#i just needed Words to demonstrate why this shot is just. SO much.

[catastrophic-crow]

video highlights: (lowlights?)

~22:30m:

white man, having spent two hours in the same room as other white people: "i understand what you're doing, i just don't understand why! i spent the morning with these people and none of them are racist!"

~28m:

black woman, talking about the discrimination she and her child have personally experienced: "you're not hearing me."

white woman, shouting over the black woman's words: "I AM HEARING YOU!!"

even in the panel of commentators discussing this, the black woman gets shoved off into the corner and has to wait to speak up.

30m:

the same white woman when she's spoon-fed an example by a man of how racism affects people who aren't white: "oh, that's so sad 😖😔"

31m:

white man responding to the spoon-feeding of what racism is like: "well i agree with you, but it's not about colour. you could be a skin head and not want to pick your kid up from school."

......remember, kids. being descriminated against is basically the same thing as.... being a nazi????

32m:

same white woman: i agree. it's like how my husband (brags about her husband and his job before continuing) needs to wear a suit and have a particular haircut.

..........racism is when professional business attire. fascinating. if i knew where my score cards were, i'd give that particular twist and loop a seven.

".....and is he white?" lol. lmao, even

33m:

same white woman, having gotten not quite the reception she hoped for: "no, no, no! it's exactly the same!"

33:20m:

same white woman, retrospective: "but there was the assumption that racism is in particular for people who are black. and... i disagree with that. i think there's racism for white people, just as much. ... i've come across just as much discrimination in my life as, possibly, many black people have."

............."just as much." "possibly."

~34m:

question directed toward black woman commentating: "what do you think this tells us, then, about racism in Britain?"

cut to white guy answering the question: "in Britain, you've got an establishment with power—"

beyond fucking parody

34:17m:

a two second shot of the black woman the question was posed to looking at the video feeds as the white man next to her continues to answer the question, offscreen.

37:55m:

same white woman: "...one third of my class, are black children. and then i've got half-caste children. i've got one little girl, she's stunningly beautiful; she fell over, scraped all her face, and i admit i was slightly surprised that where she scraped all her face it's all pink, underneath! ...right? did i expect it to be black? i don't know."

😐

43:07m:

same white woman, retrospective, again: "for me, i didn't need to ever change my opinions. i walked in there as someone who feels very very strongly about any kind whatsoever... of that kind of behavior demonstrated by—whether it's one of my friends, or one of my children, or whatever. I've always felt very passionately about that. so i didn't need converting! and to be treated as if i was this pariah who was out there... was unacceptable anyway, so i wouldn't pay lip service to her, and my comments at the end were... more, how disappointed i was."

won't even say the word "racism."

...holy shit, if you don't watch the rest, then at least watch the last three minutes. jane elliott is ruthless when the interviewer tries to make her feel bad about hurting the poor (white) feelings.

you can say something so simple as "white women have immense white privilege and leverage whiteness every day. all white women use white supremacy for control, especially against woc, because of sociological structures" and theyre like youre such a stupid bitch I will kill you for saying this, how dare you. It's so funny they get more mad about being called racist than racism itself??? Hello??

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Losing Game

♡ featuring: ajax x f!reader

♡ summary: simmering feelings boil over as you're confronted by the man you hate the most; tartaglia, your boss. wc: 3.1k+

♡ cw/tw: afab, degradation, humiliation, creampie, squirting, light choking, sadism, throat-fucking, cum play, fingering, overstimulation, brat taming, mind break, pet names (doll, baby)

notes: hiii, the positive response from the last one motivated me to get this done just in time for Fontaine. kinda long this time so sorry abt that. ajax my beloved <3 art by sonomi_rap5 on twitter comments and reblogs are appreciated!

Working for the fatui wasn’t easy in the slightest, especially when you aren’t on harbinger status. You were sent on long, grueling tasks only to be met with loose interpretations of gratitude and sometimes silence from the higher-ups, in which most wouldn’t even glance in your direction. Pleasant beginnings became a sour afterthought, and your perception of the fatui changed drastically. Your grievances, however, weren’t helped by your quick-witted snappy attitude and competitiveness; Presumably why you ended up under the division of Tartaglia. You assumed a binding contract from the capricious redhead wouldn’t mean much, but that was quickly proven false.  

You'd rather climb every mountain in Snezhnaya than spend a minute talking to that airhead. He was instructed to keep a watchful eye on you during missions despite the competence you demonstrated. It was insulting. Anything he did you could do better. It’d been proven multiple times from the petty challenges you created. How much water you could drink, how long you can stay up. You won every time. How could you not hate him? His feigned ignorance and careless flirtations were enough to drive you mad. “Please, call me Ajax” he’d say, winking. The simpering smile he gave you after every comeback shot daggers in your pride. What made you particularly furious was the incessant drum of your heart whenever he was near you. The warm autumn morning that was his hair. The cool still waves his eyes sent to your core. You couldn’t fall for him, or else he’d have one up on you. You had to be stronger than that. You quelled your stress in a tattered journal gifted years ago. 

“Hey, comrade!” His bubbly tone makes knots in your stomach, and you choose to stay silent. You’re hoping this mission will go without a hitch, as long as he doesn’t get in your way. Ajax lets out a teasing whistle. 

“Yeesh, tough crowd.” As you’re collecting the items needed for the deal, he rocks back and forth on his heels directly in front of you, absent-mindedly watching. 

You whip your head to face him, “You can’t see I’m doing something right now?” 

“Oh, I see what you’re doing. But this isn’t entertaining.” 

“Unlike you, your majesty, I have no choice but to be perfect. I apologize if that’s not exciting enough for you.” You retort with sarcastic curtsy.  

“Haha! You’re always a pleasure to be around, (Y/N). My faithful, kind-hearted companion.” he said with a taunting wink. You're beyond flustered, haphazardly stuffing the remains in your bag and lugging it over your shoulder. 

“Let's go.” You say lazily. He follows closely, arms crossed behind his head. “Calling me like a dog, how romantic.” 

“If you don’t want to be called like a dog stop acting like one.” 

“You could at least give me a treat if I'm gonna be your dog.” He looks at you, making his best impression of puppy-eyes. You bite back a few choice words, and glare at him instead. He isn’t fazed by this and flashes a beguiling smile that makes your ears warm. Glancing at the weight you’re shouldering, he comments, “You sure you don’t need any help with that?” 

“No. The last person I need help from is you.” 

You and Ajax regroup in an alleyway deep in Fontaine’s bustling city. You are assigned to retrieve a rare gem for one of Pantalone’s elaborate schemes, and you quickly prepare yourself for this interaction. Ajax studies you, leaning against one of the walls. 

“Can’t you be a little nicer to your superior? If it wasn’t for me, you’d be in a lot of trouble half the time. You’re welcome.” You scoff. “I don’t know why you’re here in the first place, I have no problem doing this on my own.” 

“I’m sure. Don’t mind me, Ms. Independent.” A sly smirk crawled up his face. “Fucking asshole” you mumble under your breath. “I didn’t catch that. Can you repeat it?” 

“I said you’re a fucking asshole.” After a few moments of silence, Ajax grips his chest in feigned agony. “Ouch. I’m gutted!” 

Just as you're about to leave, he snatches your wrist, now only mere inches away from your face. His hand gently brushes away the strays of hair on your forehead. “There you go, doll. Gotta be perfect for your debut.” A whirlwind of emotions strangles your ability to think clearly, you pull your wrist away and start speed walking, attempting to gather yourself before you get to the jewelry store. 

You enter the empty store and are immediately confronted by the jeweler. 

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Do you have an appointment?” You proclaim your business and appointment under a fake identity, posturing yourself as wealthy. “May I see identification please.” Of course, you say. As you’re looking through your purse you notice something: there’s no identification here. Surely you weren’t that negligent over something so simple. You rummaged through the other compartments, trying to stay calm in front of an increasingly concerned jeweler. But it’s not there. How is this possible. Your nerves are heightened and the anxiety of failing the mission starts to creep in. “I made an appointment with Lottie; she’ll be able to provide reference. I believe I left my passport at home.” The jeweler seems slightly disappointed. “Unfortunately, ma’am, I am not allowed to present any gems without identification.” Your heart beats faster. “Well, sir, I’m very busy and I’m afraid this is my only chance to close on this item. You wouldn’t want to push away a well-paying customer.” 

“I have no choice in the matter. If you have no proof of identification, I must ask you to leave.” Should I take it by force? You thought, thinking about the next possible option. As you’re about to handle the rest physically, the door swings open. Ajax comes up to you, placing his arm around your waist.  

“My love, were you able to get the gem we were discussing?” You’re annoyed, but you improvise and look at him as if he’s the love of your life. “Not yet, dear.” Suddenly, he places a plush kiss on your lips. You’re stunned and speechless, filled with anger and wanting. 

The jeweler interjects. “And are you the husband? Would you happen to have any identification.” 

“Yes, sir.” Ajax pulls out a passport and fake birth certificate unbeknownst to you and begins to close the deal. The rest of the meeting you sit speechless. 

“Thank you for your patronage.” are the last words you hear as you leave the store, Ajax guiding you with his hand. You’re silent the whole way back to your room. 

You turn your bag upside down and begin looking for the mismatched documents. All while Ajax stares at you expectingly. You ignore his presence.  

“So... how about a ‘you’re welcome?’” 

“For what.” 

He lets out a mocking laugh. “For what? I don’t know, maybe saving your ass back there? You froze, and you were unprepared, Ms. Independent.”  

“I wouldn’t have forgotten it if it wasn’t for the obnoxious bullshit you did this morning.” 

“That’s dishonest, I wasn’t even talking!” he pretends to be hurt. “Admit that you need me.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“No.” His light-hearted inflection vexes you and makes it hard for you to focus as you read through the mountains of pages in your folder. 

While your head is down, Ajax comes across the tattered notebook just peeking out from under the bed. Storing the months—no years—of feelings you had regarding the fatui. Regarding him. Some time passes and you finally raise your head, met with the horrifying reveal of him skimming through the journal, mischief coating the deep void in his eyes. You spring up and reach for the book but he’s faster, grabbing your arms and pinning them above your head. 

“This is really good stuff... really good.” You shout profanities over and over, anything to get his attention away from the book. But he continues to read as if you’re not there. When he’s done reading, he lets you go, and you instantly try to swing at him. Before you can land a hit, he grabs you by the throat and stares into your soul, almost as if he’s trying to swallow your being. 

“You’ve been acting like a little fucking brat all over a crush? Not very big girl of you.” 

“I know you think you’re beyond charming, but I promise you don’t have that effect on me.” 

“Really? Let’s play a game then.” He knew you’d accept just to beat him at anything. 

“If you don’t cum by the end of this journal, I’ll apologize for everything. I’ll do whatever you want. But if I win-” he steps closer to you, “You have to do everything I say.” 

You almost burst out laughing. Such an easy challenge, how hard could it be? 

You're panting, trying your hardest to focus on the words that seemed to melt off the page. Your back lays comfortably against his chest, with his legs keeping yours spread. 

“Next page, baby.” 

“Don’t call me that.” Your words are lenient and breathy. Your underwear is still on, but Ajax’s fingers are covered in your slick, playing with the erect nub just enough to make you fuzzy. “You look like you’re tapping out.” 

“This? This is nothing” You respond meekly, continuing the reading.  

“I can’t help but have fe-elings for himph.”  

“There’s some nice things about me in here, why aren’t you always like this?” He says, circling and dipping into your gushy folds, smearing the glossy mess all over your vulva. You try so hard to read the letters, squirming from his touch. The sensation pulsing from your clit to your brain made you incoherent; the more you move, the more he moves. The contents of the journal are humiliating, detailing your romantic and sexual attraction towards Ajax, and your attempts to stifle these feelings. He was getting a kick out of seeing your flustered face stammer over his appearance. He plays with the precum glazing his fingers, widening them to watch the trail it left. Only two more pages left. 

“I-I-” You couldn’t get through the first sentence on the last page. Your thighs are trembling, and your pussy began to twitch. “Uh, s-shit. Ajax, wai-.” He trails his fingers over your clit spelling his name, then pushes two inside, fighting back an amused grin. “You’re almost done” Teasing in your ear. You bite back the moans threatening to escape; at the very least you couldn’t give him that satisfaction. He watches you fall apart, shaking more aggressively before your body gives in and you cum on his fingers.  

“Uh oh, that’s unfortunate.” You try your best to catch your breath, but he rides out your orgasm, making you subconsciously grind yourself into his palm. Then you’re struck with the reality of losing. He licks his fingers clean, eyes rolling back from the taste. “So fucking good, does being a bitch make you taste better?” You were too embarrassed from the loss to retort. “You won.” 

“I did.” He lifts you off the bed and onto the floor, your legs still recovering. He hikes your shirt up, trailing kisses up your stomach until he gets to your nipples. He flicks and sucks one while kneading the other one, occasionally biting the slightly bruising flesh. “Not gonna moan for me, huh baby?” 

“Not in the slightest.” You rasped. He smiles and blows cool air on your tits, sending a rippling feeling down your back. “That’s okay, you’ll give in.” 

Ajax unbuttons his pants, and they drop in front of you. Unsheathing his thick throbbing length, drooling with desire. His balls are full and heavy, and as you look up at him his eyes are clouded with lust. The pretty freckles that dotted his arms and chest are much more visible now, and so are his battle scars. He breathed in deep, "take care of this for me, yeah?” You wanted to say no and say fuck this; but there was another side that wanted him desperately, that needed this.  

You force your jaw open to accommodate his size and push yourself halfway on his girth, feeling his cockhead hit the back of your throat. Once you feel like you got it in, you slobber all over his cock, dampening his balls and begin to bob your head. You stroke with one hand and massage his sack with the other, leading to a breathy whimper from him. “Ah fuck, feels good. Suck it slow, slut.” You begin to move faster while cupping his balls, obscene noises leaving your sopping mouth. You have tears running down your sweating face trying to keep up with the vigorous movement of your tongue. You feel him throb a few times, his moans and grunting getting progressively louder.  

“Need more” is all he says, putting one of his legs on the bed and grabbing both sides of your head. Before you can register what’s happening. Ajax pushes your head onto his cock until your nose reaches his pubes. He lets out a breathy sigh and starts throat fucking you with an animalistic grip. The gagging and spit noises echo off the walls, along with his continuous whimpering. You wanted to hate him, but your blood was buzzing, and your panties were drenched. “Shut up and take it” followed by broken fuck’s and yes’s. He threw his head back, hair slicked and torso gleaming with sweat, “look at me.” You reluctantly look up, addicted to his passionate expression. “I want you looking at me when I cum.” You grip his thighs, and he twitches a few times before spurting white, thick cum down your throat. He pulls out slightly to drag his semen over your lips and then taps it on your face, holding you in place.  

“What are you doing? Clean me up.” he husked. You clean him up without complaint and lick your lips, forced to maintain eye contact with him the entire way.  

In one swoop, Ajax picks you up and throws you on the bed, eager to get your underwear off. “You proved your point, stop being an ass" you slurred out. The room was intoxicating, all you could smell and feel was him. He takes your panties off, spreading your pussy to watch the slippery puddle dribble down your thighs. He shoves your panties in your mouth, “Fucking liar, I know you like it. Can’t taste how wet you are?” He aligns himself with your aching hole, keeping your arch steady with you bent over. Shoving his cock in, moaning from the feeling of your body perfectly molding for him. Ajax starts moving at a rapid pace quickly, his big slender hands tightly gripping your ass. The sound of wet sticky skin slapping together and the squelching from your core made you shudder. It was all too much; you have been teetering on an orgasm since you went down on him, and the way his balls thump your clit make you quiver.  

“Whiny brat. Just needed to be fucked good to shut up, yeah?” he groaned through his words. Tears were coming down your eyes now, you can’t tell if he’s edging you by accident or on purpose. But right now, you’d do anything. He turns your head to face him, gazing at your tear-stricken face. “Aww, you cryin’ for me?” He stops to kiss and lick your tears, delighted by your tenderness. Taking the panties out your mouth, he brings your body flush with his and continues to pump inside with you looking at him.  

“So sweet all of a sudden, where’d that attitude go?” The morals you had for moaning went missing and mewls and soft whimpers began to leave you. “Let it out, baby.” You’re suddenly babbling please’s begging for him to let you have it. “Pathetic, can’t even get off on your own. You need me that bad?” You nod repeatedly, dangerously close to your release. He had a dark look in his eyes and a sinful smirk. “Yeah? Okay, you’ve been so good.” He reaches down and starts to rub your clit ceaselessly, kissing your cheek. Your whimpers become loud shaky moans and he finally lets you have it, shockwaves going through your body as you’re dissolved into pleasure. You pulsate through the explosion, jello-brain and boneless as your cum leaks down his thighs. Just as he pulls out and flips you over. You’re dizzy and drunk off him, legs shaking indefinitely from the intensity. Then he puts it back in. “You can take one more, yeah baby?” Your overstimulated and violent shaking wasn’t enough for him to stop. He wanted you ruined. He keeps going, grabbing your face to kiss you deeply, tongues intertwining with each other. He feeds you deep strokes, tip prodding your spot every time and watching as your tits bounce. You throw your head back, eyes rolling to the back of your skull. You have no thoughts, only his name rings in your head. You can feel the coil inside you winding up, pleasure beyond the searing pain of your swollen pussy. He looks down at you and smiles.  

“Look at me." You can’t hear anything at this point, not even the sound of your own voice. So, it’s a pleasant surprise when your voice carries his name, “Ajax, Ajax”, chanting as if he’s your god. “Fuck. Gonna cum. Let it out. baby” he says grinning. You’re clamping him so tight and throbbing until you ultimately shatter with him, releasing a stream of squirt onto him and the sheets. He bucks into you, letting out thick spurts, panting heavily as he watches you in disarray. You instinctively hold on to his arms, trembling uncontrollably as you try to search for breath and ride it out. You’re completely hysterical and sobbing from the emotion it ripped into you. You were in shambles and Ajax couldn’t help but smile out of happiness for what he caused. “I’m so sorry.” you say repeatedly, eyes shut and lined with tears. He got closer to wrap you in his arms, and you cling to him for stability. “It’s okay, I’m here for you.” 

You didn’t want to talk about it when you woke up. You were hoping he’d be gone, and therefore wouldn’t have to deal with the humiliation. But there he was, watching you sleep just as the sun rose. His ginger hair danced with golden flecks of light, and he looked at you like you were the only person on Teyvat. 

“Creep.” 

  “Good morning to you too, baby~.” 

[safetypinxtales]

Together with you | Azriel

(Lonely with you pt. 2)

summary: heart break sucks. Missing your friend sucks even more. It is mind-blowing what a little open communication can do.

words: 4.1k

warnings: angst with happy ending, terrible communication at parts (sorry), mention of alcohol consumption, fluff, just general misery, neutrally described reader/no reader description, no use of y/n, dumb idiots in love

notes: so this got a lot more angsty than first anticipated, but here it is! Not sure how I feel about it, I like some parts, not so sure about others - feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy!

part 1

Cold. Your bed was freezing cold. And empty. 

Like lying on a frozen slab of stone, utterly alone and undeniably pathetic. Just as alone and pathetic as yesterday, when you woke up on the couch in the living room. No Azriel in sight. Like he wasn’t the one to practically beg you not to leave him alone, and then he went and did that exact thing to you. 

It was humiliating. You were humiliated.

And that was why you had avoided him like he was contagious for all of yesterday, burying yourself in paperwork or hiding away in the library. But your plan was far from foolproof, you’d barely made it through yesterday without seeing him, so today had to be different. If being close to you was so shameful he had to sneak away before you had a chance to wake, you would simply remove yourself from the situation and spare yourself some Gods damned dignity. 

You had already written to Mor, your excuse of needing to get away from the happily mated couple for a few nights only a half lie. You were in desperate need of a good night’s rest, however that was not the most pressing issue at hand. But there was no need for her to know that. Yet. She would find out eventually, she always did, and you would be stupid to expect otherwise. 

Two hours past sunrise should mean that the Valkyrie training would be full and well underway, and thus it would be safe for you to make your escape. You got the things you’d need and made your way up the stairs to one of the smaller balconies overlooking the training ring. You knew you really shouldn’t, because what good would it do? But you had to. Just a quick glance. Quietly you moved towards the railing, scanning the people below. 

There he was, a thing of graceful, terrifying beauty. He seemed to be demonstrating a movement with a training sword for some of the priestesses. He moved with such fluidity, wielding the sword in his hand as if it was an extension of himself. He was like death on swift feet. A fallen angel, a dark prince. 

He was beautiful.

You must have accidentally made a sound, because his head shot up and his eyes zeroed in on you. Oh Gods. The intensity in his gaze, and the increasing pressure in your chest was too much. He didn’t want you. 

You staggered back, one little step and you had winnowed yourself down to the city streets. This was good, you needed to get away. He left you alone. He drew back first. You knew all of this, so why did it hurt such an unreasonable amount?

You rubbed your chest in hopes of getting rid of the tightness that seemed to have moved in there since yesterday morning, and then you set course towards the one stop you had to make before getting to Mor’s. 

-

It had been three days since you arrived at Mor’s apartment with a paper bag filled with the sweetest, sugar-powdered pastries your favourite bakery had to offer. It had taken you both approximately 20 minutes to devour them all, after which you no longer had anything to distract your friend from digging up the truth behind your visit. 

You were in love with someone who did not harbour the same feelings towards you. And you desperately needed to get away from him, to save what remained of your heart. 

You had cried, drank some wine, and then cried a little more. You went back to the bakery for more pastries the next day, and the cycle repeated. 

The crisp, early-spring wind was a menace today as you were on your, now daily, pastry run. You were trying to stop your hair from whipping around like a being possessed, cursing up a storm, when you heard him call your name. 

You froze to the spot, like his voice was some primal command. That insufferable tightness in your chest was as present as ever as you forced yourself to put on your brave face and turned towards him. 

There he was, jogging towards you, his brow furrowed. 

“Hey,” Azriel breathed as he came to a stop in front of you. His shadows swirled out in your direction, but retracted before they had a chance to reach you. 

“Hi,” you mumbled back, suddenly finding the cobbled street very interesting. 

He cleared his throat and took a step closer. You took one backwards. The cobblestone looks different here than in the alley by the bakery. 

“I haven’t seen you in a while… you haven’t been home – at the House, I mean,”  he coughed lightly. I wonder if it was made with, like, a different technique? Or maybe the stones are just differently shaped or something?

“Yeah, no, I’ve been staying with Mor for a bit.” It’s definitely mossier on the smaller streets, maybe that’s why? It just shifts the perspecti–

“Angel, please look at me.” 

You didn’t want to, Gods you didn’t want to. But alas, you seemed to have no power when it came to Azriel. 

Any other day, the worry swimming in those hazel eyes would have melted your heart. Today, it just hurt. “Did I do something? Is that why you… haven’t been around?” 

You scoff, “No, you didn’t do anything, Azriel. It’s fine.”

“It’s obviously not fine! I haven’t seen you in days, and now you can barely look at me?” He exclaimed, exasperation clear in his voice. “Look, I’m sorry if I overstepped, or made you uncomfortable – but I miss my friend,” his hands twitched where they rested at his sides, shadows swirling around him with unease.

“Oh, please,” his brows furrowed further at the dry laugh that escaped you, “Are you being serious, Az? I fell asleep in your arms, after you pleaded with me to stay with you – and then I woke up alone.” His face fell. “How do you think that feels? I mean, you must know how I feel about you!” You cursed yourself for the way your voice quivered, and that damned burning feeling behind your eyes that you were so sick of.

“What– no, I didn’t– what do you–,” he stuttered. He actually stuttered. The spymaster of the Night court couldn’t even come up with an excuse for being an ass.

“Save it. I get it – you were lonely, we’ve all been there,” you muttered, wrapping your arms around yourself, “I have to go.”

You turned back in the direction of Mor’s apartment, pastries be damned. You just had to get away.

Azriel had other plans though. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, the cool wisps of shadows snaking up your forearm. You couldn’t help the way you recoiled from his touch, how it seemed to ignite every nerve in your arm. 

“Wait–,”

“NO!” A sob wracked your body. “No, just leave me alone, Az. Can’t you tell that you’re hurting me?” His face twisted in time with your words, and tears pricked your eyes. “Being around you hurts!” 

His shadows were whipping violently around him, but he was as still as death itself.  Something like dread and confusion were clouding his eyes.

He called after you as you walked away. But he didn’t stop you, nor did he try to follow you. And you didn’t dare look over your shoulder, too scared you might run back and give him the rest of your heart, shattered as it may be. No, instead you carried the shards in your hands, tears rolling down your cheeks, one after the other. 

You weren’t sure how you were ever going to be okay. 

-

The bedroom door creaked open, and you pulled the duvet further over your head.

“Hey sleepyhead,” Mor said in a sing-song voice. You weren’t sleeping.

“I’m not asleep,” you muttered, huffing loudly at the giggle that escaped her.

“Yeah, well, calling you a crybaby would be insensitive so I went for the next best thing.” 

Her comment made the corners of your lips twitch, and you silently cursed her for always knowing how to cheer you up. You had gotten quite comfortable in your misery.

You pulled the covers down and looked over at where she stood. Your chest grew uncomfortably tight when you saw what was in her hands. 

“Another one?” You asked and rolled over to face the window. You had forgotten how stubborn he was. Competitive bastard. 

“Yes, and they just seem to get bigger and bigger. I like the daffodils in this one though, very spring-esque. The other ones didn’t have any daffodils,” she mused as she walked in and headed towards the far end of the room, most likely towards the dresser. It was the only surface area not currently taken up by a bouquet.

This was the sixth bouquet he’d sent. In three days. He had turned Mor’s guest room into a damn flower shop. Just being in a ten feet proximity of this room would have sent Cassian into a sneezing frenzy.

“Remember that time in Elain’s garden, when you told me daffodils were your mom’s favourite flower? That she called you her little daffodil when she carried you in her womb? They are very beautiful – just like you. 

“Yours, Azriel.” Mor read the note before carefully putting it back with the flowers. 

Every set of flowers had come with its own handwritten note. He had apologised in the first one, the rest told you he missed you, recalling memories of moments you’d shared. Each one ended with a heartfelt compliment, one that brought tears to your eyes every time, without fail.

Mor let out a slight sigh. “I am fully on your side here, and I don’t want to pressure you into anything, but… are you sure you don’t want to talk to him? I know you’re hurt, and you have every right to be, but… he’s a good male and he likes you – a lot.” 

She’s right. You figured that out two days ago. But your pride was wounded, and your trust had been betrayed, and it stung. 

However, somewhere along when the initial pain had started to diminish it had slowly but surely gotten replaced by the agony of missing him. Now you didn’t know what part of the pain came from what, you only knew that it hurt. 

But Gods, you really did miss him – more and more by the minute. You missed him in your bones; your best friend, your partner in crime, the male you loved. 

“Alright, you don’t have to say anything. I have to visit Rhysand to go over some work though, and I won’t be home until late tonight, probably. There is food and tea in the kitchen, or you can go down to the pub downstairs and ask them to make you something. Just… make sure to go there earlier in the evening to avoid drunken idiots, okay?” You rolled over to look at your friend, who once again proved herself to be way better than you deserved. You nodded. 

“Thank you,” you whispered and her lips curved upwards in a soft smile.

“Of course, take care of yourself,” she said, that warm smile still intact as she made her way out of the room, closing the door behind her. 

After dragging out your stay in bed a few more minutes, the thought of a warm cup of tea became too enticing to ignore. Chucking on a thick sweater you dragged your feet out of the bedroom.

Once in the kitchen, you put the kettle on the stove and went in search of some tea. Where was the one Mor made you yesterday? The one that felt like drinking a warm, spiced hug – you needed that one right now. You found it in one of the cupboards just in time for the water to start boiling. So you made your cup of tea, drizzled in a little bit of honey, and walked out to the living room. You had just put your tea down and made your way over to the wall of bookshelves to pick out a new story to escape into when there was a knock on the door.

The way your entire body froze, yet seemed to come alive at the same time, signalled you knew who it was. How your body and soul could possibly know it was Azriel on the other side of that door, you weren’t sure. But alas, as you crossed the living room towards the entryway and tugged the front door open, there he was. 

He looked tired. His eyes seemed uncharacteristically old, his skin dull and the bags under his eyes were undeniable. Despite this he still managed to look as breath-taking as always. 

Those tired eyes met yours, and you swore you felt time stop. He was here. Your Azriel. 

Except he wasn’t yours, was he? A truth that only stung worse when your name fell from his lips. But seeing him here, like this… you could live with never having him, you thought. As long as he was in your life, if only as a friend.

That’s why you breathed out a “hi,”, and opened the door wider, a silent invitation to step inside. His shoulders sagged in relief as he stepped over the threshold.

“Hey,” Azriel whispered on a shaky breath, as you closed the door behind him. You stood in silence for a minute, neither of you apparently knowing what to say.

Azriel was the first to break the silence, “so, uh– did you get the…”. Bouquets is what he didn’t say, but he didn’t have to.

“Yeah, yeah I did,” you mumbled, never really meeting his eyes. “Pretty.”

“Yeah? Okay,” you could see him nodding out of the corner of your eye. “Good.”

You raised your gaze to meet his, and your heart clenched. You just wanted things back to the way they were, you wanted your friend back. Because standing here in front of him, not knowing what to say was awful. So you did the only thing you could think of…

“I miss you.” Your voice wavered more than you’d ever care to admit, but there it was – the truth. 

Azriel’s shoulders visibly shuddered at your confession. “Oh, angel,” it was your time to shudder. “I’ve missed you too, so much. I’m so sorry,” his eyes glazed over as he continued, “but please believe me when I say that I did not know – about how you felt. And maybe that makes me stupid, and blind, and oblivious–”

“No,” you interrupted him, “you’re not any of those things, Az.” His deprecating words wounded you so deeply, a heavy sadness filling your chest. 

“I should have known. I never would have– I wouldn’t have been such a coward if I knew.” You swore you heard the remnants of your heart crack. 

“Azzy…” You stepped towards him and reached up to cradle his face in your hands. His own hands flew up to your wrist and you prepared for him to reject your touch. 

Only he didn’t. 

Instead he gently held your hands in place and leaned into your touch in a manner so tender your breath hitched in your throat. His thumbs swiped across the backs of your wrists.

“I’m sorry, I got all up in my head and I–,” you didn’t let him finish.

“It’s okay Azriel, I forgive you.” His posture straightened a little as you continued, “I’m sorry too.” 

You felt a tear roll down your cheek, and before you could even register it happening, Azriel had pulled you into a hug. He wrapped an arm around your waist, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he held you against his chest. He was so warm, and comfortable, and safe, and one tear became two, became three. All the while, Azriel held you, wings enveloping you in a cocoon as he whispered sweet nothings into your hair. 

After what felt like hours, but was merely just minutes, Azriel dropped his wings from around you and as you felt his arms ease their hold on you, you took half a step back. His hand that had cradled the back of your head now cupped your cheek, the other came to rest on your hip.

You dried your tears, ungracefully wiping snot from your nose, and you once again lifted your head in search of those hazel eyes you had grown so in love with. And as your gazes locked – that’s when you felt it.

Like the snap of a bowstring, dead center in the middle of your chest, that glowing, golden thread locked into place – forever connecting your soul with the male across from you. 

The impact was so intense you staggered back, knocking into the end table behind you. Your hand flew up to your chest, fingers clutching the fabric of your sweater as you tried to make sense of what just happened. 

Azriel is your mate.

Does he know? Does he even want you? A thousand thoughts swarmed your head, but they were all overpowered by one: mate. He was your mate. 

Azriel stood, one arm still partially outstretched, eyes wide and brow furrowed. Something like bewilderment filled you to an overwhelming degree, and it took you a moment to realise that the feelings did not belong to you. They were all Azriel, unable to keep his emotions from bleeding across the bond to you. 

“You’re my–,” you stuttered.

“Yes,” he breathed in response.

“I– I’m your–”

“Yes,”

“You knew?” His eyes shuttered at your question.

“Yes,”

You had to sit down. 

You wobbled over to the couch and dropped down. You didn’t even realise he’d followed you until you felt the seat dip beside you. 

He seemed to realise words were not something currently in your possession, and took it upon himself to start to explain.

“You were sleeping, had been for probably an hour at least, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I have–,” he swallowed and his whole body shook as he professed his next words. “I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you. When Rhysand introduced you to everyone and you were trying to sneak glances at all of us, thinking you were being discreet. You weren’t – quite the opposite actually.” You turned your head to look at him. One of those rare smiles decorated his face as he recalled the memory. “I think everyone noticed, but no one said anything. They were all probably as smitten by you as I was. Not only were you so adorable, you were the most divine female I had ever seen. Your eyes shone so brightly, and you radiated such calmness, such security – like every problem that had ever been wasn’t so bad after all. Like everything was always going to be fine, as long as you were around. You looked heavenly. Like an angel.” He whispered the last part and as his eyes met yours you sucked in a breath at the emotion swimming in them. 

Angel. His dedicated pet name for you. What he had been calling you, and only you, since that very first day. Not only were you the only person with that specific pet name – you were the only one of Azriel’s friend to even have a pet name, you realised. Sure, he referred to Rhysand and Cassian as his brothers. But you were his angel. 

“You love me?” You croaked, fresh tears filling your eyes.

“Yes, I do.” You hiccupped, face twisting as your chest filled to the brim with so many emotions you could not possibly name them all. He took your hands in his, and gave them a light squeeze as he continued, “When we were on that couch I was just… watching you. Holding you. Realising how perfectly you fit in my arms, when you moved. You snuggled deeper into my chest, like being close to me was an instinctual need, and then you sighed, and you smiled in your sleep – and I couldn’t breathe,” he took a deep breath, “that’s when the bond snapped.” You wanted to reach out and smooth out that crease between his eyebrows. Instead you just moved closer to him, pressed yourself into his side, and when he looked down at you, you gave it your best at pushing some of that endless love you held for him down that glittering bond. 

A sharp exhale left his parted lips and he gave your still entwined hands another squeeze. When he looked at you his cheeks were tinged with pink, the tips of his ears flushed. 

He loved you. 

He was your mate and he loved you.

“I was so shocked. Why would it snap now and not earlier?” He shook his head, his eyes not once leaving yours. “Then I started to… doubt myself,” his brows furrowed deeper, “what if you didn’t want me? I didn’t even know if you knew. Knew and… and decided you didn’t want to be with me. The Gods know I don’t deserve you.” 

You couldn’t help the broken whimper that escaped you as you listened to this wonderful male voice how lowly he thought of himself. 

“Don’t say that Azriel,” you croaked, your voice thick from crying. “I love you so much. I look at you and my heart fills to a point where I genuinely think it might burst,” you coughed out an attempt at a laugh. “You are a good male, and I could not imagine a greater honour than the Mother choosing you as my mate.”

A single tear rolled down Azriel’s cheek at your confession. You untangled your hands from his, instead crawling into his lap. This wonderful male, and he was all yours. The love that filled your chest felt so secure, so safe. Like the warmth of the morning sun. Like the smell of freshly baked bread, and early morning bird song. It felt like the beginning of something great. 

You raked your hands through his hair, and as you leaned in to kiss that lone tear away from his jaw, you watched his eyes shutter closed. 

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, your forehead coming to rest against his, “my mate.” 

His hands found your hips and gripped them tightly, and the touch was more than welcomed. If it was up to you to decide, he would never let you go – forever in each other’s embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered once more, breath hot against your lips. “I shouldn’t have–… please don’t leave me again.”

“Never,” you promised, and then, like waves crashing ashore, you leaned in that last bit and pressed your lips to his. 

His entire body shook beneath you as he reciprocated the kiss, moulding his lips to yours and you couldn’t help but notice how incredibly right it felt. Like coming home. And as your lips moved together that glowing thread became a wild, real, physical thing between you. His hands gripped you tighter, like you were his lifeline. Pulling you impossibly closer, as if you were the air he needed to breathe. His tongue swiped over your bottom lip and your lips parted, letting your tongues meet in the most delicious of ways. 

The kiss was claiming, overpowering and you could not help the whine that escaped you as his fingers dug into your sides. A primal growl rattled deep in his throat, alighting every nerve in your body. 

This.

You wanted to stay right here, just like this, forever. 

-

You didn’t know how long you actually did stay like that – the two of you seemed to, again, be able to defy the concept of time together. But you were now laying on the couch, Azriel’s heart drumming a steady beat in your ear, a warm, overwhelming comfort overtaking your body. 

Slowly, you started to feel yourself drifting off to sleep, and with your head on his chest, his arms around you, the opening and closing of the front door and Mor’s voice that followed, felt so very far away. You almost didn’t apprehend what she said as her voice moved in closer.

“You better not leave her this time,” she ordered, and the rumble of Azriel’s voice, how very safe it made you feel, lulled you deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. 

Your body was impossibly heavy, the words he mumbled into your hair the last thing you registered before sleep claimed you.

“I won't,” he pressed a kiss to your head, “never again.”

tags: @hnyclover @justdreamstars @historygeekqueen @sharknutz @icey--stars @mel-wcst @alysena2 @lewsnumerounofan

[swappermanent]

Summoned For Help (Part 2)

Over the next few weeks, the spell really started doing its thing. Every couple of nights, I’d feel that familiar pull—like a hand reaching inside me and tugging me into another dimension. One minute, I’d be chilling on my couch, scrolling through dating apps or playing a game, and the next, I’d open my eyes and find myself in Cal’s body, usually at a bar or just about to head home with someone.

Luckily, my body just kind of... autopiloted while I was out of it. I’d wake up the next morning in my bed, no memory of what my body had been doing while I was off playing sex therapist for Cal. That was a relief—I didn’t need the added stress of figuring out what to tell people while I was physically here but mentally gone.

And the nights I was in Cal’s body? They weren’t bad. I had a few solid hookups, made a few girls very happy—and by the time I got ejected, Cal was usually in a much better position than he’d started in. Literally. And I think maybe he was starting to learn a thing or two from me.

But then came the night everything shifted.

I wasn’t pulled in at the start of some flirtatious bar banter or a heated moment in a cab ride. No, this time, I got yanked into his body mid-thrust.

One second, I was dozing off in front of the TV, and the next, I was blinking into consciousness, sweat dripping down Cal’s brow, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him. The girl beneath me—well, beneath him—was staring off into space, looking bored out of her mind. Her body was stiff, her expression a mix of disinterest and maybe a little regret.

“Oh, hell no,” I thought. “This is a trainwreck.”

Cal’s voice popped up in my head almost instantly. “Whoa, dude, what the hell? I was handling this!”

“Were you?” I shot back, incredulous. “Because she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

He hesitated, and I could feel his defensiveness crack. “I mean... I don’t know. She’s just quiet.”

“She’s quiet because you’re not paying attention,” I said. “Dude, she’s not relaxed at all. Did you even go down on her?”

Cal groaned, clearly embarrassed. “Uh... no. I mean, we just got right to it. She seemed into it.”

I mentally facepalmed. “Cal, come on. You can’t skip that. No wonder I got summoned back.”

I slowed everything down, pulling away and shifting my attention to her. “Hey,” I said softly, leaning close to meet her gaze. “You okay?”

She blinked, startled, and then smiled nervously. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“No, seriously,” I pressed, my tone gentle. “You can tell me if something’s off.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little, and after a moment, she nodded. “I guess I just... wasn’t really feeling it.”

“Okay. Let me fix that.”

I kissed my way down her body, taking my time, listening to her reactions, and tuning everything to what she liked. It didn’t take long before her stiff posture melted into the mattress, her disinterest replaced with soft sighs and murmurs of approval.

“Damn,” Cal said in my head, sounding both impressed and sheepish. “Okay, I get it. I really need to work on this.”

“You think?” I shot back, but I didn’t press further. Actions speak louder than words, and I was busy demonstrating exactly why she deserved more than his half-hearted efforts.

Afterward, when I was ejected from his body and back in my own, I got a text from him almost immediately.

CAL: So uh... thanks for that. Again. ME: You’re welcome. Again. But seriously, man, pay attention to them.

That wasn’t the last time something like this happened. Over the next few weeks, there were more instances where I’d get pulled in right in the middle of things. Every time, it was clear that Cal had started strong but lost focus—too caught up in his own pleasure to really tune into his partner.

And every time, I’d step in, recalibrate the situation, and get things back on track. I couldn’t say I minded too much—after all, it felt good knowing I was making things better for these women—but it was becoming increasingly obvious just how much work Cal still had to do.

---

One night, we were sitting on his couch, beers in hand, the game on TV serving as background noise. He seemed... off. Quieter than usual. When I asked him what was up, he sighed and shook his head.

“I don’t know, man,” he said. “I guess I’m just over it. The whole thing.”

“Over what?” I asked, not following.

“Hooking up,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s not like it’s been going great, even with you tagging in. I don’t feel like I’m getting any better. If anything, I’m worse. Like, my confidence is shot. Every time I think about hitting on someone, I just... don’t.”

That threw me.

“I thought the whole point of this spell was to help you,” I said carefully. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I am. Maybe I just need to reset, you know? Get my head straight. I’ve been thinking about staying celibate for a while, focus on other stuff.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded and took a swig of my beer. “If that’s what you want, man. Whatever makes you happy.”

But apparently, the spell didn’t agree.

It started a few days later, completely out of the blue.

I was making lunch in my apartment when I felt the pull—familiar by now, but still jarring. The world spun, and when my vision cleared, I was no longer standing in my tiny kitchen. I was in the middle of a grocery store, Cal’s hands gripping a cart full of food.

“What the hell?” I muttered under my breath, glancing around. This wasn’t the usual scene of a bar or a bedroom. People were milling about, grabbing produce and cereal boxes, oblivious to the fact that I had just taken over Cal.

“Why am I here?” I thought, not expecting an answer. But then it hit me—the spell. The rules were changing.

Cal’s voice appeared in my head, startled. “Dude, what’s going on? I was just shopping.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” I said. “And now I’m here. Any idea why?”

“No clue,” he said, sounding genuinely baffled.

I didn’t get it either—until my eyes landed on a guy in the next aisle. He was tall, with a sharp jawline and a charming smile that he flashed at me as he reached for a box of granola bars. It clicked instantly. The spell wasn’t waiting for Cal to take the lead anymore. It was picking targets for me.

“Oh, no way,” I muttered. “This is... ridiculous.”

“Wait, what are you—oh, God, no,” Cal groaned in my head as I turned the cart and casually made my way over to the guy.

“Hey,” I said, striking up a conversation. Turns out, flirting in Cal’s body was even easier than usual—it was like people gravitated toward him, no matter what. Before long, the guy was giving me his number, and I had him back at Cal’s place within an hour.

The spell didn’t eject me until it was over. By the time I was back in my own body, Cal was fuming.

“You’re hooking up with guys now?” he snapped over the phone.

“It’s easier,” I said, shrugging even though he couldn’t see me. “Besides, you’re the one who checked out. If the spell’s going to drag me into your body, I might as well make it quick.”

He groaned, but he didn’t argue. I figured he couldn’t—after all, this was his idea in the first place.

It kept happening. Random times, random places. I’d be yanked into Cal’s body during the most mundane moments—at work, in line for coffee, walking through the park—and every time, I knew exactly what I had to do. The spell wasn’t subtle about its intentions. It wanted Cal to have a sex life, and if he wasn’t going to make it happen, it would force me to do it.

The more it happened, the less Cal protested. At first, he’d grumble and complain when I picked up guys instead of women, but eventually, he just... accepted it. “Whatever,” he’d say. “At least you’re doing the job.”

But I could feel the tension building between us. This wasn’t what either of us had signed up for. The spell wasn’t just nudging things along anymore—it was taking over, hijacking both our lives to meet its goals.

Things finally came to a head one night when I was pulled into Cal’s body during a wild night at the club. The music was loud, the drinks were strong, and the girl I ended up dancing with was gorgeous. By the time we made it back to Cal’s place, things were already heating up, and I knew exactly where it was headed.

Let’s just say we both finished—hard. The orgasm was... incredible. Like nothing I’d ever experienced in my own body. And it wasn’t just the fact that this was the first girl I had hooked up with in all this that let me creampie her pussy nice and deep. No, there was something about being Cal—his strength, his stamina, the way his body seemed built for moments like this—I was really starting to get comfortable with it.

When it was over, we lay there in the dark, her head resting on Cal’s chest, both of us drifting off to sleep. I could feel it happening—my consciousness loosening, the familiar pull back to my own body starting to kick in. “Finally,” I thought, relieved to be heading back to the comfort of my own bed.

But when I opened my eyes the next morning, the sunlight streaming through the curtains, I was still in Cal’s body.

“What the hell?” I muttered under my breath, glancing down at the sleeping girl curled up beside me. My heart raced as I tried to process what was happening. I was supposed to be back in my own body. I knew I’d started to drift out.

That’s when it hit me.

The spell.

It wasn’t done with me yet.

It must have decided to keep me around because, of course, there was another opportunity. Morning sex.

I turned my head toward her, and as if on cue, she stirred awake, her eyes fluttering open and a sleepy smile spreading across her lips. “Morning,” she murmured, her voice soft and warm. She ran her fingers across Cal’s chest, clearly ready for another round.

And I? Well, I didn’t exactly argue.

After we were both thoroughly satisfied—and I mean thoroughly—I finally felt the pull again. This time, it was definitive, sharp and insistent, like the spell was saying, Okay, you’re done. Get out.

I barely had time to roll off the bed before my consciousness was yanked away, leaving Cal’s utterly depleted body behind. When I woke up in my own body, sprawled on my couch, I felt drained in my own way. Like I’d run a marathon in someone else’s shoes.

At this point, the spell had made its intentions clear. I wasn’t just being called in to help Cal anymore. I was essentially his default now—only sent back to my body when there was no chance his was getting laid.

---

Later that afternoon, Cal came storming into my apartment, his face a mix of frustration and something close to panic. He didn’t even knock—just shoved the door open and glared at me, arms crossed like a pissed-off dad.

Alright, what the hell are you doing?” he demanded, not even bothering to say hello.

I raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“The spell,” he snapped, stepping closer. “I don’t know what you’re messing with, but it’s not doing what it’s supposed to anymore.”

I leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. “Cal, you’re crazy. I’m not doing anything.”

“Bullshit,” he shot back. “You’re screwing with it. I know you are.”

“Why would I screw with it?” I said, my voice rising to match his. “This was your idea, remember? I didn’t even want to do this in the first place!”

Cal opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, I felt it—that unmistakable pull.

“Oh, no,” I muttered, the room starting to spin.

When the world settled again, I was standing in Cal’s body, looking down at my own. My old self—now on autopilot—was just standing there, staring off into space. It was eerie, like looking at a mannequin version of me, except it moved subtly, fidgeting with its hands the way I always did when I was nervous.

“What the fuck?” Cal’s voice rang in my head, sharp and angry. “Why did the spell bring you here now?

“I don’t know!” I shot back, exasperated. “But it’s not me doing this, okay? If anything, you’re the problem.”

“Yeah, sure,” he scoffed.

That’s when it clicked. I turned my gaze toward my old body, a sly grin forming on Cal’s lips. “You know,” I said, mostly to myself, “I’ve always wondered what it’d be like.”

“What what would be like?” Cal asked, suspicious.

“To fuck me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice rose, panicked, but I ignored him. My old body looked... good.

I stepped closer, leaning in just enough to make autopilot-me react. He blinked, tilting his head to look up at me, a faint smirk forming on his lips.

“Hey,” I said, Cal’s voice low and smooth. “You’re pretty cute, you know that?”

“Oh my God,” Cal groaned in my head.

“Relax,” I shot back. “And, hey, it’s working.”

And it was. My autopilot-self was clearly into it, responding exactly the way I knew I would. Flirting turned into touching, and before long, I had my old body pinned against the wall, its breath hitching in ways I was all too familiar with.

“Dude, stop!” Cal yelled, but his protests faded into the background as the moment took over.

When it was over, I lay there for a moment, catching my breath, waiting for the familiar pull—the sensation of being yanked back into my old body. But this time? Nothing happened.

I sat up slowly, stretching in Cal’s body, every movement radiating strength and ease.

Then I noticed something strange. My old body, lying beside me in what should have been autopilot mode, suddenly sat up. Its face—my face—twisted with confusion. It blinked a few times, and when it looked at me, I knew instantly that Cal was in there.

“Why am I looking at myself?” he said, his voice shaky, filled with disbelief. His eyes darted to his—my—hands, then back to me. “What the hell is happening?”

I couldn’t stop the grin spreading across my face. “Looks like the spell achieved its purpose.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice rising with panic. “You’re... you’re me?”

I stood up, towering over him. The power in this body was intoxicating. Every nerve felt alive, humming with purpose. For the first time, I wasn’t just borrowing his strength—I was owning it. I looked down at my old body—at Cal—and let the truth settle in.

“The spell wasn’t going to let you fail,” I said, my voice calm but steady, as if explaining something inevitable. “Its whole purpose was to improve your sex life, to make you better. But you weren’t doing the work. So it found a solution. Cal’s sex life is going to be great from now on.”

His eyes widened as the realization hit. “No. No way. You can’t just—”

“I didn’t choose this,” I interrupted, my voice low and firm. “The spell did. You checked out, Cal. You gave up. And now? I’m everything you couldn’t be.”

His face twisted in anger, but it didn’t last. His expression faltered, replaced by something closer to despair. He looked down at his—my—hands, and I could see it sinking in.

I took a step closer, looking down at him, at the body I used to call mine. The calm I felt wasn’t just in my head—it radiated through every part of me. For the first time in my life, I felt whole.

“Face it,” I said, my grin widening. “I’m worthy of this body in a way you never were.”

As he stared up at me, the truth written all over his—my—face, I let out a low, satisfied chuckle.

This wasn’t just a new beginning. It was an ending—the one the spell had been guiding us toward all along.

[moishecampbell]

scream. post cancelled besties

sheila o’malley // 4x01 lazarus rising // 15x19 inherit the earth

[ironunderstands]

Sunday’s worldview sucks, his outlook and perception of himself and others sucks… and that’s why he’s so interesting

In honor of his drip marketing releasing tonight (or maybe yesterday for you depending on when I get this out), I’d like to talk about why I think Sunday’s beliefs and perspective is very, very flawed and how his own biases rather than the actions of those who oppose him are what led to his downfall.

Sunday is entirely responsible for his own failure, and that’s exactly why he’s incredible.

This contains mentions of leaks and spoilers for the Penacony quest line… you have been warned

To start with, oh my lord do Sunday’s preconceived notions kick him in the ass. 

I think the best example of this is his conversation with Dr. Ratio in which Ratio pretends to betray Aventurine, selling out his plan to Sunday. Now, what’s incredibly interesting about this exchange is that Ratio doesn’t fully lie to Sunday once in this exchange, rather he says half truths and makes vague statements which Sunday himself interprets as being in support of him. 

Take what Ratio said the whole, “A scholar knows their position and wouldn’t forsake it for the sake of petty pride.” In retrospect, we know this line is actually referring to Aventurine- aka Ratio is saying he’s not just going to sell him out to Sunday for the sake of information about the Stellaron (which he would get anyways if the IPC attained Penacony, plus Mr. Incredibly Dedicated Knowledge Spreader probably has other means of gaining it then through The Family). 

However, since Ratio answered the invitation Sunday gave him, Sunday assumes that Ratio is on his side, believes his cause is righteous, and that he won Ratio over with offering him information about the Stellaron, therefore making that previous statement of Ratio’s null, because Sunday interpreted it as, “convince me this is worth my time + prove to me you’re correct,” when it really meant, “there is no way in hell I’m about to sacrifice my friend to you, and there is nothing you could offer me to make me do so you crazed lunatic.”

But why did Sunday not weigh the options? Why did he unquestioningly believe his perception of the situation was the correct one?

Well- partly it’s because Ratio and Aventurine were doing their damndest to make it seem like they hate each other and that their plan was going off the rails.

But the more important part is that even without Ratio saying a word or even accepting the invitation, Sunday already believes he’d be on his side. 

Let me demonstrate this through Sunday's perspective:

I am a righteous person, I am doing the correct things, my worldview is the correct one. Dr. Ratio is also a righteous person who seems to be doing the correct things. Therefore, since we are both on the side of good, and Aventurine is clearly not on that side considering his status as Stoneheart and his negative relationship to Ratio, then Ratio will naturally want to be on my side. After all, the good guys work together, do they not?- and together will vanquish this evil villain.

This perspective is a simple one, but Sunday’s unshaking belief (up until the end of 2.2) that he is 100% in correct and in the right, that any and everyone who he also perceives to be in the right (like Ratio) would believe/side with him without truly needing to be convinced. Sunday doesn’t come out the gate offering the Stellaron information- he only keeps it as a backup just in case. 

However, this is complicated because Sunday is also not an idiot, and he’s extremely paranoid, so he’s going to make sure that the way he views the world is 100% correct on the off chance he’s wrong which could foil his plans- which is why he invited Ratio in the first place. Nevertheless, this isn’t him hunting for new perspectives, but rather him desiring to prove himself right again, which is a bad thing because Sunday is very much not right. 

A perfect world is a perfect pris- *gets shot*

Reference that approximately 2 ½ people will get beside, Sunday’s ideology that he is fully confident in.. sucks. It sucks ass, it’s terrible, and let me explain.

I’m not going to try going over all the little intricacies to how the dreamscape works because I a) don’t know and b) don’t particularly care because they aren’t relevant to the argument I will be making- which is that Sunday’s ideology is inherently flawed and immediately falls apart under scrutiny.

Essentially, he desires to create the perfect fake reality, enveloping the whole galaxy in Ena’s dream and fulfilling their every desire and whim within it, with himself as the sacrifice to allow it to exist. The seven rest days, no illness, no pain, no challenge, you get the idea. 

And, this perfect world paradoxically sucks ass because of its perfectness.

Improving society is great, eliminating hardship is great, increasing quality of life is great.

But declawing reality itself- absolutely not.

I’m going to try to explain this through my favorite strangely specific anecdote- the process of obtaining diamonds in Minecraft.

Stay with me now.

You essentially have two options- go out and mine them yourselves the hard way, which takes hours, gives you less diamonds per the amount of time spent on it, and likely with you exhausting some of your resources like food, torches, and tools which you will need to replenish.

Or.

You can just.. get them from creative mode or commands, and you can get as many as your heart desires.

However, despite the fact that option one is harder, gives you less diamonds and takes significantly more time, I, as well as hopefully you, would pick it every time (at least in a survival world, although honestly idk why you would even need pure diamonds in creative).

And that’s because the first option is rewarding. 

You did not earn the diamonds you easily and magically summoned into your inventory, there is no struggle, no journey, no challenge to it, therefore it feels entirely unremarkable, as compared to the feeling you (hopefully) get from mining diamonds, which makes you happy because you earned it. Yeah, it was harder, but the process itself is fun- the anticipation of not knowing when you’re going to find them, if at all, the danger, the fighting and digging and mauvering you will have to do in the process.

And with this unconventional example, the fatal flaw with Sunday’s ideology is revealed- it’s boring. 

It’s boring as shit.

Yeah, for the first few months or even years it might be enjoyable- having everything you could ever want served on a silver platter. However, humans are a) inherently a bit greedy and b) desire challenge, and this scenario fulfilles neither of those things. Naturally having everything means your desire for more can never be fulfilled, leaving the wanter forever unsatisfied, whereas in the real world, things are truly out of your reach, meaning that even if you never end up getting them, they are still a tangible thing just out of reach… as strange at it sounds, we like being tantalilus-ed more than you think. After all, if what you want is so easy to get, you will never run out of things to want, and eventually that gets draining. 

Continually, if everything is easy, if everything is just right there whenever you want it- existence itself no longer has stakes. 

And that’s the problem, because much like how a story with no stakes is extremely hard to find compelling, a life with no stakes feels boring at best and downright pointless and meaningless at worst.

I’m just saying, there is a reason why the Nihility was such a strong presence and problem in Penacony.

Anyways, like with the diamond problem, a lack of stakes means that nothing you do feels rewarding, because you didn’t truly earn it. 

Which is where the Sunday’s idea of a “perfect” reality falls apart, because the most enjoyable reality for humans to live in is not one literally devoid of any possible flaw.

So why does he believe in it? When it’s so clearly flawed?

Well, it’s because Sunday doesn’t think a better alternative exists.

The world made you this way.. and you chose to continue what it started.

I’m sure I don’t need to repeat the story of the Charmony Dove all over again because trust me, we’ve all heard it before. Nonetheless, it reveals something important both about Sunday’s personality and his ideology- he’s fundamentally a defeatist.

He doesn’t believe that there is any alternative for the dove, that it could ever be able to fly again with its deformed nature, so instead of being “cruel” and letting it “inevitably fall to its death,” he’d rather keep it in a cage all its life where it has no freedom, but at least it would he alive and “happy”.

And this is where his defeatism reveals itself- Sunday doesn’t believe reality itself can get better because improving it when there are so many factors and things out of your control is hard at best and impossible at worst. Therefore, he resorts to creating an escapist, false version of it- a perfect golden cage, because constructing that is far, far easier than trying to help the dove fly again. 

The universe has endless possibilities, if Robin and Sunday had tried hard enough, they probably could have found a solution. Sure, they were both children, so the capabilities necessary to even attempt that were likely far out of their reach. However, it was still possible, but Sunday doesn’t believe in possibilities- he believes he’s right above all else, which is where that stubbornness and arrogance comes into play again.

Sunday doesn’t think better solutions than his exists, and he believes everyone would could possibly stand in his noble way are either villains, or horribly misguided; so it’s his job to show them the light.

This is why he lets the Express Crew + Firefly try to change his mind- Sunday wasn’t actually interesting in shifting his perspective, or really what they wanted to say. Rather, he just wanted to let them say there peace, because well, Sunday’s a good, righteous person (at least from his perspective), and good, righteous people listen to others. Good, righteous people will let these poor, ignorant souls offer their foolish words before exposing them to the harsh truth- or at least that’s how Sunday sees it. 

Moreover, this also explains his arrogance. If he believes his worldview is the sole correct one, then why listen to anyone else? He’s this world's savior, or at least he’s been raised to believe that- so why not relish in it? He enjoys punishing Aventurine, enjoys the bastard who stood in the way of Sunday’s plans, shrinks away in “defeat” and get what he “deserves.” Despite how miserable it sounds, Sunday also takes pride in having to be a martyr to bring about his beautiful dream. The belief that he is a selfless, good person is a selfish desire of his, even if a genuine one, and it’s what leads to his downfall.

Sunday could have actually listened. He could have reevaluated his loss to Aventurine and realized it was not through the others clever deception, but through his own biases. He could have actually taken the Express’s and Firefly’s advice. He could have looked for other avenues to help the people he truly does care about. 

Despite Gopher Wood’s manipulation- Sunday’s decision to go forward with the pain is entirely his own, because he truly believes- even with all the evidence for the contrary- that he is correct.

And that’s why he fails. Not because of the Express. Not because of Ratio. Not because of Aventurine. Not because of Gopher, or even the rest of The Family.

No, Sunday fails because he is flawed, and he is wrong, and he is the arrogant, selfish and biased one, and his worldview is wrong.

So what now?

This might have seemed like I think Sunday is pure evil and irredeemable, but I think it’s quite the opposite.

He has very good intentions, and he does genuinely care about it the well being of other people around him. He gives Aventurine a chance to prove his innocence, even if he never intended on changing, he does listen to what the Express + Firefly have to say. He pauses when Robin shows up, as she’s the one person (until the very end) he’s actually willing to accept the perspective of. The whole reason he ended up here in the first place is because Gopher Wood twisted Sunday’s good intentions into a fatal arrogance and utmost belief in a flawed worldview. 

However, what really sells me on Sunday’s goodness is when eyes widen at that final moment, the light draining from him as he realizes he is wrong. 

And once Sunday realizes he is wrong, those flaws that bind him can finally be examined and improved upon, as they all stem from that worldview he no longer believes in. 

His whole life, Sunday has been enacting out someone else’s plan for him, even if he’s come to internalize it over time, at the end of the day- it was never his, and without it, he’s empty.

Which is exactly why the only place he can go now is the Express, and the only thing left for him is redemption and growth.

Dan Heng is right- Sunday has a noble soul, and now that he has stopped believing in himself, he’s no longer shackled by the past either. Improvement or utter demise (in a likely nihility-flavored manner) are his only options remaining.

I understand a lot of people want to see him become a Stellaron Hunter, but imo, that just does nothing for him. He’d still be following someone else’s path/script, and Mr. I Will Sacrifice My Whole Existence To Become The Sun To Illuminate These Wandering Souls probably wouldn’t be so on board with the whole.. terrorism part of being a SH. Like yeah, they are our friends (kinda), but they absolutely kill innocent people and cause millions of dollars in property damage to people who don’t deserve it. 

Also, being on the Express Just Makes Sense. This is a game about choices, a game about accepting the mistakes of your past, but not letting them define you in order to move on and forge a better future for yourself and others- with the Astral Express + Trailblaze as a concept being the literal embodiment of it. There’s a reason when you switch to the Trailblazer’s POV in stories, it includes Kafka’s most important words to us- “When you have the chance to make a choice, make one you won’t regret.”

Therefore, I hope the choices Sunday will make in 2.7 are ones he’s proud of, and I can’t wait to see how exactly they get him on board with the crew, because there still is a LOT of development he needs to do before then. 

Anyways, thank you so much for reading, and if you have any thoughts I’d love to hear them. This was a stream of consciousness mess, but I hope it was still valuable nonetheless! Also if you are reading this on the day it was written, I hope we don’t get disappointed by his drip marketing!

[azzibuckets]

playing fair [pazzi]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: based on their alleged behavior at azzi’s camp today …

word count: 1.3k

masterlist

Clang.

The ball spun slowly around the rim until it slowly tipped to the side, dropping to the ground with a disappointing thump. Azzi shook her head, a small grin on her face as she went to rebound the ball.

“And that, kids,” Paige announced, “is what you don’t do.”

“Shut up.” Azzi elbowed Paige in the ribs before turning her attention to the crowd of kids intently watching them. “I want all of you to partner up and practice the footwork I just did.”

As soon as all the campers turned their attention to finding their friends and retrieving their balls, Paige’s hands were on Azzi’s waist. Pressing up behind her, she whispered mockingly in Azzi’s ear, “Teaching them to miss shots? Their coaches will love you.”

Azzi shivered when Paige’s mouth brushed against her earlobe, the older girl’s cologne overpowering her senses. It was tempting to lean into Paige, surrendering herself to her touch, but the wary look Katie sent them forced Azzi to detach herself from Paige’s grip.

“You’re acting like you’ve never missed in your life,” Azzi scoffed, pushing the ball into Paige’s stomach and sending the blonde stumbling back.

“I don’t.” Paige bounced the ball between her legs with a smirk. Azzi shook her head and walked away, wanting to help out any campers who were confused or needed guidance. But when she felt something hit her butt, followed by two very familiar voices snickering, she turned right back around.

“God, you’re so immature,” Azzi said, eyeing her girlfriend who was high fiving Drew like she was a little kid.

“You left me! What else was I supposed to do?” Paige whined.

“You know I asked you to come in order to help with the kids, not to stare at me all day and goof around.”

Paige’s cheeks quickly colored bright red. “How’d you know I was staring?”

“Everyone knew you were staring,” Drew piped up, earning a smack to the head from his sister.

“Seriously, you aren’t slick,” Azzi chastised.

Paige grabbed the end of Azzi’s shirt, playing with the frays. “Why can’t I just stick with you?” she frowned, her face looking like a kicked puppy’s.

Azzi brushed away a strand of dyed pink hair from Paige’s face, fingertips lightly brushing her temple. “Paige.”

Paige huffed, eyes flitting away to assess the campers before fixing her gaze back on Azzi. “Fine.”

“We’ll go somewhere tonight, just the two of us,” Azzi promised. In truth, she wanted nothing more than to be stuck at the hip with her best friend, but she’d invested too much planning and time into this camp, and she wanted the kids to have a good time. Which wouldn’t be possible if her and Paige were making googly eyes at each other all day instead of actually teaching the kids.

Paige nodded reluctantly before letting Azzi walk away again, this time with a pat to the butt instead of a ball.

Paige swore she tried to help as many kids as possible, giving them quick tips to adjust their body positioning or demonstrating how to do a left-handed layup. But something about Azzi had always been addicting, making it hard for her eyes to leave Azzi’s face for more than a few seconds before inevitably going back. So who could blame her for stealing glances at Azzi from across the room when she was supposed to be listening to a camper’s question?

“I found a solution,” Paige said as she walked up to her girlfriend during the water break.

“To what?” Azzi tipped her head back to chug her water, and Paige swallowed at the flex of Azzi’s jaw. She itched to brush away the drop of water trailing its way down her girlfriend’s jaw, but she silently reminded herself that it was imperative to stay cordial.

“You can’t smile,” Paige said solemnly before stealing Azzi’s water bottle for a sip.

Azzi squinted at the older girl, confusion written all over her face. “Did all those hours flying at high altitudes fuck up your brain?”

“Dumbass.” Paige nudged the younger girl with the water bottle. “But think about it. It makes sense. I get yelled at for being distracted all the time, but you’re the one distracting me. But most of the times it’s only when you smile and shit, so if you want me to be locked in then you just gotta stop smiling.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or to call a mental institution but I’m leaning towards the latter.”

Paige grinned, the annoyed look on Azzi’s face fueling her fire like it always did. “I can’t help it,” she said, inching closer to the dark haired girl. “Not when the prettiest girl in the world is in the same room as me.”

Azzi ducked her head. “Stop being such a flirt.”

Paige conveniently let her hand drop next to Azzi’s, intentionally grazing their pinkies. “You love it.”

Azzi’s fingers flexed when Paige pulled away, itching to bridge the gap between their hands. “Nope.”

“You tryna hold my hand right now, I can feel it,” Paige said, a knowing smile spread across her lips.

“I’m tryna stop my hand from punching you in the face,” Azzi grumbled before walking away again, mostly because Paige was right and that if she was in close proximity with the blonde for any longer than she would lose all remnants of self control.

“Who’s a better shooter, you or Azzi?” Paige looked down at the little girl who had suddenly materialized by her side.

Chuckling, she kneeled down so that she was eye to eye with the kid. “What do you think?” she prodded, widening her eyes for dramatic effect.

“My friend says you’re better.” The little girl paused before sending Paige a sheepish look. “But I think Azzi’s better.”

Paige looked around, making sure the girl in question wasn’t within hearing distance, before lowering her voice like she was telling a secret. “Go tell your friend that only one of us has almost flawless shooting mechanics, and it’s not me.”

The girl beamed at Paige before running off, no doubt eager to boast to her friend. Paige chuckled before scanning the room to find Azzi again. She honestly didn’t know why she was like this, why the first thing she always did was look for Azzi among all the faces. It was almost second nature to her, something she did subconsciously. She wondered if it was healthy for her heart to pick up pace every time she laid eyes on her girlfriend. But hey, it was basically a form of cardio. Geno would be proud.

Twirling a basketball in her hand, Paige slowly counted to five before deciding that enough time had passed for her to bother Azzi again.

“Hey, can you help me with my shooting form?”

Azzi looked up over her shoulder, mid conversation with a group of kids that couldn’t have been more than nine years old.

“I think your shooting form is fine, Paige,” Azzi said with narrowed eyes, her suspicion starting to grow.

“I think it’d be good for the kids to see you fixing bad form. It’d help them with any issues they might have that they can’t see themselves,” Paige said innocently, batting her eyes.

Azzi gritted her teeth when the campers nodded along, oblivious to the entire situation. “You really think you’re funny, huh?” she whispered to the blonde, who was already in an awkward shooting stance, hand sliding up her arm to gently lift her elbow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paige whispered back, eyes trained on the ball in her hands.

Azzi breathed into Paige’s neck, smirking a little to herself when she noticed the goosebumps on her skin. “Has anyone ever told you that you have attachment issues?”

“Only everyone who knows we’re dating.”

“Shoot the damn ball.”

Swish.

“What’d you say earlier about me missing?” Paige raised her eyebrows cockily.

Azzi chose not to respond, instead lifting her shirt up to wipe sweat from her forehead, smirking when she saw the effect it had on the blonde.

“You don’t play fair,” Paige complained, her stare focused on the piercing in her belly button.

“Maybe if you weren’t so down bad for me.”

Paige kicked the floor with her foot, knowing it was pointless to argue. “So what are we doing tonight?”

“It’s a surprise.” Azzi smiled wryly. “But it’ll be fun, don’t worry.”

“And we’re gonna be alone, right?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

Paige curled her fingers around Azzi’s waist. “Good. I love our family but the house is loud as fuck.”

Azzi’s heart warmed. Our family. She could get used to that. Paige rested her forehead on Azzi’s shoulder from behind for a few seconds, basking in the warmth of her girlfriend before letting go with a sigh and backing away. “How long until camp is over?”

“Two hours.”

“Two hours til you’re all mine,” Paige said cheesily.

[katyusha454]

I think I've found the most tragic ship in BG3 and I need to rant about it

I've seen a decent number of people discuss and write about Dark Justiciar Shadowheart, but they always focus on what she's like post-game when she's fully committed to Shar. Which is a fine thing to focus on! Especially when you're writing smut where she's a mean domme. Post-game DJ Shadowheart is a fascinating character. But I feel like people neglect to consider what she's like during the transition phase of Act 3, where she's become Shar's Chosen but hasn't yet Done The Thing that caps off her personal questline. And there is SO MUCH potential for angst and drama during that time frame.

IMO the most important aspect of this stage of her development is that she is not evil yet. She simply made a single bad decision and now she feels like she's in too deep to do anything but double down on it. She's spent her whole life trying to "fake it 'till you make it" and she's only just now starting to transition out of that and into sincere belief. All the misgivings and insecurities she's shared with you are still there, just buried deeper. That desire to love others and do good hasn't yet been completely stamped out. In my Dark Justiciar Origin run, I try to do good things whenever possible as long as I can find a way to rationalize it as benefiting Shar. (but I still ended up saying enough evil-sounding things to make Minthara incredibly horny for me)

So where does Karlach fit in?

Well, turns out when you play as Origin Shadowheart, Shar doesn't make you break up with your partner. In fact, Shar says absolutely nothing to you about your romantic situation. This is really weird if you're romancing anyone other than Karlach, but I think it makes perfect sense for Shar to tolerate a relationship with Karlach for the time being. It's the ideal opportunity for Shar to prove a point. Karlach is dying, and no matter what Shadowheart does, this relationship is going to end in painful loss. Shar wants Shadowheart to fall in love with Karlach only to have that love abruptly ripped away from her. It perfectly demonstrates everything Shar believes about love: that it's fleeting and will always hurt you in the long run. Better to just avoid it entirely so you don't get hurt.

And Shadowheart knows all this. She's studied Sharran scripture extensively, after all. She knows that Shar is trying to teach her a lesson, she knows that the longer the relationship lasts and the more emotionally intimate it gets, the more the end is going to hurt. So why doesn't she break it off? Partly it's because she loves Karlach and doesn't want to end things; she's probably in denial at least a little bit. But I think it's also partly because she's a bit of a masochist. She thinks she deserves to suffer because she knows, at least subconsciously, that she's still not a very good Sharran. She can see the loss coming and she hopes the experience will bring her closer to Shar.

You'd think Karlach would be unwilling to put up with DJ Shadowheart's fanatical bullshit, but personally I think Karlach would stick it out for a whole mess of reasons. Number one, she can still see the good in Shadowheart and she refuses to give up on her partner. She's clinging tightly to the hope that Shadowheart can still be redeemed, even though she probably understands that it's a long shot at best.

Number two, she blames herself. When you play as Tav/Durge or another Origin, Shadowheart will have a conversation with you before deciding what to do in the Shadowfell. But if you play as Shadowheart, none of your companions says a word to you. In the context of this ship, I choose to interpret that as Karlach being too trusting. She's seen the good in Shadowheart, after all. She's so certain Shadowheart will do the right thing that she doesn't think she needs to speak up. It's not until too late that she realizes what Shadowheart needed was for someone to say "hey, are you sure about this?" So now she feels she needs to make up for that failure somehow by continuing to try and nudge Shadowheart in the right direction even though it seems impossible.

And number three, Karlach's just plain lonely. As fucked-up as this relationship is, she's still getting companionship and intimacy, and she doesn't think she has time to cultivate a new relationship if she breaks up with Shadowheart. She wants someone to be with her and hold her hand at the end, even if that someone is a brainwashed cultist.

In sum, both of them know that their relationship is extremely unhealthy; that it's hurting them now and will hurt them more in the future. But they both refuse to end it for their own reasons. And good gods, the ANGST. ARE YOU FEELING IT NOW, MISTER KRABS?

[alexanderwales]

The Digital Corpse

I always read about what school shooters or wannabe assassins have to say. I read or at least skim through manifestos, most of which are really poorly written and usually just have badly misunderstood ideas that are copy-pasted from diverse places. I read social media posts and discord logs, where available. Some of this is morbid fascination that I don't endorse, but some of it is the impulse to understand how and why a thing like this happened.

So I've been following the news on Trump's would-be assassin, and to all appearances he was just a kid who was bullied at school and didn't have a lot of hobbies, skills, talents, or friends. He wanted power and control and had no way to get it, and I think there's something to the notion that a lot of white men think that their whiteness or maleness means they're owed something. When Trump came to town, it was opportunity falling into his lap. If you're 20 years old and feeling like the world cares nothing for you, then yeah, I can see why you'd take your shot. It's a way of being famous, of going out with a bang, and young men often feel invincible anyway. The shocking thing is that it almost worked, and that seems to be down to incompetence and complacency.

But if it had worked, and they hadn't immediately shot him to death, he'd have gotten all the worst parts of fame (in addition to what would probably be life in prison). In death he's got intense scrutiny of everything he's ever posted online. There are reports about how sad and lonely he was. If he'd succeeded, maybe there would be some on the left who would idolize him, but as it stands ... I can imagine wanting to be megafamous, but I cannot imagine wanting it to be like this. It was almost certainly different in his imagination though, a grand moment that would give meaning to his life and demonstrate that he did, in fact, have power.

And of course the whole thing will be forgotten in a week or two. A year from now you'll say the name "Thomas Crooks" and people will say "huh, that ... do I know that name?"

On the other side of things, there's Corey Comperatore. He was the other person to die that day, just a random guy who had attended a Trump rally and got hit by a bullet because from one specific angle he was standing behind Trump. If Thomas Crooks left almost nothing behind to make sense of his life, Corey Comperatore left behind what feels like a lot. The fame is more double-edged. He's lauded as a hero by some, even if the only thing he did was catch a stray. Generously, that's a way of making sense of things: just like it's not enough for Crooks to be alienated and dejected, it's not enough for Comperatore to just be someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But Corey Comperatore is also having his life torn open, or at least the parts of it that he put online. Posting online was something he probably did without thinking too much about it. The worst one, for me, was him saying that the Palestinians would "get over it" like the Japanese did. It's something I think about a lot in the social media age, the picture that people would get if they went looking through all our posts, if they were trying to make a picture of you from the things you've left behind. If you died in a very public way, what's the worst post you've ever made? What would people find ironic? But of course you don't need to die, we're in an era where anyone can get flash famous by random happenstance. And of course in the modern day we want the delicious little morsels, the worst thing you've ever said, the most ironic, most iconic, most infuriating sound bite that can represent a whole person. Anything more anodyne is pointless, even if that's the bulk of someone's life.

I'm probably a little unusual in terms of digital fingerprints. I'm active on discords, I've written some four million words of fiction, and my reddit comment karma is in the six figure range, which probably means that I've got something like fifty thousand comments. I talk a lot. But I do think about being torn apart like that, what would happen if I were famous for a day before the news cycle moved on, if there were hundreds or thousands of people trying to make sense of me.

When I die, if anyone has reason to go snooping through my history, I hope there's a good-looking corpse.

[m4rv3l-girl]

Bucky x hydra reader

Reader was tortured by hydra and the whole time reader was there, she wasn't allowed to speak or even make a noise, but after reader got rescued by the avengers, she kept silent for a while and eventually came outta her shell! And spoke constantly but the avengers didn't mind because it made her happy and then bucky moved into the compound and when you met him your whole body started to get goosebumps and heart eyes and you found yourself attached to bucky and constantly talking his ear off about random things and questions about the 40s but he answered plainly and basic answers to your questions, you grew on him but he never told you that, just kept acting. One day steve and buck were in the Kitchen and steve mentioned about bucky warming up to you and Bucky shot back instantly that he isn't, he doesn't understand why you talk so much and why him, little did they know reader was making her way to the super soldier to show him a cat video on her phone and she overheard him, and she felt all the torture coming back from hydra, and she decided not to speak to him or anyone again in fear of annoying them. Days passed and reader still hadn't said a word and bucky kept trying to get you to speak but he kept failing. He eventually asked steve why you stopped and he explained about the hydra torture and the not allowed to speak. And bucky felt instant regret because he secretly loved your voice. And that night he found you sitting in the compound garden and kept pestering you to speak and he says "doll I need to hear your voice" "the silence from you is driving him crazy" and he admits his feelings and how he just said that so steve wouldn't figure out that he likes you.

Idk how to end it but, that's the basis of the idea👀

The Voice that was Gone

Warnings: Language. Mentions of conditioning. Angst.

The Avengers Compound was more like a sanctuary than a home for her. Y/N had been brought there not long after her rescue from Hydra’s cold, lifeless grip. The halls were wide and bright, the complete opposite of the sterile cells and dark corridors she had endured. At first, silence was her only language—a deeply ingrained reflex from the years Hydra had stolen from her. They hadn’t just stolen her freedom; they’d stripped her of her voice, her autonomy, her right to express even the smallest whimper of pain or protest.

In the beginning, no one pushed her to speak. Steve and Natasha were the first to meet her at the compound, their eyes kind but not pitying. Tony had cracked a joke to ease the tension, but she’d only offered him a faint smile, one she wasn’t sure he saw. They understood that healing wasn’t linear.

They gave her space, and, for that, she was grateful.

Gradually, the silence cracked.

It started with small things���a muttered “thank you” when Sam passed her a glass of water, or a quiet laugh when Wanda demonstrated her magic tricks to cheer her up. With every word, the weight on her chest eased. By the time a month had passed, the words were spilling out in torrents. She would ramble about anything—ask Clint endless questions about archery, debate with Steve about music from the 40s, and share random tidbits about the books she was devouring from the compound’s extensive library.

The team never minded. They smiled when her chatter filled the room, indulging her curiosity and taking comfort in the way her laughter brightened the once-silent corners of the compound. It was her healing, and they were all proud to see her come into her own.

But then Bucky moved in.

He arrived quietly, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, shadowed by Steve as they walked into the compound. Y/N had been in the common room, curled up on the couch with Wanda and Nat. Her eyes had flicked up from the TV to the door, and the moment she saw him, her breath hitched. The faintest trace of goosebumps prickled her arms, and she couldn’t look away.

Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. He was everything she didn’t expect and everything she couldn’t explain. His presence was heavy yet quiet, his shoulders tense and his face guarded. She was drawn to him, almost instinctively, like a moth to a flame. It wasn’t just his striking looks, though those were hard to ignore—it was something deeper, something unspoken.

And just like that, Bucky became the new focus of her endless chatter.

“Bucky,” she’d call out when she saw him in the kitchen, “did they really have ration cards in the 40s? Or is that just a myth?”

“Bucky, what was the best movie you saw back then? Were the cinemas as grand as they look in pictures?”

“Bucky, did you ever try dancing the jitterbug?”

He answered, but always briefly. “Yeah, we had ration cards,” or “It was nice enough,” or “Didn’t dance much.” His clipped replies didn’t deter her, though. She followed him from room to room, her voice animated, peppering him with questions that he always answered but never elaborated on. The rest of the team noticed, too, hiding their smirks as Y/N latched onto Bucky like he was her new favorite book.

What Y/N didn’t know was that she’d gotten under his skin. Not in a bad way—not at all. At first, he was baffled by her. How could someone who had gone through the horrors she had still find it in herself to speak so freely, to laugh so openly? He wasn’t annoyed by her questions or her stories, but he didn’t know how to show her that. He didn’t know how to let her in. So, he kept his answers short, his tone neutral. He pretended her constant chatter didn’t make his chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.

One day, as Bucky sat at the counter with Steve, sipping a cup of coffee, Steve raised an eyebrow at him. “You know, you’ve been warming up to Y/N,” Steve said casually, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Bucky bristled. “I’m not,” he shot back almost immediately, his voice sharper than he intended. “I don’t get why she talks so much. And why me?”

Neither of them realized Y/N had wandered into the kitchen, her phone in hand, ready to show Bucky a funny cat video she’d found. The second she heard his words, though, she froze. It was like a switch flipped in her mind, Hydra’s cold grip clawing its way back to her chest.

Her fingers tightened around her phone, her breathing shallow as Bucky’s words echoed in her mind. Why me?

Her voice - her freedom to speak - suddenly felt like a burden.

She slipped away unnoticed, her appetite for laughter and conversation swallowed by the weight of his rejection. That night, she decided she wouldn’t make anyone endure her voice again.

If speaking annoyed him, then she wouldn’t speak at all.

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The silence wrapped around the compound like a suffocating fog.

At first, the team thought Y/N was just having an off day—everyone did sometimes. But as the hours stretched into days, her withdrawal became glaringly obvious. The once lively spark of her voice, her endless questions, her infectious laughter—all of it was gone. The common spaces that had brimmed with her chatter now echoed with nothingness, an eerie reminder of the energy she’d brought with her.

Steve was the first to notice something was wrong. During their morning briefing, he asked her opinion on a potential mission route, expecting her usual inquisitive response. But instead of answering, she merely nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. He frowned, exchanging a concerned glance with Natasha, who also noticed the shift.

Natasha approached her later that day, finding Y/N tucked away in the library. “Hey, what’s going on?” Nat asked gently, sitting beside her on the couch.

Y/N only shook her head, her eyes fixed on the open book in her lap. She didn’t even look up.

Nat frowned but didn’t push. Instead, she gave Y/N’s hand a comforting squeeze before leaving her to her silence. She brought it up later with Steve and Clint, both of whom admitted they’d seen the same change. Clint mentioned how Y/N used to pepper him with endless questions about his arrows during training, but now she only gave quiet nods when he tried to engage her.

Even Tony, who thrived on teasing her, found himself missing the banter. He cornered her in the kitchen one evening, holding up a gadget he’d been tinkering with. “Hey, kid, this thing shoots out tiny flaming marshmallows. Doesn’t exactly confirm to the safety regulations, but tell me that isn’t cool.”

Normally, she would’ve lit up at his antics, bombarding him with questions about how it worked or laughing at the absurdity of it. This time, she offered only a faint smile before leaving the room.

Tony stared after her, a strange pang of guilt settling in his chest. He brought it up to Bruce later that night. “She’s not laughing at my jokes, Banner. Either I’ve lost my touch, or something’s seriously wrong.”

But for Bucky, her silence was a visceral ache, something he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. At first, he told himself it didn’t matter. After all, hadn’t he said to Steve that her talking too much annoyed him? Shouldn’t this be easier for him now? But the quiet wasn’t the relief he’d imagined - it was suffocating.

He found himself noticing things he’d taken for granted before. The absence of her light footsteps trailing after him. The way she used to linger in the doorway, launching into a story before he could excuse himself. The questions about the 40s that had once felt intrusive now felt like a gaping void.

It wasn’t just her voice he missed. It was her.

When days turned into a week and still, not a word, Bucky’s frustration boiled over. He cornered Steve one night in the kitchen, his tone sharper than usual. “Why isn’t she talking anymore?” he demanded, his blue eyes narrowing as Steve looked up from his coffee.

Steve’s brows furrowed, the lines on his face deepening. “I was wondering the same thing. She hasn’t said a word to anyone, not even Nat.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Bucky pressed, running a hand through his hair. “One minute she’s talking my ear off about everything, and the next, nothing. It’s like she’s disappeared.”

“It’s like she’s back to the day we found her…” Steve muttered.

Bucky just raised an eyebrow in confusion.

Steve tilted his head, his expression softening as something clicked in his mind. “You really don’t know?” he asked gently.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his frustration mounting. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”

Steve set his mug down carefully, folding his arms across his chest. “Hydra didn’t just hurt her physically, Buck. They broke her down. Part of their method was taking away her voice—literally. She wasn’t allowed to speak, to make a sound, for years. They conditioned her into silence.”

The words hit Bucky like a punch to the gut. He stared at Steve, his throat tightening as the implications sank in. Y/N’s voice—the one thing that had grated on his nerves when they first met—wasn’t just chatter. It was her defiance. Her freedom. And he had thrown it back in her face.

“Why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me that before?” he asked, his voice low, almost hoarse. He didn’t wait for Steve’s answer. His mind was already reeling, piecing together every moment he’d spent with her, every question he’d dismissed, every smile he’d ignored.

Regret churned in his chest, sharp and unrelenting. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky felt something dangerously close to fear. Not the kind Hydra had instilled in him, but a deeper, more personal fear—that he’d hurt someone he cared about more than he could admit.

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That fear gnawed at Bucky long into the night, keeping him wide awake in his room. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Y/N’s face—her animated expressions, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about something that excited her, and the quiet smile she gave when he offered even the shortest response. Now, all he could see was her downcast gaze, her shoulders slumped as if she was shrinking in on herself.

By the time morning came, he’d made up his mind. He couldn’t let it stay this way. He couldn’t let her think she was anything less than appreciated. But how to fix it? That part left him at a loss.

He spent the day lurking around the common areas, hoping for a chance to talk to her. Each time he caught sight of her—curled up on the couch, wandering the compound halls, or sitting by the window—he faltered. She wasn’t just quiet; she was distant. The life and warmth she usually carried with her seemed muted, and every time he got close enough to approach her, she slipped away without a word.

Bucky was no stranger to guilt—it had been his constant companion for decades. But this guilt felt sharper, more immediate. He wasn’t sure how to face it. Not until he had to.

That evening, he found her in the garden. It was late, the moon casting a silvery glow over the compound grounds. Y/N sat on a bench near the edge of the garden, her knees pulled to her chest as she stared out at the rows of flowers swaying gently in the breeze. She looked small, her figure framed by the vastness of the night, and Bucky felt his chest tighten.

He took a steadying breath, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path as he approached. She didn’t look up, even when he stopped a few feet away.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. No response. “Mind if I sit?”

She shrugged, the movement barely noticeable. Taking that as permission, Bucky eased onto the bench beside her. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, searching for any sign she might speak, but her gaze remained fixed on the flowers.

“You’re really good at this,” he finally said, trying for levity. “The silent treatment, I mean. You’re putting Natasha to shame.”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of amusement. Bucky sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Okay, I deserved that. I deserve… a lot worse, honestly.”

Still, she didn’t look at him, and his heart sank further. He scrubbed a hand over his face, frustration mingling with his regret. “Y/N, I—” He stopped, the words choking him. Apologies weren’t his strong suit, but he needed her to hear this. “I messed up. I didn’t mean what I said to Steve. Not the way it sounded. I didn’t realize you—” He hesitated, his voice dropping. “I didn’t know what Hydra did to you. And I should’ve known. I should’ve understood that your voice isn’t just… noise.”

Her head turned slightly, her brows knitting together in a faint frown, but she didn’t say anything. Bucky pushed forward, his words tumbling out in a rush.

“You make this place better. Hell, you make me better. Every question, every random story—it’s like you bring this light with you, and I didn’t see it for what it was. I didn’t realize how much I relied on it until it was gone.”

He shifted, leaning closer to catch her gaze. “Doll, I need to hear your voice again. This silence—it’s driving me crazy.” His tone softened, almost pleading. “You don’t annoy me. You never did. I was just… too messed up to admit how much I like having you around. How much I like you.”

Her eyes finally met his, wide and uncertain. For a moment, he thought she might still pull away, retreat further into herself. But then her lips parted, and in the quietest voice, barely above a whisper, she asked, “You mean that?”

Bucky’s chest loosened, relief flooding through him. He nodded, his expression earnest. “Every word, Y/N. I’m sorry it took me this long to say it, but I mean it.”

Her gaze dropped, her hands fiddling with the hem of her sweater. “I thought… maybe you hated me. That I was just annoying you.”

“No,” he said firmly, his hand reaching out to cover hers. “You’re not annoying. You’re—” He broke off, his voice thick. “You’re incredible.”

Her lips quirked in the faintest of smiles, and Bucky felt the tension in his chest finally ease. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger, carrying the familiar warmth he’d missed so much. “So, you don’t mind if I keep talking? About, you know, everything?”

Bucky chuckled, a soft, genuine sound. “Not at all, doll. In fact, I’d be a little heartbroken if you didn’t…”

And for the first time in days, the silence broke, replaced by the soft murmur of her voice as she began to talk, and Bucky knew he’d do whatever it took to keep it that way.

——————————————————————————————————

Hope you enjoyed it, Hun. It was fun to write! 🫶

[cherry-velvet-skies]

Within You, Without You (18+)

George Harrison × GN!Reader

Genre: Smut, fluff, angst, all the things

Warnings: A very short sex scene, power play if you squint, slight nipple play, convos about insecurities and low self confidence and stuff like that

Words: 3.2k

Summary: 1967 era; You need to find a way to relax, and George offers to be your guide through tantral meditation

T/N: Domine- Latin for master; used from a place of utmost respect

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You had tried everything. Anything that would help to decrease your stress levels. These past few weeks had been tough on you, and all you wanted was for your brain to quiet down for a bit. But nothing seemed to work, no matter how hard you tried. So, you thought of the only thing that even had a shot at clearing your head: meditation. And lucky for you, you had just the person to teach you.

For someone with his level of experience, George was very well versed in the art of meditation. He had been given the tools to get to a place where he was comfortable practicing on his own, and that was really all there was to it. And he was more than happy to pass on any amount of his knowledge to you.

"Most people start out in the position you see most often, which is sitting on the floor with your legs crossed." George instructed as he sat down next to you, demonstrating the position. You couldn't help but stare at the wide variety of decor placed throughout the room. George had a specific room that he would go only to meditate. Apparently, having a designated space is supposed to enhance your chances of successful meditation.

You had half expected the room to be devoid of color, but it was quite the opposite. It looked as though all the wonderful colors of the rainbow had performed an interpretive dance across the walls, twirling and swinging about in perfect harmony. This was not the environment you had in mind.

"I always thought meditation was supposed to be about clearing your mind." You stated. "That's why most yoga studios are painted white." George gave you a confused stare.

"Meditation is about clearing your mind of negative energy. Not blanking it out completely." He replied, smoothing out the carpet fibers beneath his feet. "Meditating in a completely white room is not going to help you at all. You should be surrounded by things that are going to positively stimulate your brain." He looked around for a moment, admiring his own decor before turning back to you. "Although positive stimulation looks different for everyone, an assortment of colors is the most natural form of it."

“So is meditation always done this way?” You questioned, honestly having no clue where to start. George always had so much knowledge to share, and it wasn’t that you had no interest in meditation. You often felt that it wouldn’t work for you, but realized that you would never know if you never tried.

“This practice is the best entry to meditation. But once it comes more naturally to you, you can do it from anywhere at any time,” George explained, “To reach an optimal mental state for meditation, it does take much more than to sit cross-legged and close your eyes. It’s about reaching an internal piece, which would then translate to the physical body. However, the key is to start small.” He motioned towards several fluffy pillows on the floor beside him. “If the floor is too hard, you can use one of these.”

“And by doing this, I'll just…feel better?” You asked, getting comfy on one of the pillows. There were several colors, the one you chose being a soft orange.

“Well, not exactly.” George chuckled, He was always so patient. “You have to incorporate your mind as well. Like I said, clearing your mind means clearing negative energy. The best way to do that is to think of a place that brings you comfort and imagine that you’re there. To get in touch with both your mind and your body.”

You sighed. That was always your problem. You felt like you were too much in your own head and needed an escape. How were you supposed to be one with your mind if you didn’t even want to be in there in the first place?

“I just know what’s going to happen,” You whined, “I’m gonna get frustrated and it’ll have the opposite effect on me.”

George blinked at you, pursing his lips. “Can you at least try, love?” He offered, “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here if you need me.”

You couldn’t help but smile. George’s genuine desire to help you truly did make things easier, but it was your stubborn brain that wouldn’t put in the effort. It technically wasn’t entirely your fault, but it was hell to live with. But George was right. Not trying meant shutting out the possibility of finding a solution. He didn’t want you to do it just to please him. He wanted you to want to do it. To do it for yourself.

“Alright.’ You said, exhaling sharply. “I’ll try.”

George smiled warmly, adorable fangs on full display. He didn’t have to do much to help you get ready as you were already in position. He stood off to the side, waiting to begin his part of the process as you settled into a comfortable zone. You did everything he said. Crossing your legs, closing your eyes, and relaxing into a decompressing posture. You drew in a deep breath, exhaling and trying your hardest to release any tension along with it.

After you closed your eyes, you felt George continue to stand around you, assessing your method of choice. You decided to go with the traditional method, despite your earlier qualms about its lack of stimulation. You figured that maybe less was more, and that by trying to calm your body down to an optimal level, you would achieve your desired outcome. But of course, without fail, once you tried to focus on finding a sense of tranquility, your thoughts took over and you were back where you started.

“I can’t…” You said shakily. “I can’t do it.’ You still hadn’t opened your eyes, because you knew if you did, there would be no stopping the flow of tears.

“Perhaps you need something else to focus on.” George replied, standing behind you now. He placed his hands on your shoulders and waited there for a moment. You didn’t tense up or try to move away, so he proceeded. He slid his fingers up and down your neck, gently squeezing your muscles as he went. You still kept your eyes closed, but furrowed your brows in confusion. To you, this seemed like the most inopportune time for a shoulder massage, but refused to object. You trusted that George knew what he was doing to some degree.

“Think of yourself as if you were facing them directly.” He announced, implementing a new kind of tactic, “Give them advice on how to achieve your goal right now.”

“George, what are you doing?” You interrupted, “How is this supposed to make me relax for meditation? The last thing I want to be thinking about is how I view myself.” George removed his right hand from your shoulder and placed his index finger at the base of your head, slowly tracing down your spine. You shivered, feeling like electricity was flowing through your body. “How did you do that?” You whispered, a slightly shudder moving through your voice as you spoke. “Why did I feel that?”

“We often find it hard to look within ourselves for answers, especially if we feel we aren’t qualified to give them. The vision of speaking to someone else helps to translate that motivation into an exterior perspective.” Classic George. You ask him a simple question and he gives you the secrets of life.

“Okay…” You breathed, “But when I look at myself, all I do is criticize them, whether it’s a mirror or a clone.” You were close to giving up, and it was clear George was running out of options. He remained stationary, his hands never leaving your shoulders. He sighed, thinking for a moment before making any sudden movements.

Mere seconds later, George resumed his shoulder massage, but instead of maintaining his posture, he bent down, mouth level with your ear. His voice was not above a whisper, his tone dripping with a new and improved delightful idea.

“Tell me how to help you, my Domine…”

You froze. This was the only thing that actually got you to sit up straight. You opened your eyes and turned to look at George only for him to shush you and turn your head back to stare at the wall in front of you. He kept his left hand cupped around your jaw, making sure you didn’t move it again, but there was no discipline. His grip was quite loose. You ideally could’ve gotten up and walked out if you truly wanted to. He wasn’t keeping you there.

“You know latin?” You mumbled, still perplexed at his new name for you.

George chuckled. “I know many things. All are useful at some time or another.” He pressed into your shoulders, his smile growing as you released some tension in the form of a strained whimper. He leaned to your ear again.

“If you can’t tell yourself what to do…tell me instead.”

You froze, but your following response was done with no hesitation. It was methodic. Robotic, almost. You adjusted your posture, locking into your newfound confidence.

“Make me feel good.” You whispered, knowing no additional details were needed. George went straight to work, placing his fingers at the back of your neck, towards the base of your skull. “Make me feel that sensation again.” You added, not knowing how to describe it but already feeling addicted. You wished it could flow through your body on command, giving you a boost at any time of day. You pretended as if you were alone, eyes closed and rhythmic breathing as his hands explored your body. A small sigh left George’s lips, exhaling a small puff of air onto your lower back while his fingers wisped across your spine. Every touch felt like a feather, as if he was there but he wasn’t. He truly gave you the illusion of peaceful solitude, merely being an assisting spirit to guide you in your journey of inward and outward reflection.

“Move to the front.” You announced, and George stopped in his tracks. Your initial reaction was to withdraw, fearing you sounded too demanding. Too commanding. Too strong. But you remained stationary, awaiting your lover’s next move. You heard him shuffle, and the new shadow in front of you, changing the amount of natural light billowing onto your body gave you the confirmation that your orders had been followed. George inhaled another long breath, ostensibly entering his own corresponding headspace.

“All I wish is to please you, my dear.”

Your body gave into the scene, falling back onto your palms while still keeping your legs crossed. You arched your back, pushing your chest towards him, giving him a compensatory level of control in this otherwise hierarchical situation. After a while, George began to drift off as well, taking in the sensation across your torso as he massaged your chest and pressed small kisses across your shoulders. You didn’t expect him to take to this so easily, but it seemed like second nature to the two of you. Perhaps it was always meant to be this way.

What mostly came to your surprise was when George’s fingers brushed over your nipples through your shirt, causing your hips to jolt involuntarily. You still weren’t sure if that was intentional or not, but there was certainly an additional advantage. He was testing you, waiting to see if it was what you wanted. Technically, you had complete control over what he would do next, yet he knew that if he took matters into his own hands, you wouldn’t stop him. You wanted it more than ever. You wanted to tell him to just have his way with you. And you knew you absolutely could. He knew you could. He would do whatever you wanted him to. But it wasn’t about what he wanted. It was all about how long you could fight the urge to tip the balance. To realize that the one who submits all power is truly the one in control. He was giving you the chance to be demanding. To be commanding. To be strong. The power play was absolutely diabolical.

“Do that again.” You choked out, trying your best not to sound desperate. George knew exactly what you wanted. So he did it again, but softer. More enjoyable. More deliberate. And by telling him what you wanted, he knew you had acquired a new goal. And you wanted to see how far he would go to please you.

“Make me feel confident.” You sighed. “Make me feel powerful.”

“I can’t do that, dear.” George replied without missing a beat, thumbs still slowly dragging back and forth across your nipples. “That has to come from within.”

You whined. The closer you got to what you wanted, the harder it was to keep up the confidence. You thought choosing the route of pleasure would be easier for you, but it was the same old story. Entering with a confident facade was simple. But the deeper you went, the more you wanted to back out.

“It doesn’t feel like me.” You breathed. George moved his hands to your waist, opting for a soft massage to ease the level of stimulation.

“Don’t lose it,” He whispered, “You were doing great.” You didn’t respond, slowly being dragged back inside your own head. If this had any shot of working, George knew he had to keep you grounded. “We both know this is something the real you wants.”

You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts into a neatly folded pile. Based on your personal skills, it looked more like a lumpy pile of laundry, but at least it was all together. You tried to imagine that you were alone again. That your only company was yourself. And for the first time, the person staring back at you was a true reflection. Still in your own world, you whispered so that only you could hear.

“Give me what I need. Give me what I want.” But George heard you loud and clear, assuming his role and getting you to the end. He resumed his deliberate touching across your chest, and you immersed yourself in it as if it were your own. You don’t know how long it went on for, but all you knew was that you never wanted it to end. George moved as if he was giving a deep tissue massage to your soul. Everything you said, he did. Everywhere you wanted to be touched, he did. He didn’t need to understand your rhyme or reason. Whatever your body was calling out for needed to be answered. The real you needed to be heard.

Eventually you felt a bout of pressure begin to build inside you. The longer it went on, the stronger it felt. Lately, the concept of pleasure had been one form of stress relief you couldn’t rely on. Try as you must, you couldn’t bring yourself to the edge. But this time was different. In his newfound role, George had bestowed upon you the virtual reality of physical pleasure. It wasn’t sex. You didn’t want sex. Throughout this entire session, you had never once asked him to touch you in your most intimate place. This was about stimulation. But if it ended in an orgasm, you were more than satisfied with that.

And you felt it. It slowly rose, like a high tide during a full moon. The soft light bouncing off the rippling water like your body started to shake, the glorious light of your soul trying to break out of your skin. Though he sensed you nearing the edge, George didn’t speed up. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t change anything. He stared at you as your head tipped back, small moans leaving your lips. You couldn’t say anything else to direct him, but there was nothing left to say anyway. The pleasure had peaked, the wave reaching a new height. It came crashing down onto the shore, your orgasm flowing through you. You released with a gasping shout, your exclamation nothing short of the highest praise for George and his intricate touches. Your arms could no longer hold you up, and your elbows buckled, sending you falling backwards onto the floor. George caught your head before you made contact, lowering you down the rest of the way. He rubbed small circles on the soft skin of your stomach just above your waistband. You sighed, your breathing slowly returning to normal as your lover began to leave small kisses on your right shoulder. You giggled, celebrating the fact that your new goal had been accomplished: it was the first time you had ever come untouched.

George laid on the floor next to you, head tucked in your neck and one hand flat over your stomach, patting it in a slow, rhythmic fashion. “You need anything?” He whispered, poking your ear with his nose. You shook your head no, not wanting to move from this position, which included having him next to you. You rolled on your side to face him, brushing a few strands of hair away from his face. “I do have one question, though,” you mumbled, still in your post-coital haze, “does meditation usually lead to sex?”

George chuckled, slinging his arm over your hip to brush his hand over your back. “That is called tantra, love. It uses multiple forms of stimulation simultaneously, and yes, sometimes it does result in pleasurable situations like these.”

You smiled, pondering the topic. “So it’s meditation in the form of pleasure? But how does that relate to me feeling more confident?”

“It’s all about unlocking your true potential.” George replied, pausing briefly to perfect his explanation. “You felt confident. That’s mental stimulation. And paired with the physical stimulation, it provided enough emotional stimulation for you to have a powerful release.” He stared into your eyes with a mixture of love and gratitude. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to own up to it yet, but having you tell him what to do was also an example of mental and emotional stimulation. One that he had not been able to find on his own. The concept of joint meditation was something mutually beneficial.

“So when can we do it again?” You mused, earning a light chuckle from the man beside you.

“Whenever you want, my Domine.” George teased, seeing how you shivered at the recurring mention of your new title. He took the pillow that you had been using as a cushion and urged you to lift your head, placing it on the floor underneath you, watching as you sunk into the plush fabric. You smiled warmly, watching him take another pillow from the pile beside you, both of you get comfortable on the floor. The carpet was soft enough, but the addition of the pillows made for a fine place to have a nap. Eyes softly closing as the warm sun cascaded through the window and blanketed your nearly sleeping forms, your voice came as a barely audible whisper.

“Did you enjoy having me be in charge for once?” George smiled, not bothering to open his eyes to respond, but hearing your statement loud and clear. He thought for a moment before answering, but there was technically no need. He was no stranger to an apparently not so new experience.

“You’ve always been in charge to me, my dear.”

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Happy new year y'all! 🥰🥰🥰 To kick off 2024, I figured I would finally finish up the last fic that was featured in that poll I made however many months ago that was lol also I will say that this is my first smut fic so pls go easy on me 😅 I'm sure I'll get there eventually BUT other than that I hope you enjoy! 😁

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 2 Part 18

Welcome to another WIP Wednesday!

Story Summary: Tim and Danny are both neglected by parents who care more about their work than their families. They deal with this by spending too much time online and find each other playing MMORPGs. They keep up their friendship as Tim becomes Robin and Danny becomes Phantom and don't bother keeping secrets from each other.

Arc 1 AO3 Link

Arc 2: Part 1, Previous

Word Count: 1.7k

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From the radio station, the four traveled to the television studio for their next interview. The host had listened to their radio interview and helped summarize much of the information before asking further questions.

Tim and his teammates called into question the biases of the Drs Fenton and hoped their criticisms would bring others to think twice before taking their word as gospel.

When they were finally done, it was almost nine.

Tim shot off a quick text to Bruce for his morning check-in. He noticed Conner texting someone, too. “Who’re you talking to?” he asked.

“Sam. She says Danny’s still passed out. But her parents are talking about some sort of press release the mayor is planning on putting on at City Hall at ten.”

Cassie groaned. “Ugh, more reporters. Please say we don’t have to go.”

“We should,” said Tim. “But we can go in civvies.”

“Can we at least get breakfast first?” asked Bart. “It’s been hours since we woke up!”

“Yeah,” agreed Cassie. “I’m starving. Let’s get some food. I think I saw a diner when we flew to our second interview.”

Before Tim could consider protesting, Conner had him secure in his arms and TTK and they were in the air.

“Lead the way, Wonder Girl.”

Tim scowled to hide his smile. “Oh sure, don’t listen to your leader. Just do whatever.”

“You’d let us starve?” wailed Connor. “Then we’ll stage a mutiny!”

Cassie laughed. “Yeah, see how long you remain in charge of a hangry speedster, half-kryptonian, and demigoddess.”

Tim grinned. “Oh, but you forget I know you all very well. I can win you back to my side. Starting with Kon.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” demanded Conner.

“Easy. I’ll just bribe you with Alfred’s cookies and a great movie. If I add in a dash of ‘I need your help’ and my puppy dog eyes and you’ll be eating out of the palm of my hand.”

“That’s another square on my bingo card!” called back Cassie. “And look, we’re here!” She pointed down to a quintessential American diner with green glass windows.

The group met Bart a block away in an alley where they shed their gear.

“I’ll tell Sam what we’re up to.” Conner pulled out his phone to send the message.

“Quit wasting time! We’re on a deadline,” moaned Bart as he positioned himself behind Conner and tried to push him towards the street and breakfast.

Conner laughed and refused to budge, so Tim figured a demonstration of his power was in order.

He got in front of Conner and pouted at him. “I know I was joking about not allowing breakfast, but I’m the one who didn’t eat before the interviews. An omelet is calling my name.”

Conner groaned and ran a hand down his face. “Fuck you, Rob.” But he stalked forward out of the alley.

Tim and Bart exchanged grins.

“Seriously, Tim,” said Cassie. “This trip has been great for my bingo card.”

Tim stuck his tongue out at her and jogged to catch up with Conner.

Breakfast was simple but tasty and they devoured far too much food. Their waitress was clearly impressed with her first exposure to a speedsters appetite. Add in a super and a demigoddess and it was obscene.

All too soon, however, it was time to go to the mayor’s press conference. As they made their way there, they joined a growing crowd. Clearly many people were interested in whatever the mayor had planned.

In the crowd, he could hear comments about their interviews. It seems both had been posted online and already had thousands of views. Some people seemed to be sympathetic to them, but others were mistrustful of the “outsiders.”

“If they’re such good friends, why did it take so long for them to come here?” asked one man of his friend.

“I’ve a cousin in Central City. She says trouble always follows a superhero,” said another.

Tim exchanged a look with Conner. He’d be able to hear more conversations and could share his perceptions later.

Before long, they were entering City Hall. Already the seats were full, so they were forced to stand in the back. Jack and Maddie were sitting near the front. Jeremy and Pamela Manson sat on the opposite side of the room as them, but also were near the front of the room.

Tim exchanged looks with his teammates to make sure they saw both couples. Conner was glaring at Maddie and Jack.

“They’re complaining about our interviews,” said Conner. “Throwing around guesses that we are either possessed or have already been brainwashed by the ghosts.”

“At least we know they aren’t observant. Maybe they won’t notice us.”

Mayor Montez stepped up to the podium and everyone fell silent. “People of Amity Park, we have been faced with a threat the likes of which we’ve never before seen! And based on the events of this morning, it doesn’t seem like we’ll be able to rely on outside help to get us out of it.”

A stone sunk in Tim’s stomach and he exchanged looks with his friends.

“We only have one piece of business today: Defeating the ghosts that infest our town. And to do that, I'm calling for a vote to cede all ghost policing and security decisions”—he held up a photo of Maddie—“to Maddie Fenton.” As Tim watched, however, the mayor’s eyes glowed red and he winced. “I mean Jack,” he corrected, holding up a new picture of Jack Fenton. “The completely competent Jack Fenton.”

“He’s overshadowed,” breathed Conner.

Tim nodded and was already sending a message to Sam, Tucker, and Danny. “And who knows who else.”

Before they could say anything else, the mayor continued, “And we’ve located the ghost responsible for all the terror inflicted on our town.” He held up a picture of Phantom. “Whatever some outsiders may have tried to lie to you about this very morning.”

A gasp rang out among the crowd. Tim glanced at his friends. Conner was glaring at the mayor fiercely and Tim attempted to step in front of him, as pointless as their relative sizes made the action.

The mayor smiled viciously as a panicked crescendo rose from the crowd. Tim’s phone vibrated in his hand and he saw a response from Sam.

Sam: We saw Sam: Danny is on his way Sam: And we’re following as fast we can

Under his breath, Tim muttered, “Conner, you and Bart should go suit up. Cassie and I will stay and keep an eye on what’s going on. Stay close, but try not to be seen unless an attack happens.” Subtly, grateful for their places against the wall, he passed over the thermos he’d taken with him that morning.

Tim heard Conner’s sigh of relief as the two slipped away. He hated pretending to be a civilian in a crisis. Even more than the rest of them.

Cassie whispered, “I almost hate you for keeping me here.”

Tim just bumped their shoulders together.

The mayor, or rather the ghost inhabiting him, raised his arm and silence slowly fell. “We cannot call for outside help. Those who call themselves the Young Justice today proved that the so-called heroes of this world will defend our enemy over us. That they will spread lies to keep us subject to the whims of these ghosts.” The last word was spat. “So we must solve the problem ourselves. Jack Fenton, if the people of this town agree, you and those you train will be our defense force, will you do this?”

Jack near jumped three feet in the air in his excitement. “I’ve been training for this my entire life, Mayor Montez! I’ll be honored.”

“I believe we must institute martial law! The 9 PM curfew will remain in place. No one will be allowed on the streets alone. No loitering. The park will be closed until further notice. Same with the public pool and library and a number of other locations. Drs Fenton, will you be able to set up buildings protected by ghost shields where people can gather for safety?”

Whispering broke out among the public. Maddie stood tall next to her husband, though being continually overlooked in favor of him was clearly grating on her. “We can. Fenton Works is already protected and within two days we can have another shield up and ready. Within the week, we could have five.”

The whispered were almost loud enough to drown her out by the time she finished speaking

“Order! Order!” called Mayor Montez. “All in favor of declaring martial law, and allowing the completely competent Jack Fenton to mobilize a massive ghost hunt, please say—”

But cutting off the mayor, Danny, in his Phantom form, suddenly appeared in the air in the middle of the hall. “I might be too young to vote, but I’m casting one anyway.”

Around them, everyone gasped and people began backing away even as Danny shifted to look at them. Tim and Cassie both tensed and prepared to run.

“You people have to listen to me,” urged Danny. “I’m on your side.”

Mayor Montez took a step back as members of his security moved to stand in front of him. Jack and Maddie jumped up and glared at him.

“You’re not fooling anybody, ghost kid!” declared Jack. “You are going down!” He reached back and pulled out the Fenton fishing rod, the line was horribly tangled and Jack began messing with it. “As soon as I finish untangling this thing.”

Cassie let out a disbelieving huff.

Tim shook his head. “Apparently,” he replied to her unasked question. He pulled out his phone and shot a message to Bart and Conner.

Rob: get back here now Rob: All 4 of us are needed

Before he even finished typing his last message, Bart was at his side. Just in time to see Danny mutter something and shoot an ectoblast at his parents who were thrown back with the force of it, destroying the podium and leaving a burn mark on the ground.

“Shit,” muttered Tim. “Cassie, let’s go. Impulse, try to help where you can.”

“You’ve got it.”

----

Next

And so the best of intentions go awry!

I can almost taste the end of this arc, but for all I know, that'll take another 10k to finish. So we'll see what happens. Hope you enjoyed.

I no longer do tag lists, but please check out the Subscription Post if you want to be notified of updates.

[takiki16]

White Collar rewatch has hit 1x09, the boiler room scam episode, and you know? I kind of wish they hadn’t used the “I don’t like guns…never said I couldn’t *use* them” trope for Neal.

Neal doesn’t like guns. It’s one of the first things we learn about him. In all of the past scams and cons he’s run, all the former associates we meet, this one thing is reinforced: Neal is fundamentally not a violent person. It makes him more interesting! In a world where even Mozzie acknowledges that you sometimes need violence to back your word up, Neal Caffrey steadfastly refuses to use guns even when they would MAKE SENSE to have for someone in his position! Even just as a prop! It’s one of the unexplored facets of his character that I wish the show had dug into a little more - WHY Neal is perfectly fine with all sorts of other behavior, but violence disturbs him deeply enough that he avoids it even when it would be a material and even morally viable help!

So WHY DO WE NEED THE “DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T USE ‘EM” TROPE?!?!

The uses of that trope, at least at this network TV level, are usually for characters who are already proficient in OTHER “less lethal” or at least more cinematic types of violence. Off the top of my head, Eliot Spencer and Oliver Queen. It *makes sense* for characters who get paired with this trope to already BE essentially violent characters. Their refusal to use firearms represents a compromise between their Angsty Backstory where they were trained to be a human killing machine and their current efforts to be Better People, etc etc etc. Using a firearm represents an extreme personal compromise, usually the life of a character dear to them. The trope HAS WEIGHT that way. We get a demonstration of badassery, a character struggle moment, and a hint about backstory and this character’s personal ethos and choices.

But NONE of that makes much sense for Neal Caffrey, except as an incredibly weak retcon tie-in for the bio dad arc, which you all already know I got complaints about. Neal is not only opposed to violence, he is shown at later points to be kind of actively bad at it! His whole gentleman thief schtick gets a boost bc he is COMPETENT AND GENIUS ENOUGH to work around his personal objection to violence and be a hugely successful criminal anyway! He doesn’t NEED the badass points of Secret Gun-Fu Competency, nor does he ever actually USE this alleged secret competency EVER AGAIN ON THE SHOW. The moment doesn’t lead to any deeper exploration of why Neal KNOWS about guns yet refuses to USE them.

All the moment really proves is that the show runners were unwilling to let Pretty Matt Bomer be even slightly incompetent at any single thing, so they made him a Cool Gun Batman for a single scene and then forgot about it. Which makes me tear my hair out bc they didn’t even NEED TO DO THAT. Neal is good enough with his hands and eyes that they could justifiably have passed two bullseyes off as luck on his part, with a few secret nervous shots of his face before and after - it would create tension! They could have HAD NEAL MISS THE SHOT, bc no character is perfect at EVERYTHING or they just get boring. Missing the shot then remaining One Of The Lads anyway would let him reinforce his con man skills. There were lots of ways to play that scene off without making Neal a Secret Gun Batman, and I wish even one of them had been used.

Anyway I’m going to binge this whole thing again bc my life choices are excellent.

[andypantsx3]

omg so this is just an existential ramble, pls feel free to skip past but the topic of "niceness" vs "kindness" is heavy on the mind today!! (take a shot every time i say "nice" or "kind" below lol)

i saw this tiktok about the queer eye drama that is going on right now (which i do not know much about bc i've skipped past most of it). it was about jvn and the basic premise was like "people whose brand is niceness are always doomed to fail" and in some respects i think that is true, because people conflate niceness with kindness, and misunderstand both.

to jank definitions from this huffpost article, "niceness" is "about being polite, civilized and demonstrating high levels of social skills and etiquette", whereas "kindness is a deliberate action of friendliness or care that chooses to see others as if they were connected to you in some meaningful way. it is a choice to practice empathy, connection and generosity to meet the needs of another.”

this is just a personal take but i think people see social performances of "niceness" and sort of like, unthinkingly build up an image in their head of someone as kind or good, when the things they do are nice but not actually indicative of true kindness.

(also let's skip past the "brand" wording for now bc i have a million thoughts on public-facing personas vs like, actual branding, and it all boils down to authenticity i think. but that's for another time.)

to me, people often conflate what i think of as the "aesthetic of niceness" with genuine goodness, and while the actions taken are nice in and of themselves and are usually undertaken with no ulterior motive, they do not actually correlate to true underlying kindness. we can pick apart me as an example, as people have said i am nice and i do try my best to be both nice & kind, but i think the following things are not indicative of how i actually try to be kind!

the "aesthetic of niceness" is a social performance taken at no expense to the person doing it. these are things like sending cute messages to mooties to check up on them (again, done because i like that person, not because i have some ulterior motive lol), being nice to people who are nice to me in my inbox (so easily done, who doesn't want to be nice to people who are being nice to them?), reblogging pictures of soup or bread or whatever lol and telling followers i am wishing u garlic bread, etc. because i genuinely am.

but to me, the real test of someone's kindness comes in at moments where it is hard to be nice. where the world is testing you and you have to grit your teeth and scrabble and claw for some semblance of generosity towards a person who is being unkind to you (and also i would like to distinguish this from boundary setting or from reacting to bigotry bc let's be real bigots sometimes do not deserve kindness, please let them have it).

it is easy to be nice when the world is being nice to you, but it is so fucking hard to give people the benefit of the doubt and react to them with empathy and patience when they are being the hugest shits in the world, whether on purpose or by accident. and i don't think any one person is capable of always, always managing their emotions in situations like that, and that is why i think "niceness" as a facet of your public persona is always going to fail at some point.

i am aware of some people who project niceness but have sent hate anons behind the scenes, or project niceness but have plagiarized some people's fics and feel no remorse for it. and people would be shocked to learn that, because they do not know the difference between being nice & being kind; and/or have never had the opportunity to observe these people behind the scenes to know truly what underlays that niceness.

anyway all of this to say i think that it's nice to be nice and we should continue to do it. but we should understand that niceness is not necessarily indicative of kindness, and that in order to really understand how "kind" a person is, you need to evaluate their actions when shit hits the fan. (but also with generosity of spirit, hopefully, knowing that one failure to be kind in a moment of high stress does not mean they not will be kind in others, etc.)

uhhhh that's all. that was just on the brain this morning. thanks for listening lol.

[mydarlingbat]

THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN BATMAN AND HIS ROGUES AND THE JOKER #3

After many weeks of hard work i am finally finished. Now let me just put this out there. This was incredibly difficult to do. I had times that i just thought about giving up on it, because it felt like it would take forever to complete. Plus you must be notify that this can not be the last part to this analyses, especially since i have six hundred panels crop up. The hunt i did to prove their relationship isn't the same as Batman's and Joker's relationship was exhausting. God, i searched my ass off theses last few weeks. It was a challenge but i came through. If you don't know why i made the decision to do this? Well here's why! There's some comments that directly states that Batman sees all his villains the exact same. He treats all of them the same. Batman thinks of them as his friends. When I'm sitting here like what did you just spew out your mouth? Although it is untruthful it's what theses people believe. It's not even a little truth wandering around in there. Now tell me right now who did Batman call his friend that's a so call villain, besides Harvey who was already his friend in the past. The Joker is the only villain Batman has repeatedly called his friend, and his partner. His ally. He even called the Joker his, as well. The Joker is the only villain Batman reaches over to touch his hand, and holds his hand in his own. Letting him know he doesn't want his death on his hands. The only villain who shot a member of the family, nevertheless still shares a laugh with Batman It wasn't later that day. It wasn't the next day. It was in that exact moment between the two of them. After all the Joker's done. Bruce shares a laugh with him. Can you display it before my eyes. Show me a villain that Batman did this with? Right after they injured someone Bruce loved dearly. Show me!!! I want you to prove to me that Batman mourns the lost of people. The innocent lives for months in the cave. I don't want you to say well he thinks about it time from time. No, no, that's not what i want to hear. That's not what i desire to hear when you come at me in my ask box. The one's who are hostile towards me because i am staring at the full picture you refuse to acknowledge. Prove your case to me? Demonstrate it to me the best way you can. If you can prove that Batman carries villains in his arms like he does with the Joker. Not once, but over and over again. If you could prove some of Batman rogues death that caused Batman to be so affected that he couldn't see straight. Tell me a villain who Batman imagine in intimate ways. A man who saw poster's of the Joker in a bubble bath. He saw the Joker in dresses. He saw the Joker as his true love on posters. He imagine the Joker talking about his cod piece. How amazing he was. How nothing can take the Batman down in so many words. A man who imagine the Joker constantly flirting with him. A man who knew the Joker knew his identity. yet you can't even give me a list of comics that even verify what you're blabbing. Now i always said Batman deals with death differently, but look at the first panel. Look at how Batman reacts to theses deaths. How he glances over it quickly. How there's no true emotion present. He can hide it. He can hide behind the mask, however it doesn't eat away at Bruce's soul that he stays in the bat cave. It doesn't eat at his soul that he mourns for months, not hardly patrolling anymore. It doesn't affect him enough for him to stop doing his job for a little while. It doesn't interfere with his mood.

You need to see the difference between Batman and The Joker relationship. You need to swallow the cold harsh truth, instead of lying to yourself. Making up assumption. Batman doesn't even much as check to see if theses people are alive. Then with the Joker he maneuvers around the body, like he have to be absolute sure he's dead. Though you might say that Batman thought they were dead already. Well! News flash Batman thought the Joker was dead too. He even lets Alfred know the Joker is dead twice. Then he goes on to advise that the Joker can't tell him anything because he's dead. Then Alfred affirms to Bruce that he wouldn't have told him anyways. Which i find hilarious, because Alfred knows Bruce just wants to bring this man back to life, and on top of that Batman believes the Joker is dead, yet he still has the Joker in his arms. There's no pleasant smile on Bruce's face. This isn't a simple glance over. You can clearly see the dark Knight is in distress about the Joker's death.

But let's not stop there shall we? because you still won't believe me. The second panel is a man who's wretched by the Joker's death. He can't believe he's dead. I mean do you see all that blood? The third image exhibits the exact same results from the dark Knight. Batman probably thinks the Joker is going to die in his arms, even so he still holds him in his arms, totally forgetting there's people out to eliminate him. The second panel he lowers himself to the Joker's level to see if he's alive, but theses villains here. Batman shows no kind of real emotion. I'm sorry you're dying or dead, but you're not the Joker

Wait don't skip out on it just yet. Harvey falls to his death. There's no yelling. There's no Batman screaming his name out. A man gets stab Batman does not hollar and mourn this person later that day in the cave. A bell falls on top of a man right in front of Batman. He dies right after the incident. Batman doesn't even bat an eye. He doesn't even show a little sympathy. Not even a simple 'no' Batman does feel sorry for Harvey's death though. I won't deny that, although he's not hollering from the top of his lungs. He's not saying please don't kill him.

Wait, but didn't Batman say the exact words that he couldn't save the Riddler because it was too much blood. No one survives that??? You know what's funny though? The Riddler survived it. However the Joker appears to have been shot six or seven times .There's blood all over the floor, despite that Batman goes out of his way to see if this man is alive, and can survive until he makes it to the Lazarus pit.

The same man who murdered Jason todd. The same man who tried to murder Commissioner Gordon over and over again, Dick Grayson. The same man who started the war. The man same man who made Batman lose all his money. All his gadgets. The same man who tried to murder Catwoman.The same man who paralyzed batgirl. The Joker does all of this to Batman, and Batman refuses to leave him to die in the snow. He refuses to let him die on the boat even though he just try to eliminate all three of them. The man who refuse to let the Joker just die in Batman #100 but gave him a way out.

although Batman leaves a man in the snow who's neck is broken. Who can't move a limb, it appears. He leaves this man in the snow to die all because he tried to murder Dick Grayson? Let's not forget the Joker tried to murder a Robin again. Right after the Joker war. Batman still saves him. You know what people always bragging about now? Batman #100. Didn't you see? Batman left the Joker to die. He didn't care if he died. No, no, go read the comic again. Batman outright informs the Joker how to get out of there. Believe me Batman stares at the Joker, being fully aware that the Joker was going to escape. I just can't picture Bruce letting Alfred burn in the explosion either. Batman has to make a choice. The Joker wanted change. Well, Batman's giving it to him, because at that moment the Joker wants to see what Batman will do, but even after this. Batman saves the Joker not long after. He even tells Gordon that he wants to bring the Joker in safe. If he saves the Joker enough times. Maybe it'd make up for the time he left him. Batman has no desire to kill the Joker even when they're in the cell again. Batman is shocked by the Joker condition he's in right now. He's not even angry. After all the Joker puts him through. He still begs Harley not to force his hand in making this decision. Batman #100. This man in the snow has no way of getting up. The Joker has a way. Batman is aware of this, however Batman let's the other man lie in the snow.

But let's not stop there either. Batman repeatedly tell Harley Quinn she's not killing The Joker. If Batman didn't want the Joker alive. He could've left him to Harley.

Wait! We're not through yet. I mean let's not look over the fact that Batman knew the gun Harvey had would backfire on him. Nonetheless Batman still shows no reaction to Harvey being shot by his own firearm, and not only that Batman does not hold Harvey dent in his arms. Also Harvey is knocked off of a building. Batman goes to save him and doesn't hollar from the top of his lungs. What are you going to tell me that it had a couple of times Batman scream from the top of his lungs for Harvey dent. I can recall a few. Sooooooooooo??? Three or four comics don't matter to me. When hundreds and hundreds prove otherwise. Those few is irrelevant to me. You want to know how much Batman cares about the Joker dying? He got infected with the very thing he ran from, because he wanted to hold the Joker in his arms, and softly tell him to stay with him. Stay with him. You know this sounds like Batman endgame, when Batman tells the Joker to stay with him. There's only two issues Batman scream for two face. It wasn't from the top of his lungs either.

This is a man who cares about someone. You claim he doesn't give a shit about , and don't worry. I have plenty more panels to prove you wrong. He hates The Joker, but he loves him too. This is a man who screaming from the top of his lungs for the Joker. It's not a simple Harvey with his mouth open. It's not a simple 'No' It's more than that. It's filled with emotion. It means more when the Joker died. Bruce and Harvey isn't a bad ship. There's a few moments between them that makes me understand why people ship it, but Batman sees his friend in two face, but with the Joker Batman just finds that friendship with the Joker. It's not from them being friends already. It's a bond. It's a bond Batman can't even explain. That's why it's so special.

I'm really just trying to get people to understand why i ship Batman and Joker. You think if i found six comics that showed chemistry between theses two that i would start shipping it?? The answer is absolutely not. Batman and Joker relationship goes back to the Golden age comics. It's not something that just been presented to us. It's been here. It's been subtle. Hidden in plain sight, even so it was there. Theses panels here gives me life. The fact that the Joker murdered all those people in Batman brave and the bold : winning card, and Batman still doesn't want to hurt him. It says too much. The man tells Batman he'd come quietly. Batman doesn't even lay a hand on him. He takes him in quietly.

Part four next.

[artbyblastweave]

So on balance I generally do enjoy Mark Millar, and a big part of why I enjoy Mark Millar is that a lot of his superhero stuff demonstrates the same awareness about the genre that Worm does- the sense of an unstable equilibrium, that the center cannot hold in the superhero universe as typically presented. Jupiter's Legacy, Super Crooks, Old Man Logan, Wanted, The Ultimates. Arguably Civil War. I have a whole other post buried in my drafts about how that bleak throughline keeps cropping up in his cape work. Specifically in his cape work, also- the man has written a lot of lighthearted, at times almost cloyingly sincere and optimistic one-off miniseries in other genres. Starlight: The Return Of Duke McQueen, Huck, Chrononauts, Beyond. In tension with this cynicism about the capes is the fact that he also clearly believes that superheroes are really cool, and on some fundamental level a really deeply noble and empowering idea. Even Wanted, which is probably the most thoroughly tasteless thing of his that I've read all the way through, I recall as having had this interesting subtext of anger over the fact that there's an audience for a superhero work as cynical and grotesque as Wanted. ("Fine. We took all the whimsy and wonder and derring-do you claim to have outgrown out back and shot it. The corpse is cooling. Are you happy yet? Dark enough yet? Mature enough yet? This is what you wanted right?") Anyway, I think Kick-Ass the comic suffers gigantically from a failure to break in one direction or another, in regard to that tension. It gets very, very close to saying useful and interesting things about the genre at several points but keeps undercutting itself by transforming back into the object of its own attack. There's this initial line of questioning, right, which is, "what kind of person, in real life, might actually try this? How would it go?" And the comic has some compellingly miserable answers to that question! Everyone in costume is chasing the same power fantasy, clinging to the idea of being somebody. Dave is, in his own words, motivated by "the right combination of loneliness and despair," and he's not competent. He alternates between minor wins and brutal hospitalizations, the first two issues and change is just the world punishing him for being dumb enough to try this, and for the most part he's a LARPer, a self-identified asshole. Red Mist is a rich kid playing with his father's money. Big Daddy and Hit-girl are framed as the "real deal", genuinely competent in their ability to dish out violence, and the comic to some extent has the self-awareness to recognize that people who were actually any good at this would be even more horrifying than the LARPers. The Reveal that Big Daddy was an accountant- that he made up a tragic backstory and made his daughter a human weapon in order to pursue an escapist fantasy- genuinely lands like a meteor! But it fucks it up, because it also needs to be cool, cool enough to keep our attention, and so it pulls an about face. The horror of Hit-girl gets subsumed by the realization that she's also the coolest thing in the whole book, almost loadbearing in terms of having actually cool and interesting things happen on-panel, and so the end of the book turns into the exact kind of superviolent revenge story it was initially skewering as unrealistic and disconnected from the much more grounded grief and loss Dave is experiencing at the start of the book. Dave's costumed escapades goes from being an obviously stupid and egotistical attempt to claw back control of his life to... an actual method by which he claws back control of his life, and not in a way that feels terribly well-earned!

The sequels double down on this- alternating between "in real life this would be cheap and stupid and tinged with anticlimax" and "woooo! Let's ape Tarantino until something cool happens!" and honestly, that feels less worthy of analysis because what I'm pretty sure happened there is that the movie blew up and created A Demand For More Kick-Ass. In general what it feels like fundamentally happened here is that you ask, "what if superheroes were real," you land on the answer of "they'd look stupid, be stupid and die badly," but what does that leave you with? It's not like that wasn't the obvious answer already and it's definitely not eight issues of material. He can't pull the trigger on having everyone involved die badly in meanspirited ways to drive the point home, and he never quite threads the needle back to the reconstructive middle ground he badly wants the book to inhabit, the "real heroes work in soup kitchens and look out for their neighbors" area. Things just happen.

That said, the gag about the astroturfed swear-word "Tunk" is fantastic. 10/10, no notes