#I’m willing to be critiqued on this

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

Hi I would like to talk about something as a Catholic

A lot of times, I see posts on here talking about purity culture, and how a lot of purity culture comes from Evangelical Christianity. I see a good few posts about the presence of purity culture in Catholic circles, and how ex-Catholics (specifically Catholic, although this is also true of other Christian denominations) still struggle with the effects of purity culture years or decades after they’ve left. And I see a lot of response posts, talking about how purity culture isn’t theologically correct from a Catholic standpoint, and how no true Catholic would actually believe in purity culture, and clearly the problem was that their parents and/or church were uniquely bad at teaching theology.

I would like to (cautiously) posit that purity culture has not, in fact, been avoided by the Catholic Church at large, at least here in America.

Rant under the cut

Yes, if you’re only directly looking at the Catechism and the Bible, you know that God always extends us mercy and forgiveness. You know that the Sacrament of Confession is a direct testament against purity culture; that no matter what, your sins will be forgiven entirely, that God puts them out of His mind as though they never happened. You know that God delights in you, that God loves you wholly and completely and entirely. But the Catholic Church does not exist in a vacuum; if we’re going to have a cogent discussion about purity culture in the Catholic Church, we are going to have to acknowledge that the people within a religious community are going to have a large influence on the theological beliefs of that community, even if those beliefs go unsaid, even if they contradict the Bible and the Catechism. And when it comes to Catholic communities? Catholic churches? Catholic social media groups? Purity culture very much exists there.

How? What do I mean when I say purity culture exists in these communities?

Purity culture, as a quick definition, is the idea that we cannot be redeemed from the sins of our past, and so we must only accept those medias and individuals who have been morally pure and just from the beginning to the present. It is a rejection of anything and anyone that does not morally and completely align with the standards set by the group it is contained in, and a conditional acceptance only of that which is deemed pure and good. In other words, to be loved and liked, one must always be pure and perfect.

So when I hear fellow Catholics saying “well, yeah, he had a great sermon, but his brother is… gay”, or “well, they can’t be a real Catholic; they’re a Muslim convert” or “Sure, you go to Confession, but that’s really just a bandaid because you haven’t stopped your ingrained habitual sins”, I am hearing the evidence of purity culture. When otherwise loving Catholics say “the death penalty is necessary, because prison is full of bad people who’ve committed heinous crimes, and they deserve to be punished and die”, or “the Pope said something that I personally disagree with, or got rid of TLM, so he isn’t really the Pope”, they are participating in purity culture. These statements do not align with our theological beliefs, and they represent a deeper sin; being unwilling to accept something as having theological value, or accepting a person as having inherent worth and dignity, unless they meet our perfect standards. That is purity culture.

(Does the sign of the cross as I realize I’ve swung bats at many hornets nests)

“But Liza”, you might say, “those people are just bad Catholics”. And maybe so! Every single one of these people are fundamentally misunderstanding what Catholic teachings say about forgiveness and love. But the fact remains that purity culture is present and alive in many Catholic communities, across different locations and platforms, in multiple contexts, for both groups and individual beliefs. That doesn’t read to me as everyone being badly taught by their parents or “just a bad Catholic”. That reads to me like an endemic problem.

I think the worn joke about Catholic guilt betrays something insidious; we have taken our personal scrupulosity and called it a conscience. We have taken our hatred of sin and thrown it in sinner’s faces and called it loving correction. If we look at a callout post about someone’s past and think “this will fix the problem because now the person will see how bad and evil they are”, we are falling into this trap. I have fallen into this trap time and time again, and I am sick of letting myself do it, and I am sick of seeing it happen around me.

It is not normal to be afraid, constantly, that you will be “found out” for being an imposter of a Catholic. It is not healthy to show up to Confession primarily because you are afraid of dying sinful. It is not spiritually good for you to feel shame and disgust towards yourself because you have sinned.

Let me repeat: it is not normal to find yourself or other people shameful, embarrassing, disgusting, or less of a Catholic because you, or they, have sinned. As my priest has told me time and again in Confession, shame keeps you silent, and it keeps you from seeking forgiveness. Shame is not of God. God delights in you, even when you are sinning, and He is overjoyed every time you show up in Mass. Even if you can’t receive the Eucharist, even if you don’t participate in the Mass, even if you are there in the skimpiest clothing known to man and a phone that keeps dinging, God is delighted to have you there. Should one be wearing a bikini to Mass, or leaving their phone on, or sitting there ignoring the Mass? No. But God is still delighted to know you and love you and have you there. Do not mistake the shame you might feel in your gut about your sins as holy reproach, or your conscience protecting you.

Yes, we should absolutely call people to reform their behavior when they sin, but by golly, shaming them into holiness does less than nothing. If a person you did not know angrily told you how bad and sinful you were, then displayed everything bad you’d done and shared it to everyone they knew, would you listen to that person? Anger makes us dig in our heels and entrench our own convictions, especially anger at a common enemy. In dredging up everything someone we dislike has done before, with no relevance to their actions today, we are not calling them to justice, we are shaming them to make a point. That is not justice, that is not love, that is not Christlike. That is scrupulosity reflected outward. That is taking the scrutiny and vitriol that eats one alive from the inside and holding that lens up to our fellow man until it eats them. We have taken disgust and anxiety and hated and called it love, because by critiquing the past actions and situations of those around us, we are showing others “I know what’s moral, I know what’s right, and you’re not up to snuff”. It makes us look like we care deeply about our faith, like we’re deeply aware of sin and how it affects the world. But it is not love, and so it is like a clanging gong or crashing cymbal. And it will not earn us any grace.

So yes. I think the Catholic Church I have grown up in and remain in has an issue with purity culture. It’s why I’ve had to spend years trying to unravel my own scrupulosity, because I grew up thinking I had a strict conscience. It’s why I skipped Mass and confession for many months, convinced God hated me and that I would just disgust him if I showed up. And my dad went to seminary! I went to Catholic school for multiple years! I went to VBS every year, helped my dad run events for the religious education program, even sat through RCIA classes for teenagers that my dad was helping with. My education in theology was far more thorough than the average American Catholic, and I still wound up anxious and terrified and willing to tear people down if I thought they didn’t measure up, because that’s the behavior that was modeled in my community. It’s why it took me years to acknowledge that I wasn’t straight, because I was caught up in critiquing queer people for not trying hard enough. It’s why I flagrantly burned out in high school, because I treated my disability symptoms like signs of personal sinfulness until junior year. That’s not a strict conscience. That’s scrupulosity. That’s purity culture.

And no this is not about covering up abuse. Just so we’re clear. We should absolutely call out signs of abuse that happened in the past, especially because those cycles of abuse will continue unchecked if we don’t. Don’t clown in my notes saying I want priests to remain in charge of churches after abusing people or being complicit in that abuse, that’s not even close to the same thing.

[static-scribblez]

“Man this edible weak asf I ain’t feeling shiiii……”

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Lord of the Empty Isles

sci-fi/fantasy

set on a supposedly utopian planet recovering from a climate crisis, where bonds between people are able to be seen and manipulated (by some people)

follows a young man whose brother was cursed and killed by an infamous outlaw 5 years ago, and he’s finally able to curse him back - but it rebounds, as he’s somehow fatebound to the outlaw

to find a cure and save them both they have to team up, and he quickly finds out that the resources the outlaw is stealing go to the thousands of people neglected on prison planets, and he has to go against what he thought was right to help them

no romance, aroace MC, focus on platonic relationships

arc from netgalley, out june 6

[perfect-snaccccccc]

okay but are the productive, helpful, non-confrontational ‘critiques’ of these fan fictions in the room with us?

[alphacrone]

the thing about my favorite media is like. i know it’s not perfect. i have a lot of criticism. but i will not share it or engage in it with most people. only specials are allowed to critique my favorite media with me.

[noizepushr]

I’m not sure that any of y’all care but… I’m working on my first ever fanfic (it’s terrifying and exciting). And it’s a Scott pilgrim fic. First chapters almost done; really hyped to share it with y’all.

[plucky-passerine]

The more I learn about media and literature the more I come to the conclusion that “bad” art is actually just as important to the creative ecosystem as “good” art

[communistkenobi]

Would you be willing to dunk on speak more on mainstream feminist theory you're reading? And/or share some of the non-juvenile feminist theory you've read?

(Note: I will try to link to open access versions of articles as much as possible, but some of them are paywalled. if the links dont work just type the titles into google and add pdf at the end, i found them all that way)

If there’s any one singular issue with mainstream feminist thought that can be generalized to "The Problem With Mainstream Feminism" (and by mainstream I mean white, cishet, bourgeois feminism, the “canonical feminism” that is taught in western universities) it’s that gender is treated as something that can stand by itself, by which I mean, “gender” is a complete unit of analysis from which to understand social inequality. You can “add” race, class, ability, national origin, religion, sexuality, and so on to your analysis (each likewise treated as full, discrete categories of the social world), but that gender itself provides a comprehensive (or at the very least “good enough”) view of a given social problem. (RW Connell, who wrote the canonical text Masculinities (1995) and is one of the feminist scholars who coined/popularized the term hegemonic masculinity, is a fantastic example of this.)

Black feminists have for many decades pointed out how fucking ridiculous this is, especially vis a vis race and class, because Black women do not experience misogyny and racism as two discrete forms of oppression in their lives, they are inextricably linked. The separation of gender and race is not merely an analytical error on the part of white feminists - it is a continuation of the long white supremacist tradition of bounding gender in exclusively white terms. Patricia Hill Collins in Black Feminist Thought (2000) engages with this via a speech by Sojourner Truth, the most famous line from her speech being “ain’t I a woman?” as she describes all the aspects of womanhood she experiences but is still denied the position of woman by white women because she is Black. Lugones in Coloniality of Gender (2008) likewise brings up the example of segregationist movements in the USAmerican South, where towns would put up banners saying things like “Protect Southern Women” as a rationale for segregation, making it very clear who they viewed as women. Sylvia Wynter in 1492: A New World View likewise points out that colonized women and men were treated like cattle by Spanish colonizers in South America, often counted in population measures as "heads of Indian men and women," as in heads of cattle. They were treated as colonial resources, not as gendered subjects capable of rational thought.

To treat the category of “woman” as something that stands by itself is a white supremacist understanding of gender, because “woman” always just means white woman - the fact that white is left implied is part of white supremacy, because who is granted subjecthood, the ability to be seen as human and therefore a gendered subject, is a function of race (see Quijano, 2000). Crenshaw (1991) operationalizes this through the term intersectionality, pointing out that law treats gender and race as separate social sites of discrimination, and the practical effect of this is that Black women have limited/no legal recourse when they face discrimination because they experience it as misogynoir, as the multiplicative effect of their position as Black women, not as sexism on the one hand and racism on the other.

Transfeminist theory has further problematized the category of gender by pointing out that "woman" always just means cis woman (and more often than not also means heterosexual woman). The most famous of these critiques comes from Judith Butler - I’m less familiar with their work, but there is a great example in the beginning of Bodies That Matter (1993) where they demonstrate that personhood itself is a gendered social position. They ask (and I’m paraphrasing) “when does a fetus stop becoming an ‘it’? When its gender is declared by a doctor or nurse via ultrasound.” Sex assignment is not merely a social practice of patriarchal division, it is the medium through which the human subject is created (and recall that gender is fundamentally racialized & race is fundamentally gendered, which I will come back to).

And the work of transfeminists demonstrate this by showing transgender people are treated as non-human, non-citizens. Heath Fogg Davis in Sex-Classification Policies as Transgender Discrimination (2014) recounts the story of an African American transgender woman in Pennsylvania being denied use of public transit, because her bus pass had an F gender marker on it (as all buss passes in the state required gender markers until 2013) and the bus driver refused her service because she “didn’t look like a woman.” She was denied access to transit again when she got her marker changed to M, as she “didn’t look like a man.” Transgender people are thus denied access to basic public services by being constructed as “administratively impossible” - gender markers are a component of citizenship because they appear on all citizenship documents, as well as a variety of civil and public documents (such as a bus pass). Gender markers, even when changed by trans people (an arduous, difficult process in most places on earth, if not outright impossible), are seen as fraudulent & used as a basis to deny us citizenship rights. Toby Beauchamp in Going Stealth: Transgender Politics & US Surveillance Practices (2019) talks about anti-trans bathroom bills as a form of citizenship denial to trans people - anti-trans bathroom laws are impossible to actually enforce because nobody is doing genital inspections of everyone who enters bathrooms (and genitals are not proof of transgenderism!), but that’s actually not the point. The point of these bills is to embolden members of the cissexual public to deputize themselves on behalf of the state to police access to public space, directing their cissexual gaze towards anyone who “looks transgender.” Beauchamp points out that transvestigators don’t need to be accurate most of the time, because again, the point is terrorizing transgender people out of public life. He connects this with racial segregation, and argues that we shouldn’t view gender segregation as “a new form of” racial segregation (this is a duplication of white supremacist feminism) but a continuation of it, because public access is a citizenship right and citizenship is fundamentally racially mediated (see Glenn's (2002) Unequal Freedom)

Susan Stryker & Nikki Sullivan further drives this home in The King’s Member, The Queen’s Body, where they explain the history of the crime of mayhem. Originating in feudal Europe (I don’t remember off the dome the exact time/place so forgive the generalization lol), mayhem is the crime of self-mutilation for the purposes of avoiding military conscription, but what is interesting is that its not actually legally treated as “self” mutilation, but a mutilation of the state and its capacity to exercise its own power. They link the concept of mayhem to the contemporary hysteria around transgender people receiving bottom surgery - we are not in fact self mutilating, we are mutilating the state’s ability to reproduce its own population by permanently destroying (in the eyes of the cissexual public) our capacity to form the foundational social unit of the nuclear family. Our bodies are not our own, they are a component of the state. Situating this in the context of reproductive rights makes this even clearer. Abortion access is not actually about the individual, it is the state mediating its own reproductive capacity via the restriction of abortion (premised on the cissexual logic of binary reproductive capacity systematized through sex assignment). Returning to Hill Collins, she points out that in the US, white cis women are restricted access to abortion while Black and Indigenous cis women are routinely forcibly sterilized, their children aborted, and pumped with birth control by the state. This is not a contradiction or point of “hypocrisy” on the part of conservatives, this is a fully comprehensive plan of white supremacist population management.

To treat "gender" as its own category, as much of mainstream feminism does (see Acker (1990) and England (2010) for two hilarious examples of this, both widely cited feminists), is to forward a white supremacist notion of gender. That white supremacy is fundamentally cissexual and heterosexual is not an accident - it is a central organizing logic that allows for the systematization of the fear of declining white birthrates (the conspiracy of "white genocide" is illegible without the base belief that there are two kinds of bodies, one that gets pregnant and one that does the impregnating, and that these two types of bodies are universal sources of evidence of the superiority of men over women - and im using those terms in the most loaded possible sense).

I realize that most of these readings are US centric, which is an unfortunate limitation of my own education. I have been really trying to branch into literature outside the Global North, but doctoral degree constraints + time constraints + my own research requires continual engagement with it. I also realize that most of the transfeminist readings I've cited are by white scholars! This is a continual systemic problem in academic literature and I'm not exempt from it, even as I sit here and lay out the problem. Which is to say, this is nowhere near the final word on this subject, and having to devote so much time to reading mainstream feminist theory as someone who is in western academia is part of my own limited education + perspective on this topic

[touchlikethesun]

i think it’s really interesting the way a weird sort confirmation bias/echo chamber can work to make you see issues that either aren’t there/other people don’t see.

like where is this coming from i have never seen this thing that you are complaining about????

[chukys-mouthguard]

What if?

Genre: fluff

Word count: 3,229 words

Featuring: matt rempe x female reader

Warnings: drunk guy being an asshole at the bar, aggressive/protective Matt

Note: okay, this is the first thing I’ve written in years, please be kind 😅 I just got a thing for this man now idk…feel free to send in some requests or let me know if you want more to this story? Not sure if it will be a one off or a little series

“Okay, how do I look?” You walk down the hall of your apartment, stopping to pose for Matt so he can give you his stamp of approval. He eyes you up and down, as if he is going to deliver some harsh critique. Your outfit is nothing crazy; jeans, a gray long sleeved bodysuit, black heeled boots, and a small cross body bag. With the New York City weather still chilly out, you figured it would keep you warm along with the alcohol you’d be consuming.

“Beautiful as always. But let’s try and keep the collecting of guys' phone numbers to a minimum tonight huh?” You laughed as you playfully smacked Matt’s arm. Making your way to the fridge to grab your High Noon you’d started sipping on before getting dressed. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous Matthew Rempe.” He shot you a cocky smirk as he leaned on the kitchen island next to you. “Me? Jealous? Never. Because I’m the one in your apartment and not them.” You rolled your eyes as you swallowed down the last bit of seltzer before unplugging your phone from the charger nearby. “Okay Mr. Chauffeur, let’s hit the road.”

You loved having Matt in NYC playing with the Rangers. The two of you had been best friends since you were teenagers, though you’d lost touch a bit once you moved to New York. Matt’s stint in Hartford allowed the chance to slowly reconnect, but having him now with the Rangers was even better. The two of you often spent nights at each other's apartments, going out to dinner, and of course you attended every home game you could to see Matt play.

You’d always had a soft spot for Matt. Sure he was a bit intimidating being practically 7 feet tall, his knuckles cut up or bruised half the time, and a black eye never seeming to catch you off guard anymore. But you’d gotten close enough to see the side of him most people don’t experience. Though you never imagined your relationship being anything more than what it was. Friends, and nothing more than that. But you couldn’t deny the way you had paid attention to how he’d grown into a man. He had outgrown his awkward phase, and you now looked at him and saw him as handsome, not cute or adorable like he was when you were growing up.

You constantly find yourself thinking, what if you weren’t just imagining things? When he spends the night and walks into your room wearing just a towel after a shower. The way he hugs you and lingers longer than just a friend would. The way he takes care of you when you’re drunk. Or nights like tonight, where he’s willing to stay up late to be your designated driver when he’s got an early morning skate and a big game tomorrow night.

Just one day, one day you’d love to kiss him and see what happens. Or flirt a little extra and see if he takes the bait. But you also don’t want to lose your best friend in the process, or be turned down and embarrassed for thinking he’d ever feel that way about you.

“So what’s the plan for tonight?” Matt asks as he puts a hand on the back of your seat as he looks over his shoulder, backing out of his parking space. It’s such a cliche action, but boy does he look good doing it, and your heart certainly skipped a beat.

“The typical routine. Start at Tucker’s. Then move on to 1989. Then finish-“ “At Coop’s?” Matt smirked as he looked out at the road. One hand on the wheel with the other resting on his thigh. He was literally in jeans and a hoodie yet somehow he looked just as good as he does in a suit on game day. “Either that means I go out too much, or you’re finally starting to pay attention when I tell you things.” “Definitely not paying attention, it’s you going out too much.” He laughed as you playfully punched his arm, pulling out your phone to text your friends that you were a few minutes away.

“So Cooper’s closes at 2:30, but I honestly don’t think I’ll last that long. Especially because someone has a big game tomorrow! And I wanna be well rested. So let’s plan for like 12:30/1? Is that okay?” You looked at Matt a bit apologetic, knowing he’d have to be up early for morning skate. But he was always adamant about driving you, no matter what time it was.

“Of course, you know I’ll be here no matter the time. I’ll plan to be at Coop’s around 12:45. I’ll come in to get you too, it’s gonna be cold and dark out. I don’t want you walking to find me.” You put a hand to his cheek as you make a joking pouty expression. “Aww, such a gentleman Matty.” He smiled at your touch, almost leaning into your hand as he looked back at you, “Anything for you. Now go on, I know the girls are waiting. Text me if you need anything, and I mean anything y/n. I’m not that far of a drive.” You let out a sigh as you undid your seatbelt, “Honestly Matt, nothing to worry about, I’ll be fine.” You blew him an air kiss as you exited the car, heading into the first bar of the night. Matt sat and watched you show your ID to the man at the door, waiting until he saw you get inside safely to drive away.

As promised, Matt arrived at Cooper's around 12:45. He was thankful that you and your friends chose to end your nights at a bar that wasn’t too crazy, but also not too crowded that he might be recognized. Just to be safe he threw on a hat to shield his face as much as he could, though the bar was so dark he doubted anyone would be able to make out his face in the crowd.

He handed his ID to the bouncer before making his way inside. He texted you a simple “I’m here”, you would know his typical meeting place and where to go. You were in the restroom when Matt texted, quickly replying “bathroom, be right out” before you sighed as you stared blankly at the wall. The line in the girls restroom always 100 times longer than it was for the guys.

Matt didn’t mind waiting, he checked some scores on his phone. Assuming that the line was long since girls love to use the buddy system when going to the bathroom. He scanned the crowd and enjoyed people watching, nodding his head and smiling softly as your friends gave him a wave from across the bar. He checked the time again, before glancing over towards the hallway to find you pushing past a crowd of girls to exit the restrooms. He chuckled to himself as he saw the frustration on your face, knowing you probably waited 20 minutes just to pee. He started to walk towards you but fell back as he noticed a guy stop you in your tracks.

“Can I help you?” You looked at the man a bit confused, you’d recognized him from the crowd of people, but hadn’t interacted with him much. He was out with a group of guys for someone’s birthday. You only knew that because they mentioned it to you and your friends at least 30 times. Definitely trying to help the birthday boy get laid. “I noticed you’d left your friends, I thought maybe my shot at getting to buy you a drink was gone.” You chuckled to yourself, why does this have to happen in front of Matthew?

“Oh, yeah, I’m actually on my way out. So, maybe another time. Sorry.” You try to excuse yourself but he moves with you, cutting you off. “Oh come on, one more drink isn’t gonna hurt anyone. Or if you want we could go somewhere else, just the two of us and get a drink.” He had a cocky grin on his face as you looked at him in disgust. He was clearly drunk, and wasn’t keen on taking no for an answer. You looked at Matt standing just a few feet away, a concerned look on his face as he wasn’t sure what was going on.

“Look, I’m not interested, okay?” He scoffed as he seemed to be a bit insulted by your comment. “Not interested, you and your friends were dancing right up against our group all night. I saw the way you were eyeing all of us guys, I’d say you were interested sweet heart.” You gagged at the smell of alcohol on his breath as he got closer to you. “Yeah news flash buddy, it’s a small fucking bar. My option was dancing right next to people or on the bar.”

As you tried walking past him to get to Matt, you felt a tight grip on your wrist pull you back, “That sounds hot, can you put on a show just for me?” His hands attempted to grab more than just your wrists but before you could react Matt was already stepping in, pulling the guy away from you and pinning him to the wall by the collar of his shirt. “Don’t you dare fucking touch her like that.”

You were a bit taken aback at the way Matt stepped in. Sure he’d protected you from dumb drunk guys before, but never like this. His jaw clenched as his grip tightened on the collar of the man’s shirt. “And what the fuck are you gonna do about it huh? What are you her little brother or something? Ain’t no way you’re banging a bitch like that.” Matt’s grip tightened on his collar as he pushed him harder into the wall, “what did you just call her?!” His voice louder, drawing a bit of attention, thankfully none yet from the bouncer.

“A bitch, and what are you gonna do about it?” The drunk dumbass laughed in Matt’s face and you knew this wouldn’t end well.

Before you could step in, Matt’s fist connected with the guy's jaw, causing him to stumble to the floor. Before pulling himself together and running off to the restroom.

“Fuck!”

Matt shook his hand as he winced, immediately realizing he fucked up but his anger got the best of him. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” You grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. Thank god no one seemed to really notice the altercation that just took place.

The walk to the car was quiet as Matt was still fuming, you simply climbed into the passenger in silence. He gripped the steering wheel tight with his good hand as he peeled out of the parking lot. You sat next to him, studying his face to see when it might be a good time to say something. Blue and purple started to appear across the knuckles on the hand that threw the punch as he let out a large sigh.

“I’m sorry.”

You let out a soft laugh as you rested a hand on his thigh, softly holding his bruised hand, careful not to hurt him. “Sorry for what? You didn’t do anything wrong? You stepped in as I would’ve hoped you would the second that guy put his hands on me. Don’t be sorry for that!” He seemed to relax at your touch, so you kept your hand on his, slowly brushing your thumb over his skin to attempt to calm him down.

The rest of the car ride was quiet, the two of you heading back to Matt’s apartment since he had to be up early for practice. You kept your eyes on him, studying the look on his face, wishing you were in his head to know what the heck he was thinking. He took your hand in his as you two walked through the quiet parking garage, then headed up the elevator.

You knew your way around his place, first going to his room to grab an oversized t-shirt to throw on before heading to the bathroom to take off your makeup. Matt was sweet enough to go out and buy you your own toiletries to keep at his place. Including your makeup remover and even your 4 step skincare routine.

Matt came to join you in the bathroom as you brushed your teeth. He smiled at the sight of you as he leaned against the wall: your hair in a messy bun, his oversized Seattle Thunderbirds t shirt covering you up enough while still giving him a good view of your legs. “What?” You chuckled as you tried not to choke on the tooth paste threatening to fall from your lips. He just shook his head, “Just glad nothing bad happened to you tonight. I’m glad I was there.” He took your hand, his fingers fiddling with yours, “I just kept thinking what if i wasn’t there, I couldn’t handle it if anything would’ve happened.”

You looked at him in the mirror, relief and exhaustion covered his face. “I’m really glad you were there too, but I really hope we don’t end up with a possible scandal on our hands.” You started laughing as you exited the bathroom, Matthew following suit. “New York Rangers rookie Matthew Rempe gets in a bar fight over a girl.” You spoke in a sarcastic newscaster voice as you made your way to the freezer, grabbing a bag of frozen peas to tend to Matt’s fist bearing the proof of his heroic actions at the bar.

Matt chuckled along with you before wincing at the feeling of the cold bag on his hand, “If it happens, so be it, I was ready to knock that son of a bitch out after what he said to you.” You shot him a glare, “Matthew Rempe. Absolutely not, I am not worth you getting in trouble with the team because of a dumb bar fight.” He walked over to you, now the one shooting you a glare. His arms rested on either side of your waist as he gripped the edge of the counter. “Y/n, yes you fucking are.” You shot him a look as he swiftly picked you up and sat you on the island in front of him. A cocky grin coming across his face at how caught off guard you were, gripping his biceps tight as his hands now moved to rest on your thighs. “I’d fight 20 guys at the bar if they put their hands on you and said shit like that guy tonight.” His tone now more serious, his smirk fading as you two stared at one another for what seemed like an hour. The voice in your head screaming at you, this is your what if moment. Take it or leave it, but it may never come again. What if he’s trying to confess his feelings, what if he’s trying to make a move but he’s too scared. What if you just beat him to the punch. What if-

Before your brain could even rationalize a thought or an action, you felt Matt’s lips crash into yours. His hands cupping your face as yours snaked up his neck to grab a handful of his hair. The kiss like fireworks and a weight being lifted off your shoulders all at once. He began to smile into the kiss, before pulling away with a slight laugh.

“Oh yeah, that’s exactly what every girl wants. The guys she’s been dreaming of kissing to pull away laughing!” You rolled your eyes and frowned at him as a look of shock washed over his face. “Been dreaming of kissing huh??? I knew it!” You immediately turned red, covering your face with your hands, though Matt found it extremely cute.

His hands gripping your thighs before lifting you off the counter, “It’s okay, i get it. I’m sure there’s lots of girls out there who dream of kissing me.” “Matt! Shut up!” You laughed as he carried you down the hall into his room, tossing you on the bed while he finally changed out of his jeans and sweatshirt. “Hey, listen…if you’re interested, maybe we could work something out so that you can be the only girl who gets to kiss me from now on. How does that sound?”

You barely heard him, too busy staring as he stood in just his underwear in front of you. Your eyes tracing every detail of him before his laugh interrupted your thoughts. “Damn, one kiss and all of sudden you’re just head over heels huh?” You pull a pillow over your face out of embarrassment as you feel the bed sink beneath his weight. Matthew now hovering above you as he pulls the pillow away from your face.

He brushed some hair from your face as your fingers play with his chain hanging from his neck, “you really want to kiss me and only me from now on?” You blushed as he shook his head laughing at you, “of course you goof! That’s all I’ve wanted for like the last 5 years, probably even longer!” You felt yourself trying to fight a smile, though you were sure your cheeks were bright red, letting Matt know you liked his response.

He laid next to you as you continued to play with his chain, now resting on his chest. His thumb tracing circles on your thigh as you smiled like a dork to yourself, your heart bursting with excitement that all your what ifs had come true.

“So if I agree to this-“ you say up, trying to pull a serious face as you looked down at him. His hands still glued to your thighs, as if he couldn’t get enough of touching you now. “Do I get a cute custom Rempe jean jacket or something to wear to your games? Like I wanna be decked out and I want people to know that I'm the only girl you’re kissing from now on.” Matt rolled his eyes and laughed at your change of tone, as you babbled on and on about your ‘conditions’ should you agree to this. But he loved the thought of you in a Rempe jacket at his games, getting to see afterwards and kiss you like crazy after a big win, to have you be his biggest fan cheering him on every night. Even though you already were, now it would be more special.

“Listen.”

Matt cut you off as he pulled you into his lap, his hand pulling your face to his as he kissed you. This time the kiss was soft, as he took his time to really take in the feeling of finally getting to kiss you and be this close to you. “If you be my girlfriend, I’ll get you whatever jacket you want, I’ll get you the best seats at the Garden for my games, you name it. Just make me the happiest guy ever and be my girlfriend!” You laughed at how he begged like a little kid who couldn’t contain their excitement.

“Yes-“ you peppered his face with a hundred kisses, “Matthew Rempe, I would absolutely love to be your girlfriend.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

hii i love love how u write spencer omds🥸

uhh i was wondering if you could write sth based off the song “we’ll never have sex” by leith ross? pls dont feel pressured to write this btw😭😭😭 hope ur having a good day lovely💗💗

hello my love i have no self control so this is extremely long and plotty but i love this song and i hope that this is any good at all crying emoji (i'm on a laptop LOL) enjoy!!

warnings/tags: angst/fluff, fem!reader, negative self-talk from reader, mentions of past sexual coercion/feeling used, mentions of past excessive drinking to combat social anxiety, ive been watching a lot of new girl lately and i think it shows, SO FRIENDS TO LOVERS, happy ending

You weren’t expecting to end up on Spencer Reid’s worn-leather couch at two in the morning, clutching a chipped mug of coffee in your hands as you listen to the sounds of the city from the street below. But there you are, sitting with your legs folded under you, in your favorite dress and first date-night makeup (now bleeding and smudged from all the crying.) And realizing that despite considering him one of your closest friends, you haven’t been to his apartment in a long time. There are, of course, good reasons for that—but you try to push those from your mind. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you sigh, staring at your warped reflection in the glassy black surface of your coffee. Spencer is coming out of the small kitchen, now bearing his own cup. 

“Please, stop apologizing.” 

You glance up, tentatively studying him from behind the safety of your mug. While he may not have been asleep when you knocked on his door ten minutes ago, lachrymose and barely verbal, he must have been getting ready for bed. He’s clad in patterned pajama pants, mismatched socks, and an FBI crewneck that is just big enough to reveal the collar of the tee-shirt underneath. He’s already taken out his contacts, and you were startled by the reminder that he also has glasses. 

“So...” he begins, bringing you back to the present moment, “we don't have to talk about anything, if you don’t want to, but...” 

You sigh, watching coffee bubbles swirl like stars in a galaxy. 

“It’s fine. Honestly, I’m kind of embarrassed. I didn’t really think, I just... ended up here.” 

“Yeah... where did you come from?” he laughs quietly. “Not that I’m complaining. But I recall you not living super close by.” 

“No, no. I was actually on a date. Kind of.” 

“Ah.” There’s a beat of silence, and ostensibly Spencer is waiting for you to say more, but instead you take a sip from your mug. “At two in the morning?” You nod dully, staring at the labyrinthine pattern of the Persian rug.  

“I’m taking it that it wasn’t a very good date...?” 

A whoosh of air escapes from your puffed cheeks. 

“No it was not. Not by the end, anyway. It actually started really well, which made it even more disappointing when he...” you laugh, but there’s not much humor in it. “Well, when he kicked me out of his car on a street corner because I didn’t want to sleep with him.” 

You don’t look to see Spencer’s reaction—only take another long, baleful sip of coffee and ignore the heavy silence.  

“I’m really sorry. You... you deserve so much better than that.” 

An attempt at a jaded scoff from you falls flat. 

“Yeah, well. Tell that to the last three white house interns I’ve gone on dates with. It’s the same thing every time.” 

“Have you considered going on fewer dates with white house interns...?” The nervous humor is a thin veil over genuine critique. You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“It’s not just them. Every single guy I’ve liked since I was 15 has been like this. Even my past relationships, I felt like I was almost... tricked into, you know? I mean, these guys, they act all understanding and willing to take it slow or whatever, until you’re in a relationship, and suddenly they’re guilt tripping you so hard and making you feel so obligated to...” you catch yourself just in time, glancing up at Spencer. You’re not sure what to make of his expression. The drawn brow and slightly squinted eyes trained so intently on you could be sympathy, or anger, or pity, or apathy—you look away, not sure you even want to know what he’s thinking. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear all about that. Basically romance is exhausting and since I’ll clearly be single forever I’m considering running away to join a nunnery.” 

When he doesn’t respond for too long, you look back up quizically. 

“I’m not sure you know what romance actually is,” he says as soon as your gaze meets his, like the eye-contact activated some kind of hair-trigger in his vocal box. 

You blink, lowering the coffee cup to your lap. 

Says Spencer Reid? 

“...sorry?” 

He flushes, stammering to clarify himself. 

“I just meant—I—I know I’m not exactly fighting women off with a stick—” he interrupts himself with a self-conscious (adorable) laugh— “but... but I have been in love, at least once.”  

“Maeve,” you say, gently—trying to shove down bitter guilt as you remember how jealous you’d been when Spencer had first told you about her. “I remember.” 

He swallows and nods. 

“We never even met—we just talked. All the time. I had no idea what she looked like. But it didn’t matter at all. Because I knew her, and I loved her. Maybe things would have gone further if I hadn’t been calling her from public phone booths, but that wasn’t the most important thing to either of us. We were still in love.” You try to shut out the sharp ache in your chest. Being jealous of the way he speaks about a dead woman is so wrong.  

“What I’m trying to say is that romance isn’t solely about sex, or even physical appearance. It sounds to me like you’ve been with a lot of men who don’t understand that. And it would be such a shame for you to write romance off in general before you even get to experience it. You are... an extraordinary woman. You’re funny, and intelligent, and kind, and so capable of being loved. One day, someone is going to see beyond your pulchritude and prove that to you. I hope you let them try.” 

More tears blur the pattern on the rug, pooling in the rims of your eyes before spilling down your cheeks in fast, fat drops. Shakily you set the cup down, resting your elbows on your knees and hiding your face in your hands. You sniff once. Twice. Shake your head quickly, attempting to wipe the tears away without further smearing your makeup everywhere. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Spencer breathes, leaning forward but obviously unsure how to comfort you. “Please don’t cry, I wasn’t--I was trying to do the opposite of this.” 

“No, I’m sorry! You didn’t have to—you didn’t—I’m sorry. That was way too nice.” 

But you're not crying because he was nice.  

Someone will love you, but not me. That’s all you can hear. 

His voice is a mere whisper when he next speaks. 

“I meant every word.” 

You take a shuddering breath, allowing yourself a moment of reprieve behind the peaceful black of your eyelids. You can’t be looking at his face when you say what you’re about to say. 

“I had a crush on you for the longest time, you know.” 

Ringing silence. But it doesn’t last as long as you’d imagined. It’s not as world ending. 

“Had?” 

The little smile in his voice is like a fist around your heart. 

“Yeah. You know what changed?” 

“What’s that?” 

Absolutely nothing. 

“Every time I got super drunk and started hitting on you, you’d just drive me home. And I did it a lot. Like, for months. But you were such a gentleman. It drove me fucking crazy. So eventually I figured you just didn’t like me and I gave up.” 

Another stretch of silence. A breeze comes in from the open window, fluttering the curtains and cooling the tears on your face. His response is sad when it finally comes. 

“You thought I didn’t like you because I didn’t try to take advantage of you when you were drunk?” 

“Pretty much.” You smile ruefully, fingertips still pressed over your eyes. “God, listen to me. No wonder I get treated like garbage.” 

“Stop. Don’t talk about yourself like that. Did you hear anything I just said?” 

You sniff, looking to the ceiling. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It was really sweet.” 

More silence. 

“But you don’t believe it.” 

A bitter laugh poisons the air around you. 

“I don’t know.  I’m kind of tired of waiting for someone to prove it to me. Just for once, I want someone to be interested in me beyond having sex in the back of their fucking... Range Rover, or whatever. Like, maybe all that stuff you said is true, but there’s no evidence to support it, and I know logically you’re probably right but I can’t help wondering if... if I’m the outlier. Maybe there just isn’t someone for me like that. Maybe I’m just gonna be the sex in the back of the Range Rover girl forever.” 

A noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob forces itself from your throat and you bury your face in your hands again, shaking your head. 

“Wow, I am so sorry,” you say a little too loudly, “I did not mean to be this honest tonight. Did you spike my coffee?” 

“You are not the outlier,” Spencer whispers.  

You sniff, lifting your head haltingly to look at him. 

“What?” 

His voice shakes slightly as he speaks. 

“You said you can’t help wondering if you’re the outlier, and maybe there just isn’t someone for you like that. That’s not true.” 

“Spencer, those are just words. You can’t possibly know that. Statistical probabilities don’t count.” 

“That’s... that’s not how I know.” 

Your heart drops as you study his face.  

No. 

Surely he’s not saying what you think he’s saying. 

Surely he wouldn’t do this to you after you’ve just told him everything you told him. You have been harboring feelings for him for years. Since you met. He can’t just spring this on you one night because you’re a little bummed out. If he felt the same, you would have found out a long time ago; he had ample opportunity to tell you. There was a period of months where you practically threw yourself all over him at every chance you got, and he did nothing. So this... this is just cruel—something you’ve never known Spencer Reid to be. 

You stand up, trembling slightly with rage and grief and humiliation. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t say things that you don’t mean just to make me feel better.” 

“What are you doing? Don’t--” 

You scoop up your purse, trying to get to the front door as fast as your gelatinous legs will allow. More tears are streaming down your face now and you don’t need him to see what he’s done to you—to see how much you care what he thinks. 

“It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee, I’ll see you around—” 

A hand around your wrist stops you in your tracks 

“Stop. Just... please give me a second to talk, okay?” 

With nothing left to give, you turn to him. 

“Don’t be mean, Spencer. Don’t act like you liked me too. That makes me feel... so much worse.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling himself. Tawny eyes bore into your soul, and you realize that there is so much sheer nervous energy radiating off of him it’s infectious. Your heart begins to pound as he speaks. 

“I’m not doing that. I’m being an idiot, because you just told me that you don’t feel that way about me anymore but... but I do. And I have to tell you now because for six months I tortured myself wondering why you would flirt with me so much when you were hammered and then act like nothing happened the next day. There were so many times I almost told you how I felt but I didn’t and now I am because even if it ruins our friendship you need to know that somebody... that I wanted to be that person for you. I still do.” 

Your heart is like an unmoored zeppelin in your chest, bumping against your esophagus and threatening to either burst or jump out of your mouth. You take your chances, whispering so quietly it’s almost inaudible. 

“You... you like me?” 

“Yes,” Spencer sighs. “I have liked you for a very long time. And I’m sorry—” 

Whatever ridiculous thing he was going to apologize for, you don’t give him the chance. Instead you launch yourself at him, capturing his lips in a kiss that feels so much better than it’d ever been in your fantasies because it’s real. You hear his sharp intake of breath, but it only takes a second for him to respond, cradling your face in his hands like you’re the entire world. For a moment, time bends. Years of longing, of buried dreams crash into the present in a brilliant, dazzling explosion.

And then, as quickly as it started, he pulls away. The absence of his touch is like a vacuum, so much worse now that you know exactly how it feels to have his lips on yours, even if it was only for a few seconds. How the hell did you live like that for so long? How are you supposed to live like that ever again?

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he breathes, tilting his head back toward the ceiling like he’s barely holding onto his self control. “You just want someone to comfort you, I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re in an emotionally vulnerable state and confided in me which is manufacturing a false sense of attachment—” 

You grab his wrists, which still graze your jaw.

“Spencer, stop intellectualizing for thirty seconds. I promise you I am thinking clearly.” 

“You said you used to like me, past tense—” 

“Yeah, I did. Do you believe every single murderer who says he didn’t do it?” 

“No, but—” 

“Have you ever heard the phrase; a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts?” 

“Of course I have.” 

“Then what more could you possibly need to be convinced that I really like you? I already kissed you! What is stopping you?” 

Another deep breath is taken by him that seems to suck all the air out of the quiet room. Briefly, you wonder if you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake. If you really do like him so much more than he could ever like you.  

Until he looks back down, eyes so golden-brown in the dim light, so kind and full of affectionate concern as he carefully assesses every square centimeter of your face, looking for... well, you’re not exactly sure what. It’s like he’s extracting every thought from your head, turning them over like sun-warmed stones until he finds what he’s looking for. He smooths his hands over your hair, brushing strands away from your teary face. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of holding your breath, he speaks. 

“I just want you to believe what I believe about you. But I don’t want you to have to rely on me or anyone else for your own self-worth.” 

“Well, don’t you think very highly of yourself,” you tease with a sniffle. He laughs—it's quiet, but his smile is so bright without even trying that suddenly you can’t remember why you’ve ever been sad. The small miracle of his laughter makes you feel so light, and you realize it has nothing to do with the way he makes you feel about yourself. It has everything to do with who he is. 

Once the giggles die down, you tentatively mirror his hold on your face. 

“Spencer, I don’t like you because you like me. I’ve liked you for an embarrassingly long time. I liked you enough that I gave myself a severe hangover at least once a week for three months just so I could have an excuse to flirt shamelessly with you.” 

A half-sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he gently swipes under your eyes. 

“You never had to do that. I would have welcomed your sober brazen flirting with open arms.” 

“Well... do you believe me?” you plead. His amber eyes shine. 

“I do.” 

“Will you kiss me?” 

“If that’s what you want.” 

You nod, rising on your toes to meet him halfway. 

When your lips meet again, it is sweet, and honest, and slow, and deep. Still, there is no desperation--no race to an imagined finish line, no clash of teeth and pawing hands. It is a kiss for the sake of it—as if it were the greatest intimacy. Not a precursor to sharing a bed, but something bigger than that in and of its own. Something just as worthy and important. For the first time, you think you’re beginning to understand romance. And while you wouldn’t mind if things did escalate, you also know that Spencer knows that’s not what matters right now. Because he actually understands you—he actually cares. He will wait until you understand that you mean so much more than that to him.

To that end, he pulls away, gently supplanting his absence with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“It would be polite of me to offer you a ride home, wouldn’t it?” he whispers, like it’s the last thing he wants to do. You bite the inside of your cheek, coming up with reasons not to go. One ridiculous one arises from the depths of your memory that you know he won’t be able to say no to. 

“Or... I could stay here, and we could watch one of those nerdy foreign films you’re always talking about?” 

A slow, perfect, high-watt smile blossoms on his face, and you know you’ve said exactly the right thing. 

“Nerdy? Oh, my darling girl... Soviet-era filmography is far from nerdy. небесная машина will completely defy what you thought you knew about the life of an average Russian villager in the 1950’s.” 

“Oh, good. Because I’ve really been meaning to change the way I think about the average 1950’s Russian villager,” you smile, already closing in to kiss him again. 

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

epilogue

Three hours later, you’re crying because the life of the average Russian villager in the 1950’s was so much worse than you’d previously thought. 

“It was good, right?” Spencer asks as the credits roll over a bleak snowy sepia landscape, leaning back to get a better look at you. You sit up from where you’d been leaning against him, furiously wiping your eyes. 

“It was terrible! Why didn’t you tell me that everyone except the kid dies in the end?!” 

“Because that’s the whole point of the movie!” he laughs, pulling you back into him. “I’m sorry. I probably should have explained how depressing this entire era of film was outside of the US.” 

“And also how long the movies were. I was not prepared for how many five minute long clips of empty fields there were going to be.” 

“You’re right,” he ammends, wrapping his arms around you in a way that gives you butterflies and makes you sleepy at the same time. “Next time we can watch whatever you want to watch.” 

Time passes like that—you in his arms, watching weak light slowly flood the room with half-lidded eyes and listening to the sounds of the city waking up from the street below, underscoring the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Thoughts float by like leaves on the ever-flowing current of your mind, and you’re happy to let them pass until one in particular catches your attention. 

“Spencer?” 

He hums, like he’d been deep in his own proverbial river of thought. 

“What does pulchritude mean?” 

It takes him a split second to remember the bit of conversation from earlier to which you are referring, but when he does, he chuckles, running his hand over your messy hair. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

And so you let it float away. 

[innocet]

There’s a move that RTD has been doing recently that I don’t really have a Judgement on, like I can’t say if it’s Good or Bad, but it is FASCINATING to my specific dr who preoccupations

He is (selectively, only sometimes) bringing racism that has always been present in dr who into the diegesis. I first noticed it with the Toymaker; instead of being a racial caricature in the same way his ‘65 appearance was, the 2023 toymaker is a character who poorly appropriates the signifiers of real-world cultures as part of his style of Play. He’s not just an East Asian caricature non-diegetically played by a white man. He is, within the diegesis, a white man who intentionally disrespects earth cultures by imitating and parodying them. We only see him directly do this to white/western cultures (the German, French, American, and British accents he takes), but he’s clearly textually racist to characters of color in the episode.

Racism and racial stereotype are some of the Games the toymaker plays. They’re not erasing racist production/narrative decisions. They’re placing them in a new context.

“Dot and Bubble” is the same; it recontextualizes previous adventures with all-white casts, not by reimagining them as more diverse, but by making that lack of diversity diegetic. I’ve seen some point out that previous episodes had, unexamined in the narrative, few characters of color either as a critique of “Dot and Bubble”. How can RTD expect us to notice that the cast is all-white as something with narrative significance when we’ve seen the exact same not ten years ago portrayed as a completely normal state of affairs? But I think part of the specific narrative moves that this episode is doing is that we can also examine those past episodes through this same new context. That the white Doctor, and his white companions, were not forced to encounter the circumstances that made the situation they’re in all-white, and so they did not at all engage with them. This is not to say that these previous episodes were intentionally saying anything at all about racism; they were the product of racist writing and casting, and that can’t be changed or ignored. But fan analysis as a school of thought is often far more concerned with the watsonian than the doylist, and RTD is aware of this as someone who grew up in fandom. This provides a watsonian path to exploring the racism of the show’s history, without sugarcoating or ignoring it.

It’s worth noting when he doesn’t do this as well; he seems far more willing to engage diegetically with racism than ableism, for example. Davros does not get any sort of redemption or examination as one of the only wheelchair users we see in the vastness of time and space; instead, he is simply no longer a wheelchair user. I think we should be paying a lot more attention to what gets folded in narratively and what doesn’t because it seems very clear that RTD is intent on continuing doing this and it’s something I’m keeping my eye on. Again, I don’t know whether it’s Good or Bad that this is happening, but it sure as fuck is interesting

[elmushterri]

Ok so I don’t want to be annoying but I kind of wanted to ask what are the Pjmasks (plus the villains) ages? Like who the oldest to youngest? (it ok if you don’t want to answer. 👍

Not annoying whatsoever, I just take a while to respond to asks since I usually wanna draw something for them too!

These are not 100% fixed, and I might be planning to make the gang look younger (because in my video, they look a bit too adult (?). I’d like to make them a bit more owl house age looking (13-14)

but for now—

Also here’s me trying out some more character names:

.

Lilyfay/Lily Olson (Maybe she’s Nordic?) — 8-11? <- Very successful experiment

Badriya Hassan/Bastet — 12-13 <- “Improved Cat Hero” (Like a second attempt at Catboy)

Kevin Wolf — 14 <- He’s just Kevin.

Ivan Prakash — 15/16

Hywel “Howler” Wolf — 15 (Hywel is a Welsh name pronounced a bit like ‘How-ul’ (a bit softer than how though, hard to describe unless you’re from the UK 😭 and YouTube doesn’t do it justice. And yes, I’m making the Wolfies Welsh heheh.

Newton Star — 15 (oldest 15) <- Very successful experiment

Gregory Gunn — 16

Luna Rossi? — 16 (Is she Italian? 😭 idk I’m just giving these people surnames. Other option was Wilson 😭)

Rhiannon “Ripp” Wolf — 16 (Another Welsh name! “Ree—Anne— Nun”)

Amaya Kobayashi — 16

Nori “The Night” Nakamura — 16

Connor Martinez — 16

An Yu Guō — 17 (I’m unsure about the surname I’ve given her, I’m an Arab so I’m not tooo familiar with Chinese surnames so I’m willing to take suggestions or critique.) <- Most powerful of the animal “mutants”

Romeo Mécano (This is canonically his surname… should I keep it? 😭) — 17

Dylan Desjardins— 18? (Or oldest 17) HES CANADIAN OHHH CANADA 🇨🇦🇨🇦🇨🇦 <- most unreliable of the animals.

Isabella/Octobella — 19-22 (Early failed experiment?)

Connor’s mom (Maria Martinez?) — 47-49

Grayson Gunn — 51/52

Amaya’s Aunt (Kimiko Kobayashi?) — 53

—

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

I’m a Screamer, Baby, Make Me a Mute

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Quarry era

Warnings: Poorly written smut, degradation, premature ejaculation, borderline stalking

Summary: Daryl has never been with anyone sexually, his only examples having been Merle and pornography. When he decides he’s out of time due to the end of the world, he sets his eyes on you. He’ll do whatever it takes to have you.

A/N: I’m a little more proud of this than I should be. It was really out of my comfort zone but I really love how it turned out. Written for @dilfsandmartinis

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

He had waited and watched and watched and waited. You, traipsing around in those cut off shorts that ended perfectly over the contour of your ass. And that tight tank top that hugged your figure, smoothing over every curve. He could almost conjure the perfect image of your bare breasts going off of how the top fit you alone. 

You had gone down to the water to wash up. He knew that because he had been watching you. He knew your routine from the moment you crawled out of your tent until you disappeared back into it. 

He knew he couldn’t wait any longer to have you. He had done everything that Merle would do when he was chasing a woman he’d eventually take to bed. He would cat call as you walked by, swearing that after you glared at him, you’d sway your hips a little more prominently as you walked away. 

He’d casually lean against the nearest tree while you helped gather wood for the fire, humming appreciatively and licking his lips when you’d acknowledge him. “Wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t take notice of a nice piece’a ass.” You would usually call him a pig and throw a stick at him. “Feisty. I like that.” He’d adjust himself through his pants right in front of you. 

The truth was, he had no idea what he was doing. He’d never been with a woman before, but knew the basics thanks to his brother’s tendency to indulge in female company nearly on a nightly basis. Sometimes more. Daryl would watch through the cracked door, studying how Merle would interact with his partner of choice; what he would say, how he would touch her. Didn’t seem like much fun for the woman but his brother didn’t seem interested in anything other than getting his dick wet. 

Now, Daryl wasn’t trying to be a creep. He just wanted to be ready. The porn Merle would watch was informative enough about what goes where but it seemed like more of a performance than anything. He needed something a little more personal to go off of and Merle was the perfect specimen to study. 

Daryl had been willing to wait, biding his time for the opportunity to present itself; preferably when his brother wasn’t around to critique the skills he’d picked up. Then the world ended. Realizing death could decide to punch his card so easily was a great motivator. Dying a virgin wasn’t an option. 

So he followed you. He’d never take you against your will. Even Merle’s morality extended that far. But he’d sure make it hard for you to say no. 

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against a tree, skillfully hiding the fact that his heart was pounding a tattoo into his ribs. You were getting things ready to clean yourself up; laying out your fresh clothes and a towel, pulling the hair tie from your ponytail. He was getting hard just from the anticipation alone. 

When you popped open the button of your shorts, you decided to look around and make sure no one had wandered down. Daryl wasn’t even trying to hide. Merle never would. When your gaze located him, your eyes widened and then narrowed. You didn’t move to rid yourself of the shorts. 

“Well, don’t let me stop ya. Was enjoyin’ the show.”

“God, you’re disgusting.” You snapped, still eyeing him. “Okay, you can leave now.” He sauntered down to the water’s edge a few feet away from you.

“Why the hell would I do somethin’ stupid like that?” He drawled, blue eyes roaming up and down your body. He was fighting hard to keep himself still, to not shift from foot to foot— an action that helped ground him when he was especially anxious. Merle would never. “Y’can go ahead with whatcha was doin’.”

“With you gawking at me? I don’t think so, Dixon. Y’know, there are ways to treat a lady that work a lot better than being a disgusting pervert.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, mulling over your words. He could try your way, but he’d never seen Merle gravel for pussy. And he always got it in the end. “Don’t see no ladies ‘round here.”

“Oh, really? Yeah, not interested.” You started to gather your things, much to Daryl’s chagrin. “I’ll bathe some other time. Maybe bring one or two of the other women with me.”

“Hell yeah. That’s what m’talkin’ ‘bout. I can handle a couple’a ya. Maybe even three.” He reached down to palm himself through his jeans. He was almost achingly hard but the strained fabric kept it from showing too much. 

“Oh my god, I think I’m gonna throw up.” You shoved past him and stomped back toward camp. 

Once you were out of sight, his shoulders slumped. A swing and a miss. He knew his brother though. Merle wouldn’t stop there. He’d pursue and persuade. 

And that’s exactly what Daryl planned to do. 

He followed you again the next afternoon when it was your turn to look for berries or mushrooms that were edible. His mouth watered each time you’d bend over to inspect something before crouching to pluck it from the ground and add it to your bucket. 

“Shouldn’t be out here all by yourself.” He stated casually, strutting up behind you. He had to restrain himself from making a grab at your ass. “Ain’t safe.”

“Yeah, from lechers like you.” You retorted, not even turning around. 

The hunter tilted his head, studying your backside, round and plump. Just right for gripping while you rode his cock. Your thighs were smooth with that small gap in between. He desperately wanted his face buried between them, letting you squeeze his head while he tasted you. His cock was already responding to the debauchery running rampant in his head. He’d never seen Merle go down on someone but men seemed to enjoy it in the videos he’d watch. 

“You just gonna stand there and stare at my ass all day? Or are you gonna go and shoot something for supper tonight?” You queried in a flat tone. 

“Darlin’, there’s no way m’movin’ when you’re shakin’ your ass in front’a me like that. Pract’ly beggin’ me to give ya what a lil’ slut like you wants.” 

The bucket sat abandoned on the forest floor. You straightened and turned, giving him a look he couldn’t quite read. “Is that what you think of me? That I’d just drop everything and jump on your dick?”

“S’what I know.” The confidence in his answer was nearly betrayed by a tremble in his frame as you stalked closer. 

“Think you’re man enough for me, Daryl?” You stressed his name, stopping yourself right in front of him. He’d never heard his first name roll off that tongue and through the partition of those pouty lips. “Think you can give it to me hard and fast until I’m screaming?”

“Fuck yeah.” He answered too quickly. His voice had dropped an octave; gravelly and breathy. His blue eyes watched you move and before he could register what was happening, your hand was cupping his erection over his pants. 

“I don’t usually let a man anywhere near that would talk to me like you do.” You smiled and gave his clothed cock a generous squeeze. “There’s something about you, though. I can’t put my”— you squeezed again—“finger on it.”

Daryl closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Fuckin’ tease.” He managed. Your hand retracted and he longed for the feel of it to return. Eyes opening, you had removed your shirt; no bra left your breasts exposed to his gaze. He gulped, his confident expression wavering in the slightest way. 

“Come on, Dixon. You’ve been talking a big game. Let’s see how good you really are.” You purred, palming him over his pants yet again. 

Eyes on your chest, he felt a sensation stirring; a strong tingle at the base of his spine that branched out swiftly to map through his veins and straight to his cock. He managed to stifle the sound but had to slap a hand against a nearby tree to stay on his feet as pleasure pulsed through him, his warm spend emptying into his underwear in suffocated ropes. 

He didn’t even wait to bask in the after effects of such an orgasm, snatching your wrist to pull your palm away from his oversensitive cock. “Maybe next time.” He growled, hoping that he had played off what had just happened well enough that you would continue to be curious. 

As it was, he was mortified. Merle would laugh at him tirelessly and crack every joke in his arsenal with Daryl being the punchline. His brother could never find out about this. Returning to the tent, he gave Merle a middle finger when the elder Dixon started complaining about how the others in the camp didn’t appreciate him. Daryl was in no mood. 

His face was burning with embarrassment while his underwear remained against his skin. He rid himself of the ruined article and hid it under his bedroll. He’d burn it later when he was sure his brother was sleeping. Merle could not find out. The camp couldn’t either. 

The shame was enough without involving others. 

Daryl left you alone for a couple of days, in hopes of maintaining that mentioned curiosity. Thankfully, it appeared no one knew anything about his plight a couple days earlier. He chose to believe that meant you didn’t either. He waited until dusk, when you would head down to the water’s edge. Just enough light left for it to be safe, just enough shadow to hide from any prying eyes. 

He found you just as he had days before, this time choosing to go down to where you stood instead of hanging back by the trees. 

You stood straighter and looked toward the sky. “God, why do you hate me? What is it, Dixon?”

“Hang on, let a man enjoy the view for a minute.” 

“The view would have been a lot better the other day if you hadn’t decided to leave me standing there, topless!” You hissed in a whisper, as if anyone else was listening.

“Calm down, woman. Just makin’ sure was me ya wanted. Lil’ whore like ya could’a been ready to jump on any dick.” He stepped forward and let his hands hover over your hips, moving his gaze up to yours with a questioning brow arched. 

“Well?” You stared at him expectantly. “Touch me, goddamnit!” You didn’t wait and pulled him forward, crashing your mouth against his. It took all he had not to moan against your lips. His first kiss and with a beauty like you. He realized in that moment that he wanted to worship you, cater to your every desire. He wanted you to know how much and how long he had wanted you. 

But that wasn’t what you what attracted you to him. You wanted brash and rough and insulting. You wanted Merle in Daryl packaging. 

So that’s what he would give you. 

Roughly pulling you away, he spun you to press your back flush against his chest. “Easy does it.” He growled against your ear, nipping at the lobe. You let out a sigh and your head dropped back against his shoulder. “Desperate lil’ whore. Can’t wait for that cock, can ya?”

With a smirk he couldn’t see, you pushed your ass back against his groin, making his dick twitch. “Seems like your cock can’t wait for this pussy.” 

Daryl bit back a groan, his hands coming up to grope your breasts hard enough to be painful. That familiar feeling was back again, a heat pooling in his belly with electric jolts stirring at the base of his spine. He was biting his bottom lip so hard that his mouth soon filled with the metallic taste of blood. Your petite hand wrapped around his wrist and guided it into the front of your shorts. The second he felt that wet heat through the fabric of your panties, he was gone. 

He had enough cognitive function to yank his hand free and push you forward, palms on your shoulders shaking as the orgasm tore through him. He was incredibly thankful that there wasn’t enough light for you to see what promised to be a wet patch on the front of his pants. 

“Too fuckin’ eager for me t’night.” He ground out, spinning on a heel to start stomping away from you. “Let’s see how long a lil’ slut like ya can manage ‘fore any cock in this camp’ll do.” He didn’t turn to see your face. He couldn’t, lest you see the mortified embarrassment coloring his own expression. 

Another failed attempt. Another pair of underwear to burn. 

It didn’t take long for you to turn to other means of scratching that itch. He sat, cleaning his bolts, watching you flirt shamelessly with his brother. Bending over in front of the man and practically wiggling your ass in invitation. Of course, Merle responded. The elder Dixon gave your backside a firm slap. To your credit, you were great at feigning offense. 

You stormed away from their camp only to return sometime later, sitting yourself so close to his brother that your thigh was rubbing against Merle’s hip. You leaned in while the man talked about nothing in particular. Some racist garbage that even Daryl wouldn’t entertain. The second your fingers reached for Merle’s jaw, Daryl stood straight up from his perch. 

“Y/N!” He barked, fighting off a smirk when you flinched and turned those big eyes toward him. “Need to talk to ya.” He was already heading into the trees, his sharp hunter senses picking up your steps behind him. He’d show you that he could be just as appealing as Merle. He’d be better. 

When he felt the two of you were far enough from camp and saw no signs that his brother had followed, he rounded on you to shove you roughly against the nearest tree. “Was right, weren’t I? Need that lil’ cunt filled so bad that ya’d let any man take ya.”

You huffed in obvious annoyance. “No. I’m just trying to make you jealous enough to actually fuck me.”

Daryl gulped. He knew this was his last chance. You’d get tired of games and he was tired of playing them too. He released you and stepped back. “Take off your clothes. And hurry it up ‘fore I change my mind.” He didn’t touch you while you undressed, your lust-blown eyes never leaving him. He couldn’t touch you. If he did, it would be a repeat performance of the last two encounters. He scrambled at undoing his belt, separating the two ends so he could free his already painfully hard cock. “Better be wet cause I ain’t in the mood to waste time gettin’ ya there.”

He didn’t, either. The moment you were bare, he grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you. Your ankles locked over his ass while he guided himself to your entrance. Thank god, he found you to be slick. He drove into you with a moan, gritting his teeth to keep from cumming right on the spot. “Fuckin’ slut.” Merle was never tender or accommodating, slamming into his prize the moment her legs opened to him. Dary did the same, hard thrusts that had the sound of skin slapping echoing through the trees. He was already about to burst. “Say it. Say what a slut ya are.”

“I’m a slut. I’m a fucking whore! Fuck, Dixon!” Your fingers grasped for his neck, his shoulders. Against everything he knew, he wanted to bring you to your high. He’d seen how it could be done in those pornos. But there wasn’t time. 

With a choked off moan, he pulled himself from you, ropes of cum dousing your ass and the tree behind you. He let himself feel it, reveling in the euphoria that slammed into him in waves so hard that he thought he might black out. 

As he drifted back down, he quickly dropped your legs and stepped back to tuck himself back into his jeans. Shame colored his cheeks. He thought he might throw up. You’d likely tell everyone what a lousy fuck he was, lasting all of two minutes. He was no longer a virgin but he couldn’t celebrate it. “Get outta here.” He hissed. 

You smirked at him. “Not bad for your first time.” You remained naked, leaned back against the tree with your legs apart to give him quite the view. “We can try again if you want and I can show you how to really fuck a woman.”

He stood there, hands on his belt though his fingers felt suddenly inept. “Ya knew?” Yep, he was definitely going to throw up. 

“Of course I did.” You chuckled. Your hands began to roam over your body. Watching you already had his cock stirring back to life, half hard and approaching aching. “You can still call me a slut. It’s hot.” You sauntered toward him, smacking his hands away from his belt. 

Daryl watched you pop the button of his jeans open once again and drag down the zipper. “Fuck.” He groaned when your hand wrapped around him, stroking him to fully hard. “Ya really are a fuckin’ slut.”

“I can be.” You purred, licking a stripe from his collar bone to his jaw. He shivered but managed to scoff and turn his head, though his eyes slid back over to stare at your bare breasts. “And this slut is gonna give you a lesson you’ll never forget.”

[bluegiragi]

The movement, dynamism and emotion of the characters is so engaging and audiences clearly adore the relationships and stories you tell with your art

Occasionally though, there's something awkward about the proportions of some of the figures in your work. The stomach to pelvis area of the konig piece seems abnormally long, though accentuated by his posture. Sometimes the heads of characters also look both elongated at the jaw and also too small for their bodies, which feel a little unrealistically shaped at times

I've been noticing these points for some months now, wondering if proportioning would improve with time. You have a very distinct storytelling style, and I understand that this message might come across as unkind, but I don't know how else to word it and I don't know if anyone would be willing to point it out to you considering your successes and status in the cod fandom

Whatever you choose to make of these words, even if you delete the message immediately, I'm certain your work will continue to grow and thrive, and I do wish you every future success that you earn

hello anon! I apologise if I’ve come off as complacent in my art over the past months, but I assure you I am always doing my best to improve my art, and I think I have in some areas. Believe me, I am at all times very aware of my shortcomings as an artist.

I want to thank you for wording this in such a considerate way, but would also invite you to not send messages like this in the future to artists who aren’t clearly asking for critique. I don’t believe my art is making massive missteps that require education (such as drawing poc features in an offensive way, or anything else that might justify some immediate words of advice), and the insinuation that I am not improving fast enough is a little hurtful, as is the idea that a lot of people are somewhere, quietly agreeing with this viewpoint and choosing not to tell me because of some perceived, ephemeral status in a fandom.

I hope I’m not coming off as defensive here. I just think I’ve never positioned myself as someone who has nothing more to learn, and in fact mentions many times that my anatomy is not perfect, and that I have a long way to go. Thank you for your advice, but in the future, I believe it might be best to just assume the artist knows their own weaknesses.

[acti-veg]

You have all just got to come to terms with how laughably simplistic it is to dismiss legitimate critiques about modern wool production with catchphrases like ‘Its just a haircut, it doesn’t hurt them!’

Wool is ‘just a haircut’ in the same way that cocoa is ‘just a plant.’ Yes, you can acquire chocolate without harming anyone, but is anyone dismissing the obvious ethical issues with modern chocolate production by pointing out that cocoa doesn’t require us to hurt anyone to acquire? Of course not, because we all recognise that because of modern production practices and exploitation it is far more complicated than that. Why can’t we do the same for animal products?

Shearing a sheep does not have to harm sheep by itself, though fast processing speeds demanded by commercial producers means that shearing injuries are very common. That isn’t the issue with wool. The issue is that wool production by itself is not very profitable, profits are subsidised by taking lambs from their mothers every lambing season, then slaughtering them for meat. The issue is that sheep will almost always be slaughtered once their profitability declines., Most farmers cannot afford to house and feed unprofitable animals.

Tail docking is an issue, de-horning is an issue, castration is an issue. The live transport of sheep for hours in all weather extremes without food and water is an issue. Breeding sentient beings into bodies that over-produce wool, eggs, or milk to the point where they require human intervention just to be comfortable is an issue. Exploiting the bodies of animals for profit is, in and of itself, an ethical issue.

The massive environmental harm caused by grazing sheep, who have converted vast swathes of formerly forested land into ecologically dead wastelands, is difficult to overstate. Grazing animals are widely acknowledged as one of the most significant barriers to forest restoration and re-wilding. George Monbiot calls them ‘the white plague’ for good reason. Just take a look at what has happened to most of England and Wales. That isn’t even factoring in the methane emissions of the sheep themselves, their resource requirements, or the fact that farmers routinely kill predators to protect their herds.

All you do when you dismiss these real concerns by pointing out that ‘wool doesn’t hurt sheep duhhh’ is show us how little thought you are willing to put into what is a far more complex issue than any of you are willing to admit. That these cringe ‘shave your sheep’ posts still get tens of thousands of shares is evidence of nothing so much as widespread ignorance and confirmation bias when it comes to discussing animal agriculture.

Honestly, so many of you have been so brainwashed by this cottagecore pastoral fantasy that you’re no longer able to apply any real nuance or analysis to animal issues. I’m not expecting you to immediately agree with us and throw out all your fleeces, but at least recognise that it’s not as simple as saying ‘shearing doesn’t harm sheep you morons.’

At the very least, you should all be able to recognise that vegans aren’t just stupid for not immediately agreeing that an environmentally destructive, ecologically disastrous industry that is breeding and exploiting sentient beings for profit is just uncomplicatedly fine actually.