#? maybe i might make that a thing on my blog

[shipfishwrites]

i can't find my blogthoughts :( maybe i didn't blog them. maybe they were just thoughts. i've cobbled together here some notes from personal correspondence on the topic:

i think dragons and whers need a certain type of mind to be sane, to keep from instinctively going between in some kind of existential pain that's unimaginable and i think they are [in canon] beasts, animals, who can't reason and look for what they need... especially when they're newborn. so they just look for something close. and they grab onto the mind they find and they dig their little claws in and change it all in one go. that's what the joy of impression is for. it's flooding you with dopamine and serotonin to help ease your brain into accepting its new existence which has sheared half of it off an replaced with with a dragon. that's why you can make broad generalizations about, say, greenriders. greenriders at like that because half their brain is green dragon, they literally cannot be different. that's why bronzers all act like they have 12 inch dicks. that's why goldriders are always about madonna/whore and maiden/matron.

and additional thought that i remember thinking but can't find where/if i wrote it: this is horrifying for the bystanders moreso than the riders. having a friend or family member, someone you know intimately, turn into something else... something that's not them, something that you can see copied over everyone who shares their color impression... they use the same words to describe their bonded. their laugh changes; the way they hug changes. it reminds you of others of their rank. they're distracted -- unable to relate to you anymore. half of them has been paved over and replaced and they don't even seem to know it -- they describe the event as joyful, overwhelming, a blessing.

wild.

i think this is a great thing to think about because it's really truly fully 100% canon-compliant. it works because it's a watsonian analogue to the "true" doylist explanation of why certain colorriders act the way they do -- ex. bronzeriders fill a certain narrative role including tropes of headship, masculine ideation, etc., and, even in the cases where they aren't 'model' bronzers, they have to respond to that narrative role.

machismo comes for free with the bronze. you might also forget how to smile that way that your mama taught you, but you'll never know you did.

Everyone clap for non consensual body modification everybody loves a character whose body has been altered against their will

[therogueflame]

Unlocked

Hi my little boobahs,

my feelings were hurt (over literally nothing) so i'm posting this one early. this one is based on a comment + response from this post. I did write a little drabble, but it deserved more (bc cregan is baby daddy #3 and im actually in love w brunette tom taylor). I'm giving all the credit and honoring this one to @ginarely-blog. thanks so much for supporting me!

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Summary: You’re brave in every sense, steady through storm and steel, but when he sees you, truly sees you, that courage slips. Beneath his gaze, something softer stirs, and for once, you don’t know where to put your hands.

WC: 4.3k

Warnings: 18+, angst, smuff, sex (p in v), fingering, creampie, no use of y/n or description of reader

Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader

MDNI!

The wind off the battlements has teeth, but you welcome the bite of it. The feast has long since faded into warmth and laughter behind you, tucked into the belly of Winterfell where wine and firelight keep company with those who know how to chase the cold away. You’ve always preferred the open air. Even when it hurts. Even when it cuts.

You lean forward on the stone ledge, hands bare, watching your breath curl into the night like smoke. The snow is light tonight, falling soft and steady, and you close your eyes for a moment just to feel it gather against your lashes. You don’t turn when you hear the footsteps behind you. You already know who it is.

Cregan doesn’t speak right away. He never does. It’s one of the things you’ve come to expect from him, that watchful quiet, like he’s measuring every word before it’s born. There’s no sound but the wind and the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots until he comes to stand beside you, not close enough to touch, not even brushing your sleeve. Just near enough to be known.

“Escaping?” he asks finally.

Your lips twitch. “The wine. The songs. The lord who tried to guess how many men I’ve killed.”

“And?”

“I didn’t correct him.”

He makes a soft sound. It might be a laugh. It might be something else. You don’t look over to check. There’s a steadiness to him that unsettles you, and tonight, with the snow catching in his hair and the sharp cut of his jaw barely visible in the moonlight, you feel it more than usual.

He’s watching you. You know that too. You feel it in the same way you feel the cold, slow and certain, creeping under your skin even when you try not to flinch.

“You don’t like the noise,” he says.

“I don’t like pretending.”

“You didn’t pretend in there.”

“No,” you murmur. “But they did.”

He doesn’t answer, and you let the silence stretch between you. It isn’t uncomfortable. You’ve never minded silence with him. There’s something about the way he holds it, makes room for it, that doesn’t feel like distance.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says quietly.

You let that sit for a beat. “You’ve met strong women before.”

“Yes.”

“Sharp ones.”

“Yes.”

You glance at him then, catching the edge of his profile. “So?”

His eyes flick to yours. Calm. Steady. “None who looked at me like they expected me to flinch.”

Your smile is faint, but it reaches your eyes. “Maybe I wanted to see if you would.”

He doesn’t smile back. Not exactly. But something in his expression softens. “You’re used to men who want to prove something.”

“I’m used to men who can’t hold their own without asking what it makes them.”

“And me?”

“You haven’t asked once.”

He nods, just once, like that’s enough. And maybe it is. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The wind rises again, tugging at your hair, slipping beneath your cloak like it wants to remind you of the cost of being still too long.

You tilt your head. “Why haven’t you?”

His brow furrows. “Haven’t I what?”

“Made a move. Asked. Taken.”

He doesn’t look away, and neither do you. There’s something unspoken between you that’s no longer content to stay unnamed. His gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly, before he lifts it again.

“Because it’s not what you deserve.”

Your breath catches, just slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

You swallow hard. “And if I wanted more than silence? If I wanted something real?”

His eyes search yours. You feel like he’s looking into the part of you that doesn’t speak often. The part you guard even when you don’t mean to.

“Then I’d give it to you,” he says, “like Northerners do.”

The words land deeper than you expect. Not loud, not sharp, but solid. Meant. You don’t need to ask what he means by them. You hear it in the way he says them. With purpose. With weight. Not for a moment. Not for sport.

You don’t say anything after that. You just nod. He watches you a moment longer, then steps back. Leaves without a sound.

You stay there long after the snow has soaked into your cloak and your fingers have gone stiff at the knuckles. You stare out into the dark where nothing moves, where the storm hasn’t touched yet, and you let the words settle into your chest like something you weren’t ready for but needed all the same.

Like Northerners.

You say it once, under your breath. It doesn’t sound the same in your voice. Softer. Warmer. Almost like a promise.

You don’t lock the door that night. 

You don’t leave it wide open either—just enough that the latch doesn’t catch, that if someone tried, they wouldn’t have to knock. You sit by the fire longer than usual, legs tucked beneath you, the crackle of the wood the only sound in the room. It’s nothing. It means nothing. That’s what you tell yourself. But you leave the candle burning lower than normal. You don’t dress for bed right away. You don’t sleep.

When morning comes, there’s no knock. No shift in the hall. No sign that the door ever mattered.

But everything else feels different.

You see him in the yard just after breakfast, sleeves rolled to the elbow, arms dusted with frost from handling a saddle still damp with melt. He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he does, it’s slow. Measured. Your breath hitches, only slightly. Enough to feel it. Not enough to show.

He holds your gaze a little longer than usual. Doesn’t speak.

You say something dry about the weather just to fill the air. He only nods. That’s when you feel it—he’s letting you reach. Letting you fill the space, see if you’ll close it. You hate how much you want to. You hate how much he knows it.

At midday, he passes you a wrapped bundle of cloth from a steward’s tray. Warm bread. You recognize the smell before you look down. His fingers brush yours when you take it, and your pulse kicks against your wrist like a warning.

“You’re not eating enough,” he says simply. Not unkind.

You lift a brow. “Is that your observation or the kitchens’?”

“Mine.”

You tear off a corner of the bread. He watches you chew. Doesn’t flinch. You’re the one who breaks eye contact.

The horse ride comes later. You haven’t ridden far, just a short loop along the outer edge of the walls, and when you return, the wind’s picked up and the path down into the yard is slick. He reaches up without asking. One hand to the reins, the other to your waist. He doesn’t pull, not really. Just steadies you. Guides you down as if he’s done it a hundred times, as if your weight is familiar, expected.

When your boots hit the ground, you don’t step back right away. His hand lingers. Your breath fogs in the space between you.

You try to laugh. “Should I thank you for that?”

He doesn’t smile. Just tilts his head slightly. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

You walk past him without looking back. You feel his eyes on you the whole way across the yard.

You spend the afternoon trying to ignore it. The way your skin still remembers the shape of his hand. The way your name sounded in his voice this morning—like it didn’t need to be said any louder than that. You try to keep your mind on the letters you’re meant to send, the reports you’re meant to check, the frost creeping up the panes of your window. None of it works.

He hasn’t come to you. Not really. But he’s left you nowhere to hide.

By nightfall, the sky has darkened to a heavy gray, and the fire in your chambers crackles louder than usual. You change out of your riding clothes slowly, brushing snow from the hem of your cloak, setting your belt aside like it might delay the moment you can’t stop circling.

You hear footsteps once. Think you do. But nothing follows. No knock.

It’s nearly midnight when you step out into the hall.

You find him near the great hearth on the first floor, past the main stair, half in shadow. Alone. His cloak hangs loose around his shoulders, hair damp with melt, jaw set like he’s been standing there longer than he meant to.

You stop. Not close. Just near enough.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak.

“I don’t usually leave it unlocked.”

It slips out quieter than you intended, but you don’t take it back.

He looks at you then. Long enough that it starts to ache. Long enough that you think he might say something.

He just nods. Once.

You breathe in. “Then you know where to find me.”

You don’t wait for anything else. You turn and walk the same path back through the stone corridor, heart in your throat, steps careful. You don’t look over your shoulder. You don’t let yourself hope.

But you don’t lock the door.

You don't light every candle. Just a few. Enough to cast the room in a warm sort of haze. The storm outside presses against the walls like something alive, wind moaning low against the stones. The fire in the hearth crackles steadily, and you sit in front of it with your legs tucked beneath you, pretending not to be waiting.

You’ve done this before. Waited. Wanted. None of it ever felt like this.

The door stays closed.

You drag your fingers along the seam of your sleeve. Try to focus on the heat of the fire, the rhythm of the snow hitting the windowpanes, the ache in your spine from a day spent holding yourself too tightly. You don’t look at the door. You tell yourself you won’t look. Not until—

A knock.

Just once. Firm. Quiet.

Your breath slips out all at once.

You rise before you can talk yourself out of it.

When you open the door, he’s already looking at you. Not guarded. Not uncertain. Just there. Like the storm didn’t touch him. Like he knew you’d open it. His eyes search yours once. No question in them. No hurry either.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He waits.

You step back.

He crosses the threshold slowly, eyes still on you, and closes the door behind him with the same care he does everything. When he turns back to face you, the silence between you carries something heavier than it did before.

He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t speak.

You look at him for a long time. His hair’s still damp. Snow melts in tiny beads along the edge of his collar. You want to say something but nothing comes. There’s nothing to say. You already said it.

He watches you like you’ve never been looked at. Not as a challenge. Not as a reward. Like he’s seeing you for exactly who you are, and has no intention of looking away.

You don’t mean to look away, but you do. His hands are on your hips, firm and steady, the kind of touch that makes you feel like nothing outside this room matters. And when his mouth brushes over your shoulder, slow and reverent, you feel your breath catch in your throat. You’ve never been shy, not with him, not with anyone—but something about this quiet, deliberate closeness leaves you undone.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you. You can feel it even when your eyes drop to the space between you, to the way his thumbs stroke idle circles against your skin. It’s too much. Not in the way you want to pull away, but in the way you want to lean in without thinking, without guarding a thing.

“You stand your ground like nothing could shake you,” he says after a moment, voice soft. “But here with me, you look like you’re afraid to breathe.”

You let out a quiet sound, half a laugh, half something unsure. “Maybe I am.”

He tilts your chin up with one hand, his touch gentle, patient. “Don’t be.”

You meet his eyes again, and it’s hard to look away. Not because of how intense they are, but because there’s something softer behind them. Something open.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says. “When it’s just us. When you let go.”

Your throat feels too tight to speak.

He kisses you once, carefully. It’s not hesitant. It’s steady, like he already knows what you taste like, like he’s been waiting for this and refuses to rush it. You lean into it before you mean to, hands fisting gently in the fabric of his shirt. The heat between you builds slowly. No rush. No grab. Just the sure slide of his fingers beneath the edge of your tunic, the press of his palm over your ribs.

When he pulls back enough to look at you, your face is already warm. You glance away again, but his hand lifts, fingertips brushing the edge of your jaw like he’s coaxing your gaze back to his.

“You’ve never backed down from anything,” he murmurs. “Why now?”

“Maybe I’ve never had reason to be nervous before.”

His expression softens. That faint curve of his mouth that never quite becomes a smile, but almost does.

“You don’t have to be.”

His voice is low, steady, full of something that steadies you too.

You nod once. It’s all you can manage.

He moves slowly, peeling your tunic over your head with a reverence you weren’t prepared for. His hands don’t rush. He doesn’t reach for more than you’re ready to give. And when you step out of your boots, your pants, everything else���when you’re bare in front of him for the first time—he just looks at you like he’s memorizing every part.

You move to cover your chest out of instinct. He stops you gently.

“Don’t,” he says. “Let me see you.”

You do.

He steps closer again, hands warm against your waist, and presses a kiss just below your collarbone. You shiver. Not from cold.

“You feel it too,” he says softly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He kisses you again, and this time you meet him fully. You kiss him like you want him to feel it in every inch of him, and he answers like he already does.

His hands explore every part of you with an attentiveness that makes you ache. You've known men before—quick, fumbling, eager to claim—but he touches you like he's learning you, like each sigh and shiver is something to remember. When his fingers trace the scar along your ribs, he doesn't ask where it came from. He just lowers his mouth to it, warm and careful, and you feel something unravel in your chest.

You reach for his clothes, impatient now where he is measured. He lets you undress him, watching your face as each new expanse of skin is revealed. The firelight catches on old wounds—a jagged line across his shoulder, the mark of an arrowhead near his collarbone. You touch each one without speaking, and he watches you do it, unashamed of what his body tells you about the life he's lived.

When he's finally as bare as you are, standing tall and unguarded in the dim light, you can't help but stare. There's a lean strength to him that speaks of purpose rather than show. Nothing excessive. Nothing wasted. Just like his words.

He steps closer, and the heat of his body meets yours like a promise. You tilt your head back to look at him, and for once, you don't try to hide what's in your eyes.

"You're beautiful," he says simply.

You've heard those words before, from men who wanted something from you. But never like this—like he's stating a truth he's known for longer than tonight.

"So are you," you whisper back, and his eyes darken.

He leads you to the bed without hurry, his hand warm against the small of your back. When you lie down, he follows, his weight settling over you like something you've been waiting for without knowing it. His forearms bracket your head, careful not to crush you, and when he kisses you again, it's deeper than before. More certain.

You arch into him without meaning to, your body seeking his like it already knows the shape of him. His hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, the outside of your thigh, and back up again. Mapping you. Learning you. You feel like you're burning up from the inside out, and when his mouth trails down your neck, you can't help the soft sound that escapes you.

He lifts his head to look at you, eyes dark with want but still so clear. So focused.

"It's all right," he murmurs against your skin. "You don't have to hold back. Not with me."

You swallow hard, pulse fluttering against his palm as he cups your face. "I'm not used to this."

"To what?" His thumb traces your lower lip, gentle but insistent.

"To feeling... seen."

Something shifts in his expression then, a softening around his eyes that makes your chest ache. He doesn't smile, not fully, but there's a warmth in his gaze that feels more intimate than any touch.

"I've seen you since the first day," he says quietly. "Even when you didn't want me to."

You close your eyes at that, overwhelmed by the truth of it. You close them against the sudden, undeniable rush of feeling that his words have unlocked. Against the relief of it. The honesty. But you don’t close yourself to him, and when his lips find yours again, you kiss him with a kind of fierce need that surprises you. It’s different than before—driven, desperate, almost insistent—and you can feel him answering with the same intensity. It’s as though his confession has stripped away the last of your defenses, leaving you open and wanting and his in a way you couldn’t have anticipated.

This time when he touches you, there’s a deliberate purpose to his movements. Like he's memorized every arch and sigh and knows what you need before you do. His hand slides between your bodies, confident and sure, and finds the heat between your thighs with unerring confidence. You gasp against his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders as he strokes you with steady, knowing touches. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t fumble. He’s so present, so unbelievably in tune with you that it’s almost too much.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. “Show me how to please you.” There’s urgency there, but it’s not hurried. Not impatient. Just intense. It’s more than you’ve ever had. More than you knew to want. You’ve never had a man ask before. Never had a man who seemed to care about the answer. Your breath catches as his fingers circle and press, finding rhythms that make you tremble. That make you forget to breathe and forget everything but his touch.

“Just like that,” you whisper, and he watches your face as he follows your guidance, learning the patterns that make your breath hitch, that make your hips rise to meet his hand. Your heart is in your throat, hammering against his chest as he bends his head to kiss a line of fire across your jaw, your neck, the fragile hollow at your throat. You feel like you’re unraveling beneath him, like he’s pulling you apart and putting you back together with only his hands and his mouth and the feel of his skin against yours.

When he slides a finger inside you, then another, your back arches off the bed. You’re not used to this. To feeling like you’ll come apart at the seams. But here with him, you do. You feel exposed in ways that have nothing to do with being naked. It’s in the way he sees through you, the way he reads every flutter of your lashes, every catch in your throat. Every stutter of your pulse as he moves with deliberate care, curling his fingers just so, watching every reaction like it’s something precious. Something to remember.

“You’re close,” he says, his voice low, and it’s not a question. He knows. He can feel it in the way your body tightens around his fingers, in the quickening of your breath.

You nod, unable to find words, and he lowers his head to press his mouth against your throat, teeth grazing lightly over your pulse. The dual sensation—his fingers working steadily inside you, his mouth hot against your skin—pushes you over the edge. You come with a broken sound, something between a gasp and his name, your body arching into his touch.

He works you through it, gentle but relentless, until you're trembling. Only then does he withdraw his hand, pressing a kiss to your temple as you catch your breath. You feel vulnerable in ways you never have before—not unprotected, but exposed. Seen in ways that matter.

"Come here," you whisper, tugging him closer. You need to feel his weight, need the solid press of him against you.

He shifts above you, settling between your thighs, his control still evident in the taut line of his shoulders, the careful way he braces himself. You reach between you to guide him, and the first press of him inside you draws a sound from both of you. It's not rushed. Not hurried. Just the slow, inexorable joining of your bodies, and he watches your face the entire time, gauging every reaction, every flutter of your eyelids.

When he's fully seated within you, he pauses. Holds perfectly still. His forehead drops to yours, and for a moment, you just breathe together.

"This," he whispers, voice roughened with restraint, "is what I wanted."

You can't speak. Can't find words for the fullness you feel—not just physical, but something deeper. Something that's taken root in your chest and threatens to bloom into something dangerous. Something real.

He moves then, a slow withdraw and careful return that makes your breath catch. His rhythm is deliberate, unhurried, like he's savoring every sensation. Every inch of you. His eyes never leave yours, and in them you see everything he doesn't say. The want. The need. The certainty.

You lift your hips to meet him, and the angle changes, deepens. The sound he makes—low and strained—sends heat flooding through you. His control is slipping, just slightly, and you feel a fierce satisfaction at being the one to break it.

"Don't hold back," you murmur, hands sliding up his back to feel the shift of muscle beneath his skin. "I want all of you."

His eyes darken at that, something primal flashing in their depths. His next thrust is harder, deeper, and you can't hold back the moan that escapes you. He watches you with an intensity that should frighten you but instead makes you feel powerful. Wanted. Real.

"You have it," he says, voice rough with need. "You've had it longer than you know."

The admission cuts through you, sharp and sweet. You pull him down to kiss him, desperate suddenly to taste him, to feel the ragged edge of his breathing against your lips. His control begins to fray as your bodies move together, his pace quickening, his restraint giving way to something rawer. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, and he groans against your neck.

"Stay with me," he whispers, and you're not sure if he means right now or something more lasting. Either way, you have no intention of being anywhere else.

You feel yourself building toward another peak, an intensity gathering strength inside you, coiling tighter and tighter with each movement. This time it's more than pleasure. More than heat. It's something deeper, wider, terrifying in its scope. You can feel it consuming you, the promise of it making you shudder, and you know he’s right there with you, chasing it. His movements grow more frantic, more desperate, the steady rhythm beginning to falter as his own release draws near. You feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles strain against the effort of holding back, barely restrained against the onslaught of sensation and need. It's almost painful to watch him unravel, but there's beauty in it, too. Beauty in knowing you could do this to him, be the one to break him open.

"Let go," you breathe against his ear. "I've got you."

Something breaks in him then—that final thread of control snapping loose—and he loses himself to the moment. His thrusts become harder, deeper, more erratic as he gives in to the need that stretches between you. You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, your bodies moving in a wild, almost frantic tandem. When he reaches between you with shaking hands and touches you where you’re joined, the pleasure is instantaneous and all-consuming. You shatter around him, the force of it making you cry out his name, your body clenching and tightening until you think you might break.

He follows you a moment later, a hoarse sound tearing from his throat as he spills into you. It's not quite a word, but you know what it means. You know it's the only thing he couldn’t give voice to before. He collapses against your chest, his weight heavy and real and so damn solid that you think it might tether you to the earth forever. You want that. You want the impossible promise of it. You want what he's given you.

You lie there just breathing together, your hands in his hair, his skin damp against yours. The air is still, quiet, and you wouldn’t change a thing. 

[galaxy-fleur]

went through your blog and i just wanted to say i love how you characterize death island leon so much 🥹💝 he's so sweet and playful but not in an overbearing way, i love that. i know you don't take fic requests but i'd love to see anything more with him hehe 🌺

Thank you very much anon! You gave me just the motivation to finish up a self-indulgent vignette I wanted to get my hands on for a while... I wrote this with Leon somewhere in his forties in mind, but his personality is very much based on his DI era! And thank you to my bestie @thatpyramidthing for giving me the idea in the first place. Scruffy stubble Leon, my beloved.

~ 3k words, gender-neutral reader (no physical/gendered descriptors used, but there is a mention of hair being brushed!). A tad suggestive, some playfighting and tickling involved!

In your line of work, you two rarely had a true lazy day to indulge in. The type of lazy day to just relax and not worry about a single thing in the whole wide world. There was always something that could happen unannounced. Always something to keep in the back of your mind, just in case it might spring up on you when you least expect it. You had to be ready to leap straight to your feet at any time, at any place.

Nevertheless, today was a really pleasant - and really rare - exception to that pesky rule. Lounging around in bed and napping away like two tired work horses turned out to be far more appealing than a day out or even a fancy date night. Plus, Leon made quite the comfy pillow for you to lay on. To put it bluntly, it was a day of pure recharging for you two.

Sort of.

When you woke up from your third nap of the day, you found Leon lying comfortably on his back, his head resting against the pillow tucked under his arm, eyes fluttered closed, his other hand settled snuggly on your waist, holding you to him. You quickly glanced back at the electronic clock resting on the coffee table nearby, yawning as you gently withdrew from his chest to stretch your arms out a bit. Judging by the setting sun out in the window, time was shifting into evening hours now. Leon was quick to let out a deep sigh at your movement, his eyes blinking open to stare up at you with silent protest. Though, it was immediately interrupted by a yawn as a response to your own. He stretched out his arms slightly, much like a sleepy senior family dog would once it was rudely disturbed from its nap.

Sleepy Leon was a cute sight, one that elicited a small smile from you as you hummed: "Mm, it's 6 pm already..."

He blinked off the last of his drowsiness, staring up at the ceiling for a small while before returning your gaze again.

"Already this late, huh? Time flies," he remarked with a slight smirk pulling on his lips. He reached over and gently stroked your cheek with the back of his hand, a loving gesture. One that you reciprocated by leaning into his palm with a quiet, pleased noise vibrating in your throat. His fingers brushed over the apple of your cheek as he laughed under his breath: "...Seems like you didn't mind using me as a pillow, though. I'm all sore because of you now."

You gave him a playful glare for that. Of course he'd tease you about it. You had no idea why you were even surprised.

"Says the guy who was squishing me like his personal plush toy."

That wasn't necessarily true; he was rather gentle with you - he always was - but that didn't negate his clinginess with you. Of course, you'd never complain about that for real. Well, maybe except for the occasional dilemma of him not allowing you to leave his arms to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Your statement simply made his smirk grow, his blue eyes brimming with those small glints of mischief you knew all too well by now.

"Hey, I'm not blaming you here, I am pretty damn comfortable, after all." His announcement was as smug as they come, making you roll your eyes with a small snort. It was clear that he was enjoying this little back and forth with you. He gestured for you to come closer as he patted the bed next to him: "C'mere. Come back here. I'm cold."

His display of shameless clinginess made you grin a little, shaking your head. It was, of course, adorable. You cherished his openness with his feelings for you very much. With Leon, you never had to doubt whether he enjoyed your company or not. He made his love for you blatantly obvious for the entire world to see. Almost annoyingly so at times. "We've been lazing around the entire day though... Shouldn't we maybe move around a bit?"

You moved to lie back next him and settled to his side in spite of what you had just said. Leon was quick to wrap his arms around your waist, bringing you in closer, and tucking you into his side, holding you close. He let out a content sigh, his thumb gently stroking your back in small circles.

"Mmm... Nah. No movement needed," he said, nuzzling his face into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. Although you two smelled the same right now, considering you shared a bath just a few hours prior. Despite his casual tone, there was still a hint of gruff tiredness in his voice: "This is all the exercise us old folks need."

With your own arm reaching up to encircle his middle and your fingers running over the rough texture of the scars that littered his back, you couldn't help but smile against him. You didn't need to see him to know where each and every one those marks was now. You knew him inside and out, just as he did you. As you hummed contentedly, briefly closing your eyes, his warmth and scent filled all your senses once again. If you were to be poetic for a moment, you would say that it was almost like your head was made to be just the perfect size to be tucked away into the crook of his neck, with his chin resting on it. Nevertheless, you kept that little sweet thought to yourself.

"Oh, so now you're fine with being called old? We're in our forties, not sixties. Old man," you teased, playing into the silly banter.

Leon laughed softly.

"Hey, just because I say it doesn't mean you can. Besides, what's the rush? We've both earned a little R&R." He leaned his head down to press a kiss to your temple, staying there for a lingering moment to enjoy the simple intimacy blooming between you two. "Just let me wallow in my old-timer aches and pains, okay?"

You rubbed his back in return, nails lightly scratching along his skin in the way you knew he liked, eliciting a pleasant shiver or two.

"Hm... A long awaited vacation, and you're spending it napping away in bed... Sure you don't regret it?"

Of course, your question was fully rhetorical in nature. These circumstances didn't bother you in any way. Your leg moving to swing comfortably over his hip was just yet another evidence of it.

Though, your remarks did make Leon laugh again, and that was your goal in the first place.

"Vacation, huh...?" He pretended to think for a moment, even though it was apparent that he was only joking. "Mmm... Now let me see... Spend hours on a plane with crappy food, go to some tourist spots filled with people, and then spend another few hours waiting in line for some good grub... Or spend all day in warm bed, no pants, no shirt, no responsibilities for once, just you and me... That's a tough choice, alright."

Your shoulders shook with repressed laughter as you snickered to yourself. Sometimes he was too dramatic for his own good. "You and me both know we can afford to skip all the annoying parts of vacationing. Sure you wouldn't trade this for a day on the beach?"

He shook his head mockingly, as if disappointed with you for even suggesting such a thing. Tightening his grip on you slightly, he kissed the top of your head this time around. Two kisses in a row, he was spoiling you.

"Eh, I think I'll still take option B. Besides... I happen to prefer the scenery here."

His thumb delicately traced little circles over the skin of your waist as he slowly moved his hand down your back, stopping just above the curve of your ass. You simply swatted at his shoulder in jest at that, giving him a knowing look.

"Perv," you snorted, a smile sneaking its way onto your lips despite your attempts at pretending to be annoyed with him.

With a humorous twinkle in his eyes, Leon winced dramatically as though your playful swat had injured him beyond belief. It was hard to be annoyed when he was being this ridiculous.

"Oh, you wound me." He looked at you with played up outrage and clutched his shoulder, seeming to be in genuine pain. Or, he would be, if you hadn't seen him in actual physical pain before. But that didn't really matter right now. "I thought you were supposed to be nice to the elderly. Aching back and everything, you know. And this is the treatment I get? Name-calling?"

This time, the eye-roll you gave him was a genuine one: "...Don't tell you're going to play the 'old man' card on me for the rest of the day now."

With his palm still lingering over your ass, he gave a quiet little laugh. He drew nearer, his face now inches away from yours, his voice transforming into a subtle, flirtatious whisper: "Well... I must admit, this pervy old man isn't completely against being bossed around by that pretty little mouth of yours..."

You rolled away from him to lie on your back, throwing your head back against the pillows as you broke out into a fit of full laughter. He was obviously having way too much fun with this teasing game of his. Though, as he looked at you lying there, laughing at his antics, there was a hint of genuine affection in his eyes. He loved making you laugh, after all. Even if it was at his expense sometimes.

"Wow. You've got no shame at all, huh?" With a knowing grin, you gave him a light, playful smack on the ass. Two could play this game, after all. "You bet I'll make you remember saying that later."

However, you were currently far too lazy to take any serious action. So he'll have to settle with a preview.

"No shame, no filter, baby." Smirking, he reached back down to your thigh, kneading the soft flesh with his fingers. He locked his eyes onto yours, a subtle hint of desire now brewing within his attentive gaze. "...Keep up with the teasing, and you won't be doing much sleeping tonight."

"-Don't threaten me with a good time," you teased right back, sending a small, flirty wink his way. Nevertheless, his lips were quick to press down to yours in a gentle kiss, stiffening your laughter before it could escape you again. It was a kiss you were more than happy to return, smiling into it as your hand came up to rest on his cheek, cradling it.

You felt him smile against your lips in turn, his hand slipping up your thigh to rest it on your hip again. As he leaned closer to kiss you more properly, he gently pushed you further back onto the bed, his body slowly crawling over yours, a low, pleased noise rumbling deep in his throat. Although he withdrew from you after a while, his gaze briefly straying over your face as he took in your expression. His hand brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch tender and loving.

"You keep being so damn cute, and-"

Leaning back in and speaking in a low, sensual tone, he nuzzled against you almost like a very pampered tomcat would. Though, your nose quickly scrunched up at the feeling of his scruffy stubble on your face, and you let out a small whine of protest, pushing on his chest lightly: "No, you're itchy."

With a gentle giggle, Leon pulled back from you again, reaching up to stroke his chin thoughtfully.

"Aww, come on, I know the ladies love the rough look. Gives me that... rugged older man charm, you know?" He quipped with a smirk, clearly enjoying your annoyed reaction. As he pretended to be hurt, you felt his chest rumble with repressed laughter beneath your palms. "You're going to make me feel self-conscious about my facial hair, you know."

With a sigh, you plopped back on the bed, lifting a finger up to interject.

"First of all, I am not your lady," you announced, before continuing. "And secondly, I have no problem with your facial hair. When it's not rubbing up against my face."

His lower lip protruded in an exaggerated pout as he mock-frowned at you: "I thought you liked me scruffy and unshaven. Or do you only like me when I'm all 'handsome and pretty' with a smooth jaw?"

He leaned in again before you could correct him, pressing his face to your cheek and purposefully rubbing his stubble across your skin. He obviously was well aware that it was itchy and mildly annoying for you, but he couldn't help but find your protests endearing. He thoroughly enjoyed playing around with you like this. You cursed under your breath as the prickly feeling made your nose wrinkle once more.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, c'mon, you're doing it on purpose now!" You complained, shutting your eyes as he rubbed himself on you. "What are you, a cat!?"

Leon chuckled, simply continuing to nuzzle you while his scruff scratched at your poor cheek with no signs of stopping.

"Mmm... maybe I am. A big, cuddly cat. Grrrr." He put some of his body weight on you now, basically smothering you beneath himself with his weight alone as his hand grasped your hip, drawing you in closer. Feeling your squirming under him just made him even more mischievous, it seems. To your own horror, of course. "And maybe you're my new favorite scratching post."

At that, you weren't sure whether to roll your eyes, or groan, or laugh. Maybe all three? Sometimes his silly behavior was frustrating to deal with. However, his goofiness was also a testament to his good mental state, and you would certainly take him being annoying over him being all broody and depressed.

"You did not just seriously growl at me, my God," you groaned, unable to hide the ghost of a smile from your lips despite wanting to sound frustrated. "-Okay, enough!"

He grunted in surprise, as you kicked him hard enough to push him away, causing him to roll off the bed and hit the floor with an unflattering thud. Of course, that wasn't really your intention. But it was funny. After a moment of stunned silence between you, it was his turn to start laughing uncontrollably. The baffled look on your face was just too priceless to be ignored, so he couldn't help it.

"Oh, you're gonna pay for that," he finally managed to gasp out between wheezes of laughter. Though, the glare he gave you was anything but angry as he propped himself up on his elbows. "You better run now, because I'm coming for you."

You were all too familiar with that gleam in his eyes. And what it entailed for you. "Don't you dare..."

With a playful menace to his eyes, he lifted himself up from the floor, quirking a brow at you expectedly. He stalked closer to you, his movements purposefully exaggerated: "You think you can just kick me off and get away with it? Wrong, sunshine."

With a growing grin you knew too well, he lunged towards you, his hands reaching out to seize you by the sides with the intention of tickling you mercilessly. You erupted in a series of squeals and high-pitched laughter as you pushed at his chest in vain, squirming under him like a worm trying to bury in its muddy hole for safety. If only you had a hole to burrow into for some sweet escape.

"Nooo! Goddamnit Leon, that wasn't even on purpose-!" You exclaimed through your fits of laughter, trying to tackle him off, hands and feet kicking and pushing at him from all directions. This was clearly not a legitimate hand-to-hand combat performance from you; rather, it resembled awkward child play. Only with two grown-ass adults well in their mid-forties.

Leon just cackled, his laughter blending with yours to create a deafening cacophony that likely made all your neighbors curse you to all the gods above. Wouldn't be the first time this happened, either.

"Doesn't matter if it was on purpose or not, you're getting the punishment you deserve! Now say uncle!" He bent down, his face now hovering near yours as he continued to tickle you nonstop with no indication that he would quit anytime soon. He was clearly enjoying this all too much, all the previous laid back laziness now long forgotten. Your laughter was like music to his ears. "C'mon, surrender! You can't win this one, sweetheart."

"-You're an asshole!" Your insult was obviously lacking any genuine heat behind it. Eventually, the tickle fight devolved into outright playfighting as you rolled around on the bed, messing up the sheets and flinging weak punches and kicks at each other like two kids getting rowdy on a playground.

"Ah, but I'm your favorite assho- Hey!" As you both rolled around the bed in a flurry of limbs and laughter, your lighthearted wrestling turned into a grappling match, stopping Leon in the middle of his gloating. Though, he was able to pin you to the bed at some point, hovering over your body with his arms on either side of your head as you both took a minute to catch your breath, the previous loud noise of laughter replaced by the brief pause of shaky breaths filling the quiet instead.

He straddled you, his look more playful than dominant now, his eyes a mixture of affection and faux victory. As he looked down at you, his eyes exploring your face, he couldn't help but laugh to himself again. Your disheveled state, messy hair, and slight flushness on your cheeks didn't stop him from finding you utterly adorable.

"-Looks like I've got you now, sweetheart. Any last words before I claim my prize?"

As you caught your breath, you looked up at him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. Despite your frustration, you were happy to see him be so lighthearted for once. Even if it meant putting up with his terrible attitude.

"Just one: you better make me your blueberry pancakes tomorrow for having to deal with your insufferable ass," you huffed. However, your gesture of cupping his cheek was far from furious.

At that, Leon's smirk turned into a real smile. He leaned into your touch, his head tilting slightly to nuzzle against your palm.

"Blueberry pancakes, hm? That's all it takes to buy out your forgiveness?" He drew closer, his eyes fixed on yours as he chuckle softly, the playful atmosphere between you two still very much alive and well. "Alright, deal. You have my word. Blueberry pancakes in the morning, courtesy of yours truly."

As a kind of climactic touch to your previous little match, he moved closer and closer until your mouths inevitably met in a gentle kiss that gradually turned more passionate. He lingered there for a moment, savoring the sensation of your lips against his, before pulling away, his eyes half-lidded.

"Though... In my books, you are better than any pancakes."

[ragana62]

Yeah...

Don't buy the merch. Don't go to the theme parks. Don't see Cursed Child live. Don't watch the new show. Don't buy the games. Don't give her a dime.

The only reason I still engage in the Harry Potter fandom is because I can do so without giving her money. I can read or write or make fanworks or talk with other fans (specifically the ones who don't fuck with her bigoted bs, if you're a TERF and you're still here somehow, take this as your cue to leave my blog, my queer NB ass is not for you, I promise.) and she won't see a cent off it. Quite frankly, I'd have strong hesitations on even that after her 'anything to do with me is supporting me' bs if I didn't also know she's got a long history of hating fanworks that deviate from canon except in ways she deems acceptable.

"Separate the artist from the art" only works if the artist can't actually gain anything from your engagement with the art. It's for 14th century poets who wrote bangers while living lives that definitely don't hold up to modern standards of ethics, or your problematic fave whose foundational work of SF has been public domain for decades. She's alive, kicking, and turning a profit off it that she turns around and reinvests into real, serious, harm to people. Don't put money in her pocket. I guarantee, any merch you want there's a fan creator who can make you something just as good or better who isn't a terrible person who will spend all the money you give them on evil. The new show is explicitly a way of keeping the original cast members who have publicly disagreed with her from continuing to make money off merch with their faces on it (not to mention, it will continue to fund her bs). None of it is worth it.

If you can't get past that little piece of your childhood/young adulthood (I get it, it was a major emotional support series for me in an abusive home, it's hard to let go of things that sustained us when we needed them even if the people responsible for them turn out to be monsters), I'd encourage you to engage in fandom consciously. Do so in a way that doesn't fund her disgusting rhetoric and the evil she supports.

Beyond that, if you're going to read fics/look at art/etc. I'd strongly suggest that you consider moving outside of the default zone of innate familiarity (and your personal one as well) too. There are lots of fanworks out there that center queer (and especially trans) stories, that center people of color in ways that are clearly better thought through than the casting decisions for the new show indicate she's doing, that develop the setting and characters in wonderful ways that have the added benefit of making a bad person upset if she ever stumbled across them. There are stories written and art made by people from all different backgrounds who bring their own unique perspectives to the narrative that might challenge yours or at least make you think about things slightly differently than you do as a default.

Maybe give them a try, at least some of the time. And definitely explore ways to support the real life humans she's harming in whatever way you can, whether that's by educating yourself, calling out harmful rhetoric where you see it, phone banking/advocating to your representatives when you see related issues come up in your own countries, contributing financially to charities and other groups doing the hard work of legal defense for people impacted by these harmful laws or advocating against them passing in the first place or providing support in accessing healthcare/housing/other necessities for the trans community, etc.

all these arguments about the new harry potter casting but all i can think is that every person involved in the series has willingly signed up to work with such an outspoken transphobe

[fallenprophets]

show a little lovin'

phillip graves x reader

summary: you're down bad. that's literally it

notes: no use of y/n, kinda short, no actual kissing im sorry chat 💔 might do a part 2 or something at some point but probably not

warnings: swearing, not proofread, smoking (but ive never smoked so i dont know how tf a cigarette works)

a/n: hello happy campers. don't know why i wrote this, but ive been neglecting this blog so i thought it'd be good to get something shorter out lmfao. pretty on brand for me tbh. title has nothing to do with the fic. pinky promise i'll pump out something longer and potentially tlou related soon gbye love you all

I like to think that I’m good at controlling myself. 

Whether it’s in the field, in the briefing room, or out in the street; I don’t act rashly, don’t start fights unless I have to. Always choose the quiet option. Not the path of least resistance- I’m certainly not scared of fighting back if I absolutely have to. No, I just like to think my actions through. If I’m going to beat the shit out of someone, I need a good reason to. 

And I have good reason to think of myself this way. With every goddamn decision I make, I pause, think things through; I never react to anything immediately, always giving myself a few moments to untangle everything in my mind. I think- even in the most high stakes situation, I always think. I’m calm, composed. It’s a reputation I’ve built over the years, and there’s no way in hell that I’ll do anything to go against it. 

All of my carefully built self control flies out of the window when it comes to him, though. Which, by the way, is fucking stupid. I’m a grown-up, an adult; not a fourteen year old school girl who’s made eye contact with the good-looking history teacher, or the boy she likes. I’ve stared death in the face, and still been able to make a calculated decision. I can stay calm in the worst of situations- faced with the loss of an entire platoon, or any unplanned attack. I’m good at being calm, composed, thinking things through.

But for some fucking reason, when I’m in the briefing room, and he says something that just lightly accentuates that southern drawl of his, I have to make an almost physical effort not to react; to remain completely impassive, not even a blink, a twitch, that would give away how fast my heart is beating. 

The rest of the briefing is unbelievably slow. Usually, these pass by in a flash; we’re told what we have to do, who we’re working with, against; then we leave, get our shit together. But the next twenty minutes are like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Excruciating isn’t too strong a word to describe them. 

Finally, though, when it’s over, I’m the first to leave the room. I’m practically running; I need to go outside, get some air, clear my head. 

This is insane.

I make it onto the balcony without incident, leaning against the bannister and taking a deep breath. This doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get flustered, don’t get shy. I’ve never had to physically restrain myself from jumping on someone. This would all be fine if we weren’t set to work together for another month at least, looking for this fucker we have to take out. 

“Phillip fuckin’ Graves,” I mutter to myself. I need him- I shut the thought off before it forms fully. A cigarette- that’s what I need. A cigarette, and maybe a drink. Anything to take my mind off this. 

I pull the packet from my pocket. I’m almost out; should buy more, I tell myself as I pull a cigarette out, trap it between my teeth. Never been a heavy smoker, really; it’s why I get the more expensive brands. Might as well treat myself. 

I push the packet back into my pocket, fumble for my lighter- which isn’t there. 

“For fucks’ sake,” I mutter. The cigarette nearly falls out of my mouth. 

I am going to hit something. 

The door to the balcony creaks open behind me, and I steady myself; right my face, fix my posture. Pull the cigarette from my mouth. 

“Need a light?” 

Could this fucking day get any fucking worse?

Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe I’m just tired, frustrated with how long this job has been going on. Maybe I’m finally losing it; years in the army finally taking their toll. 

I don’t look at him, staring instead at the unlit cigarette in my remarkably steady hand. Graves stands next to me; close enough for me to still see him out of the corner of my eye. He waves a lighter, and I finally turn to him, taking a long, deep breath. 

“Sure,” I say. I don’t know how I keep my voice so quiet, so calm, but I do; can’t help but feel like I deserve a medal for that one. I raise the cigarette back to my lips, lean forwards slightly as he lifts the lighter. His hand is closer to my face than it’s ever been before, and he isn’t wearing gloves. I feel like some- some deprived victorian gentleman seeing an ankle for the first time. 

He lights the cigarette, and I practically jump away from him. 

“Y’alright?” He asks. And honestly fuck him, for saying that, because there’s that southern lilt, pushing into my brain. God, I really need a drink. I take a long drag from the cigarette, think about it for a moment. 

“Yeah,” I answer, but the pause is too long; he raises his eyebrow, tilts his head ever so slightly. Not condescending, but pretty fuckin’ annoying. Especially because shit, he looks so good, and I’m trying to silence the deprived monk that’s somehow taken control of my brain and made me this way. 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” It’s harsh, and immediately after I say it, I feel bad. But he’s not stopped lookin’ at me like that- like he knows something, like he can see through my skin, through my ribs, and he’s staring straight at my heart, hammering like machine gun fire. 

He doesn’t let go of the matter. Instead, he leans on the rail of the balcony, head still tilted like that. I don’t look at him, because I know I’ll jump on him like a feral cat. 

“Is there anything you need?” I ask, keeping my gaze fixed on the horizon. My eyes have started watering; I blink, slowly. 

“Nah,” he answers. “Just admirin’ the view.” 

He says it right as I’m taking a drag, and I nearly bite the cigarette. I don’t have it in me to respond for a few seconds; mostly ‘cause I can see him lookin’ at me out of the corner of my eye. 

“’S nice,” I say finally. What the fuck else is there to say? If I had a little less self control, I would’ve pounced on him by now. But y’know, that’s my business. 

The silence stretches, long and thick. I finish the cigarette; put it out in an ashtray someones left here, and turn to leave. My brain is screaming at me to get out- to go to my office, maybe, do some paperwork to take my mind of him. 

I’ve been a master of self control my whole life, I tell myself as I turn away from the door to face him, look at him properly. Quite frankly, it’s embarrassing, how my heart jumps, how my stomach does a stupid little summersault. 

“Yeah?” He says, and I notice I’ve been staring too long, jaw set, hands curled almost into fists at my sides. I flex my fingers, stretch them out. Step forwards, slowly- which takes an insane amount of strength. I’m almost shaking by the time I reach him. 

Self-control be damned, I think to myself; because there’s something about the lighting, and the way he’s looking at me, that makes my throat tight. 

“You’re real pretty,” I say finally, ‘cause it doesn’t feel like there’s anything else for me to say when I’m standing this close to him. I can feel his breath on my face, for fuck’s sake. 

“Oh?” Is is answer; confused, but I can see the way his eyes glitter in the semi darkness, the way he tilts his head and lifts one eyebrow ever so slightly. I hum, nod a little. He lifts his hand, brushes his fingertips over my cheekbone almost reverently. My skin burns where he touches; but instead of wincing, of pulling away, I lean in, take his wrist to press my mouth, my nose, into the palm of his hand. 

I think about kissing him, as he looks at me through half lidded eyes, reaching out with his other hand to brush over my throat. I think about grabbing the front of his shirt, pushing myself up against the railing of the balcony; but I don’t, because at the end of the day, despite the illusion of losing control, I’m still me. Kissing him would not be a wise decision, and it wouldn’t be a well thought out one. 

So I don’t. Instead, I press my mouth to the inside of his wrist; picture dragging my teeth over his pulse there, or his throat; how easily I could draw blood if I applied just a little bit of pressure. I know that one day, probably soon, I will kiss him, or he’ll kiss me; we’ve crossed the invisible line, now. There’s no question of if; it’s when. 

His thumb drags over my pulse, at the base of my jaw. Rests there for a moment. He looks me straight in the eyes as he presses his index and middle finger there; feeling my heartbeat, eyes narrowed ever so slightly as if analysing it. 

He doesn’t say anything for a long time; neither do I. Eventually, he slumps a little, pressing his forehead to mine. I let myself close my eyes.  

[solarpunkani]

"Oh no, someone's attracted to the aesthetics of my -punk movement but doesn't know the praxis and history behind it like I do--"

OK. Tell them. Make it a teaching moment. Everyone who's in your movement learned the background from somewhere at some point, maybe this is that point for that person. Give them a jumping off point that they can dive into later.

"Oh but I shouldn't be responsible for teaching baby -punks about the history and the how-tos and--"

OK. Then don't tell them. You don't have to be responsible for teaching people with a budding interest in your group the ins and outs and how-tos. That's fair and valid! It can be a lot of work. Someone else will handle it

"But I'm annoyed that they would try to claim to be part of/be interested in my community without knowing all the details that I know after being in it for months/years/decades, they're dumb, they're posers, they're--"

OK. Then don't engage with them, if it's that bad. Maybe someone else will come around and tell them the history, maybe they'll pick it up on their own, maybe they'll just enjoy the fashion elements for awhile.

"But they shouldn't claim to be part of the -punk community if they don't know the--"

I feel like we have a few options here. People can either talk to them, share the history, share the values, share the praxis. Or they can just chase off anyone who even thinks about dipping a toe in their community, and then wonder why it's dying off later down the line.

I dunno, maybe I'm too naive and patient or whatever. But if people are entering your -punk spaces without knowing The Rundown of what you feel they need to know, maybe being nice about it and informing people instead of immediately assuming stupidity and malicious intent could help you make a new friend. Even the loudest voices in a space had to learn from somewhere, and not everyone has the luxury of being in the space as the History was Happening--whether it's an age thing or a not being aware of the space thing. Or maybe I just don't see what the big deal is behind people hating people who like the aesthetic of something and don't know the behind the scenes history about it yet.

Because I believe in the word 'yet.' No one comes into this world knowing everything about everything, and we're all constantly learning new things. I'm not gonna degrade someone and call them a poser for not knowing what I know. Because if it were me, interested in a scene but getting chased out and called a poser? I wouldn't hit the books and study up, I'd go 'that fuckin sucks, those people sucked' and then avoid anyone and anything having to do with it.

So chase people off and call them posers if you want. But if your community starts dwindling, don't be fucking shocked.

[celtrist]

I just vented out a whole rant about how aromantisim is treated within Hazbin/helluva. I'm not really sure if I should post it for multiple reasons, one of which being I don't want anyone to feel targeted about it or take it the wrong way (like I honestly dont have beef with Al shippers. Gripes, but no beef as I also ship him on occasion).

There was just a sudden burst of frustration I had with it that I think was in part just came from built up frustration from other things. There's things I'd like to have out there, but I don't really think it'd get far or, again, be just taken the wrong way. I don't see a point in posting if people are gonna ignore it, plus it wouldn't change how things are now. If anyone has any thoughts or are curious let me know, but I don't wanna make anyone feel like shit or put a pointless rant out there no one wanted to see. I also wanna keep rants to a minimum as I know people aren't always into that sort of stuff, especially if you don't follow someone for that and you just get an influx of posts of them complaining. And I still want to keep things relatively light hearted around here, at best maybe just some critiques on things here and there.

It's late, I'm on my phone when I should probably just sleep it off, so sleep it off I will.

[ghostfiish]

Happy ten years to transcendence au and almost as long to Brian the organ duck! How time flies...

I haven't drawn anything for this au in ages but I did remake the 8tracks playlists on Spotify if anyone uses that. Before Brian shows up, imagine Dipper and Mabel are discussing songs to add to the answering machine playlist (which. that's. Did I mean hold music all this time? lol)

[candycandy00]

I turn 40 this month.

[marimbles]

i miss carpisuns sometimes </3

[chronurgy]

It seems more and more like if you put your art online, you can't escape having it fed into an ai model. And it seems like more and more the response people are getting when they say they're unhappy about that is "if you care about that, then don't post it online!" What I'm worried about is that.... they will. That artists and writers and fans of all kinds will stop posting their meta and art and writing online, which would spell the end of fandom as we know it. And I would miss it a lot.

[the-way-astray]

Since you seem to be most familiar with the side of tumblr that isn’t afraid to express their opinions about characters they don’t like, I was wondering if you know any accounts on tumblr that talk about Fitz in a similar fashion? Or just anything “anti-Fitz�� for that matter. I can’t find any. Thank you!

okay i'm not familiar with any "side" of keepblr that doesn't post in the main tag . . . and since there's never much fitz hate in the main tag, if at all, i don't know any fitz hater blogs whatsoever. i'm not like this because i'm on some general hater "side" of keepblr, i'm like this because i hate keefe and i want to shout into the void about it, regardless of whether people agree or not

having said that you asked nicely so i tried my best to find blogs that frequently post in anti fitz tags (like #anti fitz vacker, #anti fitz, #fitz hate, etc.). and i found four . . . i did a bit of scrolling to make sure they weren't like terfs or some shit. one of them did raise some red flags for me personally, so i won't add that blog here in the interest of not making a callout post (long story short. red flags to do with the stripper fintan instagram war situation. if you know you know) so i'm leaving that one off (if you really want that one, dm me). here are the others: @carcinized @cottoncandytrafficcones @turquoise-skyyyy . . . these three seem to have intense negative opinions of fitz

a fitz (and general character) hater green flag for me personally is when they can be friends with fitz (and general character) lovers and when they make jokes about being a hater and don't take it too seriously, and one of these blogs (carcinized) is friends with summer and also makes jokes in a similar vein to the way i joke about my keefe hatred. so that's a good sign i think. i wouldn't say either of them hate fitz in a similar fashion to me because for the life of me i cannot find a single post from either of them that explains why they dislike fitz, and i'm very vocal about the reason i dislike keefe. no paragraphs-long rants to be found on any of their blogs . . . i'm sorry anon i tried. and i'm also like 90% sure that none of them are frequent kotlc posters anymore. so that's also a thing . . . yeah i tried my best but i genuinely think that active fitz haters are just unicorns on tumblr

[kk-cats]

They are dead, maybe. Not quite.

Dead in the head, dull and aching in a way that doesn't quite make sense. And it burns. Oh, how it burns. (A throbbing headache. Flame flickers at their fingertips. No, wait. Does it? They can't quite tell. The mental plane is so hard to tell apart from the physical world, sometimes. Not always. Sometimes.)

They are a shadow in Gotham's streets. A lithe little thing, armed with spray paint and a taser and abilities they can't quite comprehend. They don't have to.

All they need to is to listen. To see.

To hear the screech of hatred, to see the blueish yellows but not quite of cruelty. (Is it even a colour? Maybe. Somehow. How do you describe the colour of a sense?)

They just need to know.

So they follow the song of cruelty-desperation-pain along alleyways. Let their feet tap-tap-tap along the ground. (Nobody will hear them. Nobody will see them. Good. It's safer that way.)

Spray the criminal in the face. Taser before they can even realise they are being attacked.

Close their third eye because violence is terrifying and the intent to hurt is a burning thing against their skin.

(It never quite fades. They can't close it. It's not merely an eye, after all. Not a physical thing.)

They are a ghost in Gotham's streets.

Small and scared and silent.

Nobody will hear them.

Nobody will see them.

But that doesn't mean their actions aren't noticed.

A criminal distracted, blinded by paint. A cat helped out of a tree. Supplies taken from stores with coins left in their place. The little things. The not so little things. It builds. It adds up.

They are a ghost in Gotham's streets.

Please don't hear them.

Please don't see them.

(It's far too scary to be known.)

[aeonvy]

pokemon haunting my brain again recently and also I found my old batfam pokemon hcs. I'm gonna re-do them all but for now? ...Okay so far the only one I really got settled is Tim's but let me get into it.

My current line-up for him is:

Eevee (later evolves either into Umbreon OR Jolteon) Galarian Yamask Talonflame

There's still 3 remaining spaces, I'll see what I'll do with them.

I think that Tim's first ever pokemon would have been an Eevee.

Perhaps a cliche choice, but I do have my reasoning for it. Eevee is a fairly rare pokemon, well tempered, and it's adaptability gives it a lot of value — therefore it wouldn't be a far shot to say that they'd be a common choice of pet for upper classes. Could be a good show of wealth in itself, even more if it's a shiny, so there's that. Said Eevee would be originally just a companion pokemon, not adept for fighting, but after a bit of Tim sneaking out I can definitely see it insisting on following along. Having Anticipation as a hidden ability would make it better at protecting it's stubborn 8 years old trainer, along with Run Away for, well, getting out quick. It's nature would most likely be Calm bc 1. Umbreon meta and 2. I think having a calm pokemon could match or be benefitting for Tim in general.

My current idea is that Eevee evolves to Umbreon by the time Tim becomes Robin, solidifying the bond they have together (as Umbreon is evolved with friendship).

Tim's second pokemon, also obtained during his childhood, would've been Yamask, specifically of the Galarian variety.

I specifically thought this one out because, well, Tim's parents are archeologists.

"A clay slab with cursed engravings took possession of a Yamask. The slab is said to be absorbing the Yamask’s dark power."

Pokemon Sword's Pokedex entry on Galarian Yamask.

Tim's parents come home from an excavation in Europe worn out and with some artifacts that they brought home for further study. Later that week, the shadows around the house appear a little darker, specially around his father's study, where one of the artifacts sat on his desk.

Ok, I'm not writing this all out in a storytelling manner, but you get where I'm going here. Tim's parents bring back an artifact fragment that turns out to be possessed by a Yamask. I think it'd be kinda funny if Tim's Eevee and the intruding pokemon were at odds with eachother, until they both become the Protection Squad for Eevee's trainer. Tim, on the other hand, only learns about Yamask way later, after the pokemon feels safe to show itself off to the human.

Yamask would never be able to evolve into Runerigus as it depends entirely on being around a certain location (Dusty Bowl in SWSH) in order to evolve. Since it's completely removed from it's natural habitat, accessing it wouldn't be possible.

The third pokemon I have in mind is Talonflame.

Now, this is the one I have least planning about. I don't even know if Tim initially bonds with it as a Fletchling or Fletchinder, nor whether they meet during his Robin days or during what happens in the Red Robin (2009) run.

If the meet happens when he's a Robin, I'd imagine it's a little before the Titans or Young Justice (do NOT ask me about continuity I'm still unsure of what team he joined first or which one is currently canon, I'm gonna go with YJ because atm I hella like it more) and Fletchling fits the bill more in this situation. Obligatory tiny bird pokemon for Robin, lol.

If it's the latter situation, then Fletchinder. I'd imagine it'd be pretty interesting to have it evolve into Talonflame by the end of the arc, kind of fitting the theme of Tim developing his own identity and all that (I'm NOT wording this symbology right but uhhhhhh *gestures vaguely to it all).

ANYWAY. There's still 3 spots to fill, so I'm gonna look into those next!

[cuttledreams-bugs]

me trying to hype myself up to posting online again despite The Horror

[spingtail]

every day on this earth is another day being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment (having to see a whole thread of people saying the one (1) "androgynous"/even slightly just barely masc female character in a franchise looks better with her hair down because she's pretty)