#Does he give a running commentary

[awanderingtortoise]

One of the most haunting questions of YA fiction is 'what the hell does juris do in zoyas brain when she and nikolai are making out?'

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

Dorian made a face at her description, though he certainly couldn't fault her for it-she was right, every step of the planning process was just another stone in the path leading her to being shackled to that monster for the rest of her days...

It honestly made him shudder, imagining this woman, whom he happily considered a dear friend, this bright, vivacious, kind, free-spirited woman, doomed to a life being married to Pennyworth, having to bear him heirs (who would no doubt grow up to be horrid little brats like their father), forever chained to him, unable to escape...

...it was enough to make his blood boil, but he at least took solace in the fact that they were changing that.

In an effort to turn the conversation towards something happier and lighter, he asked her in genuine interest, "What do you see, in yours and Randall's futures, I mean. Would you like to work at his haberdashery with him, would you like to have children together, would you like to travel and see more of the country...anything of that sort, or...something else entirely?"

[donatellawritings]

What about instead of rage giving the reader the silent treatment let’s switch the roles and instead the reader gives rage the silent treatmentt plsss

you were being a chatty little princess. you couldn’t help how excited and giddy you were today — the sun was shining bright, the sky a pretty baby blue, the air smelled fresh and sweet, everything just seemed to have been going picture perfect for you. so, when rafe brought you along with him to the country club to catch up with kelce and topper, you were all smiles, to the point where your cherub cheeks and glossy lips ached from being so stretched. you sat prettily on rafe’s lap, even more bubbly than usual thanks to the pomegranate martini you’d been sipping on.

rafe’s hand mindlessly tapped against the side of your thigh as he spoke to topper about this new boat that he’d been eyeing, causing your doe eyes to widen as your lips parted, “oh my god, topper it’s so pretty and i told rafe that he should-” you cut in, oblivious to this being your fourth time interrupting rafe while he spoke to the guys. it wasn’t until rafe had finally corrected you that you realized your silly mistake.

“hey, y’gonna let me finish talkin’ to top, or are y’gonna keep on interrupting me?” rafe scolded, his voice cold and stern as he lightly grabbed your jaw, his bright blue eyes hanging low as he sent you a chilling warning look. a soft exhale left your nose as your eyes glazed over with threatening tears, with an obedient nod. now returning his attention to topper, rafe cleared his throat before continuing, “so, yeah m’probably gonna have it by next week — just waiting on my guy to have it all dolled up for me,” rafe sighed, ignoring the slight pang in his chest as you fiddled with your fingers and kept your gaze trained on your feet.

he could tell that you were trying your very best, not to cry.

you remained silent for the remainder of the day, only allowing yourself to extend a forced courteous smile to topper and kelce, once rafe decided it was time to go home. he didn’t miss the way you simply nodded or shook your head whenever the server asked you a question, or how you quickly wiped your eyes before a stream of tears could flow door your cheeks. could rafe do without your constant interjections? yes, but he had to admit that the conversation just wasn’t as engaging without your light and airy commentary.

so, rafe decided that he’d play all of your favorite songs, once you were comfortably seated in your passenger seat with your seatbelt fastened, his pink lips running dry as you remained blank of any emotion. reaching over the center console, rafe laying his hand right above your knee, squeezing the plush skin of your thigh, to get you to look at him, “hey, mama — y’doing okay?” he questions, quickly glancing over to you as you wordlessly nodded, your dolly eyes fluttering closed as rafe sighed in defeat, before bringing his hand back to the steering wheel. he had to admit that watching you leaning your head against the window to fall asleep, instead of his shoulder, stung him a little.

what gnawed at rafe the most, was that you weren’t being quiet as a punishment, you genuinely believed that rafe wanted you to stop talking, to the point where even he couldn’t get you to say a word to him. it’d been about four hours and he missed hearing you, he missed the way his name fell off of your tongue, the way your accent peaked with certain words, how you’d console him in spanish, but mostly, he missed hearing you call him ‘papi’.

it didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, thanks to the two cocktails you’d drank earlier, leaving rafe overtly excited to take the chance to get you in his arms, the moment he parked his car, rushing to the passenger side as he scooped you into his arms, his forearm resting underneath the soft curve of your ass, while his free hand gently slid over your waist. a low whine left your swollen lips as you kept your head leaned against rafe’s shoulder, sighing sleepily as you allowed your boyfriend to carry you inside of tannyhill.

pressing a kiss to your cheek, rafe was quick to take a seat on the couch with you on his lap, he needed this silence to end, before he flipped the fuck out, “i don’t like that y’not talking to me, mama — m’about to lose my mind, not hearing my pretty girl,” rafe coos sweetly into your ear, pressing another kiss to your cheek as you sigh, leaning your head closer into his shoulder. “y’not in trouble, baby, i just wanted to finish talking to topper and i know you’re excited about the boat,” rafe squeezed your waist, beckoning for you to look at him — he needed to make sure that you knew that he still saw you as his sweet girl.

compliantly, you lifted your head, your sleepy doe eyes bright as met rafe’s unwavering gaze, a small huff leaving you as you parted your now barely-glossed lips, “i just didn’t want to annoy you, papi —” you began, rafe’s eyes softening as your sweet voice ran like warm honey in his ears. you innocently shifted yourself on his lap, your swollen lips just aching to be kissed by rafe’s, “i know i was just being too excited,” you sighed, ending your small ramble as rafe simply stared at you blankly, licking over his lips as he shamelessly ogled yours.

the second you cocked your head to the side in confusion, rafe’s mouth was on yours, enveloping you in a disgustingly sloppy, but needy kiss. a throaty moan left rafe’s throat as his hand slid up to the back of your neck, securely holding your face against his as he messily licked into your mouth, spit smearing across your chin as you struggled to catch your breath, “papi, wait — i can’t breathe,” you giggled, your words instantly swallowed by rafe’s mouth as his tongue mushed slush against yours, the two of you whimpering with greed as rafe leaned forward, with you still clinging onto his lap, his shiny, spit-covered lips trailing down to your prettily pushed-up breasts.

“missed hearing y’fuckin’ voice, mama,” rafe mumbled, his voice broken and hoarse as you smiled cheesily, beaming with the fact that rafe missed you.

[waldau-archived]

the most handsome man in the world — seventeen | 1,165 words | fluff

i just needed to get this out of my system okay

gender neutral reader. warnings: none.

premise: you tell your boyfriend you've seen a guy you consider to be the most handsome man in the world, wait for him to react, and then show him a picture of him that you took. you know, because he's the most handsome man in the world.

seungcheol

what do you mean you’ve seen a guy more handsome than him? isn’t he broad enough to fill up your entire line of vision? pouts at you cooing over said man on your phone till you hit a little nerve by saying the guy looks like he’d be so good to cuddle with that he immediately marches over to see who you’re giggling over. only to find his face staring back at him. immediately wipes off his frown and tickles you for having done something like that.

jeonghan

is aware that this has to be one of your traps where you want to draw a reaction out of him, so he holds out on giving any commentary for however long he can. it’s only when you roll over in bed, clutching your phone to your chest does he finally break, sneakily pulling you into himself so he can see who you’re talking about. it’s him, of course. had no doubt it would be him but he had to confirm. becomes the big spoon for the rest of the night.

joshua

you don’t ever bring up other people or their attractiveness in conversations, so joshua is mildly interested in hearing if you’re going to elaborate on this guy. doesn’t even consider said person to be a threat till you say something about this guy looking reliable enough to imagine a future with. his curiosity wins and he leans over to see his face lighting up your screen. gives you a kiss to remind you he’s going to fulfill that dream one day.

junhui

is torn between wanting to know who this person is and also not wanting to know because…do you actually find another guy more attractive than him? didn’t you say he’s the most handsome person you know? keeps to himself till you run up to him and show him your phone, only for him to see a picture he’d sent you when he’d been working out at the gym. makes sure to take some more photos for you.

soonyoung

laughs. oh, yeah? really? but then it turns out you’re not joking, because you’re blushing over someone he doesn’t even know? and you’re not telling him about it? chases you around the house to sneak a peek at your phone and collapses into a blushing mess when he realizes it’s him you’re talking about. gives you bear hugs and forces you to cuddle with him for a while to make up for the stress you caused him.

wonwoo

raises an eyebrow when he hears you talking about this really handsome guy you saw in the queue at the cafe today. gets curious the more you talk about him; how didn’t he notice this guy when you did? traps you in place against the wall to see who you’re talking about and can’t help but smirk when he sees it’s himself. gives you a smug kiss and tells you he wants to hear more about what you think of this guy.

jihoon

hears you, nods, focuses his attention back to the song he’s working on and wonders if it could use some more bass. it’s only when he’s about to finalize the song does he realize you were talking about…someone else? spins around to see you lounging on the couch and asks who you were talking about because he wants to jog his memory. feels slightly satisfied when he sees a picture of himself. so he did hear you right. he didn’t.

seokmin

he’s more curious about who you consider to be hot apart from him, more than the fact that this other guy could be a threat to him. indulges in you talking about this guy and theorizes about who it could be till you finally just show him who you were talking about because he apparently couldn’t get a hint. oh. it’s him. he blinks. almost squeals. peppers your face with kisses because his mind is all blank except for you.

mingyu

pouts. becomes a grumpy baby. even if you’ve seen someone more handsome than him (which is impossible, by the way), do you have to rub it in his face? feels more antsy the longer you talk to him about this guy. pulls the puppy face till you show him who you’re looking at. seeing his face on your screen is the last thing he expected, somehow. feels relieved for a few seconds before he makes you promise never to scare him again like that. takes payment in the form of cuddles.

minghao

another one who knows this is one of your ideas to get him to react some way. nods along and even says oh, really? when you tell him about how handsome this guy is, and how you feel kind of shy when you just think about him. doesn’t even need to look at your phone to know there’s no one else you’re talking about, so he tilts your chin to make you face him and presses a kiss to your lips, asking you if that’d help make you less shy.

seungkwan

you’re seriously talking about another guy? right now? stares at you in disbelief, at the fact that you’d do this after he spent his morning making you breakfast and cuddling with you because you seemed a bit exhausted. he’s sure he’s stared enough to burn a hole through your head. you roll over with a laugh and show him who you were looking at. it’s his own self bent over the stove, trying to figure out how to switch it on. pouts and doesn’t face you till you lure him with kisses.

vernon

overhears you talking on the phone with your friend about this handsome guy you saw while you were out on a walk today evening. you don’t stop talking about how he looked at you, how nice his smile was, and how good he looked against the setting sun. his brain runs in loops trying to figure out which guy looked at you like that while your hand was in his. opens his phone to see some pictures you’d taken of him, with the sun setting in the back. smiles and presses a kiss to your head when you’re done with your call.

chan

instantly competitive. him being drunk doesn’t change the fact that he’s the most handsome man in the world. struggles to pull himself out of your embrace to see who you’re talking about so he can give both of you a piece of his mind, only to find a picture of himself smiling goofily at the camera. that’s me, he says, mind a bit slow. where’s the guy you were talking about? turns out he’s the one you’re talking about. snuggles back into you like nothing was ever wrong.

taglist: @bookyeom @wootify @strnsvt @cloudycaramel @thepoopdokyeomtouched @minnieminshi @nonononranghaee @hrts4hanniehae @viewvuu

[akajustmerry]

the thing about bojack horseman that still gets me to this day is how it manages to give weight to all horrible things that have been done to bojack AND the horrible things he does to others AND how the entertainment industry runs on various cultures of exploitation and abuse that makes addressing these issues impossible AND the show did all of that simultaneously while ALSO being one of the funniest show's ever made. it's just so superb, a true artistic vision at every level from its writing to its animation style. Despite starting a decade ago and finishing 4 years ago, there's hardly any commentary, political or otherwise, in it that isn't still either intelligently relevant or cleverly prescient. you might think I'm exaggerating when I say this show has never been out of my watch rotation since I started watching it, but I'm not! I love bojack horseman so much and I love that everytime I watch it I find something that moves me. I'll watch it forever. watching it is like therapy, like a friend, like a reminder. Truly the last great streaming show, when I think about it <3

[peppermintquartz]

The rose-colored glasses come off only around month four of their relationship, and even then a tint of soft dusky pink remains like a filter in front of Buck's eyes.

He knows Tommy's sense of humor is dryer than Death Valley, and he tends towards morbid commentary, but Buck finds tapeworms and maggots fascinating, so they match in that aspect anyhow.

What Buck doesn't clock at first - because it doesn't happen to him - is how bitchy Tommy can be.

--

Eddie shows up for movie night with a moustache over his upper lip.

Tommy raises his eyebrows. He radiates judgment. "You're branching out to being a porn star or is this a tribute to Eddie Guerrero?"

Buck doesn't even know who Eddie Guerrero is, but Eddie Diaz definitely does, going by the narrowing of his eyes, and he punches Tommy's shoulder none-too-gently about it.

Tommy pretends to stagger. "I didn't even make a comment about lying, cheating and stealing."

"Fuck you, Kinard."

"I got Evan for that," Tommy snarks back.

After the movie, Eddie dumps the remaining popcorn into Tommy's hair. Tommy wrestles Eddie to the ground, and feeds him a handful he snatches out of his curls. Buck is laughing too much to separate them.

--

"You're here to eat dinner, not each other's faces," Chimney says with a roll of his eyes.

"It's not like I'm scarring your child," Tommy drawls. "I'm sorry you're insecure about seeing two super hot hunks showing affection. Go kiss your wife about it."

"Don't tease him," Maddie scolds. "And behave."

Tommy ducks his head. "Sorry, Maddie."

Buck scratches the tip of his nose, because he's the one who has been running the top of his foot up and down Tommy's calf.

But then Tommy leans over the table to kiss Chimney on the forehead and gazes intently into his eyes. "Sorry, gorgeous. Next time, if I'm allowed, I'll eat your face."

While Chimney sputters, Buck smacks Tommy on his tricep.

"You have my permission," Maddie says, grinning.

"You don't have mine," Buck growls.

Chimney sputters, "Maddie!"

"I'm not insecure seeing two hot hunks make out in front of me," Maddie says, taking a sip of her wine with an arched brow and a wink.

--

They're cut off by a motorcyclist in a plaid shirt, blasting heavy metal as it goes, weaving in and out of the traffic on the freeway.

"Inconsiderate jerk," Buck grumbles.

"Nah, not that inconsiderate." Tommy drums his fingers on the wheel, his shades making him look like an A-list movie star. "He's wearing graph paper. Easy to calculate how much of a waste of space he is."

Buck almost chokes on his iced coffee.

--

"...and then Uncle Tommy said to Jessica Denson, 'I would call your parents, but I doubt they wanna talk about their biggest disappointment'," Mara says, a huge gleeful smile on her face.

Hen looks askance at Tommy, who shrugs unrepentantly. "What? She was taunting Mara about being adopted."

"And you're absolutely right to say that," Karen says, holding up a hand for a high five, and Tommy gives it to her.

Buck sighs. "Sorry, Hen."

She makes a face. "Nah. She deserves that. But next time, you pick her up."

[6esiree]

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫

It wasn’t often the two of you found yourselves tangled underneath the sheets in a mess of limbs, the mattress softly creaking amidst a series of stifled grunts and breathy moans. While Alastor’s sex drive was practically nonexistent, that didn’t mean he didn’t like indulging you, his wife, every now and then. It simply became a difficult task when you expanded your family and welcomed a precious little girl four years ago.

Tonight, however, he had his hips pressed firmly against yours, his cock gliding in and out of your slick cunt in slow, deep thrusts, mindful of your sleeping daughter despite the rain pelting down on the wooden shingles of your home and drowning out your passionate affair. But she always kept her door slightly ajar, the nightlight in her room illuminating the hallway.

“Hush now, darling, or else you’ll wake our little doe from her slumber,” Alastor’s words caressed the crook of your neck, the sensation of his hot breath making your walls clench around him in a warm, wet, tight embrace, and oh did that make him pick up the pace.

“I’m trying, Al—I’m trying,” You arched up into him with a whine, his pelvis rubbing up against your clit with every kiss the head of his cock gave to your cervix, his grip on your waist tightening, “It’s just been so long since you’ve—mm, fuck!—taken me like this.”

You clutched at Alastor’s back, one hand leisurely traveling down his sweat-stricken spine, the other threading into his hair and tilting his head back so your supple lips could litter the expanse of his throat with sloppy kisses. It was all too much for him, his brows knitting together and his mouth falling open with a rare moan that almost got lost with the thunderstorm raging outside.

Boom, Crack!

That was a lightning strike, the wooden foundation of your home shaking with a force that the two of you knew would have your daughter up and running to your room for comfort. And as if on cue, a gentle series of knocks sounded at your door, a disappointed ‘Fuck,’ seeping past Alastor’s lips as he hastily pulled his cock out of you and scrambled for his clothes in the darkness.

“Mommy? Daddy? I’m scared,” You heard her little voice penetrate the wood, her words laced with fear. The doorknob tentatively twisted, but she knew better than to let herself in without your permission. “Can I come in and sleep with you?”

Fortunately, you still had your nightgown on, so all you had to do was pull up your underwear and fix your tousled hair as you made your way towards the door, giving Alastor enough time to make himself presentable. But you didn’t want your daughter to sleep in the same bed you had just soiled with your sweat and your bodily fluids, motioning for him to follow you with your hand.

“How about we go sleep in your room, hm?” You suggested as you opened the door, knowing damn well that the three of you would hardly fit in her twin-sized bed, but she beamed at the idea anyway. “Come on, baby, let’s go.”

What a terrible idea, Alastor thought, but he couldn’t help but chuckle as the pitter-pattering of your daughter’s tiny feet echoed throughout the hallway, a squeal following right after she crawled underneath her floral-patterned sheets. ‘Sleepover!’ She exclaimed, but then the excited expression on her face quickly contorted into one of fear at the sound of another lightning strike.

“Now, now, no need to be afraid, my little doe,” Alastor whispered, plopping down on the edge of the bed. “Your mother and I are here for you,” He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, shooting her a comforting smile.

“Yes, now…” You started, “…move aside and make some space for me!” She giggled, shuffling back to the corner where her bed met the wall. You situated yourself in the middle, leaving your poor husband on the edge.

“Ah, yes, I’m feeling snug as a bug in a rug between you two,” Your silly commentary soothed your daughter’s phobia of the thunderstorm raging outside, eliciting a chuckle from Alastor as he settled himself behind you.

And while he found himself aching for you with your ass plastered right against his crotch, your nightgown riding up and revealing the tantalizing sight of your lacey underwear, he accepted that your rare session of lovemaking had been postponed. He removed his glasses and put them on your daughter’s nightstand, allowing both of your soft snores to lull him to sleep with his slender legs dangling off the edge of the bed.

[shares-a-vest]

@steddieangstyaugust Day 7: Moonlight

wc: 792 | Rated: M | cw: Smoking

Tags: Steve Harrington Angst, Post-Coital, Aftercare (Kinda, it's more about Steve wanting aftercare), The Beemer, Hooking Up, Undefined Relationship, Angst With a Happy Ending

'Like Clockwork'

Steve shimmies to a seated position but doesn’t bother hitching his jeans up. The Beemer’s windows are all clammy and misted now, despite the clear and warm summer’s night.

He swipes a sweaty palm over the window to reveal a brilliant moonlit night cast out over the abandoned cornfield he parked in. Steve looks up at the moon, resting his head against the cool glass, turning just enough so that his flushed cheek can get some relief.

He still feels hot all over, his body still tingling with after sensations. It’s a feeling Steve has relished each and every Thursday night this summer. Sitting here, all sated and a little sleepy, his own spend drying tacky on his tummy as his partner wriggles about beside him.

No – not his ‘partner’.

Not his boyfriend, either.

Friend? Fuck buddy?

Whatever Eddie is, he is indeed, squirming about like he always does afterwards. More accurately, he is ass up as he searches in the front cab for wherever his jacket and smokes got to.

Like clockwork, he’ll offer Steve one when he finds them. And, as always, Steve will decline with a burning sensation in his throat that runs the length of the fading scar on his neck.

They’ll get dressed with great efficiency, handing each other misplaced clothes, slipping on shoes and tossing anything else aside before they get back into the front of the car. Steve will drive back into Hawkins township as Eddie fiddles with the radio dial and offers commentary about every station.

Then, he will drop Eddie home and watch him skip inside, where the guy surely offers up some excuse to his uncle as to his whereabouts.

Steve will then head home and slip in through the back door to avoid his parents. He’ll fall asleep half-undressed and wake to the sounds of his alarm clock radio with thoughts of next Thursday night. Like clockwork – like he is Marty McFly, or something.

And that’s the problem, Steve thinks as he looks up at the moon.

“A-ha!” Eddie exclaims, plopping back into position next to him and shaking the whole back seat.

He sits close enough that their bare, sweat-sheened arms touch flush together. It makes Steve tingle in a way that is the complete opposite of what happened mere minutes ago. He tears his eyes away from the bright moonlight to find Eddie reaching out, like clockwork.

Steve frowns.

“No,” he says, unable to help the way it comes out, all strained and small.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

The thing is, Steve liked it in the beginning. Maybe even loved it. And it’s not like he hadn’t done this kind of thing. He had parked out in this very field in his precious cars plenty of times. Sometimes because his parents were home. Others because every makeout spot in town was occupied.

At one point, it was part of King Steve’s famed repertoire.

And he still likes most of it. The sex. The feeling of Eddie all over him – in him. Filling him up and touching him and giving him everything until it all spills over.

Eddie tosses over his maroon polo (the move that always comes after the offer of a smoke) and Steve balls it up in his fist.

“I want to… Cuddle and... be warm.”

He hates that his voice breaks at the end of it and he hugs in on himself, twisting his shirt up with him.

And Eddie moves closer still and reaches to manoeuvre Steve’s jeans all the way up.

“We’ll go back to my house, Big Boy,” he says as a small, cheeky smile tugs at the corners of his lips when he gets to tucking Steve back into his underwear, “I’m gonna wrap you up all tight and cozy in my bed, even if I have to sneak you in through the window.”

Steve has no idea where Eddie’s pack of cigarettes got to after that. He simply tossed them aside, insisting that he drive them both back to the trailer.

They sneak inside, past Wayne who is asleep in his armchair as an episode of Dragnet plays on the television. Eddie supplies Steve with some makeshift pyjamas – loose sweatpants (black, of course) and a band T-shirt.

Steve doesn’t know the band, but he likes it anyway. Just like the way he feels as Eddie curls in close behind him, holding him tight as he positions the two of them on his cramped single bed.

He thinks he might love Eddie as the guy leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek.

No, he does love Eddie, Steve knows as he shuts his eyes, their two intertwined bodies illuminated by the moonlight peaking in through the blinds.

[david-talks-sw]

Dooku didn't leave because of the Jedi.

At least, if you're going by George Lucas' word.

In deleted scenes of Attack of the Clones, when we learn about Dooku's departure and his values, there's no mention of the Jedi or "the Jedi Order as an institution".

And every time Lucas refers to Dooku's disenchantment and reason for falling, he doesn't mention the Jedi.

"When you realize that Dooku is Darth Tyranus, it explains what Darth Sidious did after Darth Maul was killed: he seduced a Jedi who had become disenchanted with the Republic. He preyed on that disenchantment and converted him to the dark side, which is also a setup for what happens with Anakin." - Mythmaking: Behind the Scenes of Attack of the Clones, 2002

"[Dooku is] one of the few Jedi who became disenchanted with the Republic and left the order and he is leading a separatist movement." - Vanity Fair, 2002

"I wanted a more sophisticated kind of villain. Dooku’s disenchantment with the corruption in the Empire is actually valid. It’s all valid.  So, Chris plays it as, 'Is he really a villain or is he just someone who is disenchanted and trying to make things right?'" - Starlog Magazine #300, 2002

He probably meant the Republic/Senate in that last one, but you get the point. And you're seeing the pattern, right?

Dooku's problem isn't the Jedi, it's the Republic.

He's become disenchanted with a system that - according to Lucas' prologue in the 2004 book Shatterpoint - worked for 1,000 years...

"For a thousand years, the Old Republic prospered and grew under the wise rule of the Senate and the protection of the venerable Jedi Knights."

... but has been rendered ineffective because of 1) senators becoming corrupt and 2) corporations gaining political power.

"But as often happens when wealth and power grow beyond all reasonable proportion, an evil fueled by greed arose. The massive organs of commerce mushroomed in power, the Senate became corrupt, and an ambitious named Palpatine was voted Supreme Chancellor."

That's the message Dooku runs on, when he rallies the systems to form the Separatist Alliance.

"By promising an alternative to the corruption and greed that was rotting the Republic from within, Dooku was able to persuade thousands of star systems to secede from the Republic."

The Jedi aren't really a factor in his decision to leave.

Why would they be? Their political status isn't very high, they're virtually powerless, as illustrated by the film's narrative and stated repeatedly by Lucas.

On the contrary, as we already established in this post, Lucas full-on confirmed that Dooku actually carries the sympathies of most of the Jedi. Again:

Most Jedi agree with Dooku, ideologically.

As far as the Jedi are concerned, the politicians are effing up the Republic, and it sucks because the Jedi see this but aren't allowed to interfere in the political process. They have to resort to looking for loopholes in their mandates to actually get stuff done.

That's what that whole "she's a politician" scene is meant to hint at. In the commentary of Attack of the Clones, Lucas uses a similar turn of phrase as he does with Dooku.

"[This scene gives us] a chance to talk a little bit about politics and the Jedi’s disenchantment with the political process, due to the corruption and the ineffectiveness of the Senate." - Attack of the Clones, Director’s Commentary, 2002

Considering all this, it becomes clear that the intended narrative surrounding Dooku's decision to leave the Order is not:

"The Jedi are dogmatic and asleep at the wheel except for Dooku, who is ahead of the curb and sees the system is flawed, so he left."

It's actually:

"ALL Jedi see the system is flawed, Dooku's the only Jedi who decided to take it a step further and leave the Order so he can try to get into politics himself and change things."

That's why they hesitate to accuse him of murder.

That's why in an earlier draft of the Attack of the Clones script, by the end of the second act, Mace STILL has his doubts that Dooku would sign a treaty with the Trade Federation to attack the Republic.

As far as the Jedi are concerned, Dooku is out there fighting the good fight, making noise because whenever they try to protest it falls on deaf ears... until his betrayal on Geonosis.

After all, let's not get it twisted: the Dooku we're introduced to in the films and The Clone Wars, isn't really just Dooku anymore.

He's Darth Tyranus.

A point Lucas makes sure to highlight in his Shatterpoint prologue:

"Unbeknownst to most of his followers, Dooku was himself a Dark Lord of the Sith, acting in collusion with his master, Darth Sidious, who, over the years, had struck an unholy alliance with the greater forces of commerce and their private droid armies."

It's not about doing the selfless thing for Dooku, anymore. He's knowingly part of the problem.

He's all about ambition, now. His personal goals are things like overthrowing Sidious and becoming the most powerful Jedi.

"[Anakin's] ambition and his dialogue here is the same as Dooku’s. He says “I will become more powerful than every Jedi.” And you’ll hear later on Dooku will say “I have become more powerful than any Jedi.” [...] It is possible for a Jedi to want to become more powerful, and control things." - Attack of the Clones, Director’s Commentary, 2002

"If you put two Sith together, they try to get others to join them to get rid of the other Sith. [When revealing the truth to Obi-Wan], Dooku's ambition is really to get rid of Darth Sidious. He's trying to get Obi-Wan's assistance in that and help in that, so that he and Obi-Wan could overthrow Sidious and take over." - Attack of the Clones, Commentary Track 2, 2002

Y'know? Selfish things.

Dooku - like all other Sith, and like the very corporations and Senators he had sworn to destroy - is consumed by his own greed.

[beiasluv]

I LOVE F1 D!LFS THANK YOU 🫶🏻 could i request some driver!reader with this. Love your writting

a/n: tyy😘

— jenson button

Whenever the weekend comes around, Jenson is always happy to be commenting for the Sky News – especially when he gets to cover your section. All the lovey eyes while he holds the microphone near your lips, nodding profusely – adoring all the little reactions he could squeeze out from you. And he wouldn’t mind showing his love publicly, complimenting your driving any chance he could. ‘…especially yn, today…’ Obviously, Jenson will sneak off to your garage, helping you in your helmet and giving your hand a good-luck kiss for the weekend ahead.

— sebastian vettel

Sebastian is long gone from the track but never forgotten his passion for speed – or for you. He’ll show up quietly in his gray sweatpants and his flannel shirt, turning all heads around as the Red Bull legend himself. But no matter how hard you tried, he would never allow himself to take a single spotlight away from you, because you deserved all of it. Showing all of his support and devotion for you, hell, he would even inspect the car for you…and maybe your race suit (wink wink) And if there’s one thing he does best was to give you the best kiss for p1. ‘kick some ass, schatz’

— mark webber

Mark was on and off the grid with his casual commentary job on Channel 4, he would be up and running in front of the cameras and flashes before you’d even arrive. Once you did he would never miss to give you a short interview – to be honest, walking you to your motorhome. ‘how was your sleep last night?’ Let’s say you gave a big smirk before giving a convincing answer to the microphone, ignoring the way his shoulder is pressing against yours in the most gentle and rough way possible. He’d wish you the best of luck and a little off-camera kiss on the soft cheek of yours.

— fernando alonso

Tsk. Tsk. The Astion Martin garage was quieter than usual when you’re around – not that Fernando was to be found in the other team’s garage or anything… Laughing away to your mechanics and engineers’ conversation. Honorable mention has to be the national anthem segment when he gives your hand a little squeeze before the race start, whispering quickly before any big budget camera caught your antics. Not that he cared or anything, he would love to show off his talented driver anytime. But don’t get on his nerves when he’s on the track or that team radio would go to headlines. ‘Ln and Hamilton contact. Could be yellow flag.’ ‘Tell Lewis to fuck off.’

[chaotic-birds]

fluffy Jason thought

if you like run your fingers through his hair, especially when he’s sleepy, he’ll kiss your palms and wrists. Especially after an argument, it’s like his silent little apology before the actual words (kinda like he’s hyping himself up in a way)

I love soft!Jason so much :,)

soft!Jason owns my heart. thank you for sending this in!!! my writing is a little rusty, but I had fun writing this so i hope you enjoy!

this is also uploaded on mobile so sorry if the formatting is weird. if it is, i’ll fix it later 😖

TW none | WC ~500 | G angst, fluff, h/c

masterlist

It didn’t take long for you to realize Jason Todd is not used to being loved.

He’s not used to the gentle touches or the soft voices.

But he tries to be.

He tries for you.

Jason’s head lays on your lap, eyes closed as he focuses on the feeling of your fingers threading through his dark hair. The slow motions bring comfort to his fast-paced life. It steadies his breathing and allows his body to sink deeper into the couch cushions.

Although Jason is becoming sleepier, he can’t bring himself to rest. Not when he snapped at you last night. Not when he knows the origin of his frustrations came from his self-hatred that he made you so scared for his well-being.

Jason reaches up to grab the hand that’s been playing with his hair and guides it to his mouth. He places tender kisses on each knuckle. Each time his mouth touches your skin, he can hear the echo of his words he had said to you.

Words that he regrets saying.

“I don’t need you worrying about me all the damn time.”

“I’m not a fucking child, and you’re not my fucking mother.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I can take care of myself. Been doing it for years, darlin’.”

“How about you worry about someone else?”

Jason kisses the inside of your wrist and lets his lips linger on your warm skin.

Skin that he loves to feel against his. Skin from the person he loves so much that it scares him.

Scares him because what happens if your skin becomes cold forever. What if…

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your wrist. “I’m so sorry.”

Your hand cups his face, angling it so his blue eyes connect with yours.

“I know, Jayce. I forgive you.”

Jason’s lips twitch in a failed attempt to smile.

He should have never gotten mad about you caring for him.

If you were the one stumbling home after a bad fight, bruised and bleeding, he’d be fretting over you too. Hell, he’d probably react in more extreme ways.

“I’ll try not to worry so much,” you say.

Jason shakes his head. “I don’t want you to, but I understand why you do. I… I worry about you too.”

You smile, nodding. “I’m glad you do.”

Tilting his head, he questions, “You are?”

“Yup,” you reply. “It means you care.”

Jason’s eyes flicker from yours.

He knows he cares about you. He’d give his life for you. He’d take all the pain in the world if it meant you were unharmed.

But if he’s willing to do that because he cares about you, does that mean you’d do the same because you care about him?

Jason leans his head into your palm that’s still against his cheek as he lulls over the thought.

He’s not used to feeling loved. He’s not used to your soft touches and soothing voice.

But he’s trying.

Because deep down in his heart, he wants to be.

He wants to be loved.

He wants to be loved by you.

©️chaotic-birds // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

[brucewaynehater101]

I have a vent fic wip that I may or may not finish so I just need to tell someone that I am...feeling so many things all the time about the consequences of the 16th birthday but...

primarily, right now, at this moment. without Robin/Bruce, Tim thought he would lose Dick and everyone else he knew through Robin. and then a little bit later when he quit for Jack, he got radio silence for Months until he became a potential victim, and even then it was just Cass stopping in to give the message and be like "I'll watch you to keep you safe ���️👁️ ok bye" and he had actual Proof that without Robin, he would lose everyone.

and then. Dick "you're my equal (even tho I'm drastically changing your life without your knowledge or permission), you're my closest ally (even tho you don't even have a name to go out in the field to assist me as backup), I need you (even tho, as mentioned, I made a huge decision without your input because I didn't need it because I know best actually)" Grayson.

skipping over the fact that Dick didn't even have the time to say "you're fired" or anything resembling that, when Tim lost "Robin" to Damian, he felt like he lost everything else too. it didn't matter what Dick said about "equals" or "allies" or "needing". he already had Concrete Proof that it was all false. cheap words that are easily disproven do nothing in this situation, Dichard!

(disclaimer: I love and respect Dick Grayson, I just also think Dick Stopped Existing as soon as he made Damian his Robin for the most pathetic stupid illogical risky-ass excuse he could ever give for making anyone Robin (or a vigilante in general). "because he'll kill someone again". who the fuck says that?? who thinks "oh no oh god oh fuck this kid is gonna go off the rails he's gonna kill someone, I need to Put Him In A Place Of Power Over Oblivious Innocent Untrained People Who Are Expecting A Kind And Empathetic Hero To Save Them" hUH???? ok sorry, I just wanted to rant about what Tim "losing Robin" meant)

I agree with ya. Dick Grayson is fantastic, but it seems weird that he nuked his entire relationship with Tim (a very strong one that other fans have referred to them as "The Brothers") for the new kid.

Yes, Damian is a ten year old traumatized kid who just lost the dad he didn't really have the chance to get to know. Yes, Damian needed guidance, boundaries, and compassion.

But DC spent so much time and effort building up Tim and Dick's rapport only to obliterate it once the "blood son" came in (I also love Damian. This is not hate on the kid. This is confused commentary on DC's choices). It's just a strange idea, but that's also why it hurts so much when Dick does that to Tim.

Then you tie in Tim losing Robin by Dick to Tim's experiences before? Fuck. You are so right for that.

As far as the RR run, Dick could've handled Tim believing Bruce a bit better. I don't necessarily blame him for that one. I get why he wasn't supportive in the way Tim wanted, even though I would've chosen differently for my siblings.

Dick taking Robin, though? That was fucked up. I, honest to the gods, do not see how that was a justified course of action. I can understand his perspective, but it's still not okay. At all.

There's your very adequate analysis:

Robin, for Tim, is his tie to his loved ones. He has proof (twice) that without it, he does not have access to the people he cares about and his support system.

Dick said a lot of pretty words about "equals," but his actions were precisely contradictory to his "intentions."

Tim has had Robin taken from him before or had to give it up. He chose to go back despite this. He obviously feels strongly about being Robin

Damian has not proven, at this point, to be trustworthy as a vigilante (someone in power without oversight). He has instead shown use of excessive force

This isn't even going into the way he found out. That's just an extra layer.

The way Tim has repeated lost and regained Robin (even after RR) as well as his title as Red ROBIN are, to me, a sign that he's still trying to hold on. It's my belief that he would have moved onto a new title, like his predecessors, if it hadn't constantly been an unsure role.

His start was rocky as hell due to Bruce not initially wanting it. Tim had to prove himself and put himself into the costume.

He "quit" twice before it was taken from him in a traumatic way (nothing like being instilled with the fear that the position you've held for four years can suddenly be yanked out from under you without warning)

Damian and Jason both vehemently protested to him being Robin

It would make sense if all of these factors combined to Tim's unwillingness or inability to just let Robin go, especially when we factor in his reason to be Robin. Since Bruce never really gets "better" and continually falls back into bad habits, Tim needs to maintain his task of pulling Bruce back from the edge. We could also throw Jean Paul into this to further how Tim is forced to play as the barrier between a grown adult and their desire to harm others in the name of good.

So, Tim's time as Robin is marked by consistent instability while contrasted with his inherent position as Bruce's leash and the batfam fixer. While the other Robins did have times of doubt, the predecessors of Tim did not have the pervasive role insecurity with regards to Robin.

They had their big moment at the end and some smaller moments in-between, but not quite on the continous scale of Tim. Tim had three big moments and was still sucked back into Robin when Damian quit.

To be Robin is to earn Bruce's love and the ability to be part of the Wayne family. To lose Robin is the risk of losing that (at least to the perspectives of the Robins if not 100% the reality).

I'm not sure I'm articulating this accurately. Regardless, no wonder Tim clutches the title of Robin with bleeding hands no matter how much it cuts him and costs him.

[eoieopda]

tidal.

but vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “i don’t need a sales pitch. you will never — ever — have to convince me to fuck you.” 

pairing: vernon x afab!reader type: one-shot (fluff n’ smut) au: est. relationship wc: 4.8k rating: 18+ a/n: i didn’t plan this whatsoever, but i felt so weirdly compelled to write it that i avoided eye-contact with all of my wips, and now… here we are, lol. cw: pov switch, reader is afab + on their period, gender identity + pronouns aren’t designated, blood mention (obvi), unprotected p in v penetration (ill-advised!!), wee bit of dry-humping (ig?), a lil massage, pet names (baby, sweetheart), self-indulgent ref to a favorite docu of mine, and lastly — vernon (yes, this is a warning 🧍🏻) 🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.

Vernon isn’t blind. 

He can see you out of the corner of his eye, laying flat on your back, several unexplained centimeters away from his side. With the duvet clenched in your fists, you stare intently up at the ceiling, like you’re waiting for it to move — or trying to move it yourself, telekinetically. You keep your bottom lip pinched between your teeth, as if you expect it to make a run for it.

So, yes, Vernon can see you. 

He just can’t figure out what’s wrong with you.

For a few minutes, he attempts to pay attention to the documentary lighting up the screen on the wall ahead. You were the one that picked it — some wild tale about mother-daughter recluses in New York — and he finds it hard to give a shit about it without your usual commentary. Your hot takes are his favorite part of any movie night, after all.

He’ll be the first to admit that he’s never been good at keeping his eyes off you. Try as he might, he can’t glue his gaze to the television; each glance in your direction sticks longer than the one before it, testing the waters. Minutes slip away just like this until he completely caves, turns his head fully, and stares at you outright. 

You still don’t seem to notice.

His brow scrunches up as he watches you, caught in the middle between concerned, confused, and amused by how absolutely ridiculous you look right now. When he speaks, he tries to sound stern, like he isn’t fighting the urge to laugh.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” is all he gets in response. 

You don’t even look his way. If anything, you tense harder now that his attention is on you. 

None of it makes sense. Not the weird gap you’ve left between your body and his, your total refusal to look him in the eye, or the fact that there wasn’t an argument to precipitate any of this distance. It’s a symptom with no apparent cause, and it’s totally baffling. Brain-breaking, even.

Frowning, Vernon scoots himself across the bed to get closer to you. 

You don’t reciprocate. 

He tugs gently at the hem of your sweatshirt in a silent plea for your attention and receives radio silence in response; unless he counts the way you swallow thickly.

Which, for the record, he does not.

This close, Vernon can feel the anxious energy pulsing out of your tensed-up body in waves, so he leans away and props himself up on his elbow. Desperate to know what broke you and how to fix it, he mutters, “What is happening right now?”

Ope. 

It comes out harsher than it was supposed to, reading more like annoyance than worry, so he immediately clears his throat. Gently and with a brush of his knuckles against your hip bone, he tries again: “Are you okay? Did I do something to make you mad at me?”

A fly on the wall might get the wrong impression and think he stroked you with a live wire instead.

“Oh, my god. No!” You sputter with a jolt, shifting gears quickly from vaguely on-edge to horrified. You shake your head so frantically that Vernon fears you’ll detach it. “No, you haven’t done anything. I’m fine, I just —”

He interjects with a laugh, “— I don’t necessarily believe that —”

Visibly cringing with every muscle in your body, you cover your face with your hands. Not long after you take a deep breath does a meek voice slip out through your fingers, sounding beyond embarrassed.

“I’m so incomprehensibly horny right now that I can’t even look at you.”

For a second, it’s dead silent because he can’t quite process how much of a weirdo you are, or how completely and hopelessly enamored he is with you. But then the dam breaks. His laugh comes out so forcefully that you pull your hands away from your face, eyes wide.

“Is that so?” He smirks, nodding his head towards the television. “Grey Gardens really gets your motor running, huh?”

Absolutely aghast, you swat at his bicep. Then, you sling your arm over your eyes and groan, “I got my period. It has turned me into a sex-crazed monster, I fear.”

Vernon nods in understanding, even though you can’t see it, and hums, “Ahh.”

And he leaves it at that, only because you seem to have more that you want to say. Something you want to ask, maybe, or a reason you may want to give for not jumping his bones at the first opportunity. He’s down, he thinks without hesitation, so long as you are.

But you don’t say anything.

Maybe you aren’t actually down after all, and that’s why you won’t look at him. Shit, are you embarrassed? Should I say something? Silence falls overtop like a weighted blanket, smothering the two idiots who can’t tell whose turn it is to talk. 

Do you or do you not want this right now?

You mumble something that he can’t catch, so he nudges your side gently with his knuckles to encourage you. Just as nervous, you repeat yourself without looking at him, “Period sex is supposed to help with cramps, I think.”

He thinks he’s read the exact same article you have. More than that, he wishes you’d look over at him and see for yourself how completely unbothered he is by this concept.

“If you think about it, it’s kind of like a natural lubricant,” you add in a voice that’s even smaller than before.

Your shyness really might kill him, so he reaches over to grab your hand and gently pull your arm away from your eyes. It’s the first time you’ve looked at him since you laid down — since you put your self-imposed no-contact order in place — and he feels his stupid heart swell.

For what it’s worth, he feels his dick twitch, too.

You open your mouth to speak again, likely to continue your unnecessary campaigning; Vernon is having none of it. He tugs your wrist just enough to tilt you inward, then he kisses you hard enough to shut you up. A tiny whimper slips out of your lips when he pulls away, and it almost makes him regret his decision to do so. 

But Vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “I don’t need a sales pitch. You will never — ever —  have to convince me to fuck you.” 

Your eyes crinkle at the corners, like this is somehow news to you. It shouldn’t be. He’s told you a thousand times in as many different ways how thoroughly crazy you drive him just by existing so closely to him, but maybe you didn’t take him seriously then.

To emphasize his point, he slips his hand under the hem of your sweatshirt and finds your bare waist with the pad of his thumb. It spirals slowly against your warm skin, making both of you dizzy. Then, sick of the distance, Vernon dips his head down to press a kiss to your temple. 

“Like, ever,” he murmurs, lips following the curve of your jaw. 

Soft, slow kisses trail behind him as he travels down to your lips. Your head tilts further backwards with every single one, providing him with more and more access. 

He states it matter-of-factly because, to him, it is. “I’m down so bad for you that it might be terminal.”

“Oh?” 

You try to laugh but turn to putty when his palm rests fully on the curve of your waist and pulls you flush against him. The surprised gasp you let loose confirms his suspicion: You can feel how serious he is, affirmation throbbing against your abdomen in time with his heartbeat. 

Vernon smirks to himself, relishing your reaction, and bypasses your mouth entirely. A moan escapes from you, soft like an exhale, as his lips move slowly down the length of your neck. Every so often — just to feel you shiver — he flicks the tip of his tongue along the delicate skin he finds there.

“It might be messy…” 

The rest of your needless warning gets lost in a dreamy sigh as he suckles at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. Shifting even closer, your desperate fingers reach out and cling to his t-shirt.

Vernon licks a stripe over the galaxy blooming on your skin. He hums, hand traveling upwards from your waist, “Don’t care about a mess.”

And he means it. 

Mindful of any soreness, he smooths his hand over your left breast and massages it tenderly, swearing to himself that he’ll throw the whole fucking mattress out if that’s what it comes down to. For you, he’ll race across town on foot to buy another one, and — fuck it — if the store is closed, he might just break in.

You’re growing impatient; your fingers let go of his shirt and tangle themselves in his hair.

“So needy,” he chuckles low in his chest, teasing. “You know, I think you’re lying. I think it is this bat-shit insane documentary that’s driving you wild, and you’re too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Stop,” you whine, dragging out the vowel sound. 

You don’t, though; you throw your left leg over his right thigh and shimmy forward until your cunt grazes his dick. Involuntarily, he groans at the warmth radiating off your core. Every part of you drives him just the slightest bit insane. You seem to know it, he thinks as he watches your pupils dilate in real time.

But he can play games, too, so he rolls his hips forward and grinds against you. He pushes you further, “Don’t get me wrong, baby. I’m not kink-shaming you —”

“Hansol Vernon Chwe!”

Oh, shit. Government name?

“— I’m just a little surprised, I guess.” He sighs with a shrug. “Think you know somebody…”

Your impatience is scribbled all across your scrunched up face. It seeps into your voice when you crash back against the pillows and huff, “Can you please stop fucking with me and start fucking me?”

“Sex-crazed monster, huh?” Leaning over, Vernon punctuates his question with a quick press of his lips to yours.

You whimper, “I’m so serious. I might explode.”

“Then go take care of whatever you need to take care of.” He kisses you again, smiling so fondly that his eyes may even be twinkling. “And I’ll go get a towel.”

You wait until Vernon clears the threshold before launching yourself out of bed at breakneck speed. Stumbling all the while, you race off to the adjoining bathroom and shut the door forcefully behind you. When it clatters against the frame, you finally admit to yourself that you might be a little bit eager.

Maybe.

Opting to keep your baggy, bleach-stained sweatshirt on, you wiggle out of your shorts and — what he refers to as — your crisis diaper. The high-waisted, frumpy, beige panties are utilized exclusively during your period, and to your surprise, they’ve remained spotless. It’s only ever the pretty and expensive pairs that wind up as collateral damage, isn’t it?

As they pool around your ankles, you can’t help but think that Vernon’s nickname for them is pretty spot on. That’s partly why you figured he might need to be talked into this. Unsated arousal aside, you feel as far from sexy as you can possibly get.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, kick what you’ve discarded into a pile near the hamper, and let your sweatshirt shift down to cover as much of your ass as it’s capable of managing. You grab a square of toilet paper; then, you go to work excavating the wad of cotton that separates you from everything you want in this life. 

It is within the realm of possibility that you’re a little bit eager and a little bit dramatic. 

Perhaps.

After discarding the evidence in the small trash can under the sink, you wash your hands as if you’re about to step into an operating theater and not the bedroom you spend half your life in. When you finally feel sterile, you lift your head and catch your reflection in the mirror. Instantly, you make eye contact with the painful, hormonal pimple on your chin — the one you’ve been waging a retinoid war against for days.

“Bitch,” you mutter, like calling it names will be the one thing that finally gets it to shrink. Of course, your plan doesn’t work, but you feel a little less powerless. That’s good enough, you think. At least, as good as it’s going to get.

Now half-naked and certifiably unobstructed, you tiptoe back to your bedroom much more carefully than you left it. Vernon enters from the opposite doorway at the same time, jumping slightly the second he notices you. You ignore his frightened eyes and glance down at the crisp, white towel he’s clutching.

You open your mouth to suggest anything otherwise, but he beats you to it. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead as his mouth widens outwards, a self-aware rectangle. Otherwise expressionless, he lets go of an atonal, “Aaaaaaah”, that tells you he’s caught on.

He says nothing else before turning around and walking back the way he came. You have to bite down on your lips to keep from cackling.

That one’s mine, you think, still as infatuated as you were at the start. I chose that one.

While he’s gone, you try not to move, not to breathe too heavily. Vernon said he didn’t care about a mess, but when he said it, he was speaking theoretically with his hand on your tit. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spoken recklessly with your body melting under his touch.

As far as you know, he hasn’t had any experience with this mess in practice. He could wind up finding you about as sexy as you currently feel — to wit: not at all. So, erring on the side of caution, you turn yourself into a statue and wait for the boy and his towel to find you again.

When he comes back, he plants a drive-by kiss on your unsuspecting mouth before skirting right around you. With shocking finesse, he grabs the corners of the — thankfully — black towel, which unfurls in the seconds before he flicks it upwards. It lands perfectly in the center of the bed, flat without needing to be fussed with.

“Wow,” he mutters to himself, taking in his clean work with raised eyebrows.

The impressed look is still on his face when he turns around, but you don’t have time to comment on his feat because he laughs as soon as he sees you.

“Kinda look like Donald Duck with the whole top-on, bottom-off situation.”

I chose this one?

You pout with an indignant gasp, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m not wearing a sailor hat, so…. bad analogy. Rude, even.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he snakes his arms around your waist and pulls you in close. You stumble a little on your way into him; the jury’s still out about whether it’s his hushed tone or the sudden movement that trips you up.

Between his thumb and index finger, he gently captures your chin. You follow along with his unspoken direction, tilt your face up to meet his. This close, you can see your own reflection in his pupils, black dilating against the warmest shade of brown you’ve ever seen.

Vernon takes a moment of silence as he takes in your features, and he studies them so intently that his eyebrows crinkle on their own. He sighs, sounding so completely serious. “You might get prettier every time I look at you.”

It’s unclear if you’re melting, or gushing; and if it’s the latter, you can’t say which biological process is at fault. Thankfully, the hand at the small of your back keeps your weak knees from buckling when his lips brush over yours.

“Even if you’re dressed like Winnie the Pooh.” 

You feel him smirk even before you hear him laugh at his own joke. Then, you feel his hand slide down to cup your bare cheek, squeezing affectionately. You want to tell him that this analogy is still inaccurate because you’re not wearing a crop-top; but he gently instructs you to ditch the sweatshirt and get on the bed, and your body moves automatically. No questions asked.

Carefully, you crawl up onto the mattress, then you center yourself on the towel. Still on your knees, you tilt your head curiously and ask, “Where do you want me?”

“Anywhere,” he breezes, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the dresser nearby. He amends, “Everywhere. All the time, and then some.”

“Better be careful,” you tease. “Talking like that might have consequences. You may never be able to get rid of me.”

His joggers are the next to go. Your sanity follows shortly thereafter, hungry eyes lingering on the imprint of his cock underneath his boxer briefs. You have to clamp your mouth shut to keep from drooling.

Brown eyes sparkling, he steps closer to you, kicking his pants aside as he goes. “Be careful,” he echoes, not a hint of cockiness to be found — just softness. “Saying it like a threat doesn’t make me wish it’s not a promise.”

I choose this one.

Crossing all the way to you, Vernon reaches the bed and climbs up with significantly more grace than you did. The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels right in front of you, mirroring your posture and causing your stomach to flip with anticipation.

You can’t help yourself; you lick your lips and look up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Naked, please. Like, right now.”

“Damn, I gotta do this myself?” Incredulous, he holds his hands up while glancing pointedly down at his underwear, then back at you. 

You arch an eyebrow, unfazed. 

“Depends.” You shrug. “Do you want to keep them? Because I really will rip them off of you.”

He concedes quickly; he always does. Sighing, he shakes his head and tuts, “Sex-crazed monster,” before pushing his briefs down his thighs. His length hangs heavy between you, but you swear you can feel its perfect ache inside you already.

You have a one-track mind, so you don’t hesitate to reach out and wrap your hand around him. A groan crawls up from the bottom of your chest when you feel the weighted warmth of his cock in your palm. You don’t hold that back, either.

“Fuck,” he sighs, head tilting as far backwards as it’ll go. Unexpectedly, he laughs. He doesn’t catch the quizzical look you shoot him, though he explains himself anyway, “Your hands are so fucking cold, but it feels so good.”

Swiping your thumb over his tip, you spread the pre-cum you find there down his shaft and stroke him slowly. He grows harder with every gentle squeeze, every pass of your fist. 

“We’re learning a lot of new shit about each other today.” You lean forward to pepper kisses across his collarbones. The hum of your mouth against his skin when you talk makes his cock twitch in your hand. “You might have a temperature kink and a thing for Winnie the Pooh.”

He snorts, nowhere near serious, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Make me,” you counter smugly, and you do mean it.

Vernon tilts his head forward to stare back at you. You’re already turning into a puddle, but if the look he gives you says anything, it’s that your melting isn’t enough for him. His voice is low and velvet-lined when he responds, “How about I just make you cum instead?”

“That could work, yeah.” You shrug.

He runs the pads of his fingers down each side of your waist to your hips, then back again; and each time he does it, you shiver. Reflexively, your back arches, chest pressing against his.

At this, he smirks, “It could? Maybe?”

“We can workshop it.”

“Or,” Vernon so generously offers, “You can turn around and lay down on your stomach. You know, if that’s sufficient.”

It’s not until you whip around and flop down onto the towel that you realize you never responded with words. Oh well. You figure he gets the point, judging by the quiet laughter you hear as he settles with his knees on either side of your upper thighs.

You don’t know what his next move will be — you don’t care, either, as long as he moves in your direction — so you don’t anticipate his palms flattening against your bare back, applying perfect pressure with his thumbs while he rubs away the soreness at the very base of your torso.

“Oh, shit,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut as the heels of his hands work out the tension in your muscles. “Have you always been good at this?”

You feel his chest brush against your shoulder blades when he hovers over you. Against the nape of your neck, he murmurs, “Nope.”

He kisses down your spine, mouth trailing after his hands as they work their way back down your body.

“Lemme guess — you read an article? Studied up?”

You get a snicker, then an affirmative hum, then another kiss. This time, it’s at the curve of your spine, just above your ass. Seconds later, he’s kneading the doughy flesh of your cheeks until your whole fucking body tingles.

That’s when it hits you:

Under normal circumstances, Vernon would be face-first in your pussy by now. Devouring you in earnest, like he’s starving. He can’t do that now — and you don’t blame him — so he’s making up for what you both view as a loss.

God, you want him.

One hand disappears from you, but you don’t have to guess where it went. You can hear the barely-there hiss of breath through his teeth when he takes his cock in that hand; as well as the very faint shift of his palm while he pumps himself.

“You’re gonna have to navigate, baby. I dunno how sensitive you are like this, what’s too much — any of that, so you need to tell me how you want me to move.”

Suddenly dizzy over how badly you need him, all you can muster is a nod. Vernon must want a verbal acknowledgment, though, because he leans back over you with one hand bearing his weight beside your head.

He kisses your shoulder and urges you, “Please say so if you need to stop or switch it up. Don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart.”

“I will,” you breathe. “But I can’t even articulate how much I need you inside of me right now, so please — pretty please — fuck me.”

The tip of his nose bumps your temple affectionately. Right beside your ear, he teases, “With a cherry on top?” And it vibrates down your whole goddamn spine.

“Vernon!” You whine, burying your face in the comforter. It’s muffled, but you warn him nonetheless, “Don’t make me come back there.”

“Aish. Calm down, sex monster.”

The instinct to twist around and glare at him over your shoulder is strong, but every feral urge you feel is stronger. So, when he tells you to spread yourself open for him and tilt your hips back, you do so without even a hint of complaining.

With the crown of his cock slipping through your folds, inching towards your entrance, you hear him curse under his breath. Suddenly self-conscious, you finally crane your neck to the side and glance back at him. 

“We don’t have to,” you whisper. “If it’s gross and you don’t want to anymore, I get it —”

He balks at your suggestion without letting so much as a beat pass. “None of that, sweetheart; no spiraling. I’m just trying to figure out the logistics of, like… how to survive how good this already feels.”

Struck dumb, all you can muster is a peep, “Oh?”

“Shit, yeah.” His response comes in a low groan. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

It’s a good call on his part, a suggestion you’re glad to have taken, because the pressure of him entering you is intense enough to knock the wind out of you. Empty lungs likely would’ve led to your untimely demise.

You whimper, already overwhelmed with the combination of pain and pleasure; the best kind of ache. The little, breathy moans must freak him out, however, because his fingertips caress your waist as he checks in: “This okay?”

Your limp arm lifts off the mattress, which you’ve melted fully into, and you form a circle with your index finger and thumb to indicate that you’re okay. The light is bright fucking green; you’ve just maxed out your capacity for speech.

Vernon continues his slow thrust forward, giving you ample time to adjust to his size.

“Oh my god,” he grunts, “This is — shit, I can’t believe we haven’t done this before. If I knew how good you’d feel like this, I wouldn’t have waited around for you to ask me.”

That hits like a truck.

He was waiting on you. 

You spent months convincing yourself that he’d need to be convinced, and chickening out before you could raise the idea. Months, and months, and months, of craving him during your werewolf transformation; wasting away over a shitty assumption that Vernon is anything like the people you’ve been with before. 

Christ. 

His credit for putting up with you is long overdue.

Too tongue-tied to speak any of that out loud, you settle for a summary that you hope conveys the message: “I love you so fucking much.”

Mindful of how deep it will push him into your cunt, he leans down over you carefully. Weight balanced on his knees and forearms, he envelopes you in his body heat, trails kisses across your shoulder, and echoes your words back at you between each one.

“Is this too much?” He whispers, rolling his hips slowly.

You feel him everywhere, with every drag of his cock along your walls; and you can’t tell where that throbbing sensation is coming from, him or you. 

You shake your head and sigh, “‘s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Like he knows it’ll unravel you, his large hand comes to rest over the back of yours. His fingers slip through the spaces between and squeeze you much more gently than the vice grip you hold on the bedding below you. He keeps holding you — just like this — through every movement.

The sensation of being this surrounded, this loved, this whole crashes over you like a wave and knocks you off balance.

“I’m so close,” you pant, voice as ragged as your breathing. There’s nothing that he isn’t already giving you with every deep, deliberate thrust into your heat; but you beg nonetheless, “Please, please, please —”

His speed doesn’t increase, but the intensity does. The smack of his hips colliding with your ass does, too, and you feel it reverberating in your bones. Buried as far inside of you as he can be, cock tip kissing your cervix with every high tide, length rolling across your g-spot with every low.

You cum so hard — so completely, invoking every single muscle you have — that you forget how to breathe. With a choked-out gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and let your orgasm devastate you. 

“Fuck!”

Vernon gets caught up in the current, too, grinding desperately against you until he’s swept up in your wake. You feel him twitch inside you as his release floods, leaving you so lost in his warmth that you feel boneless underneath him.

His face winds up hidden in the crook of your neck, somewhere amidst the baby hairs that cling to the sheen of your sweat. You feel his lips fluttering against your skin when he laughs, “Oh…my god.”

“Mmphf.” You nod weakly in agreement. Beyond blissed, your body still tingles too much to move.

Slurring, you add, “‘s good. ‘s really…”

The rest of that thought dissolves into something between a moan and a yawn.

Just as tired, Vernon pats your ass cheek affectionately and mumbles, “Well said. No notes.”

You tilt your head far enough to free your face from the sheets. When you do, you find your boyfriend fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. In the rare seconds he can, he looks back at you in a daze that seems even more adoring than it does fuck-drunk.

“I think I need to hibernate now,” you announce. “Think you just fucked me so well that I need to take a sabbatical.”

He counter-offers, “Shower first, then sabbatical?”

You wiggle so that you can pull your joint hands to your mouth. You can’t kiss him properly while he’s laid out on top of you, but you can press your lips to the back of his hand and hope he feels how much of you that you pour into it.

“Okay, but, like…. who’s carrying who?”

[dearharriet]

Sunday; James Potter 📺

summary: you spend a lazy sunday evening with your boyfriend, james.

word count: 1.5K

warnings: beefy!james, fem!r, established relationship, lots and lots of fluff, mentions of eating

note: BEEFY JAMES 🩷🩷 a second part (or prequel?) to this fic is up now <3

The telly hums gently beside the trickling rain outside, lulling you into a swath of late-afternoon drowsiness. The cooking competition that once effortlessly held your attention is now fuzzy at the edges, the challenges blurring together into a mess of commentary. Beneath you, the sofa seems to swallow you further and further into its enticing comfort.

Distantly, you register the sound of the lock clicking in the front door, and then the push of it falling inward. Your eyes close heavily and startle open again and again, an endless fight against sleep that you’re probably losing.

Thankfully, your boyfriend traipses into the room at that very moment, giving you a reason to turn your head and shake some of the sleep from your person.

He’d popped to the gym while you vegged on the couch, and by the looks of it he’d chanced a trail run. His ebony hair sits in slick curls, dampened with rain. The old shirt he’d thrown on is tacky over his chest and shoulders, likely absorbed with an assortment of rain and sweat. It shouldn’t make him as handsome as it does.

As he tosses his gym bag to the floor, you push yourself up the sofa cushions feebly.

“How’s my gym rat?” you ask sweetly, with a tang of teasing at the corners of your mouth. James is all smiles, leaning into the silly nickname you like so much.

“Hiya, lovey,” he sighs in response, finally settling from his long trek home. He’ll run off to shower in a moment, but for now he moves to lean over the sofa back, aiming to get a good look at you. “Miss me?”

“Mm.” James kisses you once, twice, then leans just far enough away so he can see you. “Terribly.”

“Mm,” he mimics your hum as he leans in for a third kiss, and then two more to your chin. “Same for me. Couldn’t stop thinking of my lovely girlfriend, all warm and dry and falling asleep to the telly.”

“I was not falling asleep,” you insist, even as your eyes droop faintly, dry from so much screen-time.

James lets you have this, though he smiles soft and knowing as he kneads his calloused fingers into the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You sit silently like that for minutes, your forehead meeting his lips in a moment of lucky structure.

“D’you need to shower?” you eventually broach.

“Hmph,” James sighs, “yea.”

Bringing a gentle hand up, he encourages your head back, displacing it to the couch once more. As if you couldn’t possibly do that yourself. It’s a simple thing, an unnecessary thing, but one that James happily does without hesitation.

“Don’t move an inch, love. Back in a tick.”

James disappears, and defying his words—though you know he was exaggerating—you shuffle to spread yourself fully over the sofa.

The shower starts, and the chefs on the screen are up for elimination. You pay hazy attention to who wins, distracted by the muffled water lapping into the tub in the bathroom, and the rain still coming down outside.

Before you know it, you’re slipping under the blanket of sleep, your mind taking each evening apartment noise for its strange sofa dreams.

+

When you wake later, it’s significantly darker outside, and the apartment is fragrant with dinner-smells. The television is playing an antique auction show quietly. You haul up and off the couch, stumbling into the kitchen where James is working.

“Hello, boyfriend,” you greet sluggishly, still wiping sleep from your eyes. A faint headache lingers that only a sofa-nap causes, so you sally up to the cabinet to start a glass of water.

James, presiding over a simmering pan of mystery sauce, preens over his shoulder at you.

“Lovely girlfriend,” he returns. “How was your nap?”

Unsure of your answer, you hum noncommittally. James glances down at you in amusement as you settle against the counter beside the stove, facing him.

“Weird dreams,” you say as a means of explanation.

“Oh, yea?” James sets his ladle down carefully and crosses his arms. You watch his arms tense against his short black sleeves, and then trace his jaw up to watch his damp hair fall over his forehead. You nod distractedly to his question.

James borrows your water glass for a quick swallow, and you pretend to be inconvenienced. You’re sure he only takes it because it’s yours and he’s been compelled to share everything with you since you started dating—maybe even before that.

Handing the glass back and retrieving his utensil, he asks, “Was I in any?”

The answer is typically yes, and today is no different.

“Mm, I think so, yea.” You squint at the ceiling, dredging your warped dreams back to the front of your mind. “We were trying to swim but we had to get a turtle back to its owner first, and then I think the owner was Bobby Flay.”

You’re laughing at the absurdity as you recall the story, and James sends you amused little glances as he stirs.

“We’re lovely for doing as much. Did we get to swim for our troubles?”

“Nope,” you say disappointedly, “the dream changed to something else after that. I don’t remember what.”

James forces a frown that you think is meant to be lighthearted.

“Rubbish,” he curses. “Day ruined.”

Despite his dramatics, James’ free hand snakes over your torso, slipping under your thick sweater to soothe the skin of your hip. You smile contentedly, headache already ebbing away from the water and his hands and the promise of dinner very soon.

“Was your shower very pleasant?”

“So pleasant,” James agrees immediately, and you can imagine the simple pleasure of hot water on rain-wet hair. It makes you run your palm up his bicep, soaking in his warm skin, his clean clothes.

“Mm. I’m glad.”

A moment later, James steps away to fish a spoon from the silverware drawer. Returning, he dips it into his stew and offers it to your mouth.

“Taste,” he says, but you’re already closing your lips around it. You’d thought it was some kind of pasta sauce, but it’s significantly more rich and spicy than expected. It’s good.

“Curry?” you guess. James nods happily. “I like.”

Giving it his own taste-test, James seems to be happy with the flavor, too. A few more stirs for good measure and then he’s flipping the burner off and thwacking the spoon over the pan to rid any excess.

He moves around like a trained professional, removing the pan from the heat and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. Competence is always sexy, but James has a way of amping it up further, twisting the metaphorical knife of affection you’ve taken for him.

There’s no arrogance in what he does, despite how good he is at it. He’d brag for days on end about his prowess in the gym, or on the field, but there’s a dexterity he has at home, too, that he doesn’t seem interested in flaunting. It’s the happiest you see him, when he’s practicing this genius of domesticity, and it makes your chest ache.

“Thank you, Jamie,” you muster sweetly, as he ferries your bowl and his to the living room. You reclaim your place on the sofa, and James settles in beside you.

You eat in a fuzzy silence, not really paying attention to anything in particular, just enjoying the food and the company.

“Good?” James ensures, glancing at you. You hum around a bite, enthusiastic. “Not too hot, you’re sure?”

“It’s perfect,” you tell him, calf pressing against his. “I was so hungry.”

“I bet,” he agrees.

Lapsing back into silence, you both pay haphazard attention to the TV once more. When your bowl is empty, you place it beside James’ and ease back into his waiting arms thoughtlessly. It’s like pinging from one good thing to the next—out of the meadow and into the clouds. You sigh.

“I love Sundays.”

James hums his agreement, the sensation shivering up your back. He follows with a press of his mouth, just over your temple.

“Love you, dear.”

The nickname makes your lips lift. James only calls you dear every so often, when he’s feeling truly, undeniably sappy.

You tilt your head up to catch his eye, watching his expression soften the same way yours does. Twisting in his hold, you press a kiss to his strong chin, his aquiline nose—reach up to fix his glasses, just because he’ll let you.

James strokes your back like a harp, and your humming is the music. You know you’ll go to work tomorrow, and you’ll miss him all day, but for now time feels doused in molasses. The apartment—James and you included—is swimming in the thick, sweet flood of your idle words and touches, as it will be tomorrow night, as it was the night before. It’s enough to make the long weeks worthwhile.

“Love you, too, Jamie,” you say, and then it’s him lulling you to sleep instead of the cooking channel.

+

thank you for reading! 🏹

masterlist

[incorrectbatfam]

Types of obnoxious batfam stans

Written by an obnoxious batfam stan

Not really a rant but something I've noticed over the years interacting in different spaces and I've decided to make your problem now.

Please note that I'm not saying there's any "right" way to be a fan because we all suck by virtue of being comic nerds, but there are certain kinds of batfamily fans that stick out to be in particular.

Anywho, here are 12 kinds of annoying batfam stans that you've probably run into and you better get a laugh out of it *points gun to your head*.

1) The Newbies Who Never Heard of Google

There's no shame in being new to something. It's a phase that we're all guaranteed to go through, whether we're 11 or 101. However, in this day and age, so many things can be easily googled that you don't need to shout every question you have into the VVorld VVide VVoid. If you need comic recs or a reading list, google it. If you wanna know a character's origin story, google it. If you need to know the color of Batman's underpants in a particular issue in 1965... well that's probably too specific for Google but Reddit will definitely have an answer.

2) The Middle School Authors

Before the 13-year-olds get up in my notes, I'm not saying everyone that age writes like this. Middle school is a state of mind. These fanfic writers usually stand out in a few ways.

They're oftentimes first-person POV or reader-insert. Give Y/N a break, she's tired.

The grammar is stunningly atrocious. I get if you're inexperienced or if you're writing in a second language, but we are in the prime era of autocorrect. If you need help, it's right there. Also, fuck c*nsoring b*d w*rds and fuck "unalive."

The characters do things that are out-of-character because the author is projecting their own personality. Bruce Wayne is a lot of things but he does not listen to the fucking Mountain Goats.

There's a lack of experience or research when it comes to certain topics. That's not how physics works. He can't walk that injury off. And that's definitely NOT how you do the horizontal hokey pokey.

3) The Neckbeards

Unfortunately, these basement-dwelling mouth-breathers tainted the image of what a comic fan is, though that's been changing recently. Still, we've all seen them. They gatekeep via pop quizzes, 'cause obviously you're not a real fan unless you know what page 10 of Batman #138 smells like. They give unsolicited commentary on people's cosplays, nitpicking the guys and being gross toward women. And heaven forbid the comics add a little diversity.

4) The Moviegoers

Nothing inherently wrong with getting into the fandom via the movies, nor is there anything wrong with sticking to that. I just feel like we're two different species of Galapagos finches, you know?

5) The Christopher Nolans

Separate from casual fans of the Nolan movies. I'm calling them the Christopher Nolans because these people have a tendency to reach for the grimdarkest thing possible. It's like they cannot fathom Batman having any other emotions besides punching and gargoyle brooding.

6) The Canon Purists

Wanna share a fun headcanon? NO, because Stephanie Brown never used cherry lip balm in the comics so therefore that must be the absolute truth. These people are a stickler for comic accuracy to the point where it's like... why bother interacting with the fandom in the first place? The worst part is when they're adamant on following a single continuity and refuse to consider anything else. This is comics we're talking about. Everything either has been or will be canon at some point.

7) The Fanon Worshippers

On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have the people who base their entire perception of the characters on something either they pulled out of their ass or that their mutual with 16 followers came up with, despite evidence directly contradicting it. I love WFA, but I feel like that's partially responsible for further perpetuating certain popular myths. Also, these fans tend to focus solely on the batfam/their ships. It's one thing to have some people in the foreground vs. background, but put some respect to Bart Allen's name you goddamn cheesecakes.

8) The Golden Age Dads

These guys aren't really obnoxious. I actually find it kind of cute how they think Jason Todd is still dead.

9) The Chronically Online

I have a rule of thumb when it comes to discourse: if it's not something I'd hear about at a bar, it's not worth my mental energy. Some people haven't gotten the memo, though.

These are either the well-intentioned but misinformed teenagers or grown-ass adults beefing with children because they don't have a life. They have takes that are oversimplified, rage-inducing, TikTok algorithm attention-grabbers that no one cares about in real life.

Don't get me wrong, we've got a bunch of issues in comics and fandom that are worth discussing. However, there comes a point where you're splitting hairs and need to go the fuck outside. I'm not gonna link the post 'cause I don't wanna call them and their 7 notes out, but the other week I saw someone saying Stephcass was a racist ship because something something colonialism parallel. You gotta be Elastigirl to have that kind of reach.

10) The Corporate Simps

I love comics. I appreciate the writers and artists. However, you will find my carcass in a ditch before you catch me licking the boots of DC/Warner Bros. Basically, these fans, fewer as they are, can't seem to fathom that their favorite franchise can (and does) put out some steaming motherfucking garbage.

11) The Hot Cosplayers

Not actually annoyed, I'm just a little jealous. Stop being hotter than me, please and thank you.

12) The One With A Punchline For Everything

Wait–

[rjalker]

Flatland adaptations

[ID: A version of the "missing the point", meme, showing a purple square shouting in all caps, Holy shit other dimensions exist", while staring at a green sphere that intersects with his plane, while the sphere says, with the words literally going over the square's head, "Racism, ableism, misogyny, and classism are bad.". End ID.]

how come I've watched three full length Flatland movies and many shorter animations but only one of them, which is in Italian, which I don't speak, ever has anything to say about the political themes of the book and instead just goes "woah cool interdimensional theory!"???

[John Crichton voice] Where's my damn political commentary?

Why do people want to just throw out all the criticism of systemic bigotry to focus only on the dimensional stuff?

Edit: Yes, this 1000% applies to the 2007 Flatland film. It is not exempt at all. It is one of the main things I was thinking of while making this. A few seconds of absurdist humor does not mean the 2007 Flatland film is scathing political commentary that forces the audience to think about systems of inequality and question whether they might not be upholding some that are just as absurd and made up to keep people in power.

[ID: The same meme as above, now with a hybercube or tesseract saying, "Racism, ableism, misogyny, and classism are bad.", with the yellow A Sphere from the 2007 Flatland film staring at it in open-mouthed shock, exclaiming, "Wow!! Absurdist humor!!!" while the point flies over his head. End ID.]

Edit August 20 2024: Ladd Ehlinger, the creator of the 2007 Flatland film, is disgustingly fucking racist and misogynistic. He is literally a proud conservative.

He made a political ad in 2011 that's literally so blatantly racist and misogynistic that youtube has literally restricted it so you literally cannot share the link outside of youtube.

Because it's that blatantly fucking bigoted.

I wish I could say I'm shocked but considering how terribly the 2007 film handles the themes of the original novel, I'm not surprised in the least.

The ad literally has Black men chanting, "give me your cash bitch so we can shoot up the street", while a white woman, with the face of the politician the add is against photoshopped over her, pole dances as a sex worker.

He runs a tumblr account so make sure you block him. His username is filmladd.

He's literally a racist misogynistic conservative.

For the love of all that's holy everyone please stop defending this film immediately and make sure people are aware of exactly what kind of person produced it.