#Musing

[mulherdopadre]

@meudeuss

FLEABAG (2016-2019)

[st-just]

The Yemen Signal Chat thing being taken so incredibly vigorously as a scandal is kind of reminding me about Mike Duncan (with reference to Russia in 1905 and '16-17) talking about how absolutely nothing galvanizes and organizes liberal (in the narrow sense) opposition like a poorly run war.

[flaursiey]

it’s not about love (or, it’s not just about love, it should never just be about love, not to me at least). it’s about choices. and love is one of those choices you can make, yes, but so is the choice to live. mark s. chooses helly because helly offers him life just as much as she offers love. he saved gemma - he chose to protect her life - and now he wants to do the same for himself. call him selfish, call him and helly selfish if you want, but, they deserve to have that choice. because their life so far has been other people making decisions for them, so why is it so bad that they make their own choice to live?

[pishifuzul]

little sisters were invented for wearing shorts that are so loose they slip to the side when you're hanging out and give you a peek and they don't even understand why you're staring

[lrlamauthor]

I deliberately write my books thinking about a reader experiencing the book more than once. I leave little details I know only someone reading closely might clock. Some people find the opening of Dragonfall a little hard to get into or initially confusing, but I think you experience it very differently on the second go around. love rereading. I love not racing through art but experiencing it.

Sometimes you need to read something twice to get it. You might need to watch a movie three times to understand it. You might have to have that album on repeat for a week until the lyrics make any sense. You're allowed to engage with it and can keep engaging with it until it means something to you. People will see a painting at a museum and laugh about not getting what the big deal is but like you can come back, you can see it at another time, and maybe that next time it'll be different for you. I'm of the belief the "media literacy crisis" would solve itself if more people just sat down and did it again. Watched, read, played, listened, etc like I don't think people are getting more ignorant necessarily I just think we're not glorifying personally replaying things nearly as much as we should be.

[creatingblackcharacters]

I need to ask because I'm wondering if I'm crazy- does anyone else notice how they've been increasingly throwing Black actors in movies and TV bound to fail as a way to hide from accountability, using antiblackness as a shield?

Like they can easily toss up the "you're just racist" shield when people accurately address the problems with the medium at hand, while they themselves are using their Black actors as meat shields for bad writing and worse politics.

It makes me sick, really. Knowing these studios don't care about us, and know precisely the coded language necessary to drum up the worst people that should be argued against, in order to hide behind real critique. And at the end of the day, it's my people that suffer from all angles because people act like they don't know how to address something without being racist about it.

[hedgehogoftime]

Thinking about Paladins...

Thinking about Oath of Devotion Paladins, and how over time they seem less and less like flesh and more and more like stone, as solid as their oaths. How more and more it seems like a light shines from their eyes. How their movement slows as they get older, becoming more and more a thing of stone and light. How they become less a person and more an idea, a promise made flesh. When they die, they become a statue with burning light where their eyes once were. Many take their final rest upon seaside cliffs, acting as an eternal beacon to those in need.

Thinking about Oath of the Ancients Paladins, and how the grass they tread upon might grow a bit greener than it did before. How fruit tastes sweeter when they pluck it. How vegetables and grain grow from the blood and bodies of their slain foes. Life springing from bringers of death. How when they bleed, seeds and pollen might release from their wounds along with the blood. How their skin feels more like bark as they grow older. How their presence feels like peace, like rest. How when they die, the Oak Father takes this warrior into his embrace, and a fruit tree grow over their grave, so they might give once more in death as they did in life.

Thinking about Oath of Vengeance Paladins, and how their mere presence might inspire fear and truth. They barely need to ask questions, one look at those eyes, filled with wrathful calm in equal measure is enough to break almost any who look upon them. How their blood might literally boil when it is spilled, so true is their commitment. How they might weep when they are given the chance to at last be kind. How when they die there is nothing to bury, the fire in their souls fueled by their oath consumes their flesh at last, and then they are nothing but ash.

Thinking about Oathbreakers. How the sun is too bright, and it hurts their eyes. How the night is too dark, and always their vision is off. How their hands always find thorns or sharp edges. How every step they take might be an agony, a reminder of how they committed the truest and most fundamental treason of all. How the very air they breath seems to cut at their lungs as the world itself whispers "wrong thing. wrong thing. traitor" in their ears. Their blood never seeps into the ground, only evaporates. Their body does not even rot. The world itself rejects them.

Thinking about Paladins...

[yukinohiko]

something about the recurring apple motif with caleb. you’re in the kitchen one afternoon; the open windows blowing in petals from the lavender plants in your garden. you’re slicing apples, one by one. that’s when you feel a familiar presence at your back, a familiar hand sliding the knife out of your grasp.

“let me take care of that,” he says, so easily, so familiarly. you want to protest; you don’t.

you stay standing, him behind you, his arms bracketing you, though not imposingly. never imposing — you don’t think so, at least. the smell of lavender bathes the sunlit room; a tender april afternoon.

you’re so focused on the little things — the brush of his hair against your cheek, the sight of his thumb smoothly peeling off the apple skin, the way you always prefer — you don’t notice him raising a piece until it’s pressing against your lips.

“open for your gege,” he says, and again, it’s so effortless of him. it comes second-naturedly, running off his tongue like rainwater.

you part your lips, bite the slice. the fruit sweetens your mouth better than any tart.

when you glance back at him, to thank him, to make a joke that you can feed yourself now, you catch sight instead of his violet eyes. lavender as the drifting petals; swirling with undercurrents you cannot begin to read. he only smiles knowingly, and continues feeding you the forbidden fruit.

[ectoentity]

Danny's Not OP

So, there's a lot of fics about Danny being super OP compared to heroes in the DCU and the heroes are kind of overwhelmed about it. But what if that's not the case?

The Justice League deals with Kryptonians, and Martians, and Tamaranians, and other aliens with crazy powersets, not to mention magic users and gods. Highly varied powersets might not be the norm, but it's not unheard of.

So what if Danny, from a universe with no other superheroes, goes to the DCU. Maybe he tries to pretend he's less powerful than he is, or he gets in trouble and thinks it'll be easy to slip away. And instead of being caught off-guard by how powerful he is, the DC heroes just take it in stride. It's no big deal. Yeah, he can turn invisible and pass through things. So can Martians. Kryptonians have frost breath. Starfire has hand beams that are a lot like ectoblasts. Danny's not any more powerful than they are.

How would Danny react? Would he be relieved that he was among people with similar powers, or weirded out by it?

[incorrectsmashbrosquotes]

People like to romanticize the relationship between Zelda and Link in a whole “destined reincarnated soulmates” kind of way, but am I the only one who thinks it would be more interesting if Link didn’t love Zelda?

Like, think of it. Hylia is a Goddess, basically Hylian Jesus, and she loves this mortal man. A hero who stepped forward to defeat a Devil in the world’s hour of greatest need. But, he didn’t do it for her, he did it for the World. Even when he binds his soul to the Triforce, locking himself in an endless pattern of reincarnation with her against the Devil Demise, it’s not because he loves her. He loves Hyrule and its people.

But that’s okay, maybe in the next life they can be?

But it isn’t. Over and over, Hylia becoming Zelda, Link doesn’t love her. He loves Hyrule. He loves to dance to its music and ride its fields and wants to preserve it against the threat of Demise. He loves different women each time, and sometimes it is Hylia’s reincarnation, but they’re never the core of his heart.

It’s always Hyrule that he loves. From it’s savage and arid deserts to the cold and harsh tundra, he loves it, and steps forward to save it each time.

Duty, he calls it. Responsibility and Purpose, but Hylia/Zelda knows the truth. He’ll never love her the way she wants him to.

Hyrule will always be Link’s first and greatest love.

[loonyloopylupin96]

Was Remus' boggart always the moon, or did it only become that when he no longer had to fear losing everyone he loved?

[comatosebunny09]

— cw: adult content, cheating, shitty fiancé, self-indulgent madness, mdni — notes: i can’t sleep, and @alfredosaws got the gears turning in my head. sorry if this isn’t your jam. i was horny and needed to torture myself. — now playing: see through - amelia moore

Imagine Sylus as your real estate agent, showing you and your fiancé around a potential home.

Your fiancé doesn’t seem too interested, busy typing away on his phone or occasionally stepping out to answer phone calls. You titter nervously, explaining to Sylus with a wry smile that your fiancé is a very busy man.

Still, Sylus continues showing you the rest of the house, pointing out parts that would appeal primarily to you.

“You see here? The master bedroom contains an en-suite bathroom with enough counter space to house all your skincare products. ”

“The bathtub has jets. Perfect for when you want to unwind after a long day on your feet. You look like you shoulder the world. You deserve to take a load off with a warm, soothing bath.”

“The sunroom would be great for your plants. You look like you have quite a green thumb. You strike me as a cultivator. A nurturer. Someone who should learn to sit down from time to time.”

“The counter space in the kitchen is immaculate. Perfect for when the love of your life wants to cook breakfast or have you for dessert.”

He’s so very flattering and handsome, and you find yourself falling prey to his charms. You rein yourself in when your fiancé returns, still as detached about the house as ever. You ask him for his opinion, to which he shrugs you off and remarks that he’s happy if you’re happy. Conveniently, his phone rings again, and he walks outside to take the call.

Sylus gives you a pitying look as if he knows there’s trouble in paradise. You smile awkwardly to dispel his worries.

Sure, your fiancé isn’t always present in your relationship. And maybe you agreed to his proposal out of fear, thinking you would lose out on your white picket fence if you refused him. But, who are you kidding? You haven’t felt like yourself in years. Haven’t genuinely smiled in a very long time, and your fiancé hasn’t helped improve your self-esteem, nitpicking when you’re a little bloated or leave the house without makeup.

You’ve recently caught him entertaining other women on his socials, and he would quickly gaslight you, exclaiming that you were looking for reasons to be upset. Deep down, you know he isn’t good for you, and you deserve better, but a sick part of you believes he is your punishment for some crimes you might’ve committed in a past life.

Sylus has read you like a book, and you’ve only worked with him for two months. You feel more comfortable in his presence than the man you’re about to marry, having known him much longer.

“Come with me, sweetheart,” says Sylus, his voice a sweet, sticky dolce as he takes your hand into his larger one.

He guides you up the spiraling staircase towards the main bedroom and lures you into the massive walk-in closet. And when you’re swathed in the darkness after he shuts the door behind you, he backs you up against a wall, your breaths intermingling whilst his mouth hovers over yours.

“You poor thing,” he whispers next to your ear, the hairs scattered across your body standing on end, pleasant tingles ricocheting through your extremities. He takes your hand in his, pressing it against the cool, textured wall overhead, tenderly twining your fingers together. “That Narcissist doesn’t deserve you, now does he?” His lips graze yours, the sensation making your legs tremble like a fawn.

“I can see it in your eyes.” A weighted palm smooths over your side, a devastatingly powerful knee sliding between the fat of your thighs, pilfering the breath from your lungs. He touches you with a reverence you’ve never known. “You don’t love him, do you? Not when I can touch you like this.”

He takes possession of your jaw, breathing hot and open-mouthed against your lips, nuzzling your noses together. And you’re dizzy, the closet suddenly feeling so cramped, and the warmth of his body permeating through the layers of your clothes. “You’re so beautiful. You deserve so much more. I can give you so much more. May I kiss you, sweetling?”

Despite the voice screaming somewhere far off in your mind that this is very much wrong, you find yourself nodding sluggishly in the darkness as if he can see you slowly turning to putty in his palms. He chuckles, the vibrations of it making your tummy flutter like you’re cresting down a hill.

Wordlessly, he pans in, startling you with a gentle kiss at first. Something deft and ghostly, so soft you wouldn’t believe it happened. When you make a gentle keen of protest after he pulls way, he takes that as his cue to kiss you again, this time more firm and full-bodied, the rigid pane of his body slowly anchoring you to the wall. 

Your unoccupied hand slides over his spine, concluding its excursion at the small of his back, and he’s strong here. Sturdy as if he could lift you one-handed if he so pleases. The idea makes you whimper, and he swallows the pretty little noises he invokes, his sweltering tongue pushing into your mouth to map out every ridge and crevice. 

He slips a warm, weighted palm into the crook of your knee, drawing your thigh up to rest on his hip. And, with this new angle, he presses fully against you, the stitching of his slacks scraping pleasantly over the inner cut of your thigh. He releases your hand once moored to the wall to hoist you into his arms, one of your heels clattering to the floor. Ten shaky fingers bury themselves in his hair, sifting through tufts of soft white to draw him ever closer to deepen your lip-lock. 

Despite the spacious closet, it’s growing uncomfortably warm. Too many clothes are in the way, so you tug his shirt from his slacks. Your fingers blindly scramble over his shirt buttons, eager to feel the smooth, supple glide of his skin beneath them. He chuckles something throaty and enrapturing, kissing you velvet-soft as his desire awakens to press against your thigh.

“So eager, aren’t you?” he husks, breaking away from your lips with a sticky click to blister your jaw and carotid with languorous kisses. “Has he ever touched you like this? Kissed you like this?” 

You crane your head back, your skull lightly thudding against the wall behind you. Your lashes shutter. The feeling of his mouth dragging over your skin and his weighted body nestled between your thighs is too much and yet not enough. You cling to his back, your grip white-knuckled, mouth parted slightly with wanton pleas for more more more.

But before he can grant your request, your fiancé’s voice beckons to you through the empty, sturdy walls of the house. The spell that befell you disperses, reality careening in. You push against Sylus’ lean chest with the heel of your palm, panting and gasping, squirming to be let down. Sylus reluctantly heeds you, gently setting you onto your feet. 

He helps you slide back into your discarded heel, kissing your ankle on his way back up, and you try to ignore how your body burns like an inferno at the attention. It takes all of you not to snatch him towards you once more, to kiss him and demand he take you, right then and there, with your fiancé calling for you downstairs. But, as much as it pains you, you feel remorse for how far you already let things go. 

Fixing your clothes and hair to some semblance of neatness in the darkness, the pair of you exit the closet. You don a rehearsed smile, answering your fiancé that you’ll be right down. Searing, slender fingers encircle your wrist before you can descend the stairs. You acknowledge Sylus with a look over your shoulder. He fixes you with a feverish stare that burns like a flame, revealing a deep desire for you. And the realization shoots straight to your center as his mouth draws into an unflinching line. 

Something in your chest pinches and pulls. And for a moment, you consider what your life would be like if you’d given yourself more credit and granted yourself a little more grace. But you brush away your thoughts, fixing Sylus with an unconvincing smile before pulling away from him to descend the stairs into the arms of your loving, soon-to-be husband.  

[zombiecowboy65]

Thinking about Jeremy Knox going to the store and picking out a yo yo and trying to teach himself tricks. Thinking about Jeremy trying to take one fun class a semester. Thinking about him desperate to teach Jean that there’s more to life than exy. Thinking about how he’s prob gonna tell us he’s chronically depressed or something

[st-just]

It's genuinely hard for me to really comprehend and internalize the degree that socialism of various kinds was a genuine, consequential and balance-of-power-shifting mass movement in the First World through the 60s and 70s. Even in the United States - compare the 'radical student movements' of the Nixon and Biden Administrations.

You get why the modern Anglo-American Left is still so obsessed with Reagan and Thatcher - on an institutional level, it really has never recovered from the '80s.

[flaursiey]

oh. irving was willing to face being fired, ending his life, because he felt love for the first time and then had it stripped away form him. dylan was willing to quit, ending his life, for the same reason. and helly, who had been the one so desperate to end her life from the moment she set foot on that severed floor? her love for mark is what keeps her bound to that floor, now. i think that’s what they failed to consider when perfecting their severance process. whether or not love transcends severance, that doesn’t matter. but love in any form, in an existence that is otherwise so limited, that holds so much power