#emulation is morally correct

[epicwin64]

David Zaslav hates animation

David Zaslav hates video games

David Zaslav hates preservation

David Zaslav hates ART. Fixed it for you.

They're doing it with video games now :/

[spark-circuit]

me hearing my friends lament that they can't play older games on newer consoles because they're not remade or rereleased yet and may never be brought back:

[kayt42]

Banned from Ryujinx Fork Discord...for asking why I needed a switch to access their help channel.

Like, genuinely all I did was ask that question, because it defeats the purpose of using an emulator. Like…okay hun, I'm so sure deepthroating daddy nintendo's boot will make them not see you exactly the same as pirates. I mean really. Let's be honest here. nintendo doesn't give a crap if you're a pirate or just an emulator dev. We're all criminals in the eyes of the megacorp. xD

Also; the ban message I got is amazing.

If it were any saltier, it'd make the dead sea look like freshwater:

[thisguy686]

[xcelentei]

Actually no I don't just see Him being added to a Capcom tournament poll to be thrown into the slaughter on the EVE OF HIS STARFORCE COLLECTION HAPPENING MAYBE POSSIBLY BLEASE so I use my reaction and a third tier spell slot to cast counter-scrunkly.

[flowersandcandy06]

Dang valve how come you get to have two lawsuits at the same time!! (Insert that one hotdog meme image because I'm lazy)

[itsjustmyunpopularopinion]

Anyway, either this kid’s a tryhard troll, or a genuine fuckwit, CorpoRat bootlicker.

[demonio-fleurs]

fyi, Amazon is literally the worst place to buy used games from. their prices are insane on a bad day and overpriced on a good day. if you are wanting to get an idea for what a game is going for you can use pricecharting (just keep in mind it isn’t accurate when you get to the more expensive games), and if you’re wanting to buy retro games I would recommend either ebay or seeing if there is an LGS near you

if there aren’t LGS’ near you a ton of LGS’ have online webstores you can order from

[capyyybaraaa]

[sirfrogsworth]

I feel like my answer to this is kind of boring.

Fight Club and The Boys.

People who don't see these as cautionary tales but role models to emulate.

And not just the weirdos who idolize Homelander. Billy Butcher may be fighting on the righteous side of things most of the time but he is not a hero.

This was posted in The Last of Us subreddit and I guess my annoyance there would be that some people thought there was a definitive answer to the philosophical questions the ending elicited. (with regard to season 1 of the show)

The ending was very intentionally supposed to make different people feel a certain way depending on their relationships and circumstances. We are supposed to discuss and debate the morality rather than authoritatively say "this is the correct interpretation."

Also, it's easy to say you'd do the most objectively moral thing when things are hypothetical.

[transmutationisms]

can u elaborate on posture being a lie

As Beth Linker explains in her book “Slouch: Posture Panic in Modern America” (Princeton), a long history of anxiety about the proximity between human and bestial nature has played out in this area of social science. Linker, a historian of medicine at the University of Pennsylvania, argues that at the onset of the twentieth century the United States became gripped by what she characterizes as a poor-posture epidemic: a widespread social contagion of slumping that could, it was feared, have deleterious effects not just upon individual health but also upon the body politic. Sitting up straight would help remedy all kinds of failings, physical and moral [...] she sees the “past and present worries concerning posture as part of an enduring concern about so-called ‘diseases of civilization’ ”—grounded in a mythology of human ancestry that posits the hunter-gatherer as an ideal from which we have fallen.

[...]

In America at the turn of the twentieth century, anxieties about posture inevitably collided with anxieties not just about class but also about race. Stooping was associated with poverty and with manual, industrialized labor—the conditions of working-class immigrants from European countries who, in their physical debasement, were positioned well below the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant establishment. Linker argues that, in this environment, “posture served as a marker of social status similar to skin color.” At the same time, populations that had been colonized and enslaved were held up as posture paradigms for the élite to emulate: the American Posture League rewarded successful students with congratulatory pins that featured an image of an extremely upright Lenape man. The head-carrying customs associated with African women were also adopted as training exercises for white girls of privilege, although Linker notes that Bancroft and her peers recommended that young ladies learn to balance not baskets and basins, which signified functionality, but piles of flat, slippery books, markers of their own access to leisure and education. For Black Americans, posture was even more fraught: despite the admiration granted to the posture of African women bearing loads atop their heads, community leaders like Dr. Algernon Jackson, who helped establish the National Negro Health Movement, criticized those Black youth who “too often slump along, stoop-shouldered and walk with a careless, lazy sort of dragging gait.” If slouching among privileged white Americans could indicate an enviable carelessness, it was seen as proof of indolence when adopted by the disadvantaged.

This being America, posture panic was swiftly commercialized, with a range of products marketed to appeal to the eighty per cent of the population whose carriage had been deemed inadequate by posture surveys. The footwear industry drafted orthopedic surgeons to consult on the design of shoes that would lessen foot and back pain without the stigma of corrective footwear: one brand, Trupedic, advertised itself as “a real anatomical shoe without the freak-show look.” The indefatigable Jessie Bancroft trained her sights on children’s clothing, endorsing a company that created a “Right-Posture” jacket, whose trim cut across the upper shoulders gave its schoolboy wearer little choice but to throw his shoulders back like Jordan Baker. Bancroft’s American Posture League endorsed girdles and corsets for women; similar garments were also adopted by men, who, by the early nineteen-fifties, were purchasing abdominal “bracers” by the millions.

It was in this era that what eventually proved to be the most contentious form of posture policing reached its height, when students entering college were required to submit to mandatory posture examinations, including the taking of nude or semi-nude photographs. For decades, incoming students had been evaluated for conditions such as scoliosis by means of a medical exam, which came to incorporate photography to create a visual record. Linker writes that for many male students, particularly those who had military training, undressing for the camera was no biggie. For female students, it was often a more disquieting undertaking. Sylvia Plath, who endured it in 1950, drew upon the experience in “The Bell Jar,” whose protagonist, Esther Greenwood, discovers that undressing for her boyfriend is as uncomfortably exposing as “knowing . . . that a picture of you stark naked, both full view and side view, is going into the college gym files.” The practice of taking posture photographs was gradually abandoned by colleges, thanks in part to the rise of the women’s movement, which gave coeds a new language with which to express their discomfort. It might have been largely forgotten were it not for a 1995 article in the Times Magazine, which raised the alarming possibility that there still existed stashes of nude photographs of famous former students of the Ivy League and the Seven Sisters, such as George H. W. Bush, Bob Woodward, Meryl Streep, and Hillary Clinton. Many of the photographs in question were taken and held not by the institutions themselves but by the mid-century psychologist William Herbert Sheldon. Sheldon was best known for his later discredited theories of somatotypes, whereby he attributed personality characteristics to individuals based on whether their build was ectomorphic, endomorphic, or mesomorphic.

[...]

Today, the descendants of Jessie Bancroft are figures like Esther Gokhale, a Bay Area acupuncturist and the creator of the Gokhale Method, who teaches “primal posture” courses to tech executives and whose recommendations are consonant with other fitness trends, such as barefoot running and “paleo” eating, that romanticize an ancestral past as a remedy for the ills of the present. The compulsory mass surveillance that ended when universities ceased the practice of posture photography has been replaced by voluntary individual surveillance, with the likes of Rafi the giraffe and the Nekoze cat monitoring a user’s vulnerability to “tech neck,” a newly named complaint brought on by excessive use of the kind of devices profitably developed by those paleo-eating, barefoot-running, yoga-practicing executives. Meanwhile, Linker reports, paleoanthropologists quietly working in places other than TikTok have begun to revise the popular idea that our ancient ancestors did not get aches and pains in their backs. Analysis of fossilized spines has revealed degenerative changes suggesting that “the first upright hominids to roam the earth likely experienced back pain, or would have been predisposed to such a condition if they had lived long enough.” Slouching, far from being a disease of civilization, then, seems to be something we’ve been prone to for as long as we have stood on our own two feet.

[iluvjesus666]

fuck nintendo for killing yuzu and citra.

fuck nintendo for relentlessly trying to gut game preservation efforts the community had to make because they themselves don't give two shits about preservation.

fuck nintendo for setting such a dangerous precedent against the emulation community as a whole.

just... fuck nintendo.

here's your reminder that pirating nintendo products is always morally correct.

[souperbloom]

fatal attraction.

💋 Ashton Irwin x fem!reader

a moth to a flame, a candle to the wind. when lingering feelings and dissatisfaction lead to making irrational decisions with your boyfriend’s best friend.

this fic was written in collaboration with my dear friend @kaleidoscopecth!

a/n: we are SO fucking excited for this fic. be warned, it follows a cheating plot— so if that floats your freaky ol’ boat, carry onward and enjoy!

and, of course, this is a work of fiction. these characters do not accurately represent the real people they portray! :)

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut!, cheating trope, oral (f!receiving), pet names, porn with plot, pnv.

wordcount: ~6.8k

── .✦

You couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t as simple as something keeping you awake like a repetitive sound or bright light, no. It was something much more complex than that.

A bit too complex for your liking.

Today was the first day of a week-long “friend-cation”, as the groupchat was named. And the first day was already off to a strange start. You were on this trip with your boyfriend, Luke, as well as a few of his friends. There was Michael, and Calum, and their partners.

And then, there was Ashton.

The word ‘crush’ may not have been the correct term to emulate how you felt about Ashton; it could be a small infatuation. A piqued interest in his character. But definitely not a crush.

It’s fine to tell yourself these things.

Who's to say that your incapability to turn around and fall asleep was caused by your boyfriend’s best friend? Nobody in their right mind would sit you down as you confided in them, and tell you that these feelings were justified. For you were in a relationship. A blissful, two-year relationship with a man who you’ve tossed around words like ‘engagement’ and ‘wedding’ with. Mostly joking, yet sometimes the undertones became slightly more serious when hurt feelings got involved.

But after attempting to rationalize these thoughts all at once while staring at the popcorn ceiling of your weekend beach rental, you realized that maybe this infatuation, this tiny, tiny crush, may have become an issue.

Ashton was a flirt. And to make matters worse, a single flirt. He wouldn’t be caught dead with someone on his arm for more than an hour let alone in a serious, committed relationship. But something about his omnipotence and aura had you drawn in like he was a shiny, colorful fishing tackle.

You knew that if you bit the bait, you’d be gone for good. He was powerful, and pretty, extremely quick witted and had the undeniable ability to make anybody swoon. Even the other guys questioned their moral compasses when Ash was in town.

He was hardly around which was a saving grace, in theory. You’d met him a few years back at a party, and ended up tangled within his poised circle of friends. Existing beside and talking to Ashton felt like flirting with the edge of a cliff. One wrong move, and you’d fall right over into a deep abyss.

So you kept Ashton at your hip. You’d talk to him on and off, flirting with death while simultaneously building relationships with the people around him. And all of those nights out to dive bars and extended invitations to house parties eventually led you to Luke.

To keep your demons at bay, you settled for the man who seemed best for you.

After that, the rest was history.

Staring at the ceiling was doing you no favor. Your snoring boyfriend was beside you, asleep on his back, with his eyes fluttered closed and a rogue arm tossed across your chest. You forced a smile at the warmth of his body however, that arm of his was becoming a bit much entwined with the thoughts you were having.

It was overwhelming, to say the least. You figured maybe getting up and taking a stroll around the house might help with pushing these thoughts back down into the ditch where they came from. Everybody was asleep and from what you knew, you’d be able to finally hijack the TV and watch cartoons until you fell asleep.

You trusted your gut, and slid out from beneath Luke’s grasp. The sound of your socked feet brushing against the floorboards seemed to dull the thumping that was rattling around in your ribcage.

When you made it down to the foyer, you were surprised to see the light over the kitchen sink illuminating most of the area. You sighed in relief when you peeked over the bannister to see the kitchen unoccupied, and figured maybe someone had forgotten to turn off the light.

Your first order of business was a glass of wine. God knows why, but something about these nauseating thoughts had you craving a drink. Something stronger than the late night glass of ice water.

Being afraid of the dark seemed so immature, but a small part of you was weary of stepping out of the domain of that little kitchen light. You were comfortable in this area, enough to turn your back to the living room and attempt to grab yourself a wine glass.

You swung open the cabinet, and looked up.

Of course, they were on the top shelf.

Despite the slight fear of embarrassment, you jumped, attempting to swipe the stem of one of the glasses. And after two more attempts, to no avail. They were just high enough to be out of reach.

“Want some help?”

A voice from your backside startles you out of your concentration— a voice that was the last thing you needed to hear right now.

“Uh—”

When you turned around, you were faced with him. The current bane of your measly existence and the reason for this shoddy attempt in the search for a nightcap. He smiles at you, thick black curls fanned against his forehead with one rogue curl dropped right between his glassy eyes.

“Yes?”

He spoke again, and you panicked. You felt as though opening your mouth in this moment would cause all of the words and semblances of your inner monologue to spill right out. It was in your best interest not to engage with him. Just ignore him. Maybe even blame it on sleepwalking.

“I don’t think jumping to grab a glass is the safest idea.”

Stop talking, you thought, heart racing. Please, stop talking.

Without arguing, he steps towards you from the living room. You could see his eyes aiming for the glass that you had attempted to grab, yet yours were more focused on his plaid pajama pants and simple black tank top.

“What’s the matter with you? Afraid to ask Ash for some help?”

“Referring to yourself in the third person is stupid,” you mumble. The truth. It really was stupid.

“Whatever,” he grumbles back, brushing past you towards the cabinet.

You watched in awe as Ashton reached up to the top shelf with ease. He swiped the glass from its resting place and handed it back to you without a care.

“Here. Don’t need broken glass to clean up in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

Now, you were surely overthinking. Did that ‘thank you’ seem too curt? Maybe even a bit mean?

“I’ve gotcha. Say, what’re you doing with a wine glass at this hour anyway? Late night craving?”

Your eyes widen at his astute yet obvious observation, but you just diverted the attention away from it. “How long have you been down here?”

“About an hour. Couldn’t sleep. I ended up in the one room with no AC. Fuckin’ sweating my balls off up there.”

You wanted to laugh but only a puff of air left your lips. You were too distracted by that imaginary glowing red light that surrounded his figure every time you looked at him.

“That sucks,” you mumble meekly, “Is it cooler down here?”

He crosses his arms, scanning down your body at the short silky tank top set you’d packed and worn. Shamefully hoping that he might see you in it.

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

Awkward silence floats around the room while you tap your fingers against your hip. Ashton seemed very amused by the energy that he created.

“Well, if you’re down here for a drink, maybe you’d like to join me?” He clears his throat, and motions to the already half empty glass of dark liquid resting on the kitchen counter.

How did you not see that?

“I was gonna get a glass of wine but, I don't think I want it anymore.”

“Why not? It’s only two. Never too late for a glass of red.”

Again, you wanted to laugh. You wanted to smile and swat at his shoulder, proceeding as usual whenever he attempted to make sly jokes at you and lighten the mood. One of the first things he’d ever told you was how your smile lit up the room; but after the last hour or so, that compliment hit a little too deeply.

“I think I’ll pass. Thanks for grabbing the glass, though.”

You ducked your eyes down to your feet, hastily discarding the glass, hoping to just scurry out of the kitchen and act as though nothing happened. But as you turned away to head back up the stairs, you heard quiet shuffling and a dramatic sigh.

“Leaving so soon?”

You couldn’t tell just how close he was, but you knew it was closer than you’d ever want him to be. A chill runs down your spine as you note the scent of his shampoo wafting beneath your nose and the warmth of his chest flushing against your back.

Oh he was close. Really fucking close.

“I’m tired.” You bite back your tongue, hoping your reply was sharp enough for him to take a hint.

“That’s no fun. Why not stay down here— with me?”

Hint not taken.

Despite being worried about how close you’d end up to his face if you turned around, you did it anyway.

“Don’t wanna keep me company?”

The tips of your noses were merely an inch apart.

“Ashton—” you warn.

“I’ve got a lot of energy, y’know.”

There was an odd swirling in your stomach. Ashton was now about as close as he could get to you, his jet black hair draped like velvety curtains across his sage green irises that seemed to be a tad bit hazy from the liquor. In fact, you could even smell it on his breath. That’s how close he really was.

“What do you want?” You weren’t sure what brought you to ask that— could have been the guilt.

Instead of replying with his words, he does so with a wandering hand. He snakes his broad palm across your waist and dips the tips of his fingers into the back waistband of your satin shorts.

“I want you.”

Those three simple words felt like a smack in the face. An emphatic breath between each of them which only further proved his point. You may not have felt nauseous when you walked down the steps but now, you surely did.

“What?”

You stutter the moment you let your senses grasp onto the feeling of his blistered palms. How overworked and battered his hands were from years as a drummer in a small indie band. You’ve always admired his work ethic, how much of his soul he’d put into his performances.

But now, you were thinking about the way those hands felt crawling sultrily across your back.

“Did I not say it loud enough? Can’t hear me over the sound of your heartbeat, hm?”

You shake your head, hands still frozen at your sides in fear. His eyes were bouncing from your lips to your chest— anywhere he could see beneath the dull kitchen lighting.

“No— I, I heard you.”

Ashton was dangerous, in his own wickedly charming, heart-stopping ways. You’d remembered the countless conversations you’d had with yourself and your friends about whether or not pursuing him would be detrimental to your mental health, and how the general consensus was always to stay as far away from him as possible.

Whatever happened to that?

“Do I really still make you nervous, Y/N?” he breaks the silence, taking one of his hands to brush a lock of hair from your cheekbone, “I don’t think there’s a reason to be.”

“You’re so fucked up,” you spit back, immediately regretting the spitfire of your tongue.

“Why? What about me is fucked up? I see the way you look at me. ‘Don’t think I can’t tell what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Unraveling thoughts begin flooding your mind: Why here? Why now? Why was this happening, and why was it so fucking hard to pull away?

Ashton couldn’t bear your unresponsiveness. He was getting antsy and from what you could tell, he’d already had you undressed and sprawled out with his eyes alone.

“You’re ignoring the question because you know I’m right, Y/N. Let’s face it. If this is the blame game, I think we’re both a little ‘fucked up’. Don’t you agree?”

His hushed tone made that guilt-ridden headache grow stronger. You knew he was being quiet due to the risk of being heard. But the words he was speaking seemed as though he wanted to scream it all from the rooftops.

“Don’t try to spin this on me. You came onto me first—”

A gasp flies past your lips and cuts your sentence short as Ashton pulls you into him, flush against his chest. You wished you had more control over the temperature of your cheeks, they were a dead giveaway of your current headspace.

“That’s not true. I’d say it was equal. You came trotting down here in that short little set and expected me not to go crazy? Please.”

“Not my fault you’re a pig.”

Insulting him while this close to his face felt therapeutic, in a way.

“Admit it. You want this as badly as I do.”

That wandering hand from before came back to bite you, literally. He had moved it all the way down to cup your ass and pull you flat against him, and you could feel whatever daydreams of you that were lying beneath those unforgiving flannel pajama pants. Nothing was left to the imagination.

“Feel that?” he asks, condescendingly, “You know what you fuckin’ do to me?”

“Ash—”

“You know how fuckin’ hard it is to ignore ya’ when you’re perched on Luke’s lap with those big innocent eyes? Staring at me like you want somethin’ that he can’t give you, hm?”

Your jaw drops open, desperately trying to ignore the circles he was tracing against your skin. “Ashton, please—”

“Answer me.”

As you attempt to squeak out something remotely coherent, Ashton slowly begins to back you towards the kitchen island. When your tailbone hits the counter, you jump. He’d officially had you cornered.

“Does Luke take care of you?”

You swallow. Hard. “Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

Ashton swoops in and captures your lips into a rough and frenzied kiss. You sigh into him, almost melting, letting his broad hands travel up to your jaw and cup you like he’d never let go.

A cadence of semi-quiet moans start echoing against your head, still flustered by the feeling of his dick in his pants and how he’d tied all of his dirty desires back to you. You never doubted his hot-blooded temper, you just had yet to see it for yourself.

Until now.

“Ash, wait—” Desperate, heaving breaths catch in your throat as you pull away and stare into those big green marbles he calls eyes.

“Hmm? S’ matter, pretty?”

“Don’t fuckin’— call me that.” Your sentence is chopped by an attempt to pry yourself away from him. But the granite countertop was stationary, and so were his hands to your body.

“Why not? It’s the truth,” he shrugs, as if he didn't have a care in the world, “I call it like I see it.”

You shake your head, unable to form any coherent thought and distracted by his enigmatic aura. You were angry, your ears were on fire and it was only making you sweat more than your combined body heat.

“And— y’know what I see right now, Y/N?” he asks you, condescension laced through his husky voice.

“Fuck you,” you spit. Flames spewing from your tongue.

He ignores your verbal abuse, pulling you back into him and making sure you were gridlocked against the countertop by his thigh prying open your legs.

“Right now,” he begins again, taking his index finger and tracing it deliberately along your collarbone, “I see a needy little slut that isn’t getting the attention she craves so, so badly.”

Your eyes fall to the floor, heart dropping through your ribcage at his foul mouth. “You make me sick.”

You would think he’d pull away but no, Ashton Irwin doubles down, taking that index finger of his beneath your chin. He forces your gaze back into the eyes that might just turn you to stone.

“Look into my fuckin’ eyes and tell me just how sick I make you, baby. Tell me again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Running out of insults, I see,” he chuckles dryly, making your skin crawl, “They’d come a lot easier if ya’ really meant it.”

“Ashton, stop.”

Once again, you were cornered. Not only physically, but mentally, entombed in a web of your own emotions and sanity. He was an awfully good smooth talker and you knew it well just from being around him, but you never thought it’d get to a point where he used his wordsmithing abilities against you.

“Stop what, sweet thing? Want me to stop touchin’ you in the places your angel boy never gets around to?”

His lips tug into a smile, amused by your incapacity to answer him. Maybe he was smiling at you out of pity.

“You get awfully quiet when asked questions, don’t you? Somethin’s telling me that I haven’t gotten the truth out of ya’ quite yet.”

Without another word, Ashton begins to glide his hand down the front of your body. He grazes your chest and midriff, all the way down to the waistband of your satin shorts.

“Maybe this will get you to be honest with me.”

A fingertip slips beneath the elastic, and you gasp at the sensation as he drags a line up your fold above your panties. The slickness of your own arousal was coming back to bite you; and his eyes lit up upon noticing it, too.

“So wet, already? Jesus, you really are just desperate for someone to pay attention t’ this pretty pussy, aren’t you?”

“Ashton, please—” you beg an empty plea but he cuts you off with his fingertips grazing against your slit once more.

“What will it take to get you to answer me?”

You know the answer is simple, at least on paper. In another life, in some parallel universe, maybe wouldn’t have heeded the warnings of your friends—their concern fading into irrelevance as you gasp against Ashton's soft, inviting lips.

But this isn't another life. This is your reality.

Upstairs, your boyfriend is fast asleep in the bed you share, blissfully unaware of the war raging in your mind. It would be unforgivable if you surrender to the voice whispering temptations in the back of your head.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to hold onto the last threads of self-control. Tilting your chin, you try to summon a sharpness you don't feel. “You're so used to getting what you want, aren't you?” you say, your voice low but wavering, lacking the bite you desperately need.

A wicked grin tugs Ashton’s lips, and before you can react, his finger brushes your clit again. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, your hands gripping the counter for support.

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “And from the way you're trembling,” his finger moves with maddening precision, “you're not used to getting what you want.”

His words ignite something raw and conflicted within you. You should push him away, should tell him to stop—should say anything to break the tension crackling between you like a live wire. But instead, all that escapes is a shaky exhale that betrays how badly your resolve is slipping.

Ashton's grin deepens as his fingers tease you further, a second joining the first, making your body betray you even more.

“You're so desperate for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and intoxicating. “I see it in your eyes, every time you're near me. You think about me when you're alone. Hell, you probably think about me when you're with him.”

The accusation burns. You want to deny it, to tell him he's wrong. But the part of you that knows he isn't—the part that conjures images of him in your mind late at night— keeps you silent.

This is reckless. Foolish. Being here, letting Ashton touch you in ways you've only dared to imagine, is a choice that could undo everything.

But the proximity to him is overwhelming, intoxicating in a way you can't resist. His scent, the heat radiating off his body, the intensity in his gaze—it all blurs the lines between right and wrong. His breath quickens, matching yours, and your last shreds of self-control dangle by a thread.

Would it really be so bad to give in? Just once, hidden in the quiet, forbidden secrecy of the night? The risk makes it dangerous, yes, but it also makes it thrilling in a way you've never felt before.

And for a fleeting moment, you wonder if surrendering will feel as good as you always imagine.

Ashton’s fingers continue their torturous ministrations, and your mind only whirls deeper into disarray. Every hair on your body stood, your breathing deepening as the blue eyes you forced yourself to remember quickly morphed into haunting green ones.

“Do you think about me, Y/N?” His voice is soft and teasing, daring you to reply with what he knows the answer to be. The absolute pomposity in his smile was driving you insane, and you could almost hear the thinly veiled desperation behind his words. Or at least you hope that’s what it is.

Ashton's other hand slides up to your waist, fingers curling under the waistband of your satin shorts and easing them down your legs.

The air in the room feels heavier, the reality of the situation settling in fast. His pupils are blown wide, almost swallowing the green of his eyes, and his tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip as the fabric falls to the floor with a whisper.

“Ashton,” you warn, but your voice betrays you, coming out as a breathy, almost pleading whine.

“Admit it,” he murmurs, his voice low and laced with intent. His hand moves deftly, nudging your underwear aside to expose your slick heat. His fingers tease along your folds, deliberate and torturous. “Admit Luke doesn't touch you the way you need—tell me you're not satisfied.”

Your cheeks flush at his words, the boldness of his accusations stirring equal parts anger and desire. It's impossible not to wonder if Ashton is doing this to feed his already massive ego, his repeated jabs at Luke making you burn with frustration.

Even as your body responds to him, a spark of defiance ignites. You meet his gaze through hooded eyes, your voice low but sharp with challenge. “You could never please me the way he does.”

Ashton lets out a guttural growl, primal and raw, the sound reverberating through you.

For a moment, you think he might pull away, but instead, he closes the distance between you, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss that leaves you breathless.

His hands are quick and deliberate, hooking around the waistband of your underwear and sliding it down your legs in one smooth motion. When he pulls back, his lips are swollen and his glare is fierce, a mix of hunger and determination gleaming in his eyes. “We'll fucking see about that.“

Before you can muster a response, Ashton's hand moves to your chin, gripping it firmly.

His fingers trace your jaw, his thumb brushing your parted lips before shoving your panties into your mouth as an improvised gag.

You let out a stifled gasp, hardly being able to register the fact that Ashton had just stuffed your fucking underwear in your mouth. He looked so mad, but you couldn’t deny the heat that coiled in your belly as you took in the way his jaw clenched.

“Gonna’ make sure the only name you can think of when you cum is mine,” he mutters, dropping to his knees before you with a fire burning in his eyes.

Slowly his hands trail down your thighs, squeezing at the skin and making you groan around the fabric in your mouth. You watch through half lidded eyes as he parts your legs, throwing one over his shoulder taking a moment to admire your dripping core with a satisfied smirk.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t wait for your command before he’s diving in and licking a long stripe across your slit. Your entire body shakes with the contact, and you throw your head back in pure bliss. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping them spread wide as his tongue circles your clit.

You watch in awe, his eyes meeting yours from between your legs, and you can make out the unmistakable glint of pride in them.

When he takes your clit between his lips and sucks gently, your legs shake uncontrollably around him as one of your hands comes to grab a fistful of his jet black curls.

Ashton moans as you tug at him, sucking eagerly at your clit and sending waves of pleasure cascading down your body. He really worked magic, and it left you breathless.

Ashton's tongue moves with expert precision, each flick and swirl pushing you further into the haze of pleasure. You bite down on the gag, muffling the cries that threaten to spill from your lips, the intensity of his movements making your entire body tremble.

Your knees threaten to give out completely, but Ashton holds you steady, his firm grip on your thighs keeping you upright.

“You taste so fucking good,” he mutters against you, his voice muffled and slurred as if he's drunk on the taste of you. For a moment, it feels like he's forgotten his mission to prove himself better than Luke, utterly consumed by you.

You're teetering on the edge, your body arching instinctively toward him, seeking more, needing more. His hands tighten on your waist as he feels your movements, grounding you while his tongue works relentlessly, and his lips close around your clit once again.

The world around you blurs as a loud, muffled moan escapes your gagged lips, your fingers tangling in his hair to tug sharply—a silent warning about your creeping orgasm. Ashton groans at the tug, the vibrations against your core sending you spiraling.

With one final suck, your release crashes into you, a wave of white-hot pleasure that leaves you trembling and clinging to the counter for support. Your body shakes as you ride out the high, your muffled cries echoing in the quiet kitchen. Ashton doesn't let up, his tongue still teasing and coaxing every last aftershock from you until you're nearly collapsing from overstimulation.

When he finally pulls back, his lips and chin glisten, and he wipes at them lazily with the back of his hand. His pupils are blown, his chest heaving as he looks at you with pride.

The sight of him—his swollen, flushed lips and his disheveled hair—is almost enough to make you forget how wrong this is.

“I'm not done with you yet,” Ashton growls, his voice husky and low. Before you can process his words, his hands grip your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the counter.

You're still trying to catch your breath, your legs trembling as Ashton's hands work with frantic urgency to free his cock from his pants. His fingers fumble slightly, his need for you so evident that his hands shake.

You're barely coherent, your body still buzzing from your climax, but the sheer hunger in Ashton's eyes snaps you back to the moment. There's no turning back now—not with the way he's looking at you, like he's about to devour you whole.

Your eyes watch in awe as he wraps his hand around himself, thick and heavy in his hand as he lines himself up with your entrance.

“You still think he can do better than me?”

You groan, nodding slowly. He knows you’re just bluffing, the unmistakable glint of pride in his eyes telling you just that. Still though, you had too much fun riling him up.

Ashton doesn't warn you when he thrusts into you, your eyes widening as a moan spills uncontrollably from your lips. The sound is shamelessly loud, yet it only fuels the reckless thrill surging through you. Your boyfriend is upstairs, fast asleep, completely unaware of the sinful betrayal unfolding beneath this roof. And somehow, that knowledge only makes this feel more intoxicating.

Ashton's composure cracks as he sinks into you, a low, guttural groan escaping him as he buries himself to the hilt. His forehead drops to the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

The stretch of his cock is overwhelming, and when he begins to move, slow but deliberate, your hands fly to grip his broad shoulders.

Your fingers dig into his sweat-slicked skin, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the intensity of the sensation.

“I knew it,” Ashton groans, his teeth grazing your earlobe before he bites down lightly, sending a shiver down your spine. “You just needed to stretch that pretty pussy of yours out. You are such a fucking slut, such a whore and it’s all for me.”

His filthy words send heat flooding through you, making you clench involuntarily around him. A whimper escapes your lips, and Ashton growls low in his throat, his hands gripping your hips tighter as his thrusts grow faster and more desperate.

The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, the noise loud enough to make your cheeks burn, though you're too far gone to care. Every drag of Ashton's cock against your walls has your body trembling, your nails raking down his back in a mix of pleasure and need.

“You're mine,” Ashton murmurs, his voice rough with possession. “No one else could make you feel this good. Say it.”

Your mind spins as he pushes you closer to the edge with every brutal snap of his hips. Your lips part, the words he wants to hear on the tip of your tongue, but all you can manage is a broken moan as he hits a spot deep inside you that makes stars dance behind your eyes.

His hand comes up to your mouth, ripping out your soaked underwear and letting it fall to the floor. It became almost impossible to keep your noises at bay, the unforgiving pace he had set lighting your body up in flames.

“Don’t make me ask again, Y/N,” he warns, but his voice is strained.

You want to fight it, keep the words from giving him the satisfaction he so desperately craved, but the truth was that he was right. No one made you feel the way he was making you feel, no one fucked you the way he did.

His thrusts are hard, hitting spots deep inside you that you had almost forgotten existed. Stars spring up in your vision as you bite down on your lip so harshly you swear you can taste blood.

“No— no one,” you gasp between moans, “can fuck me like this. Luke can’t make me cum like this.”

Ashton lets out a whimper— a fucking whimper— and catches your lips with his own in a heated kiss. His tongue parts your lips, invading your mouth as you both groan. You could taste the salt of his sweat and your own mixing together on your lips, only making you more desperate for your second release.

Ashton’s hand snakes between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with enough pressure that it makes your entire body tremble.

“I’m gonna cum,” you warn, and Ashton’s free hand comes to grip your chin. Your eyes meet, and you can’t help the butterflies that erupt inside you as you realize how utterly wrecked he looks.

“Cum for me,” he urges. “That’s it pretty girl, show me how much better I make you feel.”

You fall over the edge again, his words being the final catalyst to your release. You clamp down around him, biting your lip to stifle any cries of Ashton’s name as you ride your high.

His movements remained steady, coaching you through your orgasm and not relenting even as you come down.

“Fuck, pretty, you make me feel s’good,” his movements grow sloppy by the second, both of his hands gripping your hips to steady himself. “I’m not gonna last long.”

You don’t respond, mainly because your brain can hardly string together a coherent thought— at least not one that didn’t involve the feeling of Ashton’s cock buried inside you.

It only takes him a few more thrusts before he’s spilling deep inside you, biting your neck in an attempt to quiet his own desperate sounds.

When his body finally stops trembling and he softens inside you, Ashton pulls back, tucking himself into his pajama pants. The air between you feels suffocating, thick with the scent of sex and something unspoken. Your chest heaves as you catch sight of the open kitchen cabinet and the abandoned wine glass that now feels miles away.

Sliding off the counter, your legs wobble dangerously beneath you, threatening to give out.

Ashton's hand shoots out to steady you, but you swat it away, venom in your voice as you spit, “Don't fucking touch me.”

He freezes, his hand hovering midair for a beat before he retracts it. There's a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, anger, maybe even hurt—but it's gone as quickly as it appears. His lips part slightly, as though he wants to say something, but he stays silent as you bend down to snatch up your discarded clothes.

With trembling fingers, you tug your underwear and shorts back into place, your entire body taut with unspoken tension. You refuse to acknowledge the sticky warmth between your thighs or the damning evidence of what just happened.

“Oh, so that's how it's gonna be?” Ashton's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and laced with frustration. He crosses his arms, his biceps straining as his piercing green eyes lock on yours. “We have an entire week here, and you're already choosing to be a fucking menace?”

Hot guilt floods your system as the weight of what you just did truly sank in. The blue eyes you struggled so hard to picture earlier are now the only thing that plague your thoughts.

Holy shit.

“Don’t start this now,” you warn, sliding away from Ashton, desperate to put some distance between you two.

Ashton didn’t let that happen though, taking a few steps to make your attempt futile. “I’m not starting shit, sweetheart,” he grits out, annoyance creeping into his tone.

Your eyes meet again and your legs threaten to give out from underneath you. Why was it that even though you were wracked with guilt, you desperately itched to press your lips against Ashton’s once more.

“This won’t ever happen again,” you turn, your eyes ablaze with anger— mainly at yourself. “You understand? Never.”

Ashton’s lips curl into another infuriating smirk. “Sure it won’t,” he nods, “that is until I find you down here again looking for a night cap, or maybe when I catch your eyes on me like I always do.”

Now, a majority of the anger had been redirected towards Ashton. “Go to hell, Irwin.”

Already walking out of the kitchen, you caught the glimmer in his green eyes. “Guess I’ll be seeing you there, then.”

With that, he disappeared into the shadows.

You slumped against the counter you were just sitting on, the marble still heated from your skin. How were you supposed to act normal around him tomorrow when all of you went to breakfast together?

God, Luke would be there with his sickening puppy eyes and constant need for attention. No doubt he would notice, because you knew deep down, that nothing between you and Ashton would ever be the same again.

—

Luke was snoring softly by the time you tiptoed back into the room. He was curled in on himself, his chest rising and falling in an even rhythm. His curls were a tousled mess across his forehead, and his lips were pursed into a slight pout. He looked so peaceful, so innocent, and it made your chest ache. You bit back the lump rising in your throat, slipping quietly into the ensuite bathroom and locking the door behind you.

Every second that passed only served as a cruel reminder of just how badly you'd messed up. No amount of time or distraction could erase the weight of Ashton's mouth on yours, or the way his release now slicked your inner thighs. Shame clung to your skin, a suffocating blanket you couldn't shake no matter how hard you tried.

With trembling hands, you peeled your silk pajamas from your body, letting the fabric slip to the floor in a careless heap. Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, disheveled and guilty. Your lips were still swollen, the ghost of Ashton's kisses lingering like a brand. And the grip of his hands—God, you could still feel it. Your hips ached where his fingers had dug into your skin, no doubt leaving marks that would bloom into bruises by morning.

You couldn't look any longer. Turning away from the mirror, you reached to turn on the shower, twisting the handle until the water was almost scalding. Steam filled the room quickly, fogging up the mirror and mercifully obscuring your reflection. But it wasn't enough to erase the evidence. Even through the haze, you could still catch glimpses of the red fingerprints on your hips, raw reminders of a moment you could never take back.

Stepping into the shower, the water hit your skin like a purge, hot and biting, but it wasn't enough to cleanse you. Nothing ever could.

The weight of your actions hung heavy on your shoulders, pressing down with every droplet that slid down your body. You closed your eyes, letting the water drown out everything else, but Ashton's touch lingered like a shadow you couldn't shake.

You scrubbed at your skin like you could erase the entire night, like the scalding water and soap could somehow cleanse you of your sins. If only it were that simple. You wanted the shower to absolve you, to leave you faultless, but no amount of scrubbing could undo what had already happened.

The worst part—the part that gnawed at you relentlessly—was that you didn't entirely regret it. You could still feel Ashton's teeth sinking into your neck as he came, his voice a breathless mess as he moaned your name like a babbling idiot.

There was something satisfying about the way he'd unraveled, completely undone just by being with you, like you were some prize he'd finally won.

As you lathered shampoo into your hair, you planned your excuse. Luke would wonder why you showered in the middle of the night, but you already had your answer: you were hot, sweating, and couldn't sleep. He wouldn't question it. Why would he? He had no reason not to trust you.

But even as you rinsed the soap away, Ashton's green eyes burned brightly in your mind. The guilt you'd expected was twisting into something else entirely. Your stomach tightened as you remembered the way he had moaned your name. The way he whimpered when you told him no one else made you feel like he did. The memory shouldn't have made you feel anything, but it did.

Stepping out of the shower, you dried yourself off methodically, trying to focus on the mundane task instead of the shame and exhilaration battling inside you. But it was useless. Ashton was everywhere—his voice, his touch, the way his hands gripped your hips like he'd never let go.

When you finally slid back into bed, Luke didn't stir. Part of you had hoped he would wake up, that he'd somehow know what you'd done and confront you about it. Maybe it would be easier that way. Maybe if he found out, he'd leave you for good, and you wouldn't have to carry the weight of your secrets anymore.

But instead, he shifted in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent as he threw his arm over your waist and pulled you closer. He nuzzled into your neck, warm and blissfully clueless.

You stared at the ceiling, wide awake, your body stiff beneath his. The memory of Ashton's skillful fingers and the heat of his breath on your skin played on a loop in your head, while Luke's steady breaths were a cruel reminder of the life you were supposed to want.

Trapped in Luke's embrace, you knew sleep wouldn't come. This vacation was going to be a long one, but not for the reasons anyone else would ever understand.

[sketchedatrocities]

IT'S SLOWHOG - IT'S THE BOY

Slowhog is a gag fakemon whose stats are bad and movepool is bad and is bad. I love him. His lore is that he's highly edible, slow and weak. A slug/pig that recovers from steak being carved off it without issue. I want a plushie of him. The shiny version of him is green.

I decided he needed to be explored in every way and typed him out like an eeveelution. 

Porkpast was well received.

I know I did well when people pointed to each one and said it was slept on. Google 'Velvet Worm' and 'Sea pig'.

Having done all the types I moved onto Pre-evolutions.

Brekkie won hands down, I'm sorry P-Flop lovers but there you are. It's shiny would also be green. The Progress of: Brekkie -> Slowhog -> Porkpast is the correct line as it's: Breakfast -> Lunch -> Digestion Digestion is also Dinner but lunch is haunting you.

The Hogly Trinity

The Devs mentioned adding a new 'Strange' Type in the next update, which gave me something to new Hog with

This satisfied me at the time.

Running out of Hogs to Pork Post with I moved on to special forms. His Oinks will save us from the Kaiju.

Lack of new Hog made me plyable in my morals and I made meme material with him.

'Hogchamp' is now a server emote.

At this point someone in the discord posted a Slowhog made in SPORE which I grasped onto as a new hog to draw. I was grateful for this.

Next came Pride Month, which is a time we draw Slowhog.

Obviously. This is Pridehog and it's shiny version. You did not need me to tell you this.

It had been a while since I had hogged. I awoke from a dream about pork and sketched this out on a loose sheet of Clipstudio raster layer I had laying next to my bed. This is a sound type, I think. I imagine hell sounds like this at all times, except when you say something embarrassing, at which point it all cuts out and everyone looks at you condescending.

hink honk, honk, hinkhink honk - it went I tried to ignore it but the next dream told me I was 'needed'. I woke up uncomfortable and bussed into to the Sex Factory, where I work. My eyes were bleary after my shift (which I can't describe due to Tumblr's tos) and I stared at one of those bus seat patterns like you remember from school trips. I thought I was going mad. I took a picture.

"Do you see this?" I asked the tall and busty woman who kept dropping her keys and saying whoops and bending over in front of me. The other woman who had her keys on a loop through her jeans kept staring at her, assumably in dismay at her lack of practical key handling. "Huh?" She said. "Sorry about my keys they-" I snapped my fingers rudely (I was scared) "Do you see that Pink pattern on the bus seats?" She looked confused and dropped her keys again. "No? They're fully blue." I looked back at the seats, they were fully blue. The picture on the digital camera I carry with me as an ironic anachronism displayed the slowhog pattern in full. I got off the bus and decided to draw some details on the Slowhog Evolutions.

You can also get Porkpast by inflating Hogone enough. You can't inflate Porkpast though, he's a ghost.

I felt refreshed, cleansed. But also a touch greasy. I had another dream, but this time the dream creature was a dog who spoke in polish and I realised I was just unhealthily sleep deprived.

Thank you for reading.

Why not download Pokemon Quarantine Crystal for SameBoy or other good Emulators? Perhaps join the discord too. It's fun.

[lena--beana]

Being a game collector is so weird bc you tell your friends "hey have you seen this thing, it's one of my favorite things ever and if you want to try it you either have to hang out at my place for a week or emulate it which is always morally correct but there's like a 10% chance it won't play exactly right or buy it secondhand on ebay for $200 more than I did when I found it decaying on a gamestop shelf 15 years ago and you can only play it on the PS2 because that disc doesn't work on anything modern if it still even works at all"

but with movies it's like "hey have you seen Space Jam? It's an hour and a half, I've got it on DVD or we can rent it on five different streaming sites for like $5"

[melljam]

it’s unhinged long post time again! and this one’s about gitae kim >:)

so its assumed that gitae holds some form of resentment over his absent father, gap … (since he did vaguely murder him with james after all)

… but there seems to be some subtle hints that gitae might have also idolized gapryong kim

-> first up: gitae’s pipe being engraved with gapryong kim’s name in chinese (金甲龍) 「link to my post that goes more in-depth about gap’s chinese name」

as i mentioned in the linked post, it seems like that smoking pipe belonged to gap in the past and gitae somehow got ahold of it

so why would gitae keep a piece of memorabilia that belonged to his absent father if he only held resentment for the man? it might have some sentimental value for him, especially since he chose to bring it back to korea with him.

perhaps the motive behind gitae’s possession and usage of gap’s pipe could be comparable to jake deciding to don gap’s gloves

the two of them both hold resentment for gap as a father, while also selectively admiring and emulating aspects of him as a gangsters

-> secondly, on the topic of emulating gap …

jake seems to unwillingly (or subconsciously) follow in his father’s footsteps through his passion for protecting people (which is the symbolic reason he wears gap’s gloves), but he also inherited gap’s moral compass. jake dislikes unfairness or ‘cheating’, just like how gap could never “ignore any kind of injustice.”

also the way that gap is mentioned to never be able to pass by someone in need, while jake constantly gets involved in other people’s business for the sake of helping them (showing up to save victims in 3a and his entire dynamic with xiaolung lol)

by all means, minseon was correct (ofc she is <3), and jake takes after gapryong kim’s ‘good side’

and in the same vein, following in minseon’s words, gitae takes after gapryong kim’s evil side.

he’s selfish, he’s power-hungry, and he has the raw strength to do (or get) what he wants

all of which are also traits belonging to gap, shown through his cheating, his (failed) political campaign, and his strength making him the ‘legend of the pre-generation’

no one truly aspires to be any of the first two traits listed, but what about the third?

to be a legend, in terms of strength (which is very, very important as a gangism lookism character whose ability to succeed is correlated in their ability to fight …)

wouldn’t that certainly be appealing to a selfish, power-hungry man?

and it seems that it indeed was very appealing to gitae, since jinyoung alludes to gap failing to mimic gap’s fighting style in the past

-> “no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be gapryong kim.”

perhaps this was just a one-off comment about gitae attempting to mimic gap’s fists, but it could be indicative of another facet of gitae’s admiration for his father

gitae might have admired the idea of his father being gapryong kim, korea’s strongest gangster, to the point of idolization (which sounds a lot like a certain someone samuel hahah … )

if so, then he might have become obsessed with following in his father’s footsteps and attaining power as a gangster, especially if he lived in poverty as an abandoned child (just like samuel)

perhaps, in a similar manner to samuel, gitae might have grown up viewing himself as needing to be worthy of being gapryong kim’s son, needing to live up to his father’s name.

but is ptj really going to rehash the same backstory for gitae? there’s a possibility, but ultimately, i don’t think so. gitae seems like he’s driven by something different to samuel, something a little less insecure hahah :)

gitae may have found himself obsessed over another aspect of gapryong kim, something distinct from the validation that samuel craved, something like:

-> the identity of gapryong kim

the legend of the pre-generation, korea’s strongest gangster, an all-around powerful man

someone to admire, someone to idolize (only for these guys that is, jake is right in hating gap lol)

what gitae wanted was to be ‘gapryong kim’.

maybe not in a literal sense, but rather to have the power as a gangster that gap held during his heyday, to be a legend in his own right

gitae wanted to lead the life of glory that gapryong kim did, but might have felt ultimately limited by only being an illegitimate son of his

admiration, idolization, and obsession

gitae could have been obsessed with everything that gapryong kim represented, and the tortuously resentful ache of being unable to claim legitimacy to gapryong kim’s name might have driven gitae to commit his ‘ultimate sin’

perhaps gitae figured that the only way to ‘get what he wanted’ out of his life as an unwanted son was to murder his father and idol, gapryong kim, and thus allow himself to create his own legacy, one that eerily mirrors that of his deceased father, gapryong kim

-> additionally, as stated by minseon, gitae went to mexico because he ‘got what he wanted’

it’s very interesting that gitae went to mexico (since lookism takes place in south korea lol), and i think the reason that gitae decided to start a gang in mexico is an extension of his character motivation of power

gitae might have wanted to leave south korea because he was unable to attain the power that he wanted there, to build a legacy separate from gapryong kim’s, but very similar in nature

immediately after gapryong kim thwarted the ‘great threat’ that south korea faced in the past, he went into politics because he realized that was the only way for him to gain true power in korea

gitae didn’t want to follow in the path of the disgraceful politician gapryong kim, but rather the powerful gang leader gapryong kim

in mexico, the magnitude of the crimes, the underground businesses, and the authority that gangs have all fit someone like gitae better, someone who craves greater power and control

-> and to tie it back to the beginning of this post, gitae’s bitter obsession with gapryong kim might be why he keeps his pipe, or why he values that coat so much (since it likely belonged to gapryong in the past)

it’s a little morbid, especially if gitae gained access to gapryong kim’s belongings during or as a result of his murder, but gitae seems to cherish his father in his very own, twisted way

(gitae’s line about the coat being worth a life takes on a whole new meaning if he took it after murdering gap lol)

also, is it just a coincidence that gitae is currently dressed in a similar fashion to gap in his prime?

slicked back hair, black pants, a red shirt, and a black coat (possibly the same coat?)

anyway, thanks for reading my insufferable ramblings !!!

very excited to see what ptj has in store for gitae’s character now that he’s finally back :3