#AND THAT'S WHAT MAKES ME INSANE ABOUT THIS IN PARTICULAR

[tanadrin]

I would love to hear the rant about social media doomerism and conspiracy

I’m on my phone right now but the summary version is something like:

Humans are bad at integrating information into their worldview accurately bc of various cognitive biases

Social media incentivizes us seeking out content that excites fear or anger or irritation

Social media thus causes us to form negative impressions of the world bc it mediates so much information consumption and discourse these days

This general negative affective impression is subject to high confirmation bias and ppl in general are really bad at divorcing an affective impression of a thing from their dispassionate reasoning abt a thing

(Bc one of the functions of an affective impression is to “cache” our conclusions about a topic to save time and effort later)

(In general if you are a cynic and pessimist you can fall prey to these biases w/o social media but I think social media makes more ppl susceptible to them)

People don’t want to be dupes so they seek refuge in cynicism. We treat cynicism as wise or worldly when in fact cynicism makes you a dupe and an easy mark for grifters. Cynicism and low trust foster conspiracism, paranoia, and antisocial politics

(This is why so many congenitally contrarian folks seem to flit effortlessly between the far left and far right; it’s not horseshoe theory, they’ve just cooked their brains on this stuff)

This is a world where populist anti-social politicians like Trump and the AfD thrive, bc they will lie about how everything is terrible and people will nod along, bc it explains why their social media is full of awful stories of, like, immigrants eating pets and shit

But it doesn’t just have to be insane lies only a moron could believe. It can be any impression about a fact in the world that it is difficult to personally check and which is vulnerable to being swayed by anecdote

This is how we get a word where people think crime rates are higher than they’ve ever been when in fact crime is falling

Or child predators lurk around every corner when in fact children are safer than ever

Or the American economy is in a recession when in fact it’s doing historically well by just about every available metric (now with full employment AND low inflation!)

Because in a big world even where things are in general good and getting better you can always produce infinite individual examples of shitty things and pipe those in a steady stream into people’s eyeballs, and then point to that and leverage people’s low trust attitudes and their cynicism which tells them they are smarter than the experts and go “statistics is just a fancy way to lie! The world is secretly terrible! Every bad thing is even worse than you thought and every good thing is a lie!”

(Nevermind the whole phenomenon where anything that is complicated or that someone does not themselves understand gets treated like it’s actually secret and a conspiracy.)

And here I know I have to include some disclaimer about how this is not to discount individual cases of suffering or struggle, which are real, or that there are indeed some really awful things happening in the world right now, which there are, but you know what?

I’m tired of doing that. People with reading comprehension operating in good faith ought to be able to deduce that general statements do not obviate particular exceptions, and people who cling to their doomerism as a kind of emotional life raft do not generally argue with me in good faith.

Sometimes doomerism is a load-bearing pillar of their politics, which I think is dumb—I think you can be a leftist or a progressive without being a doomer! In fact I think doomerism is antithetical to useful politics!

Sometimes they are just depressed and treatment-resistant. Sometimes they are just angry misanthropes who want to feel justified in their misanthropy. Some doomers are themselves in bad circumstances and feeling hopeless about that—to them I am enormously sympathetic. Though a lot of doomers will admit they personally are doing OK—this does not seem to be most doomers.

But I think in general cynicism and doomerism and a worldview dominated by a general nebulous air of Everything Is Awful and by abstract nouns with threatening auras is not conducive to wisdom or understanding or useful politics or leading a happy and fulfilling life.

[ivohex]

NSFW Headcanons: Xavier || LaDS

Please mind the tags!

Rating: E for EXPLICIT. MDNI! 🔞

Word Count: ~800

Note: Everything described below is done between two consenting adults with discussions beforehand regarding boundaries, safewords have been established, etc. Just didn't want to have to thrown in a disclaimer multiple times lol.

Note 2: i am ovulating and i am in hell

Tags/Warnings: xavier is freaky are you surprised?, consensual nonconsent, mostly fem perspective, dominant/submissive dynamic (Xavier is the dom), bondage (F receiving), mentions of mild pet play(? I think), anal sex/assplay (F receiving), rimming (F receiving), unprotected sex, predator/prey dynamic, risky sex, recording the act, impact play (spanking), sex in public, breeding kink, me being very self-indulgent

More below the cut!

Starting with two obvious ones: Xavier is capital F Freaky. Also, when it comes to dominance versus submission, don't let his angelic appearance fool you. He's very much a dom, but he's not opposed to occasionally letting you take control.

A very playful partner. Likes to have fun in bed, and likes to explore new kinks with you. He's down to at least try most things with you.

I feel like Xavier would definitely like being a brat tamer, while also being a bratty dom himself. When it comes to initiating, he's all about teasing you and then pretending that's NOT what he's doing. A brush of his hands across your hips. A comment with a double meaning. He likes seeing you all riled up and then asking why you're so flustered, as if he didn't accidentally-on-purpose touch you somewhere you're sensitive to get a rise out of you. And then when you try to be a brat right back, he'll remind you who's REALLY been in control all this time.

Loves playfighting and predator/prey play. Wants to chase you down, grab you, wrestle you into submission and then have his way with you.

Very mildly into pet play, though the extent of it is in the form of putting animal ears on one or the both of you, and then rutting into you like you're animals in heat. I don't think he's into cages or collars buuuut he'll absolutely tie you up. He'd love a rope bunny. 🙂‍↕️

Addendum to the above: If he can make a solid wall of light, he can definitely use his Light Evol to restrict you, too, and would favor that over actual ropes.

His favorite pet names for you in bed are (no particular order): good girl, bunny, and–if you're being bratty, obviously–brat. However, I don't see him being into degrading his partner much. He'll call you his "good little slut" but probably wouldn't go further than that.

Body worship and praising you. That is all.

Loves roleplay.

He likes blow jobs, but he prefers eating you out. He's crazy for it, and while he's at it, he'll mark up the inside of your thighs.

His favorite place to cum is inside you, duh. Then he'll pull out and watch, mesmerized, as it slowly drips out of your cunt. He'll use his fingers to either spread his release all over your pussy or push it back inside.

He likes spanking you and pulling your hair, especially as a way to get you to behave.

Insane refractory period, it's borderline inhuman. He'll cum and be ready to go again in a matter of minutes and can do it several times. You and Xavier could have sex for hours, not stopping until you're both on the verge of collapse. Sex with Xavier almost always lasts multiple rounds, if you're up for it.

Goes feral for a thigh job, especially if you're in front of a mirror so he can watch his cock thrusting between your thighs, hitting your clit over and over until you cum all over him.

Obsessed with recording you and taking pictures. He has a password-protected folder in his gallery filled with videos and photos. A personal favorite is a video of you draped over his lap, one hand holding your wrists in place at the small of your back, the other alternating between stroking you between your legs and spanking you. (Bonus: he's dressed as a bunny butler, fully clothed, while you're completely naked.)

Anal sex is a big YES. He also loves rimming you.

His favorite position is doggy style. He likes fucking into your cunt from behind and using his thumb or a toy to play with your ass. He has a video of this, too–another favorite.

Likes quickies. Be warned, though: a quickie with Xavier usually actually means multiple spread throughout the day, at the most random of times, and he's not afraid to be risky about it, either. You'll wake up and have a quick round before breakfast, then he'll yank you into a storage closet or private meeting room at UNICORNS head quarters, then he'll take you behind a tree at a park. Absolutely abuses his teleportation ability for it, this man is a MENACE.

Ridiculous sex drive. He's really like a bunny in that way 😳 Also like a bunny, he likes breeding you.

He loves it when you pretend you don't like something he's doing, so that he can ask you if you hate this so much, why are you so wet? You clearly like it, so he's not stopping, and you're not allowed to push him away anymore.

[glitter-stained]

Another day another ask mysteriously disappearing from my inbox when i'm about to hit post on the reply

Anyway the question was basically "what do you think of the "Jason isn't able to get over his death while bruce is capable of forgiving joe chill and sitting by him as he dies" take and doesn't it sound a little like the "everybody died he ain't special " take?"

Why yes. Yes it does sound like that. My thoughts on that idea, in no particular order:

- it's almost 2025 are we still placing moral judgement on characters based on the comparison between how they're enduring their trauma what happened to the universal singularity of human suffering what happened to not comparing apples and bananas weren't we taught not to do that in elementary school

-Is this about the Three Joker comics? It sounds like it is, anyway uh that comics is not mainline (and has pretty shitty writing imo), in mainline even in his least flattering runs (ie Battle for the Cowl) Jason hasn't gone postal because of his death in a while (in BTFC it was Bruce's death and the mention of the "unresolved dark horrors of his childhood" triggering a bad parody of some sort of psychotic break) so like i guess criticizing Jason for something he isn't doing is kinda strange

-if anything Bruce is the one "not over" Jason's death considering the flashback he had right at the beginning of Failsafe arc (though of course demanding he just gets over the trauma of holding his dead son's corpse is just as absurd as demanding Jason gets over the trauma of having died)

-honestly staying by Chill's side as he died was pretty cool and heroic on Bruce's part, totally agreed, that was badass of him to not let him die alone despite his trauma. That being said can we please stop tying morality to the concept of forgiveness? Implying there's a goodness of heart to forgiving/getting over your trauma is weird, it way too puch pressure on the victim, we should stop with the "good victim/bad victim" narrative, martyrdom culture is harmful. If forgiving Chill helped Bruce, cool for him, Jason is in no obligation to forgive Joker, and also Bruce forgiving Chill =/= staying by his side as he died, those are two separate things

-if we're comparing coping we have to compare resources, what does Jason's support system at that time compared to Bruce? Should we make a tally to see who has more friends especially close ones? We both know who will win but also that it's a completely stupid and pointless arrangement, how many apples and oranges must we compare before we conceptualize that it's not the same fruit?

-in terms of personal taste, I find placing moral judgement on characters is about the least interesting analysis angle I can imagine, like, congrats, you've established Angel McPerfect is a better person than Asshole McInteresting! Now multiply me by one and subtract zero.

-kinda hilarious to criticise Jason for not getting over his death and compare that to the coping of a man who dresses as a bat to cope with something that happened thirty years ago. Like if he's so over his trauma why is he wearing pointy ears

-also, obviously, the idea that characters should just "get over their trauma" is insanely dumb. Trauma is like a wound. It can scar, if treated properly, and then the scar will always be there. Imagine telling someone they should get cosmetic surgery because "we get it, you got stabbed, you don't have to shove it in my face every time I look at you." Or telling someone whose wound got infected "why can't you be more like this guy? Look, his stab wound is all healed nice and clean by now. It's like you're not even trying !"

Anyway I hope that answers your question and you have a good day anon, I agree with you that that take is weird, I truly don't understand the reasoning beside "i don't like jason". Idk maybe these people just need to...chill.

[man-i-love-fanfiction]

To Share the Space with Simple Living Things - Hozier x Fem!Florist!Reader

Chapter Three: Chrysanthemums - Joy

Summary: You and Andrew meet outside of your workplace for the first time for a completely platonic coffee on him.

Word count: 2385

Author's note: i am so sorry that this took so long 😭 last week of school combined with finals combined with life i guess hindered me from writing. but i'm back on track!!! hopefully you all enjoy and if i don't update again soon happy holidays <3

tag list: @celery-grace @gayandfairycore @deathmybride @harry-bowie-mercury @hodgepodge-musings @blue-eyed-bug @secretttytttttttttt @dinner-n-dxatribes @padfootblackswh0r3 (if you want to be added just let me know!)

fic below the cut <3

This is not a date.

That was your affirmation all of Friday morning, repeating it to yourself.

You muttered it under your breath as you fixed your hair. It was mumbled as you laid out your outfit, specifically chosen to be fashionable but casual: your favorite sweater and a nice pair of jeans. You whispered it before spraying your perfume, a scent you had to dig through your closet for five minutes to find. Ironically, the scent was nothing close to floral. You said it to each of your houseplants as you watered them. They remained unconvinced.

Slipped on your shoes. Locked up your flat. Walked down the stairs. You repeated your mantra every time, because maybe if you said it enough times, it would become true.

By the time you made it to your car, you had said it so many times it felt like breathing. Your hands gripped the wheel. You locked eyes with your reflection in the rearview mirror and whispered your phrase of the morning one more time for good luck.

This. Is. Not. A. Date.

Stepping down on the gas pedal, you began to drive.

On the drive there, you prepared yourself for all possible scenarios. This kind of thinking came naturally — it always did, especially in situations like these. You ran through what your reaction would be if he showed up, what it would be if he didn't. What you would do if he had an insanely complex coffee order, or if he ordered a drink with six shots of espresso. What if he tried to order for you, or if he made some backhanded comment about another woman at the cafe? You doubted he would do any of these things, but you believed it's better to be safe than sorry. This thinking only paused when you parked in front the coffee shop and caught a glimpse of Andrew waiting inside. All of your previous repetition and fretting had made you ten minutes late, a fact you weren't fond of and hoped Andrew wouldn't chastise you for.

The moment you stepped into the coffee shop, all of your previous affirmations were thrown out the window. It wasn't a date. But after seeing Andrew you wished that it was.

It wasn't any particular factor. It wasn't the black denim jacket he was wearing, or the way he'd tied half his hair up, leaving the other half down. It wasn't even the smile on his face, reserved like he wasn't sure how to react properly when he saw you. It was a combination of everything; his presence alone was enough to make you flustered. So flustered that you were very close to forgetting to say anything when you walked up to him. Thankfully, at the last moment, you actually spoke.

“Hey! Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long,” you greeted him with a small smile.

“Oh, no. I just got here, too. You're alright.”

You walked inside together, and you looked around at your new surroundings. It was a small business, quaint and cozy, with framed photos of artworks by local artists; it was exactly what you would imagine a coffee shop that Andrew picked to be.

Because all of your overthinking (or what you preferred to call planning) on the way there, you ordered your coffee with ease. Andrew recited his order, a black americano, a surprise to you. You watched as he paid and gave his name for the order, the barista already recognizing him. He turned his head towards you and offered an explanation:“I’m a regular. I always come here whenever I need a pick-me-up.”

“I’ll have to come here more often, then,” you replied.

You found a small table in the corner and sat down to claim it for the both of you while Andrew stood by the counter, waiting for your coffee. What a gentleman.

You had yet to notice any flaws in him, only making your self-imposed rule of this not being romantic harder to follow. There had to be something about him that was off. There was no way he was so caring and endearing and funny all at the same time; he had to have an imperfection eventually. You didn't find it in the few minutes you watched him stand around, occasionally fiddling with his hands or putting them in his pockets. Your efforts grew even more futile as he walked over with the coffees in hand, setting them down on the table.

He shedded his jacket and carefully placed it on the back of the chair before sitting down in the chair opposite you. This simple action caused the fact that you barely knew Andrew to pop up in your head. Despite how connected to him you felt already, you had only met him twice before. On both occasions he wore long sleeves, so seeing him without a jacket for the first time gave you a much appreciated surprise.

His right arm had an entire sleeve of tattoos.

He had turned his arm into a mural for myths and legends. A portrait of a falling Icarus, wings disintegrating beneath a red sun. A tortured Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his back. Dante and Virgil arm in arm wandering through a circle of hell. Writing in script filled the empty space, seemingly verses from poems. It was all centered around two words placed across his bicep: Noli Timere. You’d be lying if you said it didn't make you even more attracted to him than you already were.

You could've spent hours just looking, analyzing every line of ink. It felt as though you did, though it's much more likely it was only for a few seconds. You were brought back to Earth by the sound of his voice.

“It's rude to stare, y’know?”

There was no real annoyance in his voice, but it caused you to attention like you had been caught. An explanation mumbled its way out of your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, I just- I like your arm. Tattoos. Your arm tattoos. They're…”

Beautiful? Enticing? Very attractive?

“…cool.”

You took a sip of your coffee, finding it the perfect time to cover up your embarrassment, as well as the flushed face that came along with it. Luckily, Andrew didn't notice (or if he did, he didn't mind) and continued the conversation, accepting your compliment with a crooked smile.

“Thanks. I try to put a lot of thought into them, give them some meaning, so they're all based on these stories that are important to me.”

“Makes sense. I’d hate to get a tattoo just to regret it a few years later. Even worse, a few months later.”

“Too many of my clients have had that exact issue. Come in a year after and ask for a coverup. Makes me question my work sometimes.”

“Clients?” You asked with a tilt of your head.

“Oh, right. I never mentioned it.” He paused to take a drink from his cup before continuing. “I’m a tattoo artist. The parlor I work at’s only a few blocks away from your shop, believe it or not.”

“Wow. Small world, I suppose. Maybe I could stop by someday and say hi.”

The boldness of your statement didn't fully process in your brain, and you quickly backtracked.

“If you’d be okay with that, of course.”

“Yes. Absolutely. You can come by whenever I don't have a client.”

“Call me over if anyone gets a tattoo of a flower and I’ll be there to explain everything it means. There is always the very dangerous possibility of someone getting a flower that means jealousy or a rejection.”

He didn’t reply, just flashed a smile, and the silence between you seemed… awkward. Combined with the way he was fidgeting with his hands, it almost made you think he was nervous.

“I’m actually thinking about buying a bouquet to put on the front desk,” he admitted.

“Really?”

“Yeah. A lot of people, they get nervous before their appointment, whether it's their first tattoo or their tenth. Having flowers right when you walk in might ease some of the tension.”

“That's a great idea. I know I’m biased, but flowers do tend to brighten my day."

“Do you have any ideas?”

You bit at your bottom lip as you thought, finally speaking again once you racked your brain for what could work.

“Chrysanthemums are a favorite with customers. Those mean joy and optimism. I could start with those and build from there.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“That's all I’ve got right now, but I’ll see what else I can come up with later. After coffee, I’m much more… insightful.”

As if to prove your point, you took another sip of your coffee, a longer one that left only a quarter of the cup left.

“So… this is official? You're placing an order?”

He nodded.

“If that's how this works, then yes. I’d like to place an order of one chrysanthemum bouquet for the purpose of making my customers happy. Please,” he replied genuinely.

“Your order will be marked down as soon as I get to the shop.”

“Feel free to take your time, by the way. I don't mean to pressure you. It's not like I have a deadline, and I know you probably have a million other things you have to do.”

You considered reaching for him, your fingertips flexing in his direction, but you restrained yourself, choosing words instead.

“You're not pressuring me at all. You made your order. Now you're asking me to do my job. My job that I love, by the way. If anything, I’m thrilled that you're so interested.”

The real question is whether you're more interested in my job or me.

You weren't bold enough to say what you were thinking, but you never had been. You had gotten so used to biting your tongue it was a miracle it was still in your mouth. You spoke again, but selected a much safer option of what to say.

“It's gonna take a few days since there's some orders before yours, but I have your number on file so I’ll call you when I finish it up.”

“I’ll be there. With my wallet, this time around.”

You thought about your proposition before realizing there would be a much more effective, though maybe you just wanted to visit Andrew’s job for a change.

“I mean, you said your place is only a few minutes away, right? I could always deliver it. Gives me an opportunity to get some fresh air during my day. Besides, you're probably much busier than I am, so it might be harder to find the time. Meanwhile, I can deliver it as soon as it's done, and everything works out.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know. I want to, though.”

He sighed and shook his head, a reaction you originally feared was out of annoyance, but you felt a small amount of relief when you noticed the smile that accompanied it.

“You need to stop doing nice things for me. Otherwise I’ll go bankrupt from buying you so much coffee to compensate.”

“I also accept gratitude payment in compliments, thank-you-cards, and checks.”

“What about credit cards?”

“Ooo, sorry. Compliments, thank-you-cards, and checks are your options.”

He chuckled, a deeper and richer laugh than before.

“Fine. You want a compliment? You're incredibly kind for doing all of this for me, and I sincerely appreciate it. Thank you.”

Another sip from your cup to hide the flush of your cheeks, though no amount of caffeine could calm the butterflies in your stomach.

“That covers your gratitude payment for now. I still need real money, of course,” you muttered. “And you're not getting your way out of it this time.”

“I would never. You can't pull the same con on the same person twice.”

“Oh, so it was a con? Did those flowers even go to your mother?”

“Nope. Underground flower smuggling ring.”

“Ah, I should've guessed. Tell your flower-loving crime boss that I’m thankful for all that you've done for me, but I unfortunately need to get going, because it's 9:30 and the shop opens at 10.”

Andrew complied. You two wrapped it up, and he put his jacket back on, covering up his tattoos much to your dismay. Your coffee cup, now empty, was discarded by the door.

“Thank you so much. For the coffee, for the company. Everything. Especially for the coffee, though, considering you barely even drank yours,” you commented, pointing at the half-full cup still in his hand.

“You’re welcome. And trust me, I was going to drink it, but I found myself much more engrossed in the conversation.”

Andrew grabbed the door and held it open for you, and you walked past him and thanked him. Both of you stood on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop, unsure of how (or if you even wanted) to say goodbye.

“This is where we must part ways,” he said with a sigh.

“You say that like we're never going to see each other again.”

“A lot can happen in a few days, Y/N. You have no idea what the universe has up her sleeve.”

“Do you have some kind of knowledge about an apocalypse that I don't? Because when it comes to that kind of stuff, sharing is caring.”

“Just… prepping for the future, I suppose. If there is no apocalypse, I’ll see you when my bouquet’s finished.”

“I’ll see you then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

You walked to your car, only a few footsteps away, the smile slowly fading from your face as he walked in the opposite direction. You sneaked a glance over your shoulder at him before opening the car door.

Sitting down in the driver's seat, you took a deep breath to bring yourself back to reality. Your mantra had been proven right: that was not a date. It just felt like one. A very successful one at that. He was a gentleman, listened to what you had to say, gave you a compliment, and you even set up an incentive to meet again. This not-a-date went better than most of your actual dates, and it was with a guy who, to your knowledge, had no romantic interest in you.

You were totally and utterly screwed.

[rigginsstreet]

Went to look at Christmas lights last night in the rich people neighborhood (I’m talking MANSIONS like I don’t know how that neighborhood was not gated lmfao) and it always strikes me about these rich people’s houses how they have giant windows in the front that show into their entire house from the street but that’s besides the point. The point is I saw the most insane Christmas decorating I’ve ever seen in my life like a hallmark Christmas set came to town it was crazy

Which leads me to:

Thinking about billy and max who go driving around looking at Christmas decorations at night especially in the rich neighborhoods cuz they have the best displays and the houses are huge and billy and max are lowkey masochists who can’t help but dream of what life would be like if they had money but they’d never say this out loud

So anyway they stumble into this one neighborhood that’s basically candy cane lane like it’s not just decorations…the whole block is a fucking light show to rival Disneyland.

And there’s one house in particular, the biggest house in the neighborhood by far. Billy and max have to get out of the car and just stare at the spectacle going on it’s straight up magical

They’re so caught up in taking everything in that they don’t notice somebody’s stepping out of the front door to come greet them in the driveway like “pretty impressive huh?”

And when billy turns to the voice he sees a boy prettier than all the lights combined and it must show on his face cuz max is rolling her eyes mumbling “oh brother…”

So anyway they exchange pleasantries and next thing they know Steve is inviting them into his house like “you should see what the inside looks like”

And sure enough the inside of the house looks like Christmas threw up. There’s more than one tree in varying sizes but the granddaddy of them all is in the living room, practically towering up to the ceiling, covered in gold and silver and red

There’s wreaths and holly and garland and glitter on every square inch of the house but it all manages to be cohesive and look immaculate. Max is having a field day looking at a Christmas village figurine set up and a train that goes around the living room

Steve’s explaining how his parents are usually away for most of the holiday season on business but his mother likes to make sure everything’s decorated for when she comes home and they’ve built up a reputation for themselves for having the best decorations in the state of Indiana. Peoples are constantly coming around to visit to get a look

Really all billy hears from that is “cute boy big empty house” so it’s a good thing Steve’s inviting them to eggnog and cookies

But billy and max have to head home and cut the party short, much to Billy’s dismay. But Steve’s telling them they can stop on by any time, he’ll give them the grand tour, see all the other decorated rooms

Max doesn’t have to even ask to know she and billy will be making an appearance tomorrow night

Steve will eventually admit to billy he doesn’t make it a habit of inviting strangers into his house…he just really liked how this one looked… and billy will eventually get his stocking stuffed by the chimney with care or however that story goes 😌

[blxxdsex]

"The genius, Michael Gavey." - Michael Gavey x Reader.

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, masturbation, foul language, loss of virginity, cum control.

English is not my first language, so I hope you will forgive me if there are any mistakes.

It’s not as if anyone’s queuing up to see what’s behind those smudged glasses or that same red sweater he pulls on every Monday. And that's fine. Honestly, it is. He's made peace with it. It’s their loss, isn’t it? That's the mantra he clings to, the thread keeping his fragile ego intact: They're the ones missing out. And God, doesn’t he need to believe it.

Michael’s good at a lot of things, and he knows it. Brilliant, really. Genius, if we're being honest. Maths? Please—he’s never even touched a calculator. Numbers are his domain, his sanctuary, the one place where he feels entirely at ease. Books too—though never fantasy; he’d rather lose himself in something real, something concrete. But everything else? Social skills? A complete disaster, really. Painful to watch.

When you arrived in Oxford, it hit him hard. Why? Because even when he was buried in the silence of the library, there you were, watching him. Always watching. Maybe intending to read a book—upside down, no less—or lounging with your legs thrown over a table, headphones blaring as if you couldn't care less about the world around you.

Michael Gavey isn't used to being seen. For fuck’s sake, he’s Michael Gavey. Nobody. Invisible, as he’s always preferred. But then you came along, and suddenly, invisibility wasn't an option. You became something else entirely: a problem, a distraction, a bloody nuisance he couldn’t seem to get rid of. And maybe, deep down, that’s what scared him most.

So, naturally, his response was to start staring back. Maybe if he leaned into being a proper weirdo, you’d back off. But no, of course not. You didn't flinch. You just stared right back, unwavering, unbothered. It didn't take long for one of the teachers to step in, warning him, of all people, to knock it off. And you? You just smiled. Smiled like you'd won some secret, twisted game, baring all your teeth like a predator who'd just cornered its prey.

When he squinted at you, furrowing his eyebrows in some attempt to decode whatever the hell was going on, you simply glanced at the table, still grinning like you had a secret you were dying to keep.

What was your problem? Were you planning something? Was there a game being played here, something sinister he couldn’t quite see? The questions clawed at him, gnawed at his focus, and yet, no answers came. Only that smile. God, he hated it.

Things weren't improving, no, they were deteriorating rather quickly. And it all took a turn for the bizarre when, in the dead of night, he awoke still half hard, with his shorts drenched in cum and his mind? Cluttered with vivid memories of a particular dream from the previous night. Never had he scrubbed a piece of clothing with such fury in his life; this treacherous body was doing him in. And the most egregious part? His cock was a bloody jest, because even after such mortification, he had to wank off once more just to make the torment subside.

That day, the Oxford corridors felt like they were smoldering beneath him, each step fueling the inferno inside his chest. His sneakers might as well have been on fire for how much he burned with rage. And then he saw you, loitering by your locker, looking infuriatingly calm as always. It was like you wanted to drive him insane.

He stormed over, slamming your locker shut with a single hand, his nostrils flaring like he was ready to tear you apart—not literally, of course. Well, maybe a little. He was unraveled, utterly tormented, and you? You were only making it worse.

“Stop.” The word came out flat, almost pitiful, his voice cracking under the weight of his irritation. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded and bloodshot, as if they’d been scorched by his fury.

“With what?” you asked, tilting an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk tugging at your lips. Carefree. Effortless. It made his teeth grind in pure frustration. He didn’t even understand why he felt so unhinged—just that he did.

“What the hell do you want?” he barked, his voice echoing down the corridor. Heads turned, a few people pausing to glance at the scene, but you didn't so much as flinch. No fear, no embarrassment. You just leaned lazily against your locker, staring at him down like you had all the time in the world.

“Your number, to start with, would be great.” The words hit him like a physical blow. His pupils dilated so fast it felt like the world had tilted. If darkness swallowed everything right then and there, he was convinced he’d still see you.

And that’s when everything shifted. You weren’t messing with him—not in the way he’d thought. No, you were interested in him. The realisation hit Michael like a slap, and even then, his perpetually self-loathing brain struggled to piece it all together. For once, his stupid mind was just that: stupid.

But then the messages started, tentative at first, and something clicked. You actually got on—really got on. It was strange, almost unnerving, how much you seemed to have in common. You liked some of the same nerdy things as him, and he found himself listening to bands he’d previously written off because you mentioned them. Slowly, the conversations moved out of his phone and into the library, where you started sitting at the same table.

People noticed, of course. Curious glances trailed after the two of you, some even daring to linger when Michael—Michael Gavey, of all people—was caught smiling. Not a smirk or a grimace, but an actual smile, albeit half-hidden behind his hand. But it was there, and for once, he didn’t mind. Not entirely.

And then, on a Friday night when everything seemed eerily serene, the text message arrived. 'Do you want to come to my dorm?' Panic ensued. Perhaps it's a tad presumptuous to assume you want to fuck him, isn't it? Yet, he was presuming precisely that. But the truth is, Michael has only kissed one girl in his entire life; otherwise, his knowledge comes from pornography, books about the human anatomy, and the hushed conversations in the men's locker room. And it's not that he didn't want to; in fact, he wanted to, desperately so, but the truth was that no one seemed sufficiently captivated to offer him the chance. But you, you were offering. Maybe. What does one do with that?

He took a shower, donned his usual jeans and a white shirt, slipped on his sneakers, and even spent time before the mirror wrestling with his blond hair, to little avail, of course. He decided he wouldn't be a coward; he had this chance, maybe, and he wouldn't squander it with timidity. He made his way to the girls' dorm on campus, garnering more than a few disdainful looks from the passing girls. It was just because it was him; if it were Felix sneaking in, they'd be all smiles. But who cares? There was only one person he hoped would truly appreciate his presence. He reached your door, his breath caught in his throat, and knocked so feebly that perhaps he thought you wouldn't even hear. Pathetic, honestly.

But you heard him, and when you opened the door, he froze for a moment. You'd just taken a shower; your skin was still slightly flushed from the hot water, wearing an oversized shirt, once black but now faded to grey, and some pajama shorts that honestly looked more like his underwear than actual shorts. He swallowed hard, managing a crooked smile. You leaned against the doorframe, your smile much more genuine.

"You came." The words slipped from your lips with such ease, rolling off your tongue with a genuine satisfaction that straightened his crooked smile.

"Yeah, well. It's not like I have anything better to do, of course." His reply lacked the sharpness he'd rehearsed in his mind, accompanied by a glance at the floor and a stupid, silly smile.

"Yeah, of course." You laughed, rolling your eyes, and turned your body to give him space to enter, if he wanted to, though he looked as if he might bolt at any second.

But he didn't run away; no, he actually stepped inside. The room was like most others, yet he was struck by how orderly it was. Like any typical dorm, there was the TV, the two single beds, a small table, and in the corner of an adjacent smaller room, the bathroom. The scent of cleaning products lingered, indicating you'd taken the time to tidy up before inviting him over. This shouldn't have pleased him as much as it did, but it did.

"Just take off your sneakers before you lay on the bed," you said with that nonchalant tone of yours, picking up the TV remote from the table.

He glanced at the paused movie on the screen before turning his attention to the bed. His mind wasn't exactly racing as he sat down, beginning to untie his sneakers, but his focus soon shifted to the side of your face. He was transfixed by how your hair framed your features, how your lips were so perfectly shaped, and how your eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. He had to run a hand over his face, nearly knocking off his glasses, to bring himself back to reality, blinking several times to refocus on removing his sneakers.

"I chose 'Evil Dead,' but they didn't have the classics." Your voice drew his gaze upward again. You casually made your way to the bed beside him, practically throwing yourself down, causing the mattress to bounce. "Is that a problem for you?" you asked, turning to look at him, your eyes locking with his.

His throat visibly tightened as he swallowed, while you didn't even blink. For a moment, he found it a rather amusing jest. What could a girl like you, with the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, with lips that curved into the brightest smile he could imagine, possibly want with him? He was either the luckiest bastard in the world or the biggest delusional of the year. But that was fine, at least for now.

"No, it's not a problem at all," Michael mumbled, unsure if he was referring to the movie choice or something else entirely. But it would suffice either way.

He saw you smile widely, and you felt you should, noticing his blue eyes dilate behind his glasses. Looking down where you had crossed your legs beneath you, you tried to focus and simply pressed play on the movie. The low noise from the TV soon filled the room, the colors of the film painting your faces and reflecting in Michael's glasses. The silence was comfortable, as always. The sounds of calm breathing filled the space, but well, his eyes weren't really on the TV; they were on you. To the point where he had to rest his hand on his face, just to appreciate it, perhaps.

"You know, watching a movie works better when you're looking at the screen," you commented, your eyes still fixed on the screen, though you felt the heat from his gaze on your cheek.

"I prefer to watch you." His words were barely above a whisper, but they reached you, making your smile widen even more.

Your eyes flicked to him, while his remained steady, though he felt his palms sweating against his cheek. He was nervous, and his attempt at an impassive expression wasn't fooling you. The words that left his lips were just truths, and seeing you smile, it was good to see you smile, it brought a subtle curve to his own lips. Sighing, you drew your knees up to your chest, resting your chin there, unsure of what to make of his words or of him. Just as he was unsure of what to make of you or how much you unsettled him.

"I hate almost everyone here except you." Your words mirrored his in tone, quiet, perhaps too intimate to slip out.

They made him pause, just looking at you, wondering. Time seemed to stand still, the screams from the movie not reaching your ears; things were quiet, almost silent. And that's when his hand rose, wrapping around the back of your neck, perhaps with the most courage he'd ever mustered in his life. Your lips parted slightly when you noticed him shifting on the bed to get closer, and you responded in kind, leaning towards him, your hand hesitating before also reaching up to the back of his neck, slipping between the golden strands to hold him firmly. Bringing your faces close, your breaths began to mingle, and soon all that was reflected in his glasses were your lips, all his attention focused solely on them.

"You're trouble, and you want to know why?" Michael whispered, your gaze falling to his lips as they formed the words. They were thrown at your face, raw and direct. "Because it seems like after I met you, there's been something wrong with my brain." He lifted his thumb to trace your bottom lip, as if to commit it to memory.

"Yeah?" Your response lacked strength, not truly. "That's good, because it seems like after you I'll never be the same." Whispering another confession, now it seemed more than fitting, even with your breathing too rapid to say much more, or what you truly wanted to.

A faint smile touched Michael's lips, perhaps an attempt at composure before he leaned in closer. Tilting your heads in opposite directions, your noses brushed against each other, the taste of each other's breath mingling on your lips, shared. His lips were the first to part, capturing your lower one slowly, almost tentatively, until yours responded, capturing his upper lip. The kiss started slowly, your lips moving together with an unhurried grace, despite your quickening breaths at the contact. His free hand found your waist, attempting to pull you closer, while your hand tangled in his hair, gripping it almost in a fist.

But it wasn't enough, far from it. Leaning forward, Michael guided you both down onto the bed, supporting himself with each hand on either side of your head, positioning his body between your legs, which parted to welcome him. One of his hands slid down to your thigh, lifting it and pressing it against his side, your hips naturally seeking each other, and his already hardened cock brushed against your increasingly aroused intimacy. Sounds escaped between kisses, your hands sliding to grip his back, when Michael pressed your bodies together again, rolling his hips and drawing out a sly moan from his own lips, making it difficult to continue kissing you.

Your hands reached for the hem of his shirt, attempting to pull it up, but his hands caught yours, pinning them above your head, fingers intertwining there, as he pulled back just enough to look you squarely in the eye. His heavy breathing made his chest rise and fall, sweat causing his glasses to slide down his nose.

"I..." the words seemed reluctant to escape as he gazed down at you, your lips flushed and your chest heaving. He didn't want to dissuade you, but he had to say it. "I've never done that."

Your only response was to lift your head from the bed, seeking his lips and succeeding in a gentle capture, with him lowering himself to return the kiss. Though not deep, your teeth nipped at his lower lip, tugging gently, perhaps trying to draw him closer. Your fingers pressed against his above your head, yearning to be free, you just wanted to touch him, feel him, it didn't matter if he was inexperienced, if you had to guide him step by step, or if this was all you would have, feeling him like this above you.

"Just touch me, I don't care," you murmured against his lip, without the strength for more words, which in response prompted him to roll his hips against yours again, closing his eyes with a moan, just as your head tilted back, lifting your hips to meet his movement.

His hands released yours, and you quickly grabbed his shirt, pulling it up and off him, and he reciprocated, lifting yours inch by inch until he could pull it over your head. Without a bra, your breasts were bared to him, making him pause. His lips went dry as he took in the sight of your hardened nipples, ready for attention, despite his momentary hesitation. You saw it in his eyes, in how they flickered to meet yours, and your hand reached to caress his cheek before grabbing the back of his neck, gently guiding him toward your chest, arching off the bed to ensure he understood your consent.

And he understood more than clearly, leaning down to kiss the space between your breasts before moving to one, enveloping it with his mouth entirely, using his hand to squeeze it firmly. The sensation of your skin against his mouth elicited a low sound from him that vibrated through your body, prompting you to grind your hips against his already hard cock. His tongue followed, swirling around your nipple, sucking as if his life depended on it. His mouth salivated, saliva running down your chest, glistening your skin with his essence. His free hand went to your other breast, squeezing it tightly, his lips trailing kisses to the other side, his tongue sliding along until it reached your other nipple, circling it with fervent enthusiasm.

"Fuck," you murmured, your intimacy throbbing, squeezing as you leaned on the bed to create friction against his erection, making him to bite the nipple in his mouth to stifle a loud moan.

His lips left your chest, observing the glistening, swollen flesh from his attentions. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight, going straight to his core. He looked down to where his hardness met your shorts, stopping himself from climaxing right there, taking deep breaths.

"Tell me..." his words trailed off, his lips struggling to draw in breaths. "Tell me how to be good for you." His whisper was broken, he was too far gone to really care about it.

You smiled, even in the throes of your overwhelming need for him. One of your hands took one of his, slowly guiding it to your core, and he watched intently as you slipped it inside your shorts and soaked panties, biting his lip as his expression contorted with pleasure. Slowly, you positioned his fingers perfectly over your clit, starting to move them in circles, making your breathing quicken further. Fortunately, Michael was a quick learner, or perhaps just desperate enough. Your fingers left his as he took over, moving them faster, circling over your soaked clit. You tried to reach for his hardness in his pants, but with his free hand, he caught yours and pinned it to the bed.

"Don't." The words came out swiftly, a desperate command because he knew well that if you touched him, he would cum right then and there.

You accepted it, not attempting to touch him again. Feeling his fingers slide over and over your most sensitive spot, the sounds began to fill the room, the wetness so intense it seeped through your pajama shorts, and he could hardly believe his incredible luck. His eyes moved to your face, noticing your parted lips, your cheeks flushed red, and your breasts, still glistening from his saliva, seeming to beckon him. One of your hands gripped his wrist, and he could see from your expression how close you were. The hand that had been holding yours to the bed released it, moving to the back of your neck, lifting your head to make you look down.

"Watch," he murmured, sliding his thumb perfectly over your clit, and you felt like stars were bursting behind your eyes even as you complied and stared.

You saw his hand moving inside your shorts, the veins in his forearm pulsing with the effort, the muscles there flexing. His hand held you tightly, almost encompassing your neck. And when his fingers started moving side to side, you knew you were finished. Your lips parted completely, a groan trapped in your throat escaped, you tried to throw your head back but his grip prevented it, and then, your walls clenched, he could feel the pulsing around his fingers, your belly flexing as you reached your climax, clamping your legs around his forearm.

Your body goes limp on the bed, your thighs still trembling as his hands slide from your neck down to your thighs, smearing his taste there. He grips the hem of your shorts, pulling them down along with your panties. When his eyes meet your pulsing, glistening pussy, a sigh escapes him, eyes closing momentarily to regain control. You hear the sound of his pants being unzipped, him kicking them off along with his underwear. Your eyes open just in time to see him grip the base of his cock, bringing the head to your sensitive clit, eliciting a tight, desperate moan from you.

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, dragging the precum-slick tip of his cock across your clit, making your walls clench as he watches. His free hand runs down the inside of your thighs, ensuring they're coated in your own wetness.

He squeezes his eyes shut in pure ecstasy, rubbing his cock from your clit to your entrance, gripping the base tightly to stave off his climax. Your thighs tremble, your hands gripping the sheets, but nothing seems to alleviate the intensity, there's no escape. You're consumed, completely. Your hips start to move desperately for contact, even as your body protests, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart. He rubs once more, the almost sinful sounds echoing off the walls, mingling with his low moans and the contractions of his stomach. You can tell he's doing everything in his power not to cum.

"Can I?" He opens his eyes to whisper, looking directly into yours, and with no strength left to speak, you simply nod.

He sighs deeply before positioning himself at your entrance and pushing inside, feeling your walls resist yet yield as he presses in until fully seated, your groins meeting. A drawn-out moan escapes your lips as his head falls back, a soft groan leaving his throat followed by a sequence of breaths that made his entire body tremble. Michael pauses, trying and failing to calm his racing heart and the overwhelming sensation of your hot, tight insides. Leaning forward, he rests one hand on the bed while the other removes his glasses, setting them aside. Your hands rise to the back of his neck, bringing his forehead to yours, holding it there as he makes the first thrust. Both of your lips part, your moans and breaths mingling.

His thrusts were deep, yet slow. He would withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, each time making your eyes squeeze shut tighter and your head press against his. The sweat on your foreheads seemed to meld you together, turning you into one entity. His eyes opened, burning into your face, and you met his gaze, your eyes filling with tears of pure pleasure as he thrust even deeper.

"I like you," he murmurs, cupping your cheek as his other hand grips the headboard, making the wood creak. A smile graces your lips, almost cut off by his cock sliding in deeper.

"I like you too," you manage to reply between ragged breaths, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck as if it's your lifeline.

He brings his lips to your forehead, giving you a long, lingering kiss, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he brings his hand to your mouth, and with that signal, he starts thrusting with all he has, making you scream into his hand, which hopefully muffles the sound. He rests his own mouth there to also muffle his moans, feeling sweat run down every part of his body, mixing with yours. The bed bangs against the wall, your eyes roll back when he hits that sweet spot inside you, your hands lifting to dig your nails into his back. As your walls clench around him, he feels your climax spill out, soaking the sheets and his lower abdomen. With a louder moan, he quickly pulls out, his cock spilling his cum over your belly.

He releases your mouth and the headboard, letting his full weight rest on you, his head finding solace in the crook of your neck. Your arms encircle his neck, keeping him close as your entire body trembles with the aftershocks of pleasure. Both of you are exhausted, both satisfied. Michael's thoughts drift back to the early weeks of knowing you, how he wished you would vanish, and now, how he dreads the thought of you leaving, like everyone else. The irony might have drawn a bitter laugh from him if he weren't so physically spent.

"I wasn't bluffing," you hear him murmur into your neck, capturing your attention amidst the sensations still coursing through your body. You slowly turn your head towards him.

"What?" you whisper, perhaps fearful that even a slight increase in volume might make this moment slip away, just as much as he is. His eyes, those blues that most people overlook, capture your senses.

"I really like you." Hearing those words again, this time not in the heat of the moment, did something different to you stomach, perhaps quickened your heart more than the entire act itself, burned your skin more than anything else.

Drawing him closer with your hand, you adjust his position so he lies on your chest, where he places a gentle kiss. Your fingers delve into his hair, and you cast a brief glance to the side where his glasses still rest. A smile graces your lips because the truth is, you are utterly and hopelessly in love with the genius Michael Gavey. The irony is that he doesn't seem genius enough to realize it.

[aztarion]

If Sol is an anxiety-riddled cheetah, what sort of person or thing or addition to her (un)life would have the same effect on her that an emotional support puppy has on a cheetah?

ive been thinking about this and not getting anywhere j and im pretty sure it’s meant as no nuance but we’ve established im an overthinker v_v so i rambled for a while below, hopefully it’s entertaining LOL. i focused way too much on the relationships. tbh it could be her brother if she ever reunited with him

it’s so hard to pick out one particular thing or person or addition and keep it realistic!!! i’d otherwise say it was Julian during the fledgling years, but she didn’t have much in the way of anxiety then, not like it is now, and he was also partially responsible for what brought about triggering/exacerbating it in the first place. but initially what they had, if you could lift that younger slightly less bold Julian to replace present Julian, might have that effect on her

in some weird way i think Sol subconsciously likes being kept on the fringe or razors edge of her nerves in some twisted strain of excitement; ive been toying with this as a manifestation of her beast. so maybe she would vore a traditional therapy dog and sit there shaking and whimpering like she’s the victim 🧐

i’ve mentioned before she gets on really well with Elena and enjoys her dry presence and quiet competence and absolute loyalty, but the fact of what’s unnaturally behind that loyalty spikes anxiety if Sol dwells on it — Sol is also VERY protective and worries about everyone she has a connection with. she would develop feelings for the therapy dog. whatever it might be in this analogy, it would have to be some sort of stronger kindred/supernatural for her to have any peace of mind

so… Lettow comes closest in that regard, but i still don’t think Sol would be happy for other reasons. his demeanor, strength and reliability has the most inwardly calming effect on her — like a truly strange solid steadying comfort over a period of months that grow insanely chaotic. he offers comfort, forgiveness, acceptance, support — all the things she thinks she wants or needs. it’s interesting to me that in the base text a lot of his touches and embraces are described as being either ‘grounding’, ‘protective’ or ‘lingering’ because Sol often feels like she’s drowning — in guilt, in Aila’s memories, in loneliness, in purposelessness, in her own maddeningly unsatisfied hunger. like meeting earth after years at sea. he has big taurus energy to her underdeveloped scorpio. (contrastingly Julian’s are described as unexpected or split-second and leaving her off-balance… but again i think Sol actually likes that)

maybe Lettow could help her heal past Aila but i don’t think Sol would give herself that chance for forgiveness. and while she comes to really love and care for him despite the confusion Aila’s stirring brings, and her own impulsive feelings and actions, i don’t think she’s IN love with Lettow :( he doesn’t inspire or excite or wildly frustrate her like Julian does. so maybe that does make Lettow a good emotional support puppy… Sol needs a pet elder kindred just chilling in the background with a panama hat being extremely accepting of her stupidity to feel normal i guess. im thinking his willingness to forgive what she’s done would eat at her forever though, to a point that’s just utterly dissociative. and that’s not fair to Lettow; he doesn’t deserve another gf tapping out on him

present-and-post-night road Julian…sigh

Julian has this constant dichotomy of idealism and hypocrisy, patience and cool calculative manipulation. he would be that one therapy dog that wasn’t screened for occasionally barking unexpectedly and roughhousing. so like he’s very good for her in some ways and terribly triggering in others but now the cheetah is attached to him so everyone (me) is hesitant to take him out of the enclosure

more than anything Julian offers her assurance in his intelligence, adaptability, his purpose — and the purpose he gives her, which Sol can’t put to words. it’s less about providing a calming presence and more about inspiring and challenging her. he’s like enrichment LOL. more akin to a partner in adventure and crime rather than strictly emotional support, but i think Sol would end up heading in Aila’s direction without Julian stirring shit up for her

as for the emotional support… ok this is where i retreat to my fanfic but Marquis definitely threw a big bone at the end of Julian’s romance. they have a very deep connection; the sire-childe bond, were best friends/lovers/attached at the hip for a decade, he brings out the best (and worst) in her but he helps her discover herself… i think it’s special and could work as a foundation. of course ultimately the effectiveness depends on the progression of their relationship and the trust rebuilding between them post-night road, but i see that as a possibility. when Sol tentatively decides to help with Julian’s plan for the SI and 2100 long term instead of Lettow, something big is bridged there — in the ending scene with romanced Julian he in turn offers Sol half of the reigns on the program and lets her call the shots with whatever happens with the death cult in Monterrey, as well as joining her in the field. i love Kyle for doing that lmao… it’s a really nice moment that hints at Julian being willing to work to rebuild the relationship and trust between them instead of what you get in night road when neither of them wholly trust each other and are loathe to keep it 100. once Julian knows she’s in, he’s down, no holds barred. i think they'd both be for the long haul, in good and probably still some bad and very imperfect ways but that keeps it interesting

THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK <3333 THANK YOU J <333

[anti-rq-gumi]

The Ciel? The girlfriend abuser? Vagueposting about me??? I’m so honored! Let’s dissect this response.

Here’s my entire post. You didn’t screenshot the entire thing and talked about things outside your screenshot, which just serves to confuse the audience.

saying this to someone’s boundary is INSANE. “your boundary isn’t valid because I want to use your terms without associating with you!”

That kind of boundary isn’t reasonable because it extends outside of the coiner’s jurisdiction. Since again, transID and its alternatives have different fucking definitions, this makes trans-x, disso-x and desir-x… different fucking terms. So if you coin trans-x and someone else coins disso-x or desir-x, they are not crossing your boundaries around term stealing.

if you antis seriously want to use a transid label that bad that you have to have to steal the term from the original owner, maybe you should think about some things.

Radqueers do not own a monopoly on the experience of feeling atypical dysphoria?

What do you think happens when a radqueer who feels atypical dysphoria leaves the community? They don’t just stop feeling that. There are also people who feel atypical dysphoria who have never entered the radqueer community in the first place and don’t want to. They might go on to use transIDs separately from the radqueer community, but they also might not be comfortable using terms that encompass harmful transitioning. Or maybe they simply don’t experience their atypical dysphoria in a way analogous to transgender.

There are so many reasons why a non radqueer would use an alternative term. They’ve “thought about things” more than radqueers wanting everyone to use transIDs, honestly.

now i understand if it’s something non-specific like transage/arissoage, like that’s reasonable to be like “you can’t restrict this” because it’s something so vague, but if it’s something specific, it’s not reasonable to get mad over.

Anyone can feel atypical dysphoria about specific things and describe it with transID alternatives. You’re still encouraging the unreasonable restriction of these terms being coined even if you’re doing it for a smaller amount, with more vague terms being “allowed to exist” but more specific terms not.

the thing is, with you antis, you would be mad if a transid coiner reclaimed one of your arisso terms (it’s happened before) but for some reason it’s fine if you get mad at them but they can’t get mad at you?

Generalization much? I’m not a dissomei or desirdae coiner, but if a transID coiner were to make their own version of my terms I wouldn’t care. Because again. It would be a different term.

I don’t know what situation you’re referring to, but since you used the word arisso I suspect you’re referring to one in particular.

@/acetrappolaswife, the coiner of arissomei before it was recoined as dissomei, created arissoimmoral as an umbrella term for any harmful arissomei identities. The public coining of anything more specific than that was explicitly forbidden, as it could be seen as glorifying the harm the term would describe. One radqueer coined these terms anyway and received backlash from both @/acetrappolaswife and other antis as a result.

You can clearly see how this situation differs. The radqueer did not coin equivalent transIDs to arissomei identities; they coined arissomei identities the coiner of arissomei had forbidden.

even if you were going to recreate their terms, just block them so they can’t see instead of INVALIDATING THEIR BOUNDARIES. it’s seriously not that deep.

I mean yeah sure, that can be done. I don’t think any dissomei or desirdae coiner would be opposed to blocking a radqueer who requests it. You’ve gotta understand though, radqueer blogs get terminated too often for blocking every transID coiner to be feasible. (This is your 27th blog.) It would have to be done on a case by case basis.

it is CRAZY to say “your boundary isn’t valid and let me explain why.” you wouldn’t say that to ANY other boundary, you’re only saying it to this one because it’s about you. grow the fuck up.

I said the boundary wasn’t reasonable, not invalid. A radqueer saying “do not coin a specific dissomei or desirdae term” is not reasonable in the slightest. This isn’t about me as I don’t coin dissomei or desirdae terms, I’m literally just explaining that people are allowed to do that.

[ start screenshot ]

[ end screenshot ]

saying this to someone's boundary is INSANE. "your boundary isn't valid because i want to use your term without associating with you!"

if you antis seriously want to use a transid label that bad that you have to steal the term from the original owner, maybe you should think about some things. now i understand if it's something non-specific like transage/arissoage, like that's reasonable to be like "you can't restrict this" because it's something so vague, but if it's something specific, it's not reasonable to get mad over. the thing is, with you antis, you would be mad if a transid coiner reclaimed one of your arisso terms (it's happened before) but for some reason it's fine if you get mad at them but they can't get mad at you? even if you were going to recreate their terms, just block them so they can't see instead of INVALIDATING THEIR BOUNDARIES. it's seriously not that deep. it is CRAZY to say "your boundary isn't valid and let me explain why." you wouldnt say that to ANY other boundary, youre only saying it to this one because its about you. grow the fuck up

[imminent-danger-came]

IVE ONLY SEEN ONE PERSON POINT THIS OUT BUT MK TRIES TO PUNCH MACAQUE DISGUISED AS WUKONG BEFORE HE EVEN REALIZES ITS WUKONG. I CAN FEEL THE MK AND SWK FIGHT IN MY BONES. Also can you imagine with like that one art post Mei asks MK who HE wants to be, not a reflection of somebody, not the Monkie Kid, not the Harbringer of Chaos and HE REPLIES WITH HIS REAL NAME I WOULD GO INSANE

I'm like. 85% sure that person was me afasdfafsd. I know I've mentioned it before somewhere!

Because it's like, MK feels extremely abandoned and hurt by Wukong during s2. MK's line of "Fine! Then just leave! At least my friends will never abandon me!" in 2x01 Sleep Bug is VERY telling, and it also makes me sob when put together with 3x10 The Samadhi Fire:

MK: "NO! Mei is my best friend—I'd never abandon her when she needs me! We're heroes! It's what we do!"

And 4x02 New Adventures:

MK: “You don’t know! We’d risk it for sure! I won’t abandon them when they need us.”

MK's own low self-worth combined with Wukong's tendency to leave in the worst way possible, which was only further exacerbated by the Lady Bone Demon's manipulation.

And I think MK's experiences and feelings throughout s2 made him resolve to never make his friends feel abandoned.

But of course, since this is Lego Monkie Kid, it's more interesting than just that—because MK leaves at the end of s4. It was out of fear, sure, but so was Wukong leaving in s2 and at the end of s3. MK does exactly what he set out not to do, making the same mistakes his mentor has, literally going to isolate himself on Flower Fruit Mountain for an undetermined amount of time.

It's things like this that make the question of "Who is MK" so intriguing, because that's who MK want's to be. He want's to be himself. But who is that person?

Is MK just like Wukong? Is he a harbinger of chaos? Is he just a noodle delivery boy? Is he Monkie Kid? What if you remove all those labels? What's left? What is he?

(Plus the whole "I just want to be me—to be MK!" "Yeah well...we all know where that leads." interaction between MK and the curse in 4x07)

And now that we've thrown MK's mysterious past and ominous future into the mix, we are in for a FULL on identity crisis spiral next season.

And well, when it comes down to it, MK was willing and ready to fight Wukong in s2. The lmk writers are fantastic at paying off several arcs all at the same time (see all of 3x10, which literally had the culmination of Mei's, MK's, Wukong's, and Macaque's arcs all in one. It's fucking phenomenal), and this is partly due to the time constraints of the show as a whole, but it's also just damn good writing. MK's past, his identity, the hurt he's experienced across every season—that's all going to come to a head. I also imagine it's going to happen right along side Mei, Wukong, and Macaque's arcs once again, because that's just how this show do. It do insane shit.

I also happen to be a believer in "Samadhi Fire Part 3", in which we get another 3x10 and 4x08 parallel to round it all up, and I am waiting, WAITING, for Mei to repeat MK's words back at him:

“Mei! You have to stop. I know you’re upset, and that’s okay! I know what it’s like to have a power you don’t know how to control—to feel like the fate of the world is in your hands and you have no idea what to do! But you always have my back, and help me through it. We, will figure this out! Together!” (3x10 The Samadhi Fire)

((Which, MK himself is repeating Mei's words back at her, with "But we're going to figure this out." I NEED A POSITIVE FEEDBACK FRIEND LOOP BABY))

But yeah. I'M WAITING MAN. WE HAVE THE SAME BONE FEELINGS.

[art-soboro]

a flood of miracles wouldn't be enough because you called my name

[isalabells]

- And we pulled that stupid prank on you. - Wiener schnitzel and sauerkraut. - Yeah, we thought we were so clever. Eva von Braun, right? But you– you just set it aside, and you put your head down and got to work.

FOR ALL MANKIND 1.02 He Built the Saturn V || 3.03 All In

[ccbatman]

actually so sick how they made steph into a martyr for everything wrong with gotham when she lived her whole life trying to prove that she was everything right

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

sometimes i wish i had just imprinted on some regular modern IP characters like a normal person instead of rotating medieval irish figures in my brain at all times like a freak because it makes it really hard to explain a bunch of things about me. like. i'm starting a new type of therapy soon. and it is absolutely going to come up. and they'll be like "do you ever use fictional characters as a proxy to think about this" or whatever bc that's a question therapists ask in these kinds of situations. and i'll be like. yeah but it's fucking cú chulainn so uhhh here's a primer and a bibliography so you can understand exactly why this is an unhinged thing to say

[glitter-stained]

I'm writing a Jason Vs Dick fic for a secret santa exchange...

The prompt has the fic set during the Battle for the cowl arc - Jason is the villain. He's delusional (the dyeing his hair thing never really happened - he dyed his black hair red) and seriously messed up. It is a pretty dark fic.

Basically Jason knows on some level how badly messed up he is. He wants Dick to be his Robin, because he believes that it was Robin Dick who saved Bruce from darkness. He wants Dick (who is already juggling too much responsibility) to do the same for him... Be the light to his darkness...

Saw your posts about the BTFC arc in particular and mentally ill villains in general.

Any suggestions on how to handle the BtFC Jason?

...don’t ?

No, wait, listen. I know I said “write what you want as long as it’s self-aware”, it’s just you’ve chosen to write an absolute nightmare of a minefield to be self-aware about. I believe it’s possible to write Btfc fanfics that aren’t psychophobic, I just think it must be incredibly hard; Btfc is my second least favourite comic because all of it is soaked and drenched in psychophobia and I wish with all of my heart for dc to continue ignoring it and hopefully bury it under layers and layers of retcon until it’s less significant to Jason’s modern characterization than Waldo the clown (no hate on Waldo, he was much better than anything about Btfc though). So, I can give you advice for sure, I’m just concerned it will not be enough, because I wouldn’t trust myself to write a non-psychophobic Btfc fic, but you sure can try!

The core issue about Btfc (and any villainous characterization of Jason) is that, at the difference of other characters like the Joker, there’s a strange kind of coherence to it. For all we talk about Jason sometimes acting OOC, he’s reliably showing symptoms of BPD, like, to me, it’s pretty blatant. The difference between UTH and BiB or Btfc isn’t that he has BPD in one and not the other, it’s that BiB and Btfc are much more brutally psychophobic renditions of BPD than UTH (though UTH isn’t fully clean either). In other words, Btfc is a violent caricature of Borderline Personality Disorder. I’m not sure if this is on purpose, because on the one hand, it’s so consistent I feel like someone at dc told the writers “Jason has bpd” and they all ran with their caricatural representation of the disorder, or (because I don’t wanna underestimate dc’s ignorance regarding mental disorders) if they just read about him, thought “hey, he kinda fits into that subtype of stereotypical mental illness I have in mind” and projected their stereotypes about BPD about him without even knowing those are BPD stereotypes. The end result is the same: bpd on a spectrum from “almost well written” to “nastiest rep I’ve ever read”.

Now in Btfc (just as in UTH or BiB tbh) I’d say Jason is splitting, having an episode in which his BPD symptoms are flaring up completely. This can absolutely include brief psychotic episodes, and tbh the part you mentioned about dyeing his hair I can totally get behind. And because you’re writing Jason in the middle of a particularly intense episode, you can’t make the economy of considering the question of moral responsibility. If Jason is committing morally reprehensible actions as a consequence of the disordered patterns in the context of the episode, whether we’re talking about splitting or delusion or disordered thought patterns, you have to consider the question of responsibility, and on a spectrum. You also have to identify who is deciding those actions are morally reprehensible (is it Dick? The law? You, the author? The anticipated reader? All of them?) and whether you expect this judge is passed on the action, the person, or, who knows, even the disorder itself. And of course consider the implications of that fact. (For example, it’s completely possible for Dick, in the context he’s grown and developed in, and considering the insane stress he’s under, to be psychophobic as fuck; and obviously, writing a character doing something doesn’t mean that you support it, but if Jason is the villain and Dick is a hero and Dick is being psychophobic you should pay attention to whether the narrative is implying that Dick is right to be psychophobic about it.)

[kyouka-supremacy]

(╥﹏╥)

[batsplat]

bat splat thank youuu for saying the pecco jorge rivalry is just for pecco as opposed to having the specter of Vale hanging over it. I want to ask tho, I have been seeing people say the only reason pecco wins the race is because he copies jorge's setup throughout friday/saturday/Sprint. Wanted your opinion on this because I have also heard that Pecco gives decent engineering input and builds his race slowly over the weekend. Was just confused about how much data sharing can actually help, and how much does it help with the ducati specifically!! Have a nice day, love your posts

have a good day too, anon!! and I will gladly spread the pecco narrative independence agenda!! it's something I really do like about the rivalry - expanded a bit in the comments under this, but it's neat to have something that really is Just Pecco's. from inception it's very much his own rivalry, his own narrative... idk, this sport is too reliant on valentino to provide any kind of narrative tension, and it's just sort of refreshing to see this multi-year narrative play out that has fuck all to do with that guy. enough

on the set-up copying, obviously that is bullshit. I mean, to be clear, I'm sure pecco absolutely copies the set-ups of other ducati riders, but that's very much a mutual process - it's something that benefits all the ducati riders, and they've all openly spoken about this. it's very helpful to be able to see the data from seven other riders!! that's a big part of why ducati has been so bloody good!! the main difference is that jorge tends to be faster from the start of the weekend, whereas pecco tends to take time to reach his level. which I suppose makes some people draw the conclusion that pecco is only fast once he's copied someone's set-up. again, this isn't the case - it is just a difference in approaches. points come... well, unfortunately, not just on sunday anymore, but they certainly do not come on a friday. pecco knows this, which is also why sometimes he's not even trying to top an fp1 session - this year there have been quite a few instances of jorge but not pecco throwing on a fresh set of tyres towards the end of fp1 and setting a particularly impressive lap time. there's also nothing wrong with THAT approach, jorge is playing to his strengths, but at a certain point we're just talking different run plans

(there is also a very obvious logical fallacy with this line of reasoning. if you are copying someone's set-up, then by definition you have the same set-up as them. and if you beat someone with the same set-up, then it stands to reason that you were riding better than them. sure, you can argue the success is less earned because your team... idk, just lazed around all weekend, but at the end of the day surely you still cannot be a bad rider if you are getting more out of another rider's set-up than they themselves are able to manage)

and yeah, pecco is known for giving good feedback! just being a good learner in general. here, actually, a little throwback from start of 2019 where pecco's crew chief gabarrini (who also ofc has worked with casey, lorenzo and briefly with marc) compared pecco and marc:

"A driver - all of them do this - starts at a certain level and ends the day at a higher level. What makes the difference is starting again where you were. Few have this quality: it often happens that a driver sets good times - without knowing why, without being aware of how he got there. The 'good' ones, on the other hand, have this characteristic: they achieve a result and know why they did it," explained the chief technician. Gabarrini even goes so far as to compare the MotoGP rookie with the current world champion: "I saw this quality in Márquez: I was with him when he made his debut in the MotoGP World Championship. His ability to not forget what he had learned impressed me. Once he had understood an aspect of the riding style, the set-up or any other thing to be faster, he had it in him forever. Pecco also has this quality." "In Valencia we started with a base similar to the one Lorenzo used: on paper it suited Bagnaia, based on what you could understand when you saw him riding a Moto2 bike. From then on, the normal changes to the set-up were made so that he could ride the bike as he liked. In the meantime, Pecco has worked enormously to adapt his style to the Ducati."

and there you have it - pecco's good at progressively getting better at stuff, including over the course of the weekend. as for the set-up copying thing, partly it's just typical competitive paranoia (even though it feels like the fans are currently doing it more than the riders). back in the day, valentino and jorge used to have the world's dumbest arguments about this every other week. led to one of my all time fave messy jb moments:

god I miss that guy so badly. they don't do ride-or-die like that anymore

the point is that both sides were engaging in pretty silly mudslinging, just kind of for the vibes of it. valentino/jb trying to get under jorge's skin and jorge a bit more earnestly aggrieved. as ever, if you want to read more about how that particular era of jorge/valentino unfolded, see here. this is just to say, this kind of faffing about is a tale as old as time and it's always a bit silly... you had jorge say that it was impossible for them anyway to copy each other's data in the very same answer as he accused valentino of copying his set-up. like, I'm sorry, I am not going to take this seriously. a lot of sports is about having dumb arguments

and yeah, again, pecco does gradually build up his level over the weekend. more of a valentino than a casey, it's fair to say. and that'll hurt him in the sprint format - which I talked about a bit recently while going through casey's latest interview about how sprints are satan's providence:

so yeah, casey thinks that if anything there isn't enough time to work on set-up, and mat oxley thinks it's rubbish to say pecco relies on sprint data to be better on sunday. (as I said in that post, I do find it fun if unsurprising that casey is so virulently anti-sprints, because you'd think a lot of aspects of the format - including less time for everyone for working on set-ups - really would have suited him. keeping it real.) so on the whole... y'know. maybe he just gets better over the course of the weekend. it's been known to happen. there's actually some pretty significant ways in which the current version of the sport isn't all that pecco-friendly, from the shitty michelin front tyre we're keeping for another year to the sprint format we appear to be stuck with. it's just that he also happens to be on the best bike - and the fact that he's winning a lot but simultaneously isn't highly rated by fans makes people want to believe that the current series is 100% ideal for him

a lot of fans are loathe to admit pecco might actually be a good rider so they'll find basically everything to justify that prior. including getting into increasingly conspiratorial territory. but my actual take is this - if pecco has been gaming the system so expertly that he is somehow the only guy able to take full advantage of everyone else's data, so shrewd and cunning that he can spread magic dust on his bike so that he suddenly leaps ahead of jorge, such a dastardly operator that he can steal the set-up that poor jorge perfected on friday morning to fix his bike five minutes before the sunday race, then... good. I support it. I hope he's cheating. the more unearned the success is, the better in my books. long live corporate espionage and foul play