#how do you write an argument with two people

[avelera]

*whispers* Viktor never once says anything mean or belittling to Jayce after they become partners. Not one insulting "you" statement, not one disagreement where he doesn't remained focused on the point of contention. He never makes ad hominem attacks, he never insults Jayce's appearance or intelligence.

Literally the single meanest thing he says to Jayce that could be considered a "you" statement is "Your mind has become rigid." Basically, he's saying that Jayce has suffered so much recently that it's closed his mind to broader intellectual possibilities like, that is barely an insult, and clearly Viktor just means it as a statement of fact, if not a challenge for Jayce to joyously consider possibilities again. And by the way? That statement is when Viktor is in his full his villain arc. It's remarkable because it's the only time he's pointed out a perceived flaw in Jayce since the night when he questioned if Jayce signed his notes out of being egotistical.

From the moment Jayce told Viktor about how beautiful magic could be, arguably once Jayce became a person to Viktor rather than a subject of academic discipline or skepticism, Viktor has not once leveled a personal attack against him as a person. Not even during the fight on the bridge. Not even when he called Jayce's Councilor work a waste of our time. Not even when Jayce was considering making Hextech weapons, Viktor still remained focused on the substance of the argument, expressed incredulity, anger, even disgust that Jayce would consider making weapons, but he never said it was because Jayce was stupid or privileged or blind. He pointed out specifically that he knew Jayce felt trapped by the decision, he knew Jayce was being manipulated, and then, in a very pointed manner, Viktor reminded Jayce that there's always a choice, challenging Jayce to stand firm and do what was right.

Even when they parted ways in 2.02, Viktor didn't say there was anything wrong with Jayce. He just said their paths had diverged, again not saying anything was wrong with Jayce, or even his choices, but rather that they're two different people who had stayed together longer than their diverging goals normally would have allowed because of the affection they held for each other.

I don't know, I get why people write Viktor as catty or mean or dismissive of Jayce. There's definitely some quotes from the day they met, before they become partners, that lend to the idea that Viktor can be quite dry and sharp with others. And conflict is the stuff of good fiction so again, totally get putting some conflict between him and Jayce in fic.

But I also think there's a tendency in derivative works like fic to Flanderize the characters, or worse, put them into narrow archetype boxes that are vastly different from their more interesting and nuanced canon selves.

How many times have we seen a wiggly man/straight man or blue vs. red personality partnership duo? How often have we seen those partners not be able to fucking stand each other, who are bickering all the time, who are snide or backtalk, or are perpetually sarcastic?

It's so common that I get why people see it with Jayce and Viktor but that's why it's so damn fascinating to me that they aren't like that.

Jayce and Viktor don't suffer each other unwillingly at any point, even when they're having a goddamn flying superhero fight in the final episode they're talking about how they're happy to see each other and praying that the other will please step away from this destructive path! They don't want to hurt each other, even verbally!

During the years of their partnership, they're constantly delighted by the other's presence, they are instantly comfortable together and never have a bad word to say to or about each other. They actually don't bicker! When they have disagreements, they stay entirely focused on the point of the disagreement and they never dip into personal attacks of any kind.

Even the tone of the time Jayce yells at him on the bridge, arguably their most acrimonious moment in the whole first season, isn't an actual argument, no more than a parent yelling at their child for running into traffic is an argument. Jayce says awful things but it's clear his anger comes from fear for Viktor and for their precarious situation. And it's clear this is a deeply unusual moment for both of them, Viktor is taken aback at how unusual it is, Jayce once called out backs down immediately, arguably because it's so unnatural for them to fight at all that it takes the wind out of the sails of Jayce's anger instantly when he realizes he's crossed a line.

No one can drag a bad word about Viktor out of Jayce, and vice versa! When Singed implies that Viktor might lose loved ones over his choices, Viktor immediately (and correctly!) states that Jayce will understand.

They are rigorously protective of one another too. Arguably all the times Viktor excludes Jayce from his Hexcore experiments in S1 is to protect him from his reckless and likely illegal experiments (as well as not wanting Jayce to stop him and wanting to live, but it can be many things). Jayce constantly cites Viktor as his partner and constantly reiterates that Viktor is his priority in life, that saving Viktor comes first. Jayce overthrows the goddamn founder of the city in order to protect Viktor!

Jayce's love for Viktor is so extreme that literally in S2, the only person who can convince Jayce to hurt Viktor, after seeing the post-apocalyptic Hell of a future that is caused by him, is Viktor himself. Jayce doesn't even get mad at Viktor after he learns Viktor is the cause of what he saw! He is instead desperate to get back, to avert the damage caused by their joint work in Hextech, and saved Viktor from the fate worse than death that is Mage Viktor's total isolation in the aftermath. And every step of the way, even knowing what he knows it's clear he's in agony at the thought of having to raise a hand to Viktor at all.

Now of course I'm getting into just how insane their love for one another gets in S2, but I just feel so baffled sometimes reading fic where Viktor is constantly undercutting, insulting, or belittling Jayce every which way. He never once does that after the partnership begins. And it makes me so insane because we have so many partnerships in media that do devolve into sarcasm, cattiness, and backbiting but Jayce and Viktor aren't one of them and that's really really fucking interesting and worthy of exploration I think.

[isaadore]

BOUND BY TWO HEARTBEATS LUKE HUGHES

pairing dad!luke hughes x mom!reader

SUMMARY an unexpected pregnancy challenges your relationship with luke, forcing you both to rethink your future together. however, despite the uncertainty, luke stays by your side, and the pregnancy brings you two closer than ever. word count 3.6k

warnings fluff with slight angst, use of y/n, fem!reader, mentions of birth, unplanned pregnancy, mild arguments

note first ever luke fic! hope u guys enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it 🤞 also, i apologize for the cheesy hockey references 😕 i just thought luke would be the type to make those

MAIN MASTERLIST LH43 MASTERLIST

THE PREGNANCY TEST felt heavy in your hand as you sat on the edge of the couch, staring blankly at the coffee table. Two pink lines. The confirmation was there, undeniable, and yet you felt stuck in a haze of disbelief.

Luke would be home soon. The thought made your stomach twist. What would he say? Would he be excited? Scared? You didn’t know how to prepare for a conversation that could go in so many different directions.

The sound of the front door unlocking made your heart jump. Luke stepped inside, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly dishevelled from his post-practice shower. He didn’t notice you right away, too busy slipping off his sneakers.

“Hey,” he greeted casually, dropping his gear by the door. His voice softened when he looked up and saw you sitting there, still as a statue. “Everything okay?”

You swallowed, gripping the test tighter in your hand. “We need to talk.”

Luke frowned, the playful ease on his face fading instantly. He dropped his keys on the counter and made his way over, sitting down next to you. “What’s going on?”

You held out the test without a word, unable to meet his gaze. The silence that followed was unbearable. Finally, you risked a glance at him.

Luke stared at the test, his expression unreadable. His jaw tensed, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re… pregnant?”

“Yeah.” Your voice cracked on the single word.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Okay. Okay,” he said, as if trying to convince himself.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” you blurted, your chest tightening. “I just—I needed to tell you. I know it’s a lot, and I know it wasn’t part of the plan, but—”

“Of course it wasn’t part of the plan,” Luke interrupted, his voice low and firm. He turned to you; his brows knit together. “We’re not ready for this, Y/N. I’m not ready for this.”

The words stung, even though you’d braced yourself for them. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, trying to hold yourself together. “Do you think I am? I didn’t exactly ask for this either, Luke.”

He sighed, running his hands over his face. “I just—I don’t know what to do. This changes everything.”

“I know it does,” you said quietly. “But it’s happening whether we’re ready or not.”

Luke stood, pacing the length of the living room. His movements were restless like he was trying to escape his own thoughts. “I mean, what are people gonna say? My career’s just getting started, and now—”

“And now what?” you snapped, unable to hold back anymore. “Now you’re stuck with me and a kid? Is that what you’re worried about?”

He stopped in his tracks, his face falling. “That’s not what I meant,” he said softly, guilt clouding his eyes.

“Then what did you mean?” you demanded, your voice trembling. “Because I’m scared too, Luke. I’m terrified. But I can’t do this alone, and I don’t know what you’re thinking right now.”

Luke’s shoulders slumped, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he sank back onto the couch, his head in his hands. “I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can be the kind of dad a kid deserves. I don’t even know if I’m ready to try.”

Your anger softened at his vulnerability, and you reached out, hesitating before placing a hand on his back. “I don’t have all the answers either,” you said gently. “But I know we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He lifted his head, looking at you, his eyes glassy. “You really think we can do this?”

“I don’t think it’ll be easy,” you admitted. “But I know I want to try. And I know I need you with me.”

Luke reached for your hand, gripping it tightly. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick. “I’m sorry I freaked out. I just… I love you, and I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t,” you said, squeezing his hand. “We won’t.”

For the first time that evening, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “We’ll figure this out.”

THREE WEEKS LATER

It had been weeks since you told Luke you were pregnant, and while things between you had softened, an unspoken tension still lingered. You were both trying, Luke especially. He had been sticking around more, helping out with things he never used to notice, like stocking the pantry with your favourite snacks or making sure the coffee pot was always ready in the morning. But sometimes, you’d catch him staring off into space, lost in thought and his jaw tight.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The two of you sat on the couch, a documentary playing on the TV that neither of you was really watching. Your legs were tucked under a blanket while Luke sat at the other end, absently fiddling with the strings of his hoodie.

“Luke,” you said softly, pulling his attention away from the screen.

He looked over at you, his blue eyes clouded with worry. “Yeah?”

“How are you feeling about… everything?”

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line before he sighed. “Honestly? Still kind of overwhelmed,” he admitted. “Every day, it sinks in more, but I don’t know if I’m doing enough. Or if I can even do enough.”

“Luke, you’re here,” you said gently. “That’s more than enough for me right now.”

“Yeah, but just being here doesn’t mean I’ve got it all figured out,” he countered, frustration creeping into his voice. “What happens when the baby actually gets here? What if I mess it all up?”

“You won’t,” you said firmly, shifting closer to him. “And you don’t need to have all the answers right now.”

He rubbed a hand over his face and leaned back against the couch. “I just want to be good at this,” he murmured. “For you. For the baby.”

Your heart ached at his honesty. Reaching out, you placed your hand over his. “You already are,” you said. “The fact that you care this much, that you’re thinking about it every second, it shows how much this means to you. And that’s what matters.”

Luke turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers with yours. He didn’t say anything right away, but his grip tightened as if holding on to you grounded him.

“I looked up some stuff earlier,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Stuff?”

“Yeah… about pregnancy. What you’re going through, what I should be doing to help. I even looked up prenatal vitamins to make sure you’re taking the right ones.” He let out a nervous laugh. “I guess I just needed to feel like I was doing something, you know?”

Your chest tightened, warmth spreading through you at his confession. “Luke,” you said softly, leaning your head on his shoulder. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” he teased lightly. “I’m still figuring this out.”

“We both are,” you reminded him.

He rested his cheek against the top of your head, the tension in his body easing for the first time that night. “Do you think we’ll be good at this? At being parents?”

“I think we’ll be better than we give ourselves credit for,” you said.

A comfortable silence settled between you. For a moment, the weight of everything seemed lighter.

“You know,” he said, a mix of nerves and excitement in his voice, “I was thinking… maybe we could tell my parents soon if you’re ready. They’d probably want to know.”

Your breath hitched. It was a big step, one that made the pregnancy feel even more real. His expression was hopeful yet hesitant. You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “I think I’m ready.”

Luke smiled for the first time in days, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “We’ve got this,” he whispered.

SEVERAL DAYS LATER

You sat in the passenger seat of Luke’s car, watching the scenery blur as you made your way to his parents’ house. The test, the doctor’s appointment, and the initial shock were behind you, but this, telling Luke’s parents, felt like a challenge on its own.

Luke’s grip on the steering wheel was tight. His jaw was set, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He glanced at you and forced a small smile. “Yeah. Just thinking about how to say it.”

You reached over and placed your hand on his thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. “They’re going to be happy, Luke. It’s Ellen and Jim. They love us.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But it’s still a lot. What if they think we’re too young or that it’ll mess up my career?”

“Your mom will probably cry, your dad will give some practical advice, and then we’ll all hug. It’ll be fine.”

Luke nodded but didn’t seem convinced.

When you arrived at the Hughes’ home, the familiar smells of freshly baked cookies and the sound of hockey commentary from the living room made you feel more at ease. Ellen greeted you both with a warm hug, calming your nerves a little.

“You’re just in time! I made peanut butter cookies,” she said, ushering you into the kitchen.

“It was Luke’s favourite,” Jim teased from the dining table, where he was tasting one of the freshly baked cookies.

“Still is,” Luke said with a weak laugh, earning a curious look from his dad.

The four of you settled into the living room. Ellen and Jim began small talk with the both of you, but the weight of the real reason for your visit sat on your shoulders.

Ellen caught on first. “Is everything okay?” she asked, tilting her head. “You both seem… nervous.”

Luke’s hand found yours, his fingers lacing tightly with yours. He cleared his throat and glanced at you for reassurance.

“Yeah, uh, everything’s fine,” he said. “Actually, it’s more than fine. We just—we have some news.”

Jim folded his arms and leaned forward slightly. “What kind of news?”

Luke looked at you again, and you gave him a small nod. He took a deep breath.

“We’re… we’re having a baby,” he said, the words tumbling out quickly.

For a moment, the room was silent. Ellen’s mouth opened slightly, her eyes darting between the two of you. Jim’s brow furrowed as he processed the news.

“You’re pregnant?” Ellen finally asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and excitement.

You nodded. “Yes.”

And then, as predicted, Ellen burst into tears. “Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hands. “That’s amazing news!”

Jim leaned back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Well, that’s a big step. Congratulations, you two.”

Ellen jumped up, pulling both you and Luke into a tight hug. “I can’t believe it! A baby! I’m going to be a grandma!”

Luke exhaled, his tension visibly easing. “You’re not mad?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Mad?” Ellen pulled back, hands on his cheeks. “Luke, this is wonderful. It’ll be a lot of work, but you two are going to be amazing parents. And we’ll help every step of the way.”

“Absolutely,” Jim added, standing to join the group hug. “You’re not alone in this. Family is everything.”

Luke looked at you, his blue eyes shining with relief. “Told you,” you whispered, and he chuckled softly.

The rest of the evening was filled with talks about baby names, parenting advice, and promises of Ellen knitting baby hats. The weight on Luke’s shoulders seemed to lift with his parents’ excitement.

Later that night, as you drove home, Luke reached over and took your hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For reminding me this is going to be okay,” he said. “And for being the best girlfriend I could ask for.”

You squeezed his hand, a smile tugging at your lips. “We’ve got this,” you said, echoing his words from a few days ago.

He smiled at that.

DURING THE SECOND TRIMESTER

You hadn’t even opened your eyes yet, but you could already feel Luke moving around the room. The faint clatter of plates and the smell of something burning told you exactly what was going on.

With a sleepy laugh, you called out, “Luke, are you trying to set the kitchen on fire?”

There was a beat of silence before his voice responded, a little defensive. “It’s not burning; it’s just… toasty.”

You rolled out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen, finding him standing at the stove in sweatpants and an old Michigan hoodie, waving a spatula at the smoking pan. He glanced at you sheepishly.

“Breakfast in bed,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess: eggs and toast?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, grinning despite himself. “Figured it was safe enough.”

You walked over and slipped your arms around his waist, resting your head against his back. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

He turned the stove off and faced you, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I wanted to. You’re growing a whole human; the least I can do is make you breakfast.”

You laughed, lightly swatting him on the chest. “Maybe stick to smoothies next time.”

Luke’s attentiveness did not stop there.

At night, he would lie next to you, his hand on your stomach, waiting for a kick. The first time he felt one, his eyes lit up like he’d just scored in overtime.

“That’s insane,” he whispered, staring at your belly like it held the secrets of the universe. “They’re really in there.”

“Where else would they be?” you teased, but your heart swelled at the wonder in his voice.

Then there were the books.

Stacks of them appeared on the coffee table, everything from practical guides to detailed pregnancy manuals. You often found him flipping through them late at night, squinting at diagrams and detailed instructions.

One evening, you caught him staring at a page about swaddling techniques. His brow furrowed, lips moving slightly as if rehearsing the steps.

“You know,” you said, sitting down beside him, “babies don’t come with instruction manuals.”

“Yeah, but they should,” he muttered, holding up the book. “I mean, look at this! Who knew folding a blanket could be this complicated?”

You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You’re going to be a great dad, Luke. Blanket folding skills or not.”

And then there was decorating the nursery.

Luke spent most of his free time preparing the nursery. He assembled the crib (after three tries), organized baby clothes by size, and insisted on painting the walls himself.

“You don’t have to do all of this,” you told him one afternoon as he measured for curtains.

“I want to,” he replied without missing a beat. “I want everything to be perfect for them.”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder at you. “And for you.”

But it wasn’t just the big gestures. It was the small ones that meant the most.

It was the way he kept a stash of salt-and-vinegar chips in the pantry because they were your latest craving.

It was the way he always adjusted the pillows behind your back whenever you sat down, muttering about “keeping you comfortable.”

It was the way he sent texts during away games, even if he only had a few minutes between practices and games.

How are you feeling today?

Are you drinking enough water?

One night, as you lay in bed, Luke traced patterns on your stomach, his voice quiet.

“I still don’t know if I’m ready,” he admitted. “But I want to be. And I want to make sure you never feel like you’re doing this alone.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “You already make me feel that way, Luke.”

He exhaled slowly, tension leaving his body. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ll keep trying, every day.”

A COUPLE MONTHS LATER

You lay on the couch, scrolling through your phone and trying to ignore the dull, persistent pain in your back. Luke was a few feet away, aimlessly passing a foam puck between his hands, clearly restless. He hadn’t stopped fidgeting for days now, and you couldn’t blame him; your due date had come and gone, and you were both on edge.

“I think this kid’s taking after you already,” you teased, glancing up at him. “Always late to the party.”

Luke smirked, tossing the puck onto the coffee table. “Or they’re just waiting for the perfect time, like a game-winning goal.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could reply, a sharp, unfamiliar pain ripped through your stomach, stealing your breath. You instinctively pressed a hand to your belly, eyes wide.

“Y/N?” Luke asked, his voice laced with concern as he immediately sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but then you felt it: the unmistakable sensation of your water breaking. “Luke,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, “my water just broke.”

For a second, Luke froze, staring at you like you’d just announced the world was ending. Then he shot to his feet, panic written all over his face. “Wait—what? Like, right now? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, unless I suddenly forgot how to hold my bladder,” you said dryly, but the wave of another contraction cut off your sarcasm.

Luke bolted into action, scrambling around the room like a tornado. “Okay, okay, uh, the hospital bag! Where’s the bag? And your shoes! Do you have shoes? Oh my god, should we call an ambulance? No, wait, we can drive—we can drive. Right?”

“Luke,” you said through gritted teeth, gripping the arm of the couch. “The bag is by the door, my shoes are on my feet, and yes, we can drive. Just breathe.”

He stopped mid-spin, exhaling sharply, trying to calm himself down. “Right. Breathe. I can do that. I’m breathing.”

“Good,” you said, trying not to laugh despite the pain. “Now grab the keys, and let’s go before this baby decides to make their debut on the living room floor.”

The car ride to the hospital was a blur of speeding, frequent checks to make sure you were okay, and Luke muttering to himself under his breath. “This is fine. We’ve got this. Totally fine.”

“Luke,” you said through another contraction, your voice tight, “you’re doing great, but maybe slow down just a little. I’d rather not get a speeding ticket.”

“Right, right, sorry,” he said, easing up on the gas pedal but still darting worried glances your way.

By the time you were settled into a delivery room, Luke had transformed into a nervous ball of energy. He was constantly by your side, holding your hand so tightly it almost hurt, peppering you with questions.

“Do you need water? Or ice? Or a back rub? Oh my god, am I supposed to be doing something? Should I call someone?”

You squeezed his hand, managing a small smile between contractions. “You’re doing fine, Luke. Just stay here with me, okay?”

His eyes softened, and he nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”

Hours passed in a haze of pain, encouragement, and Luke’s endless stream of reassurances. “You’re so strong, Y/N. You’re amazing. You’re doing so well. I love you so much.”

And when the time finally came to push, his face was a mix of awe and sheer terror as he stood by your side, holding your hand as if his life depended on it.

“You’ve got this,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re incredible, Y/N. I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s a boy!” one of the nurses announced, and Luke’s hand dropped from yours as he turned to look.

The doctor carefully placed the baby on your chest, and Luke froze, staring down at the tiny, wriggling bundle in awe.

“Is that…” His voice cracked. “That’s our son.”

You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you looked down at your baby boy. “Yeah. That’s him.”

Luke’s hands shook as he reached out, gently brushing a finger against the baby’s cheek. The baby’s cries quieted slightly, and Luke let out a shaky laugh.

“Hi, buddy,” he whispered, his voice filled with wonder. “I’m your dad. And you… you’re perfect.”

Later, in the quiet hospital room, Luke sat beside you, cradling your son in his arms. The baby had fallen asleep, his tiny fist wrapped around Luke’s finger.

“He’s so small,” Luke murmured, his eyes never leaving the baby’s face. “How is he so small?”

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “They don’t come out NHL-sized, you know.”

He chuckled softly, the sound filled with awe. “I can’t believe we made him. That he’s ours.”

You reached out, gently stroking the baby’s head. “What should we name him?”

Luke hesitated for a moment, then looked at you, his eyes shining. “How about Caden?” he suggested quietly. “You always liked that name.”

“Caden Hughes,” you said, testing it out. “I love it.”

As the three of you lay in the hospital room, Luke sat beside you, cradling the baby in his arms with a look of pure adoration.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving Caden’s face, “I didn’t think it was possible, but I think I just fell in love with you all over again.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “Me too.”

And in that moment, everything felt exactly as it should be.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ MAIN MASTERLIST ✷ LH43 MASTERLIST

[vlad-theimplier]

OKAY, here we go again:

To lay all my cards on the table, I think Donald Trump personally, and his whole retinue collectively, are racist, mercenary demagogues who will do whatever makes them a buck and gives them votes.

But can we please learn a fact or two about how the criminal justice and immigration systems work? There are, like, three different arguments going on here, and all of them are fairly legit until they start trying to amalgamate into the same political grievance.

The Fourteenth Amendment is the one that (TL;DR) says: slavery is forbidden, except for those convicted of a crime. So people convicted of crimes can be forced or incentivized to provide labor unpaid or paid below minimum wage. That's bad! But it doesn't apply to 95% of people detained pending removal proceedings, because most people who enter/remain in the US out of status are violating only civil law and are never convicted of anything (there are some who reenter repeatedly in violation of federal criminal statutes, but they're a tiny minority). In fact, most of the people affected are state defendants housed in state facilities.

For-profit detention facilities are a blight on society. Their incentive structure is to house people in the least humane conditions possible, in order to cut margins and make money. They frequently lobby in favor of more draconian criminal and sentencing laws, because those put more people in their facilities for longer. For-profit detention facilities exist in most states, either as state or as federal facilities.

When someone is detained pending removal, they are (usually) not convicted of a crime. They are not subject to Fourteenth Amendment unpaid labor (which is bad, but not as bad as race-based chattel slavery for life!!!). Imprisoned defendants providing un- or under-paid labor have been convicted of a crime by a jury of their peers, or have pled to a crime by their own admission. That doesn't mean they should be paid below minimum wage or labor, but it's a different problem than out-of-status people being detained and deported.

The Trump administration's plans to deport people don't come from lobbyists hoping to make a buck on cheap labor. They come from lobbyists hoping to make a buck on cheap detention facilities. The federal government has almost no input into how states run their prison systems. States are often making a buck on cheap labor, but if you go after state governments for what the federal government is doing, you will a) fail and b) look dumb, and the reactionaries will write you off.

[lukolabrainrot]

End of Year PSA and Thank You

As 2024 comes to a close, and I know it's NYE in some parts of the world already, I wanted to talk about a few things:

Privacy PSA

i just want to say that yesterday is everything I hate about this fandom. It was disgusting and unacceptable behavior. Period. No argument. It is not alright to go on private spaces and share information to the whole world WITHOUT PEOPLE'S CONSENT. And what did you prove?? NOTHING!! Except that you're a shitty person who likes to invade people's privacy... Karma comes back to bite people, remember that.

No wonder L hardly shares ANYTHING anymore. I'm honestly shocked L OR N even have public SM accounts anymore after the BS of this year tbh. WE COLLECTIVELY NEED TO DO BETTER AND GIVE THESE PEOPLE SPACE AND PRIVACY. Focus on what they publicly share, and eventually we will publicly have answers.... Do not go on a witch hunt to try and "prove" your point, THAT YOU CAN'T EVEN PROVE!

The events of yesterday is another big reason I haven't been posting as much. This fandom has just turned SOOOO toxic, and honestly, I could write a whole psychology dissertation on why that is... but y'know what, it has almost NOTHING to do with L or N. But people are dumping ALL this stuff on them, and still claiming to be their "fans". L/N is what brought all of us together. And with the state of the world, I think there is something truly positive about the energy L/N put out there when they are with each other that really resonates with a lot of people and makes them happy and more hopeful. But L/N are their own people, and we'll get confirmation at some point about the big things in their lives. We can't force it, even if we're feeling frustrated at times.

So as the year comes to a close, let's think about the following... If you call yourselves fans of L and N, think about the energy you want to put out in the fandom, and think about how you would want to be treated if you were in L or N's position (or their family members' positions). And if you're just around to create chaos or shit on people, it's time to do some internal processing of your past and go to therapy and heal.

Now, on to the more positive part of this post...

2. Thank You to All My Followers

I want to say I am truly grateful to all my followers on here! I have over 1,300 followers atp, and I barely post anything anymore 😅 I was going through my own stuff earlier this year when I stumbled upon the Lukola magic in May, and then I was just hooked. I decided to start the blog because I had a LOT of things I wanted to talk about regarding these two. And although there is a lot about this fandom I really don't care for, I have met some amazing people on here through our mutual interest in L/N, have had some amazing conversations, and this whole experience has had a significant impact on me. I will always remember this year as the year of Lukola lol

As we move into 2025, I likely will not be posting as much until we get more substantial information related to L/N. I'll still post when I'm able though, and my Asks are always open ❤️️

Wishing everyone a happy New Year!! 🥂

[the-oblivious-writer]

Shatterpoint

Debra Morgan x Reader

Part One: Debra’s Perspective

Summary: You die doing what you always do, putting other lives before your own. It's what Debra Morgan both loved and despised about you.

Warning(s): Swearing, (major) death, graphic depictions of violence (blood/gore), gun violence, phycological trauma, depression, grief/loss, and vomiting

Notes: Someone requested Debra Morgan angst so......... here it is! I ended up writing a part two from Dexter's perspective (platonically), so that'll be out tomorrow. I've been wanting to write platonic fictional dude characters x reader for some time now

Dexter’s Perspective

The first time Debra breaks down, it's in the middle of the Miami Metro parking lot. You're three days dead, and she's just found one of your forensics reports tucked into a case file – your neat handwriting mapping out blood spatter analysis, methodical and precise. She vomits behind her car, heaving until there's nothing left but bile and grief.

The second time is at your funeral. She watches them lower your body into the ground and something inside her splinters. The sound that tears from her throat isn't human. Dexter has to physically restrain her from jumping into the grave after you. Later, she'll have no memory of this – just the dirt under her fingernails and bruises on her arms where her brother held her back.

The third time destroys her completely.

It's been two weeks since that convenience store security camera caught your last moments. Two weeks since a frightened kid with a shaky trigger finger turned your chest into a crime scene. She's standing in your shared apartment, trying to pack up your things because that's what people do, right? They pack up the dead's belongings and pretend it helps.

Your forensics kit is still by the door where you left it that last morning. She opens it, and your scent hits her – latex gloves and that shampoo you loved and something uniquely you. The organized compartments blur through her tears. Each tool precisely placed, because that's who you were – someone who brought order to chaos, who could look at blood patterns and tell stories of violence with scientific detachment.

She starts throwing things. Your carefully labeled evidence containers shatter against walls. Your case files scatter like dead leaves. She's screaming, but she can't hear herself over the roaring in her head. Over the echo of your voice from that last argument:

"You can't keep running forever, Deb. I love you, but I can't chase you anymore."

The neighbors call the police. Fucking ironic, isn't it? Angel finds her surrounded by the wreckage of your professional life, clutching your laminate to her chest. She's laughing now, a horrible broken sound, because isn't this exactly what you were afraid of? Her inability to handle emotional intimacy, to face her feelings instead of drowning them in rage and whiskey.

They take her to the hospital. Put her on leave. Make her talk to department shrinks who use words like "complicated grief" and "post-traumatic stress" and "survivor's guilt." As if labeling her breakdown makes it more manageable.

She dreams of you. Not the you from the security footage, bleeding out under fluorescent lights. But the you who used to wake her from nightmares about the Ice Truck Killer, who knew exactly how she took her coffee, who could make her laugh even at crime scenes. The you who saw her walls and loved her anyway.

"I'm sorry," she tells your ghost. "I'm so fucking sorry."

But you're not there to forgive her.

Dexter finds her one night, sitting in your office at Miami Metro, organizing blood slides with obsessive precision. Trying to find patterns like you taught her, as if understanding the science of death will somehow make losing you hurt less.

"You're starting to worry me," he says, in that awkward way of his.

She laughs, sharp and bitter. "Starting to? Fuck, Dex, I'm starting to worry myself."

The security footage plays on repeat in her mind. She's memorized every detail – how you raised your hands, trying to de-escalate. How you stepped in front of the teenage clerk, protecting her. Your body jerking back, a crimson flower blooming across your chest. The way you looked surprised, almost confused, as you fell.

She keeps working cases, because what else is there? But every crime scene becomes yours. Every victim wears your face. She gets reckless, aggressive with suspects. Takes stupid risks because maybe, just maybe, if she's fast enough, smart enough, brave enough, she can save someone else's you.

Angel takes her gun after she nearly beats a convenience store robber to death.

"This isn't what they would have wanted," he tells her gently.

"Yeah? Well, they're not fucking here to want anything, are they?"

She finds one of your hair ties under the bed and falls apart all over again. Remembers how you used to gather your hair back before leaning over evidence, that little furrow of concentration between your brows. How she used to tease you about being so serious, so focused. How you'd smile and say, "Someone has to be, with you charging around like a hurricane."

The hurricane is all that's left now.

Some days she can almost pretend she's healing. She goes to work, follows leads, eats when Dexter reminds her to. But then she'll catch a glimpse of the forensics lab, or smell latex gloves, or hear someone mention blood spatter analysis, and she's right back in that convenience store, watching you die on an endless loop.

The department shrink asks her what she thinks you would say if you could see her now.

She doesn't tell him about the letter she found in your forensics manual. The one that begs her not to let grief make her harder, not to let loss change how fiercely she loves. She's already failed you there.

Instead, she says, "They'd probably say I'm proving them right. About running away. About not being able to handle my feelings."

But that's not entirely true, is it? Because this time she's not running. She's standing perfectly still, letting grief consume her, letting the absence of you hollow her out until there's nothing left but echoes and regret.

The security footage plays on. You raise your hands. The gun fires. You fall.

And somewhere in Miami, Debra Morgan keeps breaking, keeps shattering, keeps failing to put herself back together.

Some things just break, and stay broken, and all we can do is learn to breathe around the shards.

-----------

A/N: Not me changing my format...

[the--queen-of--hell]

"Proshippers who romanticize [X ship] are trying to justify why they wanna fuck little kids"

Ah, shit. Here we go again. It's actually impossible for you antishippers to think what you want to say before saying it, right?

Like I said a lot of times... PROSHIPPERS DOESN'T FUCKING MEAN PEDOPHILES. It's a false equivalence so FUCKING STOP using that UNREASONABLE argument.

If you are so ignorant that you believe writing about two characters having sex means YOU want to fuck a minor then I don't know why the fuck you're on the Internet. If you don't know the difference between reality and fiction -and between liking something just in fiction and ACTUALLY doing that irl- then YOU have the problem, not us.

How writing about some ships turns you into a pedophile/makes you wanna fuck kids? Does romanticize violence make you want to hit everyone around you? No. Does romanticize killing make you want to kill everyone around you? No. Does romanticize cannibalism make you want to be a cannibal? No. Does romanticize some ships make you attracted to kids? FUCKING NO.

Not every fanfic/fanart is about sex you know? There are probably asexual proshippers, or proshippers who go like "sex, ugh" everytime they read a fic of their favorite ship with sex. Or you didn't realize that in AO3 there are different ship categories? Because there is General, Teen And Up Audiences, Mature AND Explicit. Not all fics are Explicit or with sex, fucking realize that already.

"B-but the Slenderman case proved that fiction affects reality" "B-but I saw IT and I got scared of clowns so fiction affects reality". Okey, so if someone starts killing real people after playing GTA, then GTA should also be banned, right? Because one person was affected by that game and that fictional game affected reality (by your logic, not mine).

Now let me make it clear: Fiction can affect reality ONLY if you let it. A NORMAL, MORALLY AND MENTALLY HEALTHY person will NEVER commit a crime irl if they know that crime is bad irl, NO MATTER if the writer romanticizes it or not in fiction.

"B-but writing about [X] makes you normalize [X]" "B-but reading about [X] makes you tolerate [X] or not be upset by [X] irl"

I say it again: You-are-responsible-of-that. Yes, you read it well. YOU are the one who decides if you want to normalize those things irl, if you don't want to be affected by it. Because no matter how many Tomarry fics I read (or fics about other problematic ships), everytime I watch a case of a child raped by an adult in the TV news, I got disgusted and I want those fucking REAL pedophiles to burn in hell. So yeah, writing or reading about [X] in FICTION doesn't make you normalize it in REAL LIFE-

-UNLESS YOU want to normalize it.

(And if some antis are seeing this post, do not fucking call me pedophile or groomer because:

First: I'm not. I will NEVER be attracted to a MINOR. I find REAL pedophiles disgusting and I want them to burn in hell.

Second: I don't think you even know the meaning of "pedophile" and "groomer" so shut the fuck up)

[snoopysarchive]

STRANGER a multi x fem! reader fic

synopsis

he reminisces of what once was

content warning death, angst, hurt no comfort, suggestive (making out) word count 909

m.list

HE FLIPPED THROUGH PAGES AND PAGES of old journal entries from his late teens to early 20’s, the pages yellowed by time, spine cracking at parts. Reliving his golden years by reading his past self’s writing felt bittersweet, nostalgia filled his heart. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could recall exactly when he wrote everything down: the place, the time, the exact brand of pen he used, and most of all, the lingering smell of her sweet perfume that would cling to his clothes.

Something slipped from in between two pages, pressed and long forgotten by time. A photograph, in mint condition, from the day he turned nineteen. He bent down to pick it up, freezing as he saw the contents. To most, it wouldn’t seem like much–just a photo of an ordinary kid at a concert for some obscure band they were obsessed with. But to him, it was everything. He knew more to the story that met the eye, he could see the girl in the corner, how she looked down at him with nothing but pure adoration in her eyes. A look that could practically scream “I love you”, a look that he once believed only existed in movies.

He remembered that day like the back of his hand, perfectly etched into his mind. He remembers her, everything about her. From the way she dressed, to the way she talked, the way the corners around her eyes would crinkle any time she smiled, the way she’d throw her head back when laughing, and how she’d eat hot food without a second thought, always burning her tongue. 

He chuckled to himself. She would always complain about how much her tongue hurt afterwards, sticking out her tongue for him to see.

He remembers the soft pink of her tongue, sticking out between her lips as she pouted, waiting for him to play along and offer some kind of remedy, even though they both knew there wasn’t much he could do. Yet, he always did humor her, shaking his head and telling her “one day, you’re gonna learn to be patient.”

She never did though. And truthfully, he never did want her to. That stubborn streak of hers was what made her her. 

He remembers the late nights they’d share, not going to sleep until the late hours of the night. She’d point out all the constellations on clear nights, the ones spent away from the light polluted city. Oftentimes though, they’d just stay up to see the sunrise, leaning into each other as the bright red-orange streaks of light touched their skin.

He remembers how her lips felt against his. The way she’d always taste like honey and spearmint gum against his mouth. The way she’d bite and nip at his lower lip during makeout sessions, something that would always take him by surprise. He remembered the swollen lips they’d share and her flushed cheeks, most likely mirroring his own. The way her hand fit in his, almost as if they were meant to be—the only two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly in the vast universe of misshapen objects and people. 

Looking at the photo now, he could almost hear her laughter, feel the warmth of her presence, see the wide grin she’d always have for him. It was strange how a single picture could bring with it a tidal wave of emotions—love, regret, and longing for what once was. 

Despite how vividly he remembered everything else about her, he couldn’t quite remember why they had parted ways.

It was a blur of events, he couldn’t even remember what caused the argument. All he could remember was her tear-soaked face, the pillow she threw at him, and the words she screamed at him and the words he had screamed back.

“I hope you’re happy! This isn’t going to just be FIXED, you’ve ruined it for good now! You’ve RUINED us.” 

He remembered how her words cut him like a knife, even now, nearly 10 years later, he could feel every emotion he felt back then at 21 years old.

“You made me miserable yet I still loved you! I loved you through everything. And this is how you repay me?” 

He still remembered the way she pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting back the tears that had already started pouring. He remembered the change in her demeanor, her tone. Her yelling had ceased to a stop after his 320th apology. She would just stare at him with blank eyes.

“I’m not coming home. don’t look for me.”

With that he saw her walk out of their shared apartment, and out of his life. 

He had only heard later, from her family of the accident. She swerved her car into a ditch, they said, dead on arrival.

He didn’t know when the tears had started to fall, but staring at the picture and reading the journal, his vision became blurry. He couldn’t help but blame himself, carrying that guilt for the past 10 years of his life. 

“BABE, C’MON, WE’RE GONNA BE LATE.” His wife’s voice pulled him out of his head, he stood up and sighed, brushing off any tears and placing the journal back with the others. The last box to be taped off and hidden in the farthest corner of the attic, never to be seen again.

Unlike her, she’d always find a way to crawl back into his mind—no matter what.

AKAASHI, suna, oikawa, KITA, terushima, kogane, hinata, TSUKISHIMA, iwa, mattsun, atsumu, sakusa, OSAMU, kuroo, asahi, daichi, UKAI, sugawara, yuuji, MEGUMI, geto, gojo, NANAMI, toji, choso, ino, YUUTA, inumaki + your faves

@reocidal (thank for also beta reading)

© snoopysarchive

[desperatelyseekingcannibals]

Storytime (Hannigram AU) shortfic

Explicit // M/M // Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter // Tags: Alternate Universe - college rivals, unexpected reunion, famous author Will, university lecturer Hannibal, past loss, family loss, past hook-up, rivals to lovers, Christmas, revelations, comfort, sex, blow jobs, frottage, confessions, time skips, happy ending.

The last person Will expects to run into on his Christmas vacation to London, is his old college rival Hannibal Lecter...

Storytime (6.2k words):

Will never struggled to write anywhere. He could take inspiration from anything, from architecture to the people he passed in the street. One of his most popular novels was inspired by a loose paving stone he’d nearly tripped over outside his old apartment.

It seemed unfathomable to him that he would or even could ever experience writer’s block. But here he was in dreary England, finding that to be the case. He wasn’t sure if it was the constant grey sky, or the thirty different types of rain in this country, from fat dollops to a light drizzle that actually soaked through every layer of clothing almost instantly.

He wasn’t due to leave until after the New Year, but even the festive decorations that reeled between traditional and tacky, didn’t do much to inspire him. He would put it down to be alone and overseas for Christmas, but it wasn’t the first time for either of those. Not since his grandad passed, giving him no reason to return to Louisanna for a balmy Christmas.

Will was sure it wasn’t his mood that was the issue. One of his best sellers had been written whilst he was at his lowest, all those years ago.

In an effort to find inspiration, Will checked the opening hours for the British Library and took himself off to the Fantasy: Realms of Imagination currently on display. Not long later finding himself in the downstairs cloakroom of the library, face to face with someone he never thought he’d see again, much less a chance meeting in the UK.

It was as Will checked in his coat that he noticed someone out of the corner of his eye, coming from the direction of the restrooms. He wasn’t sure what had drawn his attention to this particular individual, but at a quick glance he was sure it was Hannibal Lecter.

At first he had assumed his mind was playing tricks on him. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the man since they graduated college. But, as he entered the Fantasy exhibition, there he stood, reading the first panel.

Will’s breath catching in his throat must have been audible, because Hannibal turned to see where the sound had emanated, and there they were - face to face for the first time in over fifteen years. The first time since they’d gotten blind drunk at a graduation party which had ended in, yet another, heated argument. And then the most unbelievable hate sex Will had ever had.

“Will?” Hannibal’s barely-there brows raised into his hairline, a cool, thin smile instantly gracing his lips. Will had never been sure whether the smile was genuine, there always seemed to be something behind it. Something that said Hannibal thought he was two steps ahead of you - whether he was or not.

Their problem, Will had realised on reflection many years later. Was that they were both too smart. Both majoring in English, they could easily have gone into sciences, maths, medicine - and it showed. Looking back, Will had no doubt that they absolutely annoyed the fuck out of their fellow students. Every discussion became an argument between them, a very unfriendly rivalry between the two smartest people in the room trying to prove who was the smartest. It was annoying at best and disruptive at worst.

The rivalry ran so deep that Will hadn’t even realised how passionately he felt until the night they slept together. How much that might have accounted for in their intense interactions. For sure, their night together had been intense. Hard, rough, and oh so satisfying.

The memory of it, distant as it was, made Will’s cheeks pink up as he stood facing his old nemesis.

“Hello, Hannibal,” the words came out as gruff and annoyed as he always sounded when talking to Hannibal, despite how much time had passed.

Despite what had happened the last time they saw each other.

Continue on AO3

[kyri45]

We love MK, child of un-divorced. The next update will be more gay. And fluffier.

Shadowpeach Bio Parent AU (PREV / FIRST / NEXT )

before saying anything, read the stuff under the cut

About wukong and macaque

Both these bitches did wrong, but remember that MK saw the vision starting from the fight itself, not what happened before. He then read the chapters of the book and read that Macaque also attacked. I personally think he's mostly hurted by what Wukong did, not because it's worse of what Macaque did, but because he idolized Wukong for so long, and while he know he did so many wrongs in the past, his vision of a "hero" dissapeared in this moment. He s mostly dissapointed let's say. Of course it's not the best of things to put tour heroes on a pedal because you will always be dissapointed. I guess MK learned the lesson...

About what MK said in panel 8

Our monkey boy is remembering his own very stupid thing he sacrificied himself without trying to talk it out with the others AND using the circuit on Wukong.

About the posters

Yes they were Monkey King posters. MK ripped them immediately after the vision because he still was not sure was reality and vision and was scared.

About the eye

Because I would prefer no one dies of angst, his eye is fine, it s more like symbolism.

[bernardellinewsagency]

short neuvifuri angst idea

"Oh, did you enjoy the script that she wrote? Did you like the role that you were cast as? I hope you were happy in those five hundred years, Neuvillette, because I never was!"

Furina storms off after pushing him, leaving him drenched to the bone and sitting awkwardly in the waters of the Fountain of Lucine with naught to do but contemplate his long lasting memories. Remembering the way she would smile is an easy endeavor. Furina always looked sincere when smiling; perhaps he wasn't looking hard enough, but surely even fleeting moments between just the two of them had to have brought her some amount of happiness, as small as it may be.

He thinks of one long ago night, during the third century of her reign. Actually, right on the cusp of the new milestone, he recalls the Palais had been eerily silent after wrapping up a week of festivities held in Furina's honor. The people of Fontaine were still celebrating, and would be doing so until the early hours of the morning, but all was still within the Palais. Except for them, that is. She had supposedly retired to her bedchambers, and him to his office, yet the two had bumped into each other within the kitchen.

"Let's go to the Opera," she had told him, in lieu of answering when he asked what she was doing. He supposes that the flecks of pastry crumbs on her clothes answered that, and he didn't ask other questions such as why she wanted to go to the Opera. He followed her as willingly as if she had simply asked for the time.

(Their whole relationship had been like that, hadn't it? A duty that extended beyond just an Archon and her Iudex. He once heard the Traveler mention a sea of flowers at the end of the world, and should Furina declare that she would like to see such a sight, he would tear down Celestia just to make it happen.)

Furina had packed a basket of food to bring, and two bottles of wine to go with. Then they partook perhaps more than they should've, and perhaps he should've questioned if Archons can get drunk, or if a Sovereign should be getting drunk with one. He definitely should have stopped her from going into the storerooms of the Epiclese and procuring even more for them. The memories start to get a little hazy after that, but he can vaguely recall a remark she made about the location not being the best choice, and that she wanted to get away from something. He can't recall who made the decision to go up, and have him help carry her as they climb to the roof, but suspects it was still her doing.

As clear as day, though, he can remember her smile, bathed in the light of the slowly rising sun as it crested over the waters of her dominion. Out of every beautiful sight in Fontaine, she is the one he gets to appreciate most often, but never before in a light like this. He could gaze at that moment for another hundred years and never tire of it. "Dragon of the waters," she had called him, "might you allow an Archon to call you theirs?"

Should she have asked him that at the start of her reign, should they have been in a similar situation, the answer would be clear. He might have even wondered, with the walls of the Court to block them from their peoples' sights, if an Archon so in love with her people would fall like one if he shoved her. But they were not in the past, and he already knew by then that he had come to love her, and thus his answer was "I was under the belief that I already was yours, Lady Furina, both within my capacity as your Chief Justice and without. The people of Fontaine adore you, yet it is my love for you that truly knows no bounds. Nothing would make me happier than to be yours."

"They do, don't they," she had whispered, a note he almost lost to time with how he just barely could hear her. "Promise me this, Neuvillette, if you wish to be mine- promise you will never stray from your duties to Fontaine, and you will always, always, do what is best for her people."

"I will."

"And promise that you will stay by my side forever, then, for another three centuries and beyond that, even if you grow tired of me!"

"Of course, Furina, is... is something the matter?"

It was the first time he had seen her come close to crying, droplets of tears clumping her eyelashes together yet disappearing as she blinked, "Oh, you silly dragon, only the fact that you make me ever so happy."

Leaving the warmth of the memory behind, Neuvillette returns to the cold of an overcast sky dripping with sleet, as a blue silhouette leaves him behind and disappears into the cloudy distance.

[girlwiththegreenhat]

Why the fuck are people on Twitter upset about nonbinary robots. Transformers are aliens, why would they follow another species gender binary based on reproduction when they don't even reproduce sexually. If anything, ALL the robots should use they/them.

[littencloud9]

//

[waterlogged-detective]

i wanna write lore about my characters but i am in the eternal struggle of how do i start

[ragnarokhound]

"reading under the red hood and it's pretty good i think" - jason todd fan who has only seen the cartoon adaptation of under the red hood

[gibbearish]

are we really back to "oh you support (blank)? name ten people who (do/are) that right now or else youre lying for allyship points and everything you have to say should be disregarded". i thought we left that back in like. 2012 misogynist nerdbro culture

[callme000]

I don't think audiobooks are bad or an inferior format - but they're not necessarily reading and they're not equivalent to oral storytelling! When people pass on stories orally, they are directly interacting with their audience, tailoring that retelling in that particular instance to that particular audience. Easiest example being campfire stories that are always about "nights like this" and "not too far from here". It's a false equivalence because audiobooks do not and cannot do that. (Ted Chiang has a very interesting story about oral storytelling called Truth of Fact, Truth of Feeling which is centered on the differences between oral and written tradition - fantastic read) The malleability of oral tradition is the most important part!

Audiobooks are wonderful for accessibility, for those who may have learning or physical disabilities that can make traditional print inaccessible - 100% in agreement. But audiobooks, especially in this day and age, are very often used as background noise when completing another task. Not saying it's impossible to be focused on an audiobook, but reading traditional print requires pretty significant active involvement and is hard to do while also dedicating some portion of your concentration elsewhere.

Imo you lose a lot with audiobooks: you can't make annotations, the reader/narrator's intonation and performance choices will color your perception of the book, it is difficult to jump between passages or sections or quickly browse through the book, you cannot really set your own pace without audio distortion - you also gain a lot: integration of music and background noise and multiple voices expand the world far beyond the page, it's great for accessibility, it can help incur a more visceral reaction (ex: Lolita's audiobook, which is excellent and I highly recommend it) in the listener.

But it is fundamentally different and I don't think it's entirely unfair to assume that people are often engaging with audiobooks in a less active way than they do with traditional print. Relinquishing your ability to "steer" the reading makes it a significantly different - and not necessarily equivalent - experience. To the point where, in my experience, it's often incomparable.