand lingering longer than he liked.

Anakin could tell she was trying to flirt to get a better tip; back before you, he would have gladly indulged her game and revel in every motion she would do to purposefully push up her breasts and flirt back 5 times harder than she was… but now, he had no desire.

All he could think of when she tried to flirt was how he’d much rather be having a quiet night with you, not some bartender who didn’t give a rat’s ass about his life.

His drink was placed in front of him and the woman smiled, “here you are handsome”.

Normally that wouldn’t bother him- she was just doing her job… But tonight he just couldn’t.

Once he thanked her, she sauntered away; Anakin raised a judgey brow as she intentionally swayed her hips back and forth. When she was finally busy with another customer he called over one of the other bartenders.

“Hey man, you think you could serve me tonight, I don’t really appreciate all of her flirting” he said as blankly as he could.

The man cleaning glasses on the other side of the mahogany surface chuckled and nodded, “haha, yes man, no problem. She does lay it on pretty hard sometimes, I get it”.

Anakin thanked the man and continued to down drinks.

As it got later, more and more people began showing up and it became uncomfortably hot. The music started to give him a headache and the smoke was getting thicker; he knew it was time to go when he could hardly suppress his coughing (no thanks to his fucked up lungs).

The cool evening air felt cleaner than it ever had before as Anakin stood a few yards down from the bar. He had gotten far enough out of the way that he could still hear and see the lights from inside but no line was around him.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked up at the sky; the city’s light pollution hid the stars; he still liked to imagine how they’d look.

He had no idea how much he had in that bar, but he felt like it wasn’t enough- he needed to do something crazy- he needed to interact with people. He wasn’t completely gone yet, but he was pretty drunk (even if he wouldn’t admit it).

He stumbled down the sidewalk as he made his way to another bar, not far from where he was, that was a “no-smoking” establishment; he wouldn’t have to worry about choking on air there.

The sidewalk seemed to move as he steadied himself by placing a hand on the wall of the buildings on the way to his destination.

He was feeling pretty good; his problems were far from his mind, instead he was focusing on getting to the bar. He finally made it and attempted to sit on the barstool that just couldn’t seem to sit still. Eventually he caught a bartender’s attention and got set up there with a 20 oz draft beer.

This bar was crowded too, but less head-pounding music and young adults. He sipped his drink peacefully as he watched the others in the bar; there were a few couples on dates, a group of guys playing pool, and another group throwing darts.

He downed his beer and placed the glass on the bar as he waited for more- this was definitely one way to spend his army money.

As he waited a brown haired woman came up behind him and placed a lingering hand on his shoulder.

“Hello, you look lonely tonight, anything I could help with?”.

The lady wore a dress that was way too short and it did not flatter her body at all. She smelled of overwhelming cheap perfume and beer. He was already over it.

“Nah, I’m just fine,” he said, attempting to wave her off.

She caught one of his gloved hands and began taking off his covering as she asked, “ooh, you have very stiff hands, must be strong-lets see..”.

She managed to get the glove halfway up his palm before he snatched his hand to his chest; “what the fuck you think you’re doing?!” he hissed.

She laughed, “You’re like a robot or somethin’ haha, I’m sure I could please you better than that plastic could, and I only require a pack of cigs after, no monetary charge” she promoted proudly.

“Not in a million years lady” Anakin mumbled as his cup was replaced with a full one.

She scoffed and put her hands on her hips, “well that’s alright, I didn’t really want to fuck a cripple anyways”.

At that moment Anakin had the urge to grab her by that pathetic excuse of a dress and throw her against the nearest wall, but he knew he shouldn’t.

“Fuck off”

“No wonder you look lonely, with a personality like that you must be impossible to be around” she huffed before finding the next guy to latch on to.

He was getting drunker and her words hit a little too close to home- he needed to be more wasted. He began to find random people who would do shots with him. Soon he was blacked out and drinking with everyone.

“ and i-its its sooo fucked, ‘cause I… I really do love her, but she… I don’t think s-she… I don’t know, WHO WANTS TO DO MORE SHOTS?!” Anakin was everywhere.

He sat at the bar and did two hurricane shots right after another (where you drink it then get water thrown in your face then the bartender slaps you across the face). He was at the point that he couldn’t even feel that-he was gone.

Though soon after, the shots began catching up with him and he started feeling nauseous. He laid his forehead down on the bar and puked in between his legs and the counter. Some people around offered to help and the bartender got him some water; he insisted he didn’t need it but the alcohol was definitely making him dehydrated.

Through the middle of sounds he heard a staff member say, “someone needs to get him outta here, we can’t have him in the bar like this”.

The fuck were they saying? He was completely fine.

Before he could tell what was happening he was being carried out of the bar and was sitting on the curb outside. Fuck, what was going on?

Everything was blurry, he felt nauseous and all he could focus on was this sharp pain in his side and the pounding headache that was plaguing him.

________________________

Anakin had no idea where he was, but he knew he didn’t feel good. He sat up and puked.

He felt a hand on his back and was about to protest when another wave of nausea hit- when would it end?

More shit happened in a blur and he eventually made it into an Uber and headed home.

————-about two hours earlier—————

After he was thrown out of the bar downtown he was picked up by a group of frat boys who thought it would be cool to challenge a random drunk guy to a drinking contest.

In his inebriated state, Anakin went with the men (even though they basically had to carry him to the club they were going to).

No one in their right mind would still allow Anakin to consume drinks, he was visibly not well and clearly needed to be cut off; but that wouldn’t be any fun for the frat.

They took him to a club where they frequented so the staff allowed them to do whatever the fuck they wanted.

Anakin continued to drink and drink… and drink.

Once he started puking again, one of the relatively kinder boys took time to ask his address and got him an uber home.

And that's where Anakin was now.

He rested his forehead against the back window of the sedan and the driver drove quickly; he was probably worried that Anakin was going to yak in the back of his car. They arrived at Anakin’s apartment in decent time and the driver asked Anakin to leave.

Anakin nodded and tried to get up but he couldn’t quite get his footing; the driver huffed and helped him out of the car.

The driver helped Anakin into the house and saw some cash lying on the end table; sure, he helped Anakin inside but that didn’t mean this guy was a saint.

Anakin leaned against the wall for support the driver swiped the cash and dashed out of the door. He had no clue what happened or what was going on, all he knew was that he felt awful and he needed to get to bed.

He headed that way but he tripped over himself and landed on the floor with a thud.

A groan escaped him and his vision went black.

***

a/n: more self destructive behavior… what’s new? lolll, srry the updates have been spaced out a bit, i’ve been doing a lot at work haha

taglist : @dnamht @sxoulohvn @angeelcoree @wtf-andys @httpeachesblog @katsukiswrld @jetiikote @poisonedsultana @imarimone12 @fallinlovewithevil

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crystallizedkingdoms · 2 months

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The Twins pt. 2

It’s the end of their world and Johann, for a brief moment, does not care. A flame dies into ash.

wc: 1,062

The Birds for this fic are the same as yesterday’s.

day 2 of @johann-appreciation-week! this can also be read on ao3 (I added some commentary in the chapter notes on my thought process for these two fics). art by @avijohann

The bard of lore and the researcher of space think of death as they come to their senses.

There are no words. When the chase is gone and they are out of those black tendrils reach, neither Johann nor Kravitz say anything. Though they both run towards the window they had originally watched through, looking down at their world being devoured under that black mass, they say nothing to each other.

They don’t even hold each other’s hands when Keats screams as loud as he can beside them. They cannot bear to listen to those cries for his siblings, siblings, siblings. They can’t listen to Sloane and Hurley’s panicked hurrying around the ship for any sort of plan of what to do next. When Maureen and Hurley, kind as they are, beg them to step away from the window, please, boys, it won’t do you good, they don’t move an inch. Johann and Kravitz stand there, beside each other, as they always have. Looking for a world that lives only in memory.

Memory. Johann clings to memories as he stares at the wobbly in between space of the planes they now traverse through. He remembers practice room introductions, drunken conversations, café pleas, conference interview questions. Memory is a space not unlike the area in which they travel through, a space that Johann has longed to reside within. Legacy depends on memory, a constant state of remembering. Johann always thought, always prayed, he would be the one remembered.

What does it mean to be the one to remember?

Johann hates that the first lucid thought he has as he stands there is about death. That topic is one that he and Kravitz still refuse to touch upon, even when Kravitz moved in and brought all his death with him. Music filled that gap, a common interest between them, one that didn’t bring so much pain to one and discomfort to the other. But the music is gone now. There is nothing to face. Nothing but the agonizing, bitter death that they watched not too long ago.

Johann hates even more that he wonders what Kravitz thinks of this death. Except no, not really. He doesn’t hate it that much because it eats at him like necrosis. What about this death was factual? he demands only in his head. What fascination can bring you joy here?

I bet there isn’t. I bet you see the cold, hard, “factual” reality of death and recognize it isn’t so fucking easy to look at. We are best friends, Kravitz, you know this as well as I do. We’re practically siblings— (Keats cries for his siblings behind them, crying Edwards and Lydias that ring across the Starblaster) —but this is not something I have ever let go. How can I? How can anyone ever let go of this devastation?

It is not productive to go searching into Kravitz’s heart at this moment. He knows this, Johann knows this. What use is this? What vindication can he possibly achieve from looking at Kravitz and asking, is this what you imagine death to be? It’s how I’ve imagined it. In a billion, tiny different ways that will all be inevitably forgotten if you aren’t great enough. His eyes glance over to Kravitz anyway. Any answer to cling to and rip into to make the pain inside his chest go away.

Johann quickly realizes that what hurts more than death is seeing Kravitz cry.

What else is he expecting? Some evil grin on his face like some Machiavellian death machine? Kravitz stares out of the Starblaster’s window with tears streaming down his red, puffy eyes, and Johann is struck with the obvious reality that of course he feels bad. Of course Kravitz is crying! The world they lived and shared and breathed in is gone. The crew and the Starblaster are all that they have left.

Kravitz shifts, and Johann tries to look away before he has seen him staring (how can he look at him after thinking such things?), but it is too late. Kravitz’s eyes meet Johann’s, same as they always have. His mouth opens to speak, but no words come out. Johann’s mouth is similarly dry. Any words of comfort or agony can not grasp the feelings bubbling in Johann right now: the devastation of a world ending and the guilt for immediately assuming the worst to eat him up on the inside. So Johann does not try.

Kravitz’s hand reaches out towards Johann’s. It stops just before his fingers. A question awaiting an answer. Johann’s fingers twitch, searching for something to fidget with, anything to avoid touching Kravitz’s hand— did he deserve to after such doubt? But when he looks at his friend and sees watery eyes and trembling lips, Johann breaks. His fingers reach to intertwine with Kravitz’s. Silently, gently. Kravitz feels his hand and cracks. One small sob escapes his lips.

And Johann falls apart.

He throws himself onto Kravitz, wrapping his other arm around his shoulders and pulling him closer. Johann keens, and fuck, when was the last time he’s cried so hard? Johann sobs, full of guilt and memories and every other disgusting thing in between, and just holds Kravitz tight. There’s nothing else to do, Johann cries. There’s no one else but you. The world has ended and Johann only cares about Kravitz.

Kravitz clings to Johann with thoughts that hang on him like a plague. To watch his world disappear (this is no death, this is not a song with an end, this is cruel and unnatural, against everything we know, it would be wrong to categorize this as death), everything comes crashing down on the both of them. Forced to watch and forced to persevere. The thought makes Kravitz sick.

Neither Kravitz or Johann think about letting go. Even when Captain Boyland landed them in the plane they were just staring at, they didn’t let go. Even when they took their first step outside the ship, onto the soft, verdant grass beneath their feet, and it became achingly apparent that this really wasn’t their home, they never let go. The rest of the team embrace each other for comfort. When Johann feels Kravitz’s hand inch forward, he tugs him back. Kravitz does not fight it. They just watch together,

Wordlessly, they both agree to never let go. No matter what.

#taz #taz balance #johann appreciation week #taz johann #taz kravitz #the adventure zone

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astrcthesiai-archived · 11 months

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“🏳️‍🌈” (AshYuki, ShorYuki, SaboYuki, or AceYuki, your choice!)

Send 🏳️‍🌈 for a pride-themed starter.

Post: Here

Ash, Whiskey, and Eiji, you are suffering from a case of music stuck in head. It's not quite the Spice Girls plot I told you about but it's a Spice Girls plot.

#that was the loudest and proudest song I could find #that is considered underrated #whiskeysmultimuse #whiskeysmultimuse;ash #【🌙🌊the former yakuza princess & mercenary】#【🌙🌊whispers under the moon】#【⭐ mundane answers】#【🌙🌊pranks along the shoreline】#【🌙🌊vindicated rusalka】

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mandareeboo · 5 months

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Unfinished Work #60: "Untitled" (Finished)

I never felt up to publishing this, but I've been rewatching BoJack and felt it'd be good to put here! A little goodbye to an old friend between Hollyhock and Diane.

Title: N/A

Summary: N/A

"Sorry about this," the horse said. "You're probably really busy with writer things."

"You wanna know what I was going to do before coming out on the porch to have a smoke and chat with you?" Diane asked dryly. "I was about ten seconds away from telling my husband I was going out onto the porch to have a smoke. It's not even half the inconvenience you think it is."

"Oh," she responded, and fell silent.

Diane let out a gust of lung cancer in a long, drawn-out sigh. Texas is pretty in postcards but hotter than the sun in person, with the added bonus of all sorts of creepy crawlies straight out of the official nightmare catalogue, but it's kind of nice? There's trees everywhere. Lots of open, bumpy land. The spider currently weaving its web a few feet from her isn't even venomous- it's an orb weaver of some sort. All in all, better than death.

It'd be nicer if her company talked, though.

"Let me guess," Diane prompted, making her jump. "You're Hollyhock, right?"

"Bojack told you about me?" Hollyhock asked, ignoring her question.

"He told all his friends about you. He was really excited to have family he didn't loathe with all his being."

"Oh," she repeated, softer this time.

"Relax, you're not gonna end up on his wiki page or anything. And, for what it's worth, I'm really happy to meet you in person. You're shorter than I thought you'd be."

Hollyhock looked at her hands, where her phone was situated, then back at Diane. "Bojack's told me about you, too. He talked a lot about a lot of things, but you especially."

"And that made you think I had answers?"

She shrugged helplessly.

Diane took another drag. "You want the truth? He's an asshole. Whatever you feel or suspect about him is absolutely vindicated."

"Yeah." she said. "But I miss him anyway. Isn't that... awful?"

"No? I don't think it is. I mean, the part that sucks about people is that they're more than just one thing. Sure, Bojack is a sleezy, emotionally-abusive jerk who's slept with almost every woman he's ever met, but he also sends stupid little text messages about stuff he saw on his drive home, and one time when he got drunk he sang the lollipop song and it was actually the prettiest thing ever, and he helps you pack even though he complains the whole time. He's all that shit."

"He once threw his mom's doll out a window."

"I know. He told me."

"He did?"

"He's always drunk-dialed me. Fifteen years now, and I'm his drunk-dial SOS." Diane considered her cigarette a moment. It was her first one of the day. A new record low. "I never met her, but I spoke to Beatrice twice- for his book."

"Oh, yeah, that thing. I never read it?"

"It sold alright, but it wasn't the next great American novel. Anyway, I called the retirement home to get a statement- got the phone number off of Bojack's long-time manager and friend Princess Carolyn- and called. This was before the dementia really ate up her brain- think, I dunno, almost nine years before you knew her- and she was still pretty sharp. I said, 'hi, this is Diane Nyguyen, I'm ghost-writing a novel about your son, Bojack' and she said, 'what, is he too lazy to write it himself'?"

Hollyhock winced. "Woof."

"Oh, I'm just getting started." Diane flicked some ash away. "We went in circles a bit, but eventually I laid it out for her. 'Mrs. Horseman', I said, 'I'm writing about your son's life, and as such I have called to see if you had any note-worthy stories or quotes you'd like to add'. She was pretty quiet for a minute. Then she said, 'sure, why not, I'm dying anyway. Might as well debase myself even more.' She told me all about her husband, Butterscotch-"

"Bojack never said much about him."

"There wasn't much to say, honestly. Bojack took after him and he always hated himself for it. Beatrice despised her husband for being unfaithful, bitter, and sexist. And she told me, 'now, put this in your little book, girl, and put it word-for-word. Bojack took after him, but he had the sense to be a bit quieter about it; which is a bit like saying the hissing roach is less disturbing to the eyes than the American one because it eats leaves instead of garbage. They're both insects, and they're both a waste of the paper their books were written on'." She paused. "Gotta say, she was damn eloquent."

Hollyhock winced again. "Double woof."

"It's the one story I never put into One Trick Pony. Not because I thought she'd regret saying it, or because it wouldn't fit the tone of the book, but because I knew it'd rip Bojack apart. Even back then, I was putting him above my own job. He has a way of worming into things like that." Diane stamped out the rest of the smoke, then pulled out another one. "I used to smoke like a freight train, but now it's only when I get worked up. Sorry about the second-hand."

Hollyhock was quiet again, but this time it was more pensive than anything else. "I... wrote him a letter. I actually don't even know if he read it, because he kept sending me voicemails telling me he would, but he never told me he did before I changed my number. I thought it'd be over. I thought I was moving on, but..."

"Moving on isn't the same as moving away," Diane said. "Trust me. I've packed houses before. But even now, I still find myself looking for him in the news, or thinking back to the good times we had."

"Mhmm. He tried to learn sports for me, you know? Because he wanted to cheer me on. And that still means a lot to me. But then I remember that interview, and I just... I just can't do it. I can't talk to someone who's done stuff like that."

"That's completely in your right! I know you're a grown-up, but you're still pretty young, you know? Bojack's in his fifties. His problems shouldn't be on anyone, but they especially shouldn't be on you."

"You won't tell him I came, will you? I know you're friends, but..."

"I think your definition of friendship is a bit different from us, kiddo. I mean, we haven't spoken in almost a year now. I just go see his movies, and he sends me long rambling reviews about my books, and we follow each other on social media."

"That feels like friendship," she concurred. "Mrs. Nyguyen?"

"God, don't. Diane."

"Diane. Did you and Bojack….?"

"Nope. But not because he didn't want to. I was dating when we first met, and married a good chunk of the time I lived in L.A. Now I'm married again. If I hadn't been... well, he would've tried, if nothing else."

"And you?"

She pursed her lips. "There was a time where I lived in his house and spent every day getting shitfaced drunk, and nothing skeevy happened. He'd come home, I'd be drunk and when was Bojack not drunk? We'd drink more and we'd watch reruns of Horsin' Around. I liked that. It wasn't healthy, but I liked it. And I liked him. I try not to think too hard about it, but... I dunno, honestly."

Hollyhock pulled her knees to her chest. "I came here hoping to find a way to stop missing him. Now I just miss him even more? I hate emotions."

Diane smiled. It was bittersweet. "Now you sound like a true Horseman."

#BoJack Horseman #BH Fanfic #BH Fanfiction #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Diane Nguyen #Hollyhock Manheim Mannheim Guerrero Robinson Zilberschlag Hsung Fonzerelli McQuack #Unfinished Work

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brightwanderer · 8 months

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Ultimania timelines fucking up my fanfic continuities right left and centre and yet I can’t complain because SO MANY SNACKY DETAILS

I am feeling very vindicated in my assertion that Sylvestre Lesage was a piece of shit long before he met Anabella.

Also loving the Dion/Terence lore argh. Literally the only reason I’m not shipping them is because the chemistry between Joshua and Dion grabbed me so hard (well, that and I reeeeally don’t like master/servant dynamics in romantic relationships, even when the characters don’t see each other that way).

I’m not going to rewrite any of “Cid’s Brood” - I knew when I started it that there was no way Cid had defected from Waloed or set up the hideaway that early, I just went with it anyway to make the story work. So that can be its own little weird timeline.

Will be slightly rewriting “From the Ashes” though, because that AU will be following canon timelines (with altered events) pretty closely. At some point. When I’ve got “Lines in the Sand” out of my system.

#fanfic #my fic #Cid’s Brood #phoenixflare #teredion #final fantasy 16 #final fantasy xvi #ff16 #ffxvi #dion lesage #sir terence #joshua rosfield #cidolfus telamon #Ultimania spoilers

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akatsukiky · 7 months

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Concept thing for Pass!Phil being Q!Phil.

Spoilers for the fanfiction Passerine below.

The sky shatters before him, wreathed as he is in the false starshine halo of dual godhood. It clings to his feathers, shimmers on his eyelashes, and vanishes all at once as the earth welcomes him with naught but a brutal kiss.

This is not his son. Wilbur- *this* Wilbur- does not permeate vindication, regret, and the brooding wrath of a boy-king who has lost too much. Phil cradles him still, kisses promises against his hair that he won’t leave him again- not now, not ever.

Wilbur leaves instead.

He sees in Chayanne the rounded rose-kissed cheeks he had watched death’s pallor lay cold claim to- the gold spun curls he had seen lose luster. His boy, his littlest boy, *Tommy*.

Phil resolves not a moment later that he will not lose his son ever again.

Missa exists of a haunting familiar chill of death and all the cozy warmth in his eyes as an open hearth. Kristin was the same too, once.

He ignores the trill of his heart, the immortal yearning, and holds him at arms’ length still.

It is impossible not to see Technoblade in Etoiles. There is a formidable, ancient sense to how he cleaves and parries and holds himself, chin up and tone dry; like the very same god whispers glorious things of carnage in his ears and guides his hands. When Phil looks, there are no carmine wisp eyes in Etoiles’ wake, only cosmos and nebulas and stars in happy revolution about him.

Phil refuses to lose him- allow him to sacrifice himself (for there will be nothing to sacrifice for)- all the same.

Fit knows him.

Chaos spins about him, ash and decay and the familiar bleakness of that wasteland opens wisdom-aged chasms in his gaze. And he knows. He doesn’t explain how, and Phil doesn’t ask him to.

He knows, and Phil weeps.

#qsmp #qsmp philza #philza #passerine #qsmp wilbur #qsmp etoiles #qsmp missa #qsmp chayanne #mentions of other characters

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rebo-chan · 1 year

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I have to get this out into a public space bc clearly the masses deserve to hear my takes <3

But R27 is so good??? Their friendship is immaculate and watching them interact is so fun. They both care for each other so deeply. I'm thinking about the Daemon vs Tsuna battle, where Tsuna was so gravely losing. And you see Reborn clenching his fist, absolutely vicious and fuming ready to stop in before Vindice stops him. He is even more agitated when he's stopped. And rainbow arc? Do not GET ME STARTED (I'm getting started) Reborn doesn't care about his own curse?? At all?? Hes just doing it for Tsuna, allowing him the practice of managing a team and bringing together alliances. There's a scene in it where Tsuna is upset about losing to Iemitsu, but he won't open up about it/trying to hide it. And reborn is just "I can see right through you, tell me what's going on don't pretend." And that's so??? HNG??? and there's so many moments?? Reborn telling Tsuna not to worry about his boss watch? Tsuna finishing that battle and seeing that the boss watch is fine and telling reborn they're still in bc he's genuinely fighting his hardest to break Reborns curse?? Bc that's his BEST F RIEND *SOBS* TSUNAS HURT WHEN REBORN TOLD HIM HE DOESNT THINK HE CAN WIN THIS TIME, BC REBORN HAS ALWAYS BELIEVED IN HIM WHY NOT THIS TIME?? REBORN USING HIS PRECIOUS PRESENT TIME TO HELP TSUNA WIN HIS FIGHT AGAINST IEMITSU? oh my god some one STOP ME THIS IS GONNA BE A 150K WORD POST

There's hundreds of moments big and little between them and I honestly could keep going if I wanted, but more importantly?? R27 enjoyers, we gotta discuss what we think about TYL Tsuna having to deal with Reborns death. Bc TYL Reborn in future arc is GONE GONE. NOT FAKING HIS DEATH. And that's so??? How is TYL Tsuna doing? Is he okay? I'm convinced that's why TYL Tsuna's actions are so.. intense? This is a man who just lost his best friend, and we know Tsuna doesn't cope well with loss (F Future Arc Byakuran, rest in Ashes). like fuck guys TYL Tsuna must've been out for blood, we saw what he was willing to do to keep Reborn alive in rainbow inheritance arc.

Reborn really is his angel without wings, and I want them to be best friends forever and ever

#katekyo hitman reborn #khr #sawada tsunayoshi #R27

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harisutheforestprincess · 1 year

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Just a reminder, Nezumi is highly intelligent, and I can tell that he made acquiring knowledge a coping mechanism when he faced the aftermath of survival.

It's so powerful because Nezumi lost all reference to what life was when his tribe was burnt to ashes, yet in his genes, the need for culture is deeply printed, and he believes Shion could survive if he holds to this same need.

He was a traveler before the idea was put in his head by the musicians passing by West Block. Nezumi knew there was so much more to life than guilt or sorrow because he had already experienced it. It was on his bone, part of his skin. Something that neither trauma nor fire could take from him.

Forgetfulness wasn't his excuse to give up. Nezumi kept on living because there was a lot to learn, a lot to explore, a lot to understand, and a lot to experience. He shouted inwardly and held to: Life has meaning because another world is yet to be met.

He wasn't terrified but eager to discover, grasp, and walk on it. Whatever that meant, since he didn't have any other sight than cruelty, betrayal, and death. He hoped on the different worlds he found casually in a book or maybe looking at a beautiful flower blooming between rocks.

Due to this hope and his soul's nature that can not be washed away, not even by the stains of blood, Nezumi could build his own collective from scratch. He has the brains, the values, and a broad understanding of the morality spectrum to set rules and, eventually, laws. But first, he needs to get out there and meet people akin to his intellectual thirst and art hunger, which confirms my personal view that Nezumi is a social butterfly!

He enjoyed his conversations with Shion because someone could finally meet him, talk back, challenge him, and add on. Constantly, continuously. No one ever did that for him—with him. His Gran and Godfather just kept on babbling about vindication and revenge, not giving him the opportunity to estate an opinion. He was meant to take vendetta on the world, and that was it.

Then, when he was alone with no one influencing his thoughts, he was in a terrible place. In a society like West Block, knowledge might be considered a threat since muscles and how to defend your territory and yourself is the only thing that matters.

If Nezumi had wanted to express himself intellectually, he would have been beaten to humiliate and degrade him. While these aspects are not detailed in the novels, I can confidently say that if Nezumi had wanted to express himself femininely, he would have been abused. Through Rikiga, we can see that despite the acknowledgment of talent in his work as Eve, he was mainly sexualized. Nezumi understood the powers of his looks and called his own legs money maker because sex is a big business in the town, and for sure, everything is done through the lenses of desperation. Nothing healthy about it or that you could take pride on.

Nezumi didn't have anyone to share his interests with, and even attempting to discover if someone did, risked his life. Not precisely by losing it but by going through hell repeatedly, which equals being broiled alive again. We see that the idea of suffering for Nezumi roots in that experience, and it's wise he doesn't want to get closer to it by any means.

Nezumi was closed off from Shion because he learned that keeping himself to himself was the way to survive. He isn't an edgy teenager who wants to be cool by being mysterious; he is afraid being open would wound him or, even worse, would worsen the scar on his back.

Again, here we are, with the fact that when Shion got closer, either with questions or intuition, Nezumi would be irritated to the point that he'd be violent because he was defending himself as he would on the streets. As he would need to do with West Block and No. 6 citizens because both parties have chased him down one way or another. With no breaks. Really.

Ever since the genocide happened, Nezumi's soul has been screaming to see another world. It's very well deserved. However, Shion alone wouldn't break the layer Nezumi has been protecting himself with. Nezumi needs to interact with other societies, different cultures, and new lifestyles.

Those other realities aren't the wall-less No. 6. West Block resulted from No. 6 as No. 6 resulted from West Block. Even when there was a wall between them, both places were constantly influencing each other as the government knew the existence of both, and trying to put a blindfold on No. 6 citizens and an iron wield on West Block's citizens had an impact on how everyone was treated. To avoid a society like West Block, there was genocide. Again, to avoid a society like West Block, there was censorship and brainwashing.

If Nezumi had stayed, he would have been terribly limited, and the concept of freedom would have morphed into a strange necessity to fit in to achieve happiness. To dismiss years of cultural development that could be happening in other cities. In Beyond, we can see that the earth is starting to heal since he bathes in a river in the wild, and not too long ago, No. 6 was still using West Block to dispose of their trash.

No. 6 is still a ignorant city, behind so many alternatives, repeating the same mistakes, and it will take years until it reaches a point where Nezumi can feel content. He has high standards and should search for them, so he can comfortably fit in because he is happy where he's at. It's a dichotomy, but a dichotomy, in this case, is healthy for Nezumi.

He's a rebel, and a rebel needs to have a sharp mind, and you can only have a sharp mind if you educate yourself. He understood this from a young age, and it was about time his heart had that so-needed revolution.

Get out of there and be damn happy under your own concept of happiness!

I am rooting for him and will always applaud his decision to leave.

#no.6 novel #no6 #no. 6 #no 6 #nezumi #nezushi #shion

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