#i want him to be nasty i want him to be vitriolic i want him to be extremely off putting

[redstrewn]

Yes to be evil but i hope we cry w how much of a bitch leanders real personality is

[cherryxblossxms]

OKAY WAIT WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME

endeavor?? and all might??? at the same time?????

endeavor is desperately aggressively greedily fucking you, degrading you, spouting all the filth known to mankind as his breeding instinct takes over. he has to be number one. he has to be the one in your tight pussy. hissing cruel words at his rival, making fun of him bc his cock isn't as impressive as his muscles... you like him best, baby, yeah?

meanwhile all might is sensual. intimate. he doesn't need to prove anything but god if that bastard isn't pissing him off a little. so he starts to get riled up and aggressive too, it's just his competitive nature. he's fine with your mouth. your ass. wherever you want him. but if he gets a little rough, don't take it personally. he spits vitriol at endeavor but you? you're his sweet angel and you deserve better cock (his cock to be specific)

sobbing crying i need to be sandwiched between these two hunks of meat for real...

BABE YOU DID THIS TO ME FIRST

RIP to my holes after taking them both, it'll be a week before I can walk again 😩😵‍💫

Like just imagining their competitive nature against each other. Endeavor showing you All Might isn't shit compared to him, knows you like it rough and nasty, knows you like it when he turns you into his filthy little toy and fucks you dumb. Gets so hard when he sees the tears rolling down your face but he knows it's from all the pleasure he's giving you. When you cum, he wants it to be his name you cry out. He's the bad cop with you, you'd think he hates you if he didn't seem to love your pussy so much.

And oooh yes I can see it both ways.... his need for a powerful heir and breeding instinct having him claim your pussy first, especially making sure to fill you with his seed first too. BUT, I can also see him wanting to be the first to claim other firsts for you. All Might might play it safe with just your pussy or maybe your mouth, he's a romantic in sex and likes being close to your face (though if you ask him for something, he certainly wont refuse you). Endeavor doesn't give a shit about that, he just wants to prove a point. If All Might wants to be sappy with you up front, that's fine by him. He's happy to be the first to claim your ass, and even if he's not truly the first, he's going to mould you to his specifications.

And then All Might is acting as good cop the whole time. For every degrading term Endeavor uses for you, All Might is praising you, calling you sweet names that warm you up, cooing at you as you choke on his cock, as you struggle to fit him, fit both of them. As mentioned above, he loves having you in the most intimate position, having you facing him is his favorite. But if you ask him for something, even if it's dirty, he's happy to make your dreams come true. And agreed, he might get a little rough and heavy as he competes with Endeavor, but he'll take care of you and your sore, fluids-covered body afterwards. <3

[ctitan98official]

Anonymous: Can you write Alcina comforting a reader who is crying in their sleep? Maybe waking from said sleep and telling Alci about a nightmare. All comfort and fluff Please and thank you!

Yeah, this is a good one! Let’s get into it!

You awoke in a dense forest.

Fog made it somewhat difficult to see but you could hear distinct voices.

It sounded like your daughters Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela. This calmed you slightly, but something was wrong.

The voices became high-pitched and you could hear them shrieking for help.

You started to run to the sound of their voices, but no matter how far you traveled they still sounded so far away.

You began to panic as you heard other voices you didn’t recognize join in. Gruff, vengeful vitriol spewed from the unfamiliar voices. They were threatening your family.

You picked up your pace and eventually made it to a bare clearing.

What you saw made you feel nauseous.

Hunters from the village were restraining your daughters as they cried out for someone to save them.

They had nasty gashes and bruises all over their faces.

You immediately tried to run and free them, but someone was holding you back.

You turned to see who it was and saw the face of a man that you would never forget.

It was Ethan Winters. He nearly killed your whole family, including Alcina, only a few months ago. He was looking for his daughter and he didn’t care who he hurt to get to her, It seemed that you were haunted by him even though he was eventually killed by Alcina during his rampage around the castle.

You quickly realized this was a nightmare and struggled against the dream version of Ethan.

You couldn’t move and he was slowly strangling you.

Your sight grew dim, but not before you saw the hunters cruelly beat your daughters.

You cried in agony. You would do anything to save them, but you were slipping out of consciousness.

Right before you passed out, you saw Ethan brandish a knife and stab it directly into your chest.

The feeling of white hot pain resonated in your chest before you woke up harshly, gasping for precious air.

You sat up in bed roughly and tried to catch your breath.

Alcina awoke the minute she heard you gasping. She leaned over and held you as you began to cry from fear.

She gently shushed you and rubbed your back to calm you down. She wiped the sweaty hair out of your eyes repeatedly kissed your temple.

Just being in Alcina’s presence made you feel better. Maybe that was what was so scary about your dream. Alcina was nowhere to be found and that frightened you.

“You’re okay, draga. I’m here and always will be, Y/N.” Alcina reassured. She repositioned herself on her back and pulled you onto her chest. She nuzzled her face into your hair and loved the feeling of it on her skin.

Your heart rate slowed and you breathed in Alcina’s calming scent as you laid your head in the crook of her neck.

“That’s better, Y/N.” She praised and rubbed your head with her hand.

“Now, do you want to tell me about your dream?” She said.

You sighed. “I dreamt the girls were in trouble and I couldn’t save them. I was helpless. I also saw… Ethan Winters.” You confessed.

Alcina’s lips set in a grimace as she thought of the man-thing who almost killed her precious daughters and her one true love.

“That must have been terrifying for you, draga. It was all a dream. He’ll never hurt you or the girls now.” She said and kissed your forehead.

She herself had been reliving some of the terror that Ethan Winters caused. She was glad she had you, though. Just as she made you feel safe, you brought her a sense of security also.

You started to grow sleepy as you laid on Alcina. She was so warm and comfy, it was hard to keep your eyes open.

Alcina chuckled at how tired you were now. “I’m glad you find me so soft, draga.” She joked quietly so as not to disturb you too much.

You smiled as you drifted off. “I love you, Alci.” You told her.

Alcina hummed at this. “I love you too, draga. Rest well, my darling.” She said and kissed your head once more.

You slept much more deeply in Alcina’s arms. She made you feel better no matter how bad your nightmares were.

Note: Sorry, Ethan lovers. Made him the villain because he is one, in my book, for killing Alcina :’(

Masterlist

[chxrrylime]

if you’re still looking for requests could i please ask for smutshot of price w power bottom m!reader and price being a subby hubby just an absolute simp for reader like the kind of simping that he’d kneel before him if asked, he worships the ground his husband walks upon and obviously worships his body during the dirty, please just.. i’ve got a thing for big, strong and capable men kneeling at the feet of their partner, it’s a dynamic that got me by the fucking throat— thank 🫶

This got out of control honestly... it's kind of sad so I apologize for that. Hope you enjoy either way!

Price x M!Reader ↪ 1844 words — 18+ / SMUT & ANGST.

Content tags — cis male power bottom (combat medic) reader, cis male service top/dominant Price, unsafe sex, referenced/implied Ghost x Soap, crying, hospitals, description of injuries, referenced/implied character death, established relationship, penetrative sex, anal sex, fingering, oral sex, hand jobs, semi-public sex, tantric sex, body worship, probably inaccurate medical stuff. 

Soap’s stuck in the infirmary. Unconscious half the time and miserable. Fucking sepsis, blood poisoning, from toxic shock—some gas he inhaled too much of when his mask got shattered in CQC. Idiot didn’t remember the wet cloth advice you’d given him, obviously. You have nurses on shifts giving him blood transfusions every hour on the dot. The bloody bastard hates needles.

Ghost won’t leave his side—not since you told him the mortality rate for sepsis is anywhere from 30% to 50%. You had to pull the shrapnel from his leg and ribs while he sat in the bedside chair, hand twitching on the bed like he was keeping himself from grabbing for Johnny.

Gaz is the most well off. Just a nasty concussion from having his shit rocked by a juggernaut, though you still had to sit and check him over for wounds with how he was caked in mud and still high on adrenaline. He was more than happy to go take a hot shower and collapse into a medical bed (softer than the quarter’s beds) to let the nurses watch over him.

Price hasn’t spoken to you outside of barking orders since he pulled Soap heaving and choking out of the helo, Gaz barely supporting Ghost’s limping weight behind him. Since then you’ve caught glimpses of him moving around the infirmary like a shadow, watching over his team but never sticking around long once you catch his eye. 

He had a gash on his forehead leaking blood into his eye when he got off that helicopter. It was stitched up by the time you saw him again. You could tell from the shoddy craftsmanship that he did it himself, probably in one of the bathroom mirrors.

You gently swipe your thumb over it now, as he stands in front of you, looming ever so slightly. He winces at the sting, but doesn’t move away. You’re frowning, staring at the scar, and he won’t stop looking at you.

“I wouldn’t have changed your orders,” he says, voice firm.

“John—” you huff out, eyes rolling.

“Not for any of them.”

He’d made you stay. For the first time since you’d join the task force as the combat medic, he’d made you sit this mission out. Because it was too dangerous he’d said. Well, that was the bloody point, wasn’t it? If you’d been there you could’ve treated the sepsis earlier, reduced the severity, or you could’ve patched Ghost up properly so he wouldn’t have lost so much fucking blood, half-dazed as he was in that chair. Christ, you could've at least have given Gaz some ibuprofen, the poor fuck.

But Price made you stay.

“You would’ve been killed,” Price says, sounding almost offended as you glare at him.

“I would’ve been hurt, like them, but they’d be better off. That’s my job, Captain.”

The vitriol behind the title has Price caught off guard. You only ever call him by rank in private moments like this lightheartedly. 

“You almost got Johnny killed,” you whisper, and Price’s eyes squeeze close for a mere moment. When he opens them again he’s not looking at you anymore. He takes your hands in his and stares at them instead.

“I don’t want to argue,” he says, sounding so soft. So defeated. 

You don’t need an apology, or an admittance. You know that tone is as good as it gets with him, pride wounded as it is. Heart too. He knows he made a bad call, and yet you know he still wouldn’t have changed it. Not if it met sacrificing you.

“Hey,” you murmur, cupping his cheek to get him to look back up at you. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes for a short moment, searching. You don’t find anything other than blue. His eyes flutter shut and he leans in to kiss you. So, so soft. Chaste, almost, and slow. 

You know what he needs. What you both need.

You move your hand from his cheek to his short hair, petting him lovingly, encouragingly. He trails gentle kisses to the corner of your lips, your cheek and jawline, down to your throat and shoulder.

"Kneel," you whisper.

He lowers slowly with a low groan, knees resting carefully on the fatigue mat beneath you, looking like he’s about to pray. His head is level with your stomach, and he buries his face against the softness there. Both your hands comb gently through his hair now, nails scratching at his scalp, his noise of contentment so deep and rumbly like a purr.

His thick arms move from wrapped around your waist, loosening so he can glide his big hands up and down your legs, spreading wide over your thighs and squeezing before he leans back enough to unbutton your fatigue pants and zip them down.

He lowers to nuzzle against your bulge, pressing kisses through your boxers until he can feel you half hard and twitching beneath his lips. Your soft, rattling breaths above him make him content, humming and sending soft vibrations through your crotch. 

You lean back against the desk behind you, ass perched on the edge of it. You fumble through the drawers as he frees your cock and takes into his hot, wet mouth with another hum. You moan, fingers wrapping around a half-empty tube of lube that you set into his waiting hand.

He so slowly bobs up and down your prick, eyes caught between staring up at you half-lidded and fluttering shut in focus. He doesn’t even have his hands on you, both of them working open the lube with a click before squirting some onto his fingers. You push your pants further down your legs, careful not to jostle him, allowing him the access he works towards.

His thick fingers tease between your cheeks and against your hole. He stops moving his head, just acting as a gentle suction as he works the first slick digit into you. You moan softly, aware you’re still both in the infirmary—in your office, sure, but it’s thin glass and drawn blinds separating you from your nursing staff.

He pulls off of you completely, the cold air of the room causing you to gasp as his saliva rapidly cools around your cock. He sucks kisses into the fat of your thighs, nuzzling his furry cheek against you like an affectionate cat whenever he gets the chance. 

He slips a second finger into you, the angle too awkward for him to focus on your prostate, but pleasurable nonetheless, the feeling of being filled. The stretch feels good, grounds you like your groans do to him. Remind him he’s alive after the day he’s had, that he’s living and breathing and you’re still a warm body waiting for him to come home.

“Where do you want me?” you ask lowly, getting impatient. You can feel his smile against your thigh before he looks up at you, scans the office a bit before slipping his fingers free.

You let out a soft breath at the emptiness as he stands, his hands, one still slick, resting on your hips as he kisses you slow and deep, tongue licking into your mouth to explore. You moan around him, sucking on the intruding muscle. 

He helps you to kick the rest of your pants off before lifting you ever so slightly further onto the desk, and you don’t miss the way he winces. You break the kiss, eyeing him warily.

“Don’t—” he starts.

“Take your shirt off,” you cut him off, already pulling on the hem. He sighs, raising his arms with a grunt so you can slip it off and over his head.

He’s got bandages wrapped around his upper chest, looping over his shoulder. The center of the cloth is stained a light pink from what blood still waits to clot. You let a breath out through your nose, hands so gently skating over the covered plains of his chest.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he rumbles, pressing closer, picking your legs up to wrap them around his wide waist as your crotches grind slowly against each other. You are worried, but the blood doesn’t leave the south. 

“Who fixed you?” You ask, and Price sighs again.

“Love—”

“Who?”

“Monroe, I think.”

You nod approvingly. You trust Monroe, he knows what he’s doing. There’s no point in arguing, not when Price is pulling his cock free, hanging heavy, blood flow not enough to keep it tall and proud like usual. He strokes himself a few times with his lubed hand, pressing the tip to your pucker and rubbing as he kisses you again. 

You want to cry, want to pull him close and never let him leave again. You want to tie yourself to him so he can’t go without you again. You wish you outranked him or, something, something. You know it’s too much for you to ask for him to be safe, but you wish he’d let you be there to keep him safe. That’s your entire goddamn job.

He can feel how tense you’re getting, hole resisting against him trying to slide in, your arms tight around his neck. He kisses the corner of your mouth, and realizes at the taste of bitter salt that you’re crying. 

“Breathe for me, love,” he swipes his thumb across your cheek and trails soft kisses along your neck.

You do so, and he slips into you on the exhale, making you moan and cling tighter to him. 

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, holding you close to him as he slowly rocks his hips, making you whimper, “I love you,” he says, and you sob.

“Love you—love you,” you say back, rambling, rocking your hips down onto his cock as he slowly takes you apart. Neither of you are going to last long, not with how pent up you both are, and the heartstring vibrating between you two—deep, deep connection.

"Harder," you growl, and he complies with only the slightest hesitation, hips slamming into you.

You pant against each other’s mouths, breathing each other’s air. He smells like smoke and lavender and whiskey and a fire in the summer and it feels like coming home. 

His big hand wraps around your dick, pumping you in time with his thrusts. It doesn’t take long for him to get you there, his thick cock grinding so perfectly against your prostate. You cum, wet hot splatters onto his stomach and dribbles down his fist. 

You clench so tight around him, flexing in waves around his cock. He groans so loud as he cums, grabbing the back of your head to pull you into a heated kiss, desperate and heavy as he fills you up, makes your insides all warm and sticky.

You whimper against his mouth, the two of you breaking free for air, catching your breaths. His head is on your shoulder and you try not to think about how his shoulders are shaking as you pet through his hair, the two of you still connected.

You’ll both be okay.

[fanfic-obsessed]

Lured to the Light on Accident

Ok, all you Jedi, Sith, and Force Nulls (and anyone who is none of the above), here we go again. Just a warning, Palpatine gets off far more lightly than he probably should. Also I keep having deja vu as I write this, but can’t find any indication I have posted it before. If someone knows different, please tell me.  It makes me wonder if I thought about this one so hard I thought I wrote it…

It starts at the end of the Naboo crisis.  Sheev Palpatine, Darth Sidious, is all too aware that a man of his power requesting the company of a young boy, without his guardian, from a group of people he has an unbelievable amount of control over is not a good look on anyone.  Even with that young boy being a hero on his planet, particularly since there were two living Jedi heroes of the Naboo Crisis. 

So he invites both Obi Wan and Anakin to meet with him. Obi Wan, though he does have some suspicion around most politicians, is also grieving, hurting, too young, and trying to keep up with a nine year olds energy without letting on that he is struggling. He thinks, incorrectly, that even implying he might need help from anyone in the Jedi temple means that Anakin would be taken from him (this belief is preyed on by Palpatine, who is very good at making people doubt each other). And frankly Palpatine can get Anakin to sit quietly for an entire hour, even take a nap occasionally. 

There are days that Obi Wan would have nominated Palpatine for sainthood on that alone. 

Of course Palpatine sees a chance to corrupt another Jedi, plus corrupting this particular Jedi would pave the way for him to take control of Anakin, and he could just kill him later if need be.   So he starts these ‘devil's advocate’ debates with Obi Wan where he picks qualities of the Jedi and Sith (as he perceives them) and tries to make Obi Wan choose one or the other and defend it. As far as Palptine is concerned he can work with whichever choice Obi Wan chooses, can refer back to the debate if he wants to make Obi Wan seem hidebound or a hypocrite when the time comes to break the relationship between Obi Wan and Anakin.

Only…Obi Wan does not quite cooperate. No matter what the ‘qualities’ that Palpatine chooses (always geared to be backhanded insults to the Jedi Order), Obi Wan always, always, always argues that the key is to act with compassion.  And he’s good at it. Obi Wan thinks that Palpatine is helping him teach Anakin how to disagree with someone without getting nasty, how to debate for fun and games, so goes into each debate with all of his focus and energy and effort but no vitriol.  By the time Palptine even thinks to make an argument to make compassion seem like a weakness, he is intrigued by these debates. By this argument of acting with compassion first and foremost. 

It should be noted that, for all that Palpatine was working toward the genocide of the Jedi and was creating all kinds of vaguely plausible propaganda, he had actually rarely interacted with the Jedi beyond the superficial, until Obi Wan and Anakin, (even with Yan Dooku, since the focus was on corrupting the Jedi, not understanding him) so does not actually know what what is and is not a Jedi trait outside of rumors.  

These debates change Palpatine. Oh, not at once, not in weeks or months or even years. But with such a creeping slowness that it is unnoticeable, Palpatine changes. The compassion Obi Wan talks about so enthusiastically sinks into his bones. Of course, every time Palpatine finds himself acting with compassion, he has a ready excuse for himself (to gain an ally, hurting that person would be more effort than it was worth, etc.). He also finds that he genuinely begins to enjoy Obi Wan and Anakin’s company (and begins to feel somewhat paternal toward them), and can genuinely call both master and padawan his friends. 

This does not stop Dooku’s corruption, though Palpatine is more careful not to let the Jedi know he is a Sith. It doesn't even stop the clone wars.  The first large effect that this infusion of compassion has is with the Coruscant Guard. These were the first beings that Palpatine interacted with that were, without a doubt, innocent. In Palpatine's mind he could make an argument that every other being or group has some responsibility, no matter how small for what is coming. But the Clones do not. What’s more, Palpatine perceives the Coruscant Guard as his. They were his personal clones. Palpatine is still undoubtedly a Sith, and though Compassion has infected him, he is obsessively protective of what he considered his. 

Palpatine quickly manufactures reasons to do away with, by death or other means, many of his more odious allies. All of them for the crime of laying a hand on his Coruscant Guard. He treats the CG with all the compassion that he had, instead of just paying lip service when cameras are on.  And in return the CG are as loving and loyal to him as the rest of the GAR is to the Jedi generals.  In fact, for every act of compassion he performs, he finds that he is rewarded with admiration and later love (and not just from the clones). It becomes a cycle of reinforcement drawing him from the depths of the evil he has sunk to.  

Do not get me wrong, Palpatine is not a good person. For the first two years of the war he is still actively working toward the death of the Jedi and the enslavement of the clones.  He is still leading both sides of the war, if a little more hands off from the Separatists. He may consider Obi Wan a friend, but that mainly means he intends to make sure his death is painless (as even now he could see how Operation Knightfall and Order 66 would hurt Obi Wan immensely and wanted to spare him that). 

Then comes the day when Obi Wan brings his Commander to meet the Chancellor. They have come to, among other things, announce their engagement and their intention to marry after the war was over.  Obi Wan wants Palptine to officiate. In this world the Anidala elopement is well known, and accepted, and both Obi Wan and Palpatine have playfully bitched to each other (and to Anakin and Padme) about not getting to be there for the wedding. 

Palpatine is beyond flattered, and ecstatic for his friend and the love that he had found. In his head he begins to plan the outfit he would wear as the officiant. It is two hours later, in his apartment, that it hits him. He had been thinking about how Fox, one of his commanders, had talked about his brother Cody. How much Cody loved Obi Wan and how happy Fox was that they were getting married. Palpatine realized that if things go as planned, there will be no wedding, as both the grooms would be dead, or as good as. That epiphany it trailed into the realization that his clones, even if they remain free, would have to face their enslaved brothers. The brothers he enslaved. Somehow that shakes him as nothing else, the thought that the Coruscant Guard might lose their regard for him for enslaving their brothers.

In that instant he decided that the love he could feel from the clones was more important than any Sith plan. (Frankly, I can think of few things more Sithlike than deciding their own wants mean more than the 1000 year plan that is almost complete) Which meant that he would need to dismantle the plan without giving away what he was. 

Luckily he has always had a patsy around, just in case the great Sith plan was discovered too early. 

His first step is to arrange the deaths of anyone who knows that Sheev Palpatine is Darth Sidious (frankly there aren’t many).  Then he pulls out the fake correspondence he has on hand for this kind of occasion (Not for nothing Palpatine is a planner, I have no doubt he has a plan to frame someone else as Sidious) that does a very good job of implying that Sidious had control of Palpatine, and would use him to enact Order 66 and a report about the chips by the Kamionoans to Dooku.  He uses the same techniques he had employed to hide his Dark presence, to create a facade in his mind. 

Then he has Commander Fox, and a handful of other CG, to escort him to the Jedi temple.  He makes a show of acting strangely, closing in on frantic one moment, dazed the next, saying strange things about needing to tell the Jedi and ‘forgetting’ he said anything a moment later.  Generally do an excellent job of appearing as if he was breaking through some kind of control. They get him in front of the Jedi High Council, the members still on planet (Mace Windu, Obi Wan Kenobie, Yoda, Ki Adi Mundi) and he hands over the information. In between ‘fits’ (at one point letting his darkness out to change his eyes, then having it change back) he describes waking up in his office to see the documents on the Padd he handed over. Realizing first what it meant for the Guard, then what it meant for his friends in the Jedi.  Feeling like he is fighting against something to even bring the documents this far but knowing that it was critical, to protect the Coruscant Guard. 

His act is bought. The trail he leaves (with just enough hints of evidence that doesn’t fit to keep it seem like it is frame-up) leads the Jedi exactly where he wanted them, to an aide in his office that has been with him since his earliest days.  This Aide (who is little more than a mindless puppet, with enough Force sensitivity to fool whatever tests the Jedi will do) claims to be Darth Sidious, does the villain’s monologue, shoots Sith lightning, and is killed by some very angry members of the Coruscant Guard. 

With the ‘Sith Master’ dead, the war ends swiftly.  Dooku surrenders for the Separatists on the condition that he gets an invitation to Obi Wan’s wedding.  The Clones begin the process of dechipping, and are given citizenship (with all the rights and back pay and a planet of their own) spearheaded by Palpatine, which wins him major points with the delegation of 2000. 

Palpatine is ‘cleared’ by the Jedi mindhealers (who contrary to their name do not actually look into anyone’s mind) and the small amount of darkness that lets show is listed as a side effect of being puppeted by a Sith for so long.  It is eventually decided, encouraged by Palpatine, that is was Palptine’s love for the clones that gave him a chance to fight back against Darth Sidious, but it was his friendship with Obi Wan and Anakin that gave him the strength to even break free enough to love the clones. Both Obi Wan and Anakin are required to go to mind healers as well, just in case Sidious did anything to them in the form of Palpatine. Because Palpatine chose, fairly early on, to not corrupt either of them but the natural damages of being at war were also discovered and worked on (In this universe Anakin did not slaughter the Tuskans. Without Palpatine actively sabotaging his and Obi Wan’s relationship, they were able to discuss his vision a bit more openly and Obi Wan got Vos to go save Shmi. Ironically her time held by the Tuskans, who were deeply impressed by her kindness even in the face of torture, let her learn enough that she was able to a major part of a treaty between the Tuskans and the Moisture Farmers).

Palpatine gracefully retires, making sure to give back all the emergency powers (so that the next Chancellor cannot use them) and steps into an advisory role, discovering that he has almost all the influence he had as Chancellor and none of the responsibility or blame. The death of his patsy gave Palpatine a reputation for being nigh on incorruptible, because all of of the small, infrequent acts of compassion or kindness throughout his time a Chancellor were seen as his true self breaking through the control of the horrible Sith (who was considered to have taken control of him as a child). In addition the Jedi made it extremely clear how rare it was to have the mental fortitude to break through Sith control.   

With all of the accolades, his all but legendary hero status through the Republic, the way his advice is accepted practically as law and good, Palpatine quickly realizes that he actually got everything most of his Sith Ancestors would have wanted.  Yes, the Jedi still live but he is welcomed among them (the perfect position to, should he decide to, corrupt the order from the inside out), and any darkness on his part will be ignored and remnants of ‘Darth Sidious’. He may not have an outright empire, but his advice continues to be sought out and implemented (99% he advocates for compassion, whatever is the most compassionate answer to the problem) and his influence is near universal. It did not matter how long a feud or argument had been going on, both sides would accept whatever compromise he suggested. 

He does get to be the officiant at the CodyWan wedding, most of the beings there are using the ceremony as another reason to roast Anidala for their elopement.  

Somehow everyone does get a happily ever after.

[alice-after-dark]

Sir Pentious Character Discussion for @xxx-sir-pentious-xxx (ft. Vox)

So I've actually been meaning to make this post for a while now. I love the idea of these two. They're both innovators and inventors with a love for technology.

We know that Sir Pentious views the Vees in very high regard, but I think he idolizes Vox in particular. It's why Vox is the one who thinks of him and is the one in charge of sending him to the hotel. He's aware of Pentious because I don't doubt that Pentious has sought out Vox's attention specifically. I bet you anything he owns every VoxTech product in existence, has maybe even taken some of them apart to learn how they work, studies his idol's work.

Something I even kind of like to imagine is that there's a parallel between their relationship and Vox and Alastor's - Vox is Sir Pentious' Alastor. He idolizes him, wants to be just like him, wants his attention and approval, heck they even share distinct similarities in their clothing (though if I'm being honest with myself, this is probably just because Viv likes that design).

I think that's also why it hurts Pentious to badly to hear Vox say such nasty things to him. Like, he's been insulted many times and it never pushed him to react the way he does to Vox's vitriol. It's because it's someone whose opinion matters to him. And to be used and thrown aside by them? It's excruciating. He literally doesn't care if the others at the hotel kill him because his world has been utterly crushed.

Honestly, come season 2, I would love to see a friendship between these two. Maybe Pentious comes down from Heaven to try and help with the hotel and during the conflict with Vox, he tries to get through to him and maybe kinda sorta succeeds. Or at least starts the process. Like Vox is not used to the idea that he means something to someone. Sure he's popular, but it's always about pleasing the public, giving them what they want. And then seeing his old self in Pentious? That wide-eyed guy who just loved to create and had a million ideas and wasn't this burnt out CEO? Probably would make him mad at first because he's all about progress and moving forward so feeling nostalgic for his old self and being upset about how different he's become would make him super uncomfortable, but maybe it gets the ball rolling to something better?

And maybe it's Sir Pentious' turn to be the one extending the hand?

(This got out of control and I'm not sorry, pun fucking intended)

[sourcreammachine]

fuck it, let’s die on this hill

FAIRYTALE OF NEW YORK IS THE ULTIMATE QUEER YULETIDE SONG

the straights have been getting increasingly uncomfortable with it in the last few years. you’re going to see a big resurgence of the censored version this year because Shane MacGowan died last week, but it has been well on the decline - meaning a wide open gulf is forming to allow the cheap, lousy faggots to swoop in and continue colonising it. here’s why we should

firstly it’s an absolute banger. traditional irish music combined with modern drums into a sound that fits the yule aesthetic perfectly whilst bringing drama and emotion. it’s cozied up by the fire, but alive and dramatic

the biggest source of discomfort for most people is that it’s MacGowan and MacColl aggressively arguing at each other, rattling off textbook sexist vitriol. and MacColl calls MacGowan a faggot, with total sincere usage of the slur, hatred and all. putting the slur aside, the nastiness of the song gets people’s ire. it’s a couple having a stereotypical domestic and they seem to kiss and make up in the final act, all unacceptable behaviour forgiven. it’s everything modern straights want to put in the past. so let them. it’s a het couple being toxic, cool. queer celebration has attached the bandwagon to worse things and it’s always taking up the castoffs of heteronormative society. queer love can be made of FONY all the same:

MacGowan’s first verse stings, does it not? sadness, desperation, and longing. in queer society, we have all been MacGowan’s character and we have all been the Old Man, even if it’s not the bottle and the drunk tank. we’re survivors, we’re bloodied and bruised, we refuse to go away no matter how many AIDS-genocides, moral panics, and hate-murders they do to us. there are nights where we think by all mercy we Won’t See Another One, and we turn our face away and Dream About You. there’s always hope. there’s always reasons to continue the fight, and they don’t have to be abstract

when the sobbing’s over, the Pogues immediately come to life for the main body. we go up and down the rollercoaster of emotions while the band keeps playing, while the air is always jubilant. the wonder, the delight, the hope, the madlove, the melodrama, the bile, the hatred. for a song making allusions of broadway, it sounds fresh from broadway - our story is painted through feelings, not words. and when it’s over, MacColl’s character (seems to, judging by the tonal finality of MacGowan’s lines and her participation in the final chorus) forgives her abusive partner and reattaches her hopes to him, her drunkard patriarch. but we’re queer, remember - we’re not celebrating these straggot pieces of shit. we find identity in the feelings. we have all been MacColl’s character, finding wonder and hope and the chance to become who we want to be, and being given false promises by false starts. and if you’ll forgive me for entertaining MacGowan’s character’s bastard misogynist perspective for a second, we’ve all found ourselves having to defend our queer communities, having to stand by our old sluts on junk, even as doing so takes its toll and sometimes feels like a burden. those feelings happen. they are irrational, they are bad, and they happen. and a new day comes and we’re thankful we stood by. it’s a melodramatic broadway banger - we can find meaning in all places, even the ‘b*tch-wife’ slurrings of a misogynist

it’s that power that lets a queer reading of FONY stick the fucking landing. again i repeat myself, from a surface reading the ending is toxic as shit. but queer reading is in the feeling. this lament, this mournful lament, of misplaced hopes, of lost dreams, and a commitment to what we have, and looking forward despite unbearable challenge. you’d scream ‘leave him!’ to every straight MacColl in the world, that’s like, feminism 101 - but queer life is nothing if not complicated. the queer-read MacGowan isn’t a toxic gay lover. he is queer life itself. he took our dreams from us when we first found him, so it may appear. the hatred we feel inside, the emptiness, the pain, it’s all there with the phantasmic joy, the discovery, the love, the everything. and the band always keeps playing. straight MacColls returning to their straight MacGowans is stupid, but we don’t have a choice. our community is everything, our support is everything. it’s rough. it can almost kill you. but would any of us trade it for anything else? we are MacColls and MacGowans all at once - we are the ones with fragile hopes, we are the ones who damage it, and shepherd it still. we’re our own worst enemy and we’re all we have

when Shane MacGowan adapted the original lyrics of a lonely seafarer, he did not turn it into a queer song. in fact, he wrote a character yelling the f-slur. there is not a gramme of queercoding here. but exactly what is the difference between the actual faggots finding commonality in the villain songs penned to mock us, or old broadway songs that have nothing to do with us, and the yuletide song that actively hates us? fucking little, i would argue. queer celebration’s power is its ability to reconstrue. they call us faggot every month of the year with nary a second thought, and we spit it right back at them with reclamation and solidarity. we should do the same in december. we dance to the tune of their bigotry and we sing along at the top of our lungs. they are quietening down out of embarrassment - long may our party reign. FONY, a bigoted song, is a queer anthem because it has been made so. the madness. the love. the sadness. the dreams. that is queerness. and queer revolution is not giving one single, solitary shite about straight people’s discomfort about what the cheap, lousy faggots choose to celebrate. the way the ending instrumental tapers off into beautiful emotion - the straights have abandoned it: that feeling of love, that feeling of joy, that feeling belongs to us now

sing it like you would all queer songs. hold your friends close and celebrate them. love everyone around you. and when the naughty word comes around, scream it

[inkbybambi]

dbf!joel miller when the fallout arrives —

words: 1k rating: there are allusions to smut but nothing explicit. however, my blog is 18+ so minors please dni. warnings: hurt/no comfort, angst, no happy ending, brief mentions of smut, picking cuticles and biting nails. if i miss anything, please let me know! notes: sorry in advance.

the fallout had been nothing less than catastrophic.

your father — you've never seen him so blind with rage, before. spewing vitriol and venom, mainly towards joel. it's unfair, you want to cry, you were part of it too. joel tried to be reasonable and rational at the beginning and you — you kissed him anyway.

you can't blame him, not really. some part of you knew it was always going to end like this.

it's been weeks since you've spoken with either of them. maybe a month, maybe a little more. you don't want to know, and you're not keeping track. time blurs together when you're barely making it one moment to the next.

joel hasn't reached out. you can’t blame him, either, but you can't deny that it hurts.

you thought that he might’ve fought back, stood his ground about your relationship. telling your father how much the relationship meant to him, how much you meant to him. anything that made it seem like he was doing something, anything he could to keep you.

you thought wrong, apparently.

the truth fucking hurts.

it's hard to eat, hard to sleep. you keep worrying about him. is he able to sleep okay? is he reading over your messages, wanting to type an olive branch out, remembering everything he said to you? is it eating him up at fucking all?

did it even mean anything to him?

"hey."

your father, surprisingly, was the one to reach out first. far too long after the entire ordeal happened. it makes your heart ache at the thought that it's been that long. that he's been able to — somewhat — come to terms with it and he's willing to talk. he offered to have you over one evening after work. not for dinner or anything, just to talk.

you should take what you can get, you suppose.

there isn't anything left for you to lose.

his voice is rough as you sit across from him at the table. you can't find the courage to say anything back.

the silence stretches.

you pick at your cuticles, blood seeping into the open wounds when you pull back your skin too far.

"he hasn't talked to me," you offer, chancing a look at him, after a few moments of silence that hang too heavy, a weight ready to drop and crush whatever is beneath it. "since..." you trail off, swallowing hard as you beg yourself to not cry. "i haven't... haven't tried, either."

your father nods, fingers tapping on the wood. if he's even a little bit happy about that, he doesn't show.

"it's better this way," you continue, voice weaker, unsure who you're trying to convince.

you bite at your nail. it's a nasty habit you've never been able to break.

"he'll find someone — " you inhale hard, let it out shaky. you don't want to think of him with someone else, someone who's not you. you don't want to think of him kissing someone else, holding them at night like he'll protect them from everything, whisper the sweetest promises in their ear while he takes them apart piece by piece with his mouth and fingers and —

"someone better," you manage to finish, if not a little pained.

you should've kissed him more. lingered in his arms a little longer in the mornings, in the evenings after he cleaned you up from the mess between your legs. you wish you had burned the memory of his smile into your veins — into your blood, into the smallest pieces of yourself that mattered — the one reserved for you, lighting you up like fire, keeping you warm in the unbearable moments you weren't with him.

all that's left is ash.

your father still says nothing. still won't look at you.

"it wasn't him." your father needs to understand. when you thought of the fallout — and you thought it inevitable, as it was — you never thought joel would lose everything too.

you don't know why you didn't think that. your father is understanding, but not that understanding.

you don't know why you're trying to defend joel, either. he doesn't seem to have tried the same, and he sure as shit didn't try when everything was being doused in kerosene and left to ignite.

"do you want him to find someone else?" you don't know why he asks, and you don't want to answer.

a bit of your nail came loose when you were biting it, and now you pick at it, tearing it off. destroying yourself in these small manners so there's less of you left to drag home when it's all over. glass lines your throat, making it hard to swallow, harder to breathe.

"it doesn't matter," you answer, and now he is looking at you, eyes dark and unforgiving. your heart shatters at the thought, but you never were particularly good at letting things go, letting them leave.

"no," he agrees, and it grates like broken steel, palm flat on the table as he leans back, monitoring your every movement. "it doesn't."

"i'm sorry," you offer, weak. tears burn your eyes, and you dig your fingers into your palms, biting at the skin, trying to focus the pain on anything other than your heart.

it beats, uncomfortable and heavy like lead, as it has for the past few weeks, as you fear it will until you die.

"you wouldn't have done it in the first place if you were," he bites out.

you bite the inside of your cheek, eyes closing as the tears begin to fall. he pushes back from the table — you hear the scrape of his chair. you sniffle, trying to hold back the sob that wants to break free.

you should say something — cry, beg, something to make him understand. you can't. your voice is locked, stuck in your throat as you fight to keep breathing.

your father wants to say something too, you can feel it.

but he never does, and he leaves you in the kitchen with a single light on, leaving you to the silence of blood thrumming uncomfortably in your veins and your heart beating like it's going to stop.

[sufrimientilia]

"It didn’t have to be this way."

Scream | Double Cross | Made to Watch @juneofdoom Day 2

cw: violence, beating, living weapon whumpee, implied captivity, see above

“You dumb, stupid girl,” Handler said, razor-sharp with disdain. This one always had a nasty look on his face, and he wasn’t particularly fond of her. Probably because mouthing off to him and his dumb lackeys had become muscle memory by now. “You just can’t keep your mouth shut, can you?”

She crossed her arms. It didn’t matter how many people were watching her— Handler and another handler, some of their lackeys and some of their minutemen, and Asset. The bodyguard that had been assigned to her. They always had this whole entourage with them, and these days she preferred it when it was just her and Asset. Stupid, stupid girl.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do about it? Beat me, drug me, do whatever the fuck else you do to control the rest of them?” She laughed in his face. ”Try me. I know it’s all empty threats.”

Asset gave her a hardened look. One of warning. It was hard to think about how he was included in them— how he already had years and years of being beaten, drugged, so conditioned into place. Into being one of their best.

She probably shouldn’t have ignored that look.

“I don’t need to make empty threats,” Handler assured her, so dry and unconcerned that it made her want to turn into a spitfire, spewing flame and vitriol, a maelstrom too violent to contain even with all these fucking men around. “That’s what you don’t understand. Control is an easy thing.” He pulled out one of those fucking batons, so sleek and easy to extend. It slipped right into place. “Asset.”

She steeled her shoulders as Asset stepped forward. Her heart pounded and pounded anyways, a betrayal to her big stupid ego and all the false confidence that got her into this. What was Handler going to do, really? Force her own bodyguard to beat the shit out of her? Yeah, right.

“I don't need to touch you to make you suffer,” Handler continued. “You’ve already made it too easy for me.”

Asset gave a preemptive grimace. He saw it coming way before she did.

The baton cracked off of Asset’s face in one violent swing. Handler struck again and Asset stumbled back, shielding an arm across his head, but it didn’t matter. The baton struck him across the ribs next, and then his back, and then his face again. Again, and again.

She cried out. “No! Stop! What the fuck are you doing?!”

Asset desperately tried to stay on his feet, but then it was an onslaught. Three, four more batons extended, and suddenly all those damn minutemen were going at it. Strike after strike, each one more merciless than the next, metal cracking against muscle and bone until there were welts and blood.

It didn’t matter if Asset fought back, briefly, overwhelmed by violent instinct and blocking with a forearm, grappling a baton, swinging— only for one hard hit to land right up between his shoulders and send him crashing to the ground.

“Stop!” She screamed. It didn’t matter if she rushed forward, blind with desperation, caught in arms too strong even as she fought and kicked. “Get off him! This has nothing to do with him!”

“No, it doesn’t,” Handler agreed, standing back as his entourage took over the beating. “This is about you. This is your punishment. A reminder about actions and consequences.”

Asset grunted and cursed, trying in vain to shield himself curled up on the ground until a hard kick to the ribs had him sprawling onto his back. The batons landed again and again. At some point he stopped even defending himself, going slack all at once.

She kicked and flailed and screamed again. “Asset!”

“You’re just as simple as the rest. Forming attachments that make you weak,” Handler said, and he sounded so damn pleased. This was certainly playing out nicely for him. “Even worse for you to form attachments with things that don’t even belong to you.”

One of the men grabbed Asset by the collar and jostled him hard. Like he needed to wake up before the beating could continue. Asset’s eyes fluttered, dazed and already so swollen, a hand weakly grasping at the man’s as he sputtered out blood and saliva and a breathy broken, ”Fff-f’cker…”

The man yanked him right into his fist. Droplets of blood scattered once, then twice. He had to stop to shake Asset around again, and a horrible sound left him as he came to— like a groan and a whimper all twisted up in one broken jagged breath, like the next one would be too hard to come. His gaze wasn’t even tracking anymore, hazy and half-lidded, hands fumbling and slipping aside.

Another strike. And another.

“Stop,” she begged, everything blurred between tears. ”Asset.”

They had forced her onto her knees now, forced her to sit there and watch. Like some waking nightmare. Handler leaned in close and spoke gently. “It didn’t have to be this way, but I want you to remember this moment. This is what control feels like.”

Asset couldn’t even be roused. The man gave him a good shake and he just lolled, all deadweight, his head hanging back. The man let go and he hit the tile in one ugly heap. Blood smeared all over his face, blood slipping from his lips. So limp and lifeless.

“Powerlessness, cruel and swift. Doesn’t it seem effective?”

She sobbed. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

[transfaguette]

I hope you don’t mind if I share this, but I just wanted to get this off my chest to another trans man. Two years ago I made a post about Elliot Paige in support of him and how the TERFs were attacking him since he came out. The post blew up and it gained the attention of the more… vitriolic side of the trans community. I had hundreds of people messaging me, telling me I was a piece of shit, that I was saying transmisogyny doesn’t exist, that I should be avoided and that I was violently transmisogynistic, etc. People were even misgendering me in the replies. The post was also full of people mocking trans men and harassing them simply because they dared to shit on the terfs, which really confused me. I just deleted my tumblr after that. I couldn’t take anymore of the hateful messages I was getting, and I was already being stalked on top of that.

All because I wanted to show support to a transmasc that was being unjustly harassed by TERFs. I literally said nothing else, and it was never my intention to put anyone down. All I wanted to do was point out how nasty TERFs were.

It really shocked me because it was the first time I was ever exposed to the infighting amongst the trans community. I’m just really glad people like you exist who call out the blatant transphobia and infighting that happens in the community. I don’t want to put anyone down. I just wanted to talk about my experiences as a transmasc person.

Have a good day, sorry for the negativity in your inbox 💖

I'm glad you felt you could share your experiences with me <3.

[admirableadmiranda]

Hi! What's your opinion on the potential of some kind of reconciliation between between JZX and WWX after marriage to JYL in either a canon or au setting?

Hi! So I'm not opposed to it in theory, especially given that they have a neutral ground and reason why to get along in the future now, since they both love Jiang Yanli and she would want them to not fight every time.

That being said I'm often opposed to it in practice as usually the onus of behaving better and making the first overture is placed upon Wei Wuxian and it's treated as unreasonable for him to not trust that Jin Zixuan has changed for the better entirely when Jin Zixuan is usually still treating him as crappily as he did when they were younger without ever seeming to understand why Wei Wuxian disliked Jin Zixuan so much.

They have a negative history based off of Jin Zixuan deciding to take out his anger at his engagement on his betrothed, refusing to ever even consider her politely despite the fact that neither one of them had a say in the matter, and he can be very nasty to Wei Wuxian for not letting his angry words slide. I have read his and Wei Wuxian's altercations often enough to note that he never says a kind word to Wei Wuxian in the novel, no matter how he's talking to Jiang Yanli at the time.

Most all stuff I've seen with them reconciling tends to ignore all of the vitriol and stuff that Jin Zixuan slings Wei Wuxian's way and puts any difficulties on Wei Wuxian supposedly being unreasonable when in the novel, he never gets anything to confirm that he will be better towards Jiang Yanli now and has his concerns dismissed by Jiang Cheng when he brings them up. If it were a fic in which Jin Zixuan made the same awkward apologies and sincere attempts to apologize to Wei Wuxian, I would have no problem with the premise. It's just the part where it's only Wei Wuxian that has to improve his attitude that puts me off with it in canon or AU.

So in short, good idea in theory, have yet to see it executed in a way that actually makes me believe it!

[iamnmbr3]

And already early in book 6 we have the appearance of the new, very much not improved Ginny. Book 5 Ginny was not a mean person. Book 6 Ginny on the other hand...

Like wtf? What did Fleur do to deserve this level of mockery and vitriol? That's just mean. As is Ginny intentionally tripping Ron later to humiliate him.

And we NEVER see any behavior like that from her in book 5. Book 5 Ginny is fierce yes, but not nasty. And Book 5 Ginny can be quite funny - much funnier than book 6 Ginny in fact - and her sense of humor isn't mean like this. And I hate seeing Harry going along with it in book 6 because it feels like she makes him worse when she's around.

In book 5 Harry and Ginny also have increasingly closeness and share several moments of intimacy - like Ginny being the one to get through to Harry when he thought he was possessed or her being the only person he confides in when he desperately wants to talk to Sirius.

In book 6 Harry grows more distant from Ginny. He doesn't confide in her and saves substantive conversations for when he's alone with Ron and Hermione. They grow apart, not closer.

In book 5 Ginny is also selfless. She cares enough about Harry that she offers to help him get back together with Cho if that's what will make him happy. Book 6 Ginny on the other hand is jealous and spiteful. She was a great character in book 5. I wish JKR had continued with that instead of trying to make her this Mary Sue bully in book 6.

[zeus-japonicus]

A Eulogy for Graham; or, a fanfic to celebrate the one year anniversary of Trice Forgotten

cw: death, misogyny, referenced unequal racial dynamics, spoilers for episode 10

Been wracking my brain on how to thank you all for being fans of the show and supporting it throughout the last year, and so I wrote something that will never be canon, but may entertain those of you who love to hate or hate to love Graham. Some dead doves in this notes-app-un-proofread fic so, you know. Take care of yourself and be good to others.

When Graham Peters was a child, he knew he would be king.

When he had grown some, enough to understand how his world worked, he conceded that the only caveat he would accept was that the qualifier "a" and not "the" might preceed his title.

His world became extraordinarily more enjoyable once he realised what his life was to be. He was not close to his peers because he was above them: a king does not entertain the existence of friends - meerly holds court with associates, allies and enemies.

How he thrilled when he understood that society was something he could create. Factions, wars, religions zealously protected, all manipulated by his word. His say. To cast a man into exile for a simple slight; to raise a man above his station for quick work well done. All this belonged to Graham. His whims were laws and his fancies were gospel.

And then to graduate from schoolboy turf wars into real politics, just as his ancestors had taught him! Petty jealousies held against him for pranks in their younger years, employed as allegations like a handful of nails cast into the road. It barely slowed him. For what care does a king have that the horse's hooves bleed, or that the driver is damned to debt?

These years he bouyed through like a Captain who only knows smooth sailing. Wind in the sails and a clear heading. He had his destiny mapped, and the route, though complex and laden with savage obstacle, would forever remain in his favour.

And then there were his women. His sister and his strays, all three snide and serious. Graham was not a stupid man. He understood that a King was only as capable as his Queen. What, after all, had doomed Troy but a woman?

His sister could not be queen of his household, no, but she understood his court. Operated, throughout his education, as his feminine touch. Brought him his intelligence from places a King cannot broach, and slid rumours only believed from the voice of an innocent. The voice of the mother of the child in the country's womb. A future wife to some loyal servant and thus necessary to keep in good graces. Good, old Mary: sometimes unwieldy in her vitriol, but otherwise ideal in her plain and unattractive nature.

His men thought him the fool to keep two bitches by his side. Two who especially seemed inclined only to yapping at one another, nipping at his heel in demand of his attention, destroying the tableware out of some small attempt to mark their territory. But Graham understood these girls because he had seen their type bicker and fight throughout his life.

It was all very well keeping by your side a loyal woman: quiet and reserved, the kind you expected to sink into the backdrop so efficiently one's enemies forgot to check for eavesdroppers, but it was quite another to let the mutineers damn themselves with their audacity. He knew malcontent by its fetid smell, could hear treason in the silences. And his two strays, with their roiling hatred, would eventually turn on their King like the dogs they were. They knew his power, and they knew only one could shed the shackles of indignity and ascend to his service; their true purpose achieved.

All this passes through Graham's consciousness as he understands that he is to die on this godforsaken hill, in this nasty little country, no closer to being a King than he had been as a boy.

He wants to rally against the ingrates: to curse their names and damn them to a fate worse than his. He wants to wonder if he is to be buried in the ashes of his exotic, bullet-strewn manor house, feeding the ground of a country that has bled him dry, or if his sister can find some way - any way - of bringing him home so he can rest eternally, as he had always hoped, amongst his fellow men, buried in their Royal sanctuaries. He wants to wonder if he would prefer a grave under the quiet green hills of home.

What he does wonder is if Alestes is alive. He wonders where he went wrong. He wonders if - as a King, a God might take his life for hers. He understands, as he dies, that this is not the correct thought to have. A King is buried with his belongings and his servants, and so it is Just that Alestes dies with him. That they can be buried together, here or in London, and that this final act will be his coronation.

It dawns on him that he is going to die, and in that moment he would give anything to have been fated to have been born to be a man and not a king. What a fool he had been, to craft a death like this! A man can live a long and weighty life but a king? A king is doomed to tragedy. Alestes, about to choose him over that bastard Baker, Mary, on the verge of her final submission to his grand plan, and Anh, nearly dead by his Alestes' hands.

Tragedians, playwrights and Gods punish Kings for reaching too close to powers not meant for mortal hands. Unfair in their judgement because they themselves cannot grasp the very concept of Worth.

But Graham is worthy. He has always known this of himself. And so he is doomed, not because he is a King of false pretences, but because to his bitter end, though he weeps for Alestes, he takes the time to consider how best to convince the angels soon to greet him that a King amongst men deserves the status of a god amongst Gods.

[peachym00]

I can’t believe y’all will excuse build’s racist, homophobic and sexist comments he’s made which he admitted to and still support him how many times is he gonna keep apologizing and all his fans are gonna fall for it every time

I'm not going to keep repeating myself, so this is the last I'll say on the matter. This is my opinion, so do with it what you will.

Firstly, I'm not sure why you think I excuse his behaviour in any way. I'm assuming you're saying this to me because you read my post about him, which confuses me because I clearly say I don't justify anything he's done. The things he said are fucked up, and I do not agree with them.

However, the leaked texts are presumably old and unless it comes out that he still displays these views now or continues to in the future, then yes I support him in moving on and doing what's best for him. I also feel the need to point out that with these leaked texts come mistranslations and little to no context. And as someone who is a native English speaker and does not speak or understand Thai, I cannot take these at face value. Especially when the woman behind leaking them has a clear insidious agenda of not seeking justice, but tearing this man down and destroying him until he is nothing.

I'm going to add a few more things here to get my point of view across for anyone else that comes across my account.

I think what people are forgetting is the simple act of being human. And humans are multifaceted and highly complex. Labelling everything as simply as he said this bad thing therefore he should be cancelled and I am better than him because I would never do that is incredibly short sighted.

It is in our human nature to make mistakes, errors and bad judgements but it is up to us as individuals to decide if we should allow someone the grace of being forgiven.

You are completely justified in feeling whatever you like about Build and the situation at hand, but cancel culture does not work. I am not here to punish him and neither are you. I believe he is trying to become a better person. You don't have to agree with me but that is my belief, and if you can't handle that then block me instead of sending me or anyone else anonymous asks.

I fundamentally disagree with the witch-hunt that people are subjecting him to. If you think he is a bad person and you do not support him, then simply leave him alone, block him on all social media, and refuse to contribute towards any kind of monetary support that involves him. Sending him or anyone hatred, vitriol, and death threats make you a bully. And then, if you're acting that way because you think Build is a horrible person, does that not make you just as bad as him?

It has completely astounded me how much nastiness I've seen in this fandom. We all need to remember to be kind. You should be kind to those around you, and you should be kind to yourself. And the moment you find yourself being anything less than because of a man you do not know and who does not know you, you should take a step back and think about what you are doing.

Please don't send me any more anon asks about Build. Vegas and Pete are the characters that I have brainrot over, and they are who I will mainly be focusing on. I am able to separate the character from the actor, but I understand that that is difficult, and I don't blame you if you want to block me for that reason alone or disengage with the fandom altogether.

[weaselbeaselpants]

While I am otherwise disappointed in Dan Olson's behavior towards Quinton, I am not ready to absolutely drop any one of the creators caught up in this drama.

The reason I'm most mad with Dan is, whether or not Sarah and Em were vagueposting abt Quinton, Dan straight up responded to him then deleted his response rather than reply back to Quinton himself -and Dan made it very clear that he believes the claims Quinton doesn't pay editors, which to me says he didn't even bother to hear Quinton's side here. Dan's an adult. He doesn't have to, but it feels really unsporting and bad faith of Dan who's usually so mature to respond that way.

Emily and Lindsay are still MIA, but Sarah's said enough for me from her end on tumblr. Yeah I'm willing to believe her apparent 'vaguepost' yesterday was not abt Quinton and she just got so many dms accusing her of such that she deleted it. Coincidence does happen. Barring the fact that there could be parts Quinton, Sarah and Lady Em aren't telling us for whatever reason - which, it's not my business to report or speculate on- I'm not their mediator or gossip column - to me, this situation looks like miscommunication+getting parasocial+jumping too conclusions on all parts here. All this to say: I'm not comfortable choosing sides.

Of what I know and have seen from all the parties involved, yes even Dan who I just criticized, none of these people are from the Vaush-school of "clapback at my critics for meee!" vitriol. I hate yt drama as it is and I'm really not comfy saying any party is 100% in the right or wrong here. Don't want to jinx it but I hope this situation is handled in private and put out before it starts to reach nasty people. You know? The people who clearly make fun of Quinton for his vulnerability and weight and not anything he's actually been accused of; the people who REALLY REALLY want a reason to tear down Sarah Zed or Lindsay for being women and not for their behavior about this. Not doing that song and dance.

[beevean]

Honestly, as someone who wasn't a huge fan of Frontiers from a gameplay or story perspective, I couldn't help but feel alienated from the fanbase for a while. People seem to praise it up the ass, and I honestly don't see what their seeing in the game. And often times when you point out criticism, you get responses like "It's a step in the right direction, we should praise it" or "You're not a real Sonic fan if you don't like this"

Are you me? :^)

After all the shit we endured with IDW and its endless, vitriolic discourse about its writing and take on Sonic and Eggman and its "deep" morality (which stopped being deep once Flynn got tired of the discourse, then it became "a book for kids")... Frontiers broke me. Again, I must stress: it's not about the game, because I haven't played it and videos don't make it justice. I can believe it's a fun experience. But the writing is honestly '06 level of bad, mostly for how boring and pretentious the story is.

Where are all these deep, emotional character moments? Where are all these compelling character arcs (that are totally not rehashes of past games)? Where is Sage's depth? Why are we praising Eggman sitting on his ass for 90% of the game and then suddenly developing fatherly feelings when past games made clear that he's only proud of his creations when they make him look good and he's more than willing to abuse them for the slightest transgressions (which Sage has made)?

Then you add the forced references (some of them straight up wrong, like the Neo Metal one), the meta jokes, the completely unnecessary lore that to this day I still don't understand, the underwhelming villain, the wasted conflict of Sonic getting corrupted, the lackluster finale, and the fact that literally nothing happens - which would be fine if this game had a tone more like Heroes or Generations, which were aware that story was their lowest priority, but no, this game wants to be DEEP, a step in the right direction after the EVIL PONTAFF! (I still find very... unprofessional? that Flynn wrote a jab at Baldy McNosehair in one of the Egg Memos. It's not even the first time he does that, he also did it in IDW. I get it man, you think your writing is so much better, "thanks for putting the chili back on my dog" :^) )

So anyway. It got to the point where the praise genuinely made me feel like there was something wrong with me. I don't like IDW, I don't like Frontiers, now I don't see anything promising in Prime - am I a bad Sonic fan? Am I being stripped of something that gave me joy since I was 8? I had to distance myself. I had to keep my few friends close and think about the parts I still enjoy.

It's not the first time I took a "break" from Sonic - the period from 2013 to 2017 was... bad. But everyone else agreed that it was! That's the thing. It's one thing to disagree that SA2 is a masterpiece, because fine, whatever, you can't always agree with the majority. But when it comes to modern material, the majority is so vitriolic and nasty, and I can't deal with it anymore. I'll make my own fandom :\