#The hill I'll die on lmao

[dapper-lil-arts]

One of my many arguments as to why Equestria needed 2 rulers

[emmg]

He wrestles with a feverish appetite, this crude and uninvited urge that intrudes at its own whim—though, really, when would such thoughts be welcome? It is not refined, not proper, to sit opposite her and let his mind wander to the gloss of her lips, to wonder how she might taste, to wish that the mascarpone she savors so languidly were his own flesh, heavy and impatient. 

He despises himself for it—wants to be better, finer, something more than hunger in its basest form. And yet, he wants. Sweetness, yes; kindness, yes; love in all its quiet splendor—but also salt and sweat, the lush, slippery heat between her legs, his or hers or both, some mingled thing he might catch on his fingers, press back inside her, trace along her trembling thighs as he coaxes her to completion. 

But it is not only this. No, his disease is greater, more humiliating still. He thinks of grand, maudlin absurdities. Of flowers left on windowsills, of rings slipped onto fingers, of days spent making memories out of nothing. And it is this, not lust, that he fears might truly appall her. Because hunger, after all, is easy to satisfy. It is love, foolish and relentless, that tends to send people running. 

You mustn’t be so sentimental, someone had murmured that to him once. He can no longer summon the speaker’s face, nor their voice, nor even their gender, only the ghostly trace of the words themselves, breathed or sighed, said once or, more likely, many times.

It became, in those gauzy, amber-lit years of his youth, something of a running jest. An affectionate, exasperated refrain, volleyed at him with the regularity of a well-worn melody. 

"Don’t fucking propose to the waitress, Volkarin. She’s bringing you a beer, not subtly signaling that she wants to die in your arms," Johanna would mutter, leaning back against the sticky wood of some dimly lit tavern, where they debated spirits over spirits.

"They’re funding your research, Emmrich, not secretly applying to be the mother of your children."

"Your new assistant is very handsome. Try not to hyperventilate when he hands you a quill."

He laughed along. It was funny, after all. Until, inevitably, it wasn’t. Until the joke, fossilized through sheer, relentless overuse, lost its shape and became a dull thing, something to stub his patience against. Until his forced little chuckles gave way to eye-rolls, to abrupt departures, to a growing sense that he was, in fact, trapped in some long-running farce penned by a particularly untalented playwright.

They were all married now, every last one of them—the tireless jesters, the committee of mirth who, years later, still found delight in flogging the same long-dead horse. And he wasn’t. Not that he was alone, of course. He had his affairs, his amusements, his charming little entanglements. But still, from time to time, a most delicate and specific malice stirred in him. 

He wanted to dig up some particularly malicious little corpse, whisper something truly awful to it, and dispatch it to haunt them. Not in any grand, dramatic fashion. No moaning, no rattling of chains. Just a gentle, relentless nuisance. A ghost of mild inconvenience. A door that won’t quite shut. A draft they can’t find. A whisper when they’re shaving. A misplaced document on the morning of a big presentation. 

The sort of thing a petty man might dream up. And he has, after all, always been petty.

He tried, though. He tries still. To smooth the edges of his affections, to hush the operatic swell of his heart, to trade grand declarations for something gentler, something more palatable. Not entirely, of course—self-betrayal is a vulgar thing. But enough. Just enough to keep from frightening them, from scattering them like startled birds. 

For Rook, mostly. Because Rook is not like him. Rook does not do sentiment. Rook has the supreme, indifferent ease of someone born beautiful, the kind of beauty that turns heads and opens doors without so much as a sidelong glance of acknowledgment. Rook has never had to earn affection—it accumulates around her the way cigarette smoke clings to velvet. Rook rolls her eyes at poetry. Rook, with her lazy smirk and her miraculous ability to construct entire, fully functional sentences composed exclusively of obscenities.

He loves Rook very, very much. He suspects Rook loves him too, in her own peculiar way. She smiles, she laughs, she allows him his embarrassing little effusions, even kisses him for his trouble—then, with perfect timing, calls him a dweeb and steals the last sip of his drink. 

It’s fine. He’s learned to translate. In Rook’s private dialect, dweeb means yes, fine, I suppose you amuse me, a kiss means I would be inconvenienced by your untimely death, and drinking the last of his whiskey? That, of course, is a vow of eternal devotion. Or something like that.

It all collapses into a feverish, tangled catastrophe one evening. A breathless, ill-advised implosion of longing and lust and something dangerously adjacent to reverence. She is so, so beautiful, and he wants to touch her, of course, but also—he wants to read to her. Not the dull, airless sonnets, no, but the real poetry, the ones thick with scandal, with sin, the ones that might cajole that sharp little smirk from her lips. Maybe while his fingers are inside her. Maybe precisely then.

He wants to coax pleasure from her, whispering thick, illicit syllables against her skin, punctuating each lewd phrase with the curl of his knuckles, just to see how the two mingle, just to see which makes her gasp first. To see if she’ll arch into it, if she’ll moan, if she’ll laugh. Because of course she’ll laugh. She always does. Even when he licks his fingers clean, even when he settles between her thighs, even when he finds his own satisfaction in the aftermath of hers, she will be laughing. 

It happens like that, and yet, not like that at all. Because as he collapses against her, boneless and spent, something dreadful and unmistakable unfurls in his chest—too late, of course, always too late. His sentimentality, that incurable affliction, has caught up with him at last, threading itself through his ribs, pressing its damp, foolish hands against his throat. 

He bows his head to her chest, breathing her in, willing himself to contain it, to gather the wet, trembling edges of his absurd little heart and tuck them out of sight. Perhaps she will not notice. Perhaps she will feel only the smile he presses into her skin, as if that might smother the rest. 

A silence—brief, terrible, perceptive. 

"Oh no," she says, and he feels her fingers weave into his hair, loose and lazy and terribly knowing. "What the fuck did I do?" 

He shakes his head—not much, nothing at all, everything. Just a little.

"Nothing, my darling," he says, only slightly unsteady. "Nothing at all. I am—" a soft exhale, an almost-laugh, "—very happy." He swallows. Feels the first pangs of self-reproach begin to bloom, acid-sweet. "Only… allow me a moment to gather myself. It will pass." 

A brief caress at the base of his neck. Then, just as he begins to sink into it, she shifts, shoves, displaces him. He rolls onto his back, compliant, expectant, and she follows, settling astride him, her thighs bracketing his ribs, her cool hands framing his face. 

"Happy?" she confirms. 

"Yes, happy." 

"Hm." A small, satisfied noise. "Good. Happy and pretty. You’re so very pretty." 

She does not elaborate—she never does—but she kisses him. Thoroughly. His cheeks first, then his chin, the arch of his brow, the slow, methodical placement of lips upon skin, like affixing wax seals to letters never meant to be sent. His eyes, last. She drags a fingertip down, drawing his lids closed as if dimming a lamp. Then, the press of her mouth, warm, dry, familiar. And then—oh.

The flick of her tongue, feline and quick, slips between his lashes, parting what she has only just sealed, grazing the raw, unguarded wet beneath. He flinches; she giggles, breath skimming his cheek, unreasonably pleased with herself. 

She does it again, slower this time, the tip of her tongue tracing the curve of his eyelid. Then once more, lower now, across the ridge of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. A methodical, absentminded mapping—kisses pressed to skin with no particular urgency, a grazing of teeth when the impulse strikes her. He lies still beneath her, utterly at her mercy, though she is hardly in a hurry to exploit it. She seems content merely to taste him, her breath leaving damp traces that cool, then tighten, then disappear. 

Chocolate, yes, still lingering from earlier, something dark and rich that settles at the back of his throat just from breathing her in. Salt, too, a faint sting where sweat beads along the curve of her upper lip. 

Finally, an exhale. A minute adjustment of her weight as she lifts her head, pleased, apparently, with whatever inscrutable calculation she has been making. A kiss, light as a comma, stamped onto the very center of his mouth. 

“There you go,” she announces, stretching her arms overhead, yawning into her wrist, smiling that slow, pleased smile of hers. “All cleaned up. Not a tear in sight, since you seem to find your own emotions so mortifying.” 

"Thank you," he says, and, disastrously, feels like he might start crying again. 

"Mm-hm." A pause. Her fingers tapping absently against his cheek. "There’s a joke in here somewhere." 

"Is there?"

A frown, thoughtful, exaggerated, her brows knitting together in careful concentration before giving way to a terrible smile. "Yes." A beat. Then, the telltale flicker of something truly indecent behind her eyes. "Something about staying hydrated. Or maybe—" a pause, as if she is weighing her options "—eating out your third eye." 

He laughs then immediately chokes as she presses her hand to his throat for balance, the casual weight of it cutting off just enough air to send his body into brief, ungraceful revolt. 

"Never short on dreadful puns, I see." His voice, when it returns, is slightly hoarse. 

"Never," she agrees. Then, with a flourish of indulgence, she leans down again, kissing his eyelids one by one. “So you continue doing this—” kiss, kiss, kiss “—and I'll continue doing that.” 

Disgracefully, absurdly, he cries again, even as she laughs, even as her laughter spreads like ink in water, pulling him under, until the whole thing disintegrates into some ungovernable mixture of mirth and misery. He is laughing too—helplessly, wet-faced, ridiculous—and she, entirely unbothered by his descent into sentimentality, licks at the salt on his cheeks like a cat, or perhaps some particularly devoted dog, calling him pretty, pretty, pretty in that lazy, drawling way of hers, as if the word itself were a charm, a refrain, a verdict.

He wants to ask her why—why this word, why now, why, of all possible things, she has settled on this ludicrous, ill-fitting descriptor as he lies before her, blotchy and unsightly and utterly, embarrassingly undone. But she only snorts into his collarbone, her breath warm, unbothered, and the chant continues, pretty, pretty, pretty, until he is left with no choice but to accept it.

In the morning, his eyes are red. Lucanis notices. Davrin notices. The two, incapable of letting a thing be, set about turning his misfortune into sport, taking turns to see who can unearth the most appallingly indecent explanation.

He feels a migraine approaching. 

And then Rook arrives, deposits a cup of coffee into his hands, and, without so much as a glance at him, declares, “He snorted too much powder last night. Leave him alone.” 

Ah. 

Oh.

He sits there, staring at her, vaguely appalled, impossibly infatuated, hopelessly starry-eyed. Very well, then. She has let sentiment in—however unwittingly, however carelessly—and now she will drown in it. And then, once she is thoroughly waterlogged, he will buy her all the gold in Nevarra. 

[fadetouchedfennec]

it beats for you

[hailsatanacab]

chapter three!!

did you guys survive chapter 2? Danny did!! if only barely 😬

there's markedly less gore in this chapter, thank goodness, and now Alfred gets to explain what on earth he was thinking about signing a contract like that??? Alfred??? Explain???

[adorawasright]

adora snapping out of her death in beast island by remembering the kindness angella, glimmer and her friends gave her >>>>>> adora realizing "she deserves love too", but it's catra's love, not the ppl who actually respected her

[myymi]

ive gotten into the essay portion of class so i apologize if my fics suddenly seem very proper

[authenticparanoidghosts]

hey, found your blog by accident. i see that you have many opinions on chess. what are your thoughts on freddie's arc in the obc? ngl, i kind of love that he never improves. he's a hysteric diva to the end. i think that's so fun but it's also so interesting how he gets a weird sort of redemption arc in every single revival i've read the summary of lol. florence vassy you just haven't got the instincts of a winner!!!!!!!!!!

okay first of all we need to understand two things. 1) I received a CD of the original concept album for christmas, which I promptly loaded into my car's CD player, and 2) it took me a really long time to guess what OBC might stand for. I'm still not totally convinced it isn't Original British Concert, but enough about Chess in Concert! enough, I say! I don't care what Tim Rice said in 2009, Chess in Concert is the coward's way out!

Original Broadway Cast Freddie is a great Freddie because he sucks so bad. it is so important that Freddie sucks. it is, I would argue, fundamental to his character that he sucks like crazy and is generally unpleasant to be around. Broadway Freddie is so weird and dramatic and pathetic. he throws a big fit about the yogurt, he ditches Mountain Duet to do One Night in Bangkok, he's Walter's babygirl who is so so easy to manipulate. they don't let him in on the big plot to get Anatoly back to Russia, they don't even let him win at chess on his own merits!! Anatoly has to outright throw the match for Freddie to finally become world champion, which I find a very funny choice for the American version of the musical.

within the swirling multiverse of Whatever Chess Is Supposed To Be, I like Freddie a lot. I like when he acts weird and bad, because the point of him is to be a flawed human being whose faults reflect on himself rather than the material success of his country/capitalist ideology. Freddie gets to be annoying and misogynistic and hurtful and childish all out in the open because he is Anatoly's mirror, because Anatoly is not a paragon of Russian ideology/communist superiority, he is also just some guy who sucks and is hurtful and misogynistic and childish. Anatoly fighting for his right to be judged as an individual invites this comparison by default - as rivals, they are the only truly "equal" characters in the story - so when Anatoly becomes a man who is not the Representative of Everything Russian, it makes the viewer aware that Freddie is not just a boiled down extraction of what it means to be American. and therefore, when Freddie does something lame and bad, we know this is because he is lame and bad as an individual, and that Anatoly is also lame and bad on his own merits.

I don't think Freddie needs a redemption ("redemption" or maybe, like, "minor improvement") arc to be an interesting character, so I don't feel like I'm missing anything from the Broadway version of him where he doesn't really grow or change as a person. the MOST important thing about Freddie is his positioning relative to Anatoly (men will hurt every woman who comes into their life because their real [NARRATIVE PARALLEL] is another man), so as long as that's interesting, I'm having a great time. in the original Broadway production Freddie is unaltered by the events of the plot, and therefore Anatoly is pulled, magnetically, back to his starting position. the board resets, same as it ever was, with Anatoly back in Russia, Freddie chasing fame as the American champion, and Florence alone, with nobody on her side.

[akascow]

‘calliou is so fucking annoying and bratty’ thats literally how 4 year olds act tho HAHA

[writingatthedisco]

𝐉𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚, 𝐉𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚! 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐑𝐏 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬!

CW: mentions of alcohol.

"We are agents, our home is the dark!"

"We are potent, accurate as clockwork!"

"The air is clean!

"It is difficult to describe it in words."

"The day is good, the day is quiet."

"Whiskey is the best, vodka is the best, gin is also the best!"

"My dear father taught me this song."

"Sing, oh sing my brother!"

"Here you won't be alone."

"Everything you want is here; good people and a warm home!"

"Let every day be a good one!"

"I won't ever forget this beautiful land."

"What will happen to us tomorrow? Does anyone know that?"

"Where is our ship sailing?"

"Maybe dawn won't come tomorrow."

"Let the sun warm us a little bit more."

"I hope a day will come when it won't be a far and unbelievable dream."

"There are still good people who believe in hope."

"May this whole world still bask in sunshine."

"In comparison, English gardens look like a desert!"

[a-dragons-journal]

What is your opinion on clinical lycanthropes being in/interacting with otherkin spaces?

(Sorry for the delay on this.)

I mean... honestly, I don't have much of an opinion beyond the "if someone isn't hurting anyone, leave them alone" principle and the fact that I don't restrict the definition of "otherkin" based on the reason for someone's nonhuman identity.

(...I said that, and then I wrote several paragraphs expanding on that opinion, but it does boil down to that, I promise. :P)

I see very few potential problems that can be caused by delusion-based and non-delusion-based nonhuman identities interacting with each other, and most of them - confusion between "delusion" and "belief," risk of encouraging harmful delusions, etc. - are already kept in mind and addressed by basically all the endels and clinical lycanthropes I've met. Generally speaking, no one knows how to handle delusions better than the people who experience delusions.

The concerns I've seen people raise are largely problems with individual people, not problems to warrant trying to shun an entire group of people for the crime of having a disorder or anything. (And, frankly, a lot of them are concerns that apply just as easily to nonhumans who aren't clinical lycanthropes but go "off the deep end," as it were, with spirituality and magical/astral explanations for everything.)

Is a nonhuman identity that's affected by or even based in clinical lycanthropy the same as your average otherkin experience? No. But then, what is the "average" otherkin experience exactly? There's already an enormously broad range of experience under the term "otherkin" - people with one kintype or two or twelve or thirty, people who shift on a near-daily basis or never shift or are always shifted, people who are animals down to the bone with all the unpleasant and gross instincts to accompany and people who are part of a civilization more civilized and enlightened than humanity has ever been, people whose nonhumanity stems from past lives or psychological quirks or misplaced souls or unconscious imprinting or coping mechanisms, etc. etc.

The common thread among us all is nonhuman identity - and if that's present enough in someone who experiences clinical lycanthropy to make them feel comfortable in and connected to the otherkin community, then who am I to tell them they're not permitted because their reason for that identity and the precise experiences tied to it for them are different from mine, when that's already the case for so many people in our community?

[snock-ock]

So spider-verse 2 is rumored to be longer than two hours which makes me think-

We COULD get one little glimpse at an Ock version right-

[sonicstorybook]

SATBK Origintober 5

In Chretien de Troyes' Perceval (The Story of the Grail), Gawain has a habit of not telling anyone his identity unless directly asked. But once he's asked, he won't refuse to answer or give an alias.

While they [the Maiden of the Small Sleeves and Gawain] were conversing, her father [the Vavasor*] came into the square and did everything in his power to persuade my lord Gawain to stay the night and take lodgings with him, but first he begged and requested him to tell him his name, if he would. My lord Gawain refused to stay but told him: "Sir, I am called Gawain; I've never refused to reveal my name anywhere it was asked, but I've never given it unless I was first asked for it."

*Vavasor was a position in feudal law who served as like... an overseer/administrator for a baron. The vavasour was a vassal of the baron, but also had tenants under him. So I would say, like, moderate social standing but below Gawain's station for sure.

[icanbeyourgenie]

ZELRON (Taylor's Version) — 1989

wonderland / this love / you are in love / style / all you had to do was stay / out of the woods

[gcdfvcked]

what if... filthy lil things on the cord

[namtanlovesfilm]

nah I’m sorry I’m gonna bring up an upsetting topic for y’all again bc it’s my most unpopular opinion ever, but I just saw someone say “it’s no surprise gmmtv shows and bad buddy haven’t been nominated for an emmy.” first of all, emmy are american awards, why would a thai show, as popular as it was, be nominated??? and MORE IMPORTANTLY, BAD FUCKING BUDDY?????? out of all the fucking great gmmtv shows out there you really think bad buddy is the cream of the crop that deserves a fucking emmy?????? this fandom is driving me insane lmaooooooo I can’t take it anymore

[rotisseries]

I JUST FINISHED REREADING LEGENDBORN AND STARTED BLOODMARKED LAST NIGHT AND COME ON HERE AND YOU'RE ALSO READING IT 😨😨 WE SYNCED

CLOWN TO CLOWN COMMUNICATION. OUR UNBREAKABLE BOND