#and then i have to deal with this bullshit

[queen-mihai]

I've said it before, but some of my favorite people in the world are what I lovingly call

Very Serious People

It's not that they don't have a sense of humor. Or that they don't get happy or horny or confused or weirded out

They just have a way of handling things that's straight to the point and hard to argue with.

"What are you gonna do if I don't do what you want? sUe Me!?"

"Yes. Would you like me to call my attorney now or wait until the deadline passes?"

That will stop a lot of bullshit FAST.

We can be pleasant when everybody's OK. We can make jokes when we're all safe. Until then Get Your Shit Straight.

I fucking love Very Serious People. They know the truth when they hear it. They don't suffer nonsense or bullshit. They WILL send you home to try again. But importantly, when you've got your shit right, you KNOW it's right and nobody can goddamn question you about it. And if they do, THEY can go deal with the Very Serious Person.

Heck yes you're allowed to be serious. That doesn't mean no more joking or playing around. It just means it's actually genuinely OK to Get Things Right and care that they're right.

It honestly comes from a place of love

in case anyone else needs to hear this it’s ok to be more serious. i don’t just mean ‘it’s ok to be serious sometimes’ i mean in general. not everyone has to be funny. it doesn’t have to mean you’re sad or unlikeable. you can just be serious and genuine most of the time and that’s great. i personally think that we’re too focused on ‘funny’ as the primary carrier of likeability right now. i often feel starved for serious conversation, for serious spaces, for a feeling of gravity. you don’t have make good jokes to give people a good time. i say, goof only as the spirit moves you, & don’t worry about it. 

[stevieschrodinger]

"No." Chrissy crosses her arms over her chest.

Eddie flops onto the bed dramatically, fucks it up, and slides onto the floor.

"But what about-"

"No."

"Chrissy-"

"No. This is it. This is your last chance. No fucking about, no forgiveness, no come back, you get that, right?"

"Yeah but they said that every other-"

"The label is ready to drop you."

"What?" Eddie screeches and climbs up off the floor. He's shirtless and sweaty, his hair half sicking up half sticking to his sweat. "They can't do that."

"They can. They will. The lawyers are already involved, Gareth's ready to walk away."

Eddie feels like he's just been slapped. Punched. Like he fell maybe, like that moment when you're nearly asleep but your body jolts you awake, a half remembered dream that you just tripped and went head first off the stage. "You're lying-" Chrissy doesn't lie, "Gareth. The guys, none of them would-" but he sees it now, sees it through unfortunately sober eyes. See's it in the look on Chrissy's face. Can look back at the half remembered drugged up haze of all the shit Eddie's gotten up to over the last two years. All the times he didn't show. All the times he pulled bullshit. All the times he staggered into practice, late and drunk. All the times he turned up high. All the times his therapist has made him talk through his mistakes, to own them, to be truthful with himself about his problems.

Eddie can't have a drink. He can't smoke anything or inject anything or shove anything up his nose. He has to deal with it. He has to see it. There's a mirror next to Chrissy, big and ornate, and overdone, just like everything else in the room. Drug addict Eddie decorated this room, black and red and gilt. Arrogant vampire chic. Eddie thought it was cool. Four months of rehab and therapy and he's come back to a bedroom he fucking hates. The godamn carpet is black; who even buys black carpet? The top of the dresser is a mirror; easier for the coke.

Eddie should have torn it all out already.

He stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn't even remember getting some of the tattoos he has. He's too thin, bony, sick looking. His skin is flush pink with rut and there's a wet patch where the head of his cock hangs heavy. Chrissy does not give a shit.

"Eddie, honey. They all would. They all will. This is what I've been telling you. They are done. One more slip, and that's it. Rehab said absolutely no emotional entanglements while you're vulnerable-"

"I am not fucking vulnerable-"

"Nothing at all that could undermine your progress. No Omega's Eddie, I mean it. No drugs. No rut suppressors, no hormones, no nothing. Eddie I have been through this place with a fine tooth comb, I swear to god there's not so much as a Tylenol in this whole building."

"But what if I get a headache?" Eddie asks, suddenly feeling pathetic and weak as a kitten.

"Steve will get you an ice pack."

Eddie blinks, "who the fuck is Steve?"

"He's here to help you through your rut-"

"You said no Omega-"

"He isn't. He's a Beta, and he's the best there is at this. He will feed you, he will nest with you, anything you need, he will get it for you, he will look after you, he will let you scent him until your rut is done-"

"But-"

"Beta scent is calming!" Chrissy talks over Eddie, "this is not a sex thing, you need to rub one out do not do it in front of Steve. Do not piss him off, do not push his boundaries, am I clear? The center highly recommended him for this, okay?"

Eddie rankles with irritation, with displeasure.

Chrissy's nose crinkles at the scent, "look, I chose Steve to reduce the risk okay, male Beta is about the safest person you can be with right now. You have been clean for nearly five months Eddie, please. I am begging you, not for me, for you, you will hate yourself for the rest of your life if you fuck this up again. And actually also for me because watching them rush you into intensive care I-" She stops, looks at the floor, "for me Eddie- I cannot watch you go through something like that again, okay? I am asking you as your friend, please."

The OD was stupid; but Eddie had it in his head he was immortal at the time. "Okay Chris. Okay."

"Good. Thank you. I...won't hug you right now though."

Eddie looks down at the tent he's pitching in his sweats, "that's fair."

Chrissy opens the bedroom door and leaves, there's a man standing there. Eddie's preference isn't men, and Chrissy knows that. Hell, Eddie would take an Alpha over a Beta, and Chrissy knows that too.

Eddie takes a deep breath. The voice of his therapist mutters something about judging people by their desirability. They've talked a lot about Eddie judging people; can this person provide drink, drugs, or a fuck? No? Then what's the point of them.

It's a hard thing to change, when that's been your worldview for years. Even so, Eddie cannot see the point of this man; so he shuts the door in his face.

[the-californicationist]

What would your fave position to be in with the 141, either individually or together... asking for a friend... <3

Mmm. Well. If it were me, personally?

(NSFW/MDNI under cut)

For Gaz, it’s gonna have to be big spoon little spoon. He’d be making us both late for work every morning, turning my hips just right so that he could slip his heavy morning wood inside. He’d start off so soft and gentle, but by the time he was stuffing himself down to the root of his huge cock, I’d wake up, feeling the wetness he’d been busy creating, nearly choking from how full I feel. My body would be rocking back and forth as he had his way with me. And when I chastise him for making me miss the train? Just placating little excuses murmured between kisses — “I’m already workin’, babes. Can’t ya feel your man? Hard at work…”

For Ghost, it’s the cowgirl to lotus to missionary pipeline. He’d start off flat on his back, demanding some face sitting or a sixty-nine situation. Then, he’d stick me right on top, egging me on — “Lemme see those fuckin’ tits bounce, love. Good girl.” Then, he’d get too bothered, unable to hold back, too hungry, too much of a control freak. So he’d sit up, wrapping his legs behind me, moving my hips with his hands and grinding me into a shaking trembling mess. Finally, when I could barely remember my own name, he’d press forward, pinning me on my back, arching over me like a shield, telling me — “Shh, shh. Tha’s alright, love. You don’t need to fuckin’ talk. Suck on my fingers like it’s my prick, yeah? Tha’s it… all the way in, there ya go.”

For Soap, it has to be legs-over-shoulders. That big Scottish cock is curved and I will be taking no notes! None. It’s bent at a cruel angle and perfectly shaped to drag his ruddy head right across my g-spot with every stroke. He’d love to press my thighs to my chest, going deeper or harder, his hands staying busy with my clit or my nipples or my mouth, always finding new buttons to push. He’d especially enjoy ripping mind-breaking orgasms from me, shoving my vibrator against my clit as he fucked me, teasing me with it and saying shit like — “Is she gonnae come again for me, bonnie? I ken there’s one more in her, and I willnae stop until I have it…”

And for my darling captain, John Price, it’s nothing but straight-up, bone-shaking, soul-rattling doggy. After a long hard day of dealing with unimaginable bullshit? I’m on all fours in the fucking foyer, face pressed into the hardwood, pussy spread open like a cheap whore, stuffed full of cock. When he sees me in that tight pair of jeans that he likes a little too much? There I am, shirt raked down below my breasts, back arching as I’m bent over the kitchen counter, his meaty palm wrapped around my neck, bruising my hips with how hard he’s rutting into me from behind. In the middle of the night, his fat prick drooling and heavy, swaying between his huge thighs? He’ll fist my hair in one hand and grope my ass with the other as he breeds me, snarling into my ear, “Filthy fuckin’ slag. Whose cunt is this? Hmm? Nuh-uh. Say my real name…” And he won’t come until I call him Daddy.

But all together? Preferably a perfect seal: Price and Soap fighting to fit inside my pussy, Gaz stuffing himself deep in my ass, and Ghost filling up my throat!

What about you, anon?? Got any favorites?

[w1shfullthink1ng]

𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅, 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 & 𝐌𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

nika mühl x teammate!fem!reader

DESCRIPTION/ while at a game you’re getting particularly targeted by the opposing team and it eventually gets out of hand but..nika don’t play about her girl

WARNINGS/ light descriptions of shoving & hitting, hateful words, descriptions of a bloody nose, cursing, spitting

Lost count of words but this is kinda short, more of a blurb (I think don’t quote me on that🌝)

THERE’S 3 THINGS NIKA DONT PLAY ABOUT, HERSELF, HER MONEY OR HER GIRL…you’ve always been independent and Nika knows you’re tough and can handle yourself but one of y’all’s relationship dynamics is you saying “I can do it myself” and Nika saying “I know you can but let me” She’s always been protective over you especially in games.

It’s the only the first quarter but you can tell that the opposing team was on your ass. You didn’t blame them at first, you where a menace on the court if you’re left un-guarded you would be quick to shoot. But it got the point where you where LITERALLY getting pushed around with multiple technical fouls getting called on the other team. Sure this was a contact sport but you where getting insanely targeted. You pull yourself together & get your head back in the game.

One of the opposing players had the ball, she sprinted down the court. She was on a mission but so where you. You block her shot and steal the ball passing it down to Nika she shoots and gets a three. The opposing player looked livid “that was just a fucking lucky play” the girl murmured at you and Nika. Both of you quick to snap your head around, you where pissed but held your tongue, Nika did the talking for you “How about you say it with your chest next time” she just rolled her eyes and continued the game.

As the game went on it only got worse the shoves got more personal, little snarky comments, the bitchy looks. It didn’t bother you as much as it did now, the refs not calling fouls on the other team for obvious techs only added fuel to the fire. Nika was fighting back for you giving back the same energy to them. The ball was in your hands and suddenly you got dogged on a girl trying to snatch the ball from you causing y’all both to fall to the ground you didn’t give up tho you snatched it right the hell back, “fucking bitch” she said getting all in your face. The whistle blew and a technical foul got called ONLY on you, you rolled your eyes as your teammates helped you up “bullshit” you exclaimed at the ref, Nika holds you back patting your back “Come on bebo they’re assholes I know but don’t get another unnecessary foul just fight them with your plays alright, make ‘em shut there mouths”

As the next quarter rolls around you just try to keep your head up, Nika having your back being aggressive with them & standing up for you. The balls back in your possession you go to make a shot but the same girl that pushed you down goes to “block”, her elbow hitting your nose knocking you down to the ground. The whole room felt like it was spinning there was a ringing in your ears. Once you felt a little more grounded you look down seeing blood on your jersey, you brought your hand up to your throbbing nose feeling the blood gushing down. The whistle blows a foul getting called on the opposing team fina-fucking-lly

“The fuck is your deal?” you see Nika yelling at the girl that elbowed you. “It’s a contact sport, if she can’t handle a little contact then she should pick a different sport” she bites back, Your teamates helps getting you to the medic. Nika scoffs at the girl. “maybe you should watch your damn mouth, getting all petty because you’re shit at basketball so you have to get fouls just to make a single shot” the girl shoved Nika and that’s when she lost it. Nika shoved her right back causing her to hit the ground. “Foul on Mühl” the ref called.

“keep my girls name out your fucking mouth” she spit on the girl. With another foul called on her she got dragged court side, she had been benched for this quarter of the game. She sat next you, her gaze immediately softening “Hey pretty girl, you okay?” she moves a lose stand of hair that fell from your ponytail out of your face. you nod “i’m fine nika..but you shouldn’t have got into a physical altercation now you’re ben-“ she cut you off “I wasn’t just gonna stand there and let you get dogged on, you know i got your back always..besides it’s just this quarter of the game” she cups your face gently “I wasn’t gonna let some bitch touch what’s mine and get away with it”

After a lecture from the couches & the refs they let Nika & you back in the game for the last quarter. Y’all played like y’all’s life depended on it. You already know you guys secured that win. You celebrated once y’all won. Nika pulling you into a tight hug “That’s my girl!..hell yeah see bebo I told you just let your plays do the talking” she winks “says the one who yelled and spat on a girls face” you laugh, she kisses you to shut you up, she smiles against your lips “And i’d gladly do it again for you, besides I play better when i’m pissed”

A/N pissed off Nika is so hot so yk I had to write about it mhm mhm 🙂‍↕️this is my first blurb so please be kind! writing tips & suggestions are always appreciated & requests are open🫡

love you always thanks for reading,

wish signing off 🪽

[syggwolf]

Not to hijack this post or anything, and I'm gonna share some seriously depressing stuff here, along with talk of injuries and blood, just as a warning, but I can easily pinpoint the (And I cannot stress this enough.) SINGLE most traumatic thing that ever happened to me in a long, long, long line of catastrophically traumatic things: It was a very specific incident of being told not to cry. And it wasn't like I wasn't already told not to cry already or anything because, you know, you have a dick, you're not allowed to cry past the age of six and all that. And I was about thirteen so, way beyond that point. But this time, I mean, it was sort of a big deal. You see, unfortunately for me, a very heavy falling object had split my forehead open, and the amount of blood pouring down my face had convinced me that I was pretty for sure probably maybe going to die. Also it really hurt. But because I went into shock, I started laughing instead. I want to stress: the laughing was a panic reaction, not conscious, nor on purpose. Then I proceeded to leave an unbroken trail of blood all the way up to the front door of my house, about a half a block away. All the other kids fled as soon as it happened, except for one; another boy who was a friend of mine, only slightly older than me, who walked with me up to my house and came inside. Well, my mom shrieked and put an icepack on it, which, if you've never had burning cold shoved against exposed skull, it kinda really hurts even more than getting your skull exposed in the first place. And so I'm sitting there on the couch next to my friend, who's still staring in horror at my head and the blood all over my face. By this point I have definitely stopped laughing or doing much of anything, and the sheer amount of "I am so fucked." is starting to sink in because they are calling a fucking ambulance. My dad is sitting there, yelling at my friend to explain what the fuck happened and my friend gets to the part where I started laughing and my dad looks at me, and no bullshit, at this exact moment, there's a spike of pain from my head, and I'm miserable and it's sinking in that I'm going to the fucking HOSPITAL in an AMBULANCE and I am definitely in trouble. (Which is another fun thing that happens in an abusive household. Imagine thinking you're in trouble for getting hurt. Spoilers, I did in fact get yelled at, excessively. My intelligence, character, moral fiber, strength, and foresight were all called into question.) So right there, with all of that hitting at once and my father staring straight at me, my chest hitches and I fuck up and I let out a voice cracking little whimper. My father looked at me with an absolutely haunting combination of anger, disappointment, and some kind of disgust, and he said in this very rough, clipped tone that was more threat than anything else, "Don't you dare. You will NOT cry." And that broke something inside of me that to this day I've never been able to fix. If the role of a "man" was not to cry even under circumstances as extreme as that, than I clearly was broken in some way and I would endeavor to never cry again. And even Now? I simply cannot cry until I fully and completely lose control of every aspect of myself and snap, and even then it never lasts longer than a few moments. I can't make noise while I'm doing it either. It's a silent affair that can only happen in the most extreme circumstances when I am alone. His reasoning for saying that to me? For looking at his wounded child, blood covered face and pain and misery and all, and saying those words? He wanted the story to get around the neighborhood that I laughed at having my head split open because he thought it would make me look cool and really badass. He literally told me that to my face a few hours later, and said it was for my own good because none of the kids would fuck with me if I looked manly. He also chewed me out for possibly ruining it for having the gall to break while my friend was still next to me. The patriarchy is fucking evil and must be destroyed.

Everyone is so weird about people who cry easily. Fellas, is it evil and manipulative to *checks notes* have an involuntary stress response?

[insanescriptist]

Flip the Table

Casually eavesdropping on what should be highly secure frequencies, Jason sipped his beer in a sleezy saloon style sports bar somewhere on the Vegas strip, nominally watching college(?) football; he's a hockey fan because baseball's boring as shit to watch and he's never got the appeal about American football. Football to the rest of the world was at least worth watching for the drama. Something had the Justice League in a tizzy and Zatanna -the one who normally covered Vegas when it came to the costumed crazies- was off world; Jason didn't have the details exactly but it sounded like Zatanna was dealing with some magical planar stuff and was not expected back for at least six more days. Assuming all went well.

So like any reasonable person who's going away for a time, she turned on her home security, had the alerts wired over to a friend -in this case Justice League Dark- gave a list of what was needed to be done and when -the pick up my mail and mow my lawn equivalants- went on her trip, trusting that the JLD were watching over her city and it wouldn't be on fire when she got back.

Such glorious hope.

And thus something happened so when Jason pulled into Vegas proper to investigate a desperate -read last hope- lead on a missing person's case, Jason happened to spy one of the lesser members of the JLD losing their shit in the sky. And so in a moment of civic duty, Jason started spying on them.

Magic was not something anyone trained by the Bat really ever got comfortable about, but chances were magic bullshit was going to intervene in his case. Justice League shit spilled over everything, all the time. Ghost cultists tripping Zatanna's necromancy alarms or whatever they were, was not Jason's business. Not unless the presumed cultists -those that had survived- had the person he was looking for.

No, he was looking at a missing person's case and his lead was 1. cold and 2. a longshot and 3. in a city full of tourists and catering staff, where "seen anything unusual lately" could be "there was this trio of tourists arguing how sex with your best friend doesn't count as cheating," or "someone having a meltdown over the delayed shipping of organic blueberries to the hotel," or "Sarah Maria got murdered a couple weeks ago on the job, but I haven't seen any notice about her funeral stuff on her social media, why yes, I do know she's dead, oh, she's dead and I'm an idiot for expecting someone dead to post on their socials their funeral deets."

Point was, he could look and ask all he wanted, beat feet for days, but the chances of this lead panning out were basically so minuscule that Jason could treat this more as a hobby case while on vacation. He still did his due diligence, asked the staff a few questions, called the guests on the same floor during the time period of their stay about how they found their stay, ran into the dead end of shitty business practices -they recorded over their own records every two weeks- and so unless Jason got the ability to do magic and do a "point me!" spell, the case would turn cold. It sucked when it happened but sometimes the evidence wasn't there. Or wasn't noticed or was destroyed before it could be collected. Sometimes people just didn't remember shit until three weeks later, which with some follow up digging gave him the lead to the hotel. Which got him nothing after that.

As Jason Todd didn't gain an innate ability to do magic that he was aware of that actually counted as magic bullshit magic instead of a couple cantrips, all he could do was get a beer and some food in a Vegas style Texas saloon bar. Which not his first choice, but it was full enough no one really paid attention to anyone. Technically a sport's bar but also very much was not. It was also busy enough that Jason ended up getting asked if someone could set with him at his table -which real Jason said hell no to, but cover Jason did agree to-

Oh. Meta. Jason realized quickly. Oh no, he's hot.

His hair is on fire!

How did the server miss that? Most metas don't casually out themselves like that! Too many people willing to target them for whatever power.

That hair was flaming, tied back in a low tail; Jason blinked and the hair flickered color, looked like normal hair -black- and then back to white fire, then black fire, some tv static abomination of color, white hair and then black hair. Another blink and it appeared to be black flames for hair and yeah, Jason closed his eyes. Pointedly ignored the hair thing. If the meta asked, Jason was judging him for the stupid little goatee.

The rest of the meta was built along the same lines as Jason himself, tall, broad and built. Packed with muscle, which was something to make note of; metas usually were more durable and could hit harder, so Jason casually made note to not get hit if a fight broke out.

Which it might, or probably would.

That's just how Jason's luck ran. To shit.

Said meta also ordered food and a beer, didn't even get asked for ID -unfair bias- and judging by the sound, turned in the seat to look at the American football screen that Jason had been ignoring. His hair had at least settled to black flames instead of the glitchy hair.

Of course as this was Vegas, people gambled on outcomes of games too. Which is how Jason learned the meta was rich enough to blow a couple grand -not expensive in the world of supers- but more than what the average person would be comfortable betting.

There were better ways to piss away money than gambling on sports. Like on over priced burgers and onion rings with an order of mozzerella sticks. The burger was good, admittedly Jason's had better and then some party of guys was yelling at the ref on a screen. And yup, that's some altercation with another table but the barman broke it up with a couple of words.

His tablemate muttered something about the ref having made the right call if one of the players wanted to continue a career professionally and Jason used that as social leverage to get a name -Dan, no last name given- and a bit more in-depth explanation on what stakes were going on; he's a hockey guy, not a football guy.

Some time later, Dan had caught him up on the football drama -nothing compared to the hockey drama- and conversation had drifted significantly from sports, lightly touched on family -Dan had siblings he shared little about other than they existed, which fair, they could also be metas and at risk- much like Jason did -he had siblings that existed, no further details- and parents weren't mentioned. Instead a lot of engineering talk, a slide into ethics -Dan's opinion on killing super villains was very much that some people needed Ended- and some small talk about how Dan's high school English teacher cursed in classical book titles.

Soon the easy joy of potential friendship ended when his phone rang; that was the Batman ringtone and Jason felt no guilt hanging up on him. And again. And again.

Then Dick rang and nope. He was not dealing with their shit. Dick would just sweeten up whatever shit B wanted to shovel.

And then Oracle's ringtone rang. Oh, now that was serious. Justice League shit spilling into his life again. No fucking doubt about it.

"Uh-huh, so what's up? Because I gotta say, I am a couple drinks in and the whole bar is waiting for one of the football teams to fumble or foul up their next play so they can throw down."

"Jay-" She started because much like Bruce, she would rather go straight into the mission, and Jason absolutely had wrong-footed her. Because instead of making excuses to leave, Jason had absolutely stayed. So now she had to rephrase things on the fly because who knows who might be listening in. "Hey, it's on the news that the Justice League is showing up in Vegas; something about investigating something magical showing up."

"Uh-huh, that's not a surprise. There was some magic ninny flying in a panic earlier. I decided it wasn't my business."

"I hadn't heard that," -bullshit, she just hadn't double-checked that herself yet- "but what I did hear that some cult might have succeeded in bringing something over."

"Uh-huh. Well, no one's praying to Cthulu yet, there's been no troublemaking beyond the usual human malice and nothing's on fire."

"We were just concer-" And Jason hung up on Oracle.

He'd pay for that later, but petty was satisfying now.

"Sounded important."

"Was bullshit."

"So an entity summoned by a cult that tripped a bunch of magicians into a tizzy-"

Yeah, those sharp ears were not for show. Enhanced hearing check. "That's a bunch of incompetents panicking." Time for his good guess to hit or miss. "You're not going to decide to destroy Vegas, are you?"

"Done it before, doing it again seems pointlessly petty." Statements Jason wasn't going to prod further right now.

"And what if Wisconson University loses?"

"Might flip the table." Dan shrugged.

"More beer?" Jason asked.

"Sure."

[endlessdreamworld]

Under the Veil

An 18+ fic starring Aventurine X Fem!Reader as husband and wife. Minors DNI, sort of a continuation of the general headcanons post I wrote CW: infertility, A pretty harrowing dead dove do no eat flashback involving graphic depictions of sex trafficking, non con and SA for past Aventurine, as well as a brief mention of drugs. Wordcount: 4.5k

You felt grateful for your husband’s embrace now more than ever. It was warmth you desperately needed. It was security you didn’t deserve, not when you feel like you’ve robbed him of something he deserved more than anyone else in the world. Last but not least, it muffled your quiet sobs as you processed the reality you should have been expecting all along. After all, you and Aventurine have been actively trying for kids since the day you got married over three years ago. Something was critically wrong, but you both believed that this was something money could fix. You had already spent so much money crafting the perfect nest for all of the little ones you promised to bring into the world together. You promised him no less than half a dozen kids with eyes as bright and vivid as his and no one else’s. You weren’t one to ever break your promises, not until today.

A fresh wave of tears spilled out of the corners of your eyes and into your husband’s shoulder. You didn’t deserve to be comforted like this – not when you failed him so terribly, but you knew if you tried to pull away he wouldn’t have it. So instead you inhaled deeply, taking in his scent of today’s chosen cologne. You shuddered when you quickly recognized the smell of lavender. If anyone knew the first thing about scented oils it was the calming and anxiety relieving factors of lavender. Between the pacifying fragrance and the feeling of his sweater made from the cashmere of some rare creature, it was a matter of time before the tears finally stopped.

It was unlike Aventurine to wear a simple sweater as part of the ensemble of his outfit of the day given just how much fun he has peacocking around, but between the softness of the cashmere and the session of aromatherapy, his feelings on the matter of your infertility were obvious. He was fully prepared for this outcome and came deliberately equipped to ease you through the heartbreak. Your husband kissed the crown of your head and stroked your back until you found yourself kissing him back on the shoulder and the inside of his neck. After a few more deep breaths, you worked up the nerve to look him in his eyes. It was a relief to see them narrowed softly, exuding as much warmth as the day you both took your wedding vows. You felt lighter to see he loved you as much as ever. “I’m sorry honey,” you whispered into his neck. He gave you a squeeze, and laughed quietly. The soft melodic lilt tickled the tip of your ear.

You weren’t the same after receiving the news of your utterly barren womb. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes and you stayed in bed more and more. Aventurine was dying on the inside seeing you struggle like this, feeling entirely responsible for it. He’s always wanted to be a father, that much was apparent. He made it known countless times well before the talks of marriage. The Sigonian was quite good at dealing with the cards he was given both literal and metaphorical. It’s rare that he misplays so catastrophically.

Aventurine knew it would be no easy task to convince you how little this mattered to him in the bigger scheme of things, how it was you who was his everything. You saw through it all, the bravado, the bluffing, the bullshit. You barely had to try and you found the pathetic shell of a man beneath the fineries and you chose to dive in head first. It was a long and miserable road to get to a point where you were both happy.  The fact that you were even engaging in regular intimacy after everything he’s been through is nothing short of a miracle.

Sex trafficking and slavery go hand in hand, and the life of a ‘pretty slave’ in the hands of society’s upper crust was one of unparalleled shame. He, of course, was mostly transparent about how… well used he was. Your husband never gave you the full details of what happened, favoring to spin the lie of how ‘he forgot’ which he hoped would become the truth like the other half dozen lies he continuously spun. 

He wanted to forget his first time, auctioned off to a man who was no less than thrice as old as he was, lusting over someone who was still more boy than man. He wanted to forget how that predator’s chest hair felt against his back, how the sweat slickened curls made him squirm while they left their slimy trails along his flesh. Aventurine wanted to forget the feeling of the man’s palm on his cheek as he forced the Sigonian’s face into the pillows and lined up their hips. He wanted to forget the pain of the violation. Most of all, he wanted to forget the humiliation of his body’s own betrayal as the high roller stroked him off, the little mewls and groans that slipped through his traitorous lie spinning lips before he made a mess on the bed. He wanted to forget the feeling of blood laced spunk dripping down his thigh that night. It was no small consolation that he at least had long forgotten that face.

 He wanted to forget the taste of sweat and salt leaking from every cock he had to suck. He wanted to forget the shapes of them, the smell of them, the leers, the smacks, the feeling of strangers tugging on his hair. He wanted to forget the ‘parties’ his master rented him out to. He wanted to forget about the streaks of jizz on his lower back, how they wiped themselves off on him leaving hedonistic tallies keeping score of some sick game they played amongst themselves. He wanted to forget the drugs needed to perform when his body would no longer cooperate. He – “Honey, are you okay?” You asked him. He had been staring off into space for a while. Whenever he gets like this, it’s pretty obvious he’s stuck somewhere inside of memories he didn’t want to be shackled to.

Ah, even now you’re worrying about me? He thought, and tilted your chin up to give you a kiss on your cheek right below your eye. “Me? I’m fine of course but what about you?” He cupped your face. “You’ve been out of it for the past week. I’ve been worried sick you know?” Truth be told, he was giving you some space but he was always ready to come running when you were finally ready to share some of the pain you’ve been carrying lately with him.

“I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think we should talk.” Oh those dreaded words he always hated hearing. You’ve almost never said them, only when your relationship was in dire straits and you needed something from him in specific. It’s been ages since he heard them.

“Right, I’m sure we do,” he said and sat down next to you on the couch. He faced towards you and rested his arm along the top of the couch. You reached into your bag and pulled out a few resources, but it’s hard for him to pay attention to what’s in your hands when all he can see are the bags under your eyes.

“I’ve been looking into some options for us,” you presented him with some printed documents regarding surrogacy services. “So you can still be a father and pass on the bloodline.” He grew utterly quiet, but you’re undeterred, “Or maybe you could sign up at a fertility clinic and see if you can be registered as a sperm donor. I know Sigonians aren’t exac-”

“Stop,” he cut you off. Your hands froze and clutched onto your well intentioned but foolish research. His fingers rubbed against the backs of yours, coaxing you into giving up those unnecessary papers. You acquiesced and let him shuffle them back onto the table. “We can go to other doctors, get a second or third opinion or whatever.”

It hurt to hear him hold onto hope like this because the chance of having your own children was slim to none. “But what if it just can’t happen?”

“Then it just won’t happen,” he smiled but you could see the pain in his eyes.

“I don’t want you to give this up, Kakavasha. I know how much your Avgin heritage means to you. I–” tears threatened the edge of your vision, and your husband shushed you. “I promised you I’d –” he put his index and middle finger against your lips, sealing them in a gentle hold.

“Ishla rhim,” he addressed you with the Avgin term of endearment meant only for the most intimate of moments. One would be lucky to hear it more than a couple of times in their life. “Let’s pray together, do you remember how? Or do you need a little reminder?” His voice is  as warm and sweet as his namesake.

“I remember,” you told him while lifting up the wrong hand.

He clicked his tongue playfully and retrieved the correct hand while kissing the other. “It’s our left ones. You’ll always see our commitment to each other when we pray,” he rubbed the pad of his finger along the skin of your wedding band seared into your flesh with the same ink that was used for his commodity.

“Right,” you nod and he kissed your forehead. You began to recite the prayer cautiously, “May the Mother Goddess thrice close her eyes for you…?”

He nodded, “That’s right. Don’t forget the part about keeping your blood eternally pulsing.”

You groaned, “You’d think I’d know the prayer by heart after all this time.”

He laced his fingers with yours pressing your palms flat together. “You do know it, but you’re feeling a bit nervous is all.” He squeezed your fingers together and peppered the backs of your fingers with kisses, one for each knuckle. “Your fingers are shaking. Let me take over.” He recited the prayer line by line, with you following along. Yet still, you didn’t seem to feel better and he could tell. 

The air grew heavier between the two of you, and you finally broke the suffocating silence. “I think we should look into alternatives just in case…” “I’m not interested,” he said, leaving no further room for discussion. “It was only ever going to be you and I.” It was unlike you to be so pushy. You were always so mindful of his needs and careful with his boundaries.

Just as you were about to try to find another angle, he leaned over you, effectively caging you against the back of the couch. “Wife,” he begins, his eyes were colder than you’d seen them before and there was a hint of desperation in the calm black depths of his pupils that made the vivid brights of his iris seem to glow. “I think you’d benefit greatly from being reminded of our wedding vows.” His eyes roamed from your eyes to your lower lip. He grabbed your chin and tilted your face at such an angle where he commanded every last scrap of your attention. “Because you seem to be forgetting the part about ‘in sickness and in health’ and that simply won’t do. How about we renew our vows, right here, right now, hmm?” Aventurine brushed his lips against the corner of your mouth. He nuzzled his face against yours, the caress of his long and full eyelashes finally pulled you from this pit you threw yourself into. You took a better look at him and saw that look again, that one a pet would give you before you closed the door on them before leaving for one task or another. It was that look that screamed ‘please don’t throw me away’ at the top of its lungs. 

How very thoughtless of you, ignoring what was right before your very eyes. You cupped Aventurine’s face with both of your hands and his eyes fluttered shut. Guilt twisted inside of your guts, knotting you in a way that made your stomach flip. It finally dawned on you just how bad of a spot you put his already tortured soul into. “I think I may need a reminder, but not here,” you patted the couch. “There’s not enough pillows.”

“Right,” he sighed in mock defeat, “What was I thinking?” Aventurine scooped you up as he rose to his feet. “Silly me.” Countless times you were the source of his comfort, his little slice of heaven molded into flesh and shaped into his home. Now here you are, in desperate need of comfort and it’s his turn to perform. The stakes have never been higher. He knew if he failed to relieve you of that all-devouring guilt of yours, then a part of you would never be the same and he was having none of it. Aventurine set you down in the middle of your marital bed and you started making quick work of your buttons. “Hey!” he called out to you in a pout, making you freeze. “Hi?” your fingers sheepishly fidgeted with the last remaining button that kept your clothes together.

Your husband approached the edge of the bed and sat down beside you. “That’s not how our wedding night went. This,” his fingers brushed aside your own as he ran the tip of his finger along the flat surface, “was my job. And you stole it from me. Guess we gotta change things up this time.”

Aventurine put his hand on your cheek and you took the opportunity to steal a little more from him. You pawed at his clothes before he had the opportunity to disrobe himself. He hummed in amusement, “Someone is very eager,” he mused, the corners of his lips curled up into that smirk of his that never failed to make you feel like a total mess. It did him well to see you perking up a bit. He playfully pushed you down onto the bed, “Roll over for me. I want to see you on your hands and knees tonight.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice. You rolled over onto your stomach, just in time to see Aventurine finish undressing. He threw himself onto the bed next to you and brushed your hair back, taking a moment to just… soak in the sight of you. Ages ago he’d lay down next to you, too scared to touch you, scared to make you dirty. You always took things slow, always left the floor open for every no he was brave enough to say. That’s why the talk of all of these ‘options’ felt so unnecessary.

“What are you thinking about?”

“You,” he quipped smoothly. It was clear his mind was elsewhere, but he seemed content enough so there was no need to press him on it. He weaved his fingers underneath the hem of your shirt before sliding his hand up the skin on your back. With his free hand, he popped open that last button you so graciously saved for him. Aventurine made quick work of the rest of your clothing and basked in the familiar sight of you. It would always only be you. He trailed his fingers down your back, leaving little paths of gooseflesh in their wake.

“That tickles,” you laughed quietly and rubbed your back against his exploring hand. As you went to roll over and swat his hand away, he held onto your wrist and kept you on your stomach.

“On your knees for me. Please?” He nuzzled the side of your cheek. This isn’t a position you took often, so it was tremendously exciting. You felt invigorated by the simple gesture of getting on all fours. Your husband placed a hand on your hip to savor the feeling of your skin and quickly clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Too cold.” He stepped away. You turned your head to see him fidgeting with the thermostat.

“It’s not that serious. I’m not cold, I’m lonely,” you whined from on the bed. He always doted on you so much, too much even – especially during intimacy. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t understand it. His words from the day you finally bridged that threshold play inside of your mind on loop during times like these. “I’ve been embraced so many times before, but this is the first time I’ve been held.”

He laughed at how petulant you’re being, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find it heartwarming. Aventurine returned to your side and placed his hand on your back once more. He slid the tips of his fingers past your hips, past your ass, until they settled around your already damp lips. He traced his fingers along your slit and felt your slick stick to his dexterous digits. Your husband knew your body well and didn’t even need to slip a finger in to know how easily you’d take two more. “Yes, you certainly feel very lonely.” The way he said it made you want to protest his teasing, but honestly? He didn’t want to leave you unsatisfied for any longer.

The bed shifted under his weight as he joined you. You bent your arms, your front half dipping low enough so you could feel your chest settle on those oh so familiar soft silk sheets. Your husband sighed in satisfaction as he settled his hand on your shoulder. The warmth of his hands radiated through the relaxed muscles of your back. Strands of his soft blonde hair tickled the side of your face before you felt his nose rub against the left side of your neck. He placed a tender kiss right on the same spot his commodity tattoo would be and you purred in turn, your hands already clutching at the sheets as you salivated in anticipation. Aventurine gave himself a couple of strokes before he nestled the head of his cock at the entrance of your snatch, the lips swollen and puffy from arousal. He smirked into the skin of your neck.

“Wow, I don’t even have to touch you anymore to turn your guts into tangled ribbons,” he whispered in such a sultry tone before running his tongue along the artery in your neck. Your pulse raced wildly against the damp muscle oh so deliciously. He loved driving you crazy like this, loved the way he could move your heart, loved the noises he was going to pry out of your sweet lips.

He was met with no resistance as he bore his weight down on you. The head of his cock breached your entrance before he carefully sheathed himself into you. A little sigh of delight huffed out of your partially parted mouth. You gave a light wave with your fingers as an invitation. Aventurine placed the palm of his hand over the back of yours, lacing your hands together. He gave you a light squeeze and finished bottoming out before kissing the side of your neck.

It was a bit surprising feeling him stop there, and you thought that maybe he changed his mind. Before you had time to overthink it, he murmured into your ear as a reminder, “We’re supposed to be renewing our vows, love.”

Oh yes, that’s right, you were already so cock drunk that you forgot that part. “Right, it was just the –” you felt the tip of the fingers of his free hand trail land on your sternum. They felt cold against your burning skin.

“Yes?”

“The standard ones, something classic.” It was so unbelievably hard to keep your head in the corporeal realm when Aventurine’s touch was propelling you to heaven.

“Right, I’m listening. I want to hear you recite them because I think you might have forgotten.”

“For bett-” he started to drag his fingers from your sternum to your navel, leaving a pit in your stomach. He felt your weeping cunt seize his shaft in a chokehold. Your voice pitched high, “better andpoorer.”

“For better and for worse,” he nipped your ear and trailed his fingers back up the center of your torso before they settled back between your breasts. You clamped down firmly on his hand in your own, an attempt at avenging your broken focus. “Come on, what was next?”

“For richer, an-” he dragged his fingers from above to further below this time, settling just over your womb. “Richer and for poorer.”

He placed a warm kiss on your temple. “Good girl,” he cooed, tickling your hair. “Next?”

Your tongue swiped at your lower lip and then spit out the next bit as fast as you possibly could before he had the opportunity to scramble your brains anymore than he already had. “Insicknessan-” You should have known better than to try something like this. The moment you committed to spitting out your wedding vows, Aventurine had already taken hold of your swollen clit in between his fingers. You stumbled, unable to hold your hips up for a brief moment. Not that it had any affect on your position with the way he was holding onto you.

“In sickness and in health, and don’t you dare ever forget it,” he threatened.

You shook your head and then laid it out one last time, “But what if this is it? What if we can’t have kids of our own.”

Your husband grew silent, and you’re afraid you broke the moment when all you wanted was to be considerate of what he was sentencing himself to.

“Then it’s very simple, isn’t it?” His thighs rubbed against yours as he rolled his hips. The way his cock grinds against your core makes your eyes roll back into your head. “I’ll be the last Avgin. The bloodline dies with me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Aventurine holds you still as he rocks back and forth in a steady motion. He sounded so happy as he said it, and the last of this festering worry was stolen away from you. 

Fuck, he knew just the right thing to say didn’t he? It wasn’t fair. If only you could be half as good as he was but right now, all you could do was confess a sloppy “I love you,” into the mattress accompanied by a thin stream of drool.

He huffed a breathy laugh against your back, “Oh I know you do.” Cocky and self-assured, just the way you like him. Aventurine inhaled and lightly rolled his fingers, swirling your bead in pace with the soft rock of his body against yours. You sighed, you squealed, you sang – just for him. Oh how he loved to hear you, see you, smell you. He focused on those sensations as he tried to believe the lie he just told you. Was it a lie though, if it was one of omission? It’s not like he was lying to you outright. While yes, it was that simple, that this was what he wanted, he’d be lying if he didn’t say how painful the solitude would be.

But none of that was important, not when the scent of your shampoo tickled his senses, nor when he watched the wet spot near your face slowly grow from the steady stream of drool. It was some delightful proof of just how much you were enjoying yourself. He had you right where he wanted you, and although it was out of character for him to leave you hanging on the edge, there was something he needed to do for himself or rather for both of your sakes.

“I’m going to grab something to make things a bit more exciting,” he kissed your forehead before carefully disentangling himself from you. Aventurine had enough kink for a lifetime after all of the subjugation he went through so he didn’t own what he was looking for. A substitute would do. After all, this wouldn’t be the first time nor the last time that he would hide behind his wealth as a shield. He retrieved his favorite necktie, and swirled it proactively. It was some unintentional good planning on his part that he’s spent countless hours on sleight of hand tricks. He needed the practice now more than ever. If anyone would be able to spot his facade slipping, his fingers shaking and unsure, it would be you – his chosen life partner. “Here, let me put this on,” he said as he wrapped the makeshift blindfold around your eyes. A tool, a misdirection, a temporary respite.

Aventurine rolled you onto your back and you were none the wiser to the forlorn and broken expression on his face. He needed to cry, to mourn the family you were supposed to have. The nursery he’d disassemble by himself for your sake. He couldn’t worry you, not when you needed the comfort more, when he knew what it was like to feel small and helpless as your body betrayed what you wanted. It wouldn’t be difficult to pass his tears off as sweat, his shaking voice as swells of his own pleasure. Of course he felt good too. Everyone is more comfortable at home. He saw your fingers twitching in his peripherals, a tell that was far more consistent and obvious than the frenzied fluttering of your insides. Yes, now would be a good time.

Your husband crashed his lips against yours, a calculated act of theft as he stole your cries of ecstasy right out of your throat. Some might call it slimy, some might call it cunning, he called it commitment as he used the tortured screams of your climax to mask his own erratic breathing and whimpers of heartbreak. You fell still beneath him and hummed in satisfaction. Your fingers peeled off the blindfold, and you could finally get a good look of his smiling face. He thanked Gaiathra Triclops for giving him the strength to pull himself together so he could face you with a proper smile instead of that hollow one you’d see right through in a heartbeat. “I didn’t know renewing our vows could be so fun,” you beamed up at him, a smile as calming as the moon. He found himself nuzzling into your hand. “Romantic right?”

You laughed and nodded enthusiastically beneath him. “Wanna get cleaned up?” You gave his cheek a squish.

“Now that sounds like a great idea.” Your life together carried on. This was just another point in time, one he wouldn’t deem as suffering no matter how painful. As a gambler he weighed the risks and rewards of every encounter, every interaction. Every move was calculated, every word was said with purpose. Who knows? Maybe Mama Fenge would bless him with a miracle. After all, as the fortunate boy born on the day of Kakava he was blessed from the moment he was born. All in, he didn’t even need to remind himself as he helped you wash your hair, relishing in the smile on your face, one you gifted him with today and tomorrow and every day to come.

[venomwrites]

Caitvi having a double date with Timebomb

“The fuck, Ekko?! You painted each other?!”

It’s a surprise when Vi finally staggers back from Piltover’s polished halls. She sure as fuck isn’t supposed to. It’s not part of the plan. Of course Vi doesn’t know there’s a plan. She staggers down all the same. Instead of the broken, screaming woman sliding off the ledge she is the Vi that has appeared throughout Ekko’s life. Brash and loud and a pain in the ass. But she’s alive in this world and that fucking means something. He’s not sure what in the cosmic sense. But when she kicks open the door, he’s pretty sure right now it means she’s about to kick his ass. 

“That’s a weird way to say hello,” he spits back. 

“You painted my sister!” She accuses. 

He’s fucking tired. Sleep is never enough, everything feels sluggish. He doesn’t know if it’s grief or if he managed to fix time and break himself in the process. Ekko’s used to building things from ruins. But it takes time. Right now it’s just frustrating as hell. He’s seen what the world can be, he’s got something to strive for. But that goal feels like when he was a kid and he’d look up at the tall buildings. He can strive for it all he fucking wants. There’s a good chance he’s never going to get it. He’s always cared about possibilities. Even if the odds are against him, there’s still a chance. Now though he knows what is out there. What’s out there and what’s missing here. That is the bitterest pill to swallow for some fucked up reason. 

Also his earlobes hurt. 

“You’re not here about the paint,” he says. 

“Yeah I am,” Vi snaps, “what the fuck? She’s a kid!”

Ekko grinds his teeth. He does not want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to deal with Vi’s protective bullshit. Not when he’s spent all this time listening to Jinx talk about how Vi needs to be up there. Ekko half wanted a sibling most of his life, but the way the pair of them are with each other makes him glad he never had one. 

“No, Vi, she’s not!” He erupts finally, “none of us are! When are you gonna see that?!”

Vi stands still. She’s pissed but Ekko knows she needs to hear it. Someone has to tell her. Tell her in a way that gets through her thick skull so they can all start to heal. He’s not an idiot, he knows how Jinx is without her sister. Both of their plans are stupid. They always have been. That’s why one winds up in jail and one winds up in hell. And then they just fucking switch places, cry about it and switch again. Ekko is tired of listening to stupid ideas. 

Vi is suddenly in his face. Still with that miserable look on her eyes. She reaches out slowly and bats away his hand when he tries to stop her. She pinches the corner of his ear between her thumb and her forefinger. Gently but it’s enough to make him hiss. 

“Geez Ekko, this is infected,” she says. Ekko wants to yell at her, “you do this yourself?”

“No.”

“Seriously? Your ear?” She peers around his head, “both of them? When did you two have the time?”

“I don’t know, how long does it take you to fuck your girlfriend?” He questions. 

Vi glares but doesn’t drop his ear. She shoves her hands into her pockets and pulls out a little bottle. The clear gel she swipes around the fresh earrings make his ears sting but it’s also nice and cool. She huffs again and turns to do the other one. 

“I was in prison and managed to keep mine not infected,” she mutters. 

“Yeah? How’d you manage that?”

“Salt packs,” she says. 

She hands him the bottle. Some nice Piltie thing filled with the clear gel. Ekko wants to smack her hand away but he recognizes the peace offering for what it is. It feels like he’s back in the peaceful version of the world for a moment. Where the divides between the cities aren’t that great. He realizes abruptly that in this world Vi has actually managed to bring some of that here. She crossed that divide without even thinking. Right out of prison, back when they were all too stupid to see what was going on. 

Ekko knows it’s because she didn’t do it alone. 

“How’s the Piltie?” He asks.

“Better,” Vi says evasively. Ekko rolls his eyes, “I didn’t come here to talk abut her!” He just keeps staring at Vi, “I don’t know!” Vi says throwing up her hands. She drags her hand through her hair. Her bad arm moves seamlessly. Another Piltover souvenir, “she’s talking about giving up her council seat. She’s barely eating. All those fucking fancy Piltie doctors do is try to get her to talk. She doesn’t like talking about her feelings.”

Ekko sighs.

This is part of being a leader. 

“Sounds like she needs you,” he says cutting through Vi’s bullshit, “up there.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me,” Vi says.

“So don’t talk,” Ekko suggests, “seriously she kicked you out and your solution was to come all the way down here? Go back there and—“ he hesitates a moment, “just sit with her until she does.”

Vi sighs, shoves her hands into her pockets and rocks back on her heels. For a moment Ekko feels like a kid caught doing something wrong. Even though he hasn’t and Vi’s already yelled at him for what she suspects. It’s not about the paint or the earrings. It’s about Jinx. Jinx let him touch her when she wouldn’t let Vi touch her. Ekko knows Vi hates that. He feels weird about it when he thinks on it too long. Not because of Vi—or not only because of Vi. It’s all their history together. But he said what happened, what he saw. And Jinx believed him way more readily than he would have believed her. It’s weird and knotted and not something he wants to think about too hard. 

“Sit with her until she does,” Vi repeats. 

“Yeah,” he says, “it’s fair—“

There’s a snap around his wrist. 

Piltie cuffs. 

The other locks around Vi’s own wrist.

“The fuck?”

“Sorry, little man,” Vi says, the nickname slipping out, “I’m not going back alone.”

“So you handcuff me?!”

“Handcuff us,” she says, dangling her wrist up, “maybe one day we can walk together normally,” Ekko reaches for his key but only hits the skin that shows above his pants, “next time maybe get a full shirt.”

“Shut up!”

Vi drags him up and away. Ekko plans his escape. He hates walking. Hates walking the Lanes most of all. It reminds him of his failures and the past. When he flies he can leave it all down here. Up there none of it can catch him. Now he drags through the muck. What catches him off guard is the newness he sees popping up. New cans of paint, fresh tarps, resources. Vi catches his stunned gaze and offers a grin as they make their way past. Ekko nearly falls flat on his face trying to get a good look. He wants to drink it all in. But Vi is determined. She drags him up past where the buildings nicer and into a private box. 

“We should have taken my board,” he grumbles as it pulls them higher. 

“I wasn’t letting you anywhere near that thing.” 

He scoffs. 

Hesitates. 

He doesn’t know if he wants to know. Maybe that makes him weak. But what’s the right way to ask what version of someone is awake? It doesn’t really matter. After what he did Jinx and Powder both probably want him dead. He messed up the plan. Instead of flying her out of here like he was supposed to he was unconscious. She sailed out of that air duct with no-one to catch her. He let her down again. He could have gone with her, maybe he should have. But all he could think when he saw her being carted off by fancy doctors with Vi’s hand tight in hers was that maybe she too had a chance at getting away. He’d messed up her trust enough. Something must show in his face. 

“She started talking to Isha two nights ago,” Vi says. 

“Two nights?!” He demands. 

“I’ve been trying to find you!” Vi snaps, holding up her wrist again.

“Why didn’t you start with that?!” He demands. She shrugs and rubs the back of her neck, “what’s she saying?” 

“She’s telling her about you,” Vi says. 

She drags him through the shiny halls of a building flooded with sunlight. He knew Vi wouldn’t let her be thrown into a cell. There are guards everywhere though. But they are guards who nod at Vi even through the disgust on their face. She brings him to a door and undoes the cuff. She hesitates a moment before knocking and opening it up. Ekko hesitates at the sound of whispering. What if he makes this worse again?

“Jinx? It’s Vi. I brought someone to see you,” the whispering stops. 

Vi reaches for him but he bats her hand away and forces himself forward. 

Jinx is crouched in the far corner. Her entire head is cased in white bandages. They match her pale skin and the white garment they’ve put her in. The room is completely devoid of color. The only color is her purple eyes. They regard him from underneath the bandages, surrounded by bruises. She blinks twice and looks to her side like she’s looking for someone. But then like she always does, her eyes flick over and focus on him. Vi inhales sharply when she gets to her feet and makes her way over. 

“I thought you died,” she says simply. It’s hard to swallow, “you were supposed to be there.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says. Her fingers tap his hand and then snatch back. Unsure. He now knows more about the war in her head, but that doesn’t make it any easier, “I broke time.”

“How?”

“Turned it back longer than four seconds,” he says. Her lip curls, “A lot longer.”

“So you made it a bomb,” she says, “did it work?”

“We’re here aren’t we?” 

She freezes and looks around. He feels behind him in Vi’s general directly and pushes. His hand hits some part of her that stands hard and unyielding and needs to get the fuck out. Before Ekko can look he feels her withdraw. Then it’s just him and Jinx in the white room. Her hand goes out and back and out in something that almost looks like she’s swinging her arm. Then it streaks out and latches onto his wrist. He turns his hand as she walks her fingers to his palm and clenches theirs together. Her lips tremble and she looks up at him. 

“It fell apart again,” she says, her voice steadier even as her lips tremble, “I fucked it up.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, gripping her shoulder. She tenses at the contact and but her eyes remain stubbornly focused on him, “I fucked it up too. I broke time.”

“It’s not a competition,” she huffs. 

“Good, because I’d win,” he says. Her eyes narrow, “I broke time,” he reminds her. 

“Seems fixed now,” she shoots back, “seems—slow,” she glances around the room, something annoyed flickering in her eyes, “I don’t like it in here.”

“Okay,” he says, “let’s get out of here.”

She shivers at the thought. Ekko hates that she’s been trapped in this room for even a moment. Though he recognizes this was the safest place for her, it feels wrong. He doesn’t know what the line is though. Safe and tolerable seem to be on opposite sides of the spectrum for her. He doesn’t even know if he can take her out of here. Maybe they’ve both been locked in the room. Still, he resolves to try. He reaches for the door and tugs. Thankfully it opens. Sunlight spills forward from the massive windows. Jinx hesitates next to him. 

“I know it’s a lot,” he says, “lean on me.” 

She puts more of her weight on him and something further eases in his chest. They take the few steps out of the room together. Her other hand comes up and covers her forehead as she looks at the bright blue sky. He knows she wants to fly away but for now she just leans on him. Somehow that feels like enough. He sees a seam in the window and shoves it up with one hand. Only a trickle of a breeze comes through but she closes her eyes. The peace on her face doesn’t make him think of the other Powder for once. It makes him think of the cans of fresh paint in the Lanes. The spark of life surrounded by all the darkness. It’s just a spark, just a pair of tearful eyes on a bridge, but it is there. It’s all that matters. 

“Can we fly?” she asks. 

“We will,” he promises, “but not on an empty stomach.”

Her eyes shoot open and look hopefully at him. He has a feeling even with all the wealth she’s been refusing to eat. Now she looks hungry. It’s something. He looks around for anyone who could bring them food. Maybe he can hid her from Vi long enough to ask. He sees the half cracked door down the hall. Jinx tightens her fingers on him and leans more heavily. 

“Can you trust me this time?” He asks. 

She hesitates and then nods. He reaches up and eases some of the bandage down to cover her eyes. She leans fully on him but matches his steps as they hobble over to the room. Vi is sitting there with Caitlyn. Who also has bandages over her eyes. She’s sitting perfectly straight, her visible eye staring at her hands. Vi looks anguished next to her, but she is sitting there. Waiting. Ekko keeps Jinx on the other side of the door as he cracks it. Vi’s eyes take in the fingers clenched around his and she pushes herself up. 

“I need food,” he hisses. 

Vi looks at Caitlyn like she doesn’t know what to do. Ekko gets the distinct impression all three of them are in their own cells. She and Caitlyn seem to be waiting for someone to open theirs. For two people who keep breaking each other out of prison, they are fucking awful at it. He doesn’t have time for them to figure out which key hits the lock in this moment. Not with Jinx laying her head on his shoulder. 

“Hey, Piltie—“ he grinds his teeth. Her eye blinks like she’s struggling to hear him. Slowly her her starts to move. “Caitlyn,” he hisses. The blue eye meets his, “you want to help? I need food. For her.”

Caitlyn frowns and Vi lets out a ragged breath. Something that sounds like relief. Caitlyn looks around and reaches for something. Vi grabs the cup on the side of the bed. Caitlyn looks from her to the cup and blinks again before taking it. Their hands brush against each other and there’s a wetness in both of their eyes that Ekko would find gross under any circumstances. Caitlyn drinks and reaches out of Ekko’s view. There’s a hushed exchange and Vi appears with a tray laden with food. 

“Finally,” Jinx sighs and Ekko realizes she’s pulled up the bandage. His heart catches as he waits for her to look for one of her ghosts but she just reached out and takes something off the plate, “how��d you get fruit up here?”

No-one seems to know how to answer and Jinx looks between them. There’s something like annoyance on her face at their silence. 

“Kiramman’s can get anything,” he says, “how hard did you hit your head?” He teases. Jinx rolls her eyes and immediately leans more against him, “shit—“

“Bring her here,” Caitlyn says and the authority in her raspy voice has him moving before he remember what a bad idea that is, “Vi—“

“I just need to sit,” she grouses. He guides her into the chair but she tangles their feet and somehow he winds up in the chair and she winds up in his lap. She slings and arm over his shoulders and drops her head onto his chest like that’s normal and looks at the pair of them, “how come you got to keep your hair?” She asks Caitlyn. 

“She didn’t crack her skull,” Vi blurts out. Jinx nuzzles closer to him. Ekko can feel the start of stubble on her skull where the bandages have rolled up, “she—“

“Lost my eye,” Caitlyn says finally. They both look at each other. The blanket moves and after a moment Vi slips her hand underneath. Just enough to keep their joined hands out of view, “my eye is gone,” Caitlyn says with a bit more firmness. 

Jinx sighs and gets more comfortable against him. 

“I wanted to steal a ship and fly away,” she complains. Vi’s throat works as Ekko’s heart jumps. But she’s not away. She’s here. Itching her stubble against his neck, “now you look like a pirate,” Vi covers her mouth with her hand. Caitlyn stares at her. Her mouth frowns and the eases, then almost smiles, “too many pirates,” she sighs, “I’m floating.”

Vi lurches forward and peers at her head. But she doesn’t let go of Caitlyn’s hand. Or maybe Caitlyn won’t let her. She and Ekko look at each other and she shakes her head. No sign of bleeding. Maybe she is just tired. It’s not like they have much leeway when it comes to not eating. Though Gods knew she tried to get out of it enough until he figured out how to make it a game she enjoyed. Now he feels her breathing start to even out and realizes she’s fallen asleep. He looks at Vi who seems painfully caught between being a big sister and a girlfriend—between all the roles that have been put on her. So Ekko chooses instead and gets his arm under Jinx’s knees. She doesn’t move when he straightens up. 

“Is there a normal room?” 

“Yeah,” Vi says. 

She gives Caitlyn’s hand a squeeze and pushes up. She leads him two doors in the opposite direction. It’s a small room but there’s clean sheets and a window. He nods and walks over to the window with Jinx in his arms, cracking it open. The fresh air makes her sigh in her dreams. Vi’s gaze is hot on his neck. He knows where her mind is, where his would be too if he didn’t know. If he hadn’t spent those days living his life in three second increments. Vi didn’t. But Vi stands there silently and doesn’t close the window. After another long moment she nods at him and leaves the room. 

When he goes to put her down he feels a tug at his hips.

Jinx has stuck her wrist into his belt. Ekko knows he could pull it out. He also knows what she is asking. It takes some maneuvering to get them onto the bed facing each other. But he’s contorted himself through worse. He gets them facing each other. His head high on the pillow, hers low but they fit. He doesn’t bother with the sheets as he pulls her into the confines of his jacket. She sighs and nudges forward more, rubbing her bandaged head under his chin. 

“Itchy,” she mumbles. 

He curves his hand up and rubs against the bandages along he skull. She sighs and buries herself even closer, working one of her legs between his. It’s new and familiar at the same time. She likes to be held like this so when she wakes up she can know he’s there without asking. Without wondering. It makes the ghosts go away. He’s never seen her sleep this deeply though. 

“Thanks,” she mumbles into his collarbone. He doesn’t know what she’s thanking him for. But he has a feeling it’s more than scratching her head, “stay?”

“Yeah,” he says, tightening his coat around them both. 

She hums and within moments is back asleep. Ekko wants to stay awake but the feel of her breath is hypnotic. Suddenly, it’s like he’s been awake since before he broke time. Like he doesn’t know how to be awake anymore. It’s hard to let go enough to sleep and not guard against the world. But Jinx keeps breathing steadily against his chest. Ekko feels his own breath catching her rhythm. He relaxes further into the beat between them. 

It’s always, always a dance. 

He never wants it to end. 

[merchantziro]

Hey thanks, I'm just really passionate about writing as someone who's written his fair share of fanfics.

Truth be told at this point though, I'm just electing to ignore him. We've had a few backs and forth on our beliefs regarding fanfiction for a few posts by this point. Backs and forth, that if I didn't finally back off after seeing the futility of it, could have probably gone on until the heat death of the universe.

But when you watch him derail a post about Fright Knight being an Al Ghul and passing the title and sword down to Damian for Ghost King Danny, with him arguing it should have Scarecrow because he's the fear guy and even escalating a suggestion of Scarecrow stealing it from Damian to saying he should kill Damian with it with no way of resurrecting him...

Yeah... I kinda finally realized the kind of person I was dealing with. The kind that will never be satisfied and it's easier to ignore them.

Though weirdly enough, to give Jedi even an ounce of credit at all instead of spending a post trashing on the guy, those discussions were a bit eye opening as they led to me finally finding the words to figure out what I value in fanfiction.

For example, the above points in my prior reblog regarding powerscaling in the context of writing a story and why it is so incredibly important.

Truth be told, I also kinda enjoyed the debate a fair bit because it's an interesting perspective and I kinda understand the general idea of WHERE he's coming from regarding his stance on DC Fics and how they "fuck up" on writing the DC Characters.

I believe it's mainly due to a combination of his age (he is not shy about admitting to the fact he was one of the people who had called in on the Jason Todd Vote to kill or save Jason back in 1988 during A Death in the Family which was 36 years ago as of the time of writing in 2024) and the fact his arguments seems to come from a place of love for the DC Comics he's grown up with that he at least wants people to, in his eyes, respect the source material. At least that's my understanding.

I also understand my perspective will always be very different as someone born around the turn of the millennium in the early 2000s, we both clearly grew up with different DC Media (for me I mainly consumed DC through TV Shows and Video Games such as the 2003 Teen Titans cartoon and the Lego Batman games)

Either way, I believe he is entitled to that opinion just as much as I am entitled to my own, even if he does often try to get those opinions across in the most aggravating and asshole-ish ways possible and I still don't agree with his points in general as I've made clear in my past reblogs.

Overall in short, I'm annoyed by his bullshit as much as everyone else, but I also believe despite how much he's made me think that he's not worth arguing with anymore regardless.

I love how Danny is the DPxDC fandom's (at this point is its own fandom) personal Barbie

He's the ghost king, he's a mechanic, he's a runaway, he's an ancient, he's an engineer, he's a barista, he's a regular guy, he's an eldritch being, he has trauma beyond comparison, he has no trauma at all, he's a child, he's a teenager, he's in his 40's, he's gay, he's straight, he's bisexual, he's whatever suits the character he's being shipped with, he's Damian's twin, he's a clone, he's Dani's dad, he's Dani's brother, he's both at the same time

He's truly made of play dough

[silvermoon424]

LITERALLY THIS DRIVES ME FUCKING INSANE!!! Most of the culture-war bullshit right-wingers cry about only happens online. They let shitposters and outrage accounts dictate their entire worldview. Like they're not even chronically online, they have a terminal case and will die if they don't touch grass.

Like some random, completely obscure leftie will make a TikTok being like "honestly I think that you should be allowed to kill a baby up until 1 month after birth bc they're not even sentient," which is obviously an insane take but nowhere near mainstream and certainly not a Democratic Party policy. And also the TikTok itself gets 30 likes and everyone in the comments is dunking on OP.

And then Libs of TikTok will find it and make a tweet like "this is what the Democrats want. They keep lying to us and saying that post-birth abortion isn't real but it is! Disgusting freaks. Remember this when it's time to vote." And then her thousands of dumbass fans will spread it like wildfire, leading it to be featured on The Daily Wire, which then leads to it being featured on Fox News, and so on. And then the narrative they're pushing is suddenly "Democrats want to murder your babies!!!!!" Except "Democrats" really just means "this one insane person on TikTok."

Meanwhile elected Republican officials will literally just repeat Nazi talking points but apparently it's not a big deal, stop being so sensitive!

[daytaker]

"Would you still love me if I was a worm?"

Lucifer

*Looking up from the mountain of actually important paperwork he's trying to get through right now.* "No, probably not."

Worm Love Scale: 2 / 10 ██▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

Leave him alone, honestly. He's dealing with enough bullshit right now without your stupid meme questions.

Mammon

"Hell yeah I'd love ya if you were a worm! I'd carry ya 'round in my pocket or something! Haha! I mean... like... Not permanently though, right?"

Worm Love Scale: 6 / 10 ██████▒▒▒▒▒▒

Like, you're just talkin' about a hypothetical situation where Solomon does somethin' stupid and ya turn into a worm temporarily, and we fix it, and you change back into a person! ...Right?

Leviathan

*Blushing...* "...I'd probably love you a little more if you were a worm..."

Worm Love Scale: 9 / 10 ██████████▒▒

Worms are just...really cute, okay? You wouldn't understand.

Satan

"I think I love you a little less just for asking me that."

Worm Love Scale: 1 / 10 █▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers, bitch.

Asmodeus

"Ummmmm... Could I see a picture of the worm first?"

Worm Love Scale: 3 / 10 ███▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

He'd feel bad saying 'no', but... Eugh... Worms are not cute...

Beelzebub

"Yeah."

Worm Love Scale: 7 / 10 ███████▒▒▒▒

Sure he would. Beel would love you no matter what.

Belphegor

"Probably not... You can't really cuddle with a worm..."

Worm Love Scale: 2 / 10 ██▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

Slimy and cold and not very cuddly... There are obvious downsides in worm physiology.

Diavolo

"What an interesting question. On one hand, I think I prefer how you look in your current state, but when I think about it, it would be very convenient to be able to carry you from place to place if you were worm-sized. We could spend so much more time together, hahaha!"

Worm Love Scale: 7 / 10 ███████▒▒▒▒▒

The demon lord is nothing if not flexible. He'd probably be able to figure something out to benefit everyone.

Barbatos

"I can't say I'm overly fond of worms."

Worm Love Scale: 2 / 10 ██▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

Better than a rat, though.

Solomon

"Oh, my dear apprentice. You should know by now that no horrific transfiguration could dampen my affection for you."

Worm Love Scale: 8 / 10 ████████▒▒▒

Yeah, just try and shake him off with a little worm transformation. See how that goes for you.

Simeon

"What a strange question. I suppose that would depend on a few factors! Would we have met in our current bodies first? I have trouble envisioning myself coming to love a worm I'd only ever known in its worm form..."

Worm Love Scale: 5 / 10 █████▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

You can't just ask a question like that without any context.

Luke

"Ew! Er... I mean, Father says to love all creatures, but..."

Worm Love Scale: 3 / 10 ███▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

He'd really rather not....

[mochinomnoms]

OH MY GOD JAMIL WAS AN OPTION??? sorry I'm obsessed with him... snake man..... did you have any thoughts on what ptm would have been like with him...

Referring to this post

I considered Jamil for a bit cause he fit the basic plot that I wanted, but I fucking hate that bitch so—

I'm kidding, he's not my most favorite character but my "hatred" is more of a joke than anything, but since he isn't an appealing character to me I didn't feel like writing such a big fic for him when there were others I liked much more.

Similar to Vil, I think I would've written an enemies to lovers story, specifically focused on the reader never really getting over what Jamil did to them in Book 4 and him sensing that. I think for Jamil, despite knowing exactly how much you dislike him, can't help but slowly fall for you. You're...an idiot, there's no other way to put it, but he's surprisingly fond of you still, so perhaps he's also an idiot.

You're not dumb in the way he's grown to see Kalim, but you share a similar naïveté that is more endearing when it comes to you. You don't take the bullshit from others and are blunt regardless of your peers' social status. Blame it on you not being born in his world, but he wishes he could be so blunt, so open, so free like you.

It's in the way you smile at someone as intimating as Malleus, the way you speak bluntly at someone like Vil, the way you bring Kalim down to reality with your brashness. Leona even remarks at how you try to roughhouse with him, badly mind you as you'd get bruised from the play fighting.

There's just something that makes him jealous with how you treat these royals and socialites like they're just some person you know. At first, he thought he was jealous of how no one retaliated against you. Kalim wasn't surprising, but the others? They found it amusing, charming even, and were happy to let you be for the most part.

Jamil is jealous that you can be carefree with others, something that would have dreadful consequences on him and his family if he were to do the same. But the longer he watches you, and the more you soften up to him as the months pass by, the more he realizes that he's jealous of them. He's always been envious of people like Kalim, though he hates to admit it, but this is a different kind of envy.

He's not that stupid though, Jamil knows he's jealous because he wants to see you act like that with him. He wants that smile you give Malleus on him. He wants that blunt way you speak to Vil to instead fill his own ears. He wants the brashness you give Kalim to be his instead. He wants you to roughhouse with him instead of Leona, to give you those bruises instead.

Bruises that he can kiss, that he can soothe, that he can ghost his thumb over as he imagines the way you look up at him with soft reverence in your eyes. He imagines you on your knees, he imagines you underneath him, he imagines your skin meeting his lips, he imagines you uttering those three words to him, and him only—

Oh. Oh.

Jamil has an entire summer to deal with his feelings, to figure out just how he wants to go about this. When he comes back, after you've developed your telepathy, he's confused as to why you are suddenly so...shy around him. You, who used to be a bit catty, a tease, things he liked about you. Now? You can't even look him in the eye, like you know something. Your eyes darting everywhere but his face, always putting space between you two, even going so far as to ensure that you two are never alone.

What happened to his Prefect? The one who would bicker with him, the one who would stick their tongue out at him when he pasted by, the one who'd call out his sly words and joke that he really was like his namesake—a snake.

He's wanted very few things in life that he could actually have, and he wants you. So sue him if he decides to make it his mission to bring you back to how you were so that he could have the challenge of winning your heart. It won't be satisfactory otherwise, it's too bad he's unaware that even thought he has passes through your mind, making his goal much, much more difficult.

[osmanthuscest]

No, we do not have to support this community in order to be proshippers. Is it there now a proshippers guide book? And yes, adult paraphiles are grooming them!

I am mostly in Twitter, have you seen pro-paras in that hell of site? These are recent searches for the hashtag, it didn't took me five minutes to search this. It is such a coincidence that most underage paraphiles are disordered or deals with self harm? Or is it because paraphiles are grooming vulnerable mentally ill children? This is sickening to see.

parablr (or whatever you call it) is not any better. This is where I learned the words con abuse as well and hell, I have seen underage users making forms to find someone who abuses them. Is this normal to you? Is making a cult based on yourself something normal? It is not grooming?

I prefer to side with antis who doesn't like what I consume rather than someone who makes pedophile pride flags. (Not MAP, the term is bullshit. Call them for what they are, pedophiles). I couldn't care less that me hating on groomers and being concerned for victims is "you are using anti rethoric!!! Switch paras for proshippers 😣😣!!!" I don't care.

I am not against about paraphiles per se. I understand is something that you cannot control, even though I'd rather not to be around them for my own comfort, I sympathize with them, they can be victims of abuse as well. There should be a common that gives them support.

A real community. Not Tumblr users who makes pedophile incestuous animals lovers headcanons and makes paraphiles as something uwu quirky to have. These are real people who need help, this para community is BS because you are not only treating them like children but also ends calling the attention of underage users.

Mostly underage users that are pro paraphiles believes that this is activism, that this is inherently queer thanks to the ugly ass flags you guys make, they get interested in being this generation saviors so they get into it. Biggest mistake of their life.

Have y'all know about Ezra? His stupid website was known for containing pedo and zoophiles who talked about it, even NSFW, in front of children users. Even worse, children were saying they'd like to engage in these disgusting relationships.

Sickening.

Propara community is actively grooming children. Proshipping is not pro paraphiles. Proshipping is pro-fucking-seek-for-help though.

I hate these posts.

either you are AGAINST the idea of thought-crimes, or you're not. just bc someone's a paraphile does NOT make them any kind of offender. being proship, you almost HAVE to be pro-(anti contact) para, because part of being proship is recognizing that your imagination also can't hurt anyone.

ignoring all that, though, the other glaring issue is that these are the exact arguments antis make towards us. calling people predators with no proof, saying paras should "keep it private", that paras are trying to "groom" people into believing their paraphilias are good. replace "paras" with "proshippers" and you've got the same dumb arguments WE'VE BEEN HAVING FOR YEARS.

EVEN FURTHER THAN THAT, what happened to using the block button? why do y'all forget all about that as soon as it's a paraphile, or at minimum, someone you DEEM to be a paraphile. y'all are no better than the people you are against.

[chaifootsteps]

Blitzo: wait wait wait. You think I raped that bird? Did he fucking tell you that?

OK, so let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t do a damn thing to him.

He made the deal while I was getting shot at in. My life was in danger.

He backed me into a corner. He coerced me.

Not the other way around, no matter how much he screams it.

And if he did tell you this, I have no doubt it’s just because he loves being the victim even when he’s not.

Or he plans on playing martyr by bursting through those doors to “save” me as if it’s not partially his fault I’m in this position in the first place.

Stolas isn’t a victim of me, or jonestly anyone else. Everything that’s happened is because of his stupid little “woe is me” bullshit that he’s got going on with his victim and martyr complex.

We were not dating, and he doesn’t love me. I’m a novelty to him, a toy, a fantasy.

In the minute, I refuse to play the game anymore. He threw a tantrum.

Though something tells me his ex-wife and daughter are well aware of said tantrums, they probably only had to deal with them for a couple hundred years.

So yeah, I’ll take the blame for stealing the book.

But everything else involving that fucking owl?

It’s his own damn fault, not mine. And I will not be made his scapegoat.

[0alix0]

Can't get rid of a thought about how utterly USELESS the 10 year time jump really was.

I didn't like the idea first, it's a DECADE we're talking about. Like for this time alone you can get a child and raise them to a 4th grade, you can get a full medical degree, you can grow a Christmas tree from sprout. A DECADE GUYS. And I'm not even talking about logical missteps. What was Inquisitor doing this whole time? What the fuck was Solas doing this whole time?? I don't remember any new of his shenanigans being mentioned in the game. Why didn't his agents push him further into action because, you know, they're not getting any younger? Why's Varric still chasing after Solas??? Why's Lavellan still chasing after him??? It's a decade, any normal healthy person would reasonably calm down and maybe give up at all. and if they aren't normal healthy people, then you should probably show them being unhealthily attached to solas, give the reasons for it and consequences!

STILL there was potential for drama. Seeing some older versions of companions moving on with their life, changing so much since the last time we saw them. Inquisitor being a bit too old to deal with all that, maybe having a family, kids. Lavellan becoming one of the primary reasons for Solas to destroy the veil, because she's right there dying slowly because of the it, because of him.

Good stuff.

But no. It literally doesn't matter! It's never used for anything even remotely emotional. The only reason it exists is to justify the lack of character choices from previous games, and even THAT feels like a bullshit when you look back at the Inquisition. A game that takes place 10 YEARS AFTER ORIGINS yet still respects at least SOME of the player's choices beyond "who did you fuck?"

And now everybody just ignores it! Fans, writers, even the developers who created npcs. Isabella looks about the same she did in DAI multiplayer. Harding's just changed her hair a bit. Morrigan has the same face as she had in Inquisition. The only one who kinda changed is Varric, but.... come the fuck on, take inquisition!Varric, put him into vagrant's clothes, grow some hair, dye it, and make him alcoholic. One month of work. That's it.

Shit's hilarious 🚬

[wolfhollow]

I am really glad to see a lot of folks in the tags on this post who understand that the "fuck the audience" movement means "fuck the bullshit assumed audience critic in the back of your brain" and not literally ignore your audience and get pissy when you don't get the reaction you want. lol. My understanding is that it is a response in particular to a type of critic common in fandom that wants to enforce their own ideas of moral purity on a work or an artist/author.

Also. Creating art for yourself as the only audience is an important part of being an artist. Figuring out what you like making and then iterating on that to develop your voice is part of the learning process. Any attendee of an early art school class can see how students come in making art for themselves then learn how to consider others responses to their work.

In a medium like tumblr, where a great deal of art is made by folks with no formal education I think we have to hold space for people that are still exploring that phase. It isn't a phase you can skip without consequence.

I also think the derogatory language OP uses to describe hobbiest works of art ("a fart in the wind", "for funsies, but we all know you really wanna be famous ;p") reveals a lot about how the OP has been influenced by their own background. So often those with formal art training divide art into a hierarchy. Fine and academic art at the top, commercial and for-hire art in the middle, and hobbiest and amateur art at the bottom.

Which I find very, very funny in a discussion about the importance of considering the audience given that a large portion of tumblr artists are or started as hobbyists. Considering the audience indeed.

Tumblr’s new fixation on “FUCK AUDIENCE!!!! MAKE WHAT YOU WANT!!!” is entirely opposite my training as an artist and a rhetorician and a science communicator

Just throwing some art into the void and expecting people to interact with it is some freshman art student who thinks they know everything energy. You are taking an action with the intent of some sort of intervention in the world. Pretending your work has no directionality, biases, and contexts that influence how and by who it is understood by is just sloppy and lazy work.

You’re free to make work that’s a fart in the wind. It’s good for you! Just don’t expect it to have meaningful impact and response.