#i will fight this with making those middle aged men fuck

[raven-master]

i really want to write like i'm 13 again and not care if it's Good. unfortunately, that too is a skill you must hone

[cornyonmains]

Deadpool & Wolverine is proof that box office culture isn't dead, but rather audiences are just tired of bland family friendly content written by the next Ivy League grad they pull out of the pipeline. Adults want to go see movies that tackle themes that resonate with them like being stuck in a rut and looking for purpose. They want to see two grown men in spandex fight in the least heterosexual way imaginable in a Honda Odyssey.

I'm pushing middle age, Tom Holland is a charming little shit, but there's only so many PG-13 life lessons I learned 25 years ago I got the constitution to watch a kid relearn for the 700th time. I want to see something besides the Honda Odyssey fuck hard. I want movies that make a billion dollars because they're GOOD, not because they're following some focus tested program polluted by puriteens who are shit-scared of dick. They don't have the money. The adults do.

Deadpool & Wolverine, surprisingly, spoke to my lived experiences more than any Marvel movie ever has. Feeling adrift, looking for purpose, feeling pushed aside as the world moves on. Yeah, those themes aren't going to speak to a kid with no life experience, not in any meaningful, but they damn sure hit me hard as I creep closer to 40. That's the kind of movie I'll come out for. But with as expensive as movies have gotten, I've got a big screen. I'm not spending over $100 on three movie tickets, popcorn, and soda to take my nieces to a movie. I'll spend $20, get us all a pizza, and put that shit on the big screen. I hope Disney is starting to recognize this as they buy up every studio under the sun. Deadpool and Wolverine gives me hope, but I'm cautious. Disney has always been horny for conservative audiences. They don't have to work as hard to please an audience with no media analysis skills.

[dvchvnde]

excerpt; best friend's dad | John Price x Reader infidelity. age gap.

He breaks your heart in Greece. Cuts a jagged line down your middle. Spills your wet, sticky blood over the Naxian marble outside of the Temple of Apollo with just a handful of words.

(fitting, you find: you've always considered your aimless pursuit to his heart some bastardised delusion akin to Icarus chasing the immovable sun—)

And you suppose it's kind. Or as gentle as a man like him could ever let himself be. Still gruff, surly. But you've always loved the sound of his voice, haven't you? That sarky growl reminding you of classic muscle cars, American-made; the low, gritty purr of an old Mustang. Enough to make you shiver, even as he's shaping it around these awful, cutting words. It makes you heart flutter, enraptured as he speaks like he's ripping a bandaid off.

Except that now that wound is being filled with salt. Acid. Cauterising itself from the friction burn when the gauze is wrenched off your skin. A permanent scar right in your sternum. A gaping hole spilling all the ugliness out. You wonder if he cares that it's being slashed across his shoes—no sandals, he griped when you teased him in the airport; I hate the feelin' of sand between my toes—that this madness inside of you is finding a home on the hot pavement, rotting under the summer's sun.

"m'thinkin' about marryin' her."

The her in question is ten years older than him. Pettily, you wonder if this is to compensate for the fact that he's nearly two decades older than you. An obscene age gap, you know. But—

It's Price.

Your best friend's dad. The man you've been in love with since you were sixteen. Falling all over yourself after a dumb boy broke your heart, and he offered to drive you home, silent the whole way there before he stopped, a block away from your house, and told you that boys weren't worth your time. Boys. Boys—

Not men.

Foolishly, you let yourself hope. Let yourself become the very thing they talk about in TikTok videos lambasting age gaps and silly little girls who let older men run them into the ground. Why would a man his age have any reason to be interested in a girl yours? Sickening. Disgusting. You're being lead stray, groomed. But you clung to it still, even as you thumbed through the comments on those videos and found pieces of yourself lying among the rubble.

You've always known what they say about girls like that. And you were just delusional enough to believe that you were different somehow.

And now—

"Gettin' older," he grouses out, and you wonder if she finds the ornery lilt to his cadence as comforting as you do. Or if it rubs her all the wrong ways. "Might be time to settle down."

Shamefully, you wish he'd say, but maybe you can convince me otherwise, climb into my lap, and eat this decision from between my teeth until all I see when I open my eyes is you.

But that's not the John Price you know. Mr Price. Single dad. Widower. Untouchable.

Mr Price who sees you for what you are—smarter than them, he'd said when you broke down in his Bronco after a softball game where everyone, your best friend included, went to an afterparty that no one invited you to.

Quiet, thoughtful, even when you spent the evening afterwards (the fight hashed out between your best friend and you; i'm so sorry and me too) thumbing through old vinyl records he kept in his basement, listening to the classics that kids your age just didn't understand, so why the fuck do you?

Weekends spent bonding over golden cinema (movies just ain't what they used to be; there's no romance anymore, it's all so—vapid; you don't talk like a kid; i've never considered myself one, do you? he didn't answer. you didn't expect him to). Listening to music older than your dad. Niche jokes and texts that read like I saw this and thought of you.

Your fault, of course, for thinking you could trick him into loving you if you played your feelings through Johnny Cash, Vashti Bunyan, Fleetwood Mac, and Smokey Robinson. An impossibility you know now.

Mr Price who knows you. Who sees through the thin skin you wear and into the heart, the core of you. Who must have known since you called him in the pouring rain to pick you up when you got too drunk to drive home. A house party in the suburbs. Waterlogged flats he told you to toss.

Said nothing at all when you apologised with your head pressed against the foggy glass. You never told him that your sorry, Mr Price was for kissing a boy and wishing it was him.

But he must have known.

open book. pages spilling out. silly little girl with your heart cupped in your palm—

So he knows. Has known. Hindsight says this is him letting you down gently before you get any ideas about forever with your diploma tucked into your chest like a shield. A trip to Greece with your best friend and her dad to celebrate the rest of your life looming over you like a thundercloud. Your eye slanting sideways, glancing yearningly back at him.

sorry, but no. look the other way—

And you think fine, fine, whatever, so long as this doesn't hurt anymore—but what comes out is, "oh."

What follows is this:

He says he's thinking about marrying her with his hands tucked tight under his arms. He tells you he wants to settle down with his chin tucked against his chest, four lines rucked across the pinch of his brow. An emphasis, perhaps, on just how serious he is.

You taste salt in your throat. Sand between your toes. The sun blisters against the thin straps of this pretty blue dress that match the melting sapphire of his burning gaze. It's heatsickness, maybe. Or just all the years of want building and building, festering and growing, until it can't climb any higher—forever reaching for god that won't spare you a glance—and—

falling down around you. wings of beeswax and bird feathers.

Solemn, he says, "it's what I should do."

(i saw this and thought of you—)

Your fingers knot into the soft cotton of his dress shirt, pulling the fabric taut between your knuckles until it peels back from the seams, curling between buttons.

You've had too much to drink. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. Somewhere along the walk to the temple, you snatched a puff of his cigar, the nicotine blooming between your teeth. Head full of cotton too thick for you to think. To retreat.

In the morning, when he refuses to look at you, you'll blame it on the drinks. On the sun. On being young and dumb and untouchable under the Greecian sky.

Daddy issues, you can shrug. You have the diagnoses from every single TikTok psychologist embedded between your teeth. See, mine never loved me and now I'm taking it out on you—

But right now, you kiss him.

Or maybe—

Maybe he kisses you.

It's a mess in your head. Everything turned upside down, all askew because when your lips touch his, he shudders. His chest rumbles under your fingers, expanding with the sudden inhale as he breathes you in. Deep. Takes you into his lungs—all salt-slick, and sunburnt—and groans low in his throat, all want. All heat.

He should push you away. He's your best friend's father. Two decades older than you. Dating another woman who's so far removed from the person you are that she might as well be a different species. Mature. Stoic. Poised. Graceful.

The perfect antithesis to you.

Everything about this must be ringing shrill in his ears: abort, abort, do not engage. He should push you off.

And he does.

After a moment of your greedy, unpractised kisses pepper along the bristles hanging low over his lips, he makes another sound. Angry. Whitehot. His hands slip free from the damp prison of his armpits and latch tight onto you. Thick, hirsute fingers curling over your upper arms, and pushing, shoving—

Your back hits the marble pillar. The air in your lungs punched out.

But when you try to siphon more balmy air into them again, you find an obstacle in your way.

His mouth.

Searing, blistering. Slanting hungrily across yours, devouring. Intense, dizzying. Your head cracks against the wall when he shoves his thigh between the silken softness of your inner thighs, blanketed by the dress that made him swallow when he first saw you in it, eyes darkening like a storm.

(bit short, ain't it? he'd groused, and your friend slipped her hand into yours with a huff. stop being such a dad, dad—)

It slots there now like it's owed the right. Thick thigh spreading yours apart on a gasp, a groan. Corded muscle pressed taut to the seam of you that burns hot. Melted wax. Dripping against his leg. He must feel the way he liquifies you, turns you into putty. It drags a sound his chest. The misfire of an engine.

"Fuck," he breathes, all teeth. Salt. He should be saying, no, stop. go back to your hotel room, and we'll pretend this never happened, silly girl. But he pulls you closer instead, his hand looping around to cradle the back of your tender head in the cup of his palm. A small comfort as he delves his tongue between your teeth. "Makin' me lose my goddamn mind—"

The words are growled against your mouth. You taste the tobacco-smoked fury between his teeth when they sink into your lower lip. Angry, maybe, that you're making him do this. That you had to be who you are, and despite that, he kisses you like you're not.

"Price," you whine, arching into his chest when he pulls at your bottom lip still caught between his teeth. Skin tender, bruised. He ruts into you at the sound, nearly purring. You feel it then. The hard press of his thickening cock against you. Mindlessly gyrating against your hip. The turgid length proof of his desire. His want for you. All you. "Please—"

He folds himself over you. Tucks you into the bracket of his chest, his arms. His fingers are iron bars on your skin, holding you tight to him. Unwilling to let go. His hand on your crown; his fingers gripping your thigh, hiking it up his waist. It's good. Better than all of your meagre fantasies combined. You've wanted this since you knew what want was. When he wandered into the kitchen the morning after a sleepover with a towel slung loose around his hips, his hand scrubbing the damness from the wet tangle of his hair, spilling them down his neck where they disappeared into the thick bed of hair on his chest, his belly.

He paused in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the island, eyes wide and drilling holes into his chest.

"Shit," he'd cussed, gruff and mean with sleep. "Didn't think—"

But you did. Over and over again. With your face pressed against your pillow, fingers shoved into the sticky wetness leaking out of your cunt. Thinking of him. Wrong. Wrong. Terrible—

Dad bod, your friend said with a cluck of her tongue that afternoon. And you feel it under your fists as he heaves. As he eats you alive, whole. Because kissing John Price, Mr Price, is a whirlwind. A maelstrom.

He devours. He conquers. He owns.

He licks into your mouth, petting over your tongue, your teeth, until you can't remember anything else except the tobacco and whiskey tang of him. Heady. An elixir you want to sip from for the rest of your life. Damn him—

He tells you he's thinking about marrying someone else. Then whispers, ash-soft, against your chin that he can't get enough of you.

Grunts, "you need to go," as he sinks his teeth down, hard, into the throbbing skin of your pulse. Laying claim as he slowly comes to.

The coarse hair of his beard rubs your flesh raw when he buries his face into your neck. You can feel the thunder of his heart against the knob of your wrist. The heat of his skin burning through you.

"Fuck," he rumbles again, and you know this time it's for good. Ironclad. But the remorse is paperthin. "Shouldn't have done that, should have—"

"I want you," you whisper through bruised, kiss-bitten lips. "I want you so bad. I loved you since I was—"

"Don't."

The sweat beading along his hairline smears across the naked arch of your shoulder and neck when he moves; a shallow shake of his head. Muted and small. Heavy with reluctance.

The man who meets you when he pulls back is frowning with wet, red-stained lips. His eyes are hardened sapphire reinforced with unbreakable obsidian. There's no inch to move. No cracks to squeeze through.

"This—" he swallows. You hope he tastes you still. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. The drag of his cigar, the one he coached you through, scoffing when you choked, when you cough. You hope he runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes nothing but you. "This shouldn't have happened."

You don't say anything. Can't. The words are staining his lips.

You nod, slow. Cautious. He tells you he's marrying someone else. Thinking about it. Says this shouldn't have happened—

But he holds you like he can't bring himself to let go. Fingers clutching, clenching tight around you. Possessive. Greedy, even he as he slowly unspools from around you. As he pulls away, scouring his hand down his face with a deep, ragged inhale. Rough, worn fingers digging into his jaw until the knuckles under a dense cropping of umber hair turn white, nails pinking under the strain.

"This isn't—"

You nod again. Soft and slow, but you let your tongue flicker out, chasing the smoke drying on your swollen lips. It stings. The burn makes you think of him. Of his hot, heavy hands on your skin.

His eyes drop down to follow the slip of red that teases out between your teeth, blackening as they trace the new wetness left behind. You can feel him twitch against your thigh.

Your name is a broken snarl trapped in the thick of his throat. You've never heard it like that. Never. It does something. Lights you up from the inside out. Supernova in his arms. Icarus burning, crashing down to earth—

Catch me, Apollo—

He pulls away instead. Detaches from you with a heavy groan, as if the distance that now sits between you hurts him just as much.

The silence is broken by the sound of the crowd just beyond the pillar. You can see the moment it settles over him in the flattening of his eyes, the erasure of all affection that bloomed bright in blue. The terse set to his shoulders. The distance, the space, that grows and grows and grows—

He clears his throat. Mr Price once more. Untouchable. Off-limits.

"You should go," he says, and there's not an ounce of give in the rough flatline of his voice. Fixed. Firm. "You should go back to your hotel room. Come on. I'll call you a taxi."

"And you?"

He sucks in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring. "Don't worry about me. Just—go back to the hotel room. We can—we'll talk in the morning."

"Where'd you?" She asks when you crawl into bed, the starchy sheets rubbing against your sunbitten skin.

There is a deluge of things you want to say. Things like—

I'm sorry. I love him. I—

can't let go.

"I think I just got my heart broken," you say instead, and wonder when the tears are supposed to come. At the wedding, maybe. But right now, you just feel numb. Empty.

The bed creaks when she rolls over, facing you in the dark. "Really? Didn't know you were, you know, foolin' around with anyone."

"I wasn't. It's—" your dad. But you can't say that, can you?

There's something painfully nostalgic about loving a man you're not supposed to want. A man who cannot, should not, want you back. An unrequited love in a foreign land. Unconsummated in the summer's heart. Sticky, bittersweet heartbreak.

Or, that's what it's supposed to be.

They are not John Price, though. Your best friend's dad. And they didn't kiss you back—

But he did.

And you think it's the worst thing he could have ever done.

[lagomoz]

List of true Project Sekai facts for non-fans

(technically spoilers but out of context and funny. please add on)

-a character can see ghosts. this is never elaborated on

-all main characters can teleport to a separate dimension based on their psyches and also hatsune miku is in there

-a girl imagines her female friend kissing her and gets so flustered those around her are concerned

-a song very explicitly about having sex with men, originally sung by all women, is covered by all men

-actually correct me if I'm wrong I can't think of a single love song that is covered by an m/f pairing

-a character causes explosions at school near daily

-a character is sad her friends don't go to the same school as her so her solution is to sprint across the entire city and break into their school to hang out. she does this frequently

-a group gets stranded on a deserted island

-hatsune miku stops a suicide attempt

-a highschooler makes a borderline if not outright sapient robotic replica of his childhood friend. nobody considers this a particularly world shattering achievement of ai

-the robot was created to help with social anxiety/stage fright

-the robot has rocket launchers

-the robot has a job as a theme park performer and gets a salary

-a characters family member is dead and it takes her three years to find out

-a character has a body guard dressed in a full mascot costume at all times follow her around

-a character got into fights with professional wrestlers on tv as a middle schooler/high schooler (not sure the exact age)

-there's official sonic collaboration costumes

-fuck is said three times and it's all by members of the theme park troupe that performs for children

-catgirl hatsune miku almost impales a man without realizing it

-sometimes miku is a catgirl

[uglypastels]

Logan idea- reader has very similar traumas I.e trained as a weapon, memories wiped, has bad nightmares, slower aging, modified healing.

They find healing with the X-men and get close with Logan because of their similarities the reader is more sunshine to Logan’s I don’t know if pessimism is the right word. They go on a mission, goes missing for a period, and when they show back up they’ve been brain washed and are fighting the X-men but Logan recognizes them instantly. And does the whole this isn’t you sweetheart while taking a beating cause they can both kick ass and that’s one of the things Logan loves about them. He gets the mask off of them cause he realizes that’s part of the issue for them not recognizing everyone and then it’s hurt/comfort them feeling horrible for getting caught and Logan feeling horrible for letting them get caught. And even though they hadn’t been together before just very close friends/testing the waters this brings them together cause they realize they want to be with each other after some healing and Logan be soft with the reader while they heal from the brainwashing fiasco.

I dunno I love the idea of Logan feeling horrible about not being able to rescue the reader and then recognizing them fighting his allies and helps bring them back from the void. I’m a sucker for two people relating to eachother having a friendship that a hard time brings out their true feelings with lots of fluff and healing cause Logan understands that.

this made me think of some of my favourite wolverine scenes from different media so it's all inspired by that i guess. hope you like it :3

warnings: angst. mind control. reader presumed dead. swearing. violence. hospital-setting. guilt.

Masterlist ~ X-Men Requests are Open

‘What the hell are you doing? We have to go back!’ Logan started yelling as soon as he realised you hadn’t made it back to the jet. 

‘It’s too late,’ Scott shouted back at him from the pilot seat. ‘We won’t make it.’ 

‘She won’t make it,’ Logan retorted, already lunging at the cockpit, claws itching to come out. And they would have if it wasn’t for the cold hand touching his skin. He looked up to meet Rogue’s eyes. They were filled with sadness–pity– as she held his hand. He tried to pull out of her hold, but the longer it went on, the more frail he felt. Everything around him began to spin, his vision blurred until it all turned black, and his head hit the steel flooring of the plane.

⮿

Rogue had held on for too long. That much she had realised as soon as Logan had passed out.

It took a whole day for him to come by, but not even her powerful narcosis had suppressed his rage. As soon as Logan had woken up and his senses had felt Scott’s presence, he was on his feet, grabbing the team leader by the collar of his shirt, pushing him against 

‘You proud of yourself, punk?’ he spat in Scott’s face. ‘Got your sorry ass out all safe and sound, huh?’

‘There was no other way. We would have all died if we had stayed, Logan,’ Storm clawed at his shoulders to pull him back, but none of her methods sufficed. ‘This was the only way.’

‘No the fuck, it wasn’t!’ He saw red with anger. ‘We could have saved her.’ He had pulled out of saying that one word at the last minute. I could have saved her. That was the only thing on his mind for weeks. How you still would have been there if it wasn’t for him. 

The plan had been simple; that much had been clear in your face as you suggested it the last time he saw you. But he never should have gone along with it. He never should have let you go on your own. If he had just stayed— ran after you— maybe…

A pitiful portion of him still kept up hope. That one day, the heavy doors to the mansion would open, and you would stand in the middle. Perhaps a bit bruised up and tired, but all there. And he would pull you into his arms like he had wanted to all those times before.

But you never did show up. Days turned into weeks turned into months, and there had been no news, no sightings. Even the Professor had stopped seeking Cerebro’s help as nothing turned up anyway, no matter how hard he looked.

⮿

His heart was in his chest as he raced through the dark corridors of the bunker complex. Logan looked around him for the way out with the least henchmen as chances of there being none were slim. He had already left a trail of bodies behind him and was ready for the next wave of men to beat into a pulp.

He turned the corner, but what he saw was the last thing he had expected.

For a second, he thought he was dreaming; perhaps it was a hallucination brought on by some chemicals they pumped into the air to get to him. It wasn’t possible. His mouth had already fallen open, ready to call out your name, but as you got into a stance of attack, eyes blank except for a fury deep inside them, Logan realised it wasn’t a dream at all. It was a bloody terror. 

It was the hardest fight he had ever been in, trying to block all of your attacks while pulling himself back. He couldn’t het himself to hurt you. All he found himself doing was calling your name, but it was useless. It was you, but it wasn’t. Nothing he said seemed to matter, seemed to take any effect on you. You lunged at him, punching and kicking. 

It was futile to try and argue with you, and so, against every muscle and nerve in his body screaming against it, Logan started to place his movements harder, fighting against you until you went limp in his arms. He cursed himself out as he looked down at your unconscious body, pushing some of your loose hair out of your face. But as he looked at you, he also saw that it really was you still in there. And so he didn’t waste a second thinking about it as he picked you up in his arms and ran as fast as his body could take him. Out of the tortuous underground maze and back to that godforsaken jet that had been the scene of the dreams that had plagued his mind for the past months.

⮿

Everyone had practically stopped in their tracks at the sight of you in Logan’s arms. He stumbled into the jet, nearly falling over, having had, as predicted, to deal with a number more nameless jackasses, but with you in his arms, it made beating them up a bit more challenging.

‘What—’ Storm’s eyes were nearly as pale of shock as they would have been of her powers. 

‘She’s been brainwashed,’ Logan explained before anything else, ‘or controlled. I don’t know, but he’s hostile. We need to keep her down.’ He laid you down on the ground, sitting right beside you, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a deep heave, and only then he noticed the looks of everyone around him. ‘What?’

No one said a thing, but he knew what they were all thinking. For he was thinking it, too. Was it safe to bring you back home? Could whatever they had done to you be reversed, or was he just putting everyone at the school in danger by taking you back? 

‘Is everyone back?’ He just said after no one had dared to say another word.

⮿

Logan didn’t know what had possessed him. Why he had suddenly grown so protective over you, but he could not stand the idea of you being alone in the hospital wing. It took nearly half a week just for Jean and the Professor to understand what had happened to you, and the treatment itself took far longer than Logan would have liked. 

He didn’t know why he came to visit you every night, far outside the regular visiting hours, past when anyone would be awake to see him sneak in and sit by your side, holding your hand, hoping you could feel and hear him as the apologies spilt out of him.

‘I’m so sorry, bub.’ He kissed your knuckles. ‘I should have gone back for you. I should have–’ He stilled as you stirred in your bed. 

‘Logan?’ You croaked out, throat dry and hoarse. In slight shock, Logan said nothing. You blinked and tried to find him in the darkness of the room. ‘Logan? Is that you?’

‘Yeah, it’s me.’ He chuckled softly to himself, squeezing your hand.

‘What happened?’ You tried to sit up, orientating yourself to where exactly it was that you were, but he quickly pushed at your shoulder to stay put. 

‘It’s a long story, kid.’ Never before was Logan happy to be sitting in the dark as the tears he had subdued for months finally fell down his cheeks in extreme relief. ‘You uh– you’d been gone for a while.’ 

‘I was?’ you tried to remember, ‘I can’t recall anything. It’s all—’

‘I know.’ He kept your hand in his, rubbing your skin with his thumb. Logan knew to call for someone as soon as he saw you stir awake, but he needed this moment alone with you. Make sure you are doing alright himself. Besides, the professor was probably already on his way. 

‘It’s okay. You’re alright now.’ He continued, happy you had finally come back home.

the end.

thank you for reading 💗

if you enjoyed the fic, please consider reblogging and leaving a comment. or send a message via my inbox. requests are also more than welcome. 💗

[esha-isboogara]

how long the jojos last during no nut november

i stole borrowed this idea from @garoujo i loved their jujutsu kaisen version of this and just KNEW i had to make my own!!!

✰nothing too crazy but it’s still kinda nsfw, mentions of sex and all that, blah blah minors dni

jonathan: december 1st - being the most innocent of the jojos he is bound to last the entire month. his sex drive is not as high as most men his age plus he always enjoys a good challenge. he asked you multiple times if you were willing to do this and once you agreed it was set in stone. the hardest part of the month is hearing you beg for his cock night after night, having to deny you for so long takes a toll on him. jojo wants nothing more than to fill you up with cock,pumping you full as you cry for more ;) both of you get this wish when the month is over

joseph: november 2nd- when he first heard the idea he was thrilled. he was convinced he could coax you into failing within the first week,breaking you down with subtle touches and deep kisses. alas this was only a plan. when he woke up the next day with a bad case of morning wood he had to relieve it one way or another. joseph tried for maybe ten minutes to ignore it but gave up as soon as he took a good look at you sleeping form. oh god how could he resist you when you look so pretty.

caesar zeppelli: november 4th- at first he was totally opposed to the challenge, thinking it only to be juvenile and crude. but when he was made aware of joseph participating he was more than willing to take part in the game. caesar liked to think he had the self control of a god, able to resist even the most beautiful of temptresses. it turns out he’s not as strong as he had once thought. all it took was the sight of you stepping out of the shower and he was out. he won’t let you bring it up around jojo though, he may have lost the competition but he still has his pride.

jotaro kujo: november 27th- oh he was so close to lasting the entire month. jotaro is able to control himself to an insane amount. it didn’t matter how much you teased him, small touches, dirty things whispered in his ear, cute little outfits jotaro held on strong. one day you dropped by his office to give him a stack of papers he forgot at home and for some reason that broke him. you were just so kind and thoughtful how could he not reward you. he took you right there on his desk, loving the way your ass bounces as he pounds into you. jojo is a bit disappointed he didn’t last the entire month but you’re quick to comfort him and praise him for how well he did.

noriaki kakyoin: november 18th- the man is a gamer at heart so you best believe he’s down to participate in a boss fight of sorts. he takes the challenge the most seriously out of all the guys. he will not give in to absolutely anything. wellll that is until you kneel down between his legs while he was in the middle of a game and gave him those eyes. he didn’t want to lose he really didn’t but fuck you were just so beautiful knelt before him. after a round or two he admitted to tapping out of the competition. he’s super chill about losing and makes up for the lost time for the rest of the month ;)

josuke higashikata: november 15th- okayasu gave him the idea and he was so excited to pitch it to you. he was always the competitive type so he was more than happy to compete. for the next two weeks he kept his distance not wanting to slip up. but alas he is still a teenage boy and he has his needs. one particular day while embracing you he felt his cock twitch and he knew that was it. next thing you knew you were being dragged into an empty closed and fucked out of your mind. despite not lasting the whole month you have to commend him for keeping it together for as long as he did.

okuyasu nijimura: november 11th- he over heard the concept of the game from a few of his fellow classmates during math and figured it was worth a try. not like he anything better going on. the first week was smooth sailing for him, he had not one impure thought the entire time. but alas he is still a teenage boy the hormones are bound to start raging eventually. it wasn’t too hard to break the boy down. you bent down to pick something up off the floor and he just couldn’t help it anymore. all it took was a few thrusts and he was done. unlike other guys his age he wasn’t embarrassed that he failed the challenge. honestly he’s kind of glad he didn’t make it. now he doesn’t have to hold himself back any longer.

giorno giovanna: november 30th- the only reason he lasted as long as he did is because he’s a busy man, running the mafia and such. he didn’t have the time to worry about rearranging your guts while drugs plagued the streets of italy. don’t you worry though, once he manages to get a day off he will make sure your needs are properly taken care of.

mista guido: november 1st-the amount of self control this man has is close to none. if he starts to feel horny no matter where or when he will indulge in his urges. when you bring up the idea of no nut november to him he agrees in the beginning. but after a few hours he decides he doesn’t want to do it anymore. this man is fucking whipped and he is proud of it.

[hotvintagepoll]

Marjorie Main (The Women, Summer Stock)—a world weary dame who wore her midwestern accent on her sleeve. marjorie main kills it as a reno ranch owner in "the women" (1939) and as warm mother hens <3 she was no shabby actor either! this scene with her and humphrey bogart fucking haunts me [link]

Zero Mostel (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, The Producers)—Archetypal. Comedian of all time. The worst combover in cinematic history, probably. Could make more laughter with one muscle in a singular eyebrow than 98% of all men across the face of the earth. Hardcore Committer to the Bit. Man of all time, and also told HUAC directly where they could shove it, which is a primally appealing and scrungly quality.

This is round 1 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you're confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Marjorie Main:

Zero Mostel:

"The chase scene in FORUM is just. it's fucking iconic. It's one of the funniest pieces of cinema I've ever seen in any context, everything about it is genius, and the heart and soul of it is Zero Mostel as Pseudolus. Casting him alongside a young Michael Crawford (of later Phantom of the Opera fame) really highlights the differences between the young romantic lead and the older, sensible, and yet entirely scrungly middle aged man (Mostel was 55 at the time) somehow manages to come off as even more desirable. He has no shit together, not very good plans, is panicked for most of the story, and the charisma of a champ. His flailing, helpless attempts at fighting the gladiator is so... he's so scrungly. "

"He's not fancy, he's not pretty, he's not good at much of anything, but he is Genius despite that."

"There is a magic to Zero Mostel that he manages to bring to roles where he is simultaneously the worst person ever, and also, compelling in every possible way. He had his biggest period of fame in middle age after he got taken off the Hollywood blacklist, and being a fat middle aged man with thinning hair is what gives every single bit of his characters power. As the original Max Bialystock he would eat the entirety of The Producers except that Gene Wilder as Leo Bloom is a genius casting decision, as Mostel's intensity against Wilder's deep discomfort ends up being the right chemistry. In many ways he reminds me of Buster Keaton, the pinnacle of hot scrungly little guy—a unique and expressive face, an instinctive understanding of comedy, active at the same time, and also they were both in FORUM together. Mostel came from an Orthodox Jewish family, was a trained painter with a degree in art, spoke four languages, and when he was blacklisted during the Red Scare and brought before the HUAC, he didn't just refuse to name names, he made fun of the senators. He was disabled after an accident, and still did dancing in movies and things like stunts in FORUM. He did a ton of work on Broadway too, including originating Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, making the musical more Jewish as he did so. Frankly, I don't think any of those roles (or the eventual later film versions of Fiddler/musical version of the Producers) would work with anyone else. It had to be a fat balding middle aged leftist Jew from Brooklyn. The scrungly is essential.

"the scrungle factor of max in every version of the producers is through the roof but nathan lane does it as suave scrungle. zero mostel does not do suave scrungle. he does old jewish man getting into an argument with the rabbi at the full synagogue passover seder about how much wine has to be in the glass for it to count as "one cup" scrungle; he does old jewish man whose entire fridge is full of pickled herring scrungle. it's offputting in all the ways that make it genius."

[kneelingshadowsalome]

your toxic könig is so perfect and the more recent posts made me think about a similar kind of au but with gromsko. like god i need this man to """force""" me into being his perfect little wife i swear.

AND IM SO SORRY but being slavic also makes this even more feral for me because i imagine the second his gf shows a bit too much independence/DARES to talk over him (yeah it's an achievement to be able to talk over him, the mf is LOUD)/etc he just. goes feral like he sees it as a challenge and he needs to show her what a slavic woman is actually supposed to be like.

but slavic or not he'll keep holding the fact that he "tamed" you over your head even when he's fucking you. talks about how this is your place, this is where you belong and how he's going to make sure you remember by breeding you full.

Omg Gromsko OMG

I'm so normal about him yes yes it's just your ask that made me this way ^^ I'm blaming you my dear anon 💕

CW: Protective & possessive behavior, implied sexism

So, Gromsko. Your car broke down in the middle of the road and this absolute bear of a Pole pulls over to help you. He has a charming smile, sure, but he's also obnoxiously bold. That casual masculine bravado makes you feel weaker than it should; there's this aura of shameless pride about him, and you can't quite decide if it's annoying or sexy.

You try to tell him you can handle it, that the repair guy is already on his way. But Gromsko? Hah. He just bypasses that shit. Pops up the hood and gets to work. The car is fixed in no time, and the next thing you know is that you just said yes when "Sobieslaw Kościuszko, pleasure to meet you, miss," asked if he could take you out to dinner this evening.

And it's true that he's loud. Like, why does he have to talk by half shouting...? (Probably because he has to make it known that he's the strongest, most virile male in the area.)

Sobieslaw always sits with a wide spread, with a broad, tall chest, with a confidence that seems to come naturally to him. He never tries to make himself smaller, no matter how crammed a space is. Everyone except the elderly has to move aside when he walks because he's not going to dodge or sidestep. You're not the only one who fears he will eventually break one of those dainty little chairs in the fine dining place he brought you to; the waiter side eyes this man like he's some beast that somehow got in and should be caged, not fed.

Despite all that brass, Gromsko is a proper gentleman. Always opens the doors for you, always pays at a restaurant. And always grabs your waist and draws you closer if there are other men around. Guy looks like he's ready to get into a fist fight for you if it comes to that.

It's kind of hair-raising how he laughs at the very concept of independent woman. His woman should never have to be "independent." It would be an insult to him as a man if his wife had to go to work.

He tells you how beautiful you are with intensity and passion that seems to come from another age. That boundless adoration makes you feel drunk, and Gromsko doesn't seem to notice anyone else but you – it's like all other women have disappeared from this planet.

He lays siege to you like crusaders of old laid siege to a city. You never have to fear whether you're coming off as too interested or eager or that you'll "scare" him away: this man is always more interested and eager than you. Still, you fear that everything will come to an end once you give this man what he wants – namely, sex.

You couldn't be more wrong! He's not fucking around, and he's not dating for the sake of getting laid. He's looking for a wife and a mother for his kids.

An infuriatingly sexy, uneven smile spreads across his face everytime you meet. He's checking you out, and he's utterly shameless about it. You're being rated like cattle, and it should not send butterflies to your stomach when you notice he seems to more than just approve of your hips and breasts. Little do you know Sobieslaw Kościuszko has already decided you're to be his wife.

When you finally spread your legs for this man, you expect him to fuck you with the urgency and attentiveness of a 20-year old hockey player. But Gromsko is actually a skilled lover! You don't know why and you don't know how, but he seems to decode you and all your weaknesses in record time. Hot kisses and intense love making are his bravura. Gromsko is so attuned to you and your pussy that it should be illegal.

It's like the gods made this man to breed women and spread his seed because he has the biggest balls you've ever seen. He doesn't grow all too soft after climaxing, and continues to fuck you even after you both just came. With sloppy patience, sure, because you're practically begging for mercy under him… but the point is that he just won't stop. He continues to pump you with strong hips and infinite stamina, and groans how perfect you are as you approach your second orgasm.

He places so much trust on his cock that, perhaps surprisingly, you're the first woman he has ever put his mouth on. It's the only thing that makes that eternal shield of pride tilt aside a bit, because he hates it when he doesn't know what he's doing… but neither is he a man who backs down when faced with a challenge!

He doesn't know what he's doing, which means he takes a mental note of every single thing that makes you shiver and sigh. This Polish bear learns to please you and just you, examines how you respond to slow licks and fast laps, sucks on your nub until you cry, and when he sees how much you enjoy his treatment, this man goes crazy.

"You like that, kochanie?" He pants between your legs, drunk on your pussy, swearing in Polish and giving lewd comments about how wet you are. He only ups the pace with his tongue when you cum. You're an overstimulated mess, but he's not done. He crawls on top of you and gets down to business with his thick cock, those heavy balls start to slap against your soaked flesh until you feel like you have no brains left.

"It's easier to just stop fighting, kotku," he seems to approve of your wet, moaning state more than anything. But it's the wickedly pleased gruff of "Let's get married, Słoneczko," that sends you spiraling into another overstimulated, glorious orgasm.

You don't even know that he's already told his whole family about you. You don't yet know that his grandmother already loves you. But it starts to dawn on you that you got more than you bargained for when Gromsko informs you that he'll take you to Poland but only as his wife.

Perhaps that's where this man's charm lies! Gromsko simply knows what he wants: a good loyal wife and a nice, large family. If you can give them to him, he's not wasting any time getting you pregnant. You're knocked up before you even know it, there's a ring on your finger before you get to say Na Zdrowie. You're his little wife now, and there's nothing you can do about it ❤️

[moghraidhs]

because i cannot stop thinking about it, have a bikeriders fic :)

crossposted on ao3.

Johnny's awake when he hears the knock.

He's always been a light sleeper; since the war, light sleeping has turned into the occasional night of no sleep whatsoever. Betty had called it "insomnia", whatever the fuck that is. To him it just means staring at the ceiling until sunrise.

He gets out of bed. Betty's still fast asleep. The knock isn't heavy enough or loud enough to be a Vandal, so it must be something else.

Briefly, he thinks about that punk kid from Brucie's funeral. Mean look in his eyes. He could be standing on the porch right now, waiting with a knife in hand.

Johnny's vaguely surprised by how little the thought bothers him.

He goes downstairs and opens the door.

Benny stands on the porch, one foot already on the steps as if he was in the middle of leaving. Lit up in the yellow glow of the streetlights, he looks for all the world like a hallucination. A memory of the worst night of Johnny's life.

But it's cold outside, and Johnny had heard the knock, so this must be real. Right?

"Hey, kid," he says quietly, not wanting to scare away this maybe-hallucination. And doesn't that just make him the most pitiful man in the world, clinging on to the imaginary vision after he'd driven the real thing away?

"Hey," Benny says, and that's when Johnny realises two things.

1) This is real.

2) Benny's hurt.

His face is angled away towards the street, and one arm is pressed against his middle, almost protectively.

The sight makes something inside Johnny howl. He doesn't want to think about why that is. Refuses to even consider it.

All he says is, "Come on in."

The injuries look even worse under the ugly yellow-white light in the kitchen, but maybe that's just Johnny's thinking. Two cuts, one across Benny's cheek and the other at his hairline, both needing stitches. His knuckles are wrapped up, which doesn't bode well, but he can move his fingers okay so nothing's broken.

"Who was it?" Johnny asks as he awkwardly threads the needle he'd stolen out of Betty's sewing kit. She'd always teased him about his hands. Big enough to cover the whole state.

Benny's hands are big too, but there's something almost fine about them. Those long, slim fingers of his look like they were made for playing a guitar or working with animals or something. Not bikeriding and getting into bare-knuckle fights.

Shut the fuck up, Johnny tells himself harshly just as Benny answers.

"Couple of guys in a bar." He doesn't even flinch as Johnny starts cleaning up the first cut. "It's fine."

Of course it's fine. Johnny's seen Benny in a fight half a dozen times, knows he can handle himself and then some.

None of that does a thing for the side of Johnny that wants to know exactly who and where and then call the others so he can go take care of it. So this never happens again.

He's getting fucking sentimental in his old age, that's the problem. Twenty years ago, someone like Benny wouldn't have made a dent in him. Wouldn't have been allowed to. Real men don't do that shit.

Real men. Johnny's lived through a war, a dozen motorcycle club rumbles, and now another war, and he still doesn't know what the fuck that means. Honestly, he's tired of trying to figure it out.

All he's wanted for the past six months is for Benny to come back. And now he's here, all Johnny can think of is how not to fuck up and make him leave again.

So he swallows the questions and stitches Benny up, carefully as possible. Benny doesn't make a sound the whole time, doesn't even wince as the needle slides in and out of his skin.

A real man. Or maybe someone who's so used to being hurt he doesn't feel it any more.

Johnny doesn't like thinking that last bit, doesn't like the way it makes him want to tear the room apart. He finishes stitching and starts to tidy up. "Your ribs okay?"

Benny nods, even though his arm is still pressed across his middle, the set of his shoulders the only other sign that he's in any kind of pain at all.

The temptation to push the issue threatens, and Johnny gets up. "Want some coffee?"

They sit at the table and drink in silence. After, Benny takes out his cigarettes and offers Johnny one. Johnny lights both of theirs and selfishly uses the opportunity to get a better look at Benny up close. Beating aside, he looks okay. A little tired, maybe. Definitely thinner. Not that Johnny cares. Why the fuck does he care?

"You got somewhere to stay?" he asks halfway through the first cigarette.

Benny nods. "Motel."

"Good. That's good."

Where were you? Are you staying? Are we okay now? The questions tumble over themselves in Johnny's mind, demanding to be spoken.

He doesn't, of course. Being sentimental hasn't made him fucking stupid. He'd already fucked this up once.

A little bit of Benny is better than none at all.

They finish a couple of cigarettes each before Benny gets up to leave. Johnny walks him to the porch. He's surprised to see the sky turning pink-grey, dawn on the horizon.

"Thanks, Johnny," Benny says. He'd looked beautiful enough at night. Dawn makes him look like a fucking angel, wounds and all. Fallen angel, maybe.

He's just a man, though. And so is Johnny, which is why he can't stop himself from asking, self control and fucking sentimentality be damned. "So, you gonna be around now?"

Benny looks up at him, and just for a second Johnny catches what looks like surprise in his eyes. "You want me?"

He sounds almost vulnerable, and it's for that reason and that reason alone that Johnny ignores the thoughts those three words put in his head. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. You n' me, kid."

That gets him a lightning-swift, half-shy smile, which disappears almost as quickly as it came but leaves him speechless nonetheless. He watches as Benny walks back down the porch steps and climbs back on his bike. The growl of the machine cuts through the morning quiet, and then just like that he's gone, the street empty as if he had never been there at all.

The sun is coming up. Johnny smiles and heads inside.

[bettsfic]

one of the things that really stuck with me about The Bikeriders is that it's all about performative toxic masculinity, but there's no womanizer character. not a single guy who picks up women for the fun of it. there's also no casual, unquestioned infidelity, which is a staple of dudebro narratives. like obviously the badass leader guy is going to have a woman on the side, and both his wife and myriad girlfriends will just be set pieces for him with no characterization whatsoever.

on my first watch i just assumed Johnny has a wife at home and a girlfriend in the club, but then i realized the woman hanging all over him during the picnics is his wife (Betty), as evidenced by this pic from VANDALS, the photobook of the shooting of the film.

sorry for the poor quality. this is a picture of a picture.

the implication here is that Betty is supportive of the club (if not Johnny himself, as we see near the end), at least more so than Kathy, who only dresses in bikerider attire for [spoilers redacted].

it's possible in the present timeline of the film that both of their daughters have grown up and moved out. we see Johnny watching The Wild One on television, a film released in 1953, and two girls run behind him, maybe around 10 years old. the timeline of the story begins in 1963, and the last we see of Johnny's home life is 1971. by all means, their daughters might be in their 20s. in some ways, The Bikeriders is a story of middle-aged boredom.

in multiple instances, we see physical affection between married couples. Benny and Kathy, Johnny and Betty, and Brucie and Gail are all depicted at least once snuggled up beside each other. in many films, if a man is both married and faithful, we see him be at the very least physically neglectful, never touching his wife in a loving way. conversely, we never see men receiving real affection, either, unless it's been earned through the intense action of the film. and even then, it's often something he takes, not something he's given.

i was also surprised by Benny and Kathy's relationship, which i assumed would go south asap, given the intensity of it. and although there's plenty of tension between them, none of it is of the "i fell out of love with you, i regret marrying you" variety of angst. they fall in love and stay in love. and they have problems, but losing interest in each other is not one of them.

i find it very funny that Benny remains covered in dirt even when it makes no sense to be.

to me these are all markers of a story that's about toxic masculinity rather than operating from within toxic masculinity. when we're in a toxically masculine story, we're meant to buy into the fantasy of that masculinity. the protagonist is an ideal, a man who fucks around with any woman he looks at and wins fights and becomes a hero. in The Bikeriders, though, we see from the outside that Johnny is trying to craft that impossible fantasy for himself. he's performing the man he wishes he could be and it's making him miserable. and he tries to put that burden on Benny, who refuses it. Benny is his fantasy. conversely, Johnny is Benny's. they have the other on a pedestal of a male ideal that's impossible to achieve.

in this era of American history, we see increasingly intense narratives of heroism. by the 70s, the sons of WWII veterans had grown up. many men of that time looked up to their fathers as war heroes, fighting on the right side of one of the worst wars in the history of humanity, and winning. but those men were then given the Vietnam War, which arguably had no right side, no front, and no land lost or gained. most importantly, it had no clear beginning or ending*. no closure, no resolution. even outside of war, in industry the task of making something became narrower as merchant trades veered toward assembly line production rather than craftsmanship. Benny refuses to step up in part because he belongs to a generation of men who see no real fruits of their labor. conversely, Johnny is witnessing the slow degradation of honor that comes as a result of losing the concepts of resolution and completion.

*the Fall of Saigon marked the end of the Vietnam War, but by then Nixon had pulled out all US troops.

i keep reading these shallow reviews of The Bikeriders, and they're positive but they don't seem to really get it. like The Holdovers, i think so much of the nuance and meaning comes from the historical context of the action of the film, which can't really be elaborated on (you can only do so much in two hours), and so it's depicted in these broad strokes of cultural knowledge, much of which is either that the Vietnam War is simply a thing that happened, or information that is flat-out wrong. i mean, there were like 18 possible sides to this war and you can't read a single fact about it without having to analyze or consider the side it's writing from. even wikipedia is full of subtle rhetoric that indicates sympathy toward one side over the other.

people ask me a lot, "why are you researching the Vietnam War?" and the answer is that it's everywhere. its failure is woven into the fabric of American identity. it changed the very definition of masculinity, and being as we are in a patriarchal hegemony, that new definition has in turn affected everybody else. whenever i talk to any American around my age about the Vietnam War, they've got a story about it. either their father/grandfather was there or he wasn't. if he was there, that's a story. if he wasn't, that's a story too.

many of us in our 30s and 40s and 50s are gaining the expertise and audience to begin telling these stories, in an attempt to answer the question of what even happened back then, and why were our parents so cruel, and why is everyone so miserable now? and we find ourselves on impossible pedestals handed down to us from a generation defined by failure and loss.

[antianakin]

@theneutralmime

I'm very definitively positive on clone/Jedi relationships, both platonic and romantic.

I'm going to hit the biologically children thing first because like... no, they're not. If you want to go that route, then you have to count Grogu as a middle aged adult because he's 50 years old even though his official name for a while was literally "The Child" and he's definitely treated like a child in the narrative more often than he isn't. Jango Fett was (as far as I'm aware) a regular human. The clones, the altered ones at least (so not Omega or Boba), are almost an entirely different species. They LOOK human, but they've been engineered to be different from the baseline human they were based off of to the point that they aren't necessarily all that similar to a regular human beyond cosmetics. So if you don't view them as "fucked up humans who should be treated like children because they're technically only 10 years old" and instead view them as "subspecies of human that reaches maturity around 9 years old", then it's a lot harder to view them as children.

I think that it's fair to claim that the clones are SHELTERED and likely fairly ignorant and naive about a lot of things in the world due to their upbringing, sure, but that doesn't make them children. They're also relatively young regardless of whether you'd consider them children or not, the youngest ones we know about are sent out to war at what would be the equivalent of about 20 years old and they're only around 26ish by the time the war ENDS. So even accounting for the accelerated aging, they're still pretty young and there's going to be a lot about the galaxy and how to live in it that would be new to them. Their understanding of how relationships work is going to be skewed given everything we know about their childhoods and the way the Kaminoans canonically seem to view them.

So I think that the Jedi and clones would likely often end up in a sort of mentor/mentee relationship, especially in the beginning. We see this most strongly with Yoda and the three Coruscant Guard characters and Plo Koon with the three 104th characters in the first four episodes of season 1, as well as with Shaak Ti and Fives and Echo during the Clone Cadets episode of season 3. The Jedi are natural teachers and I think they'd start to get to know these young men who are so devastatingly intelligent but who were only ever taught about how to fight a war and they'd immediately take the opportunity to help guide the clones towards figuring out who they are and who they want to be. We're pretty much told that this is true point blank when I believe it's Nala Se or Lama Su speaks to Dooku during season 6 and they say that the Jedi have been encouraging individuality in the clones. Fives says that the Jedi respect the clones and calls the Jedi their best friends at two separate points in the narrative. The Jedi literally use their OWN PHILOSOPHIES to help the clones learn what it means to be PEOPLE and to embrace that for themselves.

The relationship between the Jedi and the clones is honestly one of the most beautiful and heartwrenching dynamics in the entirety of Star Wars to me. Their destinies are entwined irrevocably and they are each the others' doom and salvation all at once. The Jedi help the clones discover who they are, but they're also going to end up being the reason the clones lose all sense of themselves. The clones are a light in the dark for the Jedi during the war, but they're also going to be the weapon that helps plunge the entire world into darkness by eliminating the Jedi. These two groups that are SO similar in so many ways but for vastly different reasons who are thrown together by forces beyond either of their control and learn to understand each other better than anyone else ever has and love and trust each other implicitly for it and that love and trust is then used to destroy them both. It's absolutely devastating and really gets me in those feels.

As far as romantic ships, I sort-of said my piece on the age thing earlier, but I honestly find that fussing about characters' ages in Star Wars is more ridiculous than it usually is. These characters are literally ALIENS and it's a universe where human characters who are twelve years old are allowed to hold office. I have my personal preferences in terms of clone/Jedi ships, but I am a very ship and let ship sort of person (yes, even with the ships I DESPISE), so I'm not going to make a big deal out of clone/Jedi ships. I also like clone/clone ships which tons of people find problematic for other reasons, so whatever.

I HAVE seen the superior/subordinate thing get addressed in clone/Jedi fics before. Sometimes it ends in the characters deciding to wait until after the war and when the clones are given rights and official citizenship status or something before they begin a romantic relationship, and sometimes it ends in the characters recognizing that a lot of the rules shouldn't really matter when they're at war and they could die literally any day and they deserve to find happiness and pleasure where they can find it so long as they work to ensure that this doesn't impact their respective responsibilities. Again though, this is a space fantasy and absolutely nobody on the writing staff for The Clone Wars was taking the structure and internal dynamics of this fantasy military particularly seriously, so I'm not sure why I or anyone else should have to if they don't want to.

So yeah, I love relationships between the clones and Jedi, it's probably my favorite dynamic in the whole franchise, regardless of whether it's platonic or romantic.

[mask131]

So many lasting Greek mythology misinterpretation today could be avoided so simply if people just thought about what they are saying and doing. Really, it's just a question of thinking in a logical way.

Like Medusa, you know? There are so many people who literaly didn't notice that there was a slight problem when you said on one side "Medusa was the daughter of primordial two gods, and the sister of many monsters and dragons of Greek mythology" and on the other "She was a regular human priestess turned into a monster by the gods". For them it was just... normal, I guess? When the answer to this incoherence is just quite simple: Medusa started out, in Greek mythology, as a divine monster born out of the primordial forces of the world ; the story of Medusa as a human priestess comes from Roman literature when they reinvented the Greek myths. People just confused the two: as simple as that.

But people don't want to look at the incoherences of the "popular culture" version of mythology, apparently. I was doing this post initially upon seeing yet again depictions of Zeus and Poseidon as old men with white beards. Which is something that always bugs me for one simple reason: Everybody agrees and says the Greek gods are eternally young and cannot age. Why then are Zeus and Poseidon, THE gods by default, always depicted as old men?

For many people it's simple and clear-cut, somehow, but it is such a massive incoherence, especially since all the other gods are shown as young. And the answer is so simple if people just bothered looking for it: Zeus and Poseidon, were bearded men in Ancient Greek art, but had BLACK beards (or "blue" depending on if you understand literaly the Homeric names). They were adult men, but not OLD men (as opposed to the "beardless youth", who were basically in their 20s whereas the "bearded gods" are like... in their 30s or something).

The whole "old thing" is just resulting on the HUGE reinvention Europe made of Greek mythology from the Renaissance onward, mixing the "All Greek statues are white, so the gods were white-like" misunderstanding with the old, "acceptable" concept that god-rulers had to be like the Biblical or Christian patriarchs, elderly men with white or grey beards.

I don't mind per se the idea of Zeus or Poseidon being an older guy, because it is indeed now part of popular culture and it has been around for too many centuries to ignore or reject. Plus, it can be a good way to fight the ageism inherent to Greek mythology by depicting gods as elderly but still beautiful and "perfect" (which is what Renaissance art onward actually did). But it doesn't change the fact that it is not accurate to Greek mythology, and that it is HUGE and ancient misunderstanding.

Like Dionysos or Aphrodite being fat - it is something acceptable and understandable today, and it is justifiable in many ways (from cultural precedent to positive evolutions of our modern era)... But it is still a reinvention of Greek mythology, and not a faithful reproduction or an accurate depiction of how the Greek gods were. Because Ancient Greeks were fatphobic as fuck, to use modern terms. But beyond that, we enter into the whole debate of the artistic freedom, and the importance of reinventing and playing with myths and legends to keep them "alive", and that's an entirely different topic.

(Funnily enough, since I am bringing the Aphrodite business: yes, making her fat or middle-aged is not accurate to how the Greeks saw her, and is bringing modern era ideals, if Renaissance can be considered "modern", to Ancient matters. At least with the Romans, there's something justifiable because they had a "mother-goddess" thing going on with Venus, but for the Greeks Aphrodite was young and fat was ugliness, that's for certain. HOWEVER! The funny thing is that all those comics and movies depicting Aphrodite as a literal pin-up with a tiny waist but a huge butt and enormous boobs is just as inaccurate and "wrong" compared to the Ancient Greeks beauty canon. Because while Ancient Greeks hated people being too fat or too skinny, considering this "ugly", they also disliked people being too "developed". When a guy was too muscular, or had too large of a dick, he was considered ugly and visually "vulgar" (which is why grotesque figure like the satyrs had these huge sexual organs, and statues of the gods had tiny ones ; and Herakles doesn't look as much of a bodybuilder as super-hero comics depict him). So to have Aphrodite as just big boobs and butt on a stick is basically also making a goddess that the Ancient Greeks would have deemed ugly and "vulgar"/"grotesque", if not repulsive.

So you know... We can criticize the mainstream media alongside the new reinventions of today, because EVERYBODY'S WRONG and that's the fun of it Xp)

[smytherines]

Fuck it, here's an Owen Carvour dissertation

We don't have canon ages for Curt & Owen, but personally I headcanon Owen as being born in 1928, making him 29 when the banana incident happens. This leads to a lot of thoughts that are fascinating to me, because growing up in London during WWII could inform so much of his character.

Personally, I believe DMA's accent is much closer to Owen's natural accent. I think the Owen Carvour accent is something he puts on to make himself sound neutrally British while working abroad, because he grew up working class. RP is how most people (at least in the US) assume British people speak. This also works with the Texan agent mega headcanon, like they both have to put on an act to be spies, just like they have to put on an act with their relationship.

And class is really really important to how you conceptualize this character, because your experience of the war could be radically different depending on how much money you had. Food rationing began in 1940, which in this case would make Owen 12. Rationing isn't fully lifted until 1954.

At Elizabeth II's wedding in 1947, the palace made a big deal about how she was saving ration coupons for the material for her wedding- a full two years after WWII ended.

Here's WWII London:

This is the city Owen would've grown up in. This is a war zone. A city where food is tightly rationed, where sirens were constantly going off and you had to draw down the blackout curtains and go sleep in the tube station with bombs dropping constantly overhead:

If Owen were upper middle class, he might have had a shelter at home, some people did. But I imagine him sleeping in dark, cramped, noisy stations. And he learns to keep his cool. He starts to enjoy the danger because he has to to survive it.

Maybe he has lost loved ones to the bombings. Maybe one morning he comes home from the tube station and half of his house is in rubble on the ground. Maybe he's used to hand me down clothes and simple homemade toys and not having enough to eat. He's used to having nothing, having nobody. That's a headcanon a lot of folks have, and I think it makes a lot of sense for his character.

Even if Owen were one of the kids evacuated to the countryside, maybe that happens when he's 15 or so, it wasn't a Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe situation. For a lot of those kids they were leaving their parents behind in a war zone, sleeping in barns or basements, and most importantly working almost non-stop on British farms because all the regular farmhands were fighting.

I think, if this happened, Owen would be itching to go off and fight in the war. My personal headcanon is that he's an intelligent guy, and he figures out how to forge some basic paperwork to claim he is older than he actually is, so he can go fight in WWII.

But by some fluke he couldn't account for, he gets discovered. And because of his skill and his ability to keep his cool under interrogation, he gets recruited to MI6. A lot of MI6 operatives are upper class men, recruited young from the top schools. He mimicks them.

I think many years later, when he and Curt are escaping a Russian weapons facility, Owen loves Curt and trusts in his capabilities (maybe a bit too much- especially when he's been drinking), but he also feels frustrated that Curt is impulsive and cocky and thinks he is untouchable.

Because Curt didn't grow up the way Owen did. He didn't grow up waiting for the bottom to fall out over and over again. He's certainly got his own shit from adolescence, but he doesn't have that survival impulse hardwired into him the way Owen does. So Owen is careful and cautious for the both of them, trying to keep them both safe and alive.

I think about Owen being trapped in the rubble a lot. He would almost certainly be critically injured. Maybe he has PTSD from the WWII bombings, and he's just trapped in an exploded building, trapped with his own memories of childhood until he's almost feral from it.

This also, btw, is why the AU of Owen as Eurydice from Hadestown is so so poignant to me. Someone who grew up cold and hungry and turned their collar to the world, and then suddenly they fall in love and everything is sunlight all around them. All I've Ever Known is such an important owen!Eurydice song to me

I could keep going from here, but I'll stop for now. This isn't as neat and concise as I wanted to present these thoughts, but I can't stop thinking them

[variousqueerthings]

I'm intrigued...who is Sick Boy?

SICK BOY!!!!

@le-red-queen I'M BEING ASKED QUESTIONS ABOUT SICK BOY WHAT A GREAT DAY!!!!!!!!!!

sick boy is a useless silly little criminal baby boy punk who's addicted to heroin

he's one of the ensemble of the movie trainspotting which i would recommend with a whooole bunch of content warnings if you have triggers or squicks

it's an iconic movie based on an iconic book, about a group of scottish addicts who rail at the nature of the world around them and the hypocrisy of 90s capitalism (ohhh sweet summer children), but also double-cross each other, have anger issues, drag each other down, and fuck up their own lives in various ways -- the score is also a work of art!

sick boy's character in this story is someone who pretends to be generally unaffected by the life they're in, obsessed with james bond, and on the whole the somewhat shallow it-girl of the team, if you will, but there are a lot of strong clues in the first film that suggest that he feels far more than he lets on, and he goes through his own personal tragedy in the movie as well

but yeah he's kind of head-empty bimbo too

in the sequel, x amount of years later, the writing decided to focus more on him and his dynamic with the lead character, renton (played by ewan mcgregor), and where their lives have ended up now they're no longer youths who can push away the accountability for their own lives and the world around them. it leans more heavily on them having a lot of homoerotic tension, and having had A Past in which they were best friends and how becoming addicts gradually pulled them from one another, but maybe they'll find their way back again who knows, which is a little different from the first movie in which the outlook is generally quite bleak (they're both quite bleak, but the first one is by far the more tragedy-based narrative)

all grown up sick boy, still a bimbo

the other two leads of this dynamic are begbie and spud, and they do have large parts to play in both of the stories as well. fun links, begbie is played by robert carlyle who's in plunkett & macleane with JLM and he's been very open about playing the former of these roles as a closeted gay man... the latter is my own imagination, but i see you mr robert carlyle (yeah I originally wrote richard idk why either, sorry i did that to u mr carlyle)

but yeah. trainspotting. amazing movie. unfortunately all your brother's edgy friends are into it too, it's kind of one of those "if your boyfriend's favourite films are american psycho, fight club, the matrix, and trainspotting, run" movies, but you know. don't hold that against it 😂

the sequel: a bit self-indulgent, but I'm the person being indulged and it's genuinely fun seeing these actors who've remained close throughout all these years return to some of their career-making roles, and explore a little more of the book lore + look, i read too much into it maybe, but both ewan mcgregor and JLM are recovering alcoholics, and seeing them as middle-aged men playing the parts of recovering addicts, it's... good. i think this movie is good, in a very different way to the first one. renton and sick boy do not make out, but there's a character who says they're definitely in love and ought to fuck, and she's so right for that

in conclusion:

highly recommend it

[yourfatherlucifer]

Comatose (Jongho) pt. 1

Mafia!Choi Jongho x fem!Reader

>> Being the lover of mafia member Choi Jongho had it perks and downfalls, you were allowed to stay in a lavish mansion with 8 beautiful men, including your man, who stayed by your side when he wasn’t on the job. However, when one day you are on a date with said lover, a member of Ateez’s rival gang shoot’s you...what will happen next?<<

(This one shot includes violence, so warning and angst, and fluff. It’s a roller coaster, it’s a mafia one shot, there’s more I just don’t know what other warnings I should add)

(Monsta X make an appearance) 

(Monsta X used to be Ateez alliance but are now enemies) 

Yes, living in large mansions, fancy cars, having many butlers and maids, big chandeliers, grand staircases, red bottoms heels, fancy dresses and more was amazing, but nothing could top having Choi Jongho as your lover. 

Sure, he was busy a lot, but he still made time for you, always, no matter how late or early it was. He’d surprise you with gifts, despite you protesting, saying how much you don’t need it, you just need him. You only need him. 

He’d shrug it off, showing his cute ol’ gummy smile. You’d roll your eyes in response. Then it would repeat. 

-

Sneaking a glance at your sleeping brown-haired boyfriend, you smiled, remembering how you got to this point, how he saved you.

....

You had grown in a test facility, sold by parents for $100,000. You had grown along side other kids, but many had died due to the harsh environment and tests. Few had survived. Scars had littered your body, you had given up fighting the scientists, the workers, everyone and given in. You didn’t even know what they were testing. 

That was until one day, the alarms went off, the whole facility went red, gunfire rang throughout the entire building. You were in the middle of being subjected to another test. 

The door had been kicked open. The doctor who had been working on you pulled out a pistol and aimed it toward the door, “You can-” He was shot in the chest. 

As you stared at the door, a young man about your age with a automatic rifle stared at the dead body on the floor with his chest heaving, His face was covered with pure anger. His mouth opened to say something then he saw her, you. 

“Hey..” He walked over, “Are you okay?” He stepped over the bloody corpse, pulling out a knife, “You’ll be alright now.” As each strapped snapped off, he sat the girl up, careful of the new wounds the dead doctor had given her. 

At the entrance of the facility, a group of men with weapons had lined up tons of the tons of doctors in white coats, all tied up. 

A man with strike features, named Kim Hongjoong, leader of Ateez, the biggest Mafia; circled the disgusting mafia, “So, you betrayed us. You used the facility and items my father provided you to test on children and teenagers, even young adults?” He tsked. 

He placed the barrel of his gun to the lead doctors forehead, “Tell me exactly why I shouldn’t blow your brains out.” 

Just then, the youngest of Ateez comes out with the girl he discovered, who is just barely alive, she can barely keep her head up, her feet are dragging behind her. “Boss, Hongjoong, look at this, look at her, she’s barely alive, she looks like she’s been here for years.”

At those words Hongjoong snapped his head over to his youngest members voice. His eyebrows narrowed at the sight, “Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He laughed, then looked at the doctor. 

“Looks like I don’t need a reason to not shoot you.” 

BAM

“Kill them all and free the kids and innocents.”

---

You were grateful for him for that day. He and his team had saved you.

(SWITCHING POV)

Sneaking one last glance at him, I swung my scarred-bare legs over the fancy mattress and sheets, careful not wake to wake him. He had such a busy week.

Dealing with drug deals, traveling to different sectors to different mafia bosses to make different deals that I have no idea what entailed. I didn’t want to know.

Making my to his jointed bathroom, I flicked on the light, rubbing my face to clear out the sleep. It was days like this that I wish I could sleep in. I just couldn’t fall asleep, I had fall into a routine since I was brought to that facility many years ago, I had yet to break the habit of waking up from the schedule.

After freshening up in the bathroom and changing into a fresh pair of clothes, I made my way downstairs to the big kitchen, where I could smell the maids and butlers already preparing breakfast. They never did mind me striking up conversation with them while they prepared for all nine people.

My favorite maid, Denice, had her back turned towards me, facing the stainless steel oven, "Hello Dee," I glanced at all of the other servants in the room, "smell's nice in here, guys. The boys will love it."

The older woman gave me a nod and grin, "Thank you dear, we love to please. You look lovely, what are you all dolled up for, is it for the young Mr Choi?"

A blush had spread across my face, "Maybe.."

I wasn't exactly dressed up to impress.

-

It was already around 12pm and Jongho had still not waken, but everyone else had, no one wanted to wake him. Only I was willing.

I sighed, staring at the clock, knowing how much he'd swat at me to go away or pull me in under the cover to join him.

I eyed the little pirate ship model on the piano as I made my way to the stairs. These boys and their pirate ships. They even owned a few real models, docked at their own private beach. It was a little weird for the biggest mafia to obsessed with pirate culture, but it was whatever.

I laughed just to then smile, it was kind of cute though, the times they'd act like pirates, have their little spar matches with fake swords. They'd run all over countertops and tables, earning scoldings from Seonghwa. Who'd say, "You're getting everything dirty!" It's hilarious.

Living with these eight men is amazing, it was a change, an amazing change from living in the facility practically my whole life.

I shook Jongho awake, “Hey, Haribo, come on, it’s noon, you missed breakfast.”

Jongho groaned in response, grabbing my wrists. I knew this would happen. I was yanked into his arms.

“But I don’t want to get up, why don’t we just stay in bed, I have the next couple of days off anyway.” He had muttered into my hair.

I pried his head away from mine, “No, Jongho, how about we just go out? Like for a date? We haven’t gone out together in a bit.”

I stared into his brown doe eyes, searching for any reaction, but all he did was sigh in content.

He always did this on his days off, he’d fight with me on getting up. It was ridiculous, the other men thought of it as a nuisance so they didn’t even bother and left it to me to get him up. It was weird to begin with for a mafia member to have a day off, but whatever.

He continued to lay there. “Fine, don’t get up, I’ll go out by myself.” I stood up and was about to leave the room.

I could hear his pout, “but..”

With my hand on the door handle, “Last chance, Haribo.”

With a thump he rolled off the bed in a pile of blankets. “Okay, okay, you win, we’ll go somewhere.”

Finally, it takes forever to get this man out of bed.

“I’ll be downstairs, please do not wear anything that shouts you’re in the biggest mafia around here.” I stared down at him, he was still on the floor.

When I reached the grand living room, I was met with the other 7 members, "Hey boys, he's up." I swiped a hand down my face and sat down in an open spot on the sofa, next to Wooyoung. I really shouldn't have, but I didn't have another option.

Wooyoung looked at me, had a smirk on his face and was ready to say something, "Woo, I swear to god, I will kick you in the balls, you know I am with Jongho."

He sunk into his spot while the other men laughed at his pathetic state.

I didn’t have time for this. Is Jongho even getting ready or did he go back to sleep?

I was about to just ask Hongjoong if I could have a ride somewhere when Jongho finally made his into the grand living room, “Oh, glad you could finally join us, Haribo.” I rolled my eyes, annoyed with him.

I could be nicer to him after all he’s done for me, but this habit of his has become too much, I love him I really do. He’s so sweet to everyone around us, well, unless it’s his rivals or people he doesn’t trust. However he is super shy.

I saw him glance at his fellow members, giving them a nod before heading over to me, “We can go now.”

Jongho was just so handsome and perfect in my eyes, despite the whole mafia thing, but I loved him nevertheless.

I took his hand in mine, “Then let’s go, love.”

-

We had taken one of less conspicuous vehicles, but he had at least one bodyguard vehicle following us, never too safe.

“How about this little cafe, Haribo?” I had pointed to a cute and small outdoor coffee shop, it had beautiful flowers in pots surrounding the outside of it.

It didn’t look busy at all, which was sad as it presented itself cutely and definitely deserved more business.

Jongho pulled into a spot along side the cafe, “Alright, I guess this our first date in a while.”

-

We were enjoying our meal and coffee when all of the sudden a black suv sped in front of the cafe. Three men jumped out, I saw Jongho’s bodyguard pull out his gun but it was too late, he was gunned down.

Bystanders were screaming and running, cars were speeding by to get away from the gunshots.

I grabbed Jongho’s arm but he shoved me behind him, I was scared to death for him, but I knew he always packed and wore a bulletproof vest.

“Y/N I need you to run and call the rest of Ateez! Tell them Monsta X is here.” He shouted over the returning gunfire between him and the other men.

I didn’t want to move but I nodded, grabbed my phone, texted Ateez ‘SOS @ Berry Cafe.’ and then took off.

I looked back at my lover but when I did, I was shot in my back, multiple times.

Of all the pain I’ve gone through..this had to be the worst.

“Y/N!”

I could hear my lovers shouts for me but my world is getting dark as I laid on the concrete, slowly bleeding out.

-

Ateez raced into the gunfire battle between Jongho and three members of Monsta X.

As they all piled out they could see how tired and mournful their youngest was.

Then they glanced over and saw his lover laying face down on the concrete in a pool of her own blood.

“Jongho, get out of here! Take her to the hospital!” Hongjoong shouted over the shots.

He nodded, running over to his mess of a lover, “Y/N! Please still be alive..” he pressed a finger to her throat. She still had a pulse but it was hardly there.

As he lifted her up into his arms, he raced back to his vehicle and placed her gently in the backseat.

-

“HELP! My girlfriend has been shot!” Jongho carried Y/N who was unconscious into the busy and loud hospital.

Multiple nurses ran over, one with a gurney, “Place her here, sir, we need to take her back!

His clothes were covered in her blood, usually he didn’t care for it, but when it was hers.. he was in despair.

When they carted her into the back, he collapsed to his knees, he was worn out from trying to protect her and failing to do so.

‘how could I be so stupid?’ He thought to himself.

To be continued…

[kuroimugen]

I'm coming out of the woodwork because I can't handle it. My chest has been tight with anger since I read that Ruibo was supposed to be more prominent in season 3. I am shaking as I write this. I've had to hold it in until I got off work and could write properly.

I volunteer in fandom. I work the Alternate and Historical Fiction track at DragonCon. (Yeah, if you've been and you like our diversity and our women-focused content of the last five or so years? That's ME. Me and my director. WE have been CURATING THAT CONTENT for yall) Our Flag Means Death falls under my track and I watched it with complete glee and would gladly make sure you all had content to talk about this year.

But to tell us (here's talking to you Casey Bloys) that we should amp up The Gilded Age when your DEI content is right there and you just cancelled it? You cannot tell me that you and Max deserve to have fan retention when you don't even understand what Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion is and why it matters. You don't throw a show at the wall and then take it down and give yourself a pat on the back going "yup we did it good for us guys, don't need another gay show for a few years take a break." You fight, every single day, for your content to feature anyone OTHER than white men.

Every single year I comb through our DragonCon content and decide "What can we do better? Where did we falter? Where do we need to improve?" (you can discuss those with me later, this is about OFMD) You DO NOT give yourself a show with this much diversity and then claim something like The Gilded Age can even compare. You cannot use that as your substitute. It does not work like that. I do this as volunteer work and not as my job and I am furious that he is treating it like a fucking joke. Like Ruibo and Nathan didn't deserve to be showcased in their own season now that the third season would feature them more and we would take a step back from the middle aged men (allegedly).