#because this REEKS of projection

[fauvester]

betazoid SIC chauncey using his telepathy specifically to inflict extremely specific psychological damage on unruly subordinates as discipline. like Hm. I sense a great deal of inner turmoil. you know your parents wont be any less proud of you if you refrain from being such a toxic bitch in the workplace. you'll be right about nobody ever loving you if you keep acting like a frat boy on off hours

[randomnameless]

What do you think about the take that there's no freedom of religion in Fodlan because there's a woman who worships a foreign deity in the abyss?

More or less the same thing than the take about Colonel Sanders being jailed in Garreg Mach because Rhea wants all those chicken tenders for herself.

More seriously,

Bar Claude speaking with his ass, and apparently Leonie being worried that the Church might be crossed with Claude mentionning he's not religious - even if in Leicester it's pretty much known far and wide that the nobles adopt a pious font for PR - I prefer believing the words of, you know, the CoS officials aka Rhea and Seteth on that matter, the CoS's doctrine - at least for the Central Church - doesn't forbid practice of other religions or faiths.

The Western Church being xenophobic most likely would be pissed at, say, random duscurian person worshiping Duscurian gods, but as for the central church? They, just, dgaf.

Now, in the Abyss, there's a pagan statue - from a Dagda deity per Shamir in Nopes! - and a woman praying there, who was apparently harassed for not following the Seiros faith.

But... if freedom of religion was banned :

1/how the fuck this 20 meters tall statue managed to be placed in Fodlan's Vatican's basement without anyone noticing

2/why Seteth and Rhea, when asked, said they don't impose the Seiros faith on people

3/why Leicesterians are allowed to be "pious for show" if religion was so important?

As always with Fodlan, we have some things told by several characters who are playable/talkable in the base game (tfw Seteth mentions how they don't force people to worship first in FEH, and then in Nopes, but nothing in FE16 + Cyril's supports that no one bothers to read because fig him I guess and ultimately they don't matter because Claude can't look like a clown in VW) and they are contradicted by either, flavor text, screening through various lines of hidden dialogue or, flat out, lines said in the gacha or the musou spin off.

Now, about that Dagdan woman, why was she in the Abyss, aka, a CoS shelter ?

Because she worships a different god and that's frowned upon by, uh, the very same church that shelters her? And this church gives her a place to worship her deity?

Or, if we take clues and connect dots from two astral planes, could it make more sense that this person ended up in the Abyss because she was Dagdan, and from Shamir's backstory we know Dagdans aren't that beloved by Fodlan people, after their multiple attempted invasions of Adrestia? Dagdan Woman must have looked for some shelter and found one - as for where or who put that statue here, I can't guess, but given how the Abyss is a place for people who cannot live at the surface without being picked on/harassed/threatened, I suppose the purpose of that statue being there was more in the lines of "as long as you're here if you want to worship your god you can do so" and less in the lines of "I'm so not tolerant at all that I will create a space in my holiest place where you can worship your god, because i hate other religions than my own".

If there is a general point to be made about "freedom of religion" in Fodlan, it's more about the lack of reliable (so, no Claude and his "I'll smash open the land and get rid of its backwards values unless I go to school") info about how tolerant the various countries that compose Fodlan are, and how some people from the CoS aren't on the same wavelength as Rhea and Seteth are.

Do they have some sort of responsability in this matter? Maybe in their hands-off approach to let the regional branches preach what they want or not adopt a stricter control on what is being taught but the game - and most likely that take - isn't bothered by all intricacies of how to conduct a faith/religion, otherwise I'd call a double standard over the CoS being BaD because they don't tell Father McRandom from Leicester to stop making randoms believe they can't have faith in other religion than the Seiros faith, but not calling out Ionius on not acting against Hanneman's brother in law when he fucked his wife so much that she died, or Lambert for Matthias keeping a kid as a hostage, or Claude's Uncle not frowning at Gloucester killing Raph's parents (the nopes retcon notwithstanding).

[punkeropercyjackson]

sorry, do you. do you think trans men WANT to be men? referring to your anti transmasc percy post. like youre transmasc so im assuming you know this already but how you feel abt a gender doesnt change shit about your gender. what does misandry have to do with trans men

I knew i was gonna get at least one person saying something like this to me over that post but ngl i did NOT see the beginning of this coming.'Do you think trans men WANT to be men?'Yes???????That's how it is in my case and it has been the same for almost every other trans man i've ever met.And i'm sorry but is that really what you took from me saying i think Percy should be a trans woman because it's canon that she's been abused by almost every older man in her life and had mostly male bullies so she canonically hates men as a trauma response and comes across that she wants to be a woman instead with how she acts so much unlike a guy because of the former and loves,respects and admires almost every single female character she comes across and that i don't like transmasc interpretations of her because they always take that away and all the other stuff that makes her compelling for the sake of f*tishizing her😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭????????

[antxnous]

“We’re a team. Just you and me, like we used to be.”

Erm brother pick urself the FAWK up

[harrowscore]

................. not to rain down on anyone's parade but barely characterized 14 year old lucerys could never have the swag eleanor or henry had

[anythingforstories]

Never did I expect to share my 2017-era fanfic with 1,300 students for them to practice line editing techniques, but here we are.

[twowink]

you know what. fuck it it should be said. i think that erasing sakis illness is ABSOLUTELY ableism ESPECIALLY if you make tsukasa sick instead . i dont care if its a 'swap au' and i dont care if you make tsukasa ill but saki is a canonically disabled character (her illness reads very much like a chronic illness) and its insane how some of you people think that getting rid of that or trying to only Really focus on that ON HER NONCANONICALLY ILL BROTHER (whether its by making him ill or making him ill instead) isnt absolutely insidious

[fellhellion]

sorry im spinning miguel like a rotissere chicken in my brain and need to exocise it, some points:

that beat of silence when gwen asks if he knows for sure what will happen if miles breaks the canon <- does some small part of miguel doubt if what happened to him was truly a result of canon breaking, because otherwise why hesitate (and if so what gives him cause to think this), or is this simply a comment on the characters thinking miles is perhaps being someone who can surpass the limitations of canon. Though this second point would run contrary to the fact that Gwen’s actions alter the fate of her father. 

why does miguel’s adopted universe seem to break all at once part 1 <- was his self from that universe also spiderman and that’s what he considers his canon breaking event? you don’t get the sense that dead miguel was spiderman because current miguel was unhappy enough with his life just being his work to abandon it for the chance at a family. and all the memories he observes of himself with gabi just show him as a normal dad. You only see his spidersuit when he’s trying to save her.

why does miguel’s adopted universe seem to break all at once part 2 <- the only catalyst we’ve ever seen enact so much instant destabilisation is the collider. when itsv’s spider gang was there, the destabalisation was going to kill them personally, not the universe, so what’s the difference here? the watch doesn’t seem to displace that destablisation onto the world per what we’ve seen so. why so instantaneous. 

if the destabalisation was gradual and we simply see the final deadly result, did miguel simply ignore it? Even with the threat it posed to his daughter? 

[gaykingslayer]

sometimes i lie awake at night thinking about how they got gendry's last name wrong in S8

[king0fcrows]

.

[chrysanthemum-aria]

okay I reblogged this earlier with a few tags but I kinda wanna talk more about how these remind me of the silent man-made forests in the Philippines

They're called "silent forests" for a reason. For context, these are big-leaf mahogany trees, trees not native to the Philippines, and is highly invasive. Because of this, the complex, intertwined relationships between flora and faune that have evolved throughout the ages are nonexistent. Not a single chirp to be heard. Mahogany leaf litter also alters soil composition, choking out any trees and plants trying to grow too.

The fact that this was an attempt at reforestation adds salt to the wound, as this could have been an opportunity to reforest any of the hundreds of vulnerable and endangered native tree species in the Philippines. Im pretty sure this is kinda old news and that there Are recent reforestation projects for said native trees, but as someome who loves birds and nature in general, this one instance makes me real sad

sources I used for my big-leaf mahogany callout post:

monoculture forests are deeply unsettling in a way that is hard to explain to people who do not spend a lot of time looking at forests

[almondmilklatte]

you know when people talk about how bad telenovelas are because they're so dramatic and over the top and unrealistic meanwhile every tv show drama first watch ive embarked on has me pissed off 15% into the show once all the introductory expository bullshit is out of the way because it's meandering and senseless YUP YUP HOW DO U LIKE THEM TURNTABLES????

[writersdrug]

Give me Alpha!König and Omega!Reader, but they both kinda hate the situation. You were gifted to Kortac as a 'thank you' from your family for protection, because what else are they going to do with an omega? Too risky to have you there already, you'd be an easy target for a diplomatic family like yours.

So they bounce you over to Kortac. Who decides giving you to the grumpy, stressed overworked Alpha might just fix him.

But... it doesn't really (yet). He doesn't like having something that relies on him, something that his superiors said he "needed" to help soothe him (soothe him? What is he, a child?!). And you're not happy about being handed off like a gift from your family. Blood is not thicker than water, apparently.

So there you sit, opposite ends of the table with König, a scowl on each of your faces. You're supposed to be scenting each other, but all you're doing is stinking up the room with your angry scents. The poor beta has their nose pinched and their eyes watering with how sour the room is, looking back and forth between the two of you as you stare around the ground, arms crossed, and König stares at his phone, tapping his meaty fingers on the table.

"Could you two please just get this over with so I can-"

"No." You both say in unison.

The beta sighs. "You both reek. I'm getting Commander." She says, slipping out of the room.

Finally, for a brief second, you both look at each other. König huffs and you scowl, looking away. You ignore that feeling of your Omega, latching onto the one thread of curiosity in your mind. You are NOT interested in this oaf of an Alpha.

(yes you are.)

--------------------

How do we feel about developing this? Got a lot on my plate I'd need to start hacking away at but this project has been on my mind for a while. Also got the A/b/o dynamics/processes/setup (idk the words aren't wording today, the "happenings" of how this universe works?) From @soaps-mohawk, so any "this is how it works" stuff is all credited to them!

[tofuxtea]

𝟏:𝟓𝟓 𝐚𝐦 | 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐬

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — art the clown x gn!reader

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 — fluff, art meets someone who isn’t scared of him, art goes to kill u but alas you are … autistic!reader, nonverbal!reader, lowkey a projection of me and how i regress/how art makes me regress lol, also a little theory as to how art gains strength/why he kills so relentlessly as a demon, not proofread!

a demon must feed off of fear. it’s how it gains strength and power. art was no different.

it was his luck that his appearance alone usually struck the fear of god into people. tall but lean in a black and white clown suit, sometimes stained with a strange red substance. face painted white, black outlining an eerily smiling mouth and wide blue eyes. at least, sometimes they were blue.

when he was knee deep into brutally slaughtering people, his eyes would go pitch black from excitement and because his strength was slowly doubling.

everyone who had the misfortune of knowing of his presence feared even his name. all except one.

he’d encountered many who feigned tolerance towards him, some even daring to embrace him before meeting the same fate as everybody else. because they reeked of the same fear as the rest. he could tell in the way they tried to steady their shaking hands, the way their eyes glazed over as they realized they had lost the fight.

but you. you.

you were different. he’d tracked you down after watching you walk home from a little neighborhood party, and he observed you for a couple of days. you lived alone, hardly touched your phone, typed and typed away on your computer with your glasses hanging onto the edge of your nose. completely indifferent to the rest of the world outside.

nobody would miss you. nobody even turned their heads towards your house as they walked by it.

so obviously nobody noticed when he slipped into your house that night. the inside was drab. nicely decorated but it still felt empty. perhaps you’d just moved in not too long ago.

when he found you in your bedroom, comfortably sleeping, he found that wasn’t quite the case. all of the decor, if you could call it that, was stuffed up in here. merchandise from several franchises were nailed, taped, displayed on every surface of your bedroom. sonic, ninja turtles, spiderman.

art stared at it. then at you. you were swarmed by stuffed animals, arms wrapped tightly around a particularly huge fuzzy stuffed sonic plush. the side of your face squished into it and you hummed in your sleep.

he set the garbage bag he had slung over his shoulder down and began searching for something to dismantle you with. the metallic clinks echoed in the room and seemed to wake you up when your muffled grunts became clearer and you began to stretch out your curled limbs.

it took you a while to notice him, but when you did you only blinked. art figured it was a shock response and gave you a taunting smile, baring ugly teeth. your eyebrows knitted together while you sat up, but still you said nothing. not even a scream.

art rose to his feet, towering over you even on your hip-high mattress. in his hand, he had a hefty tool that glinted in the moonlight. fear should have been radiating off of you by now, but that rush he was expecting never came. perhaps you thought you were dreaming.

but as your eyes scanned him from top to bottom, you seemed to accept it as reality. even as you reached out and gingerly tapped his bloodied, gloved hand with the tip of your finger. you didn’t question it.

art hesitated. but only because he doubted he would be strong enough to take your head off with one clean swipe. he wasn’t even close to half of his full strength yet. why was this taking so long?

you turned to the side, searching for something in the sea of stuffies you were haloed with just moments earlier. plucking a smaller one out of the heap, you offered it to the mysterious clown at the side of your bed. it was one of your lesser favorites because you didn’t want him to get it dirty with his white-stained-red gloves. a little fuzzy bee you got from a museum years back.

art pointed at himself, and you nodded with a gentle smile. you half thought that was what he wanted. some strange stuffed animal reaper.

he reached for it, and the cleaver in his hand hit the ground with a thud that made you flinch and cover your ears. almost instinctively, you leaned towards him.

you weren’t scared of the knife itself but the loud noise. art was baffled that somebody could look to him for protection. had you any idea who he was? the miles county clown, was the name every tv within a 50 mile radius was echoing daily because of him.

well, you probably actually didn’t. in the days he watched you, you neglected to turn on the news or scroll through social media. was that why you weren’t scared of him?

either way, his palm found the top of your head, awkwardly patting it with a force that told you he was also trying to push you away. you peered up at him with a straight lipped smile, and gently grabbed the wrist of the hand on your head. he tensed, shocked, but allowed you to flip his palm upwards, watching as you ran your finger over his red stained glove.

you spelled out your name, letter by letter, and pointed to yourself. you also couldn’t speak. or you couldn’t at the moment.

art could only tilt his head at you, genuinely frowning because his presence wasn’t scaring you shitless. he was more confused than anything else.

you gestured towards him and handed him your own palm. he was to etch his name onto your skin.

it took him a second to do it, letting his hand cradle yours while he dragged his finger across your palm. A-R-T.

registering the name, you nodded up at him. it was quite fitting for him, you thought.

the clown grinned and waved your own stuffed animal in front of your face before booping your nose with it. he found he liked the sound of your giggle, which brought him both comfort and unease.

you were sad when he left so quickly, dropping your stuffed bee into your lap and grabbing his garbage bag. he put a finger to his lips and wagged his fingers at you before retreating back into your hallway. the sound of your comforter shuffling made him pause and he found you bent over, picking his cleaver up off of your floor.

you sheepishly held the heavy handle out to him.

you were quite tall. still significantly shorter than him, but taller than he was expecting. wearing a slim fitting tank top and some athletic shorts. you even had some tattoos on your arms and on your thighs. things he hadn’t seen past your sweaters and jeans.

he took the cleaver and prepared to take his leave, but was stunned when you suddenly wrapped your arms around him. for a moment, he was the scared one. but he soon realized that you were only hugging him.

“thank you,” you whispered, so softly and shakily he almost missed it over the buzz of your electric fan. still, you held no fear of him.

you smiled when his arms briefly closed around you.

and then he was gone.

i love him sm 😞😞

[grayve-mistake]

Not a big c.s. lewis fan but I just think this quote really applies here

This was an interesting article to read. I think it's a little simple but still fun to skim thru.

[fruitjoos]

do you trust me?

bully!patrick x reader

summary: bully patrick…. leads to [redacted] 18+

warnings friendly banter, light smut + i’m a little rusty so… be gentle

you met patrick when you were ten. he lived next door, just a skinny kid with dirty sneakers who always wanted to ride bikes. you didn’t mind. the two of you were inseparable then, tethered by boredom and proximity. you got older, though. things shift. kids don’t stay innocent, not for long.

by high school, patrick had drifted, caught up with the boys who reeked of arrogance and cigarettes, the ones who slammed lockers too hard and swaggered through the halls like they owned them. you were still you. quiet, stubborn. not the kind of person who backed down, but never loud about it either. when patrick started cracking jokes at your expense, you told yourself it didn’t matter. it shouldn’t, but god, did it sting. the way he laughed too loud, punched your shoulder too hard, joined his new friends in making you the punchline.

the first time he called you "freak" it landed like a rock to the chest. right there in the middle of a crowd, his voice sharp, eyes avoiding yours. you tried to brush it off, tried to pretend that the patrick from years ago was still buried somewhere under the snide smirks and dirty jokes. but when he started pulling your hair, burping in your face, it was harder to believe.

then there was the history project. the one that felt like a joke before it even started. partners, the teacher said, and you hoped, quietly, fiercely, that patrick wouldn’t be assigned to you. but life has a cruel sense of humor, doesn’t it? your name with his, as if the universe couldn’t resist rubbing salt in the wound. his groan reached your ears before yours even escaped your throat, and when he asked to switch partners, the heat rose to your cheeks. it was like you were something to be ashamed of, something small and pitiful.

after school, he found you at your locker, the same locker he used to stand next to, back when he wasn’t so... different. "what's up, loser," he muttered, shoulder checking you as if it were nothing, like you hadn’t spent summers kicking soccer balls in the backyard, sharing popsicles and trading comic books. now, all he had for you was sarcasm and a half hearted, "i’ll be over at six to work on the project."

he didn’t even wait for a reply. just walked off, hands shoved in his pockets like the conversation was already forgotten. his friends watched him go, smirking, like you were just another part of their cruel little game.

you got home, trying to shake off the sour taste the day left in your mouth. your dad asked how school was, but it was a formality. he wasn’t really listening, not past your shoulder, at least. "good," you lied, because the truth wasn’t worth the effort.

then the doorbell rang. you knew it was him before you even checked. he used to come over without knocking, back when things were simpler. now, it felt wrong, like he didn’t belong here anymore, yet he walked in like he still did, brushing past you without so much as a glance. the strap of his bag almost hit your face. typical.

your mom lit up like it was some reunion, like she didn’t notice the shift between you. “patrick, sweetheart,” she cooed, pulling him into a hug, her hand smoothing over his curls like she used to. it made your stomach twist, hearing her treat him like he hadn’t changed. but he had, hadn’t he?

you didn’t wait around for their small talk. upstairs felt safer, quieter. patrick followed, like he always had a right to, like he didn’t need to ask permission. he knew the way. he’d been in your room a hundred times. back then, when he was your friend. now, though, he was just the guy who sat behind you in class, yanked your ponytail when he wanted answers, and whispered insults under his breath.

funny how things turn out.

time dragged, the minutes between words heavy, like even the clock didn’t want to be there. patrick sat slouched at your desk, picking at his fingernails, bored already. he mentioned he only had an hour. just enough time before he had to meet his friends at the dump. a dive bar downtown, the kind of place that smelled like sweat and stale beer. you raised an eyebrow, asking if he was even old enough to get in, knowing full well he wasn’t. he pulled out a fake ID with a flourish, like it was something to be proud of. 23. five years older than his real age. you shook your head, a bitter scoff escaping before you could stop it.

"what?" he snapped, catching the edge in your voice. "stop being such a goody two shoes, will you?" he leaned in, voice dropping low, sharp. "no one likes a prude." his words, hissed in your own room, your space, hit harder than you thought they would. this wasn’t the boy who used to make you laugh until you cried. this wasn’t the patrick who snuck out to the park with you at midnight, just to talk about stupid dreams and shared your secrets with.

you could feel the tears gathering, uninvited, in the corners of your eyes. you didn’t want to cry. not in front of him. not when he’d see it as some kind of victory. but it was like he could sense it, the moment your breath hitched. he sighed, like the weight of your sadness was too much for him to carry. “don’t,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “don’t cry, okay?”

but it was too late, and the first tear slipped down your cheek. you sniffled, wiping at your face quickly, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening, but his tone changed. "i’m sorry," he said, almost too soft to believe. he said it again, as if repetition might make it real. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean it.”

for a few long moments, neither of you said anything. you sat there, on the edge of your bed, while he fidgeted with the zipper on his jacket, the silence growing thicker, heavier.

then he spoke, too casually, too easily. “i know how to make you feel better.”

“lay back,” he said, his voice firmer than you expected, almost a command. you blinked, caught off guard. “what?” you asked, still wiping the tears from your cheeks, not sure if you heard him right.

“do you trust me?” he asked, and his eyes had that look again, the one that used to be familiar, the one that always dared you to go along with whatever half baked idea he had.

“no,” you scoffed, voice thick, still bitter from his words earlier. you didn’t even hesitate, but your chest tightened a little, because there was a time when that question wouldn’t have needed to be asked.

he tilted his head, the silent gesture pressing the question again, almost like a challenge. you sighed, exhaling the fight from your lungs. “fine,” you muttered, lying back from the edge of the bed. you didn’t know why you were giving in. maybe a part of you still believed that under all the rough edges, he was still the patrick you used to know.

his eyes scanned over your room for a second before grabbing something. “put this on,” he said, handing it to you.

you looked down at it, blinking in confusion. a pink sleeping mask, silky and soft to the touch. ridiculous, absurd. you stared at it, then at him, trying to make sense of the moment. “what... are you doing?” you asked, more to yourself than him.

he didn’t answer, just nodded toward the mask. you could tell he was waiting, watching, like the whole thing was some inside joke you weren’t in on yet. for reasons you couldn’t explain, you did as he said, slipping the mask over your head. maybe you were tired. maybe you just didn’t want to argue anymore. or maybe, somewhere deep down, you did still trust him, even if you hated admitting it.

you blinked, confused, the world blurring slightly behind the mask. there was no sound, no movement from patrick, just this heavy stillness. the quiet stretched on, unsettling, until suddenly, you felt his hands lifting up your skirt—firm, steady, grasping your thighs. he pulled them forward, guiding your legs around his shoulders.

“patrick?” your voice came out small, the confusion clear, but you couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read whatever expression he wore. just as his name left your lips, you felt him move, closing the space between you. and then, unexpectedly, a cold, slimy glob landed with a wet splat on your cunt. his lips met your soft, surprisingly already soaked pussy. soft, warmer than you imagined, pressing gently but with a certainty that made your heart lurch.

it was so sudden, so out of place in the middle of this strange, awkward moment that your mind couldn’t catch up to your body. for a second, you froze, not sure what to do or think. this was patrick. the same boy who had spent the past year mocking you, pulling at your hair, calling you names. but now, here he was, lapping up your juices, his breath mingling with the heat radiating from your core, like none of that had happened. like this was the only thing that mattered.

his velvety tongue swirled around your pink, swollen nub. your body jolted as his teeth nipped at it. your mouth hung open as you gripped onto the sheets, trying to ground yourself. the slurping sounds he made sent shivers up your spine, “fuck.” you gasped, almost uncontrollably. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, pressing gentle kisses against your clit. almost like he was in love with it. in love with you. “i didn’t mean to make you cry.” he added, his warm breath adding to your pleasure. he asked if you forgive him and all you could do was nod, whimpering a small, “yes.” your eyebrows knitting together in satisfaction. his tongue flicked over your clit vigorously, making you come within seconds.

your hole clenched rapidly as you tried to catch your breath. your fingers tangled in a few of his curls. “when did you learn how to do that?” you panted, eyes still covered. he shrugged as if you could see him before pulling the mask from over your eyes. your cheeks instantly flushing when reality hit you. your ex best friend, bully or whatever just sucked an orgasm out of you. for fun. to please you. to make you forgive him. because he still cares, clearly.

he pressed his lips that were smothered in your liquids against your own. the taste of yourself soaking into your tongue. “you were my first experiment,” he murmured, his voice low. before you could process the weight of his words, he leaned in again, pressing another soft, almost calculated peck against your trembling lips.