#NO ONE FUCKING CLAIM HIM

[ratatatastic]

BOQY ON WAIVERS IM GONNA MURDER THIS TEAM

[yeyinde]

trying to seduce or rile up Price only for it utterly backfire on you has got to be one of my favourite things ever. especially if it's framed like a reluctant aggressor situation that flips on its head. because while he might not have wanted to do this at first, once he starts, there's absolutely no stopping him until he's satisfied.

which just ends up with you on your knees, barely able to keep yourself up as he folds himself over you, furry chest glued to your spine, forearm shoved under your neck, fingers gripping your shoulder to keep you locked in place as he sets out to make you regret ever trying to tempt him by viciously pounding his pent up aggression into your poor, abused pussy. gives you his full weight as a punishment, too; not stopping until all the air is squeezed out of your sore, burning lungs.

and all the while he rubs his bearded jaw over your sweat-slicked, tear stained cheek, and growls into your ear about how spoiled, needy little things don't get to cry now. not when he's just giving you exactly what you asked for.

so say thank you, sir and stop whining about it already 🙄

[somewhereincairparavel]

i will never understand how people have the heart to hate Jason even after they found out that his Ambrosia tastes like fucking sawdust. Ambrosia being tasty is like one single happy thing a demigod can have despite their tragic lives, because it reminds them of the home they once had, but lost. And Jason doesn't even have that, he doesn't even have a home to lose in the first place.

[consultingfujoshi]

some thoughts wrt the two established "romances" in severance so far (burt/irving and helly/mark) inspired by @figmentof who pointed out how irving had to find out mark and helly kissed from the corporate video in s2 e1 and how he must have felt seeing his co-workers' love affair like portrayed like that, and how it ties into the queer narrative at play here which uses workplace dynamics and policies as very clear analogues for real-life prejudice against queer couples. I mean, just look at this:

it's not just documented, but celebrated. used as propaganda for how the conditions on the severance floor have improved. proof that the severed workers are happy. and how even though he is unaware of the sociopolitical meaning of all this, lumon is very not-subtly telling him that what he had with burt is inherently lower and less valuable than this.

irving doesn't even know homophobia exists and yet he is still affected by it, it still seeps into every corner of the way his and burt's romance progresses. burt is positioned as an unacceptable love interest from the jump. irv is actively discouraged at every turn from pursuing it. their friendship is viewed with disgust and apprehension from their coworkers. burt working in a different department that's hated by MDR. dylan himself not being homophobic in the sense he opposes their relationship because they're both men but his attempts to keep them apart still has a parallel sort of prejudice behind it and still ultimately has the same effect as if it WERE driven by homophobia. irving is made to feel perverse for wanting contact with burt. he's told this is for his own good.

and then, just as they manage to overcome that immediate resistance from their peers and escape to a place where they can explore this blossoming romance on their own terms, burt retires. for all it matters to irv, he's dead. and then irving is given the option to live the rest of his life with grief that will never heal, or kill himself too, because there is no reality where they get to be together. that's just the way things are. of course they wouldn't get to be together. he was unreasonable and childish for ever hoping that could happen. this is just the way it goes for innies. he's told to get ahold of himself and not make a scene.

but the thing is, the standards are not the same for all. a heterosexual romance gets upheld as the shining example of success and fulfilment for the severed employees, whilst a homosexual romance is ridiculed and invalidated, and written off as something that was simply never meant to be. and even more importantly to irving, a heterosexual romance is APPROVED OF by lumon, and by extension, by kier. irv held back from allowing himself to even call his and burt's relationship a romance, because his god had told him it was wrong, he followed the handbook, thinking this was what kier wanted, and then finding out after suffering the worst heartbreak imaginable because of it, that this WASN'T EVEN TRUE. it's simply just that someone like HIM doesn't get to have something like this. his love is not the kind of love god wants. he does not approve of irv's love. cynical and manipulative though that approval may be (even within the context of the corporate video, the helly/mark romance is only being celebrated to further the narrative that lumon care for their workers, but the point still remains that it was THEIR romance specifically used to suit this end), when your entire life has been in pursuit of that approval, it must be devastating to learn it was never on the cards for you.

he and burt even used the fact kier met and fell in love with his wife in the same circumstances as them to justify this to each other - and they were RIGHT, god does approve of falling in love with your coworkers - this simply just doesn't apply to them specifically. and if irving needed any more proof that he no longer has a place at lumon, that he's better off not existing at all than existing with this pain that cannot be remedied, pain that won't even be acknowledged for what it is, a symptom of a sickness which plagues the entire severance system, pain that he is simply expected to choke down and get over - this is that proof.

and that's the POINT. they're TELLING us that this is unjust, and there's a double standard. they're using the ways the innies experience romance and the difference in lumon's reaction (lumon being the collective of all the management we've seen, lumon as a singular entity) to burt/irving vs helly/mark to comment on how queer people are not afforded the same level of respect or validation IN REAL LIFE, for their attachments, their love, their pain, their suffering. it is NOT just incidental that irving's romance is with a man. it would not WORK if his love interest was a woman. the POINT is that they are both men and how that puts them at a disadvantage, even if they aren't aware of the prejudices of the outside world, even if they don't TECHNICALLY apply on the severance floor, there are very clear analogues which still end up oppressing them in equivalent ways that they would be suffering if this were a normal workplace in the outside world.

it genuinely sickens me to my stomach that even in a world so divorced from reality and the sensibilities of regular society, a queer couple is still made to suffer and feel inferior in a way that perfectly mirrors their real-life counterparts. how they will never, EVER be allowed to exist in a world where their love could thrive freely and uninhibited - they never get to taste the joy our world has to offer people like them, but they are still somehow subjected to all the pain it has to offer them regardless. it's such horrifically devastating writing. it makes my skin crawl. I can't stop thinking about it

[rhiangalaxy]

A Wild Mobei-Jun Appears! (IAC Pt.5) (First/Prev/Next)

[ID: A Scum Villain Comic. The first panel shows a back view of Chibi!Plant Yuan watches the spirit eagle screens, the main one featuring Gongyi Xiao and Luo Binghe, to which a bubble next to him shows a :D!" face. Then the Spirit Eagle screens shatter, causing Chibi!SY to jump slightly. He turns with a concerned expression, frighteningly saying "A-Die-" As other voices scream out "What's going on???" "Lord Yue!" "What is the meaning of this?" "The Spirit Eagles!"

Panel two has Shen Qingqiu placing a hand on SY's shoulder, the other holding a closed fan with a concerned expression and saying "Stay here. Zhangmen-Shixiong and I will enter the barrier." SY protests with his fist slightly raised with a "But!" To which Chibi!SQQ points to him with an aggrieved look and states "You are to stay with your Mu-Shishu and Wei-Shishu. Understood?" Chibi!SY looks down at his fists with an "Understood" a box next to him saying "Already plotting his escape."

Panel three has Wei Qingwei and Mu Qingfang appearing behind SY to his surprise. WQW assures SQQ by saying "Don't worry. We'll keep an eye on him Shixiong." MQF with a concerned look has an hand placed on SY's arm and says "Just focus on getting the disciples to safety." Chibi!SQQ nods with a pinched look. It cuts to battle-torn Luo Binghe and Gongyi Xiao convered in various scratches and blood, both wielding their spiritual swords. LBH with a grimace states "Somethings not right..." To which GYX replies "I agree, I'm sure our Shizuns will do something-"

Panel Four is completely drawn in chibi style. A yell of "Shizhi!" startles both GYX and LBH. SQH appears with a closed eye nervous smile with his hands raised out as a bubble representing LBH goes "Shang-Shishu?" SQH replies "Ah, fancy meeting you guys here!" GYX asks "Have you come to help Lord Shang?" SQH nervously goes "Uh...yes! Of course! I'm here to get you both to-" He's interrupted by a rumble that causes LBH and GYX to tense up and stumble in confusion, LBH yelling out "What's going on?"

The final panel depicts Mobei Jun standing in front of the entrance to the Endless Abyss, an angered look on his face muttering the words "Huan Hua..." Chibi!LBH glares towards him whilst Chibi!GYX looks on with a concerned but confused look questioning "A demon lord?" Chibi!SQH stands nervously behind them, sweating with a :[ face. End ID]

[laniidae-passerine]

positively obsessed with how Rockstar Lestat is the exact kind of guy one of my friends would show me a picture of and swear he’s really sexy and cool and brilliant. Whole time I’m thinking “oh dear GOD” staring at a trainwreck weirdo and wondering what’s happened to everybody else that is absolutely missing me. jesus christ he’s blond

[kacievvbbbb]

You ever think about how Mihawk definitely does not hear his name alot?

Like there are probably only 2 people in the entire world that consistently refer to him by name. To the rest of the world he’s just an epithet. He might as well have no real name for as little as he hears it.

He’ll hear it at introductions always preface by his epithet, he’ll see it in the bounty posters and notice it in the history books. But barely anyone will ever calm him that. Just a pink headed ghost girl and the red headed half of the most complicated situationship panning 20 years.

You ever think about how Shanks probably has a thousand and one nicknames for Mihawk he cycles through at a whim but maybe Mihawk’s favorite will always be the soft way in which Shanks calls out his given name like that’s all there is too it like there’s a Mihawk that exists all on its own. No matter the situation Shanks calls him Mihawk and he has his full attention

[ahappydnp]

once again treating this like a 2013 perfectly timed screenshot manip (x)

[jakkenpoy]

[cloysterbell]

Pete, I need you to stay here.

[macfrog]

wish you were here | one shot

thank you lovely anon for this gorgeous request which felt like a huge mug of hot chocolate and a pair of socks fresh from the dryer to write. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you and joel skip jackson’s annual holiday party in favor of some alone time. (not that kind you filthy animals it’s the HOLIDAYS)

warnings: fluff lmao, thirty-year age gap and u can stay mad, set around the holidays but no mention of christmas etc, nothing but love and two hints of sex. that's all. oh and no guitars were harmed in the making of this - joel canonically goes and gets the guitar after the fic ends. dw.

word count: 1.9k 

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤎

Jackson is alive with a thrumming heartbeat. Pulsing through the air, bumping gently against the quick-lying snow and filling the otherwise silent night. A steady, rhythmic heartbeat.  

A heartbeat which sounds a lot like Blue Monday, but a heartbeat nonetheless.

The holiday party is in full swing down in the Tipsy Bison. Seven o’clock ‘til late! on flyers plastered all over the commune for the last month. Tommy had tried relentlessly to convince Joel this morning on patrol – It��ll be a good night; You oughta come along, show face at least. At the same time, Maria was on your back about it in the stables.

Y’all hardly come to anything fun, she’d argued.

We come to stuff.

When’s the last time you came to anythin’?

We were – we were at Mike’s birthday dinner.

What – five months ago?

We like alone time.

Alone time? You’re never apart from one another.

Alone time – together.

Neither attempt had been successful. Tommy and Maria had exchanged a disheartened glance as the two brothers passed their horses to you on their return. Joel clipped your cheek, took his gloves off and fixed them onto your frozen hands before making off for home, a proud grin on his face. You’d held your own as well as he had: you two had a clear evening ahead.

He had lit and nurtured a fire, had made himself a coffee and heaped half a damn bag of tiny marshmallows into a hot chocolate for you, but when he’d come through to take his place on the couch, you were already stood out front.

It’s bitter out – a soft breeze, but a thick chill on its wings. The sky a washed gray, heavy clouds overhead. He slips outside, setting the mugs down on the table, and slings a blanket over your shoulders. Kisses the curve of your neck, scruff of his beard tickling your skin.

‘s freezing, pretty bird.

Then keep me warm, you whisper, turning into his arms. He steps back, settling into his chair, flicking his fingers for you to fall down into his wide lap.

You curl up against his torso, your head hooked beneath his jaw. Wonder how drunk Tommy is by now. What is it – nine?

His wrist lifts, moonlight gleaming in the reflection of his broken watch face. Just gone ten. I bet he’s on his ass already.

You giggle into his shirt, breathing in the scent of the pine trees, the smoke from stoking the fire inside, the bite of hot coffee. The echo of voices swelling in merry song turns your attention down the street – two figures hooked onto one another, stumbling through the powdered snow. Some slurred rendition of September melting into All Night Long before the smaller of the two tugs their partner off into a darkened house.

Joel laughs to himself, the bristle of his beard catching on your hair as he shakes his head.

You ask him softly, Will you play me something?

His breath soars, a cloud hot and pale white, past your temple and up into the pastel sky. Gets swallowed somewhere overhead by the wash of warmth from the porch light. He turns his mug until the owl faces the street, the bottom gnawing against the wooden armrest of his chair.

I’m serious.

What do you wanna hear?

That one you’re always practicin’. The plucking one.

Another rumble between your shoulder blades. His chest jolts with a solid laugh. The pluckin’ one.

You know the one.

I know the one.

Will you play it, if I go get the guitar?

Baby, his lungs nudge on your back as they fill, it’s late. We’ll wake the neighbors.

Everyone’s at the dance. C’mon.

And he can’t argue with that. The entire street lies dark, vacant. Yours is the only house with soft-glowing eyes, the muted orange of the fire flickering behind closed blinds. Two figures, tangled in a chair on the dim front porch; a hunting jacket around his shoulders, and his body around yours.

You tug on the blanket, wrapping it around your elbows as you stand. Just once. Play me it once.

Joel’s looking up at you, setting his mug down on the table. Play you it as many times as you want, pretty bird. Just – quietly.

There’s a spring in your step that drags another chuckle from Joel’s lips: the kind that drips like honey down your throat and warms the pit of your stomach – a sweet, comforting thing, a sound you swear was made purposefully for you. Divine and deliberate.

Like – all of him. Like the shape of your name in his mouth, the curl of his tongue as the sound surfs over it. Like the curve of his hand and the way yours so neatly molds into it.

The way it did the day he found you, crouched in the gray backroom of some butchers deep in the city, and took you all the way back to Jackson. Let you cling to him on the back of his horse; your weak arms around his waist, anchored by the heavy jacket he’d thrown over your back. Your ear between his shoulder blades. And that was that.

Fifty-six. One brown-turned-silver hair away from thirty years your senior. He still remembers before. Talks about movies, talks about computers. Talks about Sarah, when the sun hits the wall at a certain angle and he reckons he could see her standing right there, the soft shadow of her hair dark against the golden wall. When you make a joke and he laughs a ghostly sort of laugh, like he’s hearing the echo of her voice make the same quip three decades ago. He always says she would’ve loved you; you like to think he’s right.

He found you: a lonely little broken heart, and he pulled you to your feet with a rough palm against your own. Hands calloused only from years spent carving wood and pressing the hard strings of his guitar into the fretboard, and nothing else. No violence and no bloodshed; no survival or threat. Music, and patience, and kindness.

And maybe you found him, too, in the same sort of way: roughened up, awkward and messy stitches holding him together. Maybe the two of you nursed one another back to life; each brush of your hands in the dining hall and each meaningful glance while out on patrol sewing those wounds up a little tighter, a little safer.

He sits forward when you hold the instrument out, sweeping a broad palm down the slope of the body. Pinches the pegs one by one, twisting them while his thumb taps on each string.

Come here, he says, beckoning you forward with a flick of his chin. He taps on the seam of his jeans, widens his legs for you to curl up between them at his feet – the way you always do.

Your elbows hook over his thigh, ear pressed against the inside of his knee. Staring up, blinking slowly, eyes glazed with the cold and with the light and with love.

He plucks gently, slow at first. Letting the strings snap with a twang, vibrating enough that you feel the small rattle in your jaw. Your eyes fall closed, head rocking with the light tap of his heel on the porch. When you peer at him through your lashes, he’s watching the skilled movements of his fingers intently; as if he’s as much a spectator as you are – his body doing all of the thinking and working for him.

 So, he sings, and your stomach melts to a puddle, so you think you can tell –

Your eyes close again, the low rumble of his voice crisp in your ears. Like thunder, like the promise of something great and mighty. Something moving, something rolling and changing the landscape of your body, your mind and your soul. The lines between living and dying begin to blur, the seam tearing between this plain and the next.

Did they get you to trade – your lips parting to whisper the words with him – your heroes for ghosts?

His thumbnail dragging down the strings, his strong fingers flitting between chords. Like he was made to sit here, in the dead of night, and carve a space in the world for himself and his voice and for you – lain in the safe scope of his body, protected by his breadth and brawn and lulled by his sweet song.

His breadth and brawn – the parts of him which have kept him standing here. His skeleton, his muscle. But the thing that keeps you warm at night, buried side by side under a threadbare woolen sheet together, the thing that you link your arms around as he leads you home from the nights you dare to visit the Tipsy Bison: are his heart, his flesh, the gray-singed hair which falls in a featherlight wave over his forehead. The hair you sweep from his eyes when he’s on top of you, his hips cradled in yours, that all-encompassing feeling of every part of him filling every part of you.

It all feels that way. The warmth of him, the feeling of being wrapped around him. Hooked around his body, bones intertwined. Absorbing one another, his words breathing life into yours, slowly growing louder and braver with each pluck and strum of music.

We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

Your makeups entangling, ribcages locking together, flesh meeting flesh and hair twisting until one day, Tommy will come looking for his brother and find the two of you here on your porch, your arms still draped over Joel’s thigh and his fingers still mid-song. Stuck, alone, together.

What have we found? Joel looks down to you as though asking the question – his eyebrows raised – and you reply, a dumb smile across your lips, The same old fears, and then, together –

Wish you were here.

He plays until his fingers must start to hurt, the way he clenches and loosens his fist. Setting the guitar against your chair, hands hooking under your arms to pull you back up to him.

That one your favorite? he asks, the cold tip of his nose circling yours.

You nod. Only when you sing it.

I like the way we sound together.

You smile, shrinking into his chest again, your fingers surfing back and forth on the worn shirt. I like the way we do a lot of things together.

His hands slip beneath the fabric of your shirt, massaging your waist. He dots a trail of light, damp kisses along your forehead, dipping to your temple, the angle of your cheek until your jaw lifts and his lips are against yours, his tongue parting to lick purposefully at yours.

I love you, pretty bird, he whispers, the words falling sweet and fair on your tongue.

You take a moment to let them seep into your skin. ‘s the first time you’ve ever said that, you tell him.

Joel smiles. He knows. But you knew it already, he counters.

You know, too. Mhm.

Alright, he groans, slipping his hands under your thighs and hoisting you up to his height, bedtime.

It’s only ten, you complain, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he carries you inside. It’s too early to sleep – Joel.

Didn’t say we were goin’ to sleep, he mumbles, kicking the door shut.

[allthatmay]

So, today my husband said, "Some people think Shanks is a radial leftist, but I think he's the most centrist character in the show. Dragon fills the role of the radial leftist/anarchist that people often attribute to Shanks."

And, huh, yeah. People do often talk about Shanks like he's an anarchist, but he's really not. I've always said that Shanks is a mediator, keeping a tentative peace between the pirate tribes and the government until the time comes wherein the One Piece can be claimed and the mysterious consequences can happen, but that means he is effectively playing the part of a centrist—straddling the fence, as it were. The key difference, I think, is that Shanks knows for certain that change is coming in the form of a rubber deity, and he is trying to guide it into place. All his work is done behind the scenes with very little violence if he can help it.

Now, it's easy to assume that Shanks' plans involve the complete dissolution of the government as it presently stands; that he is simply using his power & influence to mitigate harm for the many until the "real fight" can begin (and, with him having recently decided to chase the One Piece, now it has), but that might not be the case (and, even if it is the case, a lot of centrists use "mitigating harm for the many" as a reason not to take action against some truly heinous acts). The reality may be that Shanks doesn't see the need for the total collapse of the government, or perhaps he knows something about it that we don't (i.e. because he might be of Celestial Dragon blood). I don't really believe this is the case because, as far as I'm aware, Shanks hasn't ever shown any real support for the World Gov but he has shown, time and time again, that he believes in dreams, in people's personal willpower, and in the ability of anyone to become strong and change the future. But the truth is that we can't know his intentions for certain without Oda giving us more information, so my husband's assertion that Shanks is a centrist makes some sense.

In particular, Luffy is what makes this theory interesting: slap him in between Dragon and Shanks, and there's a very real dichotomy between the two "fathers" in his life. See, Luffy idolises Shanks and thinks of him similarly to a father, but he might realise as time goes on that he can't be like Shanks; he might realise that Shanks' ideals will only carry him so far. After all, what good is it to be a pacifistic when your enemy is a powerful government that is comfortable with mass murder?

(My rebuttal is that Luffy is the only one who can be like Shanks. He is effectively Shanks' dream: Shanks wants to be strong enough to do all the work himself, to suffer all the pain himself, and while he is one of the strongest men in the world, he simply can't do that; what he can do is only achievable through the support he has at his side. Meanwhile, Luffy has close support in his crew, and he has the Gum-Gum Fruit! He can literally become a godlike figure and shape the world around him! He can do everything that Shanks wants and needs and, as sure as I am that Shanks wishes he could have done it himself—I'm thinking back to his days with Roger here—he knows that it was never meant to be him.)

This is where Dragon comes in. Dragon, in direct contrast to Shanks, uses violence as a tool whenever he can. He's all about the greater good, for lack of a better term. His thinking is along the lines of, "People are suffering now and we can help, and we have no qualms in forcibly dismantling a government that uses slavery, genocide, and imprisonment to control its populace. We don't wait for the right time to act, we simply act." Do I think Shanks would approve of Dragon's goals? Yes. Do I think he would approve of Dragon's means in achieving those goals? No, but mostly because Shanks is very self-sacrificial and tries to take whatever suffering is necessary for change onto himself, relying only on his small, personal crew, whereas Dragon is happy to let other people martyr themselves for the rebel cause. He lets a small, amnesiac child join them, for crying out loud—something Shanks would never do, not even if the child proved very capable.

If anything is to come from this difference of ideals, I think it's that Luffy will learn from both of them and find his own way to the One Piece and into the world waiting beyond. Why? Well, because Luffy is all about freedom, and no one on the side of Dragon or Shanks is truly free. As for the world itself, it's hard to predict what will happen after Luffy's done with it because it's pretty dependent on Oda's philosophy. For instance, Oda seems to approve of monarchies, which is not something I would personally imagine remaining in a world without a governing body—but, hey, what do I know?

Of course, we all know that the true centrist in the show is undeniably Garp. He will let real, undeniable harm befall those he cares about in order to maintain the status quo, or to stop the government from toppling because [gasp] that would be the worst thing ever! He's a man who believes the government is essential and joins up in order to change it from the inside, only to fall short of his own expectations because he won't stand up when it matters most. Not even for the sake of his beloved grandson.

[ljubimaya]

The difference between Draken and Hanma is that Draken would turn your plushies around when he fucks you, while Hanma has you clutching the teddy bear he got you on your first date

[sangrefae]

hey guys i don't know if you know this but focusing on a disabled character's fragility and weakness as something sexy is kind of ableist. it's incredibly ableist actually. especially when you have a weird emphasis on how helpless he is and how his love interest could so easily do anything they wanted to him. did you know this. It's important to me that you know this

[swagglessmoth]

Tender moments

[vaguely-concerned]

there are a lot of daddy issues to go around on DS9 in general, but odo, bashir and garak are really in their own special little fucked up 'what am I but wrought in my father's image' club