#anyway. i deliberately don't talk about any of this much because i am in no way knowledgeable enough to do so and i don't want to spread

[youssefguedira]

like i do think when it comes to activism there are better places to do it than the letterboxd reviews for the zone of interest

[grison-in-space]

I'm genuinely sorry, I was really tired and couldn't think of the word that mad pride movements use. I'm new to all of this. I thought you would be more open to it because you've reblogged from radical leftists (anarchists and communists both) within the past couple of weeks and they're all for Veganism afaik. The argument that all brains are different but equal and should be treated the exact same is a primary aspect of mad pride from my understanding, and that speaks to me about animals just having different brains, and that they don't deserve to be exploited and killed for us just because they're different. I'm not spamming people with it, but I was inspired by an ask by a nonvegan and started asking popular bloggers why they weren't vegan to open up conversation and potentially change people's views on animals. If I've made you uncomfortable I'm sorry, though I admit I'm really confused by your standpoint. You do know that the only reason communism hasn't succeeded is because of America? Anyway, sorry again, I'm also autistic and I didn't mean to dismiss your legitimate dietary needs. Can I recommend acti-vegan's posts? While I understand that you can't go vegan, perhaps their blog will at least help you understand our points, they're much more well-written than my asks and they have plenty of legitimate science resources at hand. Thanks for listening, I'll take your advice into account. I'm not trying to not listen, it's just frustrating because so many people say they get it but they don't change, and if they truly got it they would, you know?

Okay, I get that you didn't mean to be offensive, and fuck knows I shouldn't throw stones when it comes to forgetting specific words. (This happens to me fairly frequently; it's a thing.)

The argument that all brains are different but equal and should be treated the exact same is a primary aspect of mad pride from my understanding, and that speaks to me about animals just having different brains, and that they don't deserve to be exploited and killed for us just because they're different.

So yesterday I actually wrote out and then deleted a whole paragraph to the effect of "part of my deep, deep frustration with animal rights activism hooks into my commitment to the phrase 'nothing about us without us,' because I frequently see the same kinds of emotional projection without making the effort to listen to animals on their own terms from animal rights activism groups."

The first thing I need to make clear to you is that this--veganism and animal rights activism (ARA) more generally--is not new to me. I am in my mid-thirties and I have never had a job of any kind that did not revolve around animals in some way, I've spent time in rescue spaces and vets and universities, I'm queer and I have spent most of my life in leftish progressive circles, so it's kind of hard to miss.

Essentially, you are proselytizing to me as if you were a newly baptized evangelical convinced I had never heard of Jesus, because if only I had heard and understood his holy word, I would be converted instantly to his light! It's not any less irritating when the belief system isn't explicitly a religion.

More under the cut, because this one is long.

Disclaimer one: Veganism isn't synonymous with ARA ideology, but it's deeply entangled with it, and ARA ideology drives the movement of veganism as a (theoretically non-religious) ethical decision. And I object very strongly to the framework imposed by ARA activists. When I say I am not vegan, I am saying that I have considered the ethical framework that underpins veganism as an ethics movement and I have deliberately rejected it.

The second piece of context you should know that when I talk about being a behavioral ecologist, I mean that I'm a researcher who works on animals and that my framework is rooted in trying to understand animals in their own natural ecological context, without necessarily comparing them to humans. There's a lot of ways to study animal behavior you might run into, including attempts to understand universal principles of behavior that transcend species (animal cognition) and attempts to understand how to better treat animals in human care (animal welfare). You know Temple Grandin? Temple Grandin is an ethologist (the field that gave rise to behavioral ecology, also focused on animals within their species context) who worked on animal welfare (finding ways to make slaughterhouses less stressful to livestock, among other things).

Third point: my profession also means is that I work directly with animals--in my case, currently mice--and that I do not think research with animal subjects is wrong as long as all efforts are made to ensure maximal welfare and enrichment for the animals involved. This is another major bone of contention politically between my entire field and ARA groups, and you should know that I have also spent my entire professional career under the shadow of, well, people who care strongly enough about those ideas to invade my workspace and potentially seize my animals and "free" them into a world they do not have the tools to survive in.

So there's where I am coming from. Let's get back to what you're saying. Here, I'll quote again in case you have the same crappy short-term memory I do.

The argument that all brains are different but equal and should be treated the exact same is a primary aspect of mad pride from my understanding, and that speaks to me about animals just having different brains, and that they don't deserve to be exploited and killed for us just because they're different.

Point the first: Even within humans, I don't think that all brains should be treated the exact same. Especially in a disability context! After all, what is an accommodation if not an agreement to treat someone differently because they need certain things to access a space? Accommodations by definition fly in the face of this "treating everyone the same" understanding of fairness. I think all (human) brains are equally valuable, and I think all brains are worthy of respect, but I do not think that it's wise or kind of me to assert that everyone should be treated in the same way. For one thing, I teach students. If there's one thing teaching has taught me, it's that a good teacher is constantly assessing and adjusting their instruction to meet students where they're at, identify failures of understanding, and keep the attention of the classroom.

Point the second: animals do have different brains from humans. That does not mean that animals are inferior, but it does mean that they are alien. There's a philosophy paper, Nagel, What Does It Mean to Be a Bat, that you might find illuminating on this front. Essentially, the point of the paper is that animals have their own experiences and sensory umwelts that differ profoundly enough from humans' that we cannot know what it is like to be a different species without experiencing life as one, and therefore we must be terribly careful not to project our own realities onto theirs. That is, our imagination cannot tell us what a bat values and what it experiences. That is why we have to use careful evidence to understand what an animal is thinking, without relying on our ability to identify with and comprehend that animal. I have watched ARA groups deliberately encourage people to shut their reasoning brains off and emotionally identify themselves with animals without considering within-species context for twenty years. This is a mainstream tactic. It is not an isolated event and for that reason alone I would be opposed to them.

Point the third: there is a definite tendency in lots of people to care deeply and intensely about both animals and people who are seen as "lesser" in status--children, poor people, disabled people, etc--just as long as those groups never contradict the good feelings that come from the helper's own assessment of themselves and their actions. In humans, when the "needy" point out that some forms of help are actually harmful, the backlash is often swift and vicious. This is why animals are such an appealing target of support and intervention. They can't speak back and say "in fact, you are projecting my love of this frilly pink tutu onto me, and I think it's uncomfortable and prevents me from walking." They can't say "I kind of like it better when I don't have to worry about getting hit by a car, actually?"

(By the way: this is also why it's offensive to compare disabled people to animals, because this is generally done at least in part to silence the voices of disabled people speaking for our selves and our communities. We have access to language, and we use it, thank you.)

All forms of animal welfare intervention going right back to the founding of the first RSPCA have been incredibly prone to being hijacked by classist, racist, and otherwise bigoted impulses. This is because animals offer an innocent face for defense that conveniently cannot criticize the actions taken by their champions, and they therefore provide a great excuse for actions taken against marginalized members of human society. Think about the very first campaign the RSPCA ever did, which was banning using dogs as draft animals: a use that is not inherently harmful to dogs, which many dogs actively enjoy, but also one that was specifically used by poor Londoners and which in fact immediately resulted in a great butchery of the dogs that Londoners could no longer afford to feed rather than allowing poor people and their dogs to continue working together. No one was, of course, challenging the particular uses of dogs or any other animal favored by the wealthy. This kind of thing is so, so, so common. Obviously it doesn't mean that all interventions to prioritize animal welfare are inherently bigoted, but it does mean that we have to be critical about our choice of challenges.

On top of everything, the animal rights activist movement's obsession with "exploitation" is a function of the idea that humans are sinful or otherwise Bad in how we interact with animals by definition. For example, take the chicken rescue near me that is so obsessed with the possibility that some human somewhere might benefit from an animal in their care that they implant every hen they adopt out with hormonal implants such that the hens no longer lay eggs--a function that is normally a natural byproduct of a chicken's reproductive system, fertilized or not. A mutualistic relationship involves both parties benefiting, and that is the case for an awful lot of human relationships with animals. In general, the idea that associating with animals is a thing that can only harm animals rather than being a trade between two species to enrich one another is all over these groups. It's just so myopically focused on human shame that it prevents practical interventions that might benefit everyone, and often promotes interventions that don't directly benefit animals but sure do make humans miserable. For example, this kind of thinking is why groups like PETA are absolutely awful at effectively rescuing unwanted dogs and cats: they think pets living in "bondage" with humans are an essentially sad outcome, rather than one that might be mutually enjoyed by all parties.

I'm tired and my meds haven't kicked in, so I'm not currently going to handle the communism thing except to point out that while the US absolutely did destabilize a number of leftist regimes in South America and Africa, Russia and China between them have certainly not treated their own people kindly, either (and more so their own client-nations, as with the former members of the USSR). Please do some reading about the Holodomor and Lysenko in Russia (and frankly all of the details of Stalin's regime) and the Cultural Revolution in China in particular. Khmer Rouge might be worth looking into, too. I am not saying the US's hands are clean, you understand, because they are not; they're as steeped in red as anyone else's. What I am saying is that for people living on the ground, communist revolutions have this nasty habit of turning into bloodbaths and arbitrary slaughters. Do not let your distaste for the US's bloodsoaked imperialism (which, yes, is and was bad) let you fall into the trap of becoming a tankie.

And if you don't know what a tankie is, you really, really should take some time to learn.

[redflagshipwriter]

Red Hot Ghouls chapter 11 2/2

Masterpost

He leaned back a little.

There was a very strange silence. Jack’s face initially turned to fury, then a shocked contemplation. Jason waited it out and wondered if he was going to get in trouble for shooting a civilian in genuine self defense.

“Son.” Jack’s voice was grave. “You’re not Jeremy Waters, are you?”

It took a moment to parse through the immediate offense that this guy had busted his cover and to actually register the full name.

Oh, fuck. That Jeremy? The cult guy? Jason made a face involuntarily. “I am not,” he admitted. Oof. Fuck. Here it goes. “I lied because I wanted to be sure you would meet with me.”

“...Honey!” Jack shouted. He shot up in an alarmingly fast motion for such a big man. “Uh, change of plans! Why don’t you get what we all drink on movie nights?”

Something broke in the other room. “Oh, dear,” said Dr. Fenton. “Just a moment.” A vacuum started up. What the actual fuck was going on in there?

“You thought I was that creep?” Jason said blankly. “What were you going to do?” What sounded like a high pressure hose started up in the other room. He had to deliberately decide not to hunch his shoulders defensively. Jesus fucking christ. They were definitely mad scientists.

Jack Fenton looked shifty. “...Talk,” he tried.

Jason looked at the older man. He didn’t say anything. Jack gradually began to look sheepish but he didn’t break.

“Don't worry about it, honey,” Madeleine Fenton said. She set down three alarmingly green glasses and gave him a close-lipped smile.

Jason was very much going to worry about it. He looked between the two of them.

“Melon soda!” Jack Fenton cheered, obviously overreacting to get out of the conversation. He put both his hands up in the air and then grabbed at his glass. “Yummy! So good for growing young men, drink up.” He laughed awkwardly and then buried his face in his own drink.

Meanwhile, Dr. Madeline Fenton looked at him with catlike consideration. She clearly wanted to see him drink the soda.

He was pretty sure they'd been planning to get rid of Jeremy Waters, permanently. Mixed feelings on that, since Waters clearly sucked. He’d human trafficked Jason to the afterlife, after all. On the other hand, you can’t assume someone is chill when you know they want to kill someone. “No thank you,” he said to the melon soda, stomach a little queasy. Even if Jack was drinking it. And the glasses were identical.

“That’s fair,” Dr. Fenton said and sank into the couch cushion next to her husband. “So, you were interested in learning about the Ghost Zone and the afterlife?” She exchanged a meaningful look with her husband. “Any… particular reason?”

These people were intense when they goggled at a guy.

“Nothing I’m ready to talk about yet,” he evaded. It had the advantage of being true. He didn’t know how Jack made him yet.

They proceeded to have a somewhat tense conversation where the Fentons happily elaborated on all their current research and repeated, “I’m sorry, but we’ve withdrawn that work and won’t discuss it,” whenever he mentioned a publication from before 5 years ago. They’d even gone and gotten a lot of their stuff redacted. They talked and talked until Jason’s throat was hoarse. The Drs. Fenton were a brick wall on those topics that he couldn’t bust or wheedle past.

‘What does a person who posts about ghosts on their family blog think to redact?’ Jason wondered.

Eventually, Jack held up both hands. “It’s bothering me that you won’t drink anything,” he admitted. “Let’s go the Nasty!”

“Good idea, honey,” Dr. Fenton agreed. She stood and swung keys around her finger. “I’ll drive!”

Jack Fenton let out a dramatic “Awww, honey bunches,” and followed her around wheedling for a chance to get behind the wheel.

“No, we don’t want to scare our guest.” Dr. Fenton was immovable. A bit ominous as well.

Jason thought about pointing out that he hadn’t agreed to come with them, but he stood up anyways. It wasn’t like he could just sit on their couch and watch them leave their own house.

He had his first inkling of how badly he’d initially fucked up on that phone call when they got outside. Jack pulled the canvas off the family van with a flourish to reveal an absolutely horrific mural of Danny the ghost king giving gifts to humanity. There was text explaining his generosity, scrolling across the bottom of the van.

Jason stood stock still in horror.

The van gave off the same general impression as psychedelic howling wolf print art.

Jason put a hand over his mouth and tried to process it.

Danny’s white hair floated nobly across a few more feet than Jason was pretty sure it should. He was also kinda built in this painting compared to reality and he looked more… kingly. Not that Danny wasn’t in shape, but he was built more like Dr. Fenton than Jack Fenton, if that made sense.

Wait. Why’d he made that comparison? That should have been a frame of reference for Danny Fenton, not Danny the ghost king. …Was the ghost king basing his form off the Fenton’s kid?

“Come on, son!” Jack slapped him on the back. The force was enough to jar Jason forward and out of his dissociative state.

He moved numbly. ‘Alright, they like Danny king,’ Jason managed to think through the wound to his artistic soul. ‘I can be honest with them about the problem. They’ll want to help him get a spiritual separation from some sketchy guy who lied to them.’

They took him to a mid-tier burger restaurant with weird pretensions. The burge had both garlic aioli and shitty neon nacho cheese sauce on it. Jason picked at it for a while, disturbed and pleased by the unexpected combination.

They got back into their discussion. The next time a Fenton asked him a question, he cleared his throat and put down what was left of his burger. “I asked about Phantom because I’m in a little bit of trouble with him.”

It was weird to call him Phantom when he’d introduced himself as Danny. On the other hand, the Fentons also had a kid named Danny, so it was probably for the best.

Jack’s smile faltered. “What kind of trouble, sport?”

Jason shifted in his chair. “I uh. I may have gotten in Waters’ way. I didn’t know who he was,” he admitted. “Next thing I knew, I was in this green place?” He made a confused hand gesture. “Few minutes later, Phantom shows up, kinda pissy, asked if I did it on purpose, and then says that Waters basically.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Spiritually married us to each other.” His voice got a bit smaller than he meant it to.

That meant there was no audio competition for the loud crack when Madeline Fenton broke the table.

“Jesus fuck,” Jason said, looking at her with wide eyes. “Is your hand-”

She put her elbows on top of the tabletop that still existed and cupped her chin on her palms. “Tell me more.”

“You’re a handsome boy, aren’t you,” said Jack consideringly. “Maddie, honeybunches, d’you know, I was thinking about tracking down the Wishiewish ghostie again today. D’you think-”

“Oh, he should absolutely come with you,” Dr. Fenton agreed. She was beaming. It… did not feel villainous.

‘Why did telling them that make her less scary all of a sudden?’

“What do you like about Phantom? Do you think he’s cute? Was he nice to you?”

Maybe she was just a romantic.

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Twenty Eight--Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Rough Sex, Slapping (for sexual titillation), Dirty Talk, Multiple Orgasm, Overstimulation, GUNPLAY, Outdoor Sex, Gagging, Choking, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, ANGST ANGST ANGSTTTTTTT!!!!! GET THE TISSUES OUT!

FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

In the aftermath of your heartfelt confession, the ambiance shifted beneath the curtain of rain. Mattheo's initial warmth, which had enveloped the moment, began to withdraw, slowly being replaced by his usual guarded demeanor.

Tension, thick and tangible, emanated from him, as if he yearned to retract, to voice a refusal. The gaze that had once been soft, akin to melted chocolate, now bore a stark reluctance. It was as though the vulnerability you had glimpsed moments earlier had transformed into a protective shield, guarding him against the intensity of the unexpected revelation.

Undeterred, you pressed forward, defying the cooling atmosphere with a resolute step. Your hands, a gentle insistence against the encroaching frost, found their place on his face. Amidst the rhythmic percussion of springtime raindrops, your eyes held an unbroken contact, mirroring the pounding cadence of your heart. A silent gaze held him in place, allowing the weight of your words to permeate the space before you spoke again.

"Don't say anything," you whispered, the words borne on the breath of the rain-soaked air, a plea to let the unspoken emotions settle in the delicate stillness between you two. "You've said so much, Mattheo...you've shared so much with me...I don't need you to say another word...just...just listen,"

Mattheo blinked, the subtle motion accompanied by the quiet working of his throat as he swallowed. His hands, hanging at his sides, remained still as yours maintained their firm grasp on his face. An almost imperceptible nod from him prompted you to inhale sharply, capturing the breath in your lungs.

"Perhaps I lied to you..." you began, your voice soft, tender. "Perhaps I wasn't being truthful when I said I never believed in destiny...because in a way, I do...but I also believe that we are only destined to do the things we'd choose to do anyway..."

A pause ensued as you studied his countenance, your gaze tracing the scars on his skin and taking note of his perfect imperfections that shaped the essence of who he is.

"And I'd choose you, Mattheo...in a hundred fucking lifetimes, in a hundred different realities, I would choose you...every fucking time..." you declared, your grip on him intensifying. Your hands trembled, mirroring the tremor in your voice. "I don't care about your history, I don't care about any of the bad things you've done...everything you've been through has made you who you are...and I am fucking in love with who you are...every single part of you...your smart mouth, your cheeky smirk, every line and every scar..."

Drawing him nearer, you gently guided him until his forehead found solace against yours. His hands discovered the curve of your waist, pulling you into an embrace that emanated urgency, a profound need to absorb every syllable you uttered, each word a testament to the depth of emotions shared between you.

"Your skin, absent of its scars, would be like a sky without stars," you murmured, your shared breaths blending in the intimate proximity. "I didn't fall in love with you; I fucking walked into love with you--with my eyes wide open, deliberately choosing every step along the way. Everything you've revealed changes nothing, Matty...I love you, utterly and unequivocally."

A profound silence enveloped the space, and time seemed to elongate into a suspended realm, each passing moment an eternity. His eyes, a tumultuous storm of unexpressed feelings, gently fluttered closed, his lips parting as his breaths, once steady, now took on a rhythm almost akin to panting--a visceral manifestation of the emotions swirling within.

His hands, deliberate in their motion, traversed the landscape of your back, ascending with a sense of purpose. As they reached your head, his fingers, fueled by a desperate urgency, found purchase, gripping your face with a fervor that spoke volumes. In this charged atmosphere, his eyes, concealed behind closed lids, hinted at the vulnerability beneath the stoic exterior. The suspended moment begged for release, aching for the words that lingered on the precipice.

"Say it again..." his murmured request, laden with longing, reverberated through the charged air. "I just-"

"I love you," you said, the words firmer this time, your hands threading behind his head, fingers entwining in his soaked hair. "I love you..."

His jaw tensed, and he released a shaky breath--his eyelids fluttering, the grip on your skull tightening. "Again."

"I love you," you repeated, your voice gaining strength, fingers digging into his scalp as though you could force the words through. "I fucking love you, Mattheo Riddle."

Breaths intermingled, and your grips on each other surpassed the hold of any chains or restraints. In the pulsating intensity, your minds spun with a whirlwind of thoughts. Was there a sweeter arrangement than this? He gets to ask you, over and over to repeat it--while you get to tell him, over and over, that you mean it.

Your nails dug into his scalp, foreheads pressing together with an almost painful force. "I thought it would be impossible to ever find someone...to ever be with someone, when beneath my surface of composure, I'm scattered in a million different pieces--like a puzzle with missing parts..." you paused, lips softly grazing his. "But then you showed me that every piece doesn't have to be in place to create something beautiful...something real...that love can exist in the most imperfect, lost, broken people."

A guttural noise escaped him, resonating low in his throat as his fingers dug into your skin, cradling your head.

You inhaled a shallow breath before you continued, "and I promise you, my love will be just as strong, just as beautiful, whether you, too, are in a thousand pieces, or just one.”

Mattheo, completely struck silent, locked eyes with your parted lips. In perfect synchrony, your gaze met his, and in that silent exchange, there was a mere gasp of air before his mouth was on yours. The passion between your bodies ignited into an unbridled inferno, refusing any attempt at restraint. His kiss was a slippery bruise, melding madness at your skin, tongue driving into you while he inhaled through his nose. You met him, movement for movement, groaning against him, fingers folding further into his hair, thumbs tracing the tops of his ears, and he groaned against your lips before capturing them again,

The kiss was unlike any before--a fervent blaze spiraling out of control, unwilling to be subdued for even a moment longer. His lips met yours with an intensity that felt almost primal; a hungry, desperate fusion of raw emotion and longing. His hands cradled your head with a force that hinted at an uncontainable desire, making you wonder if he sought to meld your very essence. The cool droplets of rain cascaded around you, soaking your skin to the bone, but you couldn't find it in you to care.

"I need you, princess..." he whispered, parting from the kiss, his hands gliding down your back as his lips found the curve of your neck. "But you already knew that, didn't you? Pretty girl..."

Your eyelids fluttered in response, fingers tightly grasping his hair, a desperate grip that mirrored the intensity of his kisses trailing down your neck. Your lip found refuge between your teeth as his mouth explored the path of rain cascading along your skin.

"My tainted little angel," he murmured, his words a provocative caress against your ear. "Crushingly beautiful...tender like a bruise..."

His hands, firm and insistent, sought the curves of your hips, fingers grasping at the wet fabric of your dress, tugging it upwards along your thighs. "You were the first sin actually worth hurting for...had me wrapped around your little finger before you even fucking touched me..."

You throbbed, a full-body pulse, humming into him with a shudder, Mattheo's lips moved back to yours, nipping at your lower lip before sliding to your chin, following the streams on your skin as he pressed clumsy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, falling to suck and nibble at your heartbeat. Whimpering, you nuzzled your head into his, and he responded with a sharp bite to your neck, barely-restrained, earning a squeal from your throat.

"I told myself I was fine...that I was better off alone...never needed anyone, never wanted anyone...but then you came around, and after all this fucking time, after everything I put you through...it's still you, it's you who fucking believes in me..." he murmured against your skin. “You mean so fucking much to me…and when I finally admitted to that myself, when I finally let myself feel…you made me better, and I don't mean from being my tutor...you just made me want to be better...fuck, Raven...I wanted you to look at me the way you looked at the stars...I wanted to get better grades for you…I quit drinking and drugs because I wanted to be a better man for you..."

As he lifted your dress beyond your hips, your hands eagerly joined the movement, gathering the fabric's hem and peeling it over your head. His eyes traversed over every inch of newly exposed flesh, absorbing the sight with an intensity that spoke volumes. You observed as he swiftly shed his suit jacket, stripping the soaked fabric from his frame and laying it on the ground. His hands deftly moved to undo his belt, discarding his gun in the process. Returning a firm grip on your hips, he crashed his mouth back to yours, a relentless hunger igniting the kiss.

Moaning, you writhed into his chest, and he gripped your face, nails scraping your scalp while he pulled you closer, groaning into you, leaning--you followed him, chasing his kiss until you were both on the ground; him on his back, your legs straddling him, palms planted on his chest.

"I’ve had some, then most of you...all, and then none of you..." a soft, anxious breath escaped his throat, and he swirled his tongue over yours before biting your lip and pushing you up, hands settling on your thighs, rocking you back and forth over his thick erection, covered only by the thin fabric of his boxers. "I-I can't lose you again...it's you...it's fucking always been you..."

"Oh, Gods..." your voice cracked, emotion bubbling in your chest, threatening to spill out as you rolled your hips against him. He watched you, panting in rhythm with you, and you admired him--how fucking beautiful he was--his eyes stark with need, his mouth parted in open anticipation, his muscles tensing as he gripped and squeezed you, jerking his hips into your heat. "You won't...you fucking can't..."

Rain bathed you both, rivers roaming over your curves, white cloth of your bra a dewy illusion over your breasts. His thumbs skimmed your nipples with prickles of pleasure, and you moaned, head falling back on your shoulders. As if the sound awakened something inside him, he gripped your hips, flipping the two of you around until you were on your back beneath him, lips instantly moving to your neck, sucking at your throat.

You slid your hands under his shirt, savoring the firm contours of his body. He tensed, a low groan escaping into the intimate space between you, while his hips pressed against you with a force that seemed intent on melding you with the forest floor. Your fingertips traced the hard muscles, memorizing the damp, heated feel of his skin. In his voracious pursuit, he exhibited no restraint, extracting painful hickeys from the pulse at your neck.

The heat of desire surged between your thighs, and he moved lower, marking you with unrestrained passion. Tissue yielded to the pressure of his teeth, welts blooming under the fervent touch of his lips. Anxiety flickered through your mind as visible evidence of his ardor emerged, but the soft groan escaping his chest erased any concerns. Your back arched, willingly offering more of your untamed flesh to his insistent exploration. Grateful, he bit at the swell of your tits, crimson crescents blooming, and his hands moved to your underwear as he laved at your nipple through your bra, scraping it with his teeth through the fabric.

Mattheo fumbled at your folds, two thick fingers peeling you open, assessing your slickness, teasing your entrance. "Still so fucking wet for me..." he murmured, clucking his tongue. "And in the middle of the fucking forest...you'd take my cock anywhere I wanted, hm?"

You bit your lip, trying to grind against his hand. "What can I say...watching you use that gun did something to me..."

"Naughty, naughty girl..." he leaned to your ear, thumb skating your clit--you gasped. "Weren't you ever told to stay away from the asshole, weapon wielding bad boys?"

"Perhaps," you hissed through a moan as Mattheo pushed two fingers inside you--your walls tightening around him, hips twitching, head lolling against his soaked jacket. "Though I've never been good at following orders."

Mattheo huffed. "I'd say."

His mouth consumed you with a fervor, tracing a path of rich violet marks from your chin down to your clavicle, his spit mingling with the rain. Scissoring you open, he rolled your stiff clit, rocking his wrist, curling and working your walls, his other hand palming at his erection in an attempt to pacify himself. You bucked your hips, a shivering moan escaping, and he cursed, slamming in to the knuckle.

"If I fuck you now," he muttered at your jawline, "you'll have to take all of me. Everything I give you." He bit your neck, hard, forcing a cry from your lips. "I won't be able to control myself."

Heat scorched you, and you pulsed around him in anticipation, his fingers crooking in your wet core. Thunder grumbled in the distance. "Thought I'd long proved my capability."

Mattheo purred, and bit you again, pain shooting through you. "Earlier doesn't count, we were rushing...I need to wreck this tight little cunt...I'll fuck you harder and deeper than any of those assholes could ever fucking dream of..."

You shuddered, meeting his eyes. "Do your worst."

Snarling, he leaned back onto his knees, tore his fingers from your core and stuffed them in your mouth; you whinged in surprise, working to suckle them clean. Mattheo's free hand unleashed his dick, twitching eagerly despite its thick, heavy length. He jammed his hand to the back of your throat, and you gagged before he depressed your tongue, prying open your jaw.

"You know how this works." His gaze locked onto you, and the sky seemed to ignite with lightning around him. "Beg for it."

When he released you, you gasped into the rain. "Please, fuck me."

In the blink of an eye, his hand struck you, unleashing a spray of saliva from your parted lips. "That was pathetic," he snickered. "I fucking said beg."

Your face burned--humiliation, shock, and most importantly: desire. If this is what he meant, you wanted more. "Why don't you fucking make me?"

"There's that dirty mouth..." Mattheo smirked, shifting as he reached for his gun, gripping it with his free hand while the other stroked his cock. Before you could process it, he brought the barrel toward your temple, pressing the cold, wet metal against your skull. "Last fucking chance, princess...if you don't beg for my cock I'll fuck you so hard you'll be begging for mercy instead."

A whirlwind of shame and yearning left your head spinning, the likely instigators of your brief lapse into temporary insanity. "I'm not scared of you, Riddle..."

“Oh, princess.” His smirk grew. "You should be."

Adjusting the gun, he compelled the barrel past your lips, the icy metal coating your tongue. His other hand delved into your hair, gripping your soaked strands tightly as he forcefully drove the gun deeper into your throat. Then, without warning, he broke you open, splitting your core with a deep, harsh thrust, head slamming your cervix. You cried out against the weapon, body recoiling in pain, hands moving to his hips, and he shook you in reprimand.

"Oh, no--don't fucking bother." He drove his palm into your head, his nails scratching your scalp. "No running. Take it."

Mattheo pulled out fully before ramming back into you, spearing you with his cock, your body quaking with the force of each of his violent thrusts. His breath was already ragged, furious groans pushed from his chest as he fucked deep into you. Your lungs were empty, failing to find oxygen in his onslaught, your walls squeezing his length in delight, drool spilling down your chin and mingling with the flow of rain.

"Fuck--such an insatiable little cunt..." he growled, his eyes drilling into yours, taunting you through his gaze. "It missed this cock already, didn't it?"

Another deep thrust, meeting your cervix, and you winced, groaning against the gun as you tried to nod.

"That's right...shit..." he pulled the gun from your mouth, strings of drool hanging like garland from the barrel, quickly being washed away with the rain. "My girl...my fucking beautiful, filthy girl..."

He tossed it onto the ground next to your head, drawing his hand down toward your belly, slick fingers rubbing merciless circles on the bundle of nerves in rhythm with his pistoning hips--you wailed, drooling with pleasure, assaulted with a sudden, immediate need to orgasm.

"Fucking hell, you're so tight when you're about to cum..." he groaned, punishing your pussy with hard, rapid thrusts. "Prove you can take it. Cum on this cock."

Between the attention on your clit and the size of his dick, you snapped, convulsing and trembling while your blood flooded with flames, blazing heat through your thighs and to your toes. Above you, Mattheo hissed, fucking you through it, valiantly holding off his own orgasm as yours fizzed at your flesh. When your core's pulsing slowed, he shifted, propping your calves up his shoulders before he leaned forward and clamped his palm down on your neck.

"Don't squirm, baby..." his low voice commanded, and as you whimpered, squirming beneath him, his grin deepened. His eyes, now wild and intoxicated with desire, held a promise. "I gave you fair warning."

His free hand pinched your cheeks, slowly sliding out before slamming back in and pounding your cunt, growling breath leaking from his lungs, his hold on your throat tightening. The pressure in your head only doubled the frenzy of being fucked--you wheezed, your pulse thumping in your temples, and this spurred him on, drilling you with a depraved stare as he plowed into your tight pussy again and again and again.

The rain was steam on your skin, thunder a distant noise behind the sound of slapping skin and your strangled, whimpering moans. Your walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing dick, sore clit twitching once more with a growing demand to be sated--Mattheo grunted, tugging you closer, eyes drilling into yours.

"Open that filthy mouth."

Wincing, you complied, parting your lips as he commanded. Without hesitation, he leaned down and spat into it.

"Now swallow it. Show me."

With determination etched on your face, you managed to comply against the pressure of his massive hand. Popping your jaw apart with a grimace, you showcased your resilience, earning a smirk from him. In response, he rewarded you with a series of both painful and blissful strokes of his hips, pushing your body to its absolute limit. Your breath had vanished ages ago, your heart now a wild entity, coursing through your veins.

"Poor baby," he sneered, feign sincerity in his tone. "I think you need to cum again."

He snaked his free hand between your legs, rolling your aching clit, and you groaned--or tried to, anyway--the speed of your pulse resonating through the grip on your neck. He felt it, too, head bowing in pleasured shock as you thrummed around him, your oncoming climax massaging his thick cock with every new thrust.

"Fuck." Resolute, he rubbed you faster, watching you--in his gaze, you saw nothing but an endless, dark void of lust. "Who do you fucking belong to?"

The words barely made it out. "Y-you, Mattheo..."

His choke tightened, and your vision blurred. "Who owns this tight little pussy?"

"You--you do, Mattheo..." you gasped.

"That's right," he sneered, and swirled your nub so quickly you squealed. "Cum for me, princess..."

The force of your orgasm surged through you, blurring your vision, and you screamed, choked by his hand as every muscle below your waist convulsed in a rapturous ecstasy. Your pussy milked and squeezed his cock, but he resisted his own climax once more, sinking into you until you descended. He drank in the sight of you--eyes rolled, raindrops scattered like diamonds on your skin, your throat and chest smothered with the evidence of his possession.

"Good fucking girl...take me...take all of me," he muttered, voice low and deep in the night air. "Every single fucking inch."

Mattheo shifted again, one arm coiling under you to fist your hair, the other cranking your leg back until your knee hit your chest. Groaning with pleasure, he hammered into you, stretching you wide, filling you to the base. Soaked strands of his hair slid into his eyes, and he tossed them back, wetting his lips and fucking you deep, trapping you in his feral gaze.

"You love me." He tilted your head back with a deliberate motion. "You fucking love me."

You nodded, not a shred of hesitation. "Yes-fuck! I do!"

He swallowed, inching closer, his forehead tenderly meeting yours. "After all of it," he whispered, the words almost lost in the shared breath, "after everything..."

Your chin quivered, and the revelation about his parents cut into your heart, a painful echo of his turbulent past. It hurt, yes, but it also felt like the a groundbreaking revelation, the ending to the story which finally explained why he was the way he was. There was an undeniable understanding that surged between your hearts, a silent recognition that both of you needed love in ways only the other could provide.

Despite the turmoil, you couldn't blame him for something so deeply rooted. The man craved love as desperately as you did, neither of you ever willing to admit it. In the synergy of your souls, there existed an undeniable connection, a perfect harmony that transcended spoken words. Even in the hushed language of silence, your hearts resonated, acknowledging that there would never be two souls more perfectly suited for each other than yours.

"After everything." You wrapped your arms around him, safe when lightning crashed, rocking your hips in his pace. "No matter what."

"Fuck." He wound your hair in his fist, and wrenched your head back, tearing at your throat with his teeth, harsh thrusts pulverizing your cunt. "...I'm--fuck--I'm going to make you break again." His hand left your leg, long fingers back to stroking your tender clit. "And then I'm going to fill you up with my cum."

Senses barraged, you shrieked, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He wasn't fucking joking. You wanted mercy. "Fuck! Mattheo! Please-please-"

"No. Take it," he snarled into your ear. "Take it."

He assailed your nub, and you quailed, curling around him like a snake, shaking from the overwhelming intensity of his power, lids shut while he nipped your neck, demolished your pussy, panted hard into your ear.

"You're mine." He growled, his voice shredded raw with lust. "Mine."

"I'm yours!" You shrieked, nails digging crescents into his back. "Yours."

"Fuck-" he hissed, slamming harder, deeper. "Mine! All fucking mine..."

"Yours! Fuck!" It was all too much, too great, brain crashing into a wanton mess. "All fucking yours!"

Your body convulsed, teeth sinking into your lip, propelled through a realm of heightened sensitivity into an ecstasy that seared your skin. Gasps and incoherent pleas spilled from your lips, a desperate supplication for release, for him to unleash the crescendo that would send you soaring and screaming and cumming.

"That's it," Mattheo growled, pumping into you, folding you into his frame. "You're taking me so fucking well baby, just one more...cum for me, angel."

Your senses fractured, caught between euphoria and disbelief, and your body spasmed, climax radiating through your every fiber, a luminous burst that shattered any remnants of sanity, setting Mattheo ablaze in its wake. He groaned, grunted, burying himself to the hilt, warm cock pulsing as he poured hot cum deep into your cunt. For a moment, he didn't move, silently working to catch his breath before he pulled back, shifting onto his knees.

You fixated on him, your head weighed down, struggling to fathom the endearment he had bestowed upon you--silently endeavouring to etch every detail of this encounter into the recesses of your memory. A contented sigh escaped you, accompanied by a smile that radiated the joy swelling within your chest.

However, as you gazed at him, basking in the warmth of affection twinkling in his eyes, you noticed a flicker of something else--an abrupt shift. His thumb grazed your chin absentmindedly before he moved, working to tuck himself away. You mirrored his actions, attempting to salvage what was left of your clothing, now thoroughly drenched by the relentless rain.

Walking through the forest on your way back to the castle, the shadows of the trees played in the puddle-soaked ground, creating a surreal dance around you. Mattheo extended his hand, a silent invitation you willingly accepted. The brief connection sent a comforting warmth through you, grounding you amidst the uncertainty.

As you navigated the path, thoughts swirled like the mist around you. The night's events echoed in your mind, and a cloud of questions veiled the clarity you sought. Contemplating a potential job at the castle, you wondered about its impact on your newfound bond with Mattheo. Did you still harbour the same enthusiasm for the job amid these compelling complexities? The walk became a journey through both the tangible forest and the intricate maze of your thoughts, navigating the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Approaching the castle, the distant melody of music embraced the night air, whispering promises of celebration within. Capturing the tune, Mattheo halted abruptly, pivoting to face you as the two of you lingered just outside the castle walls, hidden by the shadows of the night.

Your brows furrowed inquisitively as you locked eyes with him, seeking to understand the meaning behind this sudden pause. "What are you-"

"Shh." He cooed, eyes darting around.

After a brief survey of the surroundings, he fixed his eyes back on you with a newfound emotion swirling within them. Without another word, Mattheo enveloped you in a tender embrace, guiding your arms to rest on his neck as his firm hands settled on your hips. Bathed in the gentle glow of castle lights, he initiated a graceful sway to the rhythm of a slow, melodic tune that harmonized seamlessly with the rain-soaked ambiance.

In the suspended moment, your gaze locked with his, the world around you blurred as the rain continued its gentle descent, creating an intimate cocoon amidst the springtime storm. It felt perfect, a clandestine world of your own, away from the prying eyes of others.

"All those people think love's for show..." Mattheo blinked, drawing his face closer. "But I'd fucking die for you in secret."

Your breath hitched, water welling in your eyes. You quickly blinked it away, searching his face, mapping it, along with everything else from this night into memory.

"How'd I get so lucky..." you tightened your hold on him, the raindrops adding a gentle percussion to the soundtrack of the moment. "A sky full of stars, and yet you're staring at me..."

"There's no need," he murmured, directing your head to lay against his chest. "Avere lei è come avere le stelle."

Your heart leapt. "How did you-"

"Notts been teaching me," he said, and you could practically hear the smirk on his lips, the pride in his tone. "You know what I said, don't you?"

You blushed, unable to stifle your grin. "I do."

He hummed. "Tell me."

"No," you whispered, fingers digging into his neck as you shifted your head to look up at him. "I'd like to hear you say it."

His smirk grew, and he peered down at you. "To have her, is to have the stars."

“Mm,” you glimpsed his mouth, brushing your lips against his as you murmured, "E averlo, è come avere la luna." (And to have him, is to have the moon.)

His smirk blossomed into a radiant smile as he gripped your face, drawing you into a profound, messy, deep kiss. Every fiber of your being quivered under the intense surge of emotions you felt for this man--love enveloping you entirely, and whether or not he uttered the words, you could sense it--right now, ten minutes ago, and every moment in between.

All you wanted, more than anything, was that he’d hold you tight, and whisper that you’d find a way to be together. But then, his hands fell from your face, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you back into him. With his lips pressed to your forehead, he whispered,

“I’ve never loved anything, Raven…anyone…I didn’t even know I had a heart until you made it beat.” He murmured, tightening his grip. “Now this heart belongs to you. And I’ll fucking kill every last person that tries to keep you from me…”

You shuddered, breathing him in. “We’ll make it work. We’ll figure it out.”

He hummed, nodding softly, the two of you swaying to the gentle melody, ignoring the cold rain pouring down against your bodies. You weren’t sure how long you’d stood there, minutes, maybe even hours--but as the song came to an end, switching to another, more upbeat one, you smiled, meeting his dark, gleaming eyes.

“I love you, Mattheo.”

He pressed his lips to yours. “I love you, Raven.”

[sneezypeasy]

Why I Deliberately Avoided the "Colonizer" Argument in my Zutara Thesis - and Why I'll Continue to Avoid it Forever

This is a question that occasionally comes up under my Zutara video essay, because somehow in 2 hours worth of content I still didn't manage to address everything (lol.) But this argument specifically is one I made a point of avoiding entirely, and there are some slightly complicated reasons behind that. I figure I'll write them all out here.

From a surface-level perspective, Zuko's whole arc, his raison d'etre, is to be a de-colonizer. Zuko's redemption arc is kinda all about being a de-colonizer, and his redemption arc is probably like the most talked about plot point of ATLA, so from a basic media literacy standpoint, the whole argument is unsound in the first place, and on that basis alone I find it childish to even entertain as an argument worth engaging with, to be honest.

(At least one person in my comments pointed out that if any ship's "political implications" are problematic in some way, it really ought to be Maiko, as Mai herself is never shown or suggested to be a strong candidate for being a de-colonizing co-ruler alongside Zuko. If anything her attitudes towards lording over servants/underlings would make her… a less than suitable choice for this role, but I digress.)

But the reason I avoided rebutting this particular argument in my video goes deeper than that. From what I've observed of fandom discourse, I find that the colonizer argument is usually an attempt to smear the ship as "problematic" - i.e., this ship is an immoral dynamic, which would make it problematic to depict as canon (and by extension, if you ship it regardless, you're probably problematic yourself.)

And here is where I end up taking a stand that differentiates me from the more authoritarian sectors of fandom.

I'm not here to be the fandom morality police. When it comes to lit crit, I'm really just here to talk about good vs. bad writing. (And when I say "good", I mean structurally sound, thematically cohesive, etc; works that are well-written - I don't mean works that are morally virtuous. More on this in a minute.) So the whole colonizer angle isn't something I'm interested in discussing, for the same reason that I actually avoided discussing Katara "mothering" Aang or the "problematic" aspects of the Kataang ship (such as how he kissed her twice without her consent). My whole entire sections on "Kataang bad" or "Maiko bad" in my 2 hour video was specifically, "how are they written in a way that did a disservice to the story", and "how making them false leads would have created valuable meaning". I deliberately avoided making an argument that consisted purely of, "here's how Kataang/Maiko toxic and Zutara wholesome, hence Zutara superiority, the end".

Why am I not willing to be the fandom morality police? Two reasons:

I don't really have a refined take on these subjects anyway. Unless a piece of literature or art happens to touch on a particular issue that resonates with me personally, the moral value of art is something that doesn't usually spark my interest, so I rarely have much to say on it to begin with. On the whole "colonizer ship" subject specifically, other people who have more passion and knowledge than me on the topic can (and have) put their arguments into words far better than I ever could. I'm more than happy to defer to their take(s), because honestly, they can do these subjects justice in a way I can't. Passing the mic over to someone else is the most responsible thing I can do here, lol. But more importantly:

I reject the conflation of literary merit with moral virtue. It is my opinion that a good story well-told is not always, and does not have to be, a story free from moral vices/questionable themes. In my opinion, there are good problematic stories and bad "pure" stories and literally everything in between. To go one step further, I believe that there are ways that a romance can come off "icky", and then there are ways that it might actually be bad for the story, and meming/shitposting aside, the fact that these two things don't always neatly align is not only a truth I recognise about art but also one of those truths that makes art incredibly interesting to me! So on the one hand, I don't think it is either fair or accurate to conflate literary "goodness" with moral "goodness". On a more serious note, I not only find this type of conflation unfair/inaccurate, I also find it potentially dangerous - and this is why I am really critical of this mindset beyond just disagreeing with it factually. What I see is that people who espouse this rhetoric tend to encourage (or even personally engage in) wilful blindness one way or the other, because ultimately, viewing art through these lens ends up boxing all art into either "morally permissible" or "morally impermissible" categories, and shames anyone enjoying art in the "morally impermissible" box. Unfortunately, I see a lot of people responding to this by A) making excuses for art that they guiltily love despite its problematic elements and/or B) denying the value of any art that they are unable to defend as free from moral wickedness.

Now, I'm not saying that media shouldn't be critiqued on its moral virtue. I actually think morally critiquing art has its place, and assuming it's being done in good faith, it absolutely should be done, and probably even more often than it is now.

Because here's the truth: Sometimes, a story can be really good. Sometimes, you can have a genuinely amazing story with well developed characters and powerful themes that resonate deeply with anyone who reads it. Sometimes, a story can be all of these things - and still be problematic.*

(Or, sometimes a story can be all of those things, and still be written by a problematic author.)

That's why I say, when people conflate moral art with good art, they become blind to the possibility that the art they like being potentially immoral (or vice versa). If only "bad art" is immoral, how can the art that tells the story hitting all the right beats and with perfect rhythm and emotional depth, be ever problematic?

(And how can the art I love, be ever problematic?)

This is why I reject the idea that literary merit = moral virtue (or vice versa) - because I do care about holding art accountable. Even the art that is "good art". Actually, especially the art that is "good art". Especially the art that is well loved and respected and appreciated. The failure to distinguish literary critique from moral critique bothers me on a personal level because I think that conflating the two results in the detriment of both - the latter being the most concerning to me, actually.

So while I respect the inherent value of moral criticism, I'm really not a fan of any argument that presents moral criticism as equivalent to literary criticism, and I will call that out when I see it. And from what I've observed, a lot of the "but Zutara is a colonizer ship" tries to do exactly that, which is why I find it a dishonest and frankly harmful media analysis framework to begin with.

But even when it is done in good faith, moral criticism of art is also just something I personally am neither interested nor good at talking about, and I prefer to talk about the things that I am interested and good at talking about.

(And some people are genuinely good at tackling the moral side of things! I mean, I for one really enjoyed Lindsay Ellis's take on Rent contextualising it within the broader political landscape at the time to show how it's not the progressive queer story it might otherwise appear to be. Moral critique has value, and has its place, and there are definitely circumstances where it can lead to societal progress. Just because I'm not personally interested in addressing it doesn't mean nobody else can do it let alone that nobody else should do it, but also, just because it can and should be done, doesn't mean that it's the only "one true way" to approach lit crit by anyone ever. You know, sometimes... two things… can be true… at once?)

Anyway, if anyone reading this far has recognised that this is basically a variant of the proship vs. antiship debate, you're right, it is. And on that note, I'm just going to leave some links here. I've said about as much as I'm willing/able to say on this subject, but in case anyone is interested in delving deeper into the philosophy behind my convictions, including why I believe leftist authoritarian rhetoric is harmful, and why the whole "but it would be problematic in real life" is an anti-ship argument that doesn't always hold up to scrutiny, I highly recommend these posts/threads:

In general this blog is pretty solid; I agree with almost all of their takes - though they focus more specifically on fanfic/fanart than mainstream media, and I think quite a lot of their arguments are at least somewhat appropriate to extrapolate to mainstream media as well.

I also strongly recommend Bob Altemeyer's book "The Authoritarians" which the author, a verified giga chad, actually made free to download as a pdf, here. His work focuses primarily on right-wing authoritarians, but a lot of his research and conclusions are, you guessed it, applicable to left-wing authoritarians also.

And if you're an anti yourself, welp, you won't find support from me here. This is not an anti-ship safe space, sorrynotsorry 👆

In conclusion, honestly any "but Zutara is problematic" argument is one I'm likely to consider unsound to begin with, let alone the "Zutara is a colonizer ship" argument - but even if it wasn't, it's not something I'm interested in discussing, even if I recognise there are contexts where these discussions have value. I resent the idea that just because I have refined opinions on one aspect of a discussion means I must have (and be willing to preach) refined opinions on all aspects of said discussion. (I don't mean to sound reproachful here - actually the vast majority of the comments I get on my video/tumblr are really sweet and respectful, but I do get a handful of silly comments here and there and I'm at the point where I do feel like this is something worth saying.) Anyway, I'm quite happy to defer to other analysts who have the passion and knowledge to give complicated topics the justice they deserve. All I request is that care is taken not to conflate literary criticism with moral criticism to the detriment of both - and I think it's important to acknowledge when that is indeed happening. And respectfully, don't expect me to give my own take on the matter when other people are already willing and able to put their thoughts into words so much better than me. Peace ✌

*P.S. This works for real life too, by the way. There are people out there who are genuinely not only charming and likeable, but also generous, charitable and warm to the vast majority of the people they know. They may also be amazing at their work, and if they have a job that involves saving lives like firefighting or surgery or w.e, they may even be the reason dozens of people are still alive today. They may honestly do a lot of things you'd have to concede are "good" deeds.

They may be all of these things, and still be someone's abuser. 🙃

Two things can be true at once. It's important never to forget that.

[befuddledcinnamonroll]

Top 10 Things I Love About the QL Tumblr Community 2023

I'm loving everyone's end of year lists, and decided to make up one of my own.

I haven't been on Tumblr for very long and was originally just lurking. 2023 marks the year where I finally started posting, after I read a take that made me feel compelled to come to a fictional character's defense. (Saengtai, my poor little blorbo).

So in commemoration of my first proper year of active tumblring, I present what I love about this community (in no particular order).

(Side note - Technically I know this is still primarily a BL community, but I like to say QL because I am trying to manifest more lesbians for us.)

1) The Gifmakers

Y'all are a good 70% of the reason I joined Tumblr in the first place. There are so many show moments that I want to relive, but without having to search through videos. Sometimes I want to appreciate the aesthetics. Sometimes I want to remember adorable or goofy moments. Sometimes I just want to see cute boys eating each other's faces. Our gifmakers give all of that to us, with the addition of so much creativity and style.

There's too many amazing ones to mention everyone, but I have to shout out @sparklyeyedhimbo, because the way your brain works makes me so happy.

2) The expertise

The other part of why I joined Tumblr was to learn more about what BLs were out there and what I might be missing. And holy hell. Y'all are putting in the work. Not only lists and resources for finding all kinds of QLs, like these fabulous monthly breakdowns by @gunsatthaphan, but also amazing posts that add additional context, like @absolutebl's incredibly helpful breakdown of Asian honorifics. There is so much research people do, for fun! And then they share it!

3) The meta analysis

I frickin love reading people's takes and analyses on series. I love learning, I love seeing perspectives from people with different cultural backgrounds to my own, it's all so fascinating! There's so much context we can miss due to our own privileges, or lack of knowing about various cultures, or due to whatever bubbles we've been living in. People here are just so smart, and nuanced, and willing to reflect and think about things, and also push back at each other, but generally with respect (except when you call out the dumb shit you see, usually on Twitter or TikTok, where people are being reductive and dumb about gender and sexuality).

And I've seen a few takes where people complain about analyses, and say that the director/production doesn't do everything deliberately, and we're all reading too much into it. To which I say, eh, lighten up. How people connect to and relate to media has relevance beyond what was intended. The point is we get to think and discuss and learn and grow. That doesn't happen if we don't analyze.

Special shout out here to @respectthepetty because colors mean things!

4) The wild theories

The other side of the analysis coin, the clown cars y'all drive around in with the wildest of theories. I have happily climbed into an occasional clown car, and usually I am utterly wrong (*cough* Saifah *cough*). But it's a super fun ride. I love seeing how people's brains work. I love it when y'all are wrong. I love it when y'all are right. It's beautiful.

5) Immediate acceptance

I am one of those people who knows that I have a lot of good qualities, and also, always kind of expect rejection. Blame the childhood bullies, I guess. Anyway, whenever I delve into a new space, I still feel like a total dork that no one will want to talk to. It's kind of a fraught way to move through the world, but I manage.

Anyway, I started posting my thoughts as they came up, and people are just totally cool with it. People even follow me sometimes. Even my silliest thoughts and dumbest jokes get at least a couple likes. It's so validating.

And my very silly joke about gay mafia in Kiseki has over 800 likes. I feel very seen.

6) Mutuals

I still kind of can't believe I have any. This ties in to the dork feeling above, but seriously - they are soooo cooooool. They're smart and awesome and funny, and they somehow find me worth following back, which is baffling yet wonderful. I want to squish their faces and give them many kisses (if they're into that kind of thing).

7) The self-exploration

I really appreciate how it's become more talked about how a lot of people are discovering queerness through BL, because that is so the case for me. I think it's both that I was in a bit of a hetero bubble before, and also that I'm evolving a bit as I age. I had figured out I was demi, and maybe a little bit gay, before getting in to BL, but being in this community, and seeing so many of you share so openly and freely, has made me realize it might be more than a little bit.

Either it was a new realization, or being around y'all has made me more gay. Win win, either way.

8) The weirdness

I'm weird. Y'all are weird. I love it.

9) The thirst

So many in this community are thirsty as fuck, and as someone who is in that same condition, I love that it's not just me. There are not many places where I can freely admit how horny I am as a part of my general existence.

Here? I could post about wanting to lick some random BL actor's face, and it would get a bunch of likes and some tags like #lickable, and it's just not remotely a big deal.

Also the gifmakers understand this, and give us beautiful cuts of our spicy scenes. They are genuinely too good for us.

10) The communal watching experience

There is absolutely nothing like watching along with people in the community. It is so worth the torture of having to wait week to week for new episodes. Seeing the show trend, watching the theories fly fast and furious, or the way everyone collectively loses their minds over particular moments. In a world that can feel very isolating, it's a very warm experience.

So there you go. Thank you all for being you. Here's to another year of QL shenanigans and losing our collective minds!

[teekays]

hello! if memory serves you are the blog that talked about boy band pretty as a marketing tactic (or something to that effect? the search function does not work so if i’m wrong i’m terribly sorry) and i was wondering if you would be willing to find someone from each team (can include prospects if you want) to create the ultimate nhl boy band. this is not a necessary thing to do, solely shits and gigs and if you ever feel like it doing it. have a lovely day!

HIIIIIII that WAS me and you sent this at the perfect time because i am at the laundromat with time to kill and i LOVE to discuss this.... let's chop it up.... a few disclaimers: this is subjective so don't get mad at me and i will be including prospects and ahl players where i know its applicable BUT for most of these teams i will be going off the main roster + looks alone because if i did a full deep dive vibes analysis on every team's roster and prospects it would take me like two months to answer this ask... you understand. we are being SHALLOW here today in the true spirit of the boy band industry. let's go!!!

carolina hurricanes: i know everyone wants me to say sebastian aho but he is 1) too old 2) too unsettling looking. the elf on the shelf is not boy band pretty im sorry 😭 i do love him but he's just not the vibe here... i will say based on looks either scott morrow or jackson blake and his 90s heartthrob hair. i want to say seth jarvis because he's my special pop pop but that does contradict almost everything i have said previously so i will not be biased but know that if he was a pop star i would be his biggest fan i would kiss his poster. and that's my truth

columbus blue jackets: in the interest of journalistic integrity i went to their roster instead of just saying it's obviously kj as the intimidating aloof one in the boy ("boy") band but actually i do think it's cole sillinger.... teen heartthrob. also i didn't know that he was born in columbus because his dad was playing for the team and his brother is also on the team??? imagine having a whole destiny like that and its for COLUMBUS OHIO 😭

new jersey devils: jack hughes. open and shut case argue with the WALL

new york islanders: NOT MAT BARZAL. HE LOOKS 35. STAND UP LADIES!!! lowkey i do not know any of these dudes and this roster is kind of busted as fuck 😭😭😭 (NOT ANTHONY DUCLAIR who is too old to be a boy band boy but who i do love) bargain bin team... anyway isaiah george YOU! are the only cute person the new york islanders

new york rangers: matt rempe. those pictures of him lounging around on the phone??? wow. no words. diva heartthrob behavior. it's sad what they're doing to him what are we doing to our beautiful queens :(

philadelphia flyers: after much careful deliberation.... i think denver barkey is taking it. denver is such a deeply boy band name tbh he was born for this!!! i know everyone thinks it's jamie (who i still forget is a flyer 😭) but can you imagine him on a stage? singing a song? they are reinventing shoegaze for him. negative star quality (AFFECTIONATE!!!!!!! LOVING!!!!!!!!!!!!)

pittsburgh penguins: well NOW the obvious answer is rutger mcgroarty... not even worth going through that senior center roster when he's there tbh sorry pens

washington capitals: AGAIN. SENIOR CENTER ROSTER. i had to go to their prospects page to find someone suitable and my vote is patrick leonard he's a cutie!!! also im so sorry to say this but my jaw dropped when i got to this guy why are you playing hockey you need to make a children's album RIGHT NOW. i know he could do a banger cover of the We're going on a bear hunt song. but i digress...

boston bruins: matthew poitras is adorable and exudes star quality NEXTTTT. shoutout also brett harrison who looks like a long lost jonas brother

buffalo sabres: JACK QUINNN JQUIZZY HIMSELF partly for looks mostly for vibes... he has extreme "jack dylan grazer vape apology video" energy and also he has that boyish charm... either him or devon levi (hot) not miss owen power for the same reasons as jamie. she could never be a pop star 😔 ryan mcleod used to be the oilers popstar boy but now he's got too much competition he's a little niche for the title

detroit red wings: my gut tells me simon edvinsson but a look at the roster tells me there is some competition in the form of amadeus lombardi... if we were discussing this two years ago mo seider would be the obvious answer but he's too grizzled now 😔

florida panthers: 🙄 here comes another busted fucking roster... i guess denisenko??? panthers are not really representing here....

montreal canadiens: ARBER <3 he's like the bad boy hottie in the boy band. the one that makes your dad shake his head when he sees him on tv

ottawa senators: wow the atlantic division is fucking WACK this was another case of like. okay i guess ill pick one of yous but REALLY? so congratulations jorian donovan YOU are in the boy band

tampa bay lightning: seriously what is going on in this division. jack finley looks like he was the closeted one in a boy band from the early 2000s but he's aged past that now and he has a husband and a wine brand.... so we will bring him back for nostalgia points. welcome to the team. also i have to be honest i thought of myself as pretty well acquainted with the ahl but the SYRACUSE CRUNCH? that's crazy

leafs: JOSEPH WOLL! boyish charm out the ears on that one. a real cutie

chicago: obviously it's bedard. we all know it's bedard. on the surface he has no charisma but he does have a certain kind of shy boy charm and he IS adorable... he's the one in the boy band who makes your mom tut over him like "he seems like a nice boy"

colorado avalanche: wow huge props to matt stienburg for having maybe the single most boy band roster photo i have seen yet... THIS is the guy they get in the boy band because he's already had huge success with his hit single called like, Heart React Girlfriend or whatever. this is jacob sartorius if he played hockey. this is chase dreams. this kid is going places

dallas stars: it's obviously wyjo, joining the ranks with cbedard as The Nice One <3

minnesota wild: okay i was going to say brock faber because every group needs a kevin jonas (SORRY BROCK) but WHO is kyle masters and why does he look like knockoff brendan brisson. budget briss. diet briss. we have briss at home.

nashville predators: this just reminded me cody glass is a penguin now 💔 anyway the preds have some STRONG contenders here wow.... jeremy hanzel is taking it but i think luke evangelista could pull it off... now if you asked me to be really subjective it would be ozzy wiesblatt who would also be the subject of much poster kissing and rigged "which member of the nhl boy band should you date" tests so i get him as the result but that's just me....

st louis blues: jeremie biakabutuka your radiant smile has charmed me.... welcome to the band....

utah whatevers: MONTANA ONYEBUCHI I AM SO FUCKING SORRY THE SHARKS DIDNT APPRECIATE YOU. BUT WE WILL..... also matt villalta kinda giving off brand kj... you could build a whole off brand version of that umich team just with guys from other teams i bet

winnipeg jets: dylan coghlan you will always be famous to ME but i fear you are a little too old for our purposes here.... other than him they kinda don't have a lot going for them.... brayden yager it is your time to shine as off brand owen power ♥️

anaheim ducks: some strong competition here... tz is the obvious choice but i think we need to think bigger... olen zellwegger please step forward....

calgary flames: matt coronato i am free on thursday if you would like to hang out on thursday when i am free and also join this boy band

edmonton oilers: yet another old ass roster 😭 they're lucky they got so many sabres because matt savoie is saving their asses rn

los angeles kings: angus booth is smizing in every single photo i saw of him so. come on now

san jose sharks: it's so obviously will smith i don't even know what we're doing here tbh

seattle kraken: tye kartye looks like he would be into white water rafting so he can be the nature guy in the boy band.... strong competition from tucker robertson but he's just a touch too gay porn for this vibe

vancouver canucks: JETT WOO... HELLO.... but also shoutout cole mcward for having 2014 gay youtuber phenotype. a connor franta troye sivan type face if ive ever seen one

vegas golden knights: BRISS ‼️‼️‼️ my little tabloid queen... not only is he in the boy band but he's in the news and the media. he was born to be a star. natural ham. child actor energy. alex holtz is also a strong contender for this but i think he's off on his own doing his little pop star solo act thing

this took way longer than laundromat time but it was worth it i had so much fun!!!!! thank you!!!!!!

[orgasming-caterpillar]

And It's Too Cold//It's Too Cold

Lewis Hamilton/Nico Rosberg | Angst | Smut | 1695 words | on ao3 | in Google Docs

Songfic Based On: Sweater Weather, The NBHF

Nico was in the cooldown room when it happened. Towel in hand, he was wiping the cold droplets trickling down his torso when Lewis burst open the door. (They didn't even use the cooldown room at the same time anymore.)

“Nico.”

The name left his teammate's mouth for the first time in weeks. Nico's throat didn't have to tighten like that— he wasn't going to speak anyway.

“I need to talk to you,” Lewis said, something desperate in his voice that Nico wasn't sure was real.

All I am is a man

Nico’s words were careful, deliberately stern. “What do you want, Lewis?”

I want the world in my hands

“To talk to you- about the race.” Abu Dhabi. 2016. “You won. Congratulations. I still won the championship.”

That seemed to snap something inside Lewis. In a swift motion, he lunged at Nico. But his childhood friend was much too familiar with his tactics, he knew about his speedy attacks and had swift reflexes to match. All those teenage years spent wrestling on hotel beds weren't for nothing.

“I don't fucking care!” Lewis shouted, his collar grasped in Nico's hands, Nico pushed all up against the wall. “I don't fucking care that I won the race!”

“You seemed to care a fuck lot about it on the track, mate,” Nico spat.

Lewis jerked his shoulders, hitting his head on the wall in the process. “Why can't you see, Nico?! Why can't you understand? I can't take this anymore.”

I hate the beach

But I stand in California with my toes in the sand

“Take what, Lewis? Because all I've been doing this year is take and take and fucking take. You haven't taken shit compared to what you've put me through.” His eyes were burning now. He needed Lewis out of here.

“I can't take this— you pretending I don't exist. I will take the accidents and the crashes and the goddamn fistfights, but I can't,” —his voice broke, eyes welling up, and Nico had the urge to wipe them before any tears fell— “I can't take this, Nico.”

Use the sleeves of my sweater

“You really think you're the only one suffering? How self centred, how typical of you, Lewis.”

Let's have an adventure

“...What?”

“You think this doesn't hurt me? this non stop fighting and competition, and never making up? Open your fucking eyes. I don't like this any more than you do.”

Lewis' hands dropped from his shoulders, chest heaving. The air between them was electric, too dangerous to breathe in.

Head in the clouds but my gravity centered

“Then why do you do it?” It was the smallest voice Nico had ever heard.

Because it's better than admitting the truth. Because it has less consequences than saying 'I love you.' “Because you started it.”

Touch my neck and I'll touch yours

Dark eyes trailed from his wet hair to the damn skin of his torso, not in a lewd way, but like a man recalling all that he has to lose. When he looked back up, there was a hope in his eyes that Nico couldn't bear looking at. “And will you stop if I stop?”

You in those little high waisted shorts, oh

This was a terrible idea from the beginning. The Karting, the trip to Greece, the ride-or-die friendship, all of it— terrible.

Oh, she knows what I think about

“Stop fucking thinking so much, Nico, it can't get worse than this.”

It really couldn't.

And what I think about

The answer came in the form of a desperate hand grabbing the back of Lewis’ head to bring him closer.

It was a gunshot, the way their lips met each other's. It was the sweet shock of love after a lifetime of yearning. It was like their first sip of too-strong whiskey at fourteen, knowing they've crossed a line they can never go back to.

One love, two mouths

Lewis’ surprise melted into eagerness in a split second. Nico tilted his head and grabbed his bicep. Lewis had grabbed Nico's face with both hands like he was something dear and precious.

It really was a terrible idea, and nothing could ever fix it; but if they were going to burn they'd go down singing in the flames.

One love, one house

“Take off your shirt,” he grunted. Lewis obeyed.

Smooth brown skin burned under Nico's freezing palms. He grabbed a handful of the pecs, moaning into the kiss.

No shirt, no blouse

“Is this—” Lewis pushed him away. God give him dignity, Nico almost whined. “Is this a confession thing? Or a goodbye thing? Because I have no idea what I'll do with a goodbye fuck.”

Just us, you find out

Nico had no idea either. He didn't want to leave Lewis. But for now, the only thing on his mind was the throbbing heart under his hand. They were here. ‘Leaving’ seemed like something out of a hazy dream. “I don't know.”

Nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about, no

Lewis had this look on his face— like he wanted to run away but his feet wouldn't take him. Nico wanted to tell him that there was nothing he could have done to change anything. There was nothing that could have ended up with them anywhere other than where they are. He didn't say anything.

'Cause it's too cold for you here

“Do you really? Or is this another game?” Yes, Nico wanted to yell. He knew what Hamilton was asking. 'Do you really love me?’ and he wanted to yell, Yes, yes, yes. I do love you. I do. I'm sorry. All he could do was nod.

And now, so let me hold

Both your hands in the holes of my sweater

Lewis put a hand on his cheek, kissing him again. Only this time it was so much more gentle, yet hurt so much more. Somewhere in his subconscious Lewis seemed to have realised that this was probably the first and last time they will ever do this; and he did it like he wanted to remember.

And if I may just take your breath away

There was so much Nico wanted to say, and he couldn't say any of it. He wanted to scream.

We will never be the same again, he wanted to say. I will never love another like you. A moan. You've destroyed all that I was. A sigh. Do not destroy what I am. Hands caressed his body, so soft it was painful. Build me a pyre, and I'll still whisper your name as I burn. A prayer. I love y—

“How do you want this?” Lewis whispered, hands working him out of his pants.

I don't mind if there's not much to say

Nico grabbed his shoulders, using the stability of Lewis’ hands on his thighs to wrap his legs around his waist. He relished in the way Lewis groaned, he would never hear it ever again.

Sometimes the silence guides a mind

To move to a place so far away

Lewis was gentle, so gentle. They both loved like an ocean. With Nico it was a tsunami; desire coursing through his veins as he groped, wrecked, swallowed everything that came in his way. And with Lewis it was this; sweet, gentle and relentless like moonlit waves in the darkest hours of the night. What choice did either have but to drown?

The goosebumps start to raise

“More,” he whimpered, arching his back against the wall. The soft gaze with which Lewis was watching him was more violent than any fistfight they've ever had.

And then I watch your face

Put my finger on your tongue 'cause you love to taste, yeah

It hurt— even with how tender Lewis was being. Maybe more so because of that. He harshened the pace at Nico's request, hiding his face in the crook of his neck. Their hearts beat in sync, thudding against the ribcages pressed together.

These hearts adore, everyone the other beats hardest for

Strangling begins with holding. Cannibalism begins with a kiss. They both bring grief and hurt and madness; what is love if not just tender violence?

Inside this place is warm

Outside it starts to pour

He reached the peak of his pleasure first, spilling onto their abdomens. Lewis followed right after.

Coming down

One love, two mouths

They stayed like that for a while; chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, hearts broken like the promises they made at fourteen.

One love, one house

No shirt, no blouse

“Don't leave me, Nico.”

Just us, you find out

Why do you speak to me and why do I try to understand? he thought. We no longer speak the same language.

Not a word was uttered.

Nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about, no, no, no

“We can fix this.” That damned hope.

'Cause it's too cold for you here

“Put me down,” was what Nico chose to say. Lewis did, searching his face desperately for an answer.

And now, so let me hold

Both your hands in the holes of my sweater

Nico picked his pants off the floor, pulling them on without another word. Lewis spared them both the pain and stayed silent as well.

'Cause it's too cold for you here

He was wiping his torso with a spare towel when Lewis finally spoke.

“You promised, Nico.”

Nico looked at him, no longer caring about the wet streaks on his cheeks. “We made a lot of stupid promises.”

And now, so let me hold

Both your hands in the holes of my sweater

“You said we'd race together. Forever. You said you wouldn't race without me. Then why should I?”

Wasn't forever such a sweet lie? It wasn't nearly as long as people thought it was.

Both your hands in the holes of my sweater

“I'm leaving racing for good, Lewis.”

And it's too cold, it's too cold

Lewis was silent for what seemed like hours. “I love you.”

With a single whispered phrase, Nico shut the door behind him. “It'll pass.”

The holes of my sweater…

[robynrocksforbrains]

I love you ×9

Ok so I am probably not the first person to notice this or point it out since I've only been a byler for like six months... BUT I did maybe go a little crazy about this. So I'm gonna talk about it.

So a few days ago I was thinking about the mlvn endgame argument "well Mike said 'I love you' nine times". And like, first of all, saying "I love you" doesn't undo a year's worth of deliberate lying and miscommunication. That's not how relationships work. Their issues are still very much real and very much not going anywhere because they're not even TRYING to do anything about them. But also... I was thinking: why nine times? Why that number specifically? Was it just random? Is there maybe anything to indicate that nine is significant? Is there maybe a scene in the first episode of s4 that tells us how we should react to the monologue?

So, the DND basketball montage. Great stuff. Amazing foreshadowing. Everyone loved it.

I got to thinking about it. Decided I needed to know what Mike's roll was. I kinda spiraled about it on twitter because I could not see it clearly and I couldn't tell if it was an eight or nine. Desperate times called for desperate measures so I recorded my tablet with my phone and found the perfect frame.

IT'S A NINE

CLEAR AS DAY! IT'S A NINE! GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE!!

Anyway, I don't know how DND works. I don't know why this roll evoked the reaction it did from the party - most significantly, Mike's very disgruntled reaction (I don't mean The Party™ I just mean literally the party that is playing this campaign) I genuinely don't know what the fuck is going on in this game. But what I do know is they wanted us to associate this roll with failure. That's why it corresponds with a missed basket in the basketball game. That's why Eddie gets this ooo that sucks for you guys look on his face. That's why we hear a chorus of "nooo" from the party. That's why Mike says "no no no" and looks extremely upset. I don't know anything about DND, but I can read context clues.

So I'm not going to try to understand what's going on in the game, I'm just gonna go off what I think they wanted us to subconsciously pick up on.

So they show us all of this. They associate Mike with the number nine in the first episode and then that number shows up AGAIN in the last episode.

The monologue cannot be associated with anything but failure. Whether that be mlvns failing relationship, or their very real failure to save Max (at least before El revived her), and their failure to save Hawkins. The monologue does not stand apart from that. It is completely interwoven with these failures. If you have average media literacy, you know that. Even before I was aware of just how important byler is to this entire story, before I was aware that they've been setting up byler endgame since day one, you would never catch me thinking that the monologue was supposed to be received positively by the audience. You would never catch me saying mlvns love saved the world. (Although that's because I genuinely forgot about mlvn a few weeks after I watched s4). I think I received the monologue in the way it was intended to be received. I didn't fully understand it, or why they would execute it the way they did, but I still received it in the way I believe it was intended to be.

So I know the general agreement among bylers is that the monologue kinda sealed the deal for mlvn bones. Like I'm not saying anything new really. But I genuinely do think that Mike's roll in episode one, the reactions to it, and the missed shot it corresponds with were meant to foreshadow the monologue and how they wanted the audience to receive it.

This is fiction, everything means something. Everything is thought of. The timer (and maybe scores, I genuinely can't remember) in the basketball game had significance. Other rolls in the DND game had significance. Why would that be any different for Mike? Especially when his roll was a nine and that number shows up for him again when he says "I love you" nine times. And both of these things are associated with failure.

Not that we need any other reason to interpret the monologue as a less than good thing. It's just the way that it is, it's pretty easy to figure out how they wanted us to take it. But they still did give us a hint. I think it's really cool.

[evilbihan]

I'm not going to acknowledge that person by name because I have no wish to interact further with her, nor to have others find her and give her any attention. But with Noob Saibot being brought back, I remembered this rancid take they had, quote: "Bi-Han is a man who has time and time again become Noob Saibot, a man whose endings have shown the Netherrealm is where he wanted to be" which is wild af to say.

Because Bi-Han doesn't just 'become" Noob, he is literally made into Noob. Quan Chi resurrected him as a wraith that turned him into Noob Saibot and now Titan Havik tortures him and uses some insane magic even Liu Kang doesn't know, to turn him into Noob. It's not like some magical girl transformation. We're talking awful evil stuff being done to Bi-Han against his will, to warp him into this being known as Noob Saobot, who is stripped of his humanity and almost everything that made Bi-Han who he was.

And Bi-Han never wanted to end up in the Neatherrealm. In the previous timelines he literally had no choice. He was forced into the role of assassin. He was molded into one practically from birth. In Mythologies when he goes into the Neatherrealm he's informed that his soul is already tainted with evil, which is why he can exist there. That's not because he simply woke up one day and decided to kill some Gods for shits and gigs. He had to do what he was ordered to do or be a traitor to the clan and marked for death anyway. It was a lose lose situation. If anything this shows that Bi-Han was never where he wanted to be. His strings were always being pulled by someone else. History is repeating itself now. And leaks even say that Liu Kang doesn't fault him for his desires, but only the ways he goes about achieving his ends. Which further proves Bi-Han doesn't have some nefarious plots in mind with the deliberate intention of landing himself in the Neatherrealm.

She said she doesn't hate Bi-Han, but then this reads as a deep missunderstanding of his character. And at that point, if you can misinterpret his character to that degree, you probably don't like him much either.

Another day, another take so stupid it makes me want to never interact with anything MK related ever again.

Oh, who am I kidding? The trailer already achieved that.

Needless to say, you're 100% correct and this person, whoever they are, is obviously not the sharpest tool in the shed. People who think Bi-Han wanted any of this are either being ignorant on purpose and want to misunderstand his character because they hate him or they're so blatantly stupid they don't understand the very simple fact that Bi-Han being turned into Noob Saibot always happened against his will in every damn timeline.

Does it look like Bi-Han tied himself to that damn wheel we see in the trailer? Does this person have the attention span of a goldfish and just missed the part where he looks terrified out of his mind when those drills/needles approach him?

For goodness' sake, I didn't want to talk about the trailer because watching it made me want to gauge my own eyeballs out. I never felt this sick looking at something in my life (that's coming from someone who plays horror and fighting games on the regular) and yet here we are and I'm talking about it regardless now. I hate it here.

But anyway, you're right. What more can I say? Anyone with even an ounce of common sense would know that. Anyone who has ever played any of the Mortal Kombat games should know that Bi-Han was forcefully turned into Noob Saibot. He was never evil. He was always a neutral character and he's still a neutral character in the New Era.

What more confirmation do you need outside of Liu Kang himself admitting that there's nothing wrong with Bi-Han's ambitions, only with his methods of achieving them? Ashrah says Bi-Han can be redeemed, Bi-Han said only people who don't understand him would mistake him for evil, the Lin Kuei all stand behind Bi-Han and support him... He isn't evil and he never was.

He literally saves Liu Kang's entire stupid trainwreck of a timeline single-handedly in this DLC and people still have the audacity to say he's evil?

I wish he was.

I wish Bi-Han would just sit back and watch Havik destroy Liu Kang's timeline along with all the pitiful hypocrites in it. I wish he'd let all of the fandom's pathetic favorites get torn to shreds and laugh.

But he won't. Because Bi-Han is a good and honorable man deep down.

Disagree and be wrong. It's as simple as that.

PS: Wasn't MK:Mythologies Sub-Zero all about Bi-Han trying to avoid ending up in the Netherrealm? He reacted with shock and concern to being told his soul is tainted with evil by Raiden and he was trying to turn his life around. There's even an ending in one of the older games where he kills Shang Tsung and leaves the Lin Kuei with the prize money from the tournament. Bi-Han never wanted to end up in the Netherrealm. Claiming anything else would be ignoring canon lore.

[synchodai]

just an aegon ii rant

The thing about Aegon that makes people root for him more than Joffrey is that Aegon just seems like everyone's punching bag in a way that Joffrey wasn't?

Aegon did horrible things, don't get me wrong. He raped a woman, he bullied his younger brother, he's implied to have his bastard children join fighting pits (this was never outright confirmed — Arryk only lightly alluded to Aegon doing something shady while they were looking to crown him), and he executed innocent ratcatchers as retribution for his murdered son.

But his rap sheet isn't any worse than Daemon's (murder, grooming, being a cop, etc.) or Criston's (his murder of Joffrey Lonmouth was downright homophobia /jk) or even Rhaenys's (talk about killing innocent people, right?), but for some reason all the characters hate Aegon's guts specifically? Given the people on this show, why?

It's like if Joffrey Baratheon threatened to kill Arya's direwolf and her best friend in episode 1, but he never does anything extraordinarily malicious or sadistic in the next episodes after that. And yet his own family just keeps treating him with outright contempt anyways despite him being their key to power.

Yeah, Aegon should be shamed and punished by the narrative for the horrible things he does...but nothing ever going his way and emphasizing how much of failure he is at every turn is just overkill, man. At some point, this amount of narrative humiliation has nothing to do anymore with dealing with the consequences of his bad actions or his personal failings, and it just makes every character look like they're taking turns unloading their frustrations on an acceptable target.

It's not fun to watch someone get kicked around by their entire family for no reason when he's never done anything especially horrible to hurt them other than be somewhat gormless. Otto most likely doesn't even know or care about Dyana, so does he despise his grandson simply for being a drunkard? For having an addiction? He was plotting to install him as king but all they ever did to prepare him for it was....yell at him and slap him around?

And on Aegon tormenting Aemond with his bullying, it's not like Aemond especially hates humiliating people in public since he regularly does it himself. When Lucaerys smirked at Aemond when they were served a pig in that dinner scene, Aemond bullied Jacaerys and Lucaerys back and Aegon was on his brother's side defending Aemond from getting attacked. Aemond isn't some put-upon victim who's been tolerating his brother's constant abuse — he obviously punches back. He has a hair-trigger temper and has messed up more things for his family's plans than Aegon has. Aemond's the one who was involved in the Driftmark fight that almost implicated Alicent for treason, Aemond's the one who made the Strong toast, Aemond's the one who killed Lucaerys and damaged their cause. And all three times, Aegon defends him!

This is all to ask why? Why are they writing his character like this? Why does the story and other characters keep piling on this dude? Why make Aegon's family hate him? Why make him awful at everything and good at nothing, not even riding his dragon who he has had for over a decade? Why give him these almost sympathetic moments with his brother, son, smallfolk, and dragon, only to have all the characters not show him a lick of sympathy?

Why do they all hate him for being an incompetent king when he straight up gave them the option of him abdicating by running away to Essos? They all act like he's the one imposing his incompetence on them, but they're the ones who forced the position on him. "Every man on that council earned their seat." YEs, Aegon didn't earn his seat — because it was forced on him and I am clawing at my eyes wishing the show would acknowledge that!

Is it supposed to be a deliberate commentary on the tragedy of hereditary monarchy? To show the Hightowers' cycle of abuse (even though no other Hightower is getting consistently hit and berated even after committing the WORST crime)? Is the show making him so pathetic and incompetent to make Rhaenyra more dignified and regal in comparison? Or is it doing this deliberately to woobify Aegon? To have his family and life be horrible so the viewers have built up their sympathies for when he gets his emotionally-resonant plot beats in the end?

Even if that's the case, the means certainly don't justify the ends. There's just no logical consistency to how these chracters treat and view Aegon and it's getting frustrating to watch sometimes.

[raina-at]

Pride

Omg, you guys, it's the last one! Where did the month go!

A huge, huge thank you to @calaisreno for keeping is going the entire month, and a huge thank you to all of you for reading and writing and gushing and commenting and crying and making this more fun than it had any right to be. I'll miss this!

I did a Pride ficlet last year as a bonus ficlet because I missed two days. I had a lot of ideas for this year's, and maybe I'll post some of them as bonus ficlets through June, but for now, I say goodbye to May with John and Rosie.

--------

"Dad."

"Hmm?"

"Dad!"

John puts down the newspaper. Apparently this is a serious discussion. "Yes, love?"

Rosie throws herself into Sherlock's chair and contorts herself into a pretzel-like shape that can't be comfortable. "I'm...um..." It's apparent she doesn't quite know how to phrase her issue, because she's unnaturally hesitant. Sherlock's influence has made her shockingly blunt, while John's influence has made her shockingly foul-mouthed. Arguing with her is a joy. But now, very untypically, she looks confused and a bit lost.

"Ro, whatever it is, you can tell me," John says, leaning forward, a bit worried now.

"It's..." She sighs, looks down at her hands. "It's a bit personal?"

"Oh my god you're pregnant!" John blurts out, his momentary fear overriding his usually good brain-mouth-filter.

"Dad, what the actual fuck! I'm not fucking pregnant!" Rosie rolls her eyes so hard John wonders if she sprained something. "You know I'm on birth control. You went with me to get my first prescription, for fuck's sake."

"Accidents happen, my dear," John says, gesturing at his lovely daughter, who, light of his life, and joy of his world as she may be, was also very much an unplanned pregnancy.

"Fair enough," Rosie admits, deflating a bit. "Still."

"It wasn't a completely unreasonable assumption. You have a boyfriend, you're twenty, I'm assuming you're having sex."

"Please, dad!" Rosie exclaims, the tips of her ears turning red. "I really don't want to talk about my sex life."

"You think I do?"

Rosie makes a very Sherlock-like  'never mind all that nonsense now' gesture. "Anyway," she says, giving John a glare that tells him to shut up until she's finished. "It's actually kind of about Mark."

John nods, to let her know he's listening, but carefully and deliberately keeps his mouth shut, even as he's thinking, If he hurt you, I'll kill him so fucking dead so quickly he'll never know what hit him.

"It's... you know... he's... well, he's a boy," Rosie finally gets out.

John blinks a few times. Waits a bit. When it's clear Rosie won't be any more forthcoming about the issue, he dares to ask, "And?"

She looks down at her hands, studying them with unwarranted fascination. "I'm..." She sighs. "When did you know you were bisexual?"

John exhales audibly. Now he knows what this is about. In a family of mostly queer people, Rosie seems to have assumed she'd be some kind of queer as well. And if anyone knows how complicated identity can be, especially if it's weighed down by expectation, it's John. "Um. Quite honestly, I'm not sure I am."

Rosie looks up, surprised. "I mean. Mum. And Paps. Um. You know..." she makes a 'please fill in the gaps yourself' gesture.

"Look," John says, leaning forward and taking his daughter's hands. "I personally think labels are vastly overrated. If a word, or a label, or a phrase, helps you to better understand yourself, that's great. Use that label as long as it serves you, and if it doesn't anymore, use another one. As for me, I was raised in an environment where being different was bad. What kind of different you were exactly was completely beside the point. And I saw first-hand how the world treated your aunt, so I thought, best not think about it. I wasn't that attracted to men, it wasn't difficult to ignore. Until I met Paps, and you know how difficult he is to ignore."

Rosie grins. "Oh, yeah. So Paps made you bi?"

"No, you know it doesn't work like that. He made me... " John answers, smiling fondly at the memory. "Well, quite simply, he made me fall in love. He was—still is, of course—the most intriguing, gorgeous, infuriating, exasperating, fascinating person I've ever met, and I fell in love with him so hard, and so fast. But I wasn't ready, and he wasn't ready, and it took us years to get our acts together. And part of that was that we both couldn't accept a fundamental truth: The heart wants what the heart wants. Fighting against it only brings misery and destruction." He squeezes Rosie's hands. "So. Do you love Mark?"

She nods, her eyes shining with the truth of it.

"Is he good to you? Good for you?"

She nods again.

"Then who the fuck cares about anything else?"

Rosie's silent for a bit, apparently mulling over his words, still holding on to his hands. "So," she finally says, looking up from her joint hands with a smile. "You'll love me even if I'm straight?"

"Well, love, I suppose I can overlook this glaring character flaw. Also, you might meet a stunning lesbian when you're forty and she'll rock your entire world and turn everything you thought you knew about yourself upside down. And I want you to remember," he says, leaning in a bit more, looking deeply into her eyes, "I'm fine with everything, as long as you give me some grandkids first."

Rosie laughs and pushes him away. "Fuck off."

John gets up and makes his way to the kitchen. "So, sexual identity crisis over? You want to have some tea now?"

"Of course I want tea. But what you're saying, if I understand you correctly, is not to assume I'm straight just because I fell in love with a man?"

"I'm saying," John says, flicking the kettle on, "is that it doesn't matter, love. Gay, straight, pan, bi, ace, all these labels are useful if they help you understand yourself. But if you feel boxed in by a label, don't use it. Use another one. Use none at all. Let nothing ever keep you from knowing and understanding your own heart. That's the only thing that matters. I might be bi, who knows. The important thing is that I love Sherlock with all my heart, and that I made a commitment to him. Everything else is just noise."

Rosie is quiet for a bit, looking thoughtfully at the fire crackling cherrily in the hearth of 221B. "You're getting soft in your old age, Dad," she finally says, with a grateful smile.

John hands her a mug, drops a kiss on her head. "Love you too, dear," he says, smiling into her hair.

----

Don't forget that I'm collecting these ficlets here on AO3, and don't forget to check out the wonderful collection of May prompt ficlets as well. I know I'm already looking forward to reading all of them again.

Tags under the cut as usual.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[corn-fanfiction]

Mark Hoffman fluff?

Ask and ye shall receive, dear Anon.

Rating: M

Tags: language, drugs n alcohol, Eric Matthews being himself, fluff (I tried anyway), some descriptions of facial wounds

Not an Asshole (Mark Hoffman x GN!Reader)

-·=»◆‡«=·-♡·=»◆‡«=·-

"Ah!"

You suck air through your teeth and cradle an ice pack against one side of your head while thick yet curiously nimble fingers work at the laceration on the other side. Mark has removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Things would be different if your vision wasn't still skewed from the tussle. For one, you'd be fixing your wound yourself. Also... you'd be able to better glimpse at Mark's face while he focuses on his work. His brow furrows differently than normal when he focuses, like the usual scowl is a front and this is him in his element.

"Am I gonna have to report this?" he grumbles, setting aside a bloodied alcohol wipe and readying a suture.

"I'm probably the last person you wanna ask."

"Why?"

He's mumbling, clearly looking to fill the silent space. You indulge him.

"Because you know what I'm gonna say."

"That I shouldn't report it?"

"Yep."

"You broke a pretty strict code of conduct," he murmurs so quietly it almost registers as a hum.

You had, in fact, broken quite a few codes of conduct, and in public no less. There's a reason you're in your apartment and not the hospital.

"He had it coming."

Mark 'tsked'. "Still."

You smirk. He agrees with you.

"Get that smile off your face. He's gonna run straight to the chief and tell. I give you a day, if that. Hold still; this is gonna hurt."

You clench your teeth and grip your whiskey glass so hard you're afraid it might shatter in your hand, and then Mark will have even more to clean up. He begins your sitches and you take a shaky sip.

"Still," he scolds you like you're a disobedient animal. You roll your eyes.

"Just take me out back and shoot me."

"You're so dramatic. They're stitches."

"Yeah, and they fucking hurt."

"Well, you fucking earned em, didn't you, Ace?"

Ace. Your nickname, or rather, his nickname for you. Because no one else called you Ace. It started out mean, critical. You were, after all, a rookie, and he your mentor. He was allowed to say basically whatever he wanted to you, and in the beginning, he did. He said things that had you crying in your car as soon as you were out of sight. Any stress, he took out on you. Even the shit that probably wasn't even related to work- it ended up on your shoulders.

It was like that for a while. Then, something changed.

To put it simply, you had saved his life. He was caught unawares, him, and you managed to talk the perpetrator down. More than that, you'd been stupid, deliberately putting yourself in harm's way just to save Hoffman from a beating or maybe a bullet.

So you're Ace. Hotshot, hotheaded. Everything Mark was before you entered the picture. Now, he finds himself taking on some kind of new role to balance you out, though he's not exactly sure what it is or how much he likes it.

"Not my proudest moment, admittedly," you say with a pained groan as Mark pulls the sitches through.

"I'd really hope a bar fight with Eric Matthews was not your proudest moment, no."

"It wasn't a bar fight."

"Ace-"

"It was outside the bar and he threw the first punch."

"He missed."

"Yeah, the first swing."

"I don't feel like arguing about this- hold still unless you wanna lose an eye."

Begrudgingly, you seal your mouth as he manages the last stitch. He pulls a particularly sensitive piece of skin, or maybe sends the needle a little too deep because you hiss and shoot a hand out to clutch his leg.

"Sorry," he mutters. You can't see him, but you feel his eyes hot on your hand and you pull it away, trying and failing to mumble an apology of your own. Even though he's literally sewing your skin closed, the hand to thigh contact is somehow the most intimate thing that's ever happened.

And you have to admit: you maybe had the occasional fantasy about Mark. It couldn't be helped. He's a man in a position of power and you have enough childhood whatever that it has a certain draw. But in any of those fantasies, it's you playing doctor to him. He's the more notorious hothead, after all.

"You're probably mad I'm stealing your title," you half joke. He snips the suture and dabs at it lightly with a fresh alcohol wipe.

"Oh yeah? You think you're gonna make head detective?"

The first part of your response is a gut reaction. "God no. I meant as the biggest asshole in the precinct."

His hands slow, and for a moment, though you're still coming down from your near blackout-level of drunkenness, you're scared you offended him.

"You're not an asshole, Ace. Well, maybe sometimes. But your heart's in the right place."

You're never one for serious or genuine conversations. You always want to leave a conversation with a joke or snarky remark. But here, now...

"And yours isn't?"

After a moment, he sighs and turns himself away. You're sitting on your kitchen counter and he's on a barstool. Even with these levels, he's as tall as you. You kick your legs as he stands.

"This isn't about me."

You hop down from the counter. "I think it is about you as much as it is about me."

He shoots you a grim look. "How do you figure that?"

"Come on. Matthews is pissed that you're good at your job, and by extension, I'm occasionally good at my job."

"That's vanity," he quips.

"But am I wrong?"

He struggles for a moment, caught between lying versus telling you that you're right. He says neither.

"Not the point."

He removes his gloves and tosses them in the trash, along with the wipes and leftover sutures. There's a moment of silence, of him watching you as you retrieve the whiskey and refilling your glass.

"Want one?" You ask.

"Sure."

You get another glass and pour. Like it's a strange instinct, you touch glasses before drinking.

"To being the two biggest assholes in the precinct," he says. You half expect the phrase to be some sort of sad, but he says it with a small smile, as if to say 'yes, we are, and that's just the way it'll have to be.'

You don't mind the idea.

You down your whiskey and pour another glass.

"Slow down there, Ace. How many painkillers have you taken?"

Honestly? You don't remember.

"...some. I'm fine."

To prove just how fine you are, you push yourself from the counter and immediately stumble.

"Alright," Mark sighs and sets his glass on the counter. "Where you trying to go?"

"Couch," you point. It would seem that yes, most of the substances you've ingested in the past two hours are combining at once.

Mark comes and hovers a guiding hand at your lower back to move you to the couch. You make it, plopping down and grabbing the remote.

"Whaddya wanna watch?" You ask, not quite slurring your words but definitely not enunciating them.

"I really oughta get home, let you rest."

"Noooo!" You groan. "At least not right now. What if I have a concussion? I can't sleep, right?"

Panic starts to creep in. You have been a little irresponsible tonight.

"And the drinking, and the meds- holy shit..."

You get woozy, start to fall on your bad side and Mark catches you and sits you up.

"Okay, where's the bathroom?"

You wave your hand to the hallways behind you and he leaves. Distantly, through your haze you hear Judge Judy on the tv. Mark returns with a cold wash cloth and the small trashcan from the bathroom.

"Here," he hands you the cloth and you set it on the back of your neck. Mark sets the bin by your feet. He straightens up and gets a good look at the state of you.

"Well, now I'm worried about you passing out."

And now you feel guilty about keeping him here.

"You're fine," you mumble. "Don't wanna keep you here."

Mark sighs, looks around the room, then looses his collar, undoes the first two buttons of his shirt.

"Scoot," he instructs, and you move yourself to one side of the couch. Mark kicks off his shoes and sits beside you.

"I'm staying until we're certain you won't overdose in the middle of the night. Deal?"

You would verbally respond but you're getting sleepy. You nod.

"Hey, wake up. Can't sleep yet."

"Whynot."

"Concussion."

You turn so your body is facing inwards, towards Mark. You toss the remote onto his lap.

"Pick something."

"This is fine."

"No, you hate reality TV."

"How do you know?"

"You told me once," you mumble with your eyes closed. You roll your head back and forth to keep awake.

"Oh," he says. "Well, I don't mind this one."

You crack an eye open. "You like Judy?"

He doesn't respond, just purses his lips.

You're not in your right mind. That's what you tell yourself every day since this night because it's the most dignified way you can justify your next move.

You've pulled your socked feet up on the couch and start nudging Mark's leg with your toes. His head swivels towards you.

"What?"

You clear your throat and squeeze your eyes shut to let a stab of pain pass.

"Lap."

When he realizes what you want, Mark sighs and moves his arm so you can swing your feet onto his thigh, snuggling even closer. He tenses, but doesn't move.

"You're not an asshole," you mumble. Your forehead gets closer to his shoulder.

"Yeah, I am."

"Not to me."

"I used to be."

"I know," you yawn. "I forgive you."

As you fall asleep, you think you might hear an apology slip through his lips.

-

When you wake up the next morning, Mark's gone. But you wake up on your side, covered in a blanket, the trash can placed strategically by your head. On your coffee table is a glass of water and two painkillers. And next to them is a sticky note.

Ace,

eat first. Don't take on an empty stomach.

-Mark

You smile and chug the water, then take the pills anyway. Your stitches ache, and your brain pulses against your skull, but you grip the note tightly in your hand, content to slip it into a drawer somewhere and 'forget' to throw it away.

Yep. Maybe an asshole. But not last night. Not today.

-·=»◆‡«=·-♡·=»◆‡«=·-

Sorry if it's OOC but Mark's not a super fluffy guy. This seemed like a natural-ish way to play it. Thanks for the req, anon!!

[balioc]

I have a beard, of a particular slightly-distinctive style. I've had that same beard for the entirety of my adult life.

This is, obviously, the most contingent kind of fact about me. If I wanted to shave it off, or to style it differently, I could do so right now with zero difficulty. It's not a cultural signifier, or a marker of group belonging, or anything; even to me, it doesn't really mean anything other than "this is a symbol of me-the-person because it is associated with me because I have it." I started cultivating it in mid-adolescence for ephemeral irrelevant reasons, and kept it going basically out of inertia.

Nonetheless: it is really important to me. Like, really really important.

I basically cannot use character-creators or avatar-generators of any sort unless they have appropriate-enough beard options. When I contemplate getting rid of the beard...well, based on the way other people use the term, I think that the appropriate word for the feeling I get from that is dysphoria. During a brief period when I thought that I might have to get rid of the beard for medical reasons, I seriously considered wearing some kind of full-face leper mask whenever I left the house, because the thought of hiding my face from the world forever made me less unhappy than the thought of having people see me clean-shaven.

And, crucially, this affects my ability to Identify With People in literature and media. I am about 900% more likely to have an "it me" mental reflex if the character in question has a Beard Like Mine, regardless of whether there's any actual substantive commonality or grounds-for-sympathy there. I can control this with deliberate effort, but -- it takes deliberate effort. This phenomenon has probably had some measurable effect on my personality and philosophy, simply by causing me to identify or not-identify with potentially-high-impact characters in a subconscious (or conscious) way.

For example: I basically always see elves as Other and Not-Me, because elves are usually portrayed as the Beardless People, even if there are all sorts of obvious reasons to map myself onto a particular elvish character or elvish culture. Which there often are!

You might be inclined to say that this is, uh, stupid. I wouldn't blame you. It is, at the least, definitely very irrational; it's an aggressively hypertrophied bit of mental DNA, the sort of thing that you might fairly-if-uncharitably call a "psychic cancer." But of course it's never going to change, because the phenomenon operates deep down on the level of appreciative impulses and happy-buttons, which are mostly impervious to reason. (Assuming that you're inclined to try and alter them through reason, which is usually not worth the effort even when it can work.)

----------

It's not actually a problem for me that beard-related neurosis prevents me from identifying with elves. Not much of a problem, anyway. I guess I lose out on some cool Line of Feanor feels.

But I can imagine it being a problem. I can imagine the world in which the cool resonant myth that everyone cares about, the thing around which you want to build big chunks of your identity, has only elves with whom to identify. I can imagine the world in which all the cool smart people I want to be my friends are endlessly talking about their elfsonas.

And, y'know, in that hypothetical world, there's a few different ways I could react. I could say "fuck you, fantasy myth is for losers." I could be a mythic entrepreneur, and aggressively push my own homegrown stories featuring dwarves and ogres and other beardy folk. I could try to [shudder] map myself onto a beardless elf in my mind, and let that image occupy space in my fantasies, and hope that the revulsion and dissonance don't tear me apart. I could just be kinda sad about it all.

Or I could say: Hey, guys, could we maybe just agree that elves can have beards? Since they're made up and all, and their beardlessness doesn't even really matter to the myth anyway?

If I were so inclined, I could even follow that up with: Look, this is a really big deal for me. I'm pretty sure it's a much bigger deal for me than it is for any of you. That would be 100% honest.

And I imagine that many people would respond: What? No. Ew. The elf stories have clear lore and a well-defined aesthetic, and you're proposing to shit all over them with your weird beard nonsense. You don't get to do that; you don't get to make the akashic commons worse for your own private benefit; it doesn't matter what your reasons are. Play by the rules, or go play another game.

I would have a lot of sympathy for those people.

----------

(Yes, yes, I know, Cirdan the Shipwright, don't @ me.)

----------

There are, of course, lessons in this. Perhaps I will spell them out in another post, soon, if I find myself feeling less tired and cranky. But for now: he who has ears to hear, let him hear.

[ventique18]

Dreamlike

Malleus x Yuu♀️ (nameless) short one shot.

⚠️ Suggestive warning!

It's a hot summer. For Lilia, summer always makes him think of very specific things: beaches, watermelons, swimsuits. It's the perfect time to enjoy one's youth. Now, he's not actually young anymore to be bothered by such frivolities, but he is bothered anyway. It's because his young master, who is quite literally young and should, indeed, enjoy his youth, is instead spending time cooped up in his musty old library and eating nuts instead of watermelons or mangoes or coconuts.

That simply won't do. So, with the power vested in him as the boy's guardian, he manages to forc--convince him to join a youth summer camp.

Malleus Draconia isn't particularly pleased. But since he's getting bored of the same tomes and scriptures anyway (the scheduled procurement of new books isn't until a few months more), he accepts and uses it as an excuse to loiter around the mountains by his lonesome.

Until one night he isn't quite alone. He isn't sure if it's good or bad fortune, but for the first time in his traditionalist life, he experiences something truly shocking.

He walks in on a woman bathing. In a river, by the forest. Completely, utterly, naked. He watches her a second too long, he's ashamed to confess.

"Like what you're seeing?"

That snaps him back to reality. Flustered, he blinks and his mouth babbles and his hands shift in many different combinations of poses that he dreads the woman might think he's performing an odd sort of avian mating dance.

"No," He speaks quickly, "What I mean is, please do not misunderstand and think that I find you foul or, unattractive. I don't. I do think you're rather fascinating. But it's not that I'm watching you deliberately, goodness no. Please do not be afraid as I do not plan on doing anything more than look. I mean,"

He sucks in a sharp breath. He's not making any rational sense, and he's sounding like a creep, "I am merely curious."

For all his attempts at sincerity, he's failing horribly as he just cannot take his eyes off her.

But she laughs, and with a shake of her head, asks him playfully, "Alright stranger, can you hand me my towel?"

He does, and he almost stumbles from how shaken he is from this whole ordeal.

Much to his surprise, the woman does not think badly of him at all. She, in fact, asks him to come back tomorrow night. Same place, same time. Now, he's no fool and knows better than to fall for such suspicious traps, so he ignores her request and walks through a different trail the following night.

... Until he circles back and finds his feet perching on a familiar stony path; soles drenched and socks dampened by the moonlit water.

There she is, swaying languidly in the clear river. He can fully see every inch and curve of her alluring body, yet she does not bother to hide herself nor reprimand him for his obviously captivated gaze. And whether by pure curiosity or something else entirely, he finds himself wading through the waters and towards her, when she smiles and gestures for him to come a bit closer.

Nothing much happens that night, except for her asking what kind of flower he likes. He answers and asks her in turn if she likes berries, and if she prefers strawberries or blueberries or any other berry. What's your favorite color? Do you take care of any pet? As odd as the situation is, he catches himself looking less and less at the soft slopes of her womanly body and more on the tugs of emotions at the corners of her mouth.

He finds himself visiting her again the following nights. They talk about anything and everything, and very soon he thinks she knows more about him than anyone else he's ever met in his life. He finds comfort in her, and he wonders if she feels the same. He becomes a bit confident that she does, when she asks to touch him a week later.

For the first time in his life, he undresses in front of another not to dress up, but to... simply undress. He cannot fathom what comes over him. But he lets her roam his body, from the tips of his fingers to the ridges of his peculiar horns. From the slope of his nose to the dip of his hip. She stops before she can cross the boundary of appropriate and inappropriate (though one can argue their circumstance is not a very usual one), but rather than taking a step back, she moves forward and asks him,

"Would you like to touch me too?"

He does not reply. He cannot think. And when the head refuses to function any more, it's the heart that takes over the body. He cannot hear anything but the loud thumping of his chest, but he nervously perseveres and places a palm upon her left breast.

Thump, thump, thump.

Is that the blood that runs through his veins, or is that her heart resonating with his, through the red that dusts her cheeks and the fingers that shakily reaches for his own?

Thump, thump, thump.

He doesn't know. He cannot think. Not when her smaller hands intertwine against his much larger ones. Not when her legs coil around his waist, arms wrapping tightly around his back and nails sinking deep across the skin above his spine. Not when his mind is occupied with the soft enamor of her thighs, his fingers squeezing her tightly as he pushes and pulls her against himself; sinful sweat washed away by the unsullied waters.

What a terrifying feeling. He's never felt so out of control. He knows not what he's doing, he has nothing planned out in his head. All he has is this strange electricity coursing through him-- a magnet that draws him to her. He doesn't want to let go. He cannot let go. Not even when a wave of ecstasy crashes through his entire body and threatens to knock him out cold. Not even when they settle on his lodgings and bury themselves in the warmth of sheets and blankets.

Even then, he buries himself in her warmth.

So when he wakes up to find her nowhere to be seen-- not in bed, not in his immediate surroundings-- he no longer feels out of control. He is not in control. The trip has come to an end, and so did his dreamlike encounter.

Only the wanton marks left on his skin are proof that it was, in fact, not a dream.

---

"Malleus, cheer up a bit, why don't you? You wouldn't want to scare your... let me check my notes... Ah yes, your 57th potential wife away, no?"

"And it's the 50th time I am telling you this: no one would ever want to waste an hour with me. Much less a lifetime. You would think the first seven were proof enough."

"Don't you say that! You're a handsome young man, if you would just learn to smile--"

"Enough, Lilia. This is the last time. If this still doesn't work out, I would rather let my bloodline die with me than suffer through any more humiliation."

*click* *creak*

"Hi there, stranger."

"..."

"Like what you're seeing?"

"... You have a lot of nerve, standing me up like that. And suddenly you show up-- out of nowhere-- with a cheeky little smile? This audacity calls for a fitting punishment, don't you think?"

"Ohh, scary. I like it. Lay it on me. Or would you prefer it in me?"

"Witch. You deserve a life sentence. Lilia, take out the marriage papers."

💖💖💖💖

Notes: THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ONE PARAGRAPH LMAOOO! I just wanted to share that I like cheesy cliche stories with a bit of sensual flavor and was just gonna share a rough plot. Somehow it turned into a short fanfic HAHAHA

I really really like the thought of Malleus catching Yuu bathing and doesn't really do anything to hide his interest. He's an honest man. It's a staple in any of the MalleYuu AUs in my brain.

[thewertsearch]

AG: You can do it, John. 8e the hero! AG: Just like in one of your movies a8out sweaty, rugged adult human males. EB: ah HA! EB: so you did watch that video I sent.

Lest we forget, John's a little responsible for Vriska's development, too. What goes around comes around!

AG: 8y the way, John, have you ever considered growing your hair out? AG: I 8et it would look fa8ulous. EB: no, it would look so stupid!

I'm not so sure. I mean, I couldn't see John with Cameron Poe hair, but I do think he could rock a ponytail.

EB: before i fell asleep, i was about to prototype something really ridiculous to make jack weaker. EB: i am pretty sure that it would have made jack lose both eyes, both arms, and give him silly blue hair, and possibly also make him be a girl?

Could I take a dip in the kernel, actually? HRT is slow as fuck.

EB: but instead, it was prototyped by jade's first guardian dog lusus. EB: and now he is unstoppable! [...] AG: Of course I realized that would happen. AG: It was pretty much the whole point, you goof!

Oh, boy.

AG: No matter what you or I or any of us did, Jack's here now. That's the reality! AG: And if I didn't stop you, it wouldn't have changed the reality for us here. We'd still 8e hiding on this rock, and he'd still 8e out there, sniffing around for us. [...] AG: All that REALLY would have happened is I would have allowed you to do something you weren't supposed to do! [...] AG: And then you and all your friends would exist in a splintered timeline. And you wouldn't even 8e a8le to talk to me anymore! ::::(

...alright. If I take my brain, and turn it Vriska-wards, I can kind of see how she'd be able to rationalize this to herself. Jack's ascension is already baked into the Alpha Timeline, so it can't really be 'her fault', even if she consciously, deliberately caused it to feed her own ego.

There is, however, one major problem with her line of reasoning.

Vriska didn't know that she was responsible for Jack - not until just now.

Before that, she'd have been able to see him falling asleep at the critical moment - but Vriska isn't the only source of Player narcolepsy in the Medium. For all she knew, her powers could have interfered with the actual reason John fell asleep - for example, some event involving his dream self, which she can't see.

She couldn't know for sure if she was fucking something up, by doing this - but she did it anyway.

AG: I did it 8ecause I wanted to 8e the one responsi8le for cre8ting him.

And she did it because she wanted to.

This is, I think, the most important point to drill in on. Everything else - all that equivocation about doomed timelines - it all adds up to nothing but justification after the fact. She wanted to do this, it was fully in line with her established attitude towards John, and she did it for selfish, but entirely genuine, reasons.

Vriska isn't a Paradox Space P-Zombie. She's fully in control of her actions, and the existence of the Alpha Timeline doesn't absolve her of their consequences.

.... and no, I don't care what Doc Scratch says. That's just a rhetorical trick he uses to get people - Vriska, usually - to do what he wants.

I'm half convinced that Vriska is only fated to do all this bad shit because she'd want to do it anyway. Maybe if she grows as a person, the Alpha Timeline won't be able to encode any more Vriska Incidents, since it could no longer maneuver her into a position where she wants to perpetrate them.

And if that's true, people like Doc Scratch have a vested interest in keeping her the way she is. Food for thought.