#hinged to the people who follow me on main but

[hensunrik]

mutually destructive unhealthy possessive ships are so...ooough oh my god

oh to be consumed alive by that incessant need blazing agonizingly through their veins the sheer hunger to cut each other up and crawl inside the crevices of each other's body, hopelessly and seamlessly entwining every fibre of their souls until one can no longer tell their beginnings and ends apart

the need to flood and fill up every nook every cranny and fissure driving everything else out until there is no longer even the hint of space left for anyone but each other

to carve one's essence into another's bones, indelible until the winds erode the earth, to drink each other's lifeblood until that thrum of vitality echoes in the innermost hollows of the other's soul, to no longer desire to breathe air unless directly out of each other's lungs, to voraciously feast upon each other's visage, them and only them inasmuch as any other eyes that dare cast their gaze upon either of them shall be gouged out, tongues that pluck up the courage to sing sweet songs of praise will find it turn to ash as they choke and thrash and drown in their own blood, hands that audaciously reach out will find themselves mercilessly severed and ground into dust

(until the wounds they leave on each other scab and scar with a permanence etched on their molecular structure so that it is no longer possible for one to exist without the other)

i'm thinking of people so pathologically frenzied fixated and obsessed the only acceptable death is the one to come by each other's hand. the once sweetness fermenting into a drug so addictive yet so poisonous accompanying them in the next life cycle and then the next, each becoming in turn an ember and a ghost burning feverishly through mist and shadow in hopeless orbit, always watching, always ravenously looking and drinking in, helpless to resist the siren call of falling into each other's path.

to consume and destroy that which you love with your own hands as the ultimate act of devotion.

a vow once spoken like the most tender of caresses in the quiet spaces where gentleness feels indistinguishable from cruelty, now an eternal haunting and companion of torment and ruination trailing the frayed tatters of a bond stubbornly persevering through oblivion and fire and brimstone, to the ends of the world itself,

to collide, to devour, to subsume, to fester, a virulent regrowth

and the cycle starts anew

[cyberm4n]

alastor and lucifer sharing you pt 2!

(i tagged people who commented asking for part 2 but lmk if you want to be untagged)

pt1, pt3

tags: @lu-ferri12 @my-anime-garden @princessdreamss @polytheatrix

cw: explicit smut, not thoroughly proofread, lucifer has a daddy kink, still in a hinge type relationship, hints to radioapple if you squint

other: i wrote part of this while very high so if there's a random perspective change just know i was cooking so hard with writing that i forgot to write in 2nd person pov

■ let's be honest neither of them are particularly interested in the other halfs involvement in this equation

■ but it's incredibly hard to deny that they work well together with you in the bedroom

■ when they want to, of course.

■ so there's a silent agreement between them that they usually put their beef aside cause like. they have you atleast.

■ i think alastor would still want to be close though, so most often your head is laid in his lap or he's touching you somehow

■ but there is a VERY strict line of sight he follows because depending on what exactly is going on this position makes it far too easy for the two men to just be staring at each other and that is 100% a no go for them

■ which i mean, fair enough

■ lucifer does tend to get a little possessive on the rare occasion alastor decides he wants to participate a little

"oh sweetheart, daddy is making you feel so good, right?" he would coo at you as he bullies his cock into you again.

alastor, tilting your head back with his hand, claws scraping at the soft skin of your neck. a good portion of your upper body is laid out on him, his other hand pinning your arm down.

"eyes on me, darling" he'd say, only for lucifer to give a particularly rough thrust, trying to get your attention back.

the main ground rule you had set is that they were not allowed to bicker with each other during intimate moments, so after a whine escapes your throat the two set it aside. for now.

■ i feel like alastor is strictly a dom, especially considering most of the time he's not really physically participating

■ lucifer id say is more of a service top. he wants you to feel good and he wants to know how good you feel.

■ i think he'd bottom if you really wanted him too but like only if he gets to make you feel good yk

■ alastor does particularly enjoy watching lcuifer go down on you, seeing you writhe in pleasure and moan so sweetly is like music to his ears.

■ he'd love to broadcast this

■ there is sometimes alastor takes a complete backseat though

■ maybe he's not in the mood or just wanting a different angle

■ so that's how you ended up riding lucifer while alastor gleefully watches from a chair beside the bed

"s'ok princess, you can do it" lucifer would say, hands on your hips as he guides you down on his cock. you squirm and whimper as he stretches you open.

with his guidance you start gently grinding your hips down, and lucifer lulls his head back, sweet praises falling out of his mouth.

"fuck.. that's it. ride daddy's cock. you're such a good girl" he'd moan as he rubs your clit. it's not long before he gets impatient though, wanting to hear more moans coming out of his pretty girl, hands returning to your hips as he bucks into you.

"you like it when he watches?" lucifer practically growls, hips thrusting up harder now. "cmon baby, talk to me" he'd gently tut, slowing down to such a painfully slow pace.

you're practically reduced to nothing, giving a weak moan, both of their smiles growing wider. "such a good duckling, letting daddy get his fill. gonna fill you up princess" lucifer says as he pulls you in for a sloppy kiss, another thing lucifer loved to do.

■ alastor has never been a fan of the more personalized petnames lucifer calls you

■ "duckling" "ducky" "doll"

■ but he has some of his own

you're on your knees in alastors radio tower, the very rare occasion lucifer just isnt feeling up to it. he's never been a big fan of receiving head, and he's just not feeling it today, comfortably sat in a chair.

alastor on the other hand, his hands are wound tight into your hair as you suck him off. "oh my sweet doe, so desperate to please" alastor would purr, feeling your tongue swirl around his cock.

"i understand why you... indulge so often. our little pet is such a people pleaser, isn't she?" he'd chime to lucifer, who doesn't respond, not really atleast.

■ but aftercare

■ oh aftercare from these two is amazing

■ the only time they firmly agree with each other and leave everything else behind is during after care.

■ it doesn't matter which of them you want or what you want they're gonna make it happen

■ if you want both of them that's great! and they definitely won't get mildy possessive of you at all!!

■ lucifer is definitely a big cuddler

■ and i feel like alastor would be about praise and affirmations, especially after playing "bad cop" the whole time.

■ not that he minds that, mind you.

"darling you were amazing, im so proud of you" he'd say in a much gentler tone, stroking your hair as you lay on lucifers chest, whos pressing soft kisses across your face.

lucifers hands trace soft circles on your back as they both murmur affections to you, and when you finally slump your forehead to lucifers shoulder, they both breathe out a smile.

if he's feeling particularly charitable, lucifer will nod to alastor to take you, to cuddle with you. most of the time alastor declines respectfully, still not really prone to expose himself to touch.

but on the rare occasion he takes the offer, switching places as he cuddles into you, lucifer cracks a little smile.

they really do make a good team, don't they?

[ultrapoppet]

About the whole who's the mother in the unholy family topic, actually neither. But who you assign it to depends of your relationship with your mom figure or depiction of moms you're used to seeing in media. I'm leaning towards Lestat as a classic evil stepmom who forces Cluadia to becomes his dad's caretaker. But they both have mom moments at different times.

About the whole feminization of Louis which some fans take way too seriously, again they're both men. But as Florence aptly put it, their nails are manicured. And honestly looking for the woman in the relationship is kind of a Florence take (rip you'd loved fauxmoi).

Regarding the housewife comment which is something Claudia says to Louis to rile him up against Lestat and people take way too literally, show me when this man washed a single dish? He was a hoarder and mostly just ignored his husband that's literally the opposite of a dotting housewife.

But more seriously, even though Lestat is the more powerful person in the relationship, the abused housewife dynamic hinges on sexism and socialization of women that Louis just doesn't exprience. Mainly:

Women are socialized to associate their value with being wives and mothers. They are judged more harshly for divorce and are expected to put up with a lot more to save the marriage. It was legal and common for men to beat their wives and women were expected to put up with it. Louis was socialized to be the patriarchal husband and the provider. And society was not encouraging Louis to keep sodomizing with a white man. Society very much wanted him to not be in a biracial gay relationship and go settle with Hazel instead. On both sides.

There are a system of laws and social roles put into place to keep women dependant on men. Both in terms of financial dependence and the spaces single women are allowed to coccupy. Louis didn't have Lestat's fuck you money then but he was born rich and as a man he was allowed to own and invest that money. We never see him not be well off. He could comfortably live as a single man and face way less judgment than he did with Lestat.

I hate it but Claudia venturing out on her own as a young looking woman and a less physically powerful vampire and having to deal with bruce vs Louis hunting the gay population by cruising shows the contrast well between what men and women usually face in society.

This whole thing feels like another way for Louis fans who are super attached to the idea of him as a helpless victim to give Louis even more disadvantages than he actually had. He is a man. He is rich. He was a pimp. Instead of dragging sexism into this, stick to Louis sacrificed himself by *insert event* posts idk.

About the whole baby trapping argument, Louis is the one who wants Cluadia. He's the one who makes promises Lestat wants to hear to coax and convince him and Lestat gives in and does it for Louis. If anyone baby trapped anyone it was Louis baby trapping himself. Except the baby convinced Louis to finally leave and Lestat was ready to abort it a few decades in.

Also I'd argue that since they mostly live outside of human society, Lestat's main power over them is being an older, more powerful vampire which is a role that can be occupied by a woman. Although vampires still follow human patriarchal norms so probably not many women became coven leaders and it's also unlikely a woman would've acted the way Lestat did.

Also interesting that the qualities Louis displays that get called feminine by fans, mainly being passive which yikes, are actually not a main trait in the one female charachter in the show or the women of vc. But more female fans seem to identify with Louis than they do with Claudia because there are more depressed girls on this website (who low key want to fuck Lestat) than plot murder girls.

[ohtobeleah]

Day Twenty [Nobody Can]

Summary: When a killer clown guts you like a fish, Bob is the one who stumbles upon you. Only to never come face to face who the person who did this to you.

Warnings: Bob Floyd x Seresin!reader. main Character deaths. Gore. Blood. Violence.

Word Count: 1.6k

Whumptober Prompt Day Twenty: Enemy/Stranger to caretaker, “I’m absolutely not qualified for this shit.”

Author Note: Please make sure you read the warnings provided. Disclaimer: I do not condone nor endorse the actions that are written about during the month of October. These works of fiction are just that, fiction and should be treated as such. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for this year's prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

“AH!” 

Diabolical forces are formidable. Those forces are external, and they exist today. The fairy tale is true. The devil exists. God exists. And for us as people, our very destiny hinges on which one we elect to follow. 

“Y/n? Was that you?” Bob Floyd had never liked you all that much. It wasn’t that you were a rude, hostile, or violent person by any means. No. It was more the fact he couldn’t stand your brother. Jake Seresin. That alone was enough for Bob to make a judgment call he thought was pretty on point for who you were. However, Bob was too kind of a person to completely ignore you. So, he tolerated your presence whenever you were in town. 

For a half-sibling, Jake had always been your biggest supporter. Your greatest protector. Your best friend. But right now? As you lay in a pool of your own blood on the floor of some wack-ass haunted house he’d invited you along to, Jake was nowhere to be seen. 

Never in your wildest dreams had you ever thought something like this would happen to you. This only ever happened in the movies, or some poorly punctuated fanfiction written at five-thirty in the afternoon the day before it was due for a prompt update. Things like this never happened in real life. Killer clowns in haunted houses on Halloween Eve? Yeah right. 

“Y/n?” Bob's voice dragged your mind from the inner workings of the Rolodex that was about to play out your life before your weakening eyes. “What are you doing?” It was something to hold onto though. Something to keep the very limited amount of blood still left inside you, pumping around. Oxygenating enough to keep you alive. 

“B-bob,” It was weak, so weak in fact you were left unsure if Bob had actually heard you. “H-elp me,” You begged barely above a whisper as you clutched at your stomach. Deep gushing blood spewed through your fingers as the blood-soaked shirt you wore absorbed enough oozing red to weigh you down. There was so much blood. Everywhere you looked seemed to be red. It stained your skin enough to show the small delicate lines that littered your hands like a sketchbook of memories. 

For Bob, this was all too much. First, the haunted house made him want to die at every corner he rounded. Then, he got separated from the group, making his anxieties skyrocket to new heights yet explored. And now? You’d decided to pull a stunt like this. And not a classy one at that either. 

“You and your brother really do my head in with your pranks” Bob shook his head in defeat. “This is just,” Bob couldn’t say what he really wanted to say, he didn’t want his mother rolling in her grave. “This is just upsetting to look at.” Even in his own anger, Bob could never raise his voice at you. His calmness, however, was usually something Bob relied on in situations requiring level-headedness. And that was about to be his biggest weakness. 

“Not. A. Prank,” You laid there on the floor in a secluded spot in the haunted house looking up at Bob, who thought you were messing with him. Sure you’d pulled a few pranks in the past whenever you’d come to visit your brother. But this wasn’t your doing. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t fake. This was life and death. “Help me, please!” 

Bob stood there in idle mode for a minute longer than you would have liked him to. He stood looking down at you, bleeping out and cupping your intestines back into your body. Then it clicked. Holy shit… You weren’t trying to pull a prank on him. You were hurt, badly. 

“Oh my gosh, Y/n!” Bob finally snapped into action as he knelt down beside you. His hands immediately took over applying pressure against the open gash that had sliced through muscle and layers of fat and skin across your stomach. Your blood seeped through Bob’s fingers, kissing his fingerprints as he did so. “What the hell happened?” The look of pure terror that emanated off Bob’s face was enough to tell you that this was bad. Very bad. So bad in fact you could see yourself not making it. 

Not that you didn’t already think this situation was bad, hell, you knew that the second you saw your lower intensities spilling from your stomach. You weren’t a rocket scientist but you could conclude pretty easily after seeing something no human should ever see outside their own body, that you were in fact, screwed. 

“One of the c-clowns,” You tried to explain to Bob as he assessed your injuries. “Attacked me, with–an axe!” You never expected it. As you rounded one of the corners inside the haunted house, using your hands on the walls to guide you, you walked right into it as he swung. A sharp, bloodied axe. Right to the lower abdomen. It damn near split you in two. 

“Wh-where are the others?” Bob stuttered as little as he looked around the dimly lit hallway. Still holding you in his arms. “HELP! SOMEBODY!” 

“Shhh!” You pleaded with the aviator who you hadn’t always been the kindest to. You should have at least stayed till morning when you’d gone home with Bob three nights ago. You should have at least given him a reason as to why you didn’t want Jake to know you’d slept together. Maybe if you’d just told the truth and explained to Bob that you really did like him… it’s just that you didn’t think you were his speed. His type. Good enough for him. It was you, not him. 

Maybe then Bob would have liked you a little more. Maybe. Or maybe he’d still love you enough to pretend to hate you. 

Jake had always tormented you about having a crush on one of his colleagues. There wasn’t that much of an age difference, but Jake always had a way of teasing you about it. 

“He’ll hear you!” The blood you coughed up made Bob’s eyes well with adrenaline. Just how was he supposed to help you?

“We need to get you out of here,” Bob explained as he started taking his shirt off. “I need you to hold this against yourself to stop the bleeding. It wasn’t a matter of if you could stop the bleeding. It was a matter of how long you could prolong the enviable. 

“What are you–you gonna do?” You asked as you took hold of Bob’s crumpled-up shirt now pressed against your stomach. Immediately soaking up your crimson-red blood. 

“I’m absolutely not qualified for this shit,” Bob hissed through gritted teeth as he musted up all the courage he had to pick you up bridal style. “I’m gonna get you outta here, what the hell does it look like I’m gonna do, Y/n? Leave you here to die?” 

The sarcasm was tasteless in a time like this, but you bit back nevertheless. “You thought I was pranking you!” You tried to yell. But as you tensed more blood oozed out of your mouth. Your nose. Your ears. All the while Bob carried you through the haunted maze of windy corridors and false exits. “You think so little of me.” 

“Only because I thought we had something,” Bob confessed as he carried your bleeding self through the darkness. “So do me a favour here and don’t die, so that you can tell me to my face after I save your life how wrong I am, and that you love me the same way I love you.”

It was enough to have you fighting to keep yourself awake. It was just enough. Bob’s words sat heavy in your chest as he carried you closer to safety through the world’s most unrealistic haunted house ever erected. The only thing even remotely realistic was that stupidly terrifying clown. 

“I’ll try,” You replied weakly. Bob made eye contact with you for a few seconds. He carried you like dead weight in his arms, trying his very best to get you to safety. He may have felt some kind of way about you know but he didn’t want you to die. And he certainly didn’t want you to die like this. 

Diabolical forces are formidable. Those forces are external, and they exist today. The fairy tale is true. The devil exists. God exists. And for us as people, our very destiny hinges on which one we elect to follow. 

The only sound he made was a faint ‘Ugh’ sound before you were sent hurdling towards the floor in a heap of twisted lifeless limbs. You weren’t sure what had happened. Maybe Bob had tripped. In the fuss, you had been crushed you all of Bob’s dead weight. 

More blood oozed out of your deep wounds as you tried to escape from underneath Bob. But as you moved, you saw it. The axe sticking out of the back of Bob’s head. Now split like a coconut. Gushing blood as his body twitched above you in a heap. 

You wanted to scream, but you couldn’t. Your eyeline caught the clown shoes standing off in the near distance. Your eyes trailed up the legs, and the torso and even saw the grotesque mask splattered in what would could only assume was Bob’s blood. The chainsaw in the clown’s hand made your heart stop inside your chest. Fuck.

But it wasn’t until the clown removed the mask that you truly saw the face of pure evil. All the blood still left inside your body ran cold. 

“If I can’t have him, no one can.” Natasha chuckled as she made her way over to you. Chainsaw at the ready. 

[supersaiyanjedi14]

STAR WARS REBELS APPRECIATION WEEK Day 1: Favorite Character

This is a toughie. If there is one thing that stands out about Rebels, it's the incredibly awesome characters. From a fun, lovable main cast with amazing dynamics and chemistry with each other, to memorable supporting characters that added some great life to the series, to an array of fun and intimidating villains, the characters of this series were a highlight, both the originals made for the show and the returning faces from previous Star Wars series. As such, picking a favorite is no easy task. But, end of the day, there are two that stand out the most to me at least.

Be it as their own characters or as a relationship, Kanan and Ezra were not only the centerpiece of the show, but easily my favorite part of it. From Kanan's end, we see someone who gradually reclaims an identity that was stolen from him by the Empire and that he initially tried to distance himself from for years, eventually coming into his own as a Jedi and refusing to sit by while the evil that scarred him continues its tyranny. For Ezra, we follow the story of a boy who lost his family to the Empire, yet was able to regain it through his relationships with the Ghost crew, slowly transitioning from an embittered street rat to someone committed to never allowing people to suffer the same fate he did. And a massive chunk of their respective development hinged from their dynamic with each other. Through their bond and adventures, Kanan and Ezra not only managed to define and hold to what it means to be a Jedi in a post-Order 66 galaxy, but also helped each other move on and recover from their respective traumas, their relationship being just as much that of a father and a son as it was a teacher and a student.

And that doesn't even scratch the surface of how fun both of them are. Both had their moments of being funny, tragic, heartwarming, and being complete badasses along the way. I loved how Kanan could be a great mix of stern leader, exasperated dad, wise mentor, and wisecracking action hero at any given time. And the fact that, for all his self-doubt and pain, he never really teetered on the edge of the dark side goes to show how one can still be good and kind even the most horrific of circumstances. Ezra was snarky, energetic, and pretty relatable as he got into his various hijinks, and I remember getting excited to see where he would go next and how he would grow form his experiences.

There's a lot of other stuff I could touch on. Kanan's sacrifice in Season 4 being one of the most heartbreaking moments of television I've ever seen. The various parallels and contrasts between Ezra and Luke that made me love him so much. Their relationships with Hera, Zeb and Sabine. I could talk about all of it If I had time to be here all day. For now, here they are. Ezra Bridger and Kanan Jarrus. Spectres 6 and 1, my favorite characters from one of my favorite Star Wars properties ever.

[magpod-confessions]

Alright, I'll say it. And I mean this as someone who really loves TMA (just started it last month, and nearly finished it, so if anything changes in the last season then, great!) but...

The show has a really bad problem with its female characters. Whyyyy are nearly all of the female characters horrible people?

Even oftentimes the one off characters in statements tend to be written more favorably if they're male. Nearly all moms in the show are some manner of neglectful or cruel (whereas fathers are usually seen as kind and/ or dead with fond memories attached) , ALL of the main female cast past season 1 are extremely hostile for no reason, and just. They really feel like they act in ways people in their position shouldn't or wouldn't just to have them be purposely unlikeable. Like, what do you MEAN you're ok with violent murder to satisfy urges foisted upon someone by an all powerful entity, but draw the line at nightmares that seem like they can be managed after a point?? What do you MEAN you think Jon is working against you intentionally but also mock him for getting kidnapped and tortured?? Why are the staff written as bullies that never get told they're being harsh except by Martin (a male!!!) .

None of this makes sense! The writing for the female characters is inconsistent and seems - oftentimes - hinged on whatever would piss the viewer off the most at the time. With so little logic or reasoning.

The only female characters that aren't written as horrible or excessively annoying people (or dead by the time we even HEAR about them), are like. Sasha. In season 1. Who was killed. And Helen, who unfortunately was forced to be Michael's following act, and therefore always going to be in his shadow. awesome.

Daisy does, admittedly, get a lot better and more complex as a character in season 4. But everyone else's personality seems to be "hate Jon and also herself". Don't even get me started on Basira and how she treats everyone post season 1.

Gertrude is callous and morally grey. I actually think that's awesome, but it's unfortunately symptomatic of a bigger problem when you notice how many female characters do extremely callous and/ or abusive things like she did (without having the 'badass, cunning old woman fighting against all odds' thing going for them). Except Sasha. Who died. Maybe Agnes? From the Desolation? Ah, but she had feelings, and therefore died. Right, sorry.

Does this not rub anyone else the wrong way?

.

[ianthe-is-a-bitch-and-i-love-her]

@meowyautistickitten you didn't explicitly say, but I'm gonna limit myself to books with a butch or masculine woman as a primary protagonist. Since you didn't specify genre, I'll try to give a variety, and I'll focus on characters who think about themselves in butch or masculine terms, rather than just those with a butch or masculine style.

Backwards to Oregon is a historical romance novel about a woman named Luke who lives primarily as a man and is traveling the Oregon trail in the hopes of starting a horse ranch. She has a run in with a prostitute named Nora and her young daughter and, on an impulse, offers to marry Nora so that her daughter can grow up with legitimacy and better prospects. What follows is a very sweet romance obstructed by the fact that Luke is desperate to keep her true gender hidden from Nora, while Nora is desperate to figure out what the fuck Luke's deal is and how she can make sure she and her daughter don't get abandoned. You could probably construct an argument for Luke being transmasc of some variety, but my read was very much that Luke's main objection to being perceived as a woman is all the limits that would put on her behavior - they wouldn't let a woman wear pants and be one of the boys, after all. Be aware that this is set during the US westward expansion and is not particularly interested in interrogating the ethics and politics of that movement. It's not egregiously racist towards native Americans, but their voices definitely aren't being centered. Also, on account of being an older book, some of the ways the author writes about gender read weird to a modern audience.

She Who Became the Sun is historical fantasy fiction following Zhu, a peasant girl in Yuan dynasty China who steals the identity of her dead brother to try to avoid her prophecied fate of oblivion, and winds up involved in a rebel movement. This one has romance, but is much more focused on political and military maneuvering, with a large emphasis on interpersonal conflict. Fair warning that the time period is both brutal and quite prejudiced, and Zhu is absolutely ruthless. Zhu is also much more gender ambiguous, not necessarily butch - her modes of behavior with people who know that she is not a cis man, and the ways she thinks about herself, read to me as some shade of nonbinary.

The Traitor Baru Cormorant follows the titular Baru as she works to infiltrate the government of the imperial power that colonized her homeland and bring it down from within. The series deals extensively with gendered expression and expectations and how those vary across cultural lines - I don't know that I'd call Baru strictly butch, but she definitely enjoys playing a masculine role from time to time, with one of her plots later in the series hinging on the fact that a particular culture would consider her a man because of how she acts and presents herself. This is probably my favorite series of all time; if you somehow hadn't heard about it from me already, be warned that these books deal extensively with colonialism, homophobia, sexism, and racism, and they don't pull any punches. The first book will probably break your heart - if you don't do well with tragedies, then approach with caution.

Hopefully one of those sparks your interest! Thanks for the ask :)

[cowboyfromh3ll]

Heyyy there💖 First off i’d just like to say how obsessed i am with your fics🥹 they are perfect and you really nail the characters perfectly so here’s my request if you don’t mind:

Could i request an angsty fic with Arthur where he and the reader used to be together when they were teenagers and they joined the gang together but the reader left after a few years because she has such an innocent personality (kind of like Mary-Beth) and she just didn’t want to live in the gang with criminals so when she leaves she breaks Arthur’s heart. But they stumble into each other in Valentine (where she works as a waitress) when Arthur, Javier, Charles and Bill go to the saloon. At first their interaction goes very good until that fight breaks out where Arthur beats Tommy, after that the reader is in tears because she hates violence so she storms off behind the saloon but Arthur follows her and it’s there where they start arguing and throwing insults where the reader says that she left cause she didn’t wanna be associated with criminals so Arthur calls her naive and is extra mean to her because he can’t hold all his built up anger and judgment towards her decision to leave him anymore. When he returns to camp that night he can’t stop thinking about their heated interaction so he returns to Valentine to find her and apologise for his rough words.

Sorry for this extra long request but i just love how perfect and detailed your fics are so i knew you would be the best to turn to for this request😊🫶🏻

All We Ever Wanted Was Everything

(Arthur Morgan x Ex!Fem!Reader Angst/Fluff)

No smut sorry didn't feel like adding it, also thank u so much ur compliments mean so much to me 😭

Warnings: arguing, depictions of violence, blood

Intimacy is the art of licking wounds. And the way Arthur loved was akin to the way a dog nurses an open wound, laving tongue and bared teeth and all. The truth was, Arthur longed to be loved so much that it made him sick. The smallest gesture of affection would bring a lump to his throat, and when he would inevitably fall into his grave, it would seep with all the longing he’s ever done. But like a dog, he dangles on his leash; and his need grows teeth. There are teeth marks on everything Arthur has ever loved.

Valentine was bleak, but it still maintained that hustle and bustle of a well-oiled machine. The town saw the daily passage of horse drawn carriages and hard working folks. Though everyone seemed to be there unwillingly, as though they had nowhere else to go; as though this was the only option they had. Such was the case for Arthur. He found himself left with no choice but to acquaint himself with the people of Valentine as the gang moved further east. The main road down Valentine had taken on the pungent weight of horse manure and wet earth. Arthur’s heavy leather boots stomped through mud, leaving deep, smeared imprints that proved he had been there. They traced him all the way towards the saloon, where he so ungracefully tracked more mud up the wooden steps and inside the establishment. He heard Javier’s voice call out distantly from inside.

He pushed open the dusty wooden doors of the saloon, the hinges groaning and squeaking as it let in another customer (it seemed even the furniture was equally as weary as the townspeople). The poignant scent of sweat, body odor, and what could otherwise simply be described as testosterone hung lowly amidst herds of inebriated men. The low hum of chatter and the lively playing of piano was nearly drowned out by Javier’s obnoxious hollering. He eyed the ox skull hanging decoratively on the wooden pillar ahead of him, as well as the dull, peeling wallpaper. The place was kempt, but just barely. Similar to the town outside, with folks just as tired and hard working coming through here. He approached Javier and Charles at the bar, who were accompanied by two women. Even with their backs turned to him, Arthur could tell they were escorts. With one of them having an off the shoulder blouse, a beguiling attempt at appearing more enticing; her burnt orange hair tied lowly into a bun that rested just above a black choker. Her counterpart was of a darker complexion, and she sported a floral top with a singular black braid cascading down her right shoulder; they both wore long purple skirts. Arthur sneered. ‘Unbelievable’ he thought to himself.

“Oh, Arthur!” Javier looked surprised to see him, his enthusiasm suggesting ulterior motives. Javier was not yet reeling drunk, but he was working on it (Arthur could tell the moment he saw the group raising shots together when he walked in).

“Arthur, Arthur, come here, come here, come over here” Javier pulled Arthur in by his shoulder, the rest of the group turning to face him. Wordlessly, he looked at Charles and gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

“I want you to meet our new friends.” Javier added.

Arthur looked utterly unimpressed by Charles and Javier’s ‘friends’. Arthur stood to the side, eyeing the women up and down, the ginger one busty, exhibiting her cleavage almost proudly. He could tell the two men were here for a lay. Though perhaps, he supposed they were fulfilling their duty of acquainting themselves with the townspeople after all.

“Pleased to meet you.” Arthur greeted flatly, nodding his head.

“Well ain't you just the tough as teak mountain man.” One of the women teased coyly.

“Oh, you be quiet, Anastasia! Anyone can tell this one is a pussy cat!” The other one added.

Javier seemed to butt in overzealously.

“Exactly, yes he’s a pussy…cat. Ain't that so Arthur?” Javier seemed entranced by these women, his judgement clouded by lust. Arthur thought it only bothersome. Charles said nothing the whole time, but Arthur knew he was just as enraptured as Javier was; spanning one of his hands behind one of the women's backs.

“Whatever you say.” Arthur murmured. “How much you cost anyway?”

The women looked at him scornfully.

“Well ain’t that a nice way to talk to a lady?” One of them said sarcastically. Javier and Charles looked on awkwardly, unsure of how to aid the situation.

“Oh, I didn’t know I was talking to a lady.” Arthur put emphasis on lady, even stepping forward to punctuate his sarcasm. That seemed to be the last straw, as the two women excused themselves and walked elsewhere, their unwillingness to stick around any longer suggesting that years in their business had diminished their tolerance for such derision. Javier and Charles looked on in disappointment, watching as the objects of their desires made themselves scarce.

“Well, I must say, you got a fine way with the women amigo…” Javier sighed in defeat, retreating back to the bar and leaning his elbows on the counter.

“Yeah, a regular and dandy charmer.” Arthur humored. He picked up one of the abandoned shots of whisky on the counter, throwing back the liquid and letting it simmer its way down his gullet. He cleared his throat, not expecting it to be quite so potent. Valentine's saloon didn’t feel quite as dismal as Arthur had expected, despite its appearance. Valentine had its fair share of shady gray alleyways and sordid, dodgy customers ducking in and out of low dark doorways, but the bar seemed lively enough.

“Is there anything else I can get you boys?” A strangely familiar voice called out. It was soft, but very sharp. It cut through Arthur’s tedious judgment like a serrated knife through butter. Pleasantly easy, but jarring. Arthur looked up, blinking away disbelief, as he beheld what he thought might’ve been a mirage in the middle of this stalemate of a town.

Arthur’s eyes squinted as he studied your face, noting with fondness the familiar way your eyes looked at him with a deep seated compassion. Your hair seemed to float around you almost angelically, the wispy ends of your hair illuminated by the gentle lighting coming in from the saloon windows— making it appear as though you were materializing from a dream. But when the hardness of your silhouette came into focus, you proved to be very real. Your hands maintained the same gentleness they had years ago. Your skin had matured wonderfully into a sophisticated womanhood. You had matured wonderfully. Arthur could still see teeth marks all over you.

“(Name)?” Arthur whispered. He watched the way your face hardened with realization before melting into a warm smile.

“Arthur?” You breathed, tightening your fists and digging your nails into your palm as if it would wake you up from this dream-like sequence. Charles and Javier looked at each other knowingly, a silent agreement between the two of them to move away from the obviously intimate scene. Arthur barely took notice of their absence; he was too entranced by the sight before him.

“Oh my god…” Your disbelief turned into happiness, your gasps turning into airy laughs. “How long has it been?” You exclaimed, becoming suddenly very excited. Part of you wanted to jump over the counter and pat Arthur down, unable to fathom that this was really him. Out of some sort of second instinct, you placed your hand over his, as if touching him would ground you in reality. He flinched, but he did not move his hand away, rather, he felt a sprinkling of butterflies in his stomach. Unlike yours, his hands had a new roughness to them, decorated with scars and calluses. These hands held stories; memories.

“How have you been?” You asked, feeling the faint but familiar feeling of tears well up in your eyes. Arthur was bashful, you could tell from the way he was hiding his face with his hat, not quite capable of looking you in the eye again.

“I’ve been just fine.” He smiled politely and nodded, fully taking your hand into his and rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. There was a shakiness in the way he did this; you felt his hands tremble softly. In another act of familiarity, you placed your other hand over his, cupping his own fully. There was a noticeable tension in you as you contemplated your next question.

“You still ride with…uh…” You did not complete your sentence. Both of you knew you didn’t need to. He nodded in response, his smile hardening.

“Yes, still do.”

“Well… it’s good to hear you’re doing good Arthur.” You smiled. The two of you exchanged committal half smiles, not yet letting go of one another’s hands. You seemed to study each other for a moment, and despite customers calling for you, Arthur did not want you to go. And you seemed in no hurry to go either.

You shook your head gently in contemplation.

“Arthur, I… I’ve missed—”

In the not so far off distance, you listened, then watched, as two men bumped into each other. Your stomach dropped in fear as you watched the bigger of the two head-butt the other man, knocking him into a table occupied by patrons. Your hands tightened around Arthur’s as you heard a bottle break, and in a split second, the hammer dropped; the entire bar dissolving into a brawl. All around you, fists began flying and chairs were picked up, as men knocked into eachothers and swung in their clumsy, drunken haze. The testosterone in this saloon alone was nearly tangible. You looked to your left and watched the few women there flee out the back door. With Arthur’s hand still in your own, you began walking towards the back, half expecting him to come along with you.

But to no one’s surprise, and to your disappointment, you watched as he turned his back and threw himself headfirst into the fight. As the only woman there now, you felt safest behind the bar. You feared that if you stepped out, you’d be caught in someone’s flurry of fighting. You backed into the mahogany cases of liquor behind you, feeling the way the bottles vibrated and shook with the far off slamming of bodies against the floor. Your eyes remained fixated on Arthur, and you felt your blood run cold when you saw a man come at him, putting his entire body weight into swinging at him.

His name caught in your throat, but it quickly died down when Arthur dodged the punch, stepping to the side before landing a flurry of punches to the man, kicking him away with his boot. You watched in morbid mesmerization as Arthur continued to fight the man, the fight bordering on unfair as Arthur easily out did the man with skill born of experience. His face was already beginning to bruise a nasty red and deep purple after each punch he took, but Arthur never faltered. Eventually, he knocked the man out cold against a chair, and relentlessly, Arthur moved onto the next. He headed to a group of three men this time, seemingly on his way to help his friend; the same man who started this entire fight.

Arthur’s determination seemed to be helping his friends out of losing fights; it appeared this was something he was used to. Like it was just another daily occurrence for him. But to you, this senseless fighting had no other meaning than to prove who could punch harder.

“What the hell is going on down here?!” Another burling man came stomping down the stairs, his ego just as big as he was, it seemed. Only a man with an inflated sense of self would insert himself into this mess, you thought. You ducked behind the counter, but peered over just enough so that you could see what was going on. You looked to your left, briefly, and saw another one of Arthur’s companions fighting a man. Another man pleaded with this “Tommy” to not involve himself. Your throat became dry as you saw him, with ease, knock back Arthur’s other friend.

Arthur tried to approach Tommy and Javier, but was promptly jumped by another man who wrapped his arm around his neck from behind. Arthur had to continually jab his elbow into the man in order to get him off, the struggle ensuing for excruciatingly long. As soon as Arthur threw him off, he made sure to turn around and land a punch in his jugular, knocking him out. Arthur’s fighting would’ve impressed you, if not for the fact you were terrified.

“Javier could use some help, Morgan!” Bill called out from across the bar.

You watched in terror as Arthur confidently, and calmly, sauntered up behind Tommy, who was ruthlessly slamming Javier into a table over and over, before landing a punch behind Tommy’s head. The impact barely seemed to phase Tommy, before he calmly turned around and punched Arthur across the jaw. The sound of fist meeting flesh made you squirm, especially when it was Arthur’s. You nearly shrieked as you watched Tommy grapple Arthur’s shoulders brutishly before throwing him over the same table. His body tumbled over the surface before landing on the floor with a grunt and a thud. To add insult to injury (and even more injury), Tommy walked around the table and picked Arthur up off the floor once again, before sending his body crashing through the saloon window.

“Oh my god!” You screamed, not caring for your own safety anymore as you followed the scene outside.

Arthur crashed through the glass, gaining new cuts and bruises as he rolled off the wooden porch and onto the mud. He skid across the earth, smothering his jacket and pants with filth. He stood wearily, taking notice of the crowd forming around them. Cold rain poured down on him, only making the surface beneath him even more slippery.

“Come on, pretty boy.” Tommy’s voice was gravelly as he marched down the wooden steps, a parallel to the way Arthur had marched up them earlier.

“Pretty boy? You’re kidding me. Pretty boy?” At this point, Arthur wasn’t sure why he was fighting. To not die, he supposed. He could’ve stepped away at an earlier point, but pride did not allow him to. Now he was stuck in this. The two sized each other up as they got into fighting stances, then Tommy stepped forward and grabbed Arthur’s neck, throwing him to the side.

You heard a cacophony of horrified screams, disapproving howls, and cheers for either Tommy or Arthur. You saw the rage sizzling in Arthur, and felt a combination of pity, horror, and disappointment. It’d been so many years since you last saw him, so many you had lost count, and this was the first time you had seen him since then. The only thing that had changed was how his eyes and hands had hardened. And suddenly, the calluses and cuts on his knuckles that you had seen earlier seemed to explain themselves.

For a moment, Tommy seemed to have gotten the upper hand on Arthur, and you feared the worst. You weren’t sure how far this would go, but your body flinched with each punch you saw Arthur tank. But against all odds, Arthur clambered on top of Tommy.

A smattering of blood and mud smeared all over Arthur’s face, he grunted with each brutal punch he landed onto Tommy’s head. He felt Tommy claw at the thick leather of his jacket, attempting to shove his face away, but Arthur persisted. Arthur got some sort of wretched exultation out of watching the way Tommy’s face turned into one of helplessness. His body thrashed and his limbs flailed as Arthur continued to strike his head, the skin breaking and bleeding from the repeated impact.

Arthur grit his teeth so hard he swore a tooth nearly cracked. He had tuned out the cheering surrounding him, an uninterrupted ringing replacing any other discernible sounds. The only thing he could focus on was the way he would slam his fist, over and over into Tommy’s head, as if in hypnosis. The man below him was a pitiful, bloody pulp; reaching his arms up as if he were begging for some unlikely act of mercy. But Arthur would punch again, and again, and again…

“Stop! Stop! Please!” You watched as Mr. Downes bravely stepped forward, pleading desperately with Arthur to stop. Arthur raised his fist, but did not connect it, instead looking at Mr. Downes. Arthur and Mr. Downes exchanged a few more words before Arthur pushed past him, covered in mud and all, limping away from the scene and pushing past people.

He caught sight of you looking on tearfully, and the gravity of what he had just done crashed down on him all at once when you turned your back and scurried down the alley besides the saloon. Arthur abandoned any resolve he had and followed you. You heard the rugged breathing and heavy footsteps behind you, which only terrified and spurred you on to run deeper into the alley. You turned the corner, back pressed against the rear wall of the saloon. You held your breath, and for a terrifying few seconds, heard the footsteps approaching. As if it were some sort of deliberate jump scare, you yelped when Arthur turned the corner and faced you. Normally you’d find the mud revolting, but now it served to scare you. It made Arthur seem all the more savage, traces of seething rage still present in his eyes. His hair was wild, face bruised and beaten; his blood mixed with mud and smeared his face in a grim unfamiliarity. He took a step towards you, and you flinched, trying to back away but you could not; you could only shuffle to the side.

At once, Arthur was overcome with an unfathomable sense of self hatred and disgust upon seeing the fear present in your face. He felt sickened with himself, and was given a moment of clarity as he looked down at his dirtied hands, his mud smeared clothes, his bruises and bleeding knuckles. Arthur saw his reflection in the window next to you, the person staring back at him unfamiliar, yet startlingly recognizable all the same.

“(Name)—”

“GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!”

Arthur’s eyes began stinging, a deep pang hitting his chest. His shoulders slumped and his body sagged, contracting your squared and tensed shoulders, your arms lifted and crossed over your chest protectively.

“You… You… I… I thought maybe you might’ve changed! But you proved me wrong.” You were sobbing at this point, and you weren’t sure whether you were trembling from your anger or fear. Probably both. Arthur could not find the words to respond.

“How dare you! Come into our town, into our businesses, and start a fight! And beat on us like you own the place! You beat that man half to death! WHAT FOR?” Your body buzzed in anxiety, unable to hold in any more of your anger as you shook.

“(Name), he was going to kill Javier back there if I didn’t—”

“You’re an animal!”

Arthur seemed to forget himself once more, feeling rage upon being called an animal. But perhaps it was more than just being insulted. Perhaps it was years of hurt and heartbreak behind his words.

“You don’t know what you’re saying. Listen to yourself—.” He spat through grit teeth.

“Oh I know!” You huffed, lowering your arms now. “Which is exactly why I left in the first place. Why I left you.”

You both felt that one, Arthur the most. The sting was reminiscent of being stabbed in the chest. He turned his sadness to anger, fueling the burning flame inside his chest. It kept him going.

“You left what we had, the good thing that we had, so that you could come and work at some dead end town? Is this really the life you want? Is your way of living any better than what we do?”

“I live a good honest life now!”

“You’re just a naive girl who doesn’t know that sometimes, this is all we got. Some of us don’t have the luxury of being able to just turn away and start anew. For some of us, we only have each other!”

You were enraged at this point, enough to let your guard down and walk up directly in front of him, sizing him up almost.

“I’d rather die working than live my life as a despicable criminal living with a lowdown gang constantly on the run. If that’s your idea of a life, then good god Mister Morgan, I pity you.” Your every word dripped with venom. And you made sure Arthur felt every bit of it, even going as far as to jab your finger in his chest.

“You’re a brat.” He growled. “You seem to forget where you come from. You were once a part of the gang, you went through exactly what I went through and you knew what it was like. And now you wanna act like you’re better than me? Like you’re above me?” He looked back down at you with malice, a hidden layer of hurt and sadness just beneath the surface. He looked somewhere between a kicked puppy and a crazed, rabid dog who’d been rolling in mud.

You said nothing in return, instead falling into some sort of stare off. He looked at you expectantly, but did not anticipate an answer. It was as if by looking into your eyes or expression, he could catch a slight change in your expression that indicated, just maybe, that you did not mean what you were saying. That this was all some adrenaline fueled attack on him after having watched him savagely beat a man. But even he could realize the irony in that line of thought.

But not once did your face soften, or look away from him in a show of discomfort or even intimidation. You stood your ground, heels firmly planted on the mud beneath you both.

Wordlessly, but with a grunt, Arthur moved past you, his arm brushing past and saturating some of your skin and clothes with mud. Arthur grumbled lowly to himself as every fiber in his body urged him to turn around and look at you one last time, to throw himself at your feet and ask if you really meant what you said, but his pride did not allow him.

Even as Dutch spoke to him at the front of the shop, his ears ringed and obstructed any other words from entering and being processed (He hadn’t even questioned Dutch’s sudden appearance with Trelawny). Arthur seemed to look past anyone who spoke to him, only nodding in response when they asked “are you listening?”. It was only when he was able to dunk himself in a nearby barrel of water, did the striking coldness snap him back to reality; the gritty veil over his consciousness being washed away.

The ride back towards camp was a gap in Arthur’s memory. He fell back into a pit of thought that tunneled his vision once again. He was all at once, keenly and uncomfortably aware of every sound and movement around him, but he could not be bothered to give it any thought. The shockwave of impact that traveled up through his body as he got off of his horse rather clumsily did not shake him from his pensive state. He wearily returned the greetings that people sent his way, not in the mood to entertain any sort of conversation with anyone. Arthur wanted nothing more now, than to rest his sore and aching muscles. He changed out of his caked, filthy clothes and changed into his union suit, the clean fabric feeling angelic in comparison to the squalid state of his clothes. His joints began to throb suddenly, as if the pain was triggered at once by laying on his cot, which suddenly seemed to sky rocket in comfortability. A deep ache settled into his side; the side he had landed on after being thrown.

His bed echoed his groan as he rested his weight on it, a large sigh leaving him as pain settled into every cell of his body. His exhaustion overtook him as he slid his eyes shut; his head hitting his pillow like there was a weight tied around his neck. Every bit of his being screamed for sleep, but his racing mind would not allow rest. He thought of you: the terrified look in your eyes after he followed you behind the saloon, the way you looked akin to a wild, injured animal backed up into a corner. He was sure he looked the same.

His bodily aches were accompanied by the pang in his chest as he remembered your heavy words. He squeezed his eyes in an attempt to prevent tears from surfacing, but the pressures in his nasal passages proved to be too much. He turned his back away from camp so that no one could see just how pathetic he looked.

The insults on him, his gang, his way of life. They were all too much to bear. He did not anticipate seeing you at all. He looked back regretfully on how the sweet encounter had turned so sour so quickly; part of him blamed Bill. He could at least find solace in the fact that you had missed him after all these years. As he did. Though he had had women since then, he never did quite forget about you. A boy never forgets his first love. And now that he was a man, those feelings amplified, and he knew it had been more than just puppy love. Part of him could not understand your rejection of the lifestyle. When you initially left the gang, and Arthur by proxy, you explained you could not withstand the violence and bloodshed, but that you respected and understood that this was his way of life, the only way of life he had known, even before he met you and joined the gang. But with the way he had heard you speak so lowly of the gang, he could not understand where all your compassion had gone, especially since you had been part of it.

Part of him still held onto a childlike sense of anger, feeling as though you wronged him in leaving him. But he could at least understand why you decided to up and leave. Perhaps his own judgment of your life had been harsh. You weren’t wrong in saying you lived an honest life, objectively it was better than his. You got to live freely without fear of the law, you made honest clean money, and as far as he knew, you only had yourself to support with the money you made. Arthur hadn’t even considered the possibility you were seeing someone, his stomach dropping at the thought. He was guilt ridden and anxious, nauseated by the thoughts. His temporary solution would be falling asleep to quell it.

When Arthur awoke, it was nighttime. The sun had set, the sky tinged with dark purple that faded into night. Most of the activity around camp had calmed, but many people were still awake. Arthur stood at once, bee lining towards his horse. He ignored any gang members that attempted to come forth and ask him if he was okay, where he was going. Wordlessly, he mounted his horse and spurred it on, riding back towards Valentine.

Perhaps it was unwise to go back into town so soon after raising hell there. But Arthur couldn’t care less. His objective at the moment was to see you. And he hoped to god you’d still be at the saloon. His heart thrummed in time with his horses running, and he began to pant as if he was the one doing the physical activity. Perhaps it was the anxiety that made him so short of breath.

He saw the promising glow of Valentine as he approached the small town, pulling on his horse's reins to try and slow down. His horse trotted down the streets of now dried earth, the prints of shoes and wheels having dried up into casts. He cringed internally when he saw the still broken window of the saloon, the glass having been cleaned up long ago. Luckily for him though, the lights of the saloon were on, and he heard the same lively piano from before. From the outside, it was almost as if nothing had ever happened, but he knew that as soon as he stepped inside, all heads would turn in his direction and stare him down. Arthur was used to looks, he would pay it no mind. But it was the thought of you sending him a disgusted look his way that had his head spinning in apprehensiveness.

Arthur was not a man who was scared of confrontation, and when it came to violence, he was best at letting his fists speak for him. But for more emotional matters, he sounded as eloquent as a child learning how to read for the first time. He would get stuck on using the right combination of words, and would opt towards not saying much at all. But this was something he wanted, and he knew that if was going to ask for your forgiveness, he’d have to put effort into sounding decent.

The hinges of the saloon doors creaked, and as Arthur expected, the volume level of the saloon lowered, the lively chatter dissolving into whispers and grumbles of threats. He looked over towards the bar to see if coming here had been worth his time. And there you were, standing in your confused, and frankly appalled, glory. You were wiping down a glass, continuing for a moment too long as you stared at him.

You had not expected to see him back here, grimacing at the tender purple skin of his cheek. Part of you felt pity, but it was replaced by indifference as you remembered he brought the injuries onto himself. As he began walking towards you, you slammed the glass down on the counter with a sigh and rolled your eyes. The sudden slam startling, but not fully waking, the passed out patron slumped against the counter.

“What are you doing here.” You asked, hand on your hip. It came out as less of a question and more as a statement professing your annoyance. Arthur leaned on the counter, moving his head to the side so he could look anywhere but at you as he attempted to find the right words to start off with. He opened and closed his mouth, and you were beginning to get impatient.

“I’m sorry…”

You were about to demand Arthur either leave or speak up, until you heard his meek apology. You felt your facial muscles relax from the scowl you had held for so long.

“What?” You asked in disbelief.

Arthur fidgeted where he stood, occupying himself by drumming his fingers along the counter. You lowered your arms to your side, fidgeting as well.

“I’m sorry too.”

A moment of awkward silence hung over the two of you before you grabbed his hand; bruised and callused, taken into soft and gentle. You pursed your lips in a half hearted smile before nodding your head towards the stairs. Before Arthur could even understand what you were implying, you were leading him past the bar counter and up the stairs towards a private room.

“What do we need this for? I just wanted to apologize…”

“I know. I just didn’t want my patrons hearing, y’know…” You laughed awkwardly. “A little privacy is nice, they don’t exactly keep their noses to themselves.” You fumbled with your keys, a sweat forming on the back of your neck as you struggled to jam the key into the lock before turning it. Arthur found it rather suggestive, but he decided to move along anyway. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have the hots for you anymore.

The two of you stiffly scooted over towards the bed; first you, then him, the bed dipping significantly from his weight. The sudden dip caused you to bump into his arm, which neither of you wanted to acknowledge outright. Your thighs rubbed against each other, and at last, you were able to see side by side how much Arthur had grown since you last saw him. Seeing the way he dwarfed you tugged at your heart strings.

“Oh, Arthur… How I’ve missed you… I’m so sorry for saying all those nasty things. And I know it’s no excuse but I was scared and… I felt a little betrayed that you had gone off to fight instead of… coming with me.”

Arthur nodded as you spoke, processing each word.

“And I know I shouldn’t have expected that. They’re your gang afterall, they’re your family. And I don’t think you’re all lowdown, or any of those nasty things I said.” You were gripping Arthur’s arm by now, as if holding onto him at that moment might better help him understand and accept your apology.

“I know sweetheart, I know.” He began. “I’m a fool and fighting’s all I know. It’s all I’ve ever known. I ain’t the smartest… but…” Arthur seemed to lose his train of thought, physically pained by his own mental fumbling. “I’m just trying to say that I’m sorry. I especially don’t have any right to judge your lifestyle.”

It was your turn to nod, slowly breaking into a smile.

“I’m glad you came.”

“I wanted to see you.”

The two of you slowly began to intertwine hands, shyly at first, until you fully sent it and gripped his fully. You felt his arm go tense against you as he looked back and forth from where you two conjoined to your face. The tension in the air had a nostalgic feel to it. It brought you back to all those years ago when you and Arthur had first gotten together. You were so young then. Holding hands also allowed you to feel the size difference, causing the both of you to blush.

“You’ve uh… really grown.” You giggled together. “I mean, you always were much larger than me but my my…”

Arthur nodded, looking down at the noticeable differences between you.

“Yeah, I always did love giving you piggy back rides.” He added. The recalling of the juvenile memory had you laughing even more.

“Oh, how I missed those! And you were always so helpful. Could be really helpful to have you around the saloon, can intimidate some guys away like you did for me when we were younger.”

“Gladly will, sweetheart.”

As the laughter died down, you hesitantly leaned upwards, looking for a sign to stop on his face. Though with more hesitation, you abstained from kissing him.

That is, until he went ahead and did it himself. He let go of your hand so he could cup your face, using the other arm to wrap around your waist and hold you close, as though you might disappear if he didn’t. Your lips molded perfectly against one another. It felt like the reunion of lips that should’ve always been together. And even though you had attempted to peel away from Arthur for so long, the meeting was like two sides of a wound finally mending back together.

The muffled chatter of the downstairs saloon was drowned out by your and his heavy breathing. You pushed your own lips hard against his teeth, gripping the downy tuft of hair at the base of his neck. He was taken aback by your enthusiasm but returned it nonetheless. The men you had had in Arthur’s absence were insipid compared to his passionate kisses. The two of you idly palmed and groped each other, the same tenderness as when you two were younger, but with the renewed passion of lovers long separated, finally reuniting with a more carnal desire.

Memories come in waves, and tonight, you were drowning.

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PHEW this took me days, I can finally work on all my other requests. Thanks for being patient y'all

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All We Ever Wanted Was Everything - Bauhaus

[danmeiconfession]

I'm going anonymous because I might get a lot of disagreement, but to me, Shen Yuan's character is very replaceable. He reads like a reader-insert, there to fix the story, which he canonically is. He's more of a "window dressing" because what's important is not who he is but the body he's in, which acts as the catalyst. His connection with the characters revolves around them, and even till the end, his outlook on them doesn't change. What I mean is, he isn't important in the way a main character would be, because although we follow his point of view, he's essentially just a window through which we view the story, so he feels disconnected.

He's funny, but what sets him apart from many other Chinese main characters besides his humor? Oh shit, the Main character has the hots for me seen that shit done millions of time.

He lacks so much compared to SJ that it's not even funny. I don't even know if the author did this unironically because how is the original character the one to steal the show in such a short time we get to know him, with the majority of fanfics dedicated to him because he's that interesting compared to the rest of the cast; he solos them all. Hate him or not, SJ fits more with MXTX brand of protagonists than SY, I'm sorry.

He doesn't grow; he's complacent, and the only thing he really gains in the end is Binghe's affection, which hinges on the identity of the body he is in. I've never read a story of a transmigrator who doesn't reveal their identity, especially in an MXTX work with Lan Zhan seeing through WWX the second the flute played. Let me tell you, many stories, especially in Chinese BL novels, simplify or villainies the original character to garner no sympathy, so to have your expectations flipped and realize that the allegations were wrong, and how you thought of him is like reading someone's story of WWX but with a different lens on the character, with everyone slandering him . To have the original character be a villain and be so important that just having someone else be him changes events is incredibly interesting.

The original character is so significant that he garners the enmity of three important ladies, earns the absolute hatred of the main character, and he single handidly profoundly influences the development of Yue Qingyuan and Luo Binghe, two of the most powerful characters in the book. Despite this, he isn't even the final villain; he's merely a starting point. The extent of his influence and power is truly remarkable.

He's too powerful. No wonder so many people make him the protagonist in AO3 look how loyal LQG was to SQQ. So many change of events you could do with this one singular character that SY isn't even on my radar of my fics to read.

.

[snugglesquiggle]

A fallacy I’ve engaged in, now that my writing has achieved some success, is to turn that success into the goal. When I contemplate writing, too often I’m no longer thinking about the story, I’m thinking about what I want the story to be. How I want the audience to be impressed with me, how I want them feeling about what I’m writing.

But all my best stories happened because I simply had an idea that I wanted to convey and so I explained it. No pretense, no expectation.

I sometimes think about how, when it comes to the fundamentals of computation, there’s a distinction drawn between the primitive recursive functions, defined by iterating in bounded ways on a set of simply defined procedures, and the μ-recursive functions, defined by an infinite loop over all possibilities. Primitive recursive functions are necessarily total, everywhere well-defined, while a μ-recursive functions may never produce a valid answer.

It’s so much easier to recursively build out what’s you want to write, then to do an unbounded search for the best way to achieve some particular end. In principle, μ-recursive is so much more powerful, and yet it invites so many headaches, so much undefined behavior.

Something that stands out to me is that yesterday, at first it really felt as if my latest depressive trough might be finally cresting again.

My day started out with some thoughtful conversations with friends about An Opaque Heart, and I even had an idea for how to finally revise the opening. And then… I did nothing. I never quite resolved how to get started.

Then, later that day, I wrote two thousands words as a one-shot, spurred by nothing but an compelling image, a moment between J and Uzi I wanted to revel in. It wasn’t even supposed to be that long!

And that’s the thing. That’s always the thing. All my best work wasn’t supposed to be.

I’ve watched this cycle play out so many things, over and over. Endless Stars, my first novel, (and still my most polished work after HT) started out as me chasing imagery in a notebook while distracted in high school.

230k words later, choked by ambition, I started up so many projects. First And the Darkling Reefs Abide, then Of Waterweft, then There Lies Already the Shadow of Hope.

TLAtSoH got a 5k word chapter one, followed by a 9k word chapter two, (not) followed by a chapter three that paralyzed me for months. Working through all the lore I needed for the scenes to come birthed Black Nerve. And after all that, aching for something simple, I started up a quest, so unserious I wrote the updates directly in discord.

People liked it, I liked it, and it became Eifre Quest. How far out of hand did it get? The first chapter was six hundred words. The fifteenth chapter was thirty-one thousand. That was the climax of the first interlude arc, where I had an image I wanted to deliver, and was determined to deliver it.  Even if I had to write a novella to get there.

That first interlude arc was supposed to be a quick break before we get back into the main action; so with the second interlude, given how well the first turned out, I made my plans just as ambitious. Guess what? The quest is on abandonment-hiatus right now, dead one chapter into that second interlude.

After/during EQ came Kaon Rising, which was intended flat-out to be a be braindead indulgent power fantasy slop appealing to the type of reader who loves isekai and litrpg. How braindead did it turn out? I choose to give the main character a power that hinges on cubic volumes, and the fifth chapter open on an exposition about the ecological physics of magic light.

The list continues; A Chimerical Hope was simply me trying to write a summary; Aurora Moonrise was literally a sidebar example crafted purely for an essay. I’ve already talked at length about the genesis of Hostile Takeover and An Opaque Heart elsewhere.

You see the pattern already, don’t you? I start off unserious, realize I’m actually cooking, try desperately to keep cooking, and the water boils out of the pot.

(This isn’t even the first time I’ve had this observation.)

Every time I see the things I’ve accomplished, I naïvely assume that doing it by accident proves I can do it on purpose — as if adding expectation could only add.

In comments and author’s notes, I’ve lately expressed how the need to live up to the hype has kept me from writing more HT, but yesterday, in my latest comment apologizing for the delay in finishing chapter seventeen, I realized something.

If you went back one year and suggested to my past self I write something to the standards I’m holding chapter seventeen to, I never would have even attempted.

Hostile Takeover, in my mind, has become something I’d never write if I knew what I was getting into. I never wanted to write something so grand — and no one ever asked me to.

Now, this isn’t me saying I’m abandoning HT — though something I’ve been carefully dancing around saying in these all discussions is that I frankly don’t care all that much if I never update HT again, but that’s mostly tiredness speaking. I can fall back in love with the story with some more distance.

If nothing else, I had some cool ideas for the remainder of the plot, and I’m more than willing to summarize where I was going with it. “Summarize”, that is — you know how this song and dance turns out.

Ultimately, none of what I’m saying here is very new, it’s the same old advice. Keep your eye on the ball and stay out of your head; you can’t lock in with self-consciousness getting in the way.

In Jujutsu Kaisen, a skilled sorcerer with total concentration is capable of applying magical energy to a hit within a microsecond of landing it, unleashing profound power in a flash of black sparks. Saturo Gojo, the greatest sorcerer, even wielding all the insight of his mystical eyes, still couldn’t pin down all the variables.

Peak doesn’t come from trying for peak. Because no one, not even Saturo Gojo, can land a black flash on command.

[hidden-impish-creature]

Since Tumblr spat some ace discourse onto my dash like it's 2014...

"Cishet aroace" is an oxymoron. If someone is both asexual and aromantic, they cannot be cisHET because they are neither heterosexual nor heteroromantic. They're not het so they're not cishet. Simple as.

Cishet asexuals can exist because they can still be cisgender and heteroromantic. Cishet aromantics can exist because they can still be cisgender and heterosexual. Cishet aces and cishet aros are real and can be referred to as such.

But there are no "cishet aroaces" because they're not het. If they're both asexual and aromantic, then they aren't attracted to the opposite gender in any way. And that's literally what the "het" in "cishet" means. It's short for "hetero." So you can't exclude aroaces from the LGBTQ+ community solely on the basis that they're cishet. You need to use an argument that doesn't hinge on aroaces being straight, because they're not.

I'm not saying that cishet aces or cishet aros are part of the LGBTQ+ community. I don't really care. I've yet to even encounter one, which makes me wonder if this discourse was ever really about them. The problem here is that people try to use the same argument for people who literally cannot be cishet.

Seeing posts about "cishet aroaces" following that "cishet aro man" poll is giving me psychic damage. Where is the "het" part coming from? You people literally made up a cishet aro to get mad at and then decided that everyone who is aro must also be cishet, even if they're also ace and therefore don't fit half of what that word means.

I've had people in my ask box on my main blog calling me cishet even though I'm openly an ace lesbian dating another girl. Again, where is the "het" part coming from? Does being ace magically make my attraction to other women straight?

Use your brains. Words have meanings, and "cishet" means "cis and het," not "anyone who is aro or ace, regardless of their other identities." Tumblr discourse has misused that word so much, I don't know how to refer to actual cishets without going out of my way to make it clear I mean actual cishets. It's so fucking annoying. You're changing the meaning of important terminology to make it fit whoever you want to exclude. I love this hellsite but sometimes I worry.

[where-is-francis]

𝙏𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙡 𝙊𝙛 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚 —♡-> 𝘽𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙚

Before You Interact — Rules of My Blog

𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩: Part of my Valentine’s Day 2023 blurb series

𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙨: They/Them

𝘼/𝙉: I dedicate this to my one and only Shrimp Punch *bows and tips hat* anyways just to make it clear I don’t support Billy’s actions/ideas from S2/S3 in any way, shape, or form — this is more of a “he lived after the accident and decided to try and be a better person” type thing. Which is pretty much the only way I’m willing to write for him.

𝙏𝙒: None!

The sight of 𝘽𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙚 standing in the arcade used to seem foreign to everybody at one point, but now they didn’t pay much attention to him. You, however, made up for that by giving him a lot of attention. Pretty much anybody who was spending the holiday alone found themselves at the arcade, the only difference with you was that it was your job. Billy had just stomped out his cigarette in the parking lot and nudged the door open, effectively ringing the bell.

You turned from the back counter and leaned over the prize booth, shooting him a wide smile when you saw who it was.

“Well well well, if it isn’t my favorite devil. Where’s your DigDugging sidekick?”

“Had a date with Sinclair. Just me today.” He mirrored your pose against the counter.

It was surprising to see him like this. He was calm and fairly relaxed, but that seemed to become his new normal since the accident. Since he didn’t have to worry about Neil breathing down his neck anymore. Your eyes traced the hanging chain of the necklace he always wore and how it seemed to shine in blues and greens from the lava lamps behind you.

“To be honest, I’m surprised they’re not here trying to kick each other’s asses at skee-ball.”

Billy grinned at that. “Well, there’s always next week. Maybe Sinclair won’t leave with a bruise this time.”

“Ah, young love!” You sighed dreamily. “Speaking of which, c’mere.”

You flipped up the hinged section of the counter and led the blonde through a few loners and over to a new machine. It was dark red, covered in hearts, and had a flashing marquee sign on the top. Above the coin slot and at the height of your hips was a board with two large hand-shaped screens.

“‘Love Tester’? Yeah, looks like a real fun time.” Billy rolled his eyes.

The blue eyed male watched as you grabbed a quarter from the pocket of your work vest and slotted it in the machine. All of the lights came on and scattered a bit to show the main screen of the different ratings you could get. Billy couldn’t so much as think before you grabbed his left hand and forced it down to one of the prints on the board, following by doing the same with your right hand.

He watched, a bit stunned, as the lights climbed up and down at a rapid pace. It went from the bottom, holding the lowest score of ‘harmless’, all the way to the top where it read ‘hot stuff!’ in all caps. It wouldn’t have been a lie to say he liked you and the dynamic you shared, it was different to anything he’d had before. As much as his jokes and comments were biting and flirty, yours were just as much so. Billy had a strong sense of where he stood with most people, but you were unreadable.

The lights on the Love Tester slowed a bit before finally settling on your compatibility score:

The top match — Hot Stuff.

Neither of you said anything and instead just stood in disbelief, with Billy occasionally shifting on the wild and fluorescent carpet. Below the coin slot in a larger horizontal slot, a pink card had been printed out with the results. You grabbed it and began to read it off.

“‘Look out — these two have it all! Fiery hot love connection coming through!’ Oh my God, this is so dumb.” You were increasingly animated.

Without much thought, the blonde scanned the arcade to see if anybody watched what just happened. When no eyes but yours met his gaze, he visibly dropped the tension in his chest. It was new to him to be interested in somebody who wasn’t a girl. Even newer to be close to them. You flipped the small card over and continued to read the description in relative silence before passing it to your ‘perfect match’.

Billy took the card in his hands and smiled. He smiled. Not his usual cocky and taunting grin, but a sweet one, a genuine one. When he looked up, you had already started to maneuver back to the gaudy counter. He watched as you pulled a small box from the cabinet and grabbed a set of keychains. The loop slid over your finger and you waved it at him, silently telling him to come get it.

“So, what’d ya think?” You mused as he braved the counter.

“I think it’s full of shit. Just like someone else in this joint.”

The response earned a laugh. With your back to the blonde, you hurried and pulled the set of keychains apart. Anybody who got the top three rankings on the tacky machine would be rewarded with matching keychains. They were cheap and just as gaudy as the machine itself, but something about them made you grin. Billy was a bit confused when you passed one to him and eyed you suspiciously. It wasn’t anything super elaborate, just a black background with the two words printed in a flame font on both sides, but you still thought it was worthy of being added to the set of work keys you inherited.

“What? Anybody who gets one of the top three gets matching keychains if they bring the card up.” Your tone was ever so sweet.

His blue eyes avoided contact with your own as you watched him debate on grabbing the small piece of plastic. This territory was entirely new, foreign even, to Hargrove — a strange but welcome one. Meanwhile, any mask he used to have was gone for a mere moment. He could simply exist.

He picked up the keychain and gave it a once over.

“Nothing says ‘true love’ like a cheap piece of plastic.” Billy couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re such a romantic, you know that?”

After getting what he came for, and a bit more, he decided to leave and make the short trip back to the parking lot. The bell chimed but you stopped him before he could leave, passing the score card back to him. His dark brows furrowed in confusion before you turned it around, rolling your eyes, to reveal your phone number on the back.

“I get off at 6. You pick me up and we can go out, do whatever you like, hot stuff.” You grinned at him with your tongue caught between your teeth.

He couldn’t say much except give a small grunt and nod of approval — which certainly was boosting your ego — and you let him go once again. Billy jumped inside the Camaro and grinned down at the number on the card while simultaneously trying to think of something fun to do in the evening. The stupid keychain caught his attention for a moment, before he decidedly settled it on the small ring with his car keys.

You were going to be the death of him — and you were going to enjoy every minute.

Reblogs instead of likes. Reblogs help other people find my works. Comments and tags very much appreciated. 💕 More male and enby reader fics on my blog.

[tenbirdsinatrenchcoat]

looks in. can you tell me abt what ocs that "to be used" and "user" post is about :3c and also what Their Deal is bc i eat that shit up

ehehehehehehehe buckle up its about to get Crazyyyyy in here

so the ocs in question are part of a Group of OCs that my friends/polycule ( @nameless-thief @beedarkfae @therealmooed @iamsusiedeltarune-blog ) have together, they were made for a system called Weaverdice which is based on the online serial Worm and tl;dr you get superpowers based on your trauma and youre also a teenaged superhero

the main two Guys™️ that this is about are trystan (my guy) and augustus (nameless-thief's guy). i was gonna make an intro post for trystan and then i forgor :( but hes this asshole guy with a deer eye whos powers are swapping places with people, which he got from a rlly bad car crash that killed his parents and forced him to lose his shot at going to the olympics. augustus is a rich slightly-less-asshole whos powers are turning into blue goo, which he got from a specific instance in a long string of being abused by his parents.

[pictured: trystan and augustus]

now technically the canon iteration of these guys arent the ones who get the used x to be used dynamic bc theyre currently working on not hating each other in canon.

however.

there is an au where augustus snaps and kills his parents and then goes straight into supervillainy. and that shit? it goes crazyyyy

nameless is gonna explain it better but like.....augustus becomes this mob boss type character bc he suddenly has the control that hes lacked for so long in his life. and trystans always been more of a follower, a tool, and he lacks purpose in canon which is why he lays depressed in bed in his free time. but in this au, he finds out that he really really enjoys physical violence, and augustus is there to point him at people who augustus thinks should be physically violenced. and they become ungodly and weirdly codependent with trystan hinging his entire self on Doing Things For Augustus and neither of them actually realizing the effect they have on the other. also they start dating at some point which doesnt help any of this. its a mess. i love them. augh.

anyways. i hope this explains A Little Bit of the vibes. there will be more. ty for asking :))))))) i love talking about My Guys™️ and my friends' guys

[evilwickedme]

I saw in the tags you mentioned spideypool fic recs 👂 I'm listening

breaking the DC streak to go to Marvel because fun fact I've been into DC for six months and into Marvel comics for eight years so

anyway a majority of my spideypool bookmarks are from 2015 and I have no idea if most of them are any good which is an interesting problem to have but I still have a solid list for y'all

Say Anything...Except That - I was following this from the first chapter and I'm now mutuals with the author which was very fanboy moment for me (if you're seeing this, hi!). it has a lot of old school fanfiction.net quirks to it which might be a bit difficult to swallow if you've only been reading fic for a few years, but honestly I think this fic is really good and holds up to this day. it's been a while since I read it last but iirc Deadpool has to protect Spider-Man or Peter from assassination attempts and there's a lot of pining involved. also mattfoggy ended up having a nice arc because this was 2015 and Daredevil had just aired (this is technically incomplete there's one chapter left but if I had to reread it multiple times when there were only like ten chapters you can handle it)

under attack - more fics by people who are wayyy too cool to have followed me back and yet somehow did? anyway this is part of stackthedeck's team red slash series (ELITE ship fyi) but this one is spideypool focused and has some nice fluff. fighting as flirting idk what else to say it's golden

#NoPlaceLikeHome - do y'all know ask-spiderpool? you should it's one of the best blogs on this damn website and a must-read for spideypool shippers. anyway this is that version of spideypool's first time together which is cute :D short and sweet basically. sciderman has a lot of fics for the spiderman fandom in general and their ask-spiderpool au in particular and they're all worth reading

Dissonance - another longfic that took half a decade to write about deadpool protecting spider-man from harm. I actually don't know why this trope is so good peter really can defend himself but there you go

Perfect Enough - ohm y gOD this fic series is so good. this au hinges on such a tiny difference in peter's history but it makes ALL the difference. anyway in this world basically nobody has a functional secret identity anymore except for spider-man. meanwhile, wade wilson and peter parker start dating. so much plot, two separate longfics each around 140k, good luck this CONSUMED my life

speaking of consumed, rippling - this is part of a series called Into the Multiverse and is based on the Spiderverse film so it's Peter B. which I LOVE (spideybpool FUCKS). the series spun out of the authors' other series and it is, in fact, a pain to read the main entries in the series without reading the other serieses which means that I did spend two weeks doing little to nothing except reading deniigiq's work, but a. it was worth b. this one can be read as a standalone! wade jumps in front of a bullet for peter b and he angsts about it I love it

finally ahem speaking of Peter B, did you know I've been writing spideypool fic since 2015 and I wrote one specifically for spiderverse? I'm a mess (but I'm the mess that you wanted) is really a mix of spiderverse and comic canon like, five years into the future, and deals mostly with like, depression and suicidal ideation on Peter's behalf, but hey there's also a plot AND a happy polyam ending which, what else could you want really

anyway sorry the list isn't longer I didn't bookmark so many of my favorite spideypool fics and now they're lost in the void forever :/

[cutestkilla]

Happy Sunday and thanks for the tags today @artsyunderstudy @alleycat0306 @youarenevertooold @alexalexinii and @bookish-bogwitch. I love your shares as always!

Today from me, some sentences from Chapter 2 of Hiding Out In The Open, which I updated yesterday. (Context: This is my gift fic for @artsyunderstudy about Simon and Baz bonding over a psych podcast.) WAY more than six because I'm absolutely not capable of finding a six sentence snip right now.

“follow up question: www.invisiblemind.org/who-are-you-at-2-am” The episode’s main guest is a data scientist. He’s speaking about how our web search histories reveal hidden things about our preferences and biases, even our health. Which is all very interesting, except Snow sent this to me, and I’m a bit stuck on just how much of the research hinges on people having searched for, shall we say, erotic materials. How is he expecting me to respond to this? With an insult, probably. Only now—thanks to learning all about the correlation between the unemployment rate and pornographic search traffic—all I can come up with is ‘jobless wanker’. And I won’t be sending that. (Can’t think about Snow touching himself.) (Not while we’re chatting. That would be crossing a line, I think.) (Also, I’m in public.) I parry instead. “You do realise it’s two in the afternoon right now, don’t you?” I send. “Have you gotten your days mixed up from your nights again? Here’s a hint: next time, look for the big flaming ball in the sky.” “don’t you want to know who *i* am at 2am?” he replies. And that’s my plan to not think about Snow wanking out the window.

Tags under the cut!

@ivelovedhimthroughworse @hushed-chorus @iamamythologicalcreature @shrekgogurt @raenestee @facewithoutheart @fatalfangirl @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @whatevertheweather @thewholelemon @whogaveyoupermission @forabeatofadrum @wellbelesbian @larkral @captain-aralias @shemakesmeforget @valeffelees @aristocratic-otter @angelsfalling16 @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @yeonjunenby @cosmicalart @j-nipper-95 @confused-bi-queer @nightimedreamersworld @brilla-brilla-estrellita @ileadacharmedlife @onepintobean @orange-peony @theearlgreymage @stitchyqueer @prettygoododds @technetiumai @skeedelvee @moodandmist @martsonmars and anyone else who wants to share!

[hawkogurl]

HELLO HOLLY I would like your bingo thoughts on MJ please <3

My girl. Nobody gets her like I do. I better not hear any tasm gwen or mcu MJ slander in my fucking comments but the way she’s often discussed is so frustrating for me. Because she’s a bad love interest in a way that for me is the best possible goddamn way someone could be a bad love interest because all the things they complain about just make her a better and more real feeling character to me. She grew up in a house with a hostile father and a mother who seems like she never stood up for her. The habits she develops are incredibly consistent. She fluctuates between relationships because she goes for whatever feels safest to her, whatever feels like what she never got at home. Her relationship changes almost always fit this trend. When things go south in relationships in a way that provokes that old unaddressed trauma, she mentally begins waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because she’s used to that drop being relatively explosive, she is destroying her relationship first so she can have control over it, when it happens, the fallout, you get the idea. And then she follows whatever feels save because she seems to attach her value to that. She doesn’t know how to exist if she isn’t desired. She doesn’t know how to exist without someone else. And that’s obviously bad but fans seem to be willing to give compassion to every character that isn’t her for these sort of very human flaws. And let me go off on that.

When it comes to Being The Love Interest, female characters normally have a lot more restrictions placed on them. With a male main character female love interest, it’s more common the male main character is the one with the interesting plot relevant things going on and the female love interest is often an idealized character to fit into that power fantasy. The characters around the female love interest are allowed more complicated traits and writing because at the end of the day, they aren’t as constrained by the need to end up with that guy and fulfill the audience fantasy like this love interest will be. The traits of the female love interest always need to adhere to what will be sufficiently rewarding and not too complicated for that fantasy. In media with female protagonists and male love interests, it’s more common for those male love interests to be allowed more complexity because of, well, the I can fix him trope and how that often comes with the undertones of women being expected to endure poor treatment because of the eventual reward that if they do enough, he’ll change for her. Male love interests are often allowed more emotional complexity and complicated, nonsanitized plot lines because those traits are often the source of the desirability. Male complexity is the source of the want for romantic pairings when the woman is the pivotal character and because these men are often not only defined by that woman, they’re usually allowed more external involvement and external sources of interest. A female love interest most abide by what is romantically acceptable to the male love interest and her involvement in the plot and world is often limited to him.

All this to say that the raimi trilogy is sort of built on the humanity of the characters, a very optimistic view of humanity, and all the characters being written to feel like people. Flawed people, but ultimately people with their human problems being the focus and the superhero elements hinging on human problems and human flaws.

The traits that make MJ hated as a love interest are traits that follow this. I’ll see people complain about her as a female character because she’s often the damsel and because she… has these traits. And the damsel thing sucks and I’ll admit that freely, but it can feel insane to me that she’s given these flaws, flaws with clear sources and causes and trends if you’re willing to pay attention to her, and that’s bad. Because it’s more complicated than normally acceptable for female love interests, it’s a bad thing. When these are some of the most in depth and most human feeling flaws I’ve seen given to pretty much any live action love interest in these movies. Shes written to feel human, but because that means the fantasy is snapped, that’s a bad thing.

And it doesn’t feel like the “it’s not that, it’s because she’s a cheater!” thing really works. Most fans are willing to give Norman at least somewhat of a pass because he took a drug that gave his egotistical, utilitarian beliefs power and starts doing terrorism. Most fans are willing to forgive Otto when his pride kills what seems to be at least a dozen people. Hell, even if he’s treated more harshly than most characters, many people are also willing to cut Harry some slack. There’s even empathy thrown around for Flint, who killed Ben. And I consider this all a good thing, it’s engaging with the intent of the source when the intent of the source is exploring the complex but ultimately good nature of humanity. But hey, even if you want to go one to one with the cheating, why is it completely fine when Peter kisses Gwen not out of something as complicated as what MJ has going on, but simply out of his pride? His own ego?

None of this is super well worded, but my point is mostly that MJ’s biggest sin is that her flaws, given more development than people give her credit for, that fit well into the general themes and writing that emphasize the humanity of the characters, is that the flaws she was given throw a wrench into the super hero power fantasy. The disproportionate hate of MJ and Harry is born out of the same thing: people project onto Peter, then project their own baggage onto those two when they do things that feel too real to rhem. Because Norman committing terrorism is distant, but Harry dating a girl Peter never made a move on or MJ having habits born out of something very noticable that still harm others is too real.

And I can acknowledge that some of the problem is that the causes of MJ’s behavior are never really given a ton of focus. But I think that blaming fan reactions like the one to her on the writing alone can often function as a sort of shield for people to not have to look as closely at how their own biases and experiences inform how they view media and characters. And listen, if you’re doing what I’m mentioning, you’re not evil. Everyone is going to end up inheriting biases of some kind. It’s just your responsibility to look inward and unpack why.

None of this is worded quite how I want so expect me to go more in depth some time in the future.