#i don't want it to be Cliche

[possamble]

farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air. 

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning. 

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…” 

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense. 

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous. 

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” 

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing. 

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” 

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—” 

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!” 

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps. 

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!” 

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned. 

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.) 

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?” 

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?” 

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.” 

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave. 

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go. 

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…” 

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere. 

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…” 

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?” 

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

[srtruth]

Happy Father's Day

Father's Day cliche drawing for Mayuri. If @toxictaicho hadn't told me to draw something for daddy Mayuri, I wouldn't have thought of it. Thanks for making me think ksksksksks

Ah, the first drawing was made by Nemuri Nanago.

[undead-moth]

I know I've been on about this for a while now and I'm being a hater but you're telling me SydCarmy was "always meant to be platonic" even though there are two seasons of writing making use of tried-and-true explicitly romantic tropes, themes and writing signals, and SydLuca is going to be romantic because...he was nice to her on screen for a few minutes?

I don't even care if people ship SydLuca, or if they just prefer it, but you can't honestly tell me that you believe Carmy was always meant to be a friend but Luca is an obvious love interest.

Just because Syd and Carmy haven't kissed or confessed their love to each other doesn't mean that isn't very obviously the direction this show is going. The Bear has already shown you who is endgame. It has shown you every episode of the show so far.

Honestly I really don't think The Bear fanbase understands this show or cares about these characters or the story being told here, which is unfortunate because this show is shockingly well-written in comparison to most shows right now, and we should be so grateful for it but all we're doing is complaining that the writers led us on by not making a ship canon fast enough. It's just. Sad.

[milolovesbmc]

I would block everyone on Falsettos tiktok making jokes about Whizzer's death/aids/both. But then I don't think there'd be anyone left... Falsettos tiktok really needs to hurry up and leave those behind

[boneheadboner]

BECAUSE THIS MAN JUST. THE HYPERFIXATION GO BRRRRR. This man lives RENT FREE in my head more than anyone goddamn deserves to know. Just. FUCK. Megalosomnia, and Dr Baggs was created by the wonderful @megalommi! Thank you for giving us this horny gremlin hypno blorbo. I will love and cherish him for years I assure you.

[ingravinoveritas]

(**Warning: Spoilers for OFMD season 2, episodes 6 and 7.)

Just finished watching the newest episodes of OFMD 2 and I am a complete shambles. The fact that we've now gotten multiple Ed/Stede kisses, and everything around how messy and beautiful and human they are, has left me aching. But mostly all I can think about is how badly I want to see this with Michael and David:

We've already seen how powerful their connection is--on and off screen--and I would so love to see Michael and David portray this type of intimacy, even if it's not in Good Omens. I want to see them in that afterglow, that utter domesticity of the second gif, resting against throw pillows and bathed in soft morning light. Imagine seeing Michael and David so vulnerable and messy and queer, so perfectly queer and human and alive. And I want them to do it in a context where they don't have to apologize, where there's no hemming or hawing or hedging, only bodies and hearts doing what they do when two people who belong to each other share a moment like this.

I truly hope it does happen someday, both for Michael and David's sakes and ours...

[lethaeomedusa]

My Chemical Romance indeed saved me because they actually made me want to become a better person. And yes, that's the exact same way how they completely destroyed me.

[galehowl]

Never understood this whole "you're not original for drawing the same overused tropes/it's cliché" thing people use to be assholes lmao

A lot of tropes are also popular for a reason and I'll draw whatever the fuck I want however many times I want in however many iterations I want if I like it lol

[quirkle2]

who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

[apparently-artless]

♡ 14 Days to Fall in Love ♡

with: @mokacheer

↪ Day 5: Only for you ✦ Iris Zero

[therefugeofbooks]

As someone neurodivergent with depressive episodes, it's so hard to talk to people about being sad. I know I should be grateful for the things I have. I know I should be grateful for the people around me. I know about all my privileges. And still, I can't stop being saaaaaaaad. I don't want to hurt anyone around me, but it's so hard for me to just LIVE. I'd rather not. I wish I could opt out.

[antisocialxconstruct]

I haven't worked in a pet store in like eight years but god I still have SO many feelings about good fish care

[thousandyearphantombunker]

i watched the movie Akelarre and it's this great period piece story about a group of basque girls accused of witchcraft when the men of their home are away and inorder to postpone their execution they bid time by tempting him with the witches sabbath- what I love about it is their is no supernatural element. None of these girls are actually powerful witches- they are normal teenagers who lie to and fuck around with horrible sexist men with guile and you see how stupid the logic of their inquisitor is.

I've talked about the oppressed mage trope before and why while I don't think it's a bad trope that needs to retire- its certainly very lazy and not a very good mirror to real world oppression at all and their are more believable and compelling ways to depict power as a curse or generate conflict. aang as the avatar is expected to reject a massive part of his cultural identity (his pacifism) and has to let go of his worldly attachments (katara), he has to be the one to save the world cause no one else can and him being rejected by his peers when he wanted to play and being excluded makes sense and he is oppressed for reasons outside of his powers. Steven universe has to struggle with his powers a lot, he almost ages himself to death and ages himself rapidly in reverse, and he projects his anxieties and subconscious thoughts onto technology beyond accident (that sounds like a fucking nightmare) heck RWBY while deeply a flawed show, shows why being a maiden would suck- Amber seems to have been isolated from the rest of the world for her protection (to keep her away from other more powerful magic users that would use her) and Fria an older woman with Alzheimer's or some other form of dementia is isolated as well stuck in her hospital room only allowed Winter's company to ensure that Winter would be the last person in her mind so that the maiden powers would be given to her both woman saddled with incredible responsibility, ice kings's powers came at the cost of Simon's sanity. And it's so much interesting than the shit x men and owl house pulls- love both but whenever they try and make real world parallels to gay rights or civil rights it kind of falls flat.

Whenever I've heard people complain about the issues with this trope it's always from the racial or gay perspective so I wanna try a different lens- disability. discrimination against disabled people often uses the idea that people with mental illnesses are dangerous or have an 'unfair' advantage.

People with BPD and ASPD are often kicked out of therapy and helpful services because of how demonized these disorders people with psychotic disorders are often ignored by police and gaslit on top of having a disorder that can make their grip on reality tenuous- they aren't seen as trustworthy, People with learning disabilities are denied opportunities and scholarships if they mention it and boy oh boy if your special Ed in any capacity say goodbye to AP classes and say hello to being more restricted in what your allowed to do compared to your able classmates, physically disabled people are accused of being fakers and 'too sensitive' and the world isn't all that accommodating (I've seen way too many videos of ramps that aren't useful to wheelchair users at all) and too many people who freak out over disabled people getting accommodations/help of any kind- kids getting extra timr on tests, more bathroom breaks, financial assistance, interpreters etc- to many people they see these as unfair advantages

I remember a boy in my class broke both of his legs at one point and people called it unfair he got to use the elevator and that the rest of us couldn't- i knew another boy who had a concussion who was allowed to opt out of computer class and do math instead and he got crap cause 'he was basically skipping class. My sister had to take highschool all over again because she was a special needs student (dyslexia and ADHD) and the diploma she earned was considered 'invalid' and when she got so sick she passed a lot and needed to recover from a traumatic emergency surgery she got yelled at and got in trouble for using her temporary extra accomodations- i was told growing up that i didn't belong in normal classes because I needed double time to complete tests, that if I couldn't do it in the normal amount of time that meant I didn't know what I was doing and that I was too stupid to be in the second grade and needed to be kept in kindergarten and that went on for years- I'd be told to stop reading the books I bought to school because I was too dumb to read them basically and every tiny mistake I made was used to forcibly push me to be put in special ed (i barely made mistakes btw- so no i didn't beed to be put in sped- I read at super high level as a kid) my classmates would fuck up just as much as I did- no one would bat an eye, i would catch onto patterns faster than my classmates, id point out details they never seemed to see but because of my shit memory and misunderstanding what the teacher was saying meaning that I needed some extra time to complete a test meant I was r34@!d3d and obviously because i needed that extra time i again was told i didn't know what i was doing, my other sister with dyscalcula was forced to take a test without accomodations they knew she needed to prove she was disabled again despite having an iep that was given to them because reasons i guess also she has a personality disorder that she doesn't want fully specified to avoid the problems that could come from a bpd or aspd diagnosis- I remember at one point being told i was basically a cheater for needing extra time, that my autism symptoms was just being bratty (and the way autism symptoms where described made people with asd sound like godawful immature people) and again that if i 'didn't know what i was doing' I didn't belong- the thing about this is these excuses people used to justify this shit are used in fiction towards a group of people that actually are super dangerous and actually have an unfair advantage- they get oppressed using the same excuses but in their case this shit is true.

Disabled people are oppressed because they get disadvantage and that disadvantage is used to justify oppressing them- even your part of an oppressed racial or sexual minority you can still walk and have a normal brain capacity- being black or gay doesn't effect your ability to walk or read or feel emotions it effects your treatment, the way people judge you- but being disabled does in fact effect your ability- it effects your empathy, your physical strength, your intelligence negatively so that already makes life harder than able people then people see that you are unable in someway and use that to make life even harder cause we equate ability with worth and what treatment a person 'deserves'. It's because of shit like that, that I know people with powers wouldn't be oppressed- they'd be beloved, any fear toward them would be justified if their power level reached a certain point and in general they wouldn't be oppressed because oppression flows from power not to it.

With antisemitism Islamophobia and racism and lgbt-phobic rhetoric they have to make up excuses too- they make shit up like 'black men are rapists, Jews are always genocidal hoard all the wealth and are secretly running the universe and are at fault for everything baf and are pedos, Muslims are terrorist and gay people will corrupt our children into being sex toys' none of which is true! Also again disabled people's accomodations (extra time, breaks, getting a bit of extra focus, getting to use an elevator or ramp cause their on a fucking wheelchair) aren't unfair advantages that are negatively impacting able people (me getting to take a short break from class does not take away from your experiences or cause you problems Deborah)

It's funny in the real people are oppressed because they don't have power or even have disadvantages and they have problems like incontinence or being unable to get out of bed and in fiction they are oppressed because they have too much power and are super cool. I love x men Scott Summers has been my favorite x men since i was like 8 but the x men makes zero sense, they would not be oppressed, REAL advantages are never used to justify oppressing people- REAL advantages are used to oppress people (I emphasized REAL for a reason as someone who has accomodations they are not an actual advantage over my neurotypical classmates). Jewish people, gay and trans people don't have special powers so you can throw them in jail easy, people with Crohn's and learning disabilities and cerebral palsy have disadvantages/struggles which are used to justify oppression meanwhile people in fiction are oppressed for their advantages and lack of struggle. The girls in Akelarre have no powers, they only narrowly escape their execution via trolling the guy abusing them into thinking he can see the witches sabbath if he lets them live until the time the men come back, and that's how you do write irl oppression, fma also knew what it was doing with the Ishvalans- no special powers just normal people with a different appearance. Let's not retire the oppressed mage trope there is a place for it but let's be aware that the excuses used to justify it mimic irl ableist excuses and that because of that it can lead to uncomfortable implications if your not careful

it feels like that trope in fanfic where someone is a straight up god mod sue and none of the conflict feels believable because of them having such extreme power that the conflict should be a corpse,.so the writer just makes shit up. I Love stories with this trope (I actually like the god mod sue fanfics and I'm willing to ignore bullshit conflict so long as the drama that ensues is juicy enough) and I'm not offended by it (again x man fan) but again I would love to see people come up with better conflict than nonsensical fantasy racism allegory that doesn't work as an actual race allegory when you apply logic to it. It's overdone and I wanna see people get creative.

Tldr the oppressed mage trope makes no logical sense (how the fuck do you oppress magneto?) and irl peoples disadvantages are used the excuse to oppress them and when the excuse is that the oppressed party has power that power is made up/ its fake/greatly exaggerated.

Also the last time I linked this article the link didn't work so here I go again:

[reinabeestudio]

I wonder who this is. I think his name is Maroon or something

[razzle-zazzle]

how does day of the departed go in the sadnstorm au????

Okay okay so. Cole and Morro fucked off after Possession, and thus weren't present at all for Nadakhan's Season that I Forgot the Name Of. And Cole became a ghost not because of Yang, but because of his own issues and a convenient train. So why are they getting entangled with him?

Well, Cole did work with the ninja for a bit, even if it was technically all a ruse to earn their trust and get the Realm Crystal. And he was with them when they had to enter the Temple of Airjitsu. So Yang knows of Cole.

He gets Cole to the Temple, and then tries to convince him to help in a "get revenge on the ninja who dunked on your boyfriend" way. Cole's more indifferent to the ninja than anything at this point, and would rather go find Morro instead. So Yang pulls out his trump card, and uses the Yin Blade to bewitch Cole and Morro, sending Morro off to the museum and convincing Cole that actually, Morro went to go hang out with Wu and the ninja and not with him. So Cole destroys the globe, the spirits are released, and Yang gets his students to sit Cole down and make him stay so Yang can go open the Rift.

The villains are reawakened and go to fight the ninja, and Morro? He was initially going after Wu for revenge, under the Yin Blade's influence, but when he gets there, he realizes things aren't lining up. Maybe it was the tea Wu was brewing that broke the spell, maybe it was seeing his old home, maybe Morro simply went out of range of the Yin Blade. Regardless, Morro realizes what's going on, and warns Wu as he does in canon.

The rest of the special progresses as it did normally, with the ninja successfully fighting off their respective enemies and converging at the museum. They're not happy to see Morro, and Cole was never a ninja in this AU, so Morro very nearly throws all his pride out the window to beg the ninja for their help. But Wu steps in before that can happen, and the ninja agree that letting Yang go through the Rift is probably not a good idea.

Back to the Temple. Cole's been doing fairly okay, fighting through the effects of the Yin Blade and fighting Yang's students, but by the time he makes it to the roof he's nearing the end of his rope. Yang taunts him, pointing out Morro's absence and—though he doesn't know it exactly, because he doesn't know all of Cole's deeper issues—hitting a much sorer spot. Cole's almost ready to give up (he's no stranger to giving up, is he? Always running away from the hard things, from the difficult things, giving up everything he has because it's somehow easier than enduring through it—)

Enter the Destiny's Bounty. In canon, it couldn't get close enough for the ninja to help because of the winds. In the Spiritshipping AU? Well actually Morro leaps down onto the floating island without a single thought spared to the ninja, leaving them stuck as spectators, but hey! At least Cole's not alone!

"Morro!" Cole gasped, coming back into visibility. "What are you doing?"

Morro blasted three of Yang's students off the roof entirely. "You saved me before, remember?" He knocked another back with a kick, swirling winds building around his shoulders. "Well now it's my turn to save you!"

And boy oh boy, is Morro powerful with the raging winds all around. Yang is fucked. And indeed, Cole shatters the Yin Blade, freeing Yang's students, and they all go through the Rift. Cole and Morro lift off to go through, and Morro makes it through—

What is Cole doing. Why is he just... standing there? IS HE TALKING TO YANG—

As in canon, Cole tries to bring Yang into the Rift with him, because even in this AU Cole is still a kind and empathetic person at heart. But as in canon, Yang grabs Cole and throws him into the Rift just as it closes—leaving everyone to wonder if Cole made it through.

The Bounty is forced to land, and the ninja all disembark to look around, finding Morro standing with Yang's students, worried that Cole is gone forever.

"No, no, NO!" Dust devils scattered across the ground next to Morro, "IDIOT! I went through all that effort for you, and you just—COLE!" He gripped his sword, even more dirt getting swept up by the wind building around him. "You said you'd follow me to the ends of the earth!"

The ninja looked around at each other awkwardly. Morro was their enemy, but he hadn't made any trouble since the Preeminent. It was hard not to feel bad for the guy when his hurt was written across his face, voice raw as he yelled about being lied to.

"You idiot..." Morro growled. "You promised—"

"And I'm not breaking it!" There he was, standing tall, proud, and alive—Cole! He grinned, a brand new scar glinting in the moonlight, and barely a second passed before he had to spread his arms to catch Morro. The ninja felt as though they were intruding on a private scene, witnessing the naked joy on Morro and Cole's faces as they spun around and embraced, grinning like nobody was watching.

And then Cole and Morro make out sloppy style, the end <3

[beneath-thestyx]

I NEED MORE GWILES CONTENT

WHERE THE FUCK IS IT