#Establishing authority

[the-learning-hub]

Why learning the fundamentals of your niche is important before blogging

Why learning the fundamentals of your niche is important before blogging

Are you thinking about starting a blog in your niche, but feeling a little overwhelmed by all the information out there? Well, don’t worry – you’re not alone! Starting a blog can be a daunting task, especially if you’re new to the game. But before you jump headfirst into the world of blogging, there’s one crucial thing you need to do: learn the fundamentals of your niche. Why is this so…

[str4ngr]

𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬 [ 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐏. 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒]

𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎 | 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 |

cw: suggestive, foul language, established relationship, mentions of starting a family/pregnancy, domestic, some lactation kink [ish], fem!reader.

notes: a breeding kink is the sexual arousal at the idea of becoming pregnant/impregnating someone.

���𝐇𝐄 both of you were lazing together in bed, just as you always did when keegan first returned from his missions. your back pressed to his chest, nothing felt better than this embrace, more specifically, your body against him. he missed you so dearly, but he had no idea where to start with his words.

when his hands slipped past the hem of your shirt, you didn't stop him, his lips nuzzled against your ear his gruff and unintentionally seductive voice whispers,

"sweetheart,"

his voice was low, his large palms gently messaging the soft skin of your belly, making him sigh in satisfaction. his hands stayed in place, squeezing and caressing your stomach, his words coming out in another sigh,

"could you imagine if you were pregnant?"

you took a sharp breath. that was sudden but, god, and you couldn't stop the idea,

"i'd fuck your little cunt full of my cum,"

you couldn't stop as your hips pressed against his as your squirmed, or how your breath shook at the vulgar image of his cum dripping out off you. a low chuckle leaving his lip as he continued,

"make your belly nice and round with my kid."

his possessive words, made it almost feel hard to breath, suffocating. you couldn't turn around, you couldn't let him see the saliva pooling in your cheek. not that he needed to, you hips were surly more than enough as a give away. his hand didn't stop, lingering on your stomach, another hand slowly sliding up your body to your breasts, having no bra to fight with,

"god, and your breasts? they'd become so round, so full."

he let out a groan, calloused fingertips gently twisting your nipple. you yelped and whined, turning to face his devilish grin. but you weren't upsets, oh no, you wanted this more than anything else, his words making your imagination go wild. his lips cascading down your neck and shoulders, receding to press a kiss to you cheek.

his hips grinded against yours, his broad shoulders twisting over your figure as he leaned in close to your face, his lips only a moment away before he kissed. that moment was quickly cut off by your whine, your neck craning to meet his lips as you try to shush him, only a small laugh, accompanied by his, now intentional, seductive voice,

"eager are't we? well, we have all night."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

when i tell you i started blushing uncontrollably i'm not fucking kidding.

༒︎ 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫; 2023 ༒︎

directory

[my-name-is-apollo]

Why is Hera so hostile to Leto in a manner that she isn't with the other lovers of Zeus? I can't think of any other woman who was targeted so much by Hera. One could say she didn't want Leto to give birth because her children would be a competition to Hera's children, but why bother her even after she had already given birth? Is it because Leto herself is also a threat to Hera?

Sort of I guess?

I don't think Leto would ever be a threat to Hera's role as the queen of the gods but Hera might see her as a competitor for Zeus' affection, even though I think Zeus would not marry someone else and replace Hera.

The twins are definitely a big reason why Hera begrudged Leto - it is outright stated in the Callimachus Hymn to Delos that the reason Hera especially targeted Leto was because she was told that Apollo would be dearer to Zeus than Ares is. Zeus is very proud of Artemis as well. As he himself puts it, he doesn't mind facing Hera's wrath for children like her.

But the continued hatred even after the birth of the twins (like sending Tityus to rape Leto) could have been for different reasons. This wasn't like one of those affairs Zeus would have with mortal women where he'd leave them behind once the child is conceived. Neither could Hera, despite her many attempts, get rid of Leto like she did with the other lovers. Not only did Leto give Zeus children that he loves dearly, she also stayed on Olympus despite Hera's hatred towards her (which isn't directed to any of Zeus' other divine mistresses, btw). It might have also been because Leto herself is dear to Zeus, if the way she's treated on Olympus is any proof. In the Homeric hymn to Apollo, Leto stands next to Zeus - in the Olympian assembly - to welcome their son. Hera is completely absent from the scene, as if Leto had taken her place even if temporarily. Now you could say this is because Apollo himself is such a powerful and glorious son in a way that no other son of Zeus is, so of course Leto would get such an honor (the hymn itself presents it this way).

But here's another instance - in the Iliad, when Hera goes to seduce Zeus, he is obviously very smitten but before getting into the action, he lists some of his lovers (I believe these were his favorite lovers, as a lot of others are not mentioned):

"for never has such desire for goddess or mortal woman so gripped and overwhelmed my heart, not even when I was seized by love for Ixion’s wife, who gave birth to Peirithous the gods’ rival in wisdom; or for Acrisius’ daughter, slim-ankled Danaë, who bore Perseus, greatest of warriors; or for the far-famed daughter of Phoenix, who gave me Minos and godlike Rhadamanthus; or for Semele mother of Dionysus, who brings men joy; or for Alcmene at Thebes, whose son was lion-hearted Heracles; or for Demeter of the lovely tresses; or for glorious Leto; or even for you yourself, as this love and sweet desire for you grips me now.’ (Book 14, trans. A. T. Murray)

Notice how when talking about most of them, he also mentions the children they bore to him but when Demeter and Leto are mentioned, he doesn't bring up their children at all despite them being some of the most accomplished kids of his. What's more, he takes Leto's name just before Hera's. I mean, this is an interpretation but it looks like not only did Zeus love Leto the most out of all his mistresses - giving her a place second to that of his wife, but also his love for her wasn't necessarily only because she gave him two amazing children.

Nonnus does something similar in the Dionysiaca (but this time Zeus is enamored with Persephone instead of Hera) but more notably, when Typhoeus attacks Olympus and Zeus is discouraged, Nike takes the form of Leto to encourage him and it's pretty telling of what Leto meant to Zeus.

One interesting similarity between Hera and Leto is that they both had a giant try to rape them. Porphyrion tried to violate Hera (Zeus inspired him to do this) and Tityus tried to violate Leto (upon Hera's order). Though both of them were killed, only Tityus got an eternal punishment in Tartarus of having his liver/heart eaten out by vultures so Zeus seems to have taken a greater offense at Tityus trying to assault Leto.

Again, I don't think Zeus would ever take anyone other than Hera as his permanent wife - she is irreplaceable to him. There's an entire myth about Hera leaving him and Zeus winning her back. Their relationship is obviously complex and involves all kinds of emotions including love and hate. But Leto is continually dear to him as well and that's something Hera can't do much about.

[the-hot-zone]

recommendations for @mail-me-a-snail & honestly everyone who follows me bc y'all know i give out recommendations like candy. i think especially you may like I think love is something that happens to other people and HOW TO BE A DOG (the latter is similar to Your Faithful Servant).

[drarrily-we-row-along]

"Come on," Draco said, dragging Harry in the door by the lapels on his expensive suit jacket. He looked delectable and Draco wanted to drown in him.

Harry stumbled, collapsing against Draco, pressing him back against the wall in the hallway, "Mmrmph," he managed as Draco grabbed his face and kissed him hard.

His hands went straight to Harry's buttons, tugging them hard enough that the fabric bit into his fingers, stinging as he ripped Harry's shirt.

"Draco," he gasped, pulling back, something in his voice sounding vaguely concerned.

And he very much didn't want that. Draco dove into kissing him again, groping Harry's back, pressing their bodies more tightly together. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about it, didn't want anything but Harry-

"Draco," he repeated, pulling back again and catching Draco's hands. He pressed them back against the wall next to his head trapping him again but not in a sexy way. "Wait," he said, voice soft, and Draco's saw red.

"Don't," he growled. "Harry. Fucking don't," he spit, shaking his head and fighting against Harry's grip on his wrists. "Let me go."

"Hey," he said, achingly tender, and Draco would have punched him if he'd had his hands free. "Can we talk about that?"

"No," he said, "I don't fucking want to talk about it. I want you to fuck me until I can't think straight."

Harry tilted his head down, trying to get Draco to meet his eyes.

Draco was absolutely not having it, he didn't want to look at Harry, didn't want to feel like this. "If you're not going to fuck me, let me go and I'll go find someone who will," he threatened.

Harry sucked a breath through his teeth, "you don't mean that," he said.

He glared at him, hoped that his face conveyed all of the anger and vitriol he was feeling, "Don't tell me what I will or won't do," he said. "Don't pretend to control me. You don't."

His hands were released and Harry took a step back, his torn shirt hanging open, leaving the image of his heaving chest incredibly clear. "Fine," he said, stepping away and turning toward the living room. "You're right," he added over his shoulder, "I don't control you. But I do get to control me, and I don't like being used."

"I'm not trying to use you!" he exclaimed, storming after his boyfriend.

Harry made his way into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He took a long drink before he turned to look at Draco, "What were you trying to do then?"

He threw his arms in the air, "trying to get fucked!"

"In order to avoid talking about what happened at your parents'," Harry said.

"What does it even matter?" he exclaimed. "Why does it matter why I want you to fuck me into incoherency? Especially when it's something that you want too!"

"I just want to talk to you first," Harry said. "Is that too much to ask? To just have a little communication?"

He scowled, rage sitting high in his chest, "Yes. It is too much to ask, I don't want to fucking talk. I thought I was dating a man, not some fucking woman who feels the compulsive need to talk everything to death."

Harry flinched, "Too far," he growled.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he snarled, "Have I hurt your delicate feelings?" And he knew he was being an asshole, knew that he was lashing out, but he was so mad, absolutely raging and he couldn't seem to stop himself. He didn't want to stop; he wanted to fight, wanted to hurt.

"I'm not doing this," Harry said. "I'm not having a fight about this."

He stalked over and shoved Harry, both palms flat against his chest, "Fight with me!" he roared. "Yell at me, tell me I'm wrong," his fists hit Harry's chest. "Come on!"

"No," Harry said. "I'm not going to do that. I don't want to treat you that way."

A glass shattered behind him, Draco's magic swirling through him. "I'm leaving."

"Fine," Harry said, standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Fine," Draco snapped, stalking away from the other man and heading straight for the door. He summoned a bottle of whiskey and paused on their front step. He had half a mind to go to some club, find some random bloke to sleep with, someone who would really pound him. But decided that Pansy's was actually the place he should crash. She was always good for a fight.

-------------

Draco woke up the next morning, in Pansy's guest bed, with an awful hangover and an even worse feeling swirling in the pit of his gut. "Shit," he whispered, rubbing his face and trying not to panic.

"Hey, there," Pansy said from the doorway, tossing a hangover potion at his head.

He caught it and uncapped it, draining it and shuddering at the immediate effects. "I fucked up," he managed once most of the symptoms of the whiskey he'd consumed vanished and left only the guilt and shame behind.

She nodded, "I said that last night," she replied flippantly as she sat down next to him on the bed and handed him a cup of coffee. "And then we had a spectacular row about it."

Draco sipped his coffee, "I wanted to have a fight with him."

"Right, but he didn't."

He groaned as the words he'd said to Harry the night before flitted through his mind, "I was awful to him."

"Go home," she said.

He shook his head, "What if he's mad?"

"Then you'll get that fight you were so desperate for," she teased, bumping her shoulder against his.

"What if he's not?" he whispered, the thought somehow even more horrifying.

"Go home," she repeated, nudging him out of bed. "I've got company coming for brunch," she added.

He turned to look at her, "Thanks," he whispered, grateful beyond measure that she would fight with him when he needed an outlet without batting an eye.

"That's what best friends are for," she said with a wink. "Now go."

He trudged home, deciding to walk instead of apparate, trying to work out what he was going to say and mostly failing.

When he came in, Harry looked up from where he was sitting at their kitchen table. Unshaven, puffy red eyes, mouth turned down in a frown, his eyes flickered over Draco's body before meeting his gaze.

"I stayed with Pansy," Draco said softly, by way of apology.

Harry nodded, then looked away from Draco to stare out the window, taking a sip of coffee from his cup.

"I didn't sleep with someone else," he continued. Draco couldn't bring himself to walk closer, to come in out of the doorway, he wasn't entirely sure it would be welcome.

The other man winced but said nothing, didn't even nod.

"You're not going to even talk to me?"

"What would you like me to say?" Harry asked, turning his face to look at him, exhaustion written across it plain as day. "Do you want me to tell you that I stayed up all night, waiting for you to come home? Should I tell you that I thought about going out to all of our normal clubs to see if I could find you, but was too afraid that you'd come back and think that I'd left you?" he asked, running a hand through his hair, "Would you like me to tell you that my entire body felt like it was burning up with rage and jealousy but I couldn't-" he broke off and shook his head and looked down at the table. "I couldn't tell you, couldn't do anything with how angry I was because that isn't how I want to treat you. Is that what you want to hear?"

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

At that Harry looked up at him and Draco took a step closer.

"I'm sorry I said those things, I didn't mean them. I was just angry and I wanted to fight with you." He shook his head, "My parents, they just-" he broke off.

Harry reached for him, took Draco's hands in his and drew him in closer before pressing kisses to his knuckles, "I know," he said softly. "I was mad at them too, love. They had no right to speak to you that way."

Tears prickled the backs of his eyes as hurt and resentment build up in his throat and chest at the remembrance of their criticism.

"And I didn't want to hurt you more," he continued. "I didn't want to add to that burden." He tugged Draco down until he had him sitting cradled in his lap like Draco was a toddler instead of a twenty three year old. "I love you. I want to fight for you," he added and Draco buried his face in Harry's neck, his stubble scratching his temple and cheek.

"I love you," he whispered, the feeling so big, so present that it terrified him.

Harry turned his head to kiss Draco's temple, "I love you too. I want to honor you and be on your side."

He nodded, "I want that too," he confessed. "I just get afraid to let myself believe that you want to be on my side. What if I end up needing you?"

His lover chuckled softly, breath ghosting through Draco's hair, "It's a scary thought that maybe we weren't made to do life alone, isn't it?"

"I don't want to need you."

"Why?" he asked softly, hands brushing over Draco's back soothingly.

He held his breath for a long moment before saying, "if I start to need you and then you leave, what will I do?"

With a soft hum, Harry held him closer, "I hear that," he replied. "I'm scared to need you too, but it doesn't change the fact that I do. I could live without you, Draco," he said, "and you could live without me too. But I'd rather live with you," he continued. "I'd rather put in the work to live with you, to love you. My life is better with you in it."

"Mine too," he agreed.

Harry nodded, "Maybe we just take it one day at a time, maybe we just work on trusting that neither of us is going anywhere. Maybe you let me be on your side, and I let you be on mine."

"And then what?" he murmured, fear and hope warring in his heart.

"Then," Harry said, drawing him impossibly closer, "we just keep doing it for the rest of our lives, one day at a time."

--------------------

Read more of my fics

[prismatoxic]

just saw someone call dunmeshi "a show about sapphic women" i think maybe you don't actually know what dungeon meshi is about

[yellowocaballero]

Continuing the JJK posting: Gojo is such a mystifying character.

Action show where swinging out the gate you introduce a character who is so incredibly powerful you then have to, before every fight, establish why Gojo can't just show up and fix the problem in seconds. His existence weakens the stakes of everything. The rest of the show you are backflipping ridding yourself of him. He jobs two major bad guys off the gate and every subsequent extensive fight with them feels like cleaning up his leftovers. Put him in a box, he's ruining the game balance. So absolutely broken. As a writer it makes your job so difficult, but it's also the entire point of him. "Hey I want to write the single most badass character of all time who can do the most insane shit but I will also engage with that", rock on king.

I think he's most interesting when understood as somebody who is fundamentally alien and removed from ordinary human thought processes. In his world there is absolutely nothing he cannot do, and the thought 'maybe I can't do something' just doesn't occur to him. He is capable of doing whatever he wants and of killing anybody who tries to stop him from doing what he wants. If he is not doing something, it is because he does not want to do it. If he wants to do something (kill all of his superiors) and he's not doing it, it's because he doesn't think it's the most effective route towards what he has decided to do. I think this informs the majority of his actions (and, importantly, what he doesn't do)(murder). I think he's reasoned out that you should have a general reason to do things, and it feels like sheer luck that he places value and meaning in human life, and as such you shouldn't kill them without a strong reason. Watching the flashback arc, if I hadn't seen a) JJK and b) Naruto and you asked me which shitty teen became a law abiding school teacher and which became a mass murderer I would have guessed the wrong ones.

Anyway, the way I like to think of him, he's a raging narcissist with a god complex to match. Horrifically, he's actually a good teacher, but he is also a teacher as an ego/'raising my child army' thing. He would be the kind of mother who is a good mother but lowkey had kids also as an ego/unconditional love/lots of attention/'surely my child will worship me' thing. Gets randomly into new hobbies, obsesses over them, gorges himself on the novelty factor, before dropping them in a week once he gets too good at them. Rinse and repeat. The only hobby that does not eventually grow boring is annoying people, so it's his only hobby. Geto told him age 15 that he'll never have any friends if he keeps on casually reminding people that they live on his sufferance, so he developed another back-up hobby more conducive for friendship of helping people forget that they live on his sufferance. This has convinced him that he's a god of subterfuge, intrigue, and trickery. Does eat women out, but is convinced that this makes him God's gift to women, and is actually pretty terrible in bed because his partner's desires never even occur to him. Is convinced he's as good at sex as he is everything else. Sex is actually the one thing he's bad at, but he's not ready to hear that.

In S1 he overall left me with the general impression that his entire idea of how high school worked was sourced from anime, and as such decided that being a teacher involved nothing but field trips, sports games, beach episodes, sports festivals, etc. Did not know how the classroom component worked so he skips it. Jossed, but also left me convinced that it would be very funny if he was an immortal 150-whatever years old and had founded the high school himself out of, you guessed it, an ego thing, and never once properly learned how high schools worked and just arbitrarily made his own aging students the new principals so he could continue engaging in training the kids who are too Misfit (TM) to get apprenticeships and living his fun slice of life anime life and raising a child army of kids who will worship him any day now. Annnyyyy day now. Any day now.

[dukeofthomas]

I need people to realize how horrible 'stalking/constant surveillance/breaking into each other's homes is how the Batfamily show love' is. Like i really need someone to just acknowledge how horrific saying this bullshit is.

Like even fics where they're shown as happy and healthy and with good ties, you've always got this thing where none of them have privacy or any boundaries with each other. Which is directly antithetical to actually having good relationships. And this invasion via hacking and stalking and breaking into homes is portrayed as a positive, good thing; it's just how they show love and care to each other, after all. But for some reason I just personally don't find stalking, lack of privacy or boundaries, and emotional manipulation funny, endearing, or healthy, and just end up disgusted at the attempt to sweep it all under the rug.

[a-very-tired-jew]

I was just reminded that the art collective Forensic Architecture exists and once again I’m disgusted.

For those of you who don’t know, it’s a collective of various artists who play at forensic science, conduct “forensic investigations”, and then make art exhibits of their “results”. Their reports and exhibits will make statements such as “the evidence shows that X is linked to Y” but the statistical output that they share will show something like a 5% confidence in the match.

That's right. They make art exhibits of their "investigations".

You want to talk about fandomizing tragedy? Making “forensic investigations” into art exhibits is the bougiest version I can think of, and it's only to serve an echelon of people who enjoy that kind of stuff. If any of the people in this art collective had a background in forensic science they would have taken ethics courses that would tell them how horrid putting on an art exhibit like this actually is. You don't honor the victims by putting on an art show for the rich and powerful to gasp and faint over so that you can fundraise for your next show.

Their founder has even stated that they’re not in forensics but “counter-forensics” and "counter-investigation". They eschew the practices and norms of the scientific community for telling their own version of investigative “truth”. They’ve even gone so far as to quote post-truth philosophies in their work and the controversial Nietzsche quote about there being no facts, only interpretations. Both are dangerous philosophies to hold in forensic science as it presents the evidence as subjective rather than objective. This is why they're an art collective and not a forensic science research group as they purport, they're rejecting objective scientific outcome for subjective interpretation.

You can go to the group's website and they have profiles on all of their team members. Almost every person is labeled as a "researcher", but once you click on their profile it quickly tells you that they're an artist, designer, activist, or some combination of the three. No mention of any scientific background whatsoever. That indicates their ability to actual conduct forensic science research is not great as they don't have any training or education on the methods involved. In fact, their entire program and personnel are out of an arts college with no science programs or faculty outside of anthropology.

That's weird, right?

A group that supposedly made a new discipline of forensic science, according to them, has no members with actual backgrounds in forensic science or scientific disciplines relating to it?

None of the team member profiles detail any scientific background that would be relevant to forensics outside of a few people with engineering and computer science degrees. Neither of the aforementioned disciplines typically train you in forensic practices anyway unless you take certain courses. Because these profiles are public you can go and checked LinkedIn profiles and find the CVs for each member as well. Guess what? No forensic science or relevant scientific backgrounds listed there as well.

But for some reason this art collective has received funding from governments and NGOs for "creating" a new discipline of forensic science. They're a "trusted" source for forensic investigations. That's worrying. That's terrifying.

I'm a forensic scientist and to make an objective field based upon methodology and empirically supported practice into one that is subjective and throws out the empirical aspects is terrifying. Everyone should have klaxons going off in their head whenever they see Forensic Architecture's name appear in a publication. I've reviewed a few of their "investigations" and they are rife with bad practice, manipulation, and misinformation. In fact, it appears that they present their work in art exhibits more than they testify to it in court due to their methods being questionable and their intent being not to help the investigation but to be a "counter-investigation" that can be judged by the court of public opinion. What do I mean by this? In many of their investigations the collective does not actively have personnel at the scene. Meaning they are not getting first hand physical evidence and measurements. Now, it's not always possible to be there personally and as such you rely upon crime scene techs, investigators, and other personnel to collect this stuff. Typically if you're a consultant or outside firm you are getting the evidence after it has been collected for analysis. You want the physical evidence in your hands as much as possible so that you can analyze it properly. Sometimes you have to request going to the scene yourself to get the measurements and evidence you need. The worst type of evidence to receive is honestly digital images of the scene as you are now having to analyze something a general investigator, who likely does not have specialized training, took a picture of.

In situations where you cannot have the physical evidence for analysis and you are left with only photographs then a forensic expert should be tempering their responses and conclusions. You cannot confidently come to conclusions based simply on looking at photos. This is something that is hammered home repeatedly in forensic programs and professionals.

In the case of warzone crime scene analysis, as FA typically does, they are, typically, not collecting evidence first hand from the scene, nor are they receiving evidence secondarily from actual trained investigators (when they are there first hand they also rely excessively upon expensive technology instead of best practices). They rely upon third party photos and satellite imagery to do their analysis.

Time and time again, forensic experts who rely solely upon digital photos and media to make their analysis get ripped apart by a good lawyer. Being confident in conclusions based upon photographs is the easiest way to lose your credibility. But again, the art collective playing forensic scientist primarily puts their work in art exhibits where they are not scrutinized by experts. Hell, I don't think I've ever seen them present at one of our professional conferences nationally or internationally (I would love to be a fly on the wall when that happens).

And finally, if this was an actual credible scientific group that produced credible investigations and had created a brand new field with methodology that stood to scrutiny there would be publications in the forensic journals detailing this. Especially from the "creator" of the field Eyal Weizman.

Guess what there isn't?

But in the end all they’re actually doing is crime scene reconstruction from people who want to cosplay as forensic scientists.

(for more reading on the group see this article that highlights issues with FA from another perspective https://www.artnews.com/art-in-america/features/forensic-architecture-fake-news-1234661013/)

[demonvampire180writes]

It Was Dinner and a Movie

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Rating: Teens and Up

Trigger Warnings: Mild homophobic language

Word Count: 3,406

Completion Status: Complete

Ao3 Link: It Was Dinner and a Movie

Like one would expect, the bar was crowded for a Friday night, basically every seat from end to end occupied with folks waiting to be seated.

Buck and Tommy wove their way through bodies, Buck’s pinky linked around his boyfriend’s, searching for an empty table. In the far back corner, Tommy spotted a hightop just being cleaned off and, with their linked hands, gestured to it. Buck nodded and made a beeline for it, just as another couple laid eyes on it. Scooting into it Buck cried, triumphant, “This table is ours!” He whooped and Tommy couldn’t help but chuckle as he slid into the seat across from him. It was only a two top so they, unfortunately, couldn’t sit next to each other but that was fine. Tommy preferred looking at the younger boy's face head on anyway.

He was a vision after all.

Smirking, Tommy kept the comment to himself and settled in, leaning back in the chair with his hands clasped on the table. A few minutes later, a harried looking waitress approached them, a tablet in hand. “Evenin’ boys, what can I get cha?” Her accent was thick, made thicker, he was sure, by the bags under her eyes and the messy blond bun with hair sticking out every which was as though it had been thrown up in a rush and hadn’t been brushed smooth in a long while.

“Can we get a pitcher of whatever IPA you have on tap, and do you want to start with a basket of onion rings?” He glanced at Evan who gave him a nod of approval. “That will be all for now, thanks.”

“Sure thing, hun.” She smiled tiredly at them, laid down two generic beer branded coasters, and turned on her heel to serve another table. Both men watched her go.

When she was out of earshot Evan muttered, “Man do I not miss my customer service days. I loved it, but when days were rough they were rough.”

“Oh, so, you mean like your job now?” Tommy asked wryly, eyebrow quirking. His boyfriend leaned across the table and smacked him in the chest with the back of his hand. He didn’t hit him hard but Tommy rubbed at his chest with a pout anyway.

“You deserved that.” The waitress came back then with a pitcher full of dark beer and two glasses of water that she sat down on the coasters. She then placed two empty glasses down and motioned with the pitcher as if to fill them. Evan held up a hand and said, grinning that grin that made a woman’s panties melt, “We’ve got it, no problem. Thank you.” Her shoulders seemed to sag in relief as she placed the pitcher in the center of the table.

“Onion rings should be out soon.”

Tommy held out a placating hand. “No hurry. We’re not in a rush.” She seemed to relax even further, saying no more as she once again turned and disappeared back into the crowd. “Now, do you mind telling me why you think I deserve your abuse?”

“For being a sass master, obviously.”

“Just when did I sass you?” Tommy asked as he filled first Evan’s glass, and then his own, taking a long dreg of it with a smack of his lips to finish. Whatever the waitress had chosen tasted fantastic, though it was on the hoppier side of what he’d usually drink.

He mumbled something under his breath that sounded vaguely like your entire existence is sassing me but he asked anyway, “What was that?”

“Oh nothing.” He sing songed. “I was just saying that being a firefighter is different. We’re not servicing customers, we’re helping people in need.”

“You could argue that customer service people also help those in need.” Tommy replied, unable to help himself. His grin grew at the pout on Evan’s face that stayed even as he gulped down half his beer.

Snorting in a not so eloquent way, Evan replied, “Helping a person whose coupon doesn’t work is not the same as saving one from say… a capsized cruise ship in the middle of a hurricane while your not-yet-hot-pilot-boyfriend saves the day, even making fake mouth static at the fire chief.”

“Oh? Tell me more about this hot pilot not-yet-boyfriend?” His nose crinkled in that adorable way it did when he was teasing as he winked at Evan.

“That’s what you took away from my complaint about comparing apples to oranges?” Evan reached across the table and took one of Tommy’s large hands in between them and began to play with his long, elegant fingers, seeming to not even care who saw.

At that moment, Tommy really registered how much things had changed, even in the short three months they’d been official. Gone was Evan’s hesitation in showing public affection; they held hands when they went for walks; they kissed when they would meet each other at their stations, despite the guaranteed wolf whistles; there was no hesitation in leaning into Tommy anytime he could, just so he could soak up his warmth. Even now, as they sat there, hands together, Evan seemed to tune out the world. Their first date, Tommy had told him that nobody was looking; that nobody had cared. They just looked like two friends hanging out. While that was true back then, now there were definitely some eyes on them - not all of them friendly - and Evan Buckley couldn’t have given any fewer shits.

It made Tommy’s heart swell with pride, and happiness. It was moments like these where he thanked all his lucky stars that he had allowed himself to give this baby bi a second chance. He had the opportunity to show him off just like any other man. It settled some sort of deep, primal instinct in him. The part of him that felt the need to mark, and claim, what he believed to be his. A shiver ran down his spine at the image that thought created, and he had to shove it away before he got arrested for a public indecency charge. Evan cocked his head to the side with a look of confusion. Tommy just smiled and turned his hand over so they were palm to palm, fingers intertwined.

The rest of dinner went as smoothly as one could hope for a busy Friday night - the food came out a little cold, but still edible - and their conversation flowed when they felt a need to speak, and the silences felt comfortable when they didn’t feel the need to fill it. Two whole pitchers of beer disappeared as they finished up, their waitress appearing like magic. “Will this be together or separate?”

“Together.” Evan replied instantly. She didn’t even bat an eye as she rattled off the total. Before Tommy could protest, Evan had pulled out his card and handed it over, grinning smugly as he signed off on the receipt.

“This was supposed to be my treat, Evan.” He couldn’t hide the slight hurt in his voice. This was their do over and that meant him paying for the baby bi that hadn’t even known he’d liked boys until a few months ago. To his surprise Evan stood and came around the table just to drape his arms over his shoulders, wrapping his hands at the base of his neck and playing with the loose curls there. “Evan?” He asked, looking up into his man's eyes seeing as Evan was the taller one at the moment. Tommy felt compelled to put his hands at Evan’s waist, pulling him between his legs. The noise around them disappeared and he got lost in those baby blues until he felt a less gentle tug at his hair. Giving his head the slightest shake to clear it, he returned to pouting.

“Do you remember me telling you that I owed you a beer, and you said, and I quote ‘and you still owe me that beer’?” Tommy nodded, his fingers sneaking under the hem of Evan’s shirt just for that minute amount more skin contact. “Okay well, do you also remember when we went out on that first date I made a total fool of myself and then you snuck around and paid for the check?” Tommy’s cheeks pinkened but he didn’t back down, pushing his plump bottom lip out even further instead. Evan shocked him with a dive bomb kiss, earning him a little baby ‘hmmm’ of surprise. Pulling away he had that crooked little grin on. “Well you’ve kept spoiling me ever since and haven’t given me the chance to buy you that beer.”

“I like spoiling you.” He replied, maybe sounding a wee bit petulant at the idea that Evan didn’t like being ravished with gifts like a dragon gifting shinies to his pretty.

Evan’s body shook with suppressed laughter, the barest snort escaping between his pursed lips. “And I love to be spoiled.” He booped Tommy on the nose, chuckling at the way he scrunched it in protest. “Well I think I’ve thoroughly repaid that debt. So about that movie. You’re not gonna leave me at the curb after telling me I’m adorable again, are you?”

Tommy couldn’t help himself. He swatted Evan’s ass as he pushed to his feet so that he could stare down into his boyfriend’s eyes. “Only if you promise me to behave, you scoundrel.” Oh the way the man’s eyes actually glinted with mischief. “I don’t even want to know what you could possibly be thinking right now.”

Leaning in close, breaths hot against Tommy’s ear, Evan whispered, tone husky, “And if I don’t behave are you going to spank me, Daddy?” An uncontrolled shiver ran down through the pilot’s toes, a certain part of him starting to rally. He had to quickly shove all those feelings in a box or they really would be skipping out on the movies again.

“Evan.” He half heartedly chastised, pushing him away, putting enough space between them that he could no longer feel the heat rolling off of the younger man. Was it hot in here? Sweat trickled down his neck. He rolled his shoulders and then his head, catching it in the collar of his flannel before it could go any further. “At this rate we’ll never be able to catch a movie together.”

“Right at this point in time, I’m not sure I’d be too disappointed if we didn’t.” Evan bit his lower lip and looked up at Tommy through his lashes. Tommy groaned and pointedly turned away so he couldn’t be swayed by those damn eyes. Behind him, Evan laughed quietly enough it was almost to himself. Shaking his head, Tommy reached back, groping until he caught Evan’s hand, this time being the one to lead them through the crowd.

Once outside, Tommy used his phone to call for an Uber. On the way to the theater, the two of them snuggled close together to browse through the movie listings, debating the pros and cons of each one. Tommy, of course, wanted to see the rom-com playing that starred Ryan Reynolds (Evan totally ribbed him about only wanting to see it because a hot man was playing the lead.) Evan, who was woefully uneducated in the way of cinema, wanted something with more action and less narrative.

Tommy, being the great boyfriend that he was, and also because he loved a good action movie himself, caved in the end. Arriving at the theater, the two hopped in line for tickets, Tommy buying two for the most recent Marvel universe addition. Evan thanked him, cheeks turning the most beautiful shade of pink and Tommy couldn’t help but lean over to peck him on the cheek. His face lit up and he wrapped himself around Tommy’s arm, Tommy’s hands stuffed in his pockets.

Although they’d just eaten dinner, Tommy declared that you couldn’t see a movie in theater without popcorn and a soda. It just wasn’t a thing that happened. So the two of them made their way to the concession line, in que behind about five other people. Once situated, Evan pulled out his phone to start looking up both movie, and Marvel, facts. Smiling, Tommy slipped an arm around his back, snaking his hand into Evans left back pocket. Almost subconsciously the man snuggled deeper into him, allowing Tommy to tuck him in tight. As the line moved, Tommy guided him along, allowing him to geek out. He babbled a hundred miles a minute, coming out with fact after fun fact making Tommy grin.

People filed in behind them which Tommy didn’t even register until there was a commotion. A loud voice, male as far as he could tell, made a sound of pure disgust before whining, “Man, these fags are everywhere. Can’t even take my girl to the movie without them all up in my space. Hey, homo��s.” Tommy just rolled his eyes and kept shuffling Evan along. Thankfully the man hadn’t seemed to notice being called out. (That, or he wasn’t exactly keeping an ear out for others' disgust because he’d lived a heteronormative life up until Tommy came along.) Unfortunately the guy didn’t let up. “Hey you faggot, I’m talking to you.”

Sighing, Tommy craned his neck around hoping that, if he gave him what he wanted, the guy would just leave him alone. The man making the fuss was a white guy wearing jeans at least two sizes too big - he had them sagged so far down he basically had diaper butt - and an open short sleeve flannel with a white tank-top underneath. He wore a crooked red baseball cap over his close cropped white-blond hair, Dumbo ears keeping it floating over his skull like it had a trick wire attached. Next to him stood a curvy, but petite, Latina girl that was way out of this dudes league with her thick, wavy black hair she’d pulled into a half-up ponytail, the part pulled up done in two French braids that were tied together to make the ponytail down her back, and immaculate make-up. She wore a gorgeous sunflower yellow crop top that sort of had the peplum look around the bra band area and a slim fitting denim skirt that sat just beneath her bellybutton. While not an hourglass shape, her slightly larger hips and narrower chest made her outfit the perfect image. Even Tommy, a gay man, could appreciate her beauty.

To at least her credit she looked embarrassed for her boyfriend. She grabbed his arm and tried, futilely, to hush him. “Brad, shut up. Leave them alone.” She gave a half hearted apologetic smile to Tommy.

“No, you shut up. I’m sick of these freaks being able to run around free like it’s normal. Are you telling me you think it’s fine, babe?”

The woman blushed but didn’t let go. “They’re not doing anything, just let them alone.”

The man, Brad shook her off and took a step closer to them, brandishing a finger that he jabbed at them. Evan had finally noticed what was happening and his entire body stiffened, his lips drooping into a frown. Tommy’s blood began to simmer, this close to its boiling point. “If y’all wanna do that gay shit do it at home and leave us normies out of your freakiness.”

Oh that was it. Tommy had heard enough of this rhetoric since even before he came out and he was done with it. He could handle the heat, he was used to it, but Evan didn’t deserve to hear this shit. Not on date night. Not ever, really, but that was neither here nor there. Leaning in he pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s temple before turning his attention fully on the brat thinking he was a man. Other patrons around them shifted uncomfortably. Tommy was a big man, he had a large presence even when he wasn’t trying to, and Brad was (attempting to) exude alphaness. He sneered with disgust as his date stepped back, clutching at her bag, biting at her bottom lip. Not that Tommy necessarily needed her to step in, but it was quite clear that she felt like she’d done all she could to tone the situation down.

“Listen here, and listen close.” Tommy growled, taking just one step towards their aggressor. “I have been dealing with men like you longer than you’ve probably been alive. And one thing I’ve learned about all those men? They are nothing but scared little boys under all their bluster. A limp, cold, hot dog has a better chance of keeping their wives and girlfriends happy because all their yapping is to make up for the fact that they can’t get their girl to orgasm. They bark like chihuahua’s because they know that if men like me went after their girls, there’d be no one left to settle for your weak, pale, ass.”

Brad snarled, cheekbones bright ride with his rage, and tried to lunge but Tommy put out his hand and held him back without breaking a sweat. “How the fuck would you know what a girl wants, huh? You’re too busy fucking boy pussy.”

Tommy grinned with a feral edge and he leaned in a little closer to breathe, “At least I know how to bring my partner to an O. Over. And over. And over again. Maybe check yourself before you start spouting bullshit. As a gay man, I guarantee I still know how to pleasure a woman better than you ever will.” With that he shoved Brad back and he went stumbling until he fell flat on his ass, gaping up at the pilot, mouth flopping like a fish with his loss for words. Flaring his nostrils at him, he turned his attention to his date and asked, “You alright, darling? Sorry for all this fuss.”

She blinked her large brown eyes at him and nodded. “N-no, I’m sorry he ruined your date night.” Her eyes flicked from Brad and back. “He doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.” Tommy cocked one side of his lips up in a smirk and winked. Her cheeks reddened as a small smile curved her own lips. After a second, she reached down to pull Brad to his feet, who had been screaming and whining the entire time about her not dropping everything to help him immediately like a good woman.

Tommy couldn’t hear what she was saying, she was hissing at him through clenched teeth, but he had no doubt that things were not going to end on a positive note for him. Finally he turned his attention back to the person who mattered and found Evan staring at him with stars in his eyes. He didn’t have time to ask why because it was their turn to order, they’d held up the line with their scuffle, so it would have to wait.

Once they’d procured their treats and were on their way to their auditorium, Evan grabbed Tommy’s arms and stopped them, turning him so he was facing the man. “I’m so sorry about all that, Evan. You shouldn’t have to hear shit like that.”

To his surprise Evan laughed, long and loud before saying, “Tommy, do you even understand how damn hot you are when you go all feral caveman?” Evan leaned in and captured his lips in a breath stealing kiss, even pressing his tongue in to tangle with a deep seated need. The heat from earlier returned and Tommy really began to question whether they actually needed to see this movie tonight. When they broke, Evan remained close, speaking directly into his ear, “You are so lucky we’re in public right now. When we get home, you’d better start praying because I swear I’m going to make you see God. Over. And over. And over.” He grabbed Tommy’s earlobe between his teeth, sucking before biting down.

Tommy groaned deep in his throat. When Evan leaned back, his face was flushed as he linked their hands once more, leaving Tommy’s regret to grow with every passing moment.

Their first day may have been a total flop but Tommy was beginning to think that maybe it had all been worth it after all. Squeezing Evan’s hand, he looked forward to what their future would bring, five minutes from now, five years from now, and beyond.

He’d found his match and no one would ever compare.

[deancaspinefest]

all that we intend

Author: dothraki_shieldmaiden | Artist: NeverSleepUntilFive

Posting on Tuesday March 26

When Dean Winchester met Castiel Novak in college they were both headed for amazing things: Dean was a rising star in the art world while Cas was a promising medical student. Now, thirteen years and one marriage later, none of those dreams have come true. Cas works twelve hour shifts as a nurse while Dean works as a mechanic, his art supplies wasting away in a dusty room. With his marriage to Cas on rocky ground, Dean starts to feel like he made a mistake all those years ago. A chance encounter and a hasty wish land Dean in another world -- one where his art career is skyrocketing him to fame and fortune... And one where he never married Cas. Now Dean has to make a decision -- whether to go back to Cas and his mundane life, or whether to stay... and lose Cas forever.

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

Just to the side, off hospital property, a street vendor has set a table up. A very familiar street vendor.

“You,” Dean snarls, almost jogging in his haste to get to the man. The vendor looks up from his phone, a smirk spreading across his face when he sees Dean. Not even Dean’s hand shooting out and grabbing the front of his shirt can dim his superior expression.

Aware of the eyes on him, Dean avoids slamming that smug face into the table, but it’s a struggle. “You,” he repeats, giving the vendor a little shake. “You did this.”

“Afraid you’re going to have to be more specific bucko,” the vendor drawls. “If it was your wife or your sister I knocked up, then honestly, they should be grateful. And even though you are a stud, you’re not really my type, so…”

The last word is elongated into a monstrosity of syllables. Dean’s resolve to not punch the vendor is growing thinner and thinner by the second. His knuckles crack with the strain of holding himself back.

“This,” he finally spits, dragging out the pendant from underneath his shirt. “You gave me this and told me some bullshit story about how it could grant wishes.”

“Hm,” the vendor says, making a big show of pondering. He even taps his chin with the tip of his index finger, the absolute fuckwit. “Doesn’t seem so much like it was bullshit, now does it?”

For just one moment, Dean’s brain is wiped blissfully blank. He doesn’t even have the background noise of static to distract him. There’s just… nothing, but then reality intrudes in the form of someone laying on the horn when the person in front of them lingers for a split-second too long at a green light.

“You’re insane,” he finally says, bringing his brain back online. “There’s no such thing as… As…”

The vendor raises one supremely smug eyebrow. “No? Then explain why your husband just treated you like the annoying kid at a high school reunion.”

Furious, Dean clenches his jaw. He starts and immediately slaughters at least half a dozen sentences. The truth... The awful truth that he can't admit to himself is that there is no rational explanation. Not even his most far-fetched notions explain the phone call, Cas and Meg’s behavior, and the disappearance of his wedding ring.

Nothing except the impossible, that is.

(continue reading on Ao3 on Tuesday March 26)

[strawberrywinter4]

Come to Bed

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Rating: Mature.

Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Poor John, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Addiction, Forehead Kisses, Sleepy Kisses Fluff and Angst

Summary: Sherlock wakes up to the sound of John arguing with his sister. Sherlock has never been the one to properly comfort someone, but in this situation, it comes naturally.

Sort of inspired by this scene.

Read here on ao3.

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @whatnext2020 @totallysilvergirl @ninasnakie @thegildedbee @whodwantmeasaflatmate @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @sherlocknjohn221b @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @mary-johnlocked @bakerstreetbe @curlyjohnlock @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @ceceliajupe @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @jolieblack @gwendelaneyisjohnlocked @cortina

[lockwood-fic-recs]

standing in your cardigan

by ScarletSlippers on ao3

Rating: G | Category: F/M | Relationship: Lockwood/Lucy

George shrugs, already heading back to his book. “No idea. I am however, as a result, an excellent knitter. It's rather methodical, really. Soothing, even.”

“So will you help me?”

He looks back up at her slowly, and takes a prolonged sip of his tea, pretending he doesn’t understand. “I failed to hear a clarification in your question. What exactly do you need help with?”

“I need you to teach me to knit.”

Lucy knits Lockwood a jumper.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

October 18: “Did you plan for this to happen?”

“Darling, what on earth?”

Harry spun around to confront the voice in the doorway to the kitchen, spilling a bit of batter from the bowl and onto the floor as he did. It was one in the morning, in his defense, and he’d been very contentedly working in the kitchen while his husband slept in their bed. “Oh,” he said, looking around at the counter covered in baking ingredients, a pan of apple crisp already cooling on the sill.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” Draco asked, all soft and sleep rumpled, rubbing his eyes as he wandered in and pulled himself up onto the counter, nicking a chunk of apple from the cutting board and popping it into his mouth.

A soft crunch, followed by a hum and Harry was lost. Completely gone on him.

“You silly goose,” he said, reaching out with his toes to nudge Harry’s thigh, “did you plan for this to happen?” he asked, gesturing at the baked goods waiting their turn for the oven. “Why are you up baking at this hour?”

And Harry blinked at him, didn’t really know, couldn’t really articulate the way the the love in his body got restless sometimes. The way it yearned for an outlet, for the freedom to give itself away. “I get-” he shrugged, gestured with his spatula, “my body-” he shook his head. Tried again, “my heart,” he said softly, “it’s too big for my body sometimes?”

Draco tilted his head, waited.

“I just. Sometimes, I love you and I love our friends so much and I don’t know-” he broke off and shook his head. “It’s too big for my body to hold,” he said. “And what am I meant to do with it all? How can I ever-?” Harry trailed off again, looking at Draco uncertainly.

“Ever what, sweet?” he asked indulgently.

Harry looked down at the batter for the pumpkin roll, then back up at Draco. “My life is so good,” he whispered. “So full of joy and love, so full of people who make it-” he broke off helplessly, couldn’t put it all into words. “And where can I put it all?”

“Sweetheart,” gentle, too gentle, too much love, too much; Harry was far too small to receive that much.

“So sometimes I just start baking,” Harry confessed, hurried on before he got too emotional. “I don’t know where else to put it, so I bake.”

“Come here,” Draco murmured, holding out his arms.

Helplessly, Harry set down the bowl on the counter and moved toward him. Wouldn’t, couldn’t, deny the other man his love when his whole body was so full of it. “I’m a mess,” he said, gesturing to his apron covered in batter.

“Mine,” Draco replied, tugging him closer and wrapping him up tight. “My sweet love,” he pressed a kiss to his temple. “Too good for this world. How could you be so good?” he asked, more to himself than Harry. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry replied , and that was the point, wasn’t it? That he loved him so much, couldn’t contain it, couldn’t hold it, couldn’t give enough of it away.

When the oven timer went off, Draco pulled back, “can I stay with you while you bake?”

Harry’s heart, a bursting, bubbling thing in his chest. Too big, too full, too joyful. “Do you want to?” he managed.

Nodding, Draco swiped another slice of apple from the cutting board.

“Alright, then,” he said, helpless and fond, so in love he couldn’t do anything to hold back the way it must be pouring off of him.

“Alright.” Draco smiled back and Harry just let himself exist in all of the love he had.

[aingeal98]

The WFA writers clearly love Babs and Cass so much I wouldn't be surprised if they were online calling Dan Didio a pathetic loser like the rest of us back in the day.

[kaurwreck]

the blunt, all or nothing, dichotomous approach to characterizing kunikida as prim and obedient for his probity and obsessive adherence to structure as his means for kettling the parts of himself too untethered to leave unchecked IS very silly and falls apart against canon like an overworked block of dry melamine foam.

but, like, the insistence that he must be punk because he speaks colloquially, brazenly withholds deference to quite literally everyone who isn't capable of either throwing him to the ground or discerning the truth of all matters with preternatural acuity, and disdains authority is also a blunt, all or nothing, dichotomous approach to characterization.

like, punk fanon Kunikida is not a retort to staid fanon Kunikida. they are both package-dealing in the Ayn Rand use of the phrase: whether punk or prep, both fail to discriminate crucial differences between Kunikida's character and the stock characters to which fanon attaches his name.

Kunikida's rigidity in adhering to his self defined, self evaluated, and self-imposed virtues is not remotely the same as legalism. Kunikida fucking anguishes over whether he is sincere and unfaltering in his ideals. (see: Jouno taunting him + his unbridled fear that he is internally hollow and the ideals holding him aloft are not the substance of deeply held convictions but hot air fueled by his loved ones for whom he is only puffing his chest and performing someone capable of carrying them, and without whom he lacks the spirit to fill that space within him where a greater man might have cultivated a spine, such that he will sink, sink, sink to crumple shapelessly to the ground, liberated from artifice only when there isn't anyone there to lighten the weight of his leaden ego, his isolation as common as the dirt coating his tongue, his transcendence precluded by the cruelty with which reality disfigured his instinct for goodness into a desire for power and empty glory until his soul, still gnashing on the rot of those he couldn't save, starved.)

In other words: his ideals can't be performed or externally enforced. They must be internally cultivated, coaxed into bloom through introspection, their flowering petals manifestations of his deepest feelings. otherwise, he is nothing but hot air and tepid flesh.

except he's not! because while his faith is faint and his body easily crushed beneath the weight of external forces with little regard for love, sincerity, and labor; his body can't feed his ideals anymore than his ideals could feed his body. His ideals can't fill his belly like meat and potatoes or expand his hollow heart like a hot air balloon because, unlike matter, his ideals are intangible. They do not occupy any space or time, and reality can't crush or despoil what it can't grasp, and it can't grasp what doesn't exist by its own laws. It's not that Kunikida's ideals grapple with his reality; nor can his reality erode his ideals. There's nothing to contradict everything, so everything persists.

Kunikida can't trust that he isn't empty, but nothing is emptiness, and his ideals are nothing, so absent inherent faith, absent substance in the yawning void within him, Kunikida nevertheless has his ideals. He has courage, sincerity, love, truth, and labor, not despite his emptiness, but because his emptiness is as conceptual as his ideals; he can't eat concepts but nor can concepts ever be rendered inert — inertia relates only to matter and the material world, which emptiness, nothing, ideals, concepts transcend. They can't be stripped of power, and there isn't any power anyone could exert over them because power is a measure of effectiveness that a force producing a physical effect has over time — mathematically, if linear, power is the quotient of force multiplied by the displacement of an object, divided by time. There is no object, there's only nothing, and nothing is mathematically represented by zero, which, when multiplied and then divided, is unchanged. It works if power is rotational instead of linear too; there, it's the quotient of: (force multiplied by the angle of displacement) ÷ time. again, 0, unchanged.

(Keeping in mind that I have dyscalculia and I am shit at mathematical logic, zero can be both a real and imaginary number, Kunikida's skill is batshit and he doesn't really see it as anything other than convenient. He essentially renders concepts into tangible reality. Like, that's his skill: he conceptualizes something that he's seen rendered tangible before, and then by jotting down its name on a page which is matter, he assigns nothing, 0, a finite point in infinity, and it becomes matter that exists within reality. This is why his notebook can be filled and replaced or destroyed or cut to shreds. The physical notebook isn't his ideals, it's just full of ideals, which he manifests by writing down his intangible thoughts and introspection so that he might then assign them a finite point in himself as the tangible embodiment of his ideals.)

(In Osamu Dazai's Entrance Exam, Kunikida defines his skill by its limitations, which prevent it from the seemingly undefined, limitless capacity that Dazai possesses. But, like, could Kunikida theoretically create a finite time singularity— which is what happens when time is defined and divided by zero? It's cute that he was studying mathematics and sciences.)

His body can't house his ideals because emptiness, nothing, ideals, concepts, perhaps even faith do not occupy any space. They can't be created or destroyed, only conceptualized, and, when embraced and cultivated by someone grounded enough to recognize that his ideals can't be, manifested in the physical act of jumping out of a helicopter to blow up a militarized cop.

Nothing can't be confronted by everything, and everything can't suffocate nothing. Reality can't erode what its own laws have rendered nothing. his ideals, like he himself, are ungovernable.

but he buys an artisan notebook from a craftsman who only makes 100 each year; he's not punk, he's just abrasive, doesn't extend respect unearned, and his writing was marked in his use of colloquial language. he's also wildly pretentious. he's so patronizing; he is mommy, where's that aesthetic for him. he doesn't need doc martens; he needs multiple child leashes.

anyway. punk fanon Kunikida is the same overworked block of dry melamine foam as staid fanon Kunikida, just flipped over. his apparent contradictions dont need to be reconciled or discarded; nothing and everything are in unity as opposites that overlap and exist/don't exist within him, around him, and through him, regardless of him, and only because of him.

like, obviously, do what you want and have fun. I don't really care; i just like babbling about kunikida, and i crave substance. also like. strip your respect from authority figures who haven't earned it. correct your teachers/professors/mentors. disappoint your parents. contribute to the inherent tension between individual freedom and authority. it's good for you. you don't even have to join a counterculture submovenent to do it, you can argue with your therapist at any time. do it for him.