#hating is an art and it demands precision

[hautarche]

I hate to defend any aspect of this film, but Cesar's time stop is one of a smidgen of things in it with even a thimbleful of coherency. He never uses it for any practical purpose because it's figurative, not literal (well, even more figurative than most of the other things in the movie are). It's supposed to convey Cesar's unfathomable, reality-defying vision and genius; he can perceive things that nobody else can.

The first scene involves him stopping time while looking down on the city and saving himself from falling to his death to symbolize that his SuPeR ViSiOnArY gEniUs knows no bounds - he is above death, above the world, above the people. The fabric of reality and its laws are fragile before his uber-powerful superbrain.

The second time stop - done in the middle of razing an apartment complex - shows him sketching something while observing the demolition. This is supposed to communicate that his "artistry" is transcendent; this later gets spelled out explicitly in his conversation with Julia on the I-beams, where she talks about how "painters freeze time" and other varieties of artists make time their plaything in other ways.

Julia can move in his stopped time because she has the capacity to be on the same "intellectual wavelength" as him - or possibly, in that very scene, she develops a sudden insight that allows her to understand his vision. During her Da Club exchange with him, it's her revelation that she perceived the time stop that not only makes him finally take her seriously, it immediately prompts him to bring her onto the megalopolis project as a fellow visionary.

He loses his time stop after the Colosseum scenes because he no longer feels inspired, and regains it (under the condition that he and Julia use it in tandem) during the scene where Julia becomes his new muse.

Something something baby time stop idfk.

Anyways like, the movie is godawful, most of it makes some sense, and some parts of it make significantly negative sense, but the time stop is one of the few things in the film that has a consistent meaning. (even if said 'consistent meaning' is sabotaged by fucking everything else in the movie. Gods above, between, and below, why was the GeNiUs ArChiTeCt's revolutionary solution to transportation glowy airport conveyors?)

Thinking a bit more about Megalopolis (see prev post). It's not really the case that the script is as disjointed or schizophrenic as my post makes it out to be. The central plot is pretty simple: an egotistical city planner has an ambitious and futuristic vision for redeveloping the city, and he butts heads with the Mayor and others who oppose him in this. He ultimately succeeds in building his utopian "megalopolis". Everyone is happy, the end.

And yet.

There's this... intense centrifugal force that prevents everything from cohering into a unified whole. It's like a puzzle where all the pieces are cut from the same picture, but upon closer inspection, no two pieces quite fit together. Or like that collection of nonsensical objects. A fork where the tines and the handle are connected by a chain. A watering can with the spout facing the wrong way. A quick glance leaves you confused, and that confusion is only deepened by further contemplation.

I think this is especially clear in the pseudo-intellectualism of the title cards, narration, monologues, and quotations/references:

Laurence Fishburne does this heavy-handed narration at the beginning and end of the movie (and several random points in between). And there are these associated title cards that look like they were made by applying an "Ancient Rome" theme to some PowerPoint slides. "Or will we too fall victim, like old Rome, to the insatiable appetite for power of a few men?" My brother in Christ, you are making a movie where the hero is named Cesar, and the happy ending is when he successfully pulls a Robert Moses. This is not a story about power corrupting or good intentions going awry. What are you doing???

Cesar Catilina interrupts Mayor Cicero's speech (where he is introducing a plan to build a casino) in order to lay out an early plan for "megalopolis", which is an ambitious and long-term alternative to the (short-term) casino plan. He prefaces his megalopolis pitch by reciting the Hamlet soliloquy. What exactly does Coppola think "To Be Or Not To Be" is about? He must thinks it means, "I am a dark and brooding bad-boy intellectual", since it's hard to see how "I'd like to kill myself, but I fear death" fits into an argument about the importance of long-term thinking in urban planning.

Cesar says several negative things about "civilization". "[Imagine] humanity as an old tree with one misguided branch called civilization... going nowhere." (Shot of notebook shows an illustration with 'war' and 'cruelty' offshoots from said branch.) "Emerson said the end of the human race will be that we'll eventually die of civilization." (Note: unsourced, probably fake quote.) "Civilization itself remains the great enemy of mankind." Umm... you're an urban planner! You're doing a high modernism. What exactly does it mean for you to call civilization the enemy? Is "megalopolis" somehow anti-civilization because it looks like a Georgia O'Keefe painting instead of a bunch of straight lines and right angles? Will the "war" and "cruelty" branches wither and die when buildings have labia?

Also, there's this amazing line read that completely inverts the meaning of a fake Marcus Aurelius quote (the quote was attributed to him by Tolstoy but is not actually something he said). "The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape... finding yourself in the ranks of the insane." Why did you put in that pause??? Fake Marcus Aurelius is turning in his grave! You're supposed to be fleeing FROM the ranks of the insane! I suppose this isn't really inconsistent with the characterization of Cesar, it's just such a fucking batshit thing to say.

All of the cargo-cult intellectualism listed above could perhaps be excused if the vision that the film is supposedly about had any content whatsoever. Or, alternatively, if the movie was about something more substantive, and the vacuous megalopolis vision took place off-screen in an epilogue, like the "happily ever after" of a children's story. But no! The movie repeatedly interrupts the plot to grab you by the shoulders and scream in your face: "I have a vision! For the future!". And then--now that it has your undivided attention--it shits the bed like a man who has just polished off an entire bag of sugar-free gummy bears and washed them down with a fistful of Ambien:

"Conversation isn't enough. It's the questions that lead it to the next step. But initially, you have to have a conversation. The city itself is immaterial, but they're talking about it for the first time. And it's not just about us talking about it. It's the need to talk about it. It's as urgent to us as air and water."

"Mr. Catalina, you said that as we jump into the future, we should do so unafraid. But what if when we do jump into the future, there is something to be afraid of?" "Well, there's nothing to be afraid of if you love, or have loved. It's an unstoppable force. It's unbreakable. It has no limits. It's within us. It's around us. And it's stretched throughout time. It's nothing you can touch. Yet it guides every decision that we make. But we do have the obligation to each other to ask questions of one another. What can we do? Is this society, is this way we're living, the only one that's available to us? And when we ask these questions, when there's a dialogue about them, that basically is a utopia."

After the revolution, we won't have conflicts anymore; we'll have dialogue instead. We won't have a need for the "jobs" and "sanitation" of "now"; we'll have the "imperishable" "dreams" of "forever". We won't have problems that need solving; we'll all be too busy asking each other questions. Now, if everyone could just shut up and get the hell out of the way and let Cesar implement his vision, then "everyone" will soon be "creating together, learning together, perfecting body and mind." A chorus of children's voices gradually morphing into Laurence Fishburne's, chanting, "One Earth, indivisible, with long life, education and justice for all." It's eschatological anti-politics made entirely from cotton candy. Please, for the love of God, stop making Adam Driver monologue at me! Let's get back to Aubrey Plaza stepping on horny fascist Shia LaBeouf!

The incoherence of Megalopolis's vision is compounded by how anachronistic its depiction of our fallen world is. There are some half-hearted (and ham-fisted) gestures in the Clodio sub-plot towards the dangers of Trumpian populism, but the script was first written in the 80's, and it's extremely obvious that Coppola is writing about New York City in the preceding several decades. The city's finances are in dire straights. (There's literally a "Ford Tells City: Drop Dead" reference!) The city is full of slums, the streets are full of crime, and the elites are all decadent. (For Coppola, decadence means that ladies are doing cocaine and smooching each other in the cluh-ub.) The main character is Neo-Roman Robert Moses, and the conflict of the film is about urban renewal. In case you, like Mr. Coppola, have not been made aware, slum clearance is not a major political issue in 2020's Manhattan.

Two thirds of the way through the movie, a falling Soviet satellite provides a deus ex machina, blowing up the financial district and clearing space for megalopolis to take its place. Ironically, a previous attempt to produce the film came to its abrupt end when two planes flew into some buildings in the financial district. Perhaps you heard about it. The financial backers of the film at the time considered Megalopolis's plot a bit too close to current events for comfort and withdrew their support.

But Coppola's depiction of Manhattan was already decades out of date by then. Moses stepped down in '60. Jacobs' book railing against urban renewal came out in '61. The Power Broker came out in '74. One presumes popular opinion of Robert Moses soured in the following years. The crisis of the city's finances that peaked in '75 was over by '81 when NYC balanced its budget and reentered the bond market. The crime wave of the 70's and 80's had receded by the year 2000. The demand for housing in NYC proper is as high as it ever has been, and it's only getting higher. Megalopolis imagines America as an incoherent mishmash of several decades of mid-century NYC, dressed up in the toga of the late Roman Republic, calling out for (Robert) Moses to part the slums and take us into a promised land that is literally beyond any description, and whose only concrete feature seems to be glowing people-movers.

A Robert Moses with the power to stop time, at that!

Oh, did I forget to mention that part? Cesar discovers he has the power to stop time in the opening scene of the film. I forgot because it's literally irrelevant to the plot. Time stops a few times, and then it starts back up again, and the events of the film just plod inexorably forward. For a movie as temporally dislocated as Metropolis, perhaps that's just as well.

[poisonf0rest]

Overc*mming Writer's Block 2

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈

♱⋅── zayne x reader

♱⋅── tags: smut, teasing, oral, cunnilingus, road head, car sex woohoo, pwp

♱⋅── about: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. Partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

♱⋅── word count: 6.6K

art credit to @/kaito_aii on X

This is the last time you have sex on a weekday.

When Zayne left your apartment last night, you tried to write while the aftereffects of everything he did to you- everything he watched you do- still lingered. But you were beyond distracted, unable to even sit still without being assaulted with vivid flashbacks, a mix of mortification and lust coursing anew. 

You shut your laptop and scream into your pillow. 

Only after feeling sufficiently lightheaded do you shut off the lights and try to sleep, but the damned thing avoids you like the plague, and you stare at the ceiling for an untimed eternity. Everything feels wrong. Your blanket feels too thick, your skin too tight, the entire room too warm, too empty.

You don’t get more than three hours of sleep that night.

But it should be common knowledge that hospitals rest for no one, and you jolt out of bed to the sound of your pager beeping, rushing in while the sky is still dark.

The ambulance pulls in at the same time you do and the paramedics are already yelling out the status to everyone at the bay: forty-three-year-old male, chest trauma, performing CPR. It’s a race, a rush and rhythm you know well. You’re scrubbed down and entering the operating room alongside two other surgeons. The patient is intubated and they give the countdown before cutting him open.

It took two and a half hours to perform the surgery and stop all the internal bleeding, and by the end of it, you were exhausted, both physically and mentally. 

But this was the most in control you’ve felt for a while. A sharp sort of stress that forced your hands into a trained precision and your mind into a rigorous sort of calm. It was almost as though you became a different person entirely, one you both admire and hate. 

She’s calm and collected, only speaking when needed in commands to the operating room. She demands respect. She is who your mother is proud of, who you were supposed to be.

You’ve only just washed your hands and finished debriefing when you feel that half of you begin to slip away once more. And as the stress leaves, your mind wanders back to last night. To Zayne.

Thoughts that haunt you for the rest of the morning.

Finally, the clock hits eight and the ER is busy with the morning crowd. You do what you can until the other residents clock in, leaving to finally eat breakfast and get some sort of caffeine before your headache gets any worse. 

Luckily, the vending machine has your favorite melonpan and green tea, and you get two of each. Sitting down, open your laptop and begin eating in the hallway outside the surgery bay, your manuscript staring right back at you, mocking.

Your eyes burn holes through the cursor blinking at the top of the page, and you try to will yourself to just type something, anything, but it doesn't work, and you end up slamming the computer shut with a sigh.

Unintentionally, your male lead has begun to resemble Zayne more and more- not physically, at least- but in his little mannerisms, his overly formal speech habit, and even his uncharacteristic love of sweets. Your lips quirk up at the memory.

But speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Zayne comes from the other end of the hallway, looking like he also might be coming out from a surgery. He’s only meters away when his eyes lock onto yours.

You straighten against the chair, a shiver of heat racing down your spine as his mere presence sends an onslaught of flashbacks that are nothing short of sinful.

Stop. What happened last night is part of a professional, mutually beneficial deal. Zayne is still your mentor— your boss too, in some contexts— and you refuse to have these thoughts about him in your place of work.

Smiling, your fingers still against the keyboard as you hope the whole thing doesn’t look as strained as it feels.

Zayne looks the opposite of amused. If anything, he appears pissed.

His gaze narrows on you, and for a second, you think you spot something else behind the cold indifference. But the look passes as quickly as it appeared, his face back to its usual stony expression, and you must have imagined it.

“Good morning, Dr. Zayne,” you say.

Zayne stalls, shoulders tensing for a moment before he nods and continues walking. He doesn’t spare you another glance as he passes, doesn’t say another word, the awkward tension so thick it almost makes you choke on your melonpan.

Your eyes trail after him until he rounds the corner.

Well, that went splendidly.

You try to type again, but it turns out your brain is a useless lump of flesh because no matter how many times you read over the paragraph, the words fail to register. You huff out an exasperated breath, slam the laptop shut, and drag yourself to your office to prepare for rounds.

Even so, you go through your morning routine with a strained smile, a newfound weight pulling against your chest, a sharp sort of pain between guilt and longing you’ve never felt before. 

Zayne is going to lose his fucking mind. 

He is an adult, he reminds himself. A well-mannered, respectful, professional adult. 

So why can’t he stop imagining your face underneath him as you come undone? Why can’t he get the memory of every sound you made, the overly sweet way you said his name, the very cadence of your voice out of his head? 

And the way you said please. 

Zayne grinds his teeth hard enough that something clicks in the back of his jawbone, his usual flat expression twisted with a scowl that sends other doctors and residents scrambling out from his path. His clipboard groans under the pressure from his grip, and Zayne can’t make it to his private office fast enough before he slams the door shut and drags his palm down his face. 

He sees you every time he closes his eyes.

“Fuck.”

Zayne swore to himself that helping you would change nothing in the workplace, and yet clearly, only one of you was mature enough to hold that part of your deal up.

This must be a new level of depravity Zayne never assumed he would stoop to.

But it had been torture to only watch you last night. A beautiful, painful torture he would subject himself to again and again and again just for the chance to have you writhing against him like that once more. 

The way your doe eyes had practically begged for him to fuck you all on their own when he forced you to look up nearly made him come in his trousers. And thank god you were too far gone to notice how desperate he was, grinding insistently against your bedsheets while you came around his fingers. And now… 

And now Zayne was fucking hard again in his office of all places. 

It was a wonder he got anything done anymore.

Zayne hasn't had a lover in years and it's beginning to wear him thin. And yet, the idea of finding someone else to satiate his needs doesn’t appeal to him in the slightest. Not when his mind is so consumed with the thought of you, and the sounds you made, the way you looked at him, the way your eyes would roll to the back of your head every time he curled his fingers into that spot inside of you.

God, he should have just asked you out on a date first. 

Restraint had come easy to him. Zayne was practically raised on it, his very life dependent on his ability to restrain his Evol, the lives of others dependent on his patience and restraint in the operating room. 

But no, when it came to you, everything failed him. 

Maybe he had been a little harsh this morning. Zayne doesn’t know. He doesn't want to think about it.

Running a hand through his hair, Zayne imagines bumping into you again. Would you still be happy to see him, smiling as you did this morning, or would you ignore him just as he did you? 

“About this morning,” Zayne stops, restarts. “I’m sorry for avoiding conversation earlier today.” A groan, “No, I can’t begin like that. This morning I wasn’t myself, there was a patient who required percutaneous coronary intervention and the stress must have gotten to me.” 

He tries again, and again, gesturing to his empty office before dragging a palm down his face. “I must be going insane.”

Zayne has never felt more foolish in his life.

He doesn't even have the excuse of a lack of experience in this field. In his previous relationships, he was always the one to initiate dates and intimacy, and it was the same with any relation that had lasted longer than one night.

But you are different.

The thought of taking his time with you makes him weak. To finally have your legs wrapped around his waist, to finally hear his name on your lips, to finally have your body pressed flush against his and hear you beg for him once more.

He wants to do so much more for you, wants you to use him as you need, to take and take everything he has to give. Wants to surrender to your every whim and every outrageous idea you’ve ever had floating around in that unpredictable head of yours. Wants to taste you, and see if you taste as sweet as you sound when you beg.

Wants to know how your cunt feels and what face you would make when he finally, finally fucks you.

God, Zayne wants to ruin you.

He wants so badly it drives him mad.

Zayne can't avoid you, and he shouldn’t. There are still matters to discuss for your novel and a deal to hold up. He is a man of his word.

A date.

That could work. Just a way to get closer, as colleagues, as partners. 

You would have to spend time together outside the hospital, where the air is clear of any distractions and expectations and Zayne can get his head on straight. Even moreso, it should be something nice, something that will hopefully take your mind off your impending deadline. 

Right, that would be perfect. An opportunity to simply be providing you with the proper inspiration and guidance, as a good mentor should, and keep his end of the deal should you ask for another inspiration session.

Turning back in his chair, Zayne begins filtering through his email and paper files, until something slips from the growing stack. 

The annual charity gala.

As a resident yourself, you were likely already invited, so proposing the two of you go together shouldn’t be too ostentatious, right?

Zayne stares down at the gilded gold lettering.

No. It was definitely out of line in so many ways. But the only other option was to continue down this path, to continue fooling himself that he only agreed to be your fuck buddy out of courtesy and care, and not these wretched thoughts that plauge his every waking moment. 

It would mean he’d be completely at your mercy for seeing you next, whenever you needed him. Or his body, at least.

Zayne doesn’t have the willpower to last that long. Besides, this is more efficient.

So, Zayne opens the letter, pulls the invitation card from its envelope, and begins drafting an email to you in hopes of preserving a little bit of his dignity. 

He didn’t even have to wait an hour to get your response: you said yes. 

______

Zayne opens the car door for you, ever the gentleman. 

Sliding into the passenger seat, you take extra care not to snag the hem of your cocktail dress on your heels or the door. By the time you buckle your seat belt, and the car roars to life, dashboard glowing a soft orange.

"Ready?" Zayne asks, adjusting his cuff as he begins to reverse out of the parking spot.

It’s the first time Zayne has formally invited you to be his plus one, and the thought of being seen beside him like this- at such a formal gala, no less- is all at once thrilling and nauseating.

Zayne steals another glance at you, and where your hands lay clenched in your lap. "It’s just a hospital event, you may very well see other residents there."

A laugh. "I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse."

Even without the extra stress from attending this gala, your stomach has been in knots all day long-- your manuscript is due in less than a week. You’ve written a lot, and Zayne’s hands-on “experience” helped you get ample inspiration for most of the main scenes. Yet you can feel the deadline creeping up, the sense of impending doom looming over you.

Of course Zayne notices. "We'll try and have fun, it's just a couple of hours. I heard they also have billiard tables, if you’re interested?” A tap on the steering wheel, then he adds, a little quieter, “Your dress is nice. The color suits you.”

You smile, but your eyes don’t leave the road. Instead, you seem to zone out on the row of streetlights, shadows cast over your face as they pass by, one by one. 

“You clean up pretty well yourself, doctor.”

Zayne continues. “Tell me more about your novel’s progress, then. If you need any more assistance…” he trails off, and you feel a prickling heat creep up the back of your neck. Finally, you look away from the window, and Zayne relaxes against his seat. 

So you begin to tell him about the newest trope your editor wants you to include, a classic in enemies-to-lovers books: forced proximity. “The concept is great. Who doesn’t love it when the two characters who swear they hate each other accidentally get stuck together and turned on at the worst possible time?” 

You ramble, propping your arm against the car armrest as you turn to face Zayne. "So,” you say, ”I'm trying to think of ways they could find themselves in such a situation. Maybe they're cornered by guards or captured by a mutual enemy, or we combine the classic injury trope so they can’t move.” 

"That is one option," he says, eyes still on the road. A turn, and Zayne shifts gears as the car speeds ahead. 

“A classic my mind says no, but my body says yes dilemma.” You debate telling Zayne about the premise around aphrodisiacs and sex pollen, but you think that really might be pushing him too far. You are in a car, after all, and an accident is the last thing you want. 

Instead, you ask, "Have you read any enemy-to-lover books?"

He shrugs. "I've had some experience."

"I'm sure you have."

Zayne shoots you a sharp look. Your smile grows, slow and wicked. 

"And I've done a bit of research," he clarifies, voice flat just to prove a point.

"Right, research."

"Well, to best help you, I thought…” Zayne’s brows furrow as he merges lanes, letting the blinking of the indicator fill the silence before clearing his throat. “I thought reading a book or two in the same field would help me understand your own book better. I must say yours is far better written than some of these popular novels.” 

The mental image of Zayne sneaking a read at some filthy romantasy book has you giggling.

"And you’re sure that's the reason?”

"Of course," he says, though his face is slightly pink.

You feign suspicion, poking at Zayne’s arm. "What if this whole time, you’ve been hunting me down as a means to read my unreleased books?  Then the only reason you agreed to this arrangement is because you're secretly a stalker fan."

"Interesting theory,” a smirk, one you see pull at the corner of Zayne’s lips. “But not the only reason."

"Oh? What’s the other then?"

Zayne smiles, the dim light from the dashboard sharpening his features. Another turn, you spare a glance at the GPS only to see you’re nearly at the gala venue. But still, no answer came, not as Zayne seemed to refocus on the road, shifting gears as the light turns green. 

You groan, “You’re not even listening anymore.” 

“I am.” Zayne shoots you a look from the corner of his eye, one hand leaving the wheel to rest against your thigh. “There is, however, a difference between listening and answering.” 

But now it’s your turn to stop listening. You can’t, not when his thumb does that thing again, tracing mindless circles against your inner thigh while he looks back at the road. 

It does something, to have his hand there, warm and heavy. Something that has your thighs pressing together, heat creeping down your neck.

Zayne catches the motion. Of course, he does. And he squeezes, just a little.

And then a brilliantly wretched idea hits you.

"Do you have any suggestions?" You ask, trying to keep your tone innocent, even as you part your thighs just a little further. "I mean, you did research and all. Surely, you remember something useful about the plots. Or the sex scenes."

"The sex scenes," Zayne echoes, his voice tight.

"Well, yes. They're kind of important. They're why people buy the books." You lick your lips. "For example, surely one of those books you read for research had interesting forbidden tropes?"

"It's likely." His jaw ticks. "You'll have to be more specific.”

"Well..." you draw the word out, shifting in your seat. “You know where else would be a really inappropriate place for a character to get a boner?” Reaching over, you glide your hand up Zayne’s thigh, mirroring his placement on your own. “In a car, doctor.”

Zayne thanked every god for their mercy the moment he got to a red light, car jolting to a halt as he eyed you with a frown.

“Behave," he scolds. "This is beyond reckless."

The genuine frustration edged into Zayne’s voice makes you hesitate, and you move to sit up, retreating your hand from his thigh when it brushes past something unmistakably hard. 

You feel Zayne tense beneath you, the car jerking forward before speeding along as though nothing had happened. Oh, but your lips cracked into a vicious grin as you stretched your way fully over the center console, wriggling your ass in the air on the far side of the seat. 

Really, you should have realized that the stern, self-deprived Zayne gets off on scolding you as much as you did. 

You watch him closely, but despite his harsh words, he never moves to actually stop you. So you continue, scraping your nails up his trousers as your mouth follows, hot breath leaving damp spots against the expensive cotton as Zayne’s thigh jumps under your touch. 

God, the click of his belt coming undone elicited a nearly Pavlovian response at this point, the sound of metal on metal making something in your core flutter. You waste no time going for his zipper, palming at the bulge straining into your touch as it pushes out from between the metal all on its own.

Zayne laments all the trust you placed in him as a driver. Despite being only minutes from the venue, he swore he was gripping the steering wheel hard enough for it to snap. A car behind him honks and Zayne swears under his breath, thoughts clouding over as your hands finish sliding his zipper down, gently palming at his cock as he inhales sharply at the feeling of your hot breath over clothed skin.

And the moan Zayne lets out when you lick the head of his cock is enough to have you gushing. But you never take him any deeper, blocked by your position over the passenger seat, settling with unsatisfactory kitten licks up and down his length, leaving sloppy marks without ever speeding up. 

Zayne shudders, huffing in frustration and restraint as he unconsciously tries to buck himself into your mouth, failing due to the awkward side angle you placed yourself in. Instead, you splay your hands over his lower belly, untucking his shirt as your fingers rub against his v-line, as you begin to suck just barely over this throbbing head. 

“You shouldn’t– fuck." His jaw flexes, and his fingers are white-knuckled, the veins in his forearms standing out with the strain.

The shock of hearing Zayne curse was almost a physical blow. The word was spoken more like a prayer than a profanity, something desperate and violent caught in his throat, a warning and plea all at once. It made something hot coil deep in your gut.

It made you want to push him further.

You must have made some type of sound muffled over his cock because Zayne hisses, his hand coming down from the steering wheel to grab at your hair, fingers threading into your scalp and pulling, just enough to hurt. 

"You are absolutely insufferable." Zayne's voice breaks into a moan. "Stop teasing me."

You pull off of him with a wet pop, sitting up and wiping the drool from your chin. "But I’m hardly doing anything. Don’t tell me you’re getting so hard just from a few kisses."

"Reckless. Lack of foresight. Do I need to teach you how to behave like an adult?" Zayne's grip on the steering wheel tightens, his jaw clenching. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him.

"No," you lean forward and kiss the head, lips wrapping around it as you swirl your tongue. Zayne's foot presses down on the gas and the car jerks forward. "But maybe I could use some help learning my lesson."

You swallow him down, and his hips jump. Humming around him, Zayne’s cock twitches, and before you can stabilize yourself he’s pushing your head down further. You don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, not with the way his hips stutter upwards, thickly corded muscles of his thighs tensing as you nearly choke. 

Another broken moan fills the car alongside the wet sounds of your mouth, drool leaking from the corners of your lips as his cock bumps the back of your throat. You gag, and Zayne’s grip on your head finally loosens, the wheels spinning over loose gravel as you pull off just to breathe.

You can't see him, not with the angle, but the feeling of his eyes on you, burning into the side of your face, and the heavy throb of his cock against your tongue was enough to know just how close he is. 

You're so distracted, tears blurring your vision, that you don't notice the car has stopped, not until Zayne's other hand is reaching over to cup your jaw, forcing your mouth off his cock and forcing your head up to look at him.

The moment your eyes meet, he frowns, thumb rubbing across your bottom lip, cleaning your smeared lipstick and spit from your ministrations. "Look at you," he hums. "What a mess."

The nearby spots in the lot are empty, but you’ve arrived early, and you can see cars parking close enough to send your heart racing. 

You glance at the clock- seven forty-six- and you know despite how Zayne’s windows are tinted, it would take someone looking over from a meter or so away to see the two of you, to see the way Zayne's hands are fisted in your hair, to see you arched over the middle console, to see how hard he was and hear the slick, wet noises you made around his cock.

You nearly yelp as Zayne pushes you off his lap, messily tucking himself back into his trousers before climbing out the door. It shuts with a bang and you’re about to scramble up when you hear the passenger door open and are roughly hauled out of the car and slung over Zayne’s shoulder.

You don’t even have time to scream. The next thing you know, you're being tossed on your back into the back seat, barely having time to right yourself before Zayne follows you, door slamming shut. He's pulling at your dress, bunching the fabric up and around your waist before dragging you under him.

“Did I not satisfy you thoroughly enough last time?” Zayne scolds between breaths, teeth scraping over your pulse point before he bites down. “Or perhaps what I should have realized is that you’re simply a filthy little girl who gets off on being punished?”

The sound you let out is obscene, a whiny moan that has Zayne groaning as he pulls away, his mouth slick and shiny with spit. He grinds his cock against your stomach, his hand coming around your throat and forcing you to face him.

It’s almost effortless, the way he holds you against him, folding your thighs to your chest as he bends to avoid hitting the roof of his car. His cock is still rock hard and pressed against the back of your thighs, only the thin slip of your dress shielding you from his greedy eyes.

"Zayne- fuck, we're gonna be late." You choke out, a gasp following as his hips grind into yours.

“Answer the question.”

Another bite to the plush above your breast and you cry, fearing more for the possibility that he leaves a permanent mark more than anything else. As if hearing that, Zayne bites again. Harder. 

“Yes!” You thrash, trying to kick him off you but there’s little room in the back seats and the leather sticks to your sweat-slick back as Zayne works to pin your hips. “Yes, I’m sorry. I only— I wanted to see how long you’d last.”

A laugh, short and cruel. “How long I’d last?” 

Zayne grabs your wrists and holds them over your head. He leans close, so his lips brush yours when he speaks, and the words are low and soft. Dangerous.

"Well, then. Allow me to return the favor.” Zayne lifts your leg, pressing a kiss to your calf as your foot hits the window, one heel falling off with a thud. “If memory serves me right, isn’t this a trope too?” 

It’s almost effortless, the way he lifts your hips all the way up, your legs kicking helplessly over his shoulders as they’re forced up against the roof of the car. Shifting his weight around in the tight space, Zayne coaxes your calves to cross behind his neck, giving a small grunt as his face is pressed into your inner thighs, one arm straining against the leather of the car seats. 

“Where they’re stuck in a small space, right?” Zayne’s eyes never leave yours.  “Maybe a cave,” his tongue trails up the bare skin of your quivering thigh, “Under a desk,” licking his way up, “in a car?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, not when the heat of his mouth presses directly onto your clothed clit, licking over the lace of your panties as you arch off the leather seats.

You’re already a dripping mess, writhing against the leather of the seats and the hard muscle of Zayne's shoulders, the sensation of his hot tongue pushing against your clit through the lace a painful sort of pleasure. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Zayne pulls off and stares at the string of his spit and your arousal, warm and sticky, against the soaked patch of cotton between your legs connecting to his lips. Involuntarily, he bucks into the cold emptiness underneath you.

Fuck, he’s so hard he might come from this alone.

You hardly notice, not with the way every muscle and nerve quivers and begs for release, jaw falling slack as Zayne’s lips are quick to tease you again, this time pressing his tongue flat against the crotch of your panties and laving across the entire seam. The gorgeous arch of his nose presses up into your clit, and you moan, one hand flailing backways as it slides against the fogged-up window. 

"Zayne, fucking hell, just eat me out properly!" The curses tumble out of your mouth before you can think of the repercussions, but there was no way he could keep eating you out through the material, no matter how good it felt.

"So desperate." Zayne mumbles between open-mouthed kisses to your cunt, "So needy."

"Fuck- please," You draw one hand through his hair, pulling his face closer. "Please, please, please-"

"Poor thing. I suppose it would be against my oath to leave my patient in such pain." And he roughly presses his thumb up against the hood of your clit.

You sob, hands scrambling for something- anything- to hold on to as they slip down the window and dig into the leather of the seats. But Zayne was nothing if not observant from your last night together, and it doesn't take long for you to cum as soon as his mouth latches onto your poor neglected cunt through your panties. 

Still riding out each trembling wave of your orgasm, Zayne doesn’t fight the way your thighs clench around his head, kissing you through it until he readjusts your legs against his shoulders, forcing you higher onto your upper back. His fingers toy with the edge of the fabric, pleased with the way it sticks to your skin. 

All you can focus on is his breathing, heavy and fast, as he stares down at your cunt so intensely it makes you blush, helplessly exposed with your thighs pinned across his broad shoulders. Spread for him like every inch of the offering he intended on devouring you as. His goddess, his sacrificial lamb. Gods, he wants to know how every part of you tastes.

Zayne’s cock twitches again, and he shudders violently, a fat glob of precum falling onto the leather seats below, mixing with your slick that has already slid down his chin and your thighs.

If left alone, no doubt it’ll stain. 

“Look at the mess you made.” Zayne scolds, forcing your jaw to the side so you can see the puddle staining the seats. You whimper, and Zayne shakes his head.  “Well, we can’t just leave it. I suppose I’ll have to teach you to take responsibility for your actions.” 

Your hips jump. It's so hard to focus when he's talking like that, and the only coherent thought you can muster is that Zayne would be a fantastic writer if he ever decided to switch professions.

But he begins to shift you around, and your brows furrow as Zayne’s hand dips between the two of you, down to the leather, sweeping across the splattered mix of cum with two fingers before forcing your jaw towards him again. 

“Clean up your mess.” 

You think something is permanently fucked in your brain with the way your cunt flutters at that. 

Zayne’s unyielding face stares down at you, his dripping fingers pressed against your lips as you wrap around them and suck. It’s heady, the scent of sex overwhelming as Zayne practically fucks the digits into your mouth, sliding them against your tongue until you gag, thumb tracing loving circles against your bottom lip as though coaxing you to take them deeper. 

Only after gagging twice more does Zayne take mercy on you, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth. Instead, the pads of his fingers press against your tongue, and you take the hint, beginning to suck at them until the taste of you disappears. 

His fingers slip from your mouth, a trail of spit connecting his fingers and your mouth before Zayne breaks it. Your tongue flicks out to swipe at the excess drool, and he wipes your bottom lip. 

“Good girl, tasting just how desperate you are.” Every word of praise Zayne whispers goes straight to your cunt, nearly making you dizzy until he finally sits back. 

“And now…” he finally moves to push the ruined fabric to the side, “I get to taste, too.”

The feeling of his hot tongue directly on your slit nearly has you in tears, and your hand lurches into Zayne’s hair to force him closer. 

“No pulling. Behave,” Zayne warns. “This is still meant to be discipline for your earlier stunt on the road.”

Whimpering, you nod, parted lips swollen and shiny from the abuse Zayne put them under with his fingers. Satisfied, Zayne finally gives you what you need, kissing the swollen flesh of your clit directly before curling two fingers into your aching cunt. 

“Zayne-”

He’s addicted to the way you say his name. He’s addicted, and he’s going to come in his pants if you don’t stop. 

You begin begging again before Zayne covers your mouth with the palm of his hand, muffled cries still enough to drive him insane as he focuses on getting you past that high. 

Despite his threats, you can’t help but tug at Zayne’s hair, needing him against you as your hips began moving or their own accord, bucking and grinding senselessly against his face until you were practically riding his tongue. Chest heaving, you looked up to see him staring directly at you, silhouetted from the car window, green eyes nearly aglow with wretched desire.

Just like that, you’re coming, hard, thighs clenching down around Zayne’s head until he’s certain you’re trying to kill him. But gods, he never wants you to stop.

Addicted, Zayne presses open mouthed kisses to your cunt, swallowing everything you give him as his eyes roll back.

Desperate, you try to crawl away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. Your head hits the car door before Zayne drags you right back, forcing your hips up higher as your back is arched into the air, nearly perpendicular as you sob, legs kicking over his shoulders. 

But still, Zayne continues, and he knows. He feels it the moment your thighs lock up, the way your stomach goes tight and the way your senseless pleading still muffled by his palm reaches a higher pitch. And he takes advantage, not letting up as he curls his fingers until your cunt clenches down on his digits and tongue, squirting into his mouth.  

Almost in apology, Zayne finally withdraws his fingers as he opts to instead clean you directly with his tongue, nose accidentally overstimulating your swollen clit as you weakly fight to push his head away.

Zayne takes the hint this time, lowering your sore legs onto the seats below, finally set on a solid surface after being held in the air for so long. The slit of your dress is askew across your stomach instead of thigh, and Zayne gently tugs it back into place.

Leaning down, he picks up your forgotten heel before slipping it back into your foot, buckling it as you shiver every time his fingers brush your ankle. 

When Zayne finally faces you again, the lower half of his face is a complete mess, and you should be mortified never having squirted before let alone on your mentor’s face. 

But Zayne merely wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smiling like the slick dripping down his chin was won in victory and not debauchery. “Well then, shall we?”

[inkofthebrain]

Beach Day

Modern!Mizu x F!Reader

Art Creds: @lillydrawsmizu thank you for bringing this to life <3

Warnings: none

AN: the only volleyball experience I have is playing on the beach drunk out of my mind in high school so this is going to be interesting. Not proofread lawl.

——————

You were layed out across a towel, arm above your head, soaking in the sunny summer day and enjoying the sounds of the water. Taigen spotted a private little beach while on a run a few weeks back and after begging everybody to check it out, a beach day was finally in order. The communal volleyball court that originally caught his attention was in ok condition, a few loose threads here and there and wooden posts that were the ideal perching spot for seagulls when there wasn't a commotion around the net.

"Y/n!" Akemi called from the net, which sat a few feet away from the group's setup of towels, coolers, and umbrellas. You turned your head to the left to face your friend, seeing Ringo walking off the court and heading towards the water. "Come join us! Ringo wants to swim so we are short one." The three left on the court were all turned to you, Akemi and Taigen on the right and Mizu on the left.

You shook your head and let out a laugh, "No! You guys know I can't play."

"C'mon, it's game point it'll be quick. I'm not giving up until Mizu admits I'm better than her" He placed his sunglasses on his head and crossed his arms.

"Yeah right," Mizu scoffs, "c'mon y/n I'll teach you, it's easy," she says with a smile, motioning you to walk over to her. You couldn't refuse her offer, she was having so much fun and you'd hate to be the reason they'd have to end the game (resulting in Taigen demanding a rematch for days every time he sees Mizu).

"Fineeeee," You got up with a groan, adjusting your bathing suit as you walked over. Mizu turned back to face the net and put her hands up to catch the ball Taigen threw her way. She dropped it onto the ground, putting her foot on it to stop it from rolling away.

"I apologize in advance, I have no idea what I'm doing" You tucked your hair behind your ear, smiling at the raven-haired girl in front of you. Taigen and Akemi were distracted in conversation on the other side of the net.

"Don't apologize, you are gonna do great," She waves her hand in front of her, dismissing your apology, "Now, you are going to want to hold your hands like this." Her slender fingers grabbed your hands, placing them in the correct position. You looked at her soft features while she made minor adjustments to your form, a slight blush creeping across your face as her hands lingered on yours.

"Perfect, remember to hit with your forearms when you pass, it gives you the most control." She taped your arm, pointing to where she was referencing, and you hummed in acknowledgment. She gave you a quick overview of the rules and after passing the ball back and forth to each other a few times it was time to start the game.

"You ready to go down?" Taigen taunts, earning a light slap on his arm from Akemi who shot him a glare.

"In your dreams" Mizu retorts with a smirk. She started walking to the end of the court to serve, pausing next to you placing her hand on your shoulder, leaning close to your ear.

"Aim for Akemi, she is scared of getting hit in the face. It's an easy point." Her voice sends chills down your spine as she away, looking at you with a smile, the proximity holding a tension you couldn't quite place.

"Okay," You said in a whisper, admiring her eyes. She gave your shoulder a squeeze, her hand sliding down and leaving the warmth of your body as she got ready to serve. Your eyes followed her toned figure, a slight breeze causing her ponytail to sway slightly.

Mizu shoots you a wink before hitting the ball, sending it flying across the net. Taigen runs after it, passing it to Akemi who almost misses and barely gets it over the net. You dive towards the ball, hitting it with as much force and precision that you can muster.

“Atta’ girl y/n!” Mizu shouts, causing a smile to spread across your face as you back up from the net. Taigen sets the ball, Akemi jumping up to smack towards Mizu.

“Here!” Mizu says with a grunt, passing the ball. You then send it flying at Akemi, who throws her arms in front of her face with a yelp causing the ball to shoot right over her head and onto the soft sand. Taigen groans and walks off the court to get a drink of water, Akemi shortly behind him spewing apologies.

“I did it!” You explain, running to Mizu with your hand out for a high five. The tall woman catches your hand pulling you into a tight hug.

“Yeah you did! That was amazing, you need to play with us more.” You guys pull apart and she smiles at you, hands still on your sides and yours around her neck.

“Who won?” Ringo says as he walks up to you guys, covered in water and panting.

“We did!” You exclaim, turning to face the man, arms sliding off Mizu.

“It was all thanks to this pretty girl right here” Mizu says, pulling you into her side by your waist. You smile down at the ground attempting to hide the flush on your face.

“What can I say I learnt from the best” You say shooting Mizu a smile.

“Cmon let’s go, Taigen said loser buys lunch” Mizu pulls away but reaches to grab your hand, leading you to the others

“I DID NOT!” Taigen retorts. You and Mizu both let out a snicker, laughing at the sore loser.

——————

AHHHHHH. I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT. I HAVENT WRITTEN FANFIC IN AGES IM SORRY IF IM RUSTY.

@fanficreader33 THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST. MWAH!

[idkanymark]

[ A Swan's First Love]

renjun x f!reader | ballet core | renjun x f!ballerina

INTRO: Being a ballerina has always been your dream, but lately, the pressures and struggles have made you question everything. They say a ballerina dies twice: the first is when they stop dancing, and it’s the most painful of all. As doubt clouds your passion, your dance partner, Renjun, becomes your unexpected anchor. Through his quiet support, he helps you rediscover your love for ballet—and perhaps sparks something even deeper. With him, you begin to believe that love, whether for dance or another, doesn’t have to break you.

wc. Around 6k

warnings. ed mentioned

Lowkey inspired by: Black Swan by BTS

--------

The ballet studio echoed with the rhythmic slap of feet against polished wood, each sound a reminder of your failure. The faint scent of floor polish lingered in the air, mingling with the bitterness of sweat and the suffocating tension that hung heavy in the room. You stood in the center, chest tight, your breath shallow, your body aching from the relentless demands of the art form.

“Again!” Madame Kim’s voice cracked through the space like a whip, sharp and unforgiving.

You flinched.

“You’re too stiff” the instructor barked, her tone brimming with disdain. “The grace, the fluidity—where is it, Y/N? You’re dancing like a machine, not a swan. If you can’t find it within yourself, you might as well leave.”

A flush of heat rushed to your cheeks. Embarrassment warred with frustration, knotting your insides. You wanted to say something—anything—to defend yourself, but your tongue felt heavy. Words didn’t come. Instead, your gaze dropped to your reflection in the floor-length mirrors lining the studio.

There you were: a dancer whose movements were stiff and disconnected, a far cry from the effortless beauty expected of her. Ballet had once been your sanctuary, your identity, but now it felt like a prison. Every failed pirouette, every misstep, every sharp critique chipped away at the joy you once felt, leaving behind an empty shell of what you used to be.

The arch of your pointe shoes caught your eye—a picture of perfection, the embodiment of all you were supposed to be. Yet the polished elegance of the satin mocked you. It reminded you of the dancer you used to be: hopeful, graceful, unyielding in her passion. That version of yourself felt like a stranger now.

Madame Kim’s voice rang out again, dragging you away from your thoughts. “Again. Do it again. And this time, try to remember what it means to be a swan.”

The words were like salt in an open wound. A swan? You couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be free, let alone graceful. There was no lightness in your limbs, no fluidity in your movements. Every tendu, every plié, every leap felt like a battle against your own body.

Your classmates shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting toward you and then away, as if you humiliation might be contagious.

You swallowed hard and forced your body into motion once more. You extended your arms, raised your chin, and tried to channel the image of a swan gliding across a lake. But instead of feeling weightless, you felt heavy.

Instead of beauty, there was only strain.

Your feet moved, your arms curved, but the magic wasn’t there. It hadn’t been for weeks.

You caught Renjun’s gaze from across the room. He stood near the barre, his posture perfect, his every movement precise and full of life. His expression was unreadable, but you imagined the judgment in his eyes, the pity. You hated the idea that he—or anyone—might see you like this.

That they might see you as you see yourself

“Stop!” Madame Kim’s voice sliced through the air, the music halting abruptly. “That’s enough for today, Y/N”

You chest heaved as you fought to hold back tears. You nodded curtly, your throat too tight to speak, and retreated to the corner of the studio.

The others resumed their practice, but you could only sit, your hands trembling as they rested on your lap. You stared at your reflection once more, wondering how you had lost so much of yourself —and if you would ever find it again.

The studio was empty now, save for the faint creaks of the wooden floor as you paced back and forth. The mirrors reflected a ghostly version of yourself—disheveled hair, reddened cheeks, and shoulders slumped under the weight of your failures. You stopped in the center of the room, you fingers brushing against the soft fabric of your practice skirt.

 Your body ached in protest, muscles tight and unforgiving after hours of repetition. You closed your eyes, willing to find solace in the quiet, but the silence felt oppressive. The faint hum of the overhead lights buzzed in your ears, and the scent of floor polish clung to you like an unwelcome reminder of where you were.

You sank to the floor, your legs stretched out before your toes instinctively pointing—a habit so ingrained it felt like second nature. Your gaze drifted to your worn pointe shoes. The once-pristine satin was scuffed and stained, the ribbons frayed from countless rehearsals. You reached for one, turning it over in your hands. The shoe felt foreign now, like it belonged to someone else.

When had ballet stopped feeling like home?

You leaned your head back against the mirrored wall, staring at the ceiling. Memories flooded your mind—of your first dance class, of the thrill of landing your first solo, of the applause that once filled you with pride. But those moments felt so far away now, like fragments of a life you could barely remember.

You thoughts spiraled, each one darker than the last. Maybe the voices in your head were saying the truth. Maybe you aren’t meant for this anymore. The idea of quitting made your stomach churn, but wasn’t it worse to keep going like this? To keep fighting for something that no longer felt like yours?

You hugged your knees to your chest, resting your forehead against them.

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

You don't have the right to cry

The sound of the door creaking open startled you, there he was, Renjun was standing in the doorway, his bag slung over one shoulder.

 “You’re still here” he said, his voice soft but steady.

You turned away, pretending to adjust you shoe. “Couldn’t leave just yet”

Renjun stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the studio, stopping a few feet away from you. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, simply looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“You okay?” he asked.

You hesitated, unsure why he cared. You weren’t close—just partners in the dance.

“I’m fine” you lied

Renjun crouched down to your level, his head tilting slightly as he studied you “You don’t look fine.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the gentle concern in his tone. It wasn’t pity—it was something else.

Understanding, maybe.

“It’s just been a rough day” you admitted finally.

Renjun nodded, leaning against the wall, , his gaze never leaving you “I get that. It happens to everyone. Even me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You? I doubt that.”

He smiled faintly. “You’d be surprised”

-----

A week after the disastrous rehearsal, you walked into the studio, your stomach already knotted with dread. You were late, not much but enough to feel the sting of Madame Kim’s disapproving glare.

 “Ah, Y/N. How kind of you to join us” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Since you’ve graced us with your presence, let’s see if you’ve managed to redeem yourself. Renjun, step forward. You’ll work on the duet section together.”

 The words sent a chill down your spine. You weren’t ready—not for the duet, not for the scrutiny. And definitely not for Renjun.

“Now?I haven’t warmed up yet and…”

“Yes, now” Madame Kim’s tone left no room for argument. She clapped her hands sharply. “I want to see chemistry, emotion—something real”

Renjun, who had been warming up near the barre, straightened and nodded. He walked toward you with the quiet confidence that seemed to come so naturally to him. You avoided his gaze as you moved to the center of the studio, your heart hammering in your chest.

The music began, the opening strains of the dance filling the air. You counted the beats in your head, body moving mechanically into position. You extended your arms, tried to hold the curve of your back, but nothing about it felt right.

Renjun stepped closer, offering his hand for the lift. You hesitated for a fraction too long, and the timing was thrown off. The lift barely happened—your feet left the floor for only a second before you dropped back down, off-balance.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Madame Kim barked, clapping her hands sharply. The music cut out. “Y/N, what are you doing? The audience will not tolerate hesitation. You need to trust your partner.”

Humiliated, that’s how you felt

You glanced at Renjun, expecting frustration or impatience, but his expression remained unreadable.

“Again” Madame Kim ordered.

The second attempt wasn’t much better. Neither was the third. Madame Kim’s sighs of exasperation grew louder with each failure until she finally waved her hand dismissively. “That’s enough. Fix this mess on your own time” she snapped. “We can’t waste the company’s rehearsal on this nonsense.”

As she turned her attention to the rest of the group, you wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor.

What if she replace you with someone else? That can't happen. You need to keep the role and perform.

"You're overthinking it" Renjun said softly, breaking the tense silence.

You blinked, surprised by his calm tone. “Excuse me?”

“The lift” he said, his voice still quiet but firm. “You’re trying too hard to control it. You need to trust me. Let go a little.”

You folded your arms defensively. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have Madame Kim breathing down your neck every second.”

Renjun tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You think she doesn’t criticize me?”

You hesitated, frustration ebbing slightly. “You don’t look like you struggle.”

His lips curved into a faint smile. “That’s because you only see the finished product, not the hours I spend fixing my mistakes. I let you see what I want you to see Y/N”

He gestured toward the door of the studio. “Come on. Let’s try again without her watching.”

 Reluctantly, you followed him into an empty studio.

“Before we try the lift again, let’s do something else” Renjun said

“Something else?” You frowned. “We’re supposed to be rehearsing the choreography”

“And we will” he said. “But first, we need to loosen up.”

To your surprise, Renjun pulled out his phone and scrolled through it for a moment before a pop song started playing from the small speaker. The upbeat rhythm was a stark contrast to the dramatic elegance of ballet.

You stared at him. “You’re kidding”

“Not at all.” Renjun set his phone on the floor and stepped back. “Sometimes, you need to stop thinking so much and just move. No choreography. No rules. Just dance.”

You hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Come on” he said, his voice light but insistent. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Against your better judgment, You gave in. Your steps awkward and hesitant at first but as the music swelled, something shifted. The freedom of moving without structure, without fear of judgment, felt exhilarating. You glanced at Renjun and saw him smiling—not the polite, distant smile he usually wore, but something warm and genuine.

By the time the song ended, you both were laughing.

“See?” Renjun said, slightly out of breath. “You’re not a machine. You just forgot how to feel the music.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “That’s not going to help with the duet.”

“Maybe not directly,” he admitted, “but it’s a start. Let’s try the lift again.”

And he was right.

When you returned to the center of the room, something had changed. The tension in your body was gone, replaced by a quiet confidence. As Renjun extended his hand, you took it without hesitation. This time, the lift was seamless, their movements fluid and synchronized.

When they landed, your chest swelled with relief and something close to pride.

Renjun grinned. “Told you.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real annoyance in the gesture. “Okay, fine. Maybe you have a point.”

You practiced for another hour, each lift and turn becoming smoother, more natural. By the end of the session, you realised it wasn’t just an improvement but maybe the beginning of enjoying dancing again.

----

It started with quiet conversations after rehearsals. At first, the exchanges were brief—small acknowledgments of your work together or comments about the routine. But as the weeks passed, the silences grew less daunting, and the words came easier.

One evening, after an especially grueling practice, you and Renjun sat on the floor of the empty studio, your backs against the mirrored wall. Your bodies were sore, breaths uneven, but there was a quiet comfort in sharing the space.

“Do you ever feel like you’re fighting against your own body?” you asked, voice soft but carrying the weight of exhaustion.

Renjun glanced at you, surprised by the vulnerability tone. “All the time” he admitted. “People think dancers are perfect machines, but we’re not. Half the time, I feel like my body’s betraying me.”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Right? Like... it doesn’t matter how much I train or how carefully I eat. I always feel like I’m falling short.”

Renjun hesitated, then asked gently “Carefully?”

You nodded, your gaze fixed on your knees. “You know. Counting calories, avoiding carbs. Madame Kim’s made comments before about... you know.”

Renjun’s expression darkened slightly. “Yeah, I’ve heard those comments.” His jaw tightened as he looked at the floor. “They expect us to look like swans on stage but don’t care if it’s breaking us to stay that way.”

You turned to him, your chest tightening at the empathy in his voice. “Do you ever... struggle with it?”

Renjun leaned his head back against the mirror, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. Especially when I first started training seriously. I’d skip meals, push myself too hard. There was one time I nearly passed out in rehearsal. That’s when I realized it wasn’t sustainable, and I decided to change companies. Coming here, to Dream Ballet Academy, was the best choice I made.”

She frowned, guilt washing over her. “Renjun...”

He gave you a small, wry smile. “It’s better now. I’ve learned to listen to my body more, to stop when I need to. But it’s still hard. The pressure never really goes away.”

You nodded, your throat tight. “I get that. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it. If all this... pain is worth it for a few minutes on stage.”

Renjun turned to face you, his gaze steady. “It is” he said firmly. “But only if you’re doing it for you. Not for Madame Kim, or the audience, or anyone else. Just you.”

His words struck something deep and for the first time in a long while, you felt a flicker of clarity.

“I’m sorry for what I said back then” you whispered. “I do know that you struggle... I just—”

“I know” Renjun interrupted softly. “I saw myself in you that day.”

----

Things began to shift after that night. Rehearsals were better. Renjun had a way of grounding you, reminding you to breathe when you became too caught up in your head.

But the road was far from smooth.

During a run-through of the duet, your foot slipped during a turn. You stumbled, the familiar sharp pull of gravity twisting your ankle as you fell. Pain shot through your leg, sharp and immediate.

Renjun was at your side in an instant. “Are you okay?”

You winced, shaking your head. “I... I think I twisted it.”

Madame Kim appeared, her expression stern but tinged with concern. “That’s enough for today. Renjun, help her to the bench.”

Renjun wrapped an arm around your shoulders, supporting you as you limped to the side of the studio. Once you were seated, he crouched in front of you, carefully unlacing your shoe.

“This might hurt” he warned before pressing his fingers gently around the swelling.

You hissed, biting her lip. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

Renjun glanced up, his expression serious. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”

Your defenses faltered at the softness in his voice. “It’s just... I can’t afford to mess this up. If I don’t get this right, Madame Kim will replace me. And if I’m not dancing, then what’s the point?”

Renjun shook his head, his hand still resting on your ankle. “The point is taking care of yourself. You can’t dance if you’re hurt.”

Tears prickled your eyes, but you blinked them away. “I just feel like... no matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough.”

Renjun reached out, his hand resting lightly on yours. “You’re more than enough, Y/N. You’re stronger than you think.”

You looked at him, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, the world outside the studio faded away, leaving only the warmth of his gaze and the quiet reassurance in his touch.

That evening, after Renjun left, you sat alone in the studio, your ankle wrapped and elevated. Your reflection stared back at you—worn and tired but resolute.

You stood slowly, favoring your uninjured foot, and moved to the center of the room. Ignoring the pain, you lifted your arms into fifth position, feeling the music in your mind, and started the sequence again.

It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t for Madame Kim. This time, it was for yourself.

And for the first time in awhile, it felt enough.

-----

Your friendship with Renjun deepened after that night. It wasn’t just about rehearsals anymore; it was about the time you spent together outside the studio. He introduced you to his favorite coffee shop, a cozy little place tucked away on a quiet street, where the scent of roasted beans filled the air. You sat there for hours, talking about everything and nothing.

You shared stories from your childhood—how you first fell in love with ballet, how you always danced around the house in your socks until your mother enrolled you in lessons. You spoke of struggles you’d never voiced aloud before, the pressures, the doubts, the fear that came with constantly trying to be perfect.

Renjun listened with a quiet attentiveness, as though every word you spoke mattered. And for the first time in a long while, you felt seen—truly seen—not by the audience who watched you perform, but by someone who understood the depth of what it meant to live this life.

One afternoon, as you walked together through the park, the sun warming your skin, Renjun nudged you playfully. “Do you ever stop thinking about ballet?”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Not really,” you said with a sigh. “It’s hard to, when it feels like my entire life revolves around it.”

He stopped walking, turning to face you with a contemplative look. “Maybe that’s the problem” he said softly.

You furrowed your brows, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

He met your gaze, his expression thoughtful yet kind. “Ballet is important, sure. But it’s not everything. You’re more than just a dancer, Y/N. And if you forget that, you’ll lose the part of yourself that makes you… well, you.”

His words hung in the air, the weight of them settling in your chest. You didn’t respond right away, the thought swirling in your mind as you walked in silence for a while longer. Renjun didn’t push you to speak, just stayed at your side, letting the quiet moments stretch between you.

That night, as you lay in bed, his words echoed in your mind: You’re more than just a dancer. You weren’t sure if you truly believed it yet, but for the first time, you felt a small flicker of hope that maybe he was right.

Over the next few weeks, the change was subtle at first. You found yourself laughing more—truly laughing—not just in the studio but outside of it too. You let yourself enjoy small moments without guilt. You went to the park and sat under the trees, watching the world go by instead of obsessing over the next rehearsal. You let your shoulders drop, the constant tension beginning to ease.

Renjun was there through it all—steady, kind, and unwavering. Every time you felt like slipping back into old habits, he was there to remind you that it was okay to take a step back. He never pushed you, just offered a hand when you needed it.

One evening, after another grueling practice, the two of you sat together on the studio floor, your muscles sore but your heart lighter than it had been in ages. The room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of traffic outside. You turned to Renjun, feeling a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the physical exhaustion you felt.

“You know,” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence, “you’re kind of amazing”

Renjun raised an eyebrow, a playful smile curling at his lips. “Kind of?”

You nudged him lightly, your smile growing. “Okay, maybe more than kind of”

For a moment, the air between you shifted. The playful banter faded into something deeper, something unspoken. His gaze softened, and you felt your breath catch in your throat.

Renjun didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering to a whisper. “You’re pretty amazing too”

Your heart started beating faster, the space between you feeling charged with something new, something that neither of you had dared to name yet. You stayed there for a moment, close but not quite touching, the weight of the words hanging between you.

It wasn’t a sudden shift, but rather a slow, careful building of trust, of understanding. Renjun’s words, his presence, were a steadying force in your life, one you hadn’t known you needed until now.

And as you sat there, with your heart racing and your thoughts tangled, you realized that, for the first time in a long while, you were exactly where you needed to be.

-----

The night of the Swan Lake premiere arrived, and the air was thick with anticipation.

Backstage, you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your costume, your heart racing. The usual anxiety clawed at your insides, but there was a strange calmness too. Renjun’s reassuring presence was like a steady hand on your back, guiding you through the storm of self-doubt.

“You got this” Renjun whispered, his voice calm but filled with an intensity that made you believe it. “We’ve practiced this. Just feel it. Let go.”

His words, simple as they were, wrapped around you like a protective shield. You nodded, taking a deep breath. For once, you weren’t alone in this.

When the curtain rose and the music began, you felt the magic of the moment. As you moved across the stage, your bodies syncing in perfect harmony, you felt a connection with Renjun that went beyond just the dance. It was as though every move you made was fueled by something deeper than mere technique—it was raw, real, and unspoken. You weren’t just performing; you were telling a story, your emotions intertwined in every step and lift.

The audience was silent, captivated by the beauty and intensity of your performance. Each lift, each spin was executed with flawless precision, but it was the emotion behind your movements that truly took the audience’s breath away. When you reached the final pose, suspended in mid-air for a fleeting moment, everything seemed to freeze. You held your breath, feeling the rush of the performance course through you.

As the music ended and the applause erupted, Renjun subtly squeezed your hand in a silent promise—a reminder that this was just the beginning. The moment you shared felt like something more than just a performance. It was a mutual understanding, a connection that neither of you had expected, but both had hoped for.

Later that evening, after the last of the applause had faded and the theater emptied out, you and Renjun found yourselves standing outside the stage door. The cool night air brushed against your skin, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing and the quiet hum of the city around them.

You turned to Renjun, your heart still racing—not from nerves, but from something deeper, something that had been building for a while. There was no crowd, no expectations, just the two of them, alone in the night.

Renjun looked at you, his eyes soft, but there was a weight to his gaze. “Y/N, I’ve been meaning to say something.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious. “What’s that?”

He hesitated, then took a small step closer. “I’ve watched you go through so much. The pressure, the struggle, the pain… but you’re still here, still fighting. I admire that. And somewhere along the way, I’ve… I’ve started to feel something more than admiration.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You weren’t sure what you’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up at him, his words settling in your chest like a warm ache.

“I…” you took a breath, your words stumbling out. “I feel the same way, Renjun. I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, you became… more than just a partner. You became someone I care about. A lot.”

Renjun’s face softened, a small smile playing on his lips. He reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels that.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. His hand lingered by your face, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation. When he found none, he leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Your lips met in a soft, tentative kiss, the kind that carried all the unspoken words you didn’t know how to say.

It was brief but perfect.

Renjun smiled at you, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “You’re pretty amazing, you know that?”

You laughed softly, your cheeks warm. “You’re not so bad yourself”

He stepped back slightly, his hand slipping down to take yours, fingers interlocking effortlessly. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like everything you have been through had led to this. You squeezed his hand back, a quiet promise of your own.

Together, you walked into the night, side by side. The world felt different now. Not because the performance was over, but because you were no longer just two dancers on the same stage—you were two people who had found something in each other, something real, something worth holding on to.

As you walked, You couldn’t help but think about the future. Whatever came next, you knew you wouldn’t face it alone. Not anymore.

After a while, Renjun broke the silence, glancing at you with a teasing smile. “You’re unusually quiet. What are you thinking about?”

You smiled shyly, your fingers tightening slightly around his. “I was just thinking… You’re my first love, Renjun.”

Renjun stopped walking, looking at you in surprise before breaking into a laugh. “Don’t be a liar.”

“What?” You said, half laughing, half indignant. “It’s true! I’ve never dated anyone before.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Your first love was ballet, Y/N.”

You blinked, about to argue, but his gentle smile stopped you. And as the words sank in, you realized he was right. Ballet had always been your first love—the thing that consumed your thoughts, your time, your heart. But now, there was something—or someone—else who shared that space.

And in that moment, as you continued walking hand in hand, you knew that this new chapter of your life was one you were ready to embrace.

[icemankazansky]

That is an excellent point I had not considered, but I kind of hate that you said it.

Because that is correct. It is also extremely competitive, and they. Do. Have. Elite dancers, primas (prima literally means "first"), and.

Now that you mention it. They are. The best. Of. The best.

So. Now. My mind has immediately and without my permission constructed a Top Gun ballet AU, because it works perfectly, thank you so much, Cat.

don't know how to explain but these are very he was a punk, she did ballet

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Musings - Tentative Timeline (Pt3a: 1945 - 1950) - ❗REVISIONS❗

These revisions took a minute, y'all, apologies.

HUGE thanks to @usuallydeepalpaca-blog and @alleyskywalker for working with me to make a (hopefully) more precise tentative timeline for S2 -- Pt 1 (1940 - 1948ish: x x) and Pt2 (1949: x x). There's so much unreliable narration from ALL these MCs, so things are very much STILL up in the air wrt chronology, that will likely only be resolved in S3 🙏 (AMC y'all got some explaining to do, cuz this ish REALLY don't make sense!!! 😩). So until then, this is still just a rough guestimate of when events took place in S2, cuz IDFK. 🤦

1945

Mostly I brightened up the dark AF pics I used on all the nodes

Added the rest of the quote from Lou & Claudia's convo to "follow the blackouts," cuz I hate when people complain that S2 wasn't as "glamorous" as S1; when IRL post-war Paris was broke as a joke--the lights flickering on & off in Claudeleine & Loumand's scenes in Ep2 were cuz of continent-wide blackouts during & post-WWII. You can't demand that AMC be historically accurate, then complain about the grim reality of IRL history during & after THE biggest war in Europe.

Adjusted the date range of Lou & Claudia meeting the coven from Nov, to a grace period of Nov/Dec 1945 (IF they arrived 5 months earlier in July, not June)

Adjusted the date range of the Chateau hunt with the coven from mid-Dec, to a grace period of Dec 1945/Jan 1946 (IF they arrived 5 months earlier in July, not June; plus 1 month of Claudia watching their performances)

1946

Small but significant changes:

Added a node of Claudia confirming her hazing period took "weeks"

Bumped Satre up to Spring 1946, before Claudia's initiation--the grace period I gave that scene was too vague/generous

June 29, 1949 - the night Claudia invites Lou to her initiation ceremony

July 6, 1949 - I reckon Claudia's coven initiation was July 6, cuz "at the end of this week" would be Sunday, June 30, so Claudia could've just said "tomorrow" if that's what she meant. So the only other night she could be referring to was July 6th.

Thus, Baby LouLou definitely started performing in the summer (approx. July), not the spring

1947

I split up 1947 - 1949, to isolate everything that happened pre-Roget's interrogation.

I can't count, and miscalculated 500 nights = 16 months instead of 18 months, which effed up the whole thing, omfg I'm stupid! 🤦

So Claudia's 500th performance is December 1947, rather than Fall; sorry y'all.

Added a node for Lou vs art dealer Alois (as in Alois Meidl????)

Added nodes for Lou's convo w/ Dreamstat & Claudeleine's convo, that confirm it's been "two years" that they've been in Paris--so this is definitely 1945 → 1947; esp. if they only met the coven & Madz around Nov/Dec 1945.

Added a node specifically for Santiago's coup, splitting it from Loumand's park bench convo, just for clarity's sake.

1948

Everything from Roget down to Sam's Guido/Godot script has been moved to 1948.

Added a node where Roget mentions the Theatre being closed "a fortnight ago"

Added a node with the coven reading Claudia's diaries b/t the pages of Sam's Guido/Godot script

Added a node for the "God's Light" quote, which is part of the Guido/Godot script

Added a node screenapping Sam's Guido script

Added a node of Madz's SA. I have no idea where in the year this happens, even going by the clothes--that could be anywhere from Spring - Fall. 🤷

Added a node of Armand mentioning Sam's "new pages" for Guido/Godot

1949 - 1950

THIS is where ish gets hella messy

A bunch of Roland-Garros nodes, cuz those are muy importante

July: more of Armand's quote about Loumand's library date

Sept: Armand's quote where he says/lies(?) that the same night Madz was Turned, the coven gave him a "rewrite" of the Trial script

Changed the dates of Louis in the vault from Nov/Dec to Oct/Nov, bumping it up a month, esp. since the Trial HAS to take place in September (IF the Roland-Garros match was Sept 17-18)

Added Lou's Rage & Madness planning (approx 2-3 nights long)

Added the Great Fire of 1949 frame from the Talamasca files

Added the Jan 9, 1950 article about the Theatre burned down

@usuallydeepalpaca-blog pointed out that Lestat probably wasn't referring to THE French Championships, but a different France vs Australia match at Roland-Garros on September 17-18, 1949.

(DANG, I hope the Australians watched their necks in 1949! 💀 They effing won the mens' doubles in that match! 😅)

Jokes aside though, AMC has A LOT of explaining to do here. I'd assumed Les was referring to the 1950 French Championships:

But IF the September 17-18th 1949 games are what Les was talking about, that means he arrived around Sept 5th, and the Trial happened barely two weeks later!? 😰

Which means the rehearsal took barely no time at all; and most importantly: Claudeleine got ZERO TIME to wander. 😩💔

1950

This is a BIG problem, AMC:

Does anyone know what interview this was, where Jacob(?) said Claudeleine were together for months+?

I couldn't find it, but I DID find an interview with Roxane that said basically the same thing, which WORRIES ME.

Cuz "quite a time stretch" just DOES NOT WORK, if September 5, 1949 - January 9, 1950 is THE LIMIT for everything that happens from Madeleine's turning to Madeleine's death.

Which tells me that if anything, AMC's props department effed up not once, but TWICE, and actually had no effing idea when the Theatre burned down. 😅

Regardless, I added the nodes to account for al these shenanigans.

TL;DR: I no longer have any frikkin idea what's going on with the S2 timeline, esp. after Ep6. 😔

I love this show, it's excellent, 100/10. But laaaaawwwwwwd, I'm confused; and TIRED.

[itsclydebitches]

Tonight I came across a post (that won't hit my blog until July because I queued it) about how it's unfortunate that "fun" has supposedly become a requirement of video games, given that this severely limits how they can function as works of art. We don't limit other mediums by insisting that they only produce positive emotions and experiences in the recipient, so why would video games be any different just because they're (more) interactive?

This post isn't actually about video games, but rather how that argument got me thinking about RWBY and the recent resurgence of this "Why are you still here if you hate the show?" question. Now, setting aside the acknowledgment that 99.9% of people asking that are merely trolling behind their faux-concern—they have no actual interest in hearing a RWDE poster's reasons for sticking around, they simply want a way to say, "Get out" with plausible deniability—but if we treat this question seriously, I think that post on video games may offer some insight. I have numerous reasons for keeping active in the RWBY/RWDE fandom (initial love of the show, intellectual exercises, the community we've made, etc.) but there is also some level of investment in what would traditionally be framed as non-positive emotions. RWBY can make me feel very frustrated... similar to how playing Pathalogic makes me frustrated. Many of its plot-lines make me angry... the same way numerous video games' discriminatory writing can make me angry. RWBY's community, at times, feels like an insult-laden battlefield... but I've been doing PvP in WoW since it came out, so that's familiar too.

There are so many times when I've enjoyed engaging with a piece of media even when I really didn't enjoy it. Perhaps a better way of putting it would be that I found something worthwhile in the experience, even if I couldn't label that as "fun" or "happiness" or "satisfaction." Sometimes sitting with negative emotions is a good thing. Yes, you can take that too far just like you can take any behavior to an extreme, which is where the continual demands to "watch another show" highlight those posters' willful ignorance. We're already watching other shows. Reading other books. Playing other games. Engaging with a huge, diverse variety of art. Those who gain their own enjoyment from targeting strangers online (and isn't that a significant aspect to all this) want to make it sound like RWDE posters haven't touched a single piece of art other than RWBY in ten years and if they just found something they enjoyed without reservations then they'd drop RWBY like a hot potato. But I'm already watching numerous shows that I love unconditionally and have nothing substantial to critique; shows that have me internally kicking my feet and twirling my hair because they're just sooooooo good. I have that! RWBY is a different experience. It scratches a very specific itch of "I once adored this thing and now it's disappointing, but I want to see it through to its end and unpacking the ways in which it fails is a fascinating, cathartic mental exercise." I can't get that from anything else—not right now, anyway—so why would I want to give up this unique experience to fill my time solely with art that only makes me feel Generically Good? Art I have little to say about because it already feels #perfect to my mind? Sure, I could analyze a show's positives and sing its praises (which I often do), but at a certain point you run of out ways to say, "I like it." There's a reason why transformative fandom is built around the gaps in media: missing scenes, plot holes, retcons, failures, missed opportunities, horrible disappointments. Transformation comes more easily when you're already inclined to change the canon in the first place.

Idk, I feel like there's also an element of purity culture here where there's this push to make people think they must only engage with art that aligns precisely with their moral stance, produces only positive emotions, and invites nothing but praise. If the art makes you feel bad in any way than it is bad and you have a duty to remove yourself from it post-haste just ignore that we wanted you gone the whole time. Frankly, I think we humans can handle a bit more complexity than that? Obviously, as said, you wouldn't want to make Art You're Upset With the be-all and end-all of your media engagement, and this certainly isn't a call for anyone to engage with triggers unless they're inclined to do so, but a story you're primarily here to critique, or—yes—even a bit of hate watching can be "fun" in a non-traditionally fun away. Just because the art hasn't made you grin and pump your fist in triumphant doesn't mean it's not worth interacting with as art.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andrew Doyle

Published: Mar 20, 2024

“Police told to target comics under new hate crime law.” This was the rather alarming headline on the front cover of yesterday’s Herald, and it concerned leaked materials from recent training sessions undertaken by the Scottish police. Officers are being instructed that actors and comedians whose performances are likely to “stir up hatred” could be breaking the law. Suitably enough, the SNP’s new legislation will come into force on April Fool’s Day.

Many of us have been sounding the alarm over the SNP’s draconian measures since the bill was proposed in early 2020. The Scottish Police Federation warned that the effects of the bill would be tantamount to the “policing of what people think or feel”, and the Law Society of Scotland called it a “significant threat to freedom of expression”. Senior Catholic bishops, meanwhile, pointed out that the story of Sodom and Gomorrah might be deemed hateful towards homosexuals and so even owning a copy of the Bible could be criminalised.

As for comedians, Roddy Dunlop KC cautioned that stand-up would not be exempt, and that even the old “Scotsman, Irishman and Englishman” joke would be perceived as discriminatory. But in the face of all this criticism, Humza Yousaf (who was then Justice Secretary) was dogged in his determination to see the bill pass.

Naturally, supporters of the SNP scoffed at the suggestion that anyone would be arrested for simply expressing controversial opinions or telling jokes. The police have said they will not target performers, but at the same time have promised to investigate all complaints. This is, of course, precisely the problem. Activists have already pledged to weaponise the new law to see J.K. Rowling prosecuted for the “crime” of referring to a man as male (in this case the former Big Brother contestant and online troll India Willoughby). Solicitor Rajan Barot replied to Rowling on Twitter/X, stating that any of her posts in which Willoughby was referred to as a man would be “amenable to prosecution in Scotland” after 1 April. “Start deleting!” he demanded.

The SNP has effectively reintroduced blasphemy laws by stealth, only now it is in the name of the new state religion of Critical Social Justice. The law specifically prohibits “stirring up hatred” (whatever that means) against anyone who shares the following “protected characteristics”: disability, race, religion, sexual orientation and transgender identity. The last of these represents a significant departure from the protected characteristic of the Equality Act 2010, in which “gender reassignment” rather than “transgender identity” is covered. This means that to “misgender” someone — otherwise known as accurately describing his or her sex — could be deemed a breach of the law.

That police are being specifically trained to keep a watchful eye on comedians is no surprise to any of us who have been paying attention. A section of the legislation that covered the “public performance of a play” apparently still applies, and this would surely incorporate stand-up comedy shows. Given that the world’s largest arts festival is held in Edinburgh every year, with over 3,000 shows in the programme, is it likely that activists won’t take the opportunity to exploit the new law against those performers they despise?

Last year, my own Comedy Unleashed event was cancelled twice within the space of two days, simply because the line-up included Graham Linehan (whose gender-critical views have made him a pariah in the industry). After the second venue cancelled on us, Linehan and the other acts were brave enough to perform on a makeshift stage in broad daylight outside of the Scottish Parliament. If we were to repeat the show this year, would the acts be dragged away in handcuffs?

Well, maybe we’ll find out even sooner. Comedy Unleashed is currently looking into producing a special event in Scotland on 1 April to coincide with the implementation of the new bill. We’ll be platforming some reliably “problematic” comedians, and there’ll be plenty of wrongthink on display. Of course, this very much depends on us securing a venue that won’t cancel at the last minute, so please do email us (mail@comedyunleashed.co.uk) if you can help. In these authoritarian times, we could all do with a laugh.

==

Targeting comedians is no accident, not is it random.

“The greatest enemy of authority, therefore, is contempt, and the surest way to undermine it is laughter.” -- Hannah Arendt

Comedians are the embodiment of "talking truth to power." So going after them is a deliberate signal to fall into line with the demands of totalitarians.

[nerdasaurus1200]

I’ve had this idea in my head for like a month now, so here’s a little ficlet to explore Primrose and Hazel’s relationship!

~~~~

Unified Corona, 400 years before Rapunzel’s birth

Even in a kingdom as peaceful as Corona, there were still places people wouldn’t dare venture after dark. Janus Point was one of these places due to how…strange it became at night. Trees would grow on their own, orbs would appear out of nowhere, and there were even whispers of the very stones of the monument whispering to people. Even for the most powerful sorcerers it was not a place to be trifled with.

Which was precisely why Tromus kept staring into the darkness of the woods.

“Tromus, calm down. You’ll spread your nerves over to me and I can’t have nerves while I work. Sugracha scolded.

“Is the spell nearly done?” Tromus asked apprehensively.

“Just a few more steps, Master.” Daniella, their young apprentice answered. Her hands contorted as she raised them over the pedestal in the center, and a barren tree sprouted from the stone. As her hands glowed a sickly green the tree jutted out and expanded its branches like a fungus.

“Well done, Daniella.” Sugracha praised and raised five brushes into the air. Moving completely on their own the brushes began to paint on five canvases that surrounded the tree. Tromus smiled slightly as he caught eye of a large raven landing on one of the branches. The raven eyed him and cawed in greeting.

“We’re all here now. Just in time, the eclipse has almost begun.” Laterna warned as she lit her magic lantern and opened the spellbook.

“Once the totem has been recreated five times we can recite the spell.” Sugracha informed, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“And what of the princesses?” Tromus pointed out, “If anyone has caught wind of what we’re doing-“

“Thanks to your tricks, Tromus, the princesses are none the wiser.” Laterna reminded, and chuckled as the raven with them let out another caw and flapped its wings excitedly.

“I hate to interrupt your little art session!” A voice in the darkness suddenly made them all flinch and a woman donned in red armor leapt down from one of the pillars, “Actually, no I don’t.” She smirked at her opponents in a silent challenge.

“Captain Primrose!” Tromus exclaimed.

“Daniella, be a dear and deal with the soldier.” Sugracha requested.

“It would be my pleasure, Master.” Daniella smirked coldly back at the captain, the green flow returning to her hands in the form of a flame. She moved to charge at Primrose, but was stopped by a flash of light.

Daniella cried out at the sudden flash, falling to her knees.

“It’s the mage.” Laterna sneered.

“I’m almost done, just one more painting. Stall them.” Sugracha said.

“There’s no time!” Tromus demanded.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, little mage.” Another woman stepped forward, golden magic radiating from her staff. Her eyes glowed gold as she prepared another attack and Daniella growled in her direction.

“Drop the paintbrushes and nobody gets hurt. Tell us where the Separatist hideout is.” Primrose demanded. Instead of obeying Sugracha and Tromus simply smirked at her.

“Foolish child. You really have no idea, do you?” Tromus chuckled.

“Have no idea of what? What are you hiding??” Primrose demanded. But she got no answer. Instead the band of warlocks simply disappeared into a puff of smoke. Hazel lunged forward and tried to get at least one of them with a blast of magic, but she was just a second too late. All that was left of them was that blasted raven.

“Argh, fiddlesticks! We almost had them!” Primrose kicked a stray rock in frustration.

“Mother and Herz won’t be pleased with this. We were given strict orders to bring them in.” Hazel observed cooly. She was always the more even-tempered of the two sisters, but even she couldn’t deny how frustrated she was at this failure. They’d been on the trail for three days now and they’d gotten no further on this case then when they first discovered the spells Tromus had cast on them.

“Mom will understand. The Unification has been tough on everybody.” Primrose laid her weapon down and observed the crime scene left behind.

“A replication of the great tree…paintings…an old tome…what were they planning?” Primrose muttered.

“They’re cultists, Prim. Who cares what they’re planning, what matters is stopping them. If these people are in league with the Separatists, this is even bigger than we thought.” Hazel cast a few fireballs to destroy the five canvases.

“I’m not sure they’re working with the Separatists. Tromus and Sugracha are more subtle than that, they know something we don’t.” Prim kneeled down and picked up the book, carefully analyzing the pages.

“Maybe so…” Hazel mused. Primrose was certainly emotional, but she also tended to be right a lot of the time.

“Regardless, they must be apprehended as soon as possible. I’ll gather ingredients for a scrying spell. You should set up a checkpoint at the border and double the patrols. Someone in the family will certainly have to guard the Sundrop as well.” She planned out.

“Oh man, Hazel, speaking of flowers check out this cool flower doodle in here!” Primrose gasped in excitement.

“Prim, are you even listening?” Hazel scolded.

“Of course I am, you’re planning. But I’m looking for clues. Whatever they were doing has gotta be in here.” Primrose continued flipping through the pages, “Aha! This must be it, a Summoning spell!”

“A summoning spell? What on earth could they need that for? Who would they even summon?” Hazel leaned over her shoulder to translate the spell.

However as soon as she said that, the two sisters read the name written in the margins.

“Zhan Tiri…” they muttered bitterly in unison. By some unknown compulsion Hazel’s eyes drifted to the illustration of the flower again, and her heart suddenly felt tight in her chest.

“Primrose…that’s not just any flower….” Hazel realized. Prim’s eyes widened in fear as she looked at it again and fully processed just what it was.

“That’s the flower…” She whispered horrified, “Our flower, our old crest. But…but why is it in a spellbook for Zhan Tiri.”

“Only one person alive still uses our family sigil.” Hazel glanced back up to the raven. The raven stared back at her, its gaze far too human to be an ordinary bird.

“Gothel’s working with them.”

[infinitepunches]

Possibly controversial take:

As beautiful as the animation was in this short, the first episode of Star Wars: Visions season two, “Sith,”  shows a fundamental misunderstanding of Star Wars and its core concepts, and it’s a microcosm of the Disney Star Wars problem as a whole.

Lola is well-acted, charming, and likable. She’s aesthetically quintessential modern Star Wars in all the best ways. But her character and story fly in direct contrast to the whole point of Star Wars.

She’s a former Sith, probably my favorite archetype of Star Wars character. There aren’t many former Sith characters in the franchise, especially outside of Legends. We have Ventress, and Quinlan Vos (sort of). Vader and Kylo are both killed off so to avoid the “you murdered my whole family” awkwardness at the respective New Republic celebration ceremonies.

And with as rare as the trope is, this is the second time Visions has done a story line with a reformed Sith, the first being in “Ronin.” The Ronin character adheres to the Star Wars philosophy of moral obligation to good. (This is made especially clear in the sequel Ronin novel.) The Ronin began the Jedi Schism and many died because of his actions. Because of this, he believes he has a duty to hunt down and eradicate the evil he created. He is still driven by emotion, like a Sith, but the core Lucasian moral of power demanding responsibility is still there.

“Both Light and Darkness are part of the painting... part of me...” Lola says as she ignites a saber that bears a bled crystal, a sentient stone that has been tortured by her hate and pain. And she proceeds to do precisely what her old Sith master tells her to do: she murders him. Not because she wants to right her wrongs, or because she wishes to stop the spread of evil, but because she wants to be alone and get to make every choice for herself.

Somewhere along the way, we forgot that Star Wars is Christianity through a space-fantasy lens. The Jedi serve the Will of the Force. The Will is the Force is supreme above all. Jedi abandon selfish desire in exchange for service to a higher omniscient Consciousness. The Jedi are freed from the Dark Side’s corruption by their submission to the Will of the Force.

In contrast, this episode adheres to the Sith Code: “Through victory, my chains are broken.” Just like the snake in the garden, the Sith spout the lie that you can be your own god and chart your own destiny. Jedi follow prophesy. Sith defy nature. Lola’s happy ending teaches the audience that by the sheer willpower we possess, we can escape our enemies and find peace in isolation doing whatever the hell we want.

This is precisely opposite to the core philosophy taught in the Original Trilogy. Seemingly, according to this short, Luke should have stayed on the farm and “not gotten involved.”

Ironically, Lucas himself was an artist who used his artistic power for good, unlike Lola who merely wishes to retreat from conflict and make art for her own enjoyment. And where Lucas wanted to adapt ancient myths into modern mediums for the sake of future generations and their moral landscape, Disney has been motivated by a lust for greater money and power for far longer than it has owned Lucasfilm.

[rikeijo]

Today's translation #526

Yuri!!! on Life official guidebook, Toshiharu Mizutani (Art Director) interview

Part 3.

-- For sure, there is a lot of small things in the designs.

M: When I look at just the line arts, I always think that they are drawn in a very loose way, and a lot of those small things are skillfully drawn in a simplified way/omitted. It's something that only somebody with a lot of practice can do. Even newcomers can draw precisely, if they look at a drawing and try to copy it, but the most important thing is not to draw something that is not necessary. If you have to later erase something that you drew, then you give yourself twice the amount of work, but only people with a lot of skill can simply not draw too much to begin with.

-- Then it must have been a good opportunity to learn for the younger staff members, I'd guess?

M: They were all very desperate [to get the job done] and working while on the brink of death.

-- The ice in the skating scenes is very realistic, too. Was it a request from the Director?

M: Yeah. Since the first PV. Even I have watched some figure skating on DVD, so it was something that was on my mind, too. In case of ice shows, the lights are very elaborate, and your eyes are really drawn to the ice, cut with blades of skaters' shoes. Because of how it sparkles. I was wondering if it would be possible to try to achieve this effect, but I thought that if I touched this subject, we all were going to suffer, so I kept quiet. But then I decided that I want to have those cuts in the ice, after all. All were drawn on the same layer, but then split into multiple layers. We put at least three such layers on the surface of the ice.

[Notes: Long time no rant, so...

((Just in case, newer readers may not be aware, that I'm a "fujo-hater" 😂 But fret not, I'm not against seeing relationship between Yuuri and Victor as romantic or against people reading BL, but I'm very much against fujos, who as it was in the case of YoI, try to "teach"/press the creators/other staff members to make the canon bend to their doujinshi tropes.))

The talk about staff members on the brink of death reminded me about that huge controversy about MAPPA that happened last year 💀 It's not a secret that Sayo was overworking animators during YoI and there are still screenshots of animators calling her names on twitter and say condolences to each other, bc of being involved with YoI. So, YoI fandom now hating MAPPA, bc "bad MAPPA, bad working conditions, poor animators...", while demanding that they should stop producing shonens, bc they should make YoI instead is well... an example of how spending time in an echo chamber and just following the crowd can make you a huge hypocrite.

It should also be said that it's not that those shonens are "just for boys" or anything like that if we talk about this topic, btw. GoYuu from JJK (Gojo x Yuuji) is so popular with fujos that it has now more views in total on pixiv than VicYuu, and gets more views in 10-30 min than VicYuu gets in 24 hours (a huge credit for that should ofc go to YoI's IP holders, as they've been trying to starve the fandom to death since 2018, basically...) It's really ironic that it's YoI fans who are so much against MAPPA making those popular shonens, bc so many Jp VicYuu fujos moved to GoYuu (it's basically the same trope "the most awesome, strong and cool man in the world the seme" x "fujoshi avatar the main character in the center of the universe the uke") - one of the reasons, why Jp fans don't attack MAPPA - they very much enjoy those shonens. (Another is that they can read and it's very easy to check who owns the IP.)

To sum up, as always, it's very unfair for YoI fans to call Otsuka CEO the greedy homophobic liar, while absolutely refusing to see the bigger picture.]

[ellas-journey]

Time in Japan 🕰️

   Did you realize something different in the clock that the spider Oni showed Zenitsu? I will let you think. Yes, it does not have numbers. I mean it does, in the tiny clock within the clock. And there is a reason for that, the clock that he is holding is a Japanese clock. So, a clock made in Japan? Ah not really. Let me explain.    People in Japan, like in most of Asia, did not count the time like we do today. There is the conception that ancient people lived according to natural cycles, that for them the daytime was for the living and the nighttime for the dead. Taking a step further, that westerns were concerned with schedules, and non-westerners seem to act like they did not care, they did not have a time-consciousness at all. But that was not true. The way they counted time sure was different but was still a way of counting the time, they used the so called “variable hour system”.    As the name suggests, the length of the hours varied with the seasons. The day was divided in daytime and nighttime, and each divided further in 6 equal periods called koku ou toki [ji]. Each of the twelve hours had the name of an animal of the zodiac. They would know the what time it was thanks to a public time-telling bells or drums, that were installed in high towers (to those that like to read danmeis like me, you must be pretty familiarized with this concept) so that the sound would be carried into the distance.    The mechanical clock arrived in Japan trough the hands of the Jesuit missionary Francis Xavier in the 16th century. It was gifted to the daimyo of Yamaguchi - Ouchi Yoshitaka - for him to allow Christianity in his territory, as soon more of this ticking machines would be asked to the Jesuits. Even Oda Nobunaga asked Louis Frois to see this intriguing machine, and, even tho this was an “useless thing” more and more clocks were brought to Japan to be used as expensive gifts. Even the Tokugawa family loved clocks even if they hated the westerns.    You should expect that since there was a flood of clocks in Japan that they soon would adopt this way of counting the time. That was not the case. The koku system continued in Japan until 1873, were in the 5th year of the Meiji Era the Emperor decided to adopt the Western calendar and way of dividing the time. But before that, western clocks were adapted into the Japanese way of seasonal time.     They were called “Wadokei - 和時計 - Japanese clock”. Why did this happen?  Well because “the clocks were counting the wrong time of hour!” Edo people were not used at not having the distinguishing between long and short hours, so they quickly decided to adapt the various types of western clocks into their system. “The mechanism of these clocks was practically identical to that of Western devices of the sixteenth century, with the only alteration being made to the locking plate of the alarm, which was modified to allow the clock to strike the number of times according to the Edo-period hour count, which consisted of double nine-to-four countdown series” - Frumer, 2012;    While it started as a novelty, by the 18th century clocks were not a rarity anymore. “Most mechanical clocks were only available to the rich and powerful, but the emergence of the economical and less decorative type indicates that there was some demand for mechanical clocks in the general society, possibly by merchants for their practical use in knowing the precise time.” - Hashimito, 2020; While we see the most expensive and decorative ones at museum, we must not forget that is exactly these characteristics that made their owners not throw them away, because in the case of a simple one you wouldn’t even think twice. “Clocks are not different from other museum exemplars suck as pottery or lacquerware - the existence of the state-of-art object does not imply that there were no simpler versions used by people of humbler status the daimyo” - Frumer, 2012;    Japanese clocks soon started to have both the Japanese hours and western hours, like in the clock that the Oni does have! While sure by the Taisho era the Japanese society would be fully adapted to the western way of telling the time, but imagining that the Oni was a human while this was the standard way of telling the time it is understandable why he does have that clock. Plus said clock had an specific time for the sunrise so can you really blame him for sticking to that? Same with the Ubuyashiki girl clock. Since they had to track the sunrise it would be way more easy to keep an old japanese clock that was the best a doing that job!

   FRUMER, Yulia. 2012. - Clocks and Time in Edo Japan. PhD. Diss. Faculty of Princeton University;    HASHIMITO, Takehiko, 2008 - Japanese Clocks and the History of punctuality in Modern Japan. East Asian Science, Technology and Society: An International Journal, 2:1, 123-133. <https://doi.org/10.1215/s12280-008-9031-z>    Linfamy. 2022- How christians intruduced the first mechanical clocks to Japan for GOD. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQVNxAVlR44    Linfamy. 2023 - Traditional japanese clocks: 1200 years of history. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5eJgqSV6eA&t=321s     

[acepandemi]

In high school, I could've pretty much gotten away with murder. Not because I was a teacher's pet, there were a few teachers that liked me but most absolutely hated me, especially the math and art department. But because their own policies made it pretty much impossible to punish me.

They could kick me out of class all they wanted, but I'd just go to the library instead of the vice-principal's office like I was supposed to. They could give me detention but I would just... not go. Why would I? I didn't want to do detention, and usually didn't feel like I deserved it (more on that later), and what were they going to do? Make me? Hah!

You see, school policy meant that, for any kind of punishment beyond sending someone out of class or to detention (like suspension), they had to contact the parent(s)/guardian(s) of the delinquent in question.

And they tried that exactly once.

My dad has plenty of flaws, but when it came to school, teachers, and bullies, he always had my back. He was also a Stay-At-Home-Dad before that was a word, so he had all the time in the world to come to school and tell the Napoleontic powermongers that passed for teachers at my school exactly what he thought of them. And that was decidedly not anything good.

So, when my first-year math teacher dragged me into his office one day after catching me slapping one of my many bullies across the face (in self-defense after he had physically assaulted me), chewed me out for "hitting another student", nevermind what had happened before ("I don't care what he did, you do not hit people. And I didn't see that anyway, I only saw you hitting him!"), upon hearing my categorical refusal to apologise to the bully as the teacher demanded, threatened to call my father, my response amounted to: "Go ahead. Make my day."

The result of that phone call: I got ice cream after school for sticking up for myself, and Dad and the teacher arranged to have a "conversation".

The outcome of that conversation: I had to go to "Social Skills Training" (because obviously it was my fault I was being bullied), where I learned absolutely nothing useful and which made precisely zero difference in being bullied; Dad still gets an apoplexy when someone mentions that math teacher's name (as well as the vice-principal's); and nobody at that school ever contacted Dad again.

It didn't take me long to realise this made me basically untouchable, and basically say "F*ck it, I'll just do what I want from now on!". I had lost all respect for most of my teachers, because:

A) I had asked them for help so many times and got nothing. (They would "talk" to the bullies, who basically said: "It was just as joke, we won't do it again!", after which I got told by the teacher to "not be so sensitive", and of course ambushed after school by whomever I had complained about and their cronies. Since this happened outside the school, there was "nothing the school could do about it".)

B) Quite a lot of them where either racist, sexist, homophobic, ableist, all of the above, or predatory (everyone knew the Dutch teacher gave good grades to girls wearing low-cut tops, and that was the most "benign" one), and none of that flies with me.

C) About half of them barely knew what they were talking about on a good day (no idea how they managed to become teachers other than a chronic shortage of them). And screw that, I'm supposed to be learning stuff here, not pointing out daily "that's wrong", or "that has been debunked" (which did nothing for my popularity among students or staff, obviously).

...I want to add that I didn't abuse this intouchableness nearly as much as I could have. I might have been a sarcastic brat, but I wasn't actually that bad. I mostly got in trouble for "talking back" (pointing out various -isms or false information), "fighting" (defending myself from bullies), skipping school (fair, but I figured I'd learn much more in the public library or one of the local musea), "disruptive behaviour" (things that I now know were actually Autistic behaviour, like stimming or not looking at the board/the teacher while they were explaining something because that somehow made listening easier), or not doing my homework (I had no energy, even then, I'd come home from school, flop on my bed and not move untill Dad hollered upstairs that I had to go walk the dogs. I couldn't have done homework even if I wanted to [which I didn't], and my grades were fine so I didn't care.).

Yeah, I wasn't just an angsty teenager, I was a ball of rage, spite, sarcasm, frustration, undiagnosed Autism, unprocessed grief and trauma, and undiagnosed clinical depression to the point of suicidal thoughts, not to mention major trust issues. In hindsight, I needed therapy back then, but aforementioned trust issues meant I didn't talk about all this, with anyone.

I did get therapy eventually, when I hit rock bottom after my first year of university and living on my own. It took a long time to untangle all of that, but I'm doing just. So. Much. Better.

Looking back though... I sometimes think my teachers were lucky I wasn't even worse. And that I picked up the books on philosphy before the books on witchcraft.

(Kidding, the books on witchcraft taught me a lot about acceptation and respect of things that seem strange just because they're unfamiliar. One of the moments that were most influential to my way of thinking and worldview was reading the Wiccan Rede: "Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill: An it harm none, do what ye will." I still keep those words in mind, even if I'm not Wiccan. I think they're very good advice in general.)

[raayllum]

Gosh yes, your tags on that last post. Like, I don’t blame people for liking Viren, for enjoying his character, for finding him sympathetic (or attractive, even if I personally don’t). He’s a compellingly written character! But don’t be offended if people hate him or find him evil… he’s the villain, that’s literally his role in the story

"How dare this villainous character do villainous things" / "how dare the protagonist get narratively rewarded for making good choices" like do y'all even hear yourselves sometimes, y'know?

especially when - and i cannot stress this enough - tdp is for children and will ultimately have a happy ending. this isn't a grown up drama or tragedy or even a grimdark fantasy by any means. it's a hopepunk high fantasy story. people who further retaliation and violence and push people into inherently defensive positions are the 'bad guys'

like i love viren! i think he's very well written and interesting. he's a great examination of how we can lie to and martyr ourselves in a search for security that is also about status & wanting to feel special, about the harm done when trying to win a rigged system rather than solidarity in tearing a system down and making a new one. i appreciate his dry/deadpan sense of humour. he's also one of two primary antagonists in the first 3 seasons. and like, all that can coexist? it's multifaceted character writing? we all presumably passed grade 10 english class?

i also cannot emphasize the importance of being able to separate audience reaction or response from what a piece of art is actually doing or saying enough. "this story is bad because it was personally upsetting to me" without examples given or analyzed it is not well, analysis, it's just a currently very unfounded opinion. and sometimes stories are supposed to be personally upsetting, so like. you also gotta know your lanes

it's why subjective analysis is very useful but learning structural (objective) analysis is arguably more important. something can be structurally pretty weak but very enjoyable (frozen). something can be abysmal enjoyment wise but very structurally solid (1984, which i'd argue isn't meant to be enjoyed, either). and it's important to know the difference if you want to write actual analysis rather than opinion based stuff. analysis isn't necessarily better than opinion based pieces but analysis is more expansive because it can cover the subjectivity and the objectivity and more. which is precisely why i can read "the iliad" and think "wow that was good" but if i wanted to write an essay on it i'd have to do a lot more thinking because i'm demanding something greater of that artistic experience by virtue of wanting to expand on it

a lot of people take "art for art's sake" as a statement regarding the fact that art - which is inherently symbolic in its construction, even in what meaning we construe to words themselves - doesn't have to mean anything and fighting back claims that art should mean something. but i think of "art for art's sake" is more worthwhile to examine under the lens of "this art doesn't exist for the sake of capitalist consumption, but amid it, or sometimes precisely in spite of it" and like. very few things artistically have zero meaning precisely because meaning is also "what was the reasoning behind this" and if there is none (think a tattoo you got "just because") that's typically a subjective reflection of the creator and still indicative of their personality. sometimes the meaning is meaninglessness (nihilism is still a creation in response to us searching for meaning, after all)

i'm getting into the weeds now but the point is that there's definitely been an upswing in recent years of people thinking opinions = analysis and while that often is the case (particularly if that opinion is expanded upon enough to be grounded in the text and the text's context) it absolutely is not as often actual analysis as people think it is

[mightyflamethrower]

Since the 1960s, universities have always been hotbeds of left-wing protests, sometimes violently so.

But the post-October 7 campus eruptions marked a watershed difference.

Masked left-wing protestors were unashamedly and virulently anti-Semitic. Students on elite campuses especially showed contempt for both middle-class police officers tasked with preventing their violence and vandalism and the maintenance workers who had to clean up their garbage.

Mobs took over buildings, assaulted Jewish students, called for the destruction of Israel, and defaced American monuments and commentaries.

When pressed by journalists to explain their protests, most students knew nothing of the politics or geography of Palestine, for which they were protesting.

The public concluded that the more elite the campus, the more ignorant, arrogant, and hateful the students seemed.

The Biden administration destroyed the southern border. Ten million illegal aliens swarmed into the U.S. without audit. Almost daily, news accounts detail violent acts committed by illegal aliens or their surreal demands for more free lodging and support.

Simultaneously, thousands of Middle Eastern students, invited by universities on student visas, block traffic, occupy bridges, disrupt graduations, and generally show contempt for the laws of their American hosts.

The net result is that Americans are reappraising their entire attitude toward immigration. Expect the border to be closed soon and immigration to become mostly meritocratic, smaller, and legal, with zero tolerance for immigrants and resident visitors who break the laws of their hosts.

Americans are also reappraising their attitudes toward time-honored bureaucracies, the courts, and government agencies.

The public still cannot digest the truth that the once respected FBI partnered with social media to suppress news stories, to surveil parents at school board meetings, and to conduct performance art swat raids on the homes of supposed political opponents.

After the attempts of the Department of Justice to go easy on the miscreant Hunter Biden but to hound ex-president Donald Trump for supposedly removing files illegally in the same fashion as current President Biden, the public lost confidence not just in Attorney General Merrick Garland but in American jurisprudence itself.

The shenanigans of prosecutors like Fani Willis, Letitia James, and Alvin Bragg, along with overtly biased judges like Juan Merchant and Arthur Engoron, only reinforced the reality that the American legal system has descended into third-world-like tit-for-tat vendettas.

The same politicization has nearly discredited the Pentagon. Its investigations of “white” rage and white supremacy found no such organized cabals in the ranks. But these unicorn hunts likely helped cause a 45,000-recruitment shortfall among precisely the demographic that died at twice their numbers in the general population in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Add in the humiliating flight from Kabul, the abandonment of $50 billion in weapons to the Taliban terrorists, the recent embarrassment of the failed Gaza pier, and the litany of political invective from retired generals and admirals. The result is that the armed forces have an enormous task to restore public faith. They will have to return to meritocracy and emphasize battle efficacy, enforce the uniform code of military justice, and start either winning wars or avoiding those that cannot be won.

Finally, we are witnessing a radical inversion in our two political parties. The old populist Democratic Party that championed lunch-bucket workers has turned into a shrill union of the very rich and subsidized poor. Its support of open borders, illegal immigration, the war on fossil fuels, transgenderism, critical legal and race theories, and the woke agenda are causing the party to lose support.

The Republican Party is likewise rebranding itself from a once-stereotyped brand of aristocratic and corporate grandees to one anchored in the middle class.

Even more radically, the new populist Republicans are beginning to appeal to voters on shared class and cultural concerns rather than on racial and tribal interests.

The results of all these revolutions will shake up the U.S. for decades to come.

Soon we may see a Georgia Tech or Purdue degree as far better proof of an educated and civic-minded citizen than a Harvard or Stanford brand.

We will likely jettison the failed salad bowl approach to immigration and return to the melting pot as immigration becomes exclusively legal, meritocratic, and manageable.

To avoid further loss of public confidence, institutions like the FBI, the CIA, the Pentagon, and the DOJ will have to re-earn rather than just assume the public’s confidence.

And we may soon accept the reality that Democrats reflect the values of Silicon Valley plutocrats, university presidents, and blue-city mayors, while Republicans become the home of an ecumenical black, Hispanic, Asian, and white middle class.

[rpfisfine]

11, 38 and 40 😁

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII ksenia thank you so much and im sorry for answering this almost a month late!!!

11. favorite game genre?

honestly im gonna be honest the most precise definition of it would be like a third person action-adventure type thing.....i like survival horror games a lot too but in general i only play them very occasionally because they stress me out too much (although i am going to start re4 any day now) i need a game to have like an actual full-fledged storyline so most storyless fps games wouldn't be for me and i do enjoy a good rpg or in the very least being able to approach missions in a variety of different ways (which is pretty much impossible with games made by rockstar for example) but i get anxiety when there's too many choices or features like an overwhelmingly large & extensive skill tree i know that ppl always view that as a perk but it genuinely took me 2 playthroughs to not be scared of the cp77 skill menu im sorry i will kill myself......i like to think i have expanded my gaming palate over the past couple of years and obvs i love life simulation games as well & stuff like stardew valley etc but i could not survive on them alone so i think action adventure things like gta & rdr & far cry are what i enjoy the most thumbs up

38. an unpopular gaming opinion that you have

THATS SO HARD.....do i even have one wait omg....generally i think most of my gaming opinions align with the majority but one i had no idea was controversial before i stepped foot into the rdr2 tag is that i think sadie & charles are literally the blandest and most uninteresting characters in rdr2.....its not that i hate them at all i enjoy their respective contributions to the story but its so fucking annoying that any criticism of them immediately gets you labeled as some kind of sexist and a racist bc just bc sadie is a woman and charles is black for me it was mostly just abt the disappointment of opening up the game tag and being like ohhhh...so you guys think These are the most interesting characters in the game...OK.... like i just find both of them rly flat and one-dimensional (although each in a completely different way) and not as fleshed out as the other characters and would honestly be pissed as fuck if rockstar gave into the demands of everyone asking for a spin-off or god forbid a standalone game featuring them as opposed to any other characters like...give me dutch & hosea or give me death

40. best game cover art

i think its gotta be ori and the blind forest bc like come on.....lets be serious for a moment...how can you compete against this

gaming asks