#but the moment that any of them realize it's hell

[northwest-cryptid]

So I realize that a lot of people might take this response in bad faith, and while I don't have a catch-all answer to the problem. I do want to state a few things I've seen and that I fear we in the left are chronically bad about. I genuinely hope that people won't view this as some ignorant idiot running their mouth; and rather as someone who's looking to help, because what I'm going to ask of you sounds a little accusatory.

A big thing is that you have to stop with the generalization. I've heard people say "but they do it" and "but it IS most of them" and such. I get it, I get it but you can't say "Cis, Straight, White Men are bad" and then expect the good Cis, Straight, White Men to still stand up for you. I've always been told "but the good ones won't care!" Yes, they will.

I was once told by a Rightwinger on a forum that "the Left are a powerful force in converting people to be conservative." When I asked him about what he meant exactly; he explained (with the use of far too many slurs and insults I'll be omitting) that essentially when otherwise Left-Leaning individuals see the way Leftists talk about them or people like them, it's very easy for Rightwingers to sweep in and basically say "we're not going to judge you like that." Of course they hide the fact they will judge you in other ways, but for that moment; they are a beacon of shelter from the otherwise very loud mob of Leftists who would deem you literally the most inherently bad person for being... a cis man.

Am I saying you have to go out there and start forgiving every bigot, humoring every fuckboy; stop holding sexists accountable for their bullshit? Absolutely not. In fact, what I'm asking you to do is stop firing a shotgun at a target that can only be hit properly with a sniper rifle. I'm asking you to stop giving the bad actors a scapegoat. I'm asking you to be specific.

If you take a young man, who doesn't have any concept of things like gender identity, the patriarchy, homophobia, etc. You take that young man and you look him in the eyes and you tell him:

"Men are a disgusting and violent gender, men do not deserve respect. The only good man is a fictional man. All men deserve to be treated poorly, women shouldn't have to put up with men. Cis men are the worst. Straight Cis Men should go to hell."

He's going to become a conservative rightwinger, because at least they won't hate him for being a man. They'll just hate him for being the wrong kind of man. It's easier for that man to seek acceptance through forcing others to be below him, than for him to accept that he is inherently a problem. If you instead literally word it as:

"Sexists and bigots, who would view women as nothing more than objects are disgusting. Anyone who would look down on, and see someone as lesser because of their race, gender identity, or sexuality does not deserve respect."

Well now he's not a target. Because he doesn't see women that way, he doesn't have racist thoughts; he's not currently a bad person and you're not talking about him. Now I know that a lot of people say "but I'm NOT talking about people like that!" I know that, you know that; you know who doesn't know that? The young man who's reading your posts, the young man who hears you at the store, the young man who read your forum response 3 months ago. What they see, plain as day is "men are a problem" and they're going to seek shelter from that.

Unfortunately for everyone involved; the shelter they end up finding so many times is conservative rightwingers. There are tons of people you can hear talk about this on youtube and forums, people who got indoctrinated because they would rather be praised for being a man than hated for it.

Now you might not talk this way, a lot of people don't; but a lot of other people DO. I see a lot of "the only good man is a trans man" or "the only good man is a fictional man" type posts, and even if you want to say it's just a meme or it's all a joke. You need to understand that when you speak generally, a man, especially a young man is going to see that and react to it. It's going to shape their idea of how the Left, who you represent to them whether you want to or not; see them.

If a young man who currently is unaligned on either side of the political spectrum sees a bunch of gay and trans people shitting on men for simply "being men" and not for the patriarchy, not for the sexism, not for male privilege and all that. Not actually educating anyone, not speaking out about the injustice; not discussing toxic masculinity or anything that may even shine a light on the issues people face. Just saying "men suck" and leaving it at that. Only to then see a bunch of Rightwingers saying all those gays and trans people are stupid and they are bad people and they hate men for no reason. That young man is going to make a no-effort decision in that moment to side with the people who do not openly hate him.

It's genuinely that easy for someone to become indoctrinated. Once they're in, they're rewarded for thinking less, promoting the ideals that promise them a higher spot on the social ladder; and generally following the mentality that Leftists are bad, and Rightwingers are good. They keep digging themselves into that hole trying to find a place they belong, somewhere they won't be hated; somewhere they don't need to feel guilty and wrong for just being who they are. Until they learn that the Right also thinks they're bad and wrong, they're a "beta" because they haven't fucked someone yet, they're a "soyboy" if they're not benching 200 pounds, making six figures, and banging a new girl each week. So now the urge for acceptance has shifted. Being a man means nothing if you're not "the right kind of man" if you're not an alpha, if you're not a sigma male then you're not good enough.

Go figure now they start viewing women as objects. That's not a woman, that's a ticket to not being a beta virgin anymore. She can be bought, she can be manipulated because he's an "alpha" he has money, he has control; he's a man. He's been taught all of this, he's been taught that "bitches don't matter." He's been told that working out and having money can get him any woman he wants. He's been taught women are dumb, that they're materialistic; that they don't matter outside of being a quick fuck. If someone tells him off, or doesn't like him it's because "she's a crazy bitch." I was once told "men don't have friends, men have competition." This is how they're taught.

So now you approach this man in some attempt to help him understand the faults in his ways. The problem is he's been convinced for the last so many odd years that by simply being a Leftist, or by being gay, or by being trans; you're wrong. Before a single word leaves you mouth. Because "all Leftists are special snowflakes who just get triggered by everything." Which unfortunately the internet has "proved" to him because of those videos of gay people screaming at cameras, or posts that generalize all straight/white/cis men to be bad people.

Again, this isn't some catch all solution. It's not going instantly turn the tide or something, but you have to stop using general terms. Be specific; don't say "men" say "Sexists" if what you mean is "sexist men" then say "sexist men." Because when you just say "men" you do imply "all men, including you; the man reading this." Whether that's what you mean or not. I don't believe that men are inherently born with a want for things like sexism and racism. I really don't believe men are some inherent evil born with bad intentions. I believe it's a combination of the way the popular culture tells them they should be something great; and the way the Left tell them they're a horrible person for how they were born. That's a fast track for becoming a "Crypto Hitler."

I cannot tell you how many genuine conversations I've been able to have with Rightwingers, where I've been able to sort of get them to see my side of things even just a little. Because I didn't point a finger at larger audiences. I was talking to a man on a forum just a few days ago about the inherent issue of sexism in an abortion ban. I made sure to use the word "sexists" and the word "men" as separate entities. When I was discussing how men have bodily autonomy that women don't, I would say just that; when I mentioned that sexists want to control a woman's body I would also say just that. He still mentioned several times "Well I never said I wanted to do that." To which I had to point out to him that I never said he did, I said Sexists did; so if he wasn't in fact Sexist then the shoe doesn't fit.

My goal in all of that was to absolve him of blame; but only so long as he didn't fit the bill for the sort of people who deserved the blame. I let him see it as a matter of simple fact. No different than saying "if you didn't shoot this man then you're not the murderer." I didn't say "everyone with a gun shot this man and therefore everyone with a gun, including you; is in fact the murderer." Because doing so would cause nothing but argument. Rather I treated the whole thing as though he couldn't have possibly been at fault right? By the end of it he came out of it saying that abortion still goes against his religious beliefs; but that he can understand how it's specifically a women's issue; and how there should be further discussion about the effects of abortion as a treatment that could potentially save lives. Crazy how that works right? I got a Rightwinger to admit that hey, abortion isn't an issue men should be speaking on. All because I ensured that he didn't feel as though I was pointing a finger specifically at HIM as a man, for being the problem; and instead let him come to the conclusion of whether or not he specifically fit the mold of a "sexist" or a "man." He told me that I was a lot smarter than "those autistic leftists" but he never knew I in fact am an autistic Leftist. That's literally just because in his mind he knows what an "Autistic Leftist" is, what they will say; how they will act, how they'll react. By not being that stereotype; he couldn't just label me some buzzword and write off what I was saying. In his eyes I was a man with a wife and was merely concerned over the safety of our wives and daughters.

Sometimes that's what it takes to make someone see things your way, if I explained to him that I'm a pansexual genderfluid individual who never intends to have children and just believes women should have the right to bodily autonomy for the sake of bodily autonomy the same as cis men have; well he'd probably write me off immediately.

I'm not saying you have you hide who you are, I'm not saying you have to appeal to their bigoted whims and humor their insults. However I am saying that you need to conduct yourself in a way that's going to show young men that you care about them too. That even the young cis white straight men have a place in a Leftist society; that they won't be hated for simply being true to themselves, how they identity; and how they love. That what we want is equality for everyone; and specifically what rights they have for simply being those things, that the rest of us don't for simply being who and what we are.

tl;dr We can save a lot of young men from becoming Crypto Hitlers if we actually stop talking about men in general like they're already Crypto Hitlers.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

[maxdibert]

Alright, let’s dive into the dumpster fire that the Marauders fandom has become last years and threw any sense of canon or character integrity out the window. Because let’s be real, the way this fandom has twisted the characters of the Marauders and the Death Eaters, all while turning Severus Snape into some one-note “creepy stalker,” is embarrassing. The fandom seems obsessed with scrubbing characters clean, romanticizing abusers, inventing tragic backstories for literal sociopaths, and piling up headcanons that turn a few lines in canon into fully fleshed-out, fanon-only OCs. And somehow, the only character who gets relentlessly dragged and demonized is Severus Snape—a character who has actual complexity and trauma. It’s hypocritical, classist, and downright gross.

Let’s start with Severus. Canon Snape is a guy who came from nothing: poor background, abusive father, dead-end town. He didn’t fit into the wizarding world, was relentlessly bullied by privileged Marauders, and still somehow managed to survive and make something of himself. But instead of acknowledging any of that, the fandom loves to reduce him to this “creepy obsessive” stereotype. People act like he spent every waking moment pining for Lily and never did anything else, as if that’s all his character is. Never mind the fact that he was actively trying to get out of a miserable life, or that he was, you know, bullied on a daily basis by James and Sirius, who had wealth, status, and freedom to do whatever they wanted. Nope, to the Marauders fandom, Snape is just the “weird stalker”—because acknowledging his struggles would mean admitting that their golden boys were actually kind of awful.

Meanwhile, the same people are out here bending over backward to make people like Barty Crouch Jr., Evan Rosier, and Regulus Black look like misunderstood anti-heroes. Let’s be clear: in canon, Barty Crouch Jr. was a straight-up torturer, Evan Rosier died laughing as he fought Aurors, and Regulus was a kid raised with a silver spoon who only started doubting Voldemort when he realized he’d been signed up as snake chow. But no, fanon has turned these guys into “tragic, complex Slytherins” who were “just trying to survive.” It’s like they’re desperate for some tortured prince narrative, so they invent personalities out of thin air to give us this dreamy aesthetic of sad, beautiful Death Eaters who “didn’t really want to be evil.” Apparently, actually following the text is too much to ask when you’ve got fanon fantasies to uphold.

Regulus Black, in particular, has become this absurd fanon martyr. In canon, Regulus was a kid indoctrinated into pureblood ideology, who joined the Death Eaters without much hesitation. Maybe he had a change of heart eventually, but it wasn’t out of some grand moral revelation; he just realized Voldemort’s loyalty was to himself alone. Yet, according to the current fandom, Regulus is some misunderstood hero who was only “pretending” to go along with Voldemort and was “forced” into his choices. They’ve built this tragic romance around a character who, in the actual books, doesn’t have even half this depth. This Regulus in fanon is practically an OC at this point, and people cling to this made-up version of him so hard that they’ll defend it like it’s canon. It’s hilarious, and it’s also just plain wrong.

And let’s talk about the Marauders themselves. In canon, James and Sirius were rich, spoiled brats who spent their school years bullying anyone who didn’t fit into their world. They were kids with every privilege, and they used it to torment people like Snape, who had nothing. But the Marauders’ fandom has turned them into these fluffy, “good-hearted” rebels who just made “a few mistakes.” I’m sorry, but nearly killing someone as a “prank” is a bit more than a mistake. Yet people will ignore that or wave it away as “boys will be boys” just to keep up the illusion that James and Sirius were lovable scamps. It’s maddening—and it’s also classist as hell. They erase all the ugly realities of the Marauders’ behavior and then turn around and judge Snape for being “obsessive” and “weird” when he was just trying to survive in a world stacked against him.

The classism in this fandom is so blatant it’s laughable. Snape is written off as creepy and unworthy of sympathy because he didn’t have a cushy upbringing or the social standing to make him likable. Meanwhile, characters like Barty and Regulus, who came from wealthy pureblood families, get excused and romanticized to no end. It’s like the fandom is saying, “Well, Snape deserved it because he was poor and awkward, but the rich kids? They’re just misunderstood.” It’s the kind of privilege blindness that makes you wonder if people actually read the books or if they’re just projecting their own biases onto the characters.

And let’s not forget the army of new OCs the Marauders fandom has invented just to justify this headcanon universe (Mary, Marlene, Dorcas, that that Pandora no one knows why suddenly appears here lol) You’ve got random “best friends” for Sirius, unnamed Slytherins who magically have no ties to pureblood supremacy, and love interests for Regulus who supposedly saw the “real” him. All these characters are based on nothing more than a few throwaway lines, yet people have fleshed them out to a level that they’re practically new characters in the universe. It’s like they need this entourage of made-up people to back up their version of the Marauders and Death Eaters because, without them, their headcanons would fall apart. And all of this, while they keep painting Snape as this creepy loner with no real friends or worth. The hypocrisy is unreal.

At the end of the day, the Marauders fandom has taken a bunch of characters with clear flaws and complexities and rewritten them into these sanitized, tortured souls while dumping all their scorn onto Snape. They’ll go out of their way to redeem a literal torturer like Barty Crouch Jr. or turn Regulus into some tragic hero, but they can’t bring themselves to even consider Snape’s trauma or the systematic abuse he endured. It’s all about maintaining this fantasy where their favorite characters are perfect and untouchable, even if it means twisting canon and ignoring the ugly truths about class, privilege, and abuse that is reflected into the story. And that, honestly, just makes the fandom look shallow, hypocritical, and completely disconnected from the reality.

[viceroywrites]

liquor on your lips (2/2)

you met stan pines on your first day working at the dead end motel.

in just a week, you were addicted to him.

mullet stan x gn!reader

part one here

inspired by you can be the boss by lana del rey

cw: smut ahead, praise, dirty talking, creampie

taglist: @autistic-rainbow

I saved it, I waited, I called it.

Your shift at the bar was closing up, leaning over to wipe down the counter and grabbing the tip jar to see how you did for the day.

Thumbing through the dollar bills, you tap them on the table to straighten them out before opening your bag to toss them inside before pausing at the sight of the cigarette that you had tossed inside the evening prior.

‘Give it a call when you get off tomorrow and let me know.’

Should you do it?

You should be happy, elated even that you have this opportunity to spend more time with the man that had charmed you in a matter of days.

Your interactions with Stan thus far had been fairly casual in nature. 

Sure, there was a lot of banter and playful flirting that happened every night but going on what essentially was a date seemed like a huge step.

A step you were uncertain about taking given the fact that at any given moment, Stan could up and leave.

You toss the wad of cash into your bag, deciding that the issue could wait at least until you get home and take a nice long shower to worry about.

Back at the motel, Stan twirls the extension cord of the phone mindlessly while he lies in bed. His eyes flicker to the phone every so often as he scratches his stomach, still in his white undershirt and boxers.

What the hell was he thinking offering his number to you?

Was he that lonely?

Stan sits up, deciding he needed a smoke break to clear his head and at least get out of limbo. He slips on his jeans from the night prior and grabs the room key and his pack of cigarettes, stepping out. 

Leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, he lights the cigarette that dangles from his lips, feeling the harsh smoke fill his lungs before exhaling it out. Reaching up to brush his long strands of hair out of his eyes, Stan winces as his knuckles graze against the cut that is a reminder of last night’s events.

“Shit…” He hisses under his breath, cigarette resting between his fingers as the dull ache creeps up. Stan clenches his jaw, trying to ignore the pain while he takes another drag from his cigarette. Glancing at the window outside his room, he sees his reflection.

The heavy, dark circles under his eyes show his fatigue.

The five o'clock shadow across his chin, not able to afford a proper razor in ages.

The chocolate brown hair atop his head grown out into a mullet, much to his chagrin.

His eyes, almost blood-shot, looked drained of hope.

The definition of exhaustion stared back at him. 

Man, he was tired of running.

That first day when you had offered to pay for his room, the first night in ages that he was able to lay his head on a pillow and get some rest, you gave him something he had been longing for in ages.

Stability.

A helping hand.

Suddenly the sound of the phone ringing cuts through his thoughts. Stan scrambles to unlock the door, practically leaping onto the mattress as his hand removes the phone from its receiver.

“Hello?” He says, slightly out of breath as his heart is pounding through his chest. 

God, what was he doing, waiting around for a call like some lovesick teen?

“Did you just get done running a marathon or somethin? You should be resting…” You ask with a raised eyebrow, toweling off the wet strands of your hair as the phone rests in between the crook of your neck and your shoulders.

“Didn’t realize I was signing up for a lecture when I picked up the phone, toots.” Stan grumbled, resting a hand over his heart in a feeble attempt to slow down its rapid pace.

“Well, I guess I’ll just hang up then…” You say playfully, giggling as Stan’s gruff voice says with a sudden urgency, “Wait, wait!”

“Surprised you actually gave me a call…” Stan mutters to which you blink in surprise, “Why are you surprised?”

“I dunno, figured you’d rather spend your day off doing something else other than getting dinner or a drink with a drifter.” Stan admits with a shrug to his shoulders.

“You know I never said that I was taking up your offer…” You tease, grinning once again as you have him stammering over his words. 

For someone who gives off a rough demeanor, it’s amusing to see him turn into a pile of mush.

“Stan, I’m just pulling your leg…” You chuckle, “ Did you have anywhere in particular in mind?”

Stan pauses for a few beats, and you stare at the phone wondering if you got caught off.

“Can you still hear me?” 

“I heard ya.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“... You’re actually serious?”

“Of course, I’m serious, Stanley.” 

God, the way you said his name sounded like a choir of angels to him, ready to take him to heaven.

“Honestly, I didn’t think I’d get this far, toots.” Stan admitted, “Didn’t think someone like you would even dare look my way, let alone go on a date with me.”

A date.

He confirmed that it was a date.

“So this is a date?” You say with a sly grin, trying to ignore how your heart beat is practically pounding in your ears.

Stan in response turns beet red, clutching the phone tighter, “Well, only if you want it to be, sweetheart.”

“It’s a date then. Pick me up at my place at 7. There’s a diner near my apartment that has the best shakes. You got a pen to write down my address?” You ask hurriedly before he could take it back. You snicker as you hear clamoring on the other end of the receiver, hearing Stan curse under his breath for the damn pen. 

“Ready.” He finally says, having found a pen and grabbed a crumpled up receipt out of the trash bin.

You share your address with him and after hanging up, Stan flops back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling in awe.

He hadn’t been on a date since that hippie stole Carla McCorckle from him.

“Alright, Stanley, you can do this. Sure, you may be a little rusty but you got that natural Pines charm.” He says, trying to be his own personal hype man as he gets up from the bed.

Heading to the bathroom, he looks in the mirror and blinks, “Yeesh. Should probably try to clean up a little bit…” Stan mutters, scratching the stubble on his chin.

He has a white corvette like I want it

A fire in his eyes, know, I saw it

He's bleeding from his brain and his wallet.

You glanced over your shoulder, almost anxiously staring at the clock as you plead for the minutes to go faster.

It’s 6:58 PM.

You turn your attention back onto the full-length mirror in your room, running your hands over the fabric of your outfit. You decided to dress up a little more than your usual attire that you would wear while working at the motel though you secretly hoped Stan didn’t randomly have a suit in his trunk that he was going to whip out for the occasion.

Though you did wonder what he could be wearing, cheeks reddening at the possibilities.

A knock on your apartment door startled you, breaking you out of your thoughts. Your eyebrow raises as you had told Stan to press the buzzer so you could let him in but when you go to look through the peephole, you see him standing outside your door and quickly undo the chain lock and open the door.

Stan stands before you, trading his usual attire for a maroon button-up that has two loose buttons to reveal a gold medallion that rested on his dark, wispy chest hairs and a pair of black slacks. In right hand, he holds a clumsy mess of various flowers wrapped in… is that a newspaper?

“You clean up pretty good, Pines…” You say with a sweet smile. Truthfully, this outfit was even better than what your thoughts could have conjured up. Your eyes flick towards the flowers, “Are these for me? You didn’t have to..” 

Stan places the flowers in your arms, “Well, I couldn’t show up empty-handed. What kinda guy do you take me for?” He says before glancing over his shoulder, “Hey, you don’t think your neighbor two doors down reads the paper regularly, do ya?”

You laugh, putting two and two together, “I don’t think so, let me put these in some water and we can head out. You can come in, make yourself comfortable.” You gesture, letting Stan step through the threshold before closing the door behind the two of you.

“You know you usually invite someone in after the date, doll.” Stan comments playfully, taking a seat on your cozy sofa as he watches your figure disappear into the kitchen to grab a vase. His eyes roam around the apartment, admiring the little touches you put to the place that made it feel like home. 

“What can I say? I like to cut right to the chase.” You tease, walking back into the living room with the assortment of flowers in a vase. You lean forward to place the vase on the coffee table in front of him and Stan finds his gaze drifting to your behind before quickly averting it as you stand up right, looking over at him, “You ready?”

Stan clears his throat, standing up from his seat, his cheeks tinted slightly pink, “Yup, you know how to get to the place?”

“Yup!” You say, grabbing your bag from the counter before raising an eyebrow.

“Why are your cheeks red? Is it hot in here?”

“Alright, let’s move it!” Stan says hurriedly, placing a warm calloused hand on the small of your back to usher you out the door.

It was your turn for your cheeks to turn red.

The liquor on your lips.

The liquor on your lips.

The liquor on your lips makes you dangerous.

“After being chased around a neighborhood by a husband who thought I was sleeping with his wife for hours, I stopped doing door to door sales. I mostly stuck to infomercials, you know the ones that cycle every few hours?” Stan explained, waving around the cheese fry in his hand.

You listen to his story with amusement, resting your chin on your hands as you take a sip of your milkshake, “Yeah, I’m familiar… surprised I haven’t seen you on my TV ever.”

“Well, when I shot them, I had a full mustache.” Stan admitted, holding the fry over his upper lip to mimic the facial hair.

Your laughter ran through Stan’s ears at the visual, leaning forward to pluck the fry from his finger and steal it from his grasp, taking a bite into it, “Now that’s something I would have paid to see.”

“Trust me, not worth the price, sweetheart.” Stan says with a relaxed grin, his arms spreading across the vinyl booth as he leans back.

His brown eyes take in your gorgeous features before catching the stray bit of cheese that was in the corner of your mouth. He can’t help himself, reaching over to run a thumb over it and pulling back to lick the cheese off his thumb.

You stare back at him flustered, your lips parted. Stan registers what he just did, blinking back at you before rubbing the back of his neck abashedly, “Sorry, had a little something on your lip.”

“No.. don’t apologize. I… liked it.” You admit with a cheeky grin, reaching for one of Stan’s hands that rests on the table. Your thumb runs over his knuckles that are still bandaged from the previous day, your touch delicate as you do so. 

“I gotta ask, sweetheart, what makes you like a guy like me?��� Stan asks, entranced by your touch as he can’t help but spread his fingers out to intertwine your fingers with his larger ones.

“What do you mean by that?” You ask, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“C’mon toots, I know first impressions matter and what you saw the first day you met me was a guy in a ratty old hoodie with no money to his name, barely able to afford one night at a motel.” Stan chuckled with a bitter edge of his voice.

“Well, that’s not what I saw.” You say almost defensively, squeezing Stan’s hand firmly, “I saw a guy who was down on his luck… who just needed a warm place to stay for the night. What you showed me is you’re funny, quick-witted, a con man.. But a business savvy one.”

“Ouch, on the conman…”

“Am I wrong?”

“No… but you gotta admit that I got good ideas.”

“You do… you just need the right audience for them.” You chuckle, “Now, no more of this self-deprecating talk, let’s go dancing, there’s a bar a few blocks down that does disco nights on Fridays.”

“You wanna keep this date going, toots?” Stan says a bit nervously, knowing he was only able to scrounge up enough money to cover the bill.

“I got the drinks, Stan. Don’t worry.” You say, squeezing his hand again in reassurance, “Plus I can’t let you waste an outfit like this on just a diner.”

I knew it was wrong, I’m beyond it.

I tried to be strong but I lost it.

To say Stan swept you off your feet was an understatement.

You weren’t expecting him to be practically dragging you onto the dance floor despite your protests of having two left feet after a few drinks in your system, his feet moving effortlessly as he guides you with his hands.

Stan watches with glee as his arm raises to spin you, watching how the disco lights illuminate your face. He spins you into his frame before dipping you low, your noses brushing at the proximity.

You stare up at him, a hand resting on his bicep. Your breaths mingle, inches away from each other’s lips. Time stands still as Stan can’t help but admit huskily, “God, you’re gorgeous.”

Something in you snapped and you broke the distance, hands reaching up to cup Stan’s cheeks and pull him into a sudden kiss. His eyes widened in surprise, almost dropping you in alarm but melting into the kiss as he returned the passionate liplock.

Without breaking the kiss, Stan pulls you up, large hands drifting down to grip your hips. You feel your stomach doing somersaults at the sensation of his fingertips digging further into your flesh almost possessively. 

Like you would disappear between his fingertips if he didn’t hold on tight.

Pulling back reluctantly for air, your chest moves up and down as you pant softly. Your eyes twinkle underneath the colorful hues of the disco ball, gazing up at Stan with want.

“Shit, Pines… didn’t think you were that smooth.” You say breathlessly with a cheeky grin.

“Look who’s talking… didn’t think ya had it in you to pull the first move.” Stan teases, “Not that I’m complainin’ about being proven wrong.”

Your hands rest on Stan’s chest, “Well, just cause I made the first move doesn’t mean you can’t make one yourself.”

“Is that a challenge, sweetheart?”

“Not a challenge, more like a wish.”

“Well, I can definitely make that wish come true.” Stan chuckles, leaning for another heated kiss. Stan’s lips search for yours almost hungrily, his tongue snaking out to run over your bottom lip almost pleading for entry. You allow it, a soft whine ripping from your throat as you taste the whiskey on his tongue. 

Those sweet noises that he’s able to pull from you cause Stan to grunt, pulling you further into him. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers running through his brown locks before playfully tugging at the ends of his mullet. He groans against your lips, loving the sensation more than he would care to admit.

Maybe having a mullet wasn’t as bad as he thought it was. 

Stan pulls back, smirking as he stares down at you pouting back at him, wondering why he stopped. His response is tilting his head to pepper kisses along your jawline and down your neck. You can’t help but giggle when his stubble tickles your skin, arching your neck in response, “Whoa there, tiger… we’re still in public, ya know?”

“Sorry, toots, can’t help myself…” Stan mutters against your ear, pulling you in by your waist so you’re both chest to chest, “You just taste so sweet… ”

Shit, your knees felt weak after hearing his deep voice rasp that against your ear.

You really tried to resist as much as you could.

But something about Stan Pines had your resolve crumbling before your eyes.

Fuck it.

“Stanley…” You coo in a sticky, saccharine tone that causes his arm hairs… and something else to stand up. Your fingers massage the nape of his neck, pressing your lips against his ear, “I would love to give you a taste… maybe somewhere more private.”

You let out a squeal in surprise as Stan practically drags you toward the exit, making a beeline back to his car. He looks back at you, his eyes darkened with lust, “Oh, I plan on getting more than a taste, doll.”

You taste like the 4th of July.

Malt liquor on your breath, my, my.

The sound of jingling keys and smacking lips against skin echoed through the hallway outside of your apartment. 

“Stan… cut it out for just a sec, I’m trying to get the door open..” You whine breathlessly, biting your lower lip as Stan’s teeth graze against the sensitive spot on your neck. You can feel his hardened bulge against your backside, his grip on your hips possessive.

“Alright, I’ll let up on ya.” Stan chuckles at your whine, pulling away reluctantly. He watches your fingers still fumble with the keys in amusement despite him halting his relentless flurry of kisses and love bites.

The moment the door opens, Stan’s arm wraps around your frame and hoists you over his broad shoulder, causing you to burst in a fit of laughter. Stan snickers when he closes the door behind him, feeling you playfully flail and stomp your fists on his back with the exaggerated plea to release you. He finds his way to your bedroom, nudging the loose door with his foot to get through the threshold before tossing you on the bed gently.

You have a beat to process your back hitting the soft material of your mattress before feeling the bed dip down and your lips being ensnared into another heated kiss. 

Your fingers find themselves gripping the back of Stan’s button-up, wrinkling the fabric underneath as you cling onto him. His lips slowly descend down your jawline, to your neck before his hands hover over the fabric of your top. He pulls back briefly, “Can I, sweetheart?” He asks breathlessly.

You nod eagerly and his hands slowly pull off the top to reveal more of your bare skin. “Jesus, are you sure you’re not an angel? Look at ya..” Stan says, his touch over your exposed flesh sending shivers down your spine.

“Well, don’t just look… you can touch more.” You say with a desperate edge to your voice. Stan chuckles darkly at your impatience, deciding to give into your demands. His tongue glides over your collarbone, deciding downward before capturing a sensitive peak in between his lips, suckling firmly. The delicious sounds you make go straight to his groin, spurring him on to tease, pinch and suck on your hardened nipples.

He needed to hear how good he was making you feel.

“Stan… more, please.” You whimper out, your legs wrapped around him.

“Tell me how much you need this, angel.” Stan grins against your flesh.

“Fuck, I need you, Stan. Please, you make me feel so good, I need your tongue, your fingers, your cock, anything!” You moan out after a particular torturous squeeze of nipples.

Your praise, your pleas caused any self-restraint Stan was holding onto to fall apart, his hands tugging down on your bottoms. Your hips snap up to allow him to shove the fabric down your ankles before he pretty much rips off his own stuffy shirt, revealing to you his chest hair, broad shoulders and biceps and round stomach. 

Stan practically melts as your hands glide over his chest and down his stomach. His abdomen tensing when your nails make their way down his happy trail to start unbuttoning his tight pants.

After you undo the top button and zipper, Stan’s hands join yours, impatiently tugging off the fabric. His rock hard shaft springs out from its confines, tip red and leaking with pre-cum.

Just as your hand is about to reach down to give it some attention, Stan catches your wrist, shaking his head. “Another time, sweetheart… I need ya now.” 

Your legs spread as Stan adjusts himself between them, his fingers gripping the meat of your thighs. You can’t help but feel a bit self-conscious when the man above you is staring down at your lower parts with such intensity and attempt to squeeze your legs shut. Unfortunately, Stan’s hold on your thighs is firm, holding them apart with a click of his tongue, “None of that, toots. Don’t hide such a gorgeous sight from me.”

Toes curl against the sheets and nails dig into Stan’s shoulder blades as he decides to torture you just a little bit more, brushing the tip of his shaft against your opening and teasing it with shallow movements. After getting his fill of your desperate whimpers, he finally shows you some mercy, groaning when he fully sheaths his cock inside you.

“Jesus, angel… you even feel like heaven..” Stan groans, pumping his hips slowly as he finds his rhythm, “You’re gonna be the death of me, doll… I swear.” He holds onto your hips for dear life, his fingertips practically imprinted into your flesh. Your walls clamp around him tightly, hissing through his teeth as his hips pull back and forth.

You relish in the delicious stretch as Stan’s cock digs deeper with every thrust into your walls, eyes rolling back and fluttering shut when his shaft bottoms out inside your walls. Stan shudders, feeling every inch of his aching cock being squeezed down by your warm walls.

After giving you a second to adjust to his full length, he finally lets go, his hips letting loose. His pace is quick yet powerful, his thick tip kissing that sweet spot that has your thighs trembling over and over again. Stan gazes down at you in awe, relishing every single moan and cry that escapes your throat. He lets out a deep chuckle, hearing you babble for more, “Oh, you need more? Such a greedy little thing.”

Stan gladly indulges in your pleas, his pace now brutal as he hammers his cock at an almost erratic pace. The sound of your hips lewdly smacking together echoing through the room, your cries silenced by Stan’s searing kiss, swallowing them up greedily. He presses all his weight atop of you, pinning your legs back at an angle that allows his cock to drive deeper inside of you.

You feel a warmth boiling in the pit of your stomach, your legs wrapping around Stan’s frame as your nails dig red welts into his back. “S-Stan… I…” You gasp in between breaths of your heated kisses, causing Stan to pause to stare down at you. “Ya close, sweets?” You nod in response, so cock-drunk that you can’t form a coherent sentence.

Focusing all his efforts to bring you over the edge, Stan reaches for your chest, thumbing your sensitive nipples, causing you to flinch and squirm beneath him. His face buried in the crook of your neck as he groans against your ear, “So fucking good for me, you take my cock perfectly, angel. God, you don’t know what you do to me..” His hips reel back, delivering slow yet deep strokes that finally push you and him over the edge.

Stan grins against your neck, feeling and hearing you come undone beneath him. He loves how you latch onto him, clinging on for dear life as he slows his strokes down to help you ride out your orgasm. His cock twitches with each lazy drag, murmuring sweet praise into your ear, “That’s it… did so good for me, sweetheart.” With a stutter in his own hips, he cums as well, filling you to the brim with a guttural groan before collapsing on your chest.

You both lay there for a while, your thighs aching in the best way possible. You run your fingers through Stan’s brown locks, curling the ends of his mullet in your finger. The sound of your heartbeat echoes through Stan’s eardrums, relishing in your warmth. 

“Um… toots?” Stan mutters, causing you to look down with a raised eyebrow. 

It’s almost comical to see the man that just had you seeing stars looking abashed as he asks, “Could.. I..”

“Spit out, Pines.” You chuckle teasingly.

“Hey, you’re the one who couldn’t even form a sentence a few minutes ago.” Stan huffs before muttering against your skin, “Mind if I stay the night…?”

You stare down at Stan in understanding, tilting his chin to pull him in for a soft kiss.

“Of course, Stan. You can stay as long as you need.”

You can be the boss

Taste like a keg party, back on the sauce

I like you a lot, I like you a lot

Don't let it stop

[sendpseuds]

Voter registration AU sounds so goooood already! Please more if you have more ideas!

"Mr. Skywalker."

Anakin recognizes the voice immediately, a wild chill running down his spine before he can turn to face the man who has been running through his mind for weeks.

"I'm glad to see you've chosen to do your civic duty after all."

He wasn't going to.

He never has before.

Hell, until last month, Anakin hadn't even been registered to vote.

Not until he met Obi-Wan.

Usually, he has no problem speed-walking past those annoying mall canvassers —putting his hood up and his head down, pretending he can't hear the pleas for "just a moment of your time," not caring if they want to talk about the rainforest or his electric bill — but when a smooth voice had broken through the haze of his thoughts, Anakin found himself staring into the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen.

The same eyes looking at him now.

Eyes Anakin had been too caught up in to lie when the man asked if he was registered to vote in a low and lilting voice that had his mind blank of any reasonable excuse. He'd barely been able to pay attention as Obi-Wan walked him through the shockingly simple process, nodding along with words he wasn't listening to and answering the questions as if the responses were automatic, agreeing readily when the man offered to make him a voting plan.

At no point during this process did Anakin actually intend to go through with said plan.

That was until—

"Yeah, well, I kinda know one of the volunteers," Anakin says with a tilted smile, trying to swallow the blush he can feel beginning to heat his cheeks, determined not to trip over himself the way he had all those weeks ago when Obi-Wan casually commented on the coincidence of being assigned to Anakin's district and suddenly voting had become his top priority, "I didn't want to disappoint him."

The words come out confident and cool even as his heart skips at the way Obi-Wan smiles and suddenly Anakin thinks maybe he hadn't been halucinating the heated energy between them.

"Well," Obi-Wan hums teasingly, those stunning eyes shifting from sky blue to silver to sage and back again as he flashes a playful grin, "you haven't actually voted yet."

In the weeks since he met Obi-Wan, Anakin has been fantasizing about this moment— what he'd do, what he'd say, how he'd convince the man to fuck him in a voting booth [which now that he sees that a "booth" is little more than a plastic divider on a table, he's realizing isn't exactly an option.]

Even in the most subdued scenarios where he stutters his way through asking the man for his number, one thing is clear—

He won't get another chance.

Might as well go for it.

"Is that what you want me to do?"

Obi-Wan blinks.

"Is that what I—" he repeats the words slowly, his eyebrows shooting up when he registers the flirtation beneath the words, "Anakin—"

"You want me to do my civic duty?"

He's pushing it and he knows it — ducking his head, batting his lashes, sucking his lip — but he'd rather get rejected like this than walk out of here and wonder.

"I—" Obi-Wan stutters, his eyes tracking over the younger man's features before finally dropping to his mouth and Anakin can't help but sink his teeth into the flesh of his lower lip, trying not to smile the moment he sees the reservation drain from those bright beautiful eyes, "Yes. I do."

Victory.

"I may need a little— guidance," Anakin teases, stepping closer, his voice low like a secret, "This is my first time you know."

It doesn't take long to get checked in and into a "booth" with his ballot and a blue bic pen and though his entire body is begging for whatever comes next, there is a strange moment of clarity as he stares down at the paper before him.

It feels— important.

When he feeds his completed ballot into the machine and turns to find Obi-Wan wearing a smug smile, Anakin thinks the only thing better than feeling pride in himself is seeing it in those incredible eyes.

"So—" Anakin hums as he approaches the man, ducking his head and looking up through his lashes, "Do I get a reward?"

Obi-Wan hums consideringly, his initial shock long since past, that cool control back in place even as he lets his gaze linger on Anakin's lips far longer than anyone would consider decent.

"Of course you do, darling."

It takes every last ounce of control in Anakin's body not to simply fall to his knees right there in the middle of a church's rec room.

Then the bastard holds up an I VOTED sticker with a shit-eating grin and a wink and he thinks he might just explode.

"A sticker?" Anakin grunts through gritted teeth, his voice both desperate and disappointed despite his best efforts but when a large hand lands on his shoulder, warm and heavy, a knot in his chest eases.

"I want you to wear it."

It's like being struck by lightning—

The way Obi-Wan's steady words skitter down his spine.

He can't get that stupid fucking sticker on fast enough.

It's only then, as he's about to crumple up the flimsy strip of backing film that he sees it—

Ten numbers.

Neat handwriting.

Blue ink.

And when that voice rumbles low in his ear, Anakin can honestly say, he's never been more excited for an election night in his life.

"The polls close at eight."

[coffeegnomee]

The nature of opposing your lore.

It is in the nature of Lifesteal to see you do a character, and violently, psychologically and verbally, oppose your character. 

And not even just rigid characters, though the more rigid the greater the opposition. 

And the more rigid, the less room you have to defend yourself. 

S6 Zam is the easiest example; he chooses to kill nobody, and Planet, Bacon, Mapicc, Flame, Mane, Wemmbu, Kab, Ash, Derap, and given the opportunity, literally everyone, opposed him choosing to not kill. All tried to get him to kill or tried to talk him out of his logic.

S4 Vitalasy chose to explore a character who is not evil but has ultimate power. Everyone became hell bent on opposing him and making him see that he was being evil even though he was insisting he was not. 

S5 Ash, Jumper, Minute all chose to be “the good guys” and end the server in peace and Zam, Bacon, Mapicc, Ro, Clown, Leo and the whole server with their voting, diametrically opposed that as the ending and tried to get them to see how they were not good. 

S3 Zam chose to make an empire to repair spawn. Everyone opposed it, even at the last second when he got everyone to join his side again they all turned and joined the opposition when he said it would still be the “PrinceZam” empire. His character's empire.  

S5 Ro chose to “preserve spawn” with medusa and tried to “save everyone” with the end trap, and was violently opposed in the first case by everyone, and in the second by Mapicc who opposed not just with betrayal but with blowing himself up dramatically and banning himself to make Ro rethink his character deeply and realize he was completely alone because his beliefs. 

There’s a concept that it is a law of lifesteal that power must be opposed. 

This is true for simply having 20 hearts. Or being good at pvp. 

But it is more violently - psychologically, not physically - opposed when you are trying to influence the story with character motivations. Which I find imminently fascinating. 

Because the thing is, s3 Spoke was not opposed in the finale. People joined Zam, but as the server ticked towards its inevitable end, most players joined Spoke in ending it, or banned themselves off. But Zam, doing the character of saving the server, was opposed by Spoke and torn down through the convo on the hill and the convo in the base. 

And the opposition given to Spoke s4 wormhole wasn’t trying to stop him from doing it, to shame him out of it, it was just accepting the inevitable and trying to survive. 

But the opposition given to wormhole Zam by Parrot (and lesser extent by Planet) was to try and get him to stop this character and swap back to their side.

Do you get what I mean? It’s like every time you do anything “lore” you get torn down by everyone else. But when it’s a more objective content moment it’s just accepted and fought physically. 

Like nobody tries to talk Clown out of doing anything. 

But Zam Pangi and Mapicc all tried to talk Flame out of blowing up spawn, or violently opposed his methods for getting what he wanted. Flame wasn’t doing lore, but he was pushing the boundaries of content (fight me) and lore (blowing up spawn as a way to influence you to do my fight) 

Somehow, even though lore very much exists on this server, it will always be opposed. Out of spite, out of boredom, out of believing that you’re being boring with the character. 

But it’s a brutal environment honestly. One that you either survive or leave. And not everyone survives. 

The stakes are high. And every good story need high stakes.

And if you manage to survive, you become an unstoppable force capable of weaving lore and story and character and emotion that goes far beyond any story created by another minecraft server. 

[purplehairedwonder]

Helloo do u have any Lawlu + Doffy fic recs (any content rating)? the interactions between those 3 are always so good. Just looove how you write them in your fics!

Why yes, yes I do!

"though the stars may tell us it is so" by pascaliana (T)

Doffy’s a monster, Cora-san had said more than once and Law always wondered but never asked, What does that make me? - In which soulmates are a sacred bond and Law's soulmate is Doflamingo.

"a victory every year" by @betsib (T)

Law finds himself imprisoned in Impel Down, injured and possibly dying. His only company is Doflamingo, who tells him Luffy has been captured too. All in all, not the best way to spend his birthday.

"(Love Will Find a Way) Where Wolves Fear to Prey" by betsib (M)

For the last eight years, Law has been held captive by Donquixote Doflamingo, forced to spend his days as a bunny and his nights in Doflamingo's bed. One day, he sees his chance to flee. A little while later, Luffy finds a lost little bunny on the streets and takes him home.

(Side note: I beta'd this one!)

"as I hold your hollow heart" by @betsib (M)

The Straw Hats pick up Bepo and an unconscious Law after the events at Winner Island. Luffy is more than ready to help him, but when Law opens his eyes, he is a stranger. Meanwhile, Law wakes up in Dressrosa, with Doflamingo's symbol tattooed on his chest and servants calling him "Corazon".

"My Heart Is Still Beating (But I Lost It Long Ago)" by betsib (E)

Law is travelling alone between quarantine zones when he comes across a young man with three bullets in his torso and an unflinching look in his eyes.

"A Smile In My Veins" by @betsib (M)

Law is doing his best to live his life and ignore the fact that he is, technically, no longer alive at all. All he wants is a momentary distraction. Luffy is investigating a series of murders that look like they were caused by vampires, but something seems strange about it. He needs more information. They meet in a bar.

(This is the first fic of betsib's that I ever read, and I knew we had to be friends because our brains are on the same wavelength.)

"Hunger for the Absolute" by ObsidionWingsofMidnight (NR)

When Law woke up from his 500 year slumber, he sure as hell wasn't expecting to get a husband out of it. He also wasn’t expecting to learn that he’d lost a chunk of his memories, or that he’d made new friends during this forgotten time. The marriage thing was weird though. To a king, no less. A very loud, very boisterous, very tactile king that never seemed to stop laughing. And what kind of king wore a straw hat anyway? To top it all off, he still has a million other things to take care of, not the least of which is helping his new husband to secure their kingdom against oncoming threats. But what Law doesn’t know is that there are more dangers lurking than he realizes. Ones from his past that have hidden for centuries, waiting for the right moment to strike. And he’ll need all the help he can get to keep them from consuming him.

"Roll Like Thunder, Burn Like Stars" by killingmonsterswritingthings (M)

Law is a private investigator trying everything to forget his past. But there's ties he can't cut - especially when his past comes back to haunt him in a case. or   “Why do you keep purposefully triggering yourself?” Corazón asked, his voice too close despite the tinny effect of the phone. “I'm still talking to you, aren't I?” Law spat back. It was a terrible thing to say but it was also the only thing he could say without making his hands shake uncontrollably.

(I am absolutely obsessed with this Jessica Jones AU; I've reread it countless times, and it has a vice-like grip on my soul. It hasn't updated in six years, though, sob.)

Enjoy, anon!

[nortromthesilencer]

Piercing through the veil was much harder than he had anticipated, and oddly enough it wasn't because of the Keen himself. That unfamiliar feeling from the surface bubbled and churned around him, it's tendrils unwrapping and feeling around, threatening to probe his own mind if not careful. Gerard concentrated further, unwraveling the binds in an attempt to identify them, to learn anything he could. Indeed, something was here, and that something didn't want to let go.

There came a point where even he had to concede the fight and pull back, hands faultering as they pulled away and the connection slowly broke. It wasn't until fully severed that the man realized just how much that had drained him. Elowen was right to assume something was amiss, but it was unlike anything he had felt before. It most certainly wasn't from the Silencer either.

"You---" A shame he only had a couple of hours here. It would be a great test of fortitude and his skills to run the maze that was Rizzrack's mind; To was away the grime and see clearly what this influence was and where it came from. Given what he had experienced, however? That would take much, much longer than the remaining hour.

Gerard staggered slightly as he rest against the desk. Notes. He had to take notes, and in as much detail as he could muster. As for the one behind him... "I really do wonder what is pulling at your strings like a puppet master- I have never known a presence such as this. Impressive, as I know quite a bit about mental intrusions."

***

The Estate never did feel welcoming, and honestly, that made a lot of sense given you really didn't want to be here for any reason. The boy could see their eyes still watching him, the guards at the gate who had let him in to drop off the letter, knowing he needed only to go to the box and back again. Easy. Despite this, the looming rock butresses and arches of the old building crept upwards at unnerving angles and imposing heights, stalling his steps for a moment before finally forcing himself to press forward.

The mailbox was locked tight, with a single small slit for papers and envelopes to slide in but not be drawn back out again. Well, at least not from this side. When the hatch creaked at being disturbed the boy jumped, stabalizing himself with a breath as he faked putting the sealed missive inside. Sure, the guards were watching, but his back was to them and it was far enough away they wouldn't notice. Hell, the envelope he did have was indeed official, the stamp authentic, the words and signatures true. But that didn't matter.

He had to only give the perception it was delivered. What happens to the supposedly delivered letter after that wouldn't be his fault, since, well, they all saw him deliver it... right? Hell, all he had to do was burn it so there was no chance of being caught with the damn thing.

Double the pay, for the same work? He would have to be an idiot to not accept.

Rizzrack indeed did feel a tingle, and it silently scratched at the back of his mind. His overworked yet underused voice of Reason had been constantly at the helm of his mind flipping every lever and pushing every button. Rationality, Reason's co-pilot, long ago left and has yet to come back. The screaming wails of alarms seeped through the compartment walls that reduced the urgent cries to a stifled whine. Whatever went on back there wasn't his problem. No, that was someone else's problem. He had bigger, more real problems than whatever else was going on. There it was again. The scratching. The hands and nails silently dragged down his spine. Visceral cries of Let Me In.

He couldn't let it distract him. The next distraction could prove disastrous. He had to ignore it. He had to ignore the begging, the pleas, the cries. They needed to just deal with the alarms. Don't they understand that the alarms mean nothing? Why won't they leave him alone? Don't they know they're making him suffer??

Rizzrack squeezed his eyes tight and lightly shook his head to clear away the remnants of that uncomfortable sensation. Just as he was finally getting back in control of submitting himself to a higher power, he becomes unsettled. It's not me, it's them. Rizzrack wanted to ask the man just what it was he was doing, but to ask would mean to care. No, he's not supposed to care. He's not supposed to need unimportant details. He's not supposed to wonder if this was the "torture" that Silencer warned him about. He's not supposed to wonder if it's torture if it doesn't hurt. He's not supposed to wonder if it could ever hurt at all.

Rizzrack ignored the sound of paper being scratched with ink. He also ignored the soft mutterings of observations going on behind him. Rizzrack especially ignored the uncomfortable feeling that lurked about in the dark corners of the room.

"Just what are you doing, exactly?" Rizzrack finally said. He assured himself that he wasn't asking for answers, he just needed to shift his attention to somewhere else and this was an acceptable means to do so. "Trying to open my mind? Attempting to unlock the answers to the universe? If you come to Know The Truth and the Power of The Ancient, then you too can reunite with The Whole that awaits at The End."

Rizzrack looked up and around him, attempting to speak face to face with this Gerard. "Someone like you could actually come to understand me! You don't look like some arrogant know-it-all. You deserve a chance to be saved."

[triglycercule]

hhhhidea...,,,, CUTE idea (kinda?) dust reading to phantom papyrus during night to lull him to sleep,,,, but really its just a way for him to pretend that everythings not really that shit (as if phantom paps isn't just dust's denial incarnate) and to help him NOT wake up because of a nightmare again or something

(and just because i can't resist now im imagining this with mtt. not that dust stopped reading to paps in place of killer and horror (because he wouldnt he simply wouldn't) but now the two join them for storytime. horror knocks out pretty damn fast and eventually dust falls asleep too after he makes sure that paps is satisfied with the amount he read and then killer's just left to sit there. maybe he tries to fall asleep maybe he doesn't,,,, maybe he picks up the book and continues reading but EITHERWAY,,,,,, this scene in my head so 💥💥💥😇😇😇)

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Aventurine.

[arolesbianism]

Thinking abt Sif Odile duo looping au again and I wanna be able to plot everything out more coherently but act 5 eternally looms overhead and boy I do not wanna look up

[townslore]

discovery of the day

[didsomeonesayventus]

also hewwo i’ve vaguely returned to fic writing thanks to engage and as part of getting better at promoting my work uuhhh here (throws breadcrumbs in one convenient post) 

All the following center around M!Alear/Alcryst (alearyst? alcrear? Alal? the utterly unhinged suggestion of alal-) because oops My Favorite Dynamic, generally written as standalone

Rutilated- 3.7k, taking place between chapters 14-15, slight focus on events in chapters 10-11. Insomnia from stress turned awkward flirting turned emotional comforting.

Intergrowth- A series of 6 drabbles totaling 2.5k that take place from chapter 7 through post-game in sporadic leaps. Covers a broad spectrum of crushing angst to fluff, arranged chronologically kind of like an outline of the relationship on the side of the main plot, built around the idea of moments where they held hands

Thanatophobia- 1.3k, post-game. Alear has a nightmare because (kiragi vc) war is heck! especially when you’re dragon jesus and go through protagonist bullshit that people somehow expect you to be just Okay With.

so yeah oops finally found fic topics to latch on to and remembered I might dare have a writing following/finding people who want to read over this way so if u find this post rad or interesting please have at it and enjoy!

[orcelito]

They're gonna monitor meeee & also I'm gonna get adhd testing. Also I nearly just fell off my bike. Not used to having a basket

[chiisana-lion]

hm

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapters 46-47

He didn't see Lysandra. Aelin made no appearances, either.

The queen had abandoned them, the soldiers muttered Aedion made sure to shut down the talk. Had snarled that the queen had her own mission to save their asses, and if she wanted Erawan to know about it, she would have announced it to them all, since they were so inclined to gossip. It eased the discontent-barely.

Aelin had not defended them with her fire, had left them to be butchered.

The Bane began striking their swords against their shields. A steady heartbeat to override the vibrations of the Morath soldiers marching toward them.

He had not prepared a speech to rally them. A speech would not keep these men from dying today.

So Aedion drew the Sword of Orynth, hefted his shield, and joined the Bane's steady beat. Conveying all the defiance and rage in his heart, he clashed the ancient sword against the dented, round metal. Rhoe's shield. Aedion had never told Aelin. Had wanted to wait until they returned to Orynth to reveal that the shield he'd carried, had never lost, had belonged to her father. And so many others before that. It had no name. Even Rhoe had not known its age. And when Aedion had spirited it away from Rhoe's room, the only thing he grabbed when the news came that his family had been butchered, he had let the others forget about it, too. Even Darrow had not recognized it. Worn and simple, the shield had gone unnoticed at Aedion's side, a reminder of what he'd lost. What he'd defend to his final breath.

Chaos reigned.

Aedion roared from somewhere, from the heart of hell, "Re-form the lines!" The order went ignored.

The Bane tried and failed to hold the line.

Ansel of Briarcliff bellowed to her fleeing men to get back to the front, Galan Ashryver echoing her commands to his own soldiers. Ren shouted to his archers to remain, but they too abandoned their posts.

Lysandra slashed through the shins of one Morath soldier, then ripped the throat from another. None of Terrasen's warriors remained a step behind her to decapitate the fallen bodies.

No one at all.

Over. It was over.

Useless, Aedion had called her.

Lysandra gazed toward the ilken feasting on the right flank and knew what she had to do.

The queen has come. The queen is at the front line.

For a foolish heartbeat, he scanned the sky for a blast of flame.

None came.

Dread settled into his heart, fear deeper than any he'd known.

The queen is at the front line—at the right flank.

Lysandra.

Lysandra had taken on Aelin's skin.

He whirled toward the nonexistent right flank.

Just as the golden-haired queen in borrowed armor faced two ilken, a sword and shield in her hands.

No.

The word was a punch through his body, greater than any blow he'd felt.

Aedion began running, shoving through his own men. Toward the too-distant right flank. Toward the shape-shifter facing those ilken, no claws or fangs or anything to defend her beyond that sword and shield.

No.

He pushed men out of the way, the snow and mud hindering each step as the two ilken pressed closer to the shifter-queen.

Savoring the kill.

But the soldiers slowed their fleeing. Some even re-formed the lines when the call went out again. The queen is here. The queen fights at the front line.

Exactly why she had done it. Why she had donned the defenseless, human form.

No.

The ilken towered over her, grinning with their horrible, mangled faces.

Too far. He was still too damn far to do anything—One of the ilken slashed with a long, clawed arm.

Her scream as poisoned talons ripped through her thigh sounded above the din of battle.

She went down, shield rising to cover herself.

He took it back.

He took back everything he had said to her, every moment of anger in his heart.

Aedion shoved through his own men, unable to breathe, to think.

He took it back; he hadn't meant a word of it, not really.

Lysandra tried to rise on her injured leg. The ilken laughed.

"Please," Aedion bellowed. The word was devoured by the screams of the dying. "Please!" He'd make any bargain, he'd sell his soul to the dark god, if they spared her.

He hadn't meant it. He took it back, all those words.

Useless. He'd called her useless. Had thrown her into the snow naked.

He took it back.

Aedion sobbed, flinging himself toward her as Lysandra tried again to rise, using her shield to balance her weight.

Men rallied behind her, waiting to see what the Fire-Bringer would do. How she'd burn the ilken. There was nothing to see, nothing to witness. Nothing at all, but her death.

Yet Lysandra rose, Aelin's golden hair falling in her face as she hefted her shield and pointed the sword between her and the ilken. The queen has come; the queen fights alone. Men ran back to the front line. Turned on their heels and raced for her.

Lysandra held her sword steady, kept it pointed at the ilken in defiance and rage. Ready for the death soon to come.

She had been willing to give it up from the start. Had agreed to Aelin's plans, knowing it might come to this. One shift, one change into a wyvern's form, and she'd destroy the ilken. But she remained in Aelin's body. Held that sword, her only weapon, upraised. Terrasen was her home. And Aelin her queen. She'd die to keep this army together. To keep the lines from breaking. To rally their soldiers one last time.

Her leg leaked blood onto the snow, and the two ilken sniffed, laughing again. They knew— what lurked under her skin. That it was not the queen they faced. She held her ground. Did not yield one inch to the ilken, who advanced another step.

For Terrasen, she would do this. For Aelin.

He took it back. He took it all back.

Aedion was barely a hundred feet away when the ilken struck. He screamed as the one on the left swept with its claws, the other on the right lunging for her, as if it would tackle her to the snow.

Lysandra deflected the blow to the left with her shield, sending the ilken sprawling, and with a roar, slashed upward with her sword on the right. Ripping open the lunging ilken from navel to sternum. Black blood gushed, and the ilken shrieked, loud enough to set Aedion's ears ringing. But it stumbled, falling into the snow, scrambling back as it clutched its opened belly. Aedion ran harder, now thirty feet away, the space between them clear. The ilken who'd gone sprawling on the left was not done. Lysandra's eye on the one retreating, it lashed for her legs again.

Aedion threw the Sword of Orynth with everything left in him as Lysandra twisted toward the attacking ilken. She began falling back, shield lifting in her only defense, still too slow to escape those reaching claws. The poison-slick tips brushed her legs just as his sword went through the beast's skull. Lysandra hit the snow, shouting in pain, and Aedion was there, heaving her up, yanking his sword from the ilken's head and bringing it down upon the sinewy neck. Once. Twice.

The ilken's head tumbled into the snow and mud, the other beast instantly swallowed by the Morath soldiers who had paused to watch. Who now looked upon the queen and her general and charged.

Only to be met by a surge of Terrasen soldiers racing past Aedion and Lysandra, battle cries shattering from their throats.

Aedion half-dragged the shifter deeper behind the re-formed lines, through the soldiers who had rallied to their queen. He had to get the poison out, had to find a healer who could extract it immediately. Only a few minutes remained until it reached her heart. Perhaps the gods had listened. Perhaps it was their idea of mercy: that the ilken's poison had worn off on other victims before it'd gotten to her.

Aedion scanned the regrouping army for any hint of the healers' white banners over their helmets. None. He whirled toward the front lines. Perhaps there was a Fae warrior skilled enough at healing, with enough magic left—Aedion halted. Beheld what broke over the horizon.

Ironteeth witches.

A witch tower.

Oh gods.

"Fall back!" Aedion screamed, even while his men continued to rally. "FALL BACK." Aedion whirled and began running, carrying the shifter with him. "FALL BACK!"

The army beheld what approached. Whether they realized it was no siege tower, they understood his order clearly enough. Saw him sprinting, Aelin over his shoulder.

There was nowhere to hide on the field. No dips in the earth where he might throw himself and Lysandra, praying the blast went over them. Nothing but open snow and frantic soldiers.

"RETREAT!" Aedion's throat strained.

The Yielding.

The world shuddered.

Aedion threw Lysandra into the mud and snow and hurled himself over her, as if it would somehow spare her from the roaring force that erupted from the tower, right at their army.

One heartbeat, their left flank was fighting as they retreated once more.

The next, a wave of black-tinted light slammed into four thousand soldiers.

When it receded, there was only ash and dented metal.

[rescnatd]

Only the veteran survivors of the Battle Beneath the Crescent are aware of how much Geshu Lin's death affected Jiyan. Even fewer actually the truest extent of this and why.