#i wish any of this was hyperbole it is not i wish i could make any of that up

[okawarihappylife]

tumblr is a site that taught me its ok to be racist as long as youre trans or autistic in any form

[stainedglassthreads]

So Dungeons and Daddies Season 2 is really just taking the average coming-of-age story and making it to every horrifying extreme, huh.

It is that moment in which you realize your parents don't know what they're doing any better than you do, and people present it like it's something comforting, but it's just even more terrifying because there really, really is no right answer. It's realizing that no, love isn't enough, sometimes you love your family and it just made everything worse. Everyone who came before you fucked things up even when they were trying to make things better, and unfucking everything just seems impossible, but not even trying is such a depressing option, and one your kids will never be able to forgive you for.

I have many feelings on this.

[breadcrxmbs-reblogs]

dude i really didn't think i could get more depressed. this shit sucks lol

[bamsywrites]

And Comes Dawn pt iii

Pairing: Sauron/Halbrand x Reader, more ships/love triangles to come, though, so stay tuned.

Summary: the deciver has decided he must get rid of you until a stranger reignites his curiosity in an unexpected way.

Word count: 2k

Notes: let me know if you wanna be tagged. I was not expecting this many people to like this fic. Thank you so much for the feed back, I read every comment and reblog multiple times. Keep any and all feedback coming. I'm super invested in this series and have so many plans that I'm so excited to write.

Tags/warning: male masturbation, nothing super explicit but sauron has some pretty unhealthy kinks, slow burn, saurons post nut clarity is murder plotting, sauron being sauron. galadriel finally shows up, cliffhanger

Series Masterlist

“She does nothing but sit there, day in and day out. Our rations are wasted on her!” 

“All of us sit and do nothing because there is fucking nothing to do.”

Halbrand and the older man were fighting again. Halbrand had become annoyed that the other had declared himself the de facto leader of the raft, and his anger exploded when it was proclaimed you had not 'earned' your rations. He had obviously found it absolutely insane and when you made no sound or protest, he took it upon himself to make it known how insane it was. 

“I am the leader here. I have organized the rations, I have kept order, and I have directed where we go.” The other man seemed offended. He had proven himself to be rather arrogant, and you held no surprise that he would suggest such a thing or believe that he was the leader of the raft.

“Oh great Lord of the Raft. How difficult your job must be. Deciding if we die a little to the west or a little to the east.” Halbrand rolled his eyes as he spoke. 

“Be sarcastic all you want. She's lucky we don't throw her in.” 

The air stilled and a dark shadow passed over Halbrands face, his jaw clenched and in a moment he had grabbed the other by their shirt, “The moment you do that is the moment I feed you and every single person on this raft to the wyrm.” Their faces merely inches apart,  Halbrands voice was cold, full of hatred, and it sent a chill over everyone on the raft. The older man stared up at him with fear, a fear so palpable and intense that it was as if he was looking into the eyes of the great foe himself. 

“Halbrand,” you spoke softly, fingers gently wrapping around his wrist and moving him away. “This is not what I wish.”

He turned to look at you and his gaze softened,tongue peaking out to wet his lips. The air flowed again, and the darkness lifted, “You wish to starve? Because that's his wish, that's his plan. He wants to make our supply of food last longer by taking the very little portion you have. He knows you would never say anything to him, and you can not ask me to sit back and watch you starve, sweet one.” His eyes searched your face as he spoke with such earnest conviction. 

“I do not wish for you to murder in my name,” you replied in a passionate whisper. 

Halbrand nodded, sighing softly, “Then I will not,” he leaned closer to you, so his lips were next to your ear, and you could feel his hot breath on your skin. Your breath caught in your voice as he whispered softly, “Know that I would, though. If you only asked, I would burn this raft and everyone on it to keep you safe.” 

He pulled away and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head as you stood speechless. The butterflies in your stomach exploded. This was new. Your interactions had been purely platonic until this point. He never presented himself as someone more than a friend, and you had been content with that. Yet you enjoyed the feeling of his lips on your forehead and greatly missed them when they were gone. 

The talk of murdering everyone else was one you didn't wish to dwell on. Perhaps it was hyperbolic. Perhaps said in anger. Either way, those were thoughts for another time. Now, you would embrace the shivers and butterflies. 

“Well, your highness, she will be eating today and I will ensure it,” Halbrand gave the man a pointed look and the other simply nodded, his eyes still swimming as if he'd seen some great horror but you were too fixated on the ghost of Halbrands kiss that lingered on your forehead to pay it much mind. 

~

He'd taken the deception too far when he placed that kiss upon your head. He regretted it the moment he did it. The taste of your skin stained his lips, and it was all he could think of. Your skin felt unbelievably soft and he could just imagine what your lips would taste like, your tongue, your cunt. 

Your cunt. The thought of it had been all consuming. Warm and wet. Soft and velvety. He ached to feel it, to taste it, to take it. The thoughts had led to his current position, standing at the edge of the raft with his cock in his fist. This act felt below him but the thoughts wouldn't leave his mind and he needed some relief from them. From the thoughts of you. 

Thoughts of your cunt. 

Warm and wet. Soft and velvet. 

His eyes fluttered, and his breath caught in his throat. He hated every second of this. He had no control. Ever since you looked up at him with those eyes of yours, eyes he wanted to make weep as you choked on his cock. He breathed a soft curse as he imagined your sweet, innocent eyes looking up at him with your lips wrapped around his cock. His thumb collected the precum from his tip and worked it around his shaft, the soft wet sounds filling the night. 

Would you be inexperienced?  Had someone claimed you before? You were his and his alone, his precious sweet one. The thought of someone else having you first filled him with such rage. He would drench his hands in their blood and paint your body with it as he fucked you. His hands around your neck, squeezing enough to feel your life thrumming underneath his fingers. 

You were his and his alone. No one else could touch you, no other lips taste you, no other cock take you. He'd burn all of Middle Earth to ensure it, torture any man who dared look at you. He'd carve his name into your flesh, lick the blood off your skin. A growl escaped his lips, the thought of his name scared into your soft skin. His hand tightened around his cock and his movements increased in speed. 

His breathing got more ragged as he got closer to his peak,  your name tumbling past his lips in a choked whisper. He could almost imagine you whining and whimpering his name, his real name.  That was what sent him over, the visual of you impaled on his cock and desperately calling his name. He groaned loudly, his seed shooting into the water. 

Breathing heavily, his eyes closed. Almost immediately, the cacophony of thoughts entered his mind. That had been a brief reprieve, but now his existential crisis continued. What was his purpose? Who was he now that his master was dead? Power and control, how could he have both without sacrificing the other?  

And then your smiling face flashed through his mind, the sound of your laugh...-

This couldn't continue. No amount of curiosity was worth this loss of control. He was a god, but his mind as of late had been reminiscent of a teenage boy. Thoughts may plague him, but he would forget you within the age. He needed you gone, dead. The longer you stayed alive, the longer these damn lustful thoughts would plague him and be his undoing. He was slowly losing his sanity because of you. 

The problem was he couldn't do it. He tried mere minutes before giving into these urges, but as he looked at your sleeping face, he couldn't bring himself to push you in and under the waves. In thousands of years, no one had been able to still his blade or stay his hand with such ease. He couldn't look at you and take your life. He could not be the one to do it, that thought alone proving to be more a reason for your death. Weakness was not something he would tolerate. 

His mind called out to wyrm, calling it to their location. If he couldn't do it, he'd give the task to something else. By nightfall tomorrow, you'd be gone. You'd be at the bottom of the sea or in the belly of the beast. By nightfall, he'd have his mind back. 

Why did the thought of your death fill him with such dread?

~

He wouldn't even look at you. You'd greeted him in the morning, and he ignored you. You sat next to him, and he moved to the other side of the raft. You watched as his eyes bore into planks of the raft. You wet your lips and pulled it between your teeth. He was your first friend in a very long time, and now you had lost him for reasons that escaped you.  You were utterly alone, lost at sea, and you struggled to find hope here. All you could do is close your eyes and remind yourself that falling into despair would do nothing more than make the situation worse and more hopeless.

You watched the clouds pass in the sky, counting them, and your fingers tapped away at the wood. Every few moments, you had to blink away the tears that had started welling in your eyes as you thought of losing another person you cared for. Suddenly, you sat up as you heard what you thought was a voice in the air. You squinted as your eyes examined the fog.

“There's a voice on the water.” You spoke quietly. 

Almost instantly, bickering broke amongst the others. To save her or not. You shook your head, “We're not leaving her to starve and die!” 

One of the others pulled her up and gave her water as you grabbed her a chunk of bread and looked for a piece of cloth or something that could bring the stranger some warmth. The bickering continued as you searched and returned with a piece of bread.

“Suppose you'll be sharing your rations?” the old man asked. 

You couldn't help the roll of your eyes, “Damn the rations,” you kneeled and handed the stranger the bread. “It's not much, but it's something. Are you hurt?” 

Before she could answer, one of the others asked, “What are you doing out here?”  

The stranger took the bread, “I was separated from my ship.” 

You looked at her with empathy. Of course, you could understand. She looked over at you as if to answer your question next, but she stopped, her eyes examining your face as if she knew you but was unable to place how. It made you uncomfortable, made your heart still. Has your past caught up with you all the way out here? 

“She doesn't look dangerous,” the other woman spoke.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Halbrand spoke, and you were about to protest when you saw the point to her ears. Your blood ran cold, and you moved back from her. 

“Remove your hand from me, sir,” the stranger spoke, her attention returning to you. “I know your face.”

You quickly stood up and stepped back. This could not be happening. Not here. Not now. Perhaps the elf could save you, or perhaps she would convince the others to throw you into the sea. The sins of your father would never stop chasing you, it seemed. 

~

“I know your face."

His head snapped your direction at this revelation. What did that mean? How would an elf know you? He watched your reaction, the fear and shame passing over your face confirming that there was a story there. He cursed silently.

All day, he avoided looking at you. All day, he had convinced himself that you were nothing more than a naive human, that the warmth he felt had to be in relation to this new form getting used to the world around him. There was nothing special about you. Nothing at all. He repeated it over and over, though he never really believed it. He could sense the darkness and calamity swimming through the ocean towards them, the beast he had called, and he had convinced himself that your death would solve his internal struggle. 

But now, this damn elf had reignited the curiosity with vigor. It felt as if an inferno burnt through him. He had to know more. He knew when the wyrm came, he would be unable to leave you to death. You were the most curious thing, and it was infuriating. 

Who were you? 

previous next

[jerzwriter]

Thank you to @alj4890 for this ask from this list! I have two down, and one to go! lol

Story: Open Heart (About a year after Book 3) Category: AU - One Off Trope: There's only one bed... Characters: Tobias Carrick x Casey MacTavish (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: 2,500 Summary: It's de ja vu all over again for Casey when she and Tobias check into a beachside resort for a medical conference, only to find the reservation was for one room only. They decide it's not that bad until they open the door to the room, and yep... there is only one bed. Tobias comes up with a solution, but will it work?

A/N: This is not part of my Tobias x Casey HC - in this story, they're merely colleagues attending a conference together in Santa Barbara.

Participating in @choicesjunechallenge2024 Hotel - “It���s quite the conundrum, isn’t it?”

The ascent to the 40th floor of the seafront hotel was unusually tense. Standing side by side, the silence between Tobias and Casey grew increasingly uncomfortable with each passing floor. Casey's gaze remained fixed on the elevator doors, recalling the events that brought them to this moment.

“It looks like your room was upgraded!” The desk clerk beamed. “You’re going to love it! The views from our top floor are breathtaking!”

“That’s wonderful,” Casey smiled. “But there should be an s at the end of room. The reservation was made for two rooms."

A crease formed between the young man’s eyes as he tapped away on his keyboard and Casey grew more concerned the longer he remained silent. “Dr. MacTavish, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” He apologized, turning his computer screen toward her. “But your reservation states one room only.”

Casey exhaled deeply. She had certainly been in this predicament before and had no desire to endure it again.

“That’s fine. Mistakes happen. Now, if you could just get us another room....”

“I’d love to, but we are fully booked this week. With two conventions in town, pretty much every hotel in the area is booked solid.”

“You have to be kidding me,” she groaned.

“I wish I were. I could make some calls? Perhaps one of our sister properties a few towns away has something? We could arrange to have them shuttle you....”  

“No, no,” Casey grumbled. “My colleague and I are presenting at the conference. We can't risk being delayed. We'll have to make do."

She spotted Tobias as soon as she turned from the front desk. It wasn’t difficult; the man had already amassed a small audience who watched the handsome doctor tell his tales with rapt attention. Casey rolled her eyes, she knew this story, and it was full of hyperbole, but who was she to deny him his moment. She noted how captivated some of those listening were and considered asking any if they'd switch rooms with her. She was sure there would be takers, but somehow, the idea left her queasy, and she had no idea why.  

Tobias turned toward her with his alluring smile that turned most to mush. She never denied that the man was extremely handsome, not from the first time they met at that deli years ago. But she never fell for his charm. Mere mortals were putty in Dr. Carrick’s hands, but Casey was no mere mortal. Just not happening, she muttered to herself as she approached.

“There she is,” he beamed as she neared him. “It’s the woman of the hour!”

“The woman of the hour?” She asked with a raised brow. “Hardly.”

“You’re right,” he winked. “She’s the woman of the whole damn week. Allow me to introduce Dr. MacTavish.”

Casey nodded politely, shook the required hands, and, after some small talk, announced she was off to find her room. She studied her colleague suspiciously as his fan club dissipated, and he caught her red-handed.

“Watcha looking at MacTavish?” he teased.

“You. I’m trying to figure out why you were building me up. We’re one of six panelists here to speak about a joint discovery that doesn’t exactly make me the woman of the week.”

“Depends on who you ask,” he said with more sincerity than she had anticipated. “I think you’re woman of the week material every week. Besides, everyone already knows I’m amazing. I’m not about to have them think my cohort is anything less than stellar as well.”

“Mmmhh. You’re a real gentleman,” she groaned as his eyes fell to the keycard in her hand.

“So, did you get our rooms squared away?”

“About that,” she sighed, explaining the situation. “But on an up note, they say we have an incredible view.”

Tobias rocked back and forth on his feet, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What?” She snapped.

“If you wanted to get me alone in a bedroom, Case, all you had to do was ask.”  

His smile drifted when she punched his shoulder. She packed quite a punch! And while Tobias wasn’t about to admit it, that made her even more enticing in his book.

“Stop before I have to fill out an HR report. Remember, this is a business trip. You still have to adhere to all those rules you learned in sexual harassment training!”

“Aw, come on,” he snickered, picking up one of Casey’s bags. “You never held me to those rules back in Boston, you're going to do it here in beautiful Santa Barbara?”

He wasn’t exactly wrong; the two of them struck up a quick rapport when he joined the diagnostic team. And anyone who had seen them together at Donahue’s would tell you that flirtatious banter was certainly their thing. 

“Yeah, but I don’t have to share a room with you back in Boston.”

“You could,” he winked as they stepped onto the elevator.

“You’re incorrigible!”

But as the elevator climbed and the weight of the situation sank in, even Tobias turned somber. With just ten floors remaining, they had gone silent. Words weren't uttered as they walked down the plush, carpeted hall either. But as Casey reached for the key card, Tobias's hand closed around her wrist.

“Look,” he stated. “I know we were joking, but is this all right with you? If sharing a room makes you uncomfortable, I’ll look for a room elsewhere.”

“We don’t have a choice. Every room within a fifteen-mile radius is booked.”

“There’s always a way, and if you’re uncomfortable.... what?” he asked, noticing Casey's smirk.

“Dr. Carrick, have you already spotted someone you’d like to shack up with for the week? Because it would leave me with the room all to myself."

“No!” he shot back, taking offense. “You know, I’m not as bad as people say. I mean, I’m bad... just not... that bad.”  

“It was a joke,” she giggled, slipping the key in the slot. “And it's fine. We’re grown-ups, we’re colleagues, and we’re friends. We can make this work.”

Confidence overtook them as Casey swung the door to the posh room open, but a single glance around shattered that instantly. The room was absolutely beautiful, but one issue loomed large: one bed.

“Uhh, you sure about that, kid?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Casey snapped.

“Yeah. This totally doesn’t feel like the movies.” He grumbled.

“No, it doesn't! This is quite the conundrum, isn't it?” Casey sighed, “We cannot share a bed for a freaking week!”

“It’s OK,” he said, phoning the front desk. “I’ll ask for a foldaway bed. The hotel screwed this up; it's the least they can do.”

“And who gets to sleep on a crappy foldaway bed for a week?”

“You,” he grinned. “You’re not going to make an old man sleep on that thing, are you? You’re young; you can bounce back. I can’t.”

“Tobias!”

“I’m joking! How about we alternate nights?”

“Fine,” Casey replied. “You take care of that, I’m going to the bathroom.”

When she returned, Tobias was standing by the window, mesmerized by the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean. Shades of purple and pink painted the sky, and palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, creating a scene straight out of a postcard.

“Wow,” she said, now standing at Tobias’s side. “Do we really have to present at this thing? Because I’d be happy to stay here and stare at this all week.”

“Me too,” he smiled. “It is quite a sight, and that’s the good news.”

 “And the bad?” She cringed.

“They’re out of folding beds.”

“Jesus!”

“It’s all right. I’ve already taken care of it.”

“How?”

He pulled his phone from his pocket, waving it excitedly in front of her. “Amazon, baby! I ordered a deluxe air mattress; it’ll be here in the morning. We just have to get through one night. Think you can handle it?”

“We'll survive one night,” Casey agreed. “After all, some people can sleep in the same bed as you and resist you!”

He had a hundred lines ready to go. Normally, this would be the moment for a joke or a touch of flirtation. But Casey was his friend and colleague, someone he respected deeply. The last thing he wanted to do was add to her discomfort.

“I’m sure there are extra pillows in the closet. We can put them down in the center of the bed.”

“The bed isn’t that big. If we do that, one of us will end up on the floor for sure. We can make do, but....”

“But?”

“If you tell anyone about this, I swear to God, I’ll start the most vicious rumors about you!”  

“Oh yeah?” he challenged, a twinkle in his eyes. “Like what?”

“Like you wear pink bunny slippers!”

He grabbed his chest and let out an exaggerated gasp. “You’ve gone through my luggage!

“Fine! I’ll tell them you sleep in nightgowns that are straight out of the Golden Girls.”

“Kinky!” He growled to Casey’s chagrin.

“Oh, forget it,” she laughed. “There is no embarrassing you!”

“Sure there is; you just have to try harder!”

~~~~~

Several hours later, Casey left dinner early, figuring it would be less awkward to shower while Tobias was still mingling with other conference attendees downstairs. She was right; by the time he returned to the room, she was clean and comfortably reading in bed, dressed in her old sweats. The pajamas could wait until tomorrow when they had separate places to sleep.

Tobias stood at the door, almost sheepish. “You heading to bed soon?”

She looked up from the book in her hands. “After I read a bit.”

“All right,” he kicked off his shoes. “I’ll take a quick shower and stay out of your hair.”

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped back into their room. Although he promised to stay out of her hair, he clearly had no problem occupying her thoughts. Did he really need to be shirtless? As much as Casey wanted to scold him, doing so would have forced him to put on a shirt—and she didn't want that. Mesmerized by his pecs and arms, everything was going fine until he caught her in the act.

Shit! She said to herself. Boosting Tobias’s already exorbitant ego had not been on her bingo card, but it was too late to change that now.

“Something wrong?” he smirked as Casey desperately looked for an off-ramp.

“Uh, you, uh, don’t sleep like that, do you?”

“Usually,” he shrugged. “So I didn’t bring any shirts suitable for sleeping in. I’d ask you for one of yours, but I’m sure it wouldn’t fit!”

Casey snapped her fingers and jumped out of bed with a relieved smile. “You’re in luck! She insisted, rifling through her luggage. “Here!”

She extended her hand, holding out a rumpled pink T-shirt adorned with fluffy white sheep and silver sparkles. It would have looked commonplace in a five-year-old's room, but here?

“What is that?”

“It’s a T-shirt, dummy. It’s a 2X, so I use it as a nightshirt, but it will more than fit you.”

Tobias looked at her disdain as Casey beamed with satisfaction. He took the offensive article of clothing and slipped it over his head.

“You tell anyone about this, and I’ll never speak to you again!”

“No one hears about any of this,” she laughed, hopping back into bed to continue her reading.

Tobias grabbed his book and slipped into bed beside her, sure to keep a respectable space between them. After some time, the silence became too loud, and he asked what she was reading.

“Private Guns, Public Health," she replied, holding the book in his direction.

The little crinkle between his eyes indicated he needed more information.

“It’s about gun violence in the United States and how treating it as a public health issue would be invaluable in protecting lives.”

Tobias raised a brow.

“What?” Casey demanded. “We’re doctors. Saving lives is what we do; it makes sense to be knowledgeable about these issues.”

“I completely agree, but... before bed.”

Casey slammed her book shut. “So, what are you reading?”

He lifted his book with a very large peach emoji against a yellow background on its cover. “Butts: A Backstory.”

“What?” He grinned as Casey broke out laughing.

“Oh, nothing. I guess you're taking light reading to new levels.”

“It’s not what it appears to be... yeah, it’s a look at the history of... butts... but it’s bigger than that.”

Casey roared with laughter once again as Tobias dragged a hand down his face.

“Poor choice of words. It delves into deeper issues like race, control, liberation, and how they impact our feelings and perceptions about ourselves and others.”

“Oh, but you mock me for reading something heavy before bed?” she teased.

“Listen, you,” he said, flipping to his side. “Be nice to me; you’re supposed to respect your elders.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, rolling onto her side to face him. “You act like you’re old enough to be my father, and that’s far from the truth.”

“Hey! I could have been a very active ten-year-old,” he chuckled.

They broke into a fit of giggles. When their laughter stopped, they found themselves gazing into each other's eyes.

“You know, I’ve never thanked you," he smiled.

“Thanked me? For what?”

“For believing in me... for not taking the negative shit people said about me as gospel, and taking the time to get to know me for yourself. For being a friend when I joined the team because, in the beginning, you were my only friend there.”

“You don’t have to thank me," she blushed. "I mean, you did sort of save my life; I’m kind of indebted to you, you know?”

“Nah,” he smiled. "It's more than that, and you know it”

Noticing their proximity, a blush spread across Casey's cheeks, and she nervously pulled back.

“Time for bed,” she announced.

Uncertain about the emotions coursing through him, Tobias quickly agreed.

“Yeah, good idea," he mumbled as they both rolled over close to the edge of the bed, their eyes wide open. Sleep would eventually come, but not without much effort.

When the alarm went off the following morning, both let out a groan. Neither of them were morning people, and the idea of waking was less than appealing. But when they opened their eyes, Tobias's arm was wrapped around Casey, who was happily nestled as the big spoon to his little spoon. Both lay frozen, petrified over what they should do next when Tobias jerked his arm back apologetically.

“I’m... I’m so sorry, Casey,” he stuttered. "I absolutely did that in my sleep. It wasn’t intentional at all. I....”

"Stop," she ordered as she grabbed his hand and placed it back where she found it upon waking. "It's OK," she whispered. "I... I kind of like it."

“You do?" He asked, more than a little stunned. He was quick to hold her closer when she replied with a nod and a smile.

“Good," he said with a smile. "Because I like it too.”

Casey rolled over, remaining in his embrace. They gazed at each other intently, uncertain of who initiated their first kiss. It was tender, tentative... each ensuring it was welcomed by the other. When it became clear that it was, they kissed again, this time unleashing the passion they had both denied for far too long.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Tobias grinned as he pulled away.

"Of course," Casey beamed.

"I've been wanting to do that for a long, long time."

Casey reached up and placed a peck on his lips with a smile.

"I'll let you in on a secret, too. So have I."

"So... what do we do with this?" Tobias asked.

"I don't know," she replied, running a finger across his chest. "Why don't we kiss again and see where it goes from there."

"I like that," he growled as their lips came crashing together.

An hour later, they stepped out of the room, not a hair out of place and the picture of professionalism. They nearly tripped over the box that had been placed in front of their door.

"The air mattress!" Casey laughed.

Tobias nudged it into the room with his foot, his gaze warming as he looked at her. "Will we be needing that?"

Casey adjusted his tie, leaning up to kiss him as his arms wrapped around her.

"I think we can return it," she replied with a smile.

"Good answer," he grinned, taking her hand and leading her towards the elevator. "Good answer."

The air mattress did not return to Boston with them, but as they stepped off their plane in Boston, it was evident they had returned with something new.

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Tagging others separately.

[wolveria]

What We Did on Felucia - Ch 8

Pairing: The Bad Batch x f!Reader

Story Tags: Smut, dubcon, slow burn, sex pollen, eventual polybatch

Chapter Summary: “I want you to be careful.”

AO3

You slept well, but you laid in bed long after waking, unsure if last night had been part of a vivid dream or had actually happened. You determined that it was real, simply by the fact that life was complicated, strange, and far from simple.

“Force…” you muttered. Fighting a war seemed straight forward compared to this.

You went through your usual morning routine, finding the room you’d designated as your meditation room after first meal. None of the Batch had been in the commissary, and you were grateful for that, needing time and self-reflection before you saw them again.

You had another crucial decision to make, one much more difficult than whether or not to lie to the Council about Felucia. Hopefully, you made the right choice this time. The reasons to say no far exceeded the reasons to say yes, at least in sheer number. When it came to their weight, you weren’t so sure.

The danger of falling to the dark side wasn’t hyperbole. Many Cathar had lost their way since the days of the Old Republic, and you held no illusion that your people’s nature wasn’t a contributing factor. Cathar were willful, compassionate, proud people, but they were also passionate and fiercely loyal. When faced with the tempting pitfalls of the dark side, many Cathar with good intentions fell prey to their own strong emotions. The instinct to protect loved ones was woven into the genetic fabric of every Cathar, and you’d felt it yourself many times when your squad was in danger.

Attachments were forbidden for one simple reason: possession. Selective compassion at the cost of others. Ownership, greed, fear of rejection and abandonment. Such emotions are not ideal, but they’re not the core problem. It becomes a danger when someone with the strength and power of the Force behind them exerts their will on the galaxy, often with devastating consequences. And no Jedi was immune or above such temptation.

So the question remained: could a more intimate relationship with your men cause such a change in you?

You didn’t know. If something befell one of them, if they were killed in battle, you might not be able to resist the call to hunt down their killer and exact revenge. Just the thought of losing them made your blood freeze in your veins.

It was a risk, and not an insignificant one. You would just have to trust that Hunter would temper any impulsive, reckless actions. At least, you were confident the rest of your squad could take you down if you ever turned to the dark side. It was certainly a conversation you would have to have, as unpleasant as it might be.

It felt like a place to start. You didn’t know how the Batch felt about you aside from physically desiring you, and discussing what they wanted out of this, their expectations and thoughts, would be a good first step—

The door opened behind you, scattering your thoughts like startled birds taking flight. You relaxed a moment later, sensing the familiar Force signature.

“Master Shaak Ti.” You rose to your feet and turned to face her. The Togruta Jedi Master nodded in greeting, her expression warm as she surveyed the room.

“I see you found one of the viewing rooms. It is a wonderful spot for meditation. The walls are soundproofed, and the view is calming on clear days.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize—I can leave if you wish to use it—”

Master Shaak Ti merely smiled, perhaps amused at your rushed words. You weren’t acting so different from an awestruck Padawan.

“I hold no claim on this room, it is yours if you choose to use it. However, it’s been some time since we’ve had a chance to catch up. Do you have a moment to speak?”

“Of course. It’s been one mission after another,” you said, and she nodded in sympathy, “and I’m currently on meditative retreat.”

She raised an elegant white brow.

“You didn’t wish to go offworld?”

You almost winced. Of course it seemed odd for you to stay on Kamino for a retreat, especially when you spend every minute between missions here.

“I was on Coruscant, but I came back as soon as I heard about… about the mission with Master Inaro.”

“It was a tragedy to hear of his death,” she said, her voice low and somber. Guilt flickered at the back of your mind like a sputtering candle. It wasn’t Master Inaro’s death that had sent you hurdling toward Kamino, and you’d hardly given him thought.

“But I am glad to hear Clone Force 99 survived.”

“As am I.”

Her gaze softened.

“How are they?”

“Better. Crosshair and Tech have already been released from the infirmary.”

“I’m sure those five keep you very busy.”

Your smile felt stilted and strained. She had no idea.

“It must be difficult,” Master Shaak Ti continued, “trying your best to protect them when they’re requested for the most difficult missions.”

“It… Yes. It is.”

Some of your surprise leaked through, and Master Shaak Ti hummed thoughtfully.

“I remember every cadet who graduates from this facility. I know every name and number. Despite sharing the same face, each of them feels different in the Force. Have you noticed that?”

“Yes,” you said, again surprised. “Though my men differ from the average clone in many ways.”

Master Shaak Ti chuckled and said, “That they do. Although, one of them was not always so. I remember his cadet days well. Clone Force 99 reminds me of Domino Squad in many ways. Especially… Fives.”

Her face took on a soft sadness, one you had glimpsed before in the eyes of another.

“Echo doesn’t talk about him much.”

“I imagine it’s very painful for him.” Master Shaak Ti raised her head, her montrals tall and proud above her head, but she seemed somehow deflated, diminished as she stared out at the opposing transparent wall. “Fives died believing Echo hadn’t survived the Citadel. I imagine that was the most difficult part for him to face. They never had a proper reunion, or a proper farewell.”

You simply stared at her. You were on friendly terms with the Jedi Master, and she was nothing but compassionate to those around her, but you’d never seen her so… open. Emotionally exposed.

“I have regrets in my life, many of them attributed to this war,” she continued. “But none of them weigh so heavily as my inability to protect Fives. He needed my help, and I failed him.”

You didn’t know what to say, stunned by her frankness, and you were stunned further at her next words.

“Do you know why you were assigned to Clone Force 99?”

“I… assumed I was a compatible fit.”

She smiled a little.

“It was more than that. You’re here, because your master wished it so.”

Your chest tightened, hard and fast like a blow struck from a deceptively fast opponent.

“What?”

“When we recovered his ship, we found more than his lightsaber. He left a message.”

“W-what? What message?”

“You know your master predicted the need for an army in the coming war?”

You struggled to keep up with her, unable to recover from one shock before being delivered the next.

“Yes, and he was removed from the Council for it. What does that have to do with a message?”

“He contacted the Kaminoans without the Council’s permission and instructed them to create a clone army in preparation of this war.”

You resisted letting out a huff of frustration. You knew all of this. What was her point?

Master Shaak Ti’s words were slow with a heavy weight as she said, “We now believe he was targeted by someone who wanted to control that army.”

“But… the Council said the Pykes shot down his shuttle.”

“Yes. After they were paid to do so.”

Shock swirled into anger, and your fist closed at your side before you slowly eased it to relax. The discovery of your master’s crashed shuttle hadn’t been that long ago, and the wound of learning how he’d really died had begun to heal. Now, it felt like it was being torn open again.

“Who?”

Master Shaak Ti glanced sideways at you.

“That information has been sealed by the Council.”

“But you know who it is.”

“I sense your anger.”

Your nostrils flared, but you managed to unclench your jaw enough for you to speak.

“I simply wish to know who would want to kill my master.”

“I understand,” she said, not unkindly. “But do not let this knowledge hamper the progress you’ve made. Master Sifo-Dyas’ death affected us all. Especially you.”

Your voice was flat, tonal, when you finally spoke.

“I want to see the message.”

“That will not be possible.” Her tone was final, but the delivery was gentle. “There is other information on that recording, information that needs to be protected. But I can share this with you. For reasons uncertain, perhaps he sensed his impending death, he left a message for you in case of his demise. Instructions.”

“What instructions?” you asked, wishing you didn’t sound like you were pleading. “What did he want me to do?”

“What you are doing now.”

You frowned, but the Jedi Master continued.

“Sifo-Dyas wanted you on Kamino overseeing the creation of the clone army.”

“But… I’m not. You are.”

She nodded.

“And that would not have changed, even if the Council had discovered his message at the start of the war. The Council felt it wise to put a member in charge of training, and as a liaison to the Kaminoan government. But it is by the will of the Force that you are here, on Kamino, working closely with these men. It is not luck or coincidence that you lead the Republic’s most effective squad.”

The fur on the back of your neck tingled, a mixture of dread and wariness.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Did she know?

Master Shaak Ti hesitated, and then put a hand on your arm.

“I want you to be careful.”

The heavy feeling on the nape of your neck grew heavier.

“Be careful? Of what?”

And then a thing you’d never witnessed before—Master Shaak Ti struggling for the words she wanted to say. You didn’t know if she found them, but eventually she said, “Your master was born with the gift of foresight, but I fear he cast his gaze too far ahead to see the dangers of what lie before him. I would not wish you to follow a similar path.”

You were suddenly reminded of the cryptic Seers on Cathar, living their lives in the Weir pools which allowed them to catch glimpses of futures too numerous to name. They had dedicated caretakers whose only duty was to make sure the Seers didn’t wither away, their bodies forgotten as their minds sailed waters you couldn’t begin to understand.

Your master had been like them in many ways. Your heart suddenly ached, knowing he hadn’t been able to escape the riptide of his visions, pulled under and never to resurface.

You stared out the window, unable to meet her gaze while it held such compassion and sympathy.

“I don’t have the gift of foresight like my master.”

“Even so,” she said. “Will you take some advice?”

“Of course.”

“Trust your squad, but also trust in the Force. Even if what it tells you goes against every instinct.”

There was something profoundly sad in her expression, a well that had no bottom, and it weighed her to the point she looked far older than she was.

You opened your mouth to speak but had no idea what to say. She bowed her head in farewell, so you did the same, and you watched her retreating steps. That same sadness followed her like a shroud, and when the door closed behind her, the room seemed a little bit darker.

Next Chapter

[wintaerbaer]

icebreaker (jhs)

summary: When you get stuck in a walk-in freezer with your work nemesis, he has a rather...unconventional idea to ensure the two of you get through it without being frostbitten.

pairing: Hoseok x Reader

rating: generally sfw (mentions of ass and boobs though)

genre: enemies to ??

word count: 1.3k

prompt: Hobi + "Would you for once stop being a bitch!" + close quarters trope (for @animeniacss! <3)

MASTERLIST

The metal of the door is painfully cold against your fingers where you scramble at it, desperately trying to force it open.

It should be unsurprising–given that you’re literally in a walk-in freezer–but the panic setting in at the prospect of being trapped in here (and with him no less) is absolutely scrambling your brain.

No, no, no, no. This cannot be happening.

“It’s stuck?” Even the mere sound of his voice makes your blood boil on cue. If he keeps it up, you could probably survive in here indefinitely.

“Nooooo.” You draw it out as sarcastically as you can, pairing it with a dramatic eye roll for maximum snark. “I’m keeping us here for fun. Because there is nothing I would rather do than be locked in a freezer with your stupid ass.”

Hoseok levels an annoyed look your way but doesn’t respond, sidling up to try the door himself. It doesn’t budge even a hair, and he pulls back with a shake of his hands, trying to circulate heat back into them. “Shit.”

This being a shit situation might be the first thing you’ve ever agreed on. Ever since you both started working at the restaurant a year ago, you as a waitress and he as a bartender, you’ve been at odds–trading verbal jabs, dirty looks, and loathing the times when, like now, you either open or close together.

Honestly, you don’t even remember what started it at this point.

Your breath comes out in a thick cloud, fogging the space between you. “When is Namjoon coming in?”

“I don’t know.” He rubs at his arms; the thin, black cotton of his button down is likely doing close to nothing as far as warmth goes. “Maybe fifteen minutes?”

“How long does it take for frostbite to set in?”

“Why the fuck would I know that?!”

The annoyed expression he aims at you is downright lethal, and you find yourself jumping on the defensive. “That big, dumb brain of yours has to be good for something, right?”

His eyelids drop, disappointment painting his face more than anything. “Wow. Good one.” But somewhere in his posture, you think you might see…

Hurt?

No. No chance.

He whips out his phone, holding it up towards the ceiling as he peers at the screen. “I don’t have any service, do you?”

A tiny “x” sits in the corner of your phone where there should be bars. “Nothing.”

The vapor of his own breath billows between you as he turns, inspecting the confines of the freezer. “Do you think there’s a hole or something you could squeeze through?”

“What?! Why me?!”

“Because it’s your fault we’re in here!” he exclaims, raising the pitch of his voice in a poor, hyperbolic imitation of yours. “Waaahhhh, Hoseok, I can’t reach the bins on the top shelves because I’m short!”

“I am not squeezing through a hole,” you sneer. “You’re just looking to get a nice view of my ass.”

He laughs, but the tips of his ears go pink, too quickly to be from the cold. “You wish.”

With no other options for escape, you try the door again, bracing your shoulder against it and leveraging all of your weight. Hoseok quickly joins in, pressing both of his hands at the space next to you, biceps bulging.

The two of you fall back with a huff when the door continues to refuse any kind of movement. You shiver, curling your arms around yourself as he frowns.

“What do we do now?” you ask.

He sighs. Runs a hand through his dark hair. “I guess we have to wait it out.”

“We’re going to fucking freeze.”

“I…” He falters, gazing at you with nervous eyes. “I saw this thing one time. Tips on staying warm in subzero temperatures…”

His eyes fall to the floor, and you snap your fingers at his hesitation. “And?”

He gulps, shifting on his feet. “Skin-to-skin contact.”

“No!” you shout. “No, no, no, no. Now you’re just trying to get my clothes off.”

A toss of his hands as he groans in exasperation. “Would you for once stop being a bitch?!”

You feel yourself flush at his use of the word, hot rage climbing up the threads of your veins. If you had a dime for every time you’ve taken a verbal shot at each other, you’d actually be able to afford to see your favorite band in concert. But never, until now, has he dared to call you a bitch.

“Look, I know it must be hard having to go through every minute of your life with an entire tree up your ass,” you snap, “but that doesn’t give you the right to call me a bitch, asshole.”

He flinches, the movement rippling its way through his body like he’s resetting–teeth clenching and joints stiffening before he sheepishly rests his hand on the back of his neck.

“Look, I’m…sorry. Okay? You’re right. That was out of line.”

Suddenly, you’re not frozen because of the literal freezer you’re standing in, but because you never thought you’d hear those words leave his mouth.

He’s sorry?

“I know we got off on the wrong foot and that you hate me, but I am truly just trying to look out for both of us here.” He nods his chin at you, a hint of cavalier mirth slipping back into his expression. “That being said, I need you to take off your shirt.”

You’re still incredibly suspicious, but his apology has taken you off-guard. Could it be that you’ve partially misjudged him this whole time?

Could there really be a scrap of a heart somewhere underneath all that ego and contempt?

You suck your teeth, accepting the inevitable as the chill begins to work itself deeper into your bones.

“You first.”

Hoseok chews on his lip, looking unsure of his plan now himself. But then he’s reaching for his collar, winding his fingers in a downward line to undo each button of his shirt until his torso is bared to you, goosebumps erupting over his skin.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” he gasps. “Okay, now you.”

You grit your teeth against the chill and the fact that you’re really doing this, raising your hands to undo the top button, then the second and the third and then–

A woosh and a cough.

You whirl around to find Namjoon standing in the doorway, looking utterly disgusted.

“In the freezer? Really?” He clicks his tongue at you, shaking his head in disappointment. “You know, we keep food in here.”

A horrified gasp leaves your mouth as both you and Hoseok hurriedly button your shirts back up. “It’s not what it looks like! We were–”

“I know what you were doing,” he scoffs. “Do us all a favor and save it for outside work hours, okay? Now get back out here. I need help checking our liquor stock.”

And then he spins on his heel and leaves.

You rush to catch the door before it closes, Hoseok only a step behind. The warmth of the restaurant envelops you like the toastiest blanket, and the two of you stand there for a moment rubbing the heat back into your skin. It’s such a relief that you don’t even feel entirely horrified over Namjoon thinking that you and Hoseok are sleeping together.

And speaking of Hoseok–

“Well,” he says with a clearing of his throat.

“Well.”

“That was fun.”

“Not in the slightest,” you reply. “Though I can’t believe I got you to say sorry.”

He winks. “That was just to get your shirt off.” You stand there, frozen, as he strides off down the hallway, spinning back towards you at the last second.

“Nice boobs by the way.”

a/n: as always, please consider liking, reblogging, replying, and/or dropping an ask if you enjoyed! :)

[pikahlua]

Is it true that the fact that “Deku is like half quirk racist and judgmental is proven by the next season 7 episode because he rejects Toga because he’s an A-hole and judging her. I really dislike when in-universe characters keeping being mean to my favourite best girl in the series. Luckily, Deku gets whooped and bullied by her because he was in the wrong and disrespected her and judged her and made assumptions and pretending he knew her!! What a jerk.” - A guy on twitter said this to me and I’m like confuzzled, not my words!!!!😅😅😅 me copy and pasted AHH not me!!!! Anyways so is they right?

Uh...huh.

I think the statement in question is written in a pretty inflammatory, reductive way (on purpose). The writer is expressing their protectiveness of a character they like and/or relate to, so that explains some of the hyperbolic language. I don't agree with the statement; I think describing the situation requires a lot more nuance.

First of all, let us not make a habit of using this weird term "quirk racist." "Discrimination," or "quirk discrimination," are sufficient terms and don't invoke any awkward or insensitive equivocations.

Is Izuku judging Toga? To an extent, yes. But judgment is a necessary part of life when it comes to discerning other people's intentions and whether or not you wish to associate with them. No one is required to befriend anyone just because they ask. I could easily judge not to be friends with someone because we don't have similar interests or we have different perspectives on life. That's normal. What would be bad is if I were to judge that difference and remain close-minded to the possibility that my judgment is wrong, or if I were willing to take my judgments as far as harmful discrimination.

To bring this back to the scene at hand, I don't think Izuku has gone so far as to completely reject Toga. I think both Ochako and Izuku have honestly expressed their truths, their perspectives on life, and how they do not understand Himiko Toga. In a different situation, perhaps had they all encountered each other at younger ages, they would have had the opportunity to continue the discussion and come to a better understanding, and maybe then there would have been more acceptance for Toga. The problem is that they are meeting Toga after she has crossed an important line.

It's tragic. Toga did not receive the support and education she needed to properly integrate into society. Her feelings were rejected by everyone who could have helped, and all anyone did was try to repress her and make her conform. There was no attempt to socialize her properly. If they could have accepted that Toga genuinely felt as she did and needed to express herself, they could have taught her about consent. They could have taught her to express her desires in a way that others could better understand. She wouldn't have had to resort to attacking and killing others just to feel real. But instead they primed her to believe that everyone saw her as a monster, and she acted accordingly.

Izuku and Ochako meet Toga after she has become a serial killer and a terrorist. Toga already resolved to just do whatever she wanted without regard for others' feelings. The obvious response Izuku and Ochako would have to that is "Others' feelings are important. Consent is important. Respect for others' autonomy and well-being is important." They don't have the context about how Toga feels deep down, proven by the fact that Toga's confession on Okuto Island gave them better insight into what was going on with Toga.

So yeah, I think the circumstances of their encounters are what have exacerbated this situation. Izuku and Ochako have never had a real chance to talk with Toga, because they've only ever encountered her when she was trying to fight them. They've only met her on the battlefield. There wasn't a real opportunity for any of them to get to the bottom of things in time to avoid an escalation in their conflict, at least not until the end.

[butchjesus]

hi all! since it's been on my mind, I thought I would offer some practical advice when it comes to giving proper credit to creators online.

(disclaimer: this post has nothing to do with plagiarism laws or intellectual property rights and the like, that's a whole other kettle of fish. this is purely about online etiquette when it comes to sharing work by other people.)

so! I present you with:

a guide to providing credit when reposting art & writing!

let's start with some clarifications:

what counts as reposting? in this context, reposting refers to taking content (a downloaded image, copy-pasted text, a screenshot, etc) from it's original context and uploading it yourself to an unconnected secondary place (a new post, a different online platform, etc). for example, taking a screenshot of someone's poem on twitter and posting it on tiktok.

is all sharing reposting? no! some social media platforms (like tumblr) have built-in features for sharing or boosting posts made by other people that don't disconnect the content from it's original source. here, the reblog feature just puts someone else's post on your blog—the OP's handle and information and everything are still attached to it. this is a great way to share art & writing, because it keeps the content connected to it's creator and original context.

how do I tell the difference? a good way to judge whether something would be a repost or a boost is to consider if the original post is being kept intact and if there are direct links to the original creator's account. for example, sharing a post to your instagram story keeps the original post intact and links directly to that original post & the creator's account. this would be boosting, and that's great! however, if you screenshotted an instagram post and uploaded it to your story that way, that would be a repost, which is less ideal. that said, reposting can be done respectfully with the proper considerations and credit.

if you are going to remove content from it's original context and repost it, first consider:

do I know who made this? sometimes people post content that has already been disconnected from its original source. like, for example, if you wanted to make a spongebob fan art collage and found an account on pinterest that reposts spongebob fan art from a bunch of different artists without identifying each artist. as a general rule of thumb, if you can't identify the original creator of a work, don't repost it.

NOTE: putting "all work belongs to the original creators" or "not mine, credit to original creator" is useless as a credit. this doesn't give anyone any information about the creator of the work or its original context, nor does it absolve you of anything. to give an hyperbolic comparison, that would be like grabbing a painting from a gallery wall and saying "don't worry, this isn't mine," on your way out.

does the creator allow reposts? some online artists ask other people not to repost their artwork in new posts or on other platforms, even with credit. it is basic decency to respect an artist's wishes in this way and not repost it if they ask people not to do so. usually if this is an artist's preference, they will state it somewhere in their account title or bio.

NOTE: again, built-in boosting features like reblogging on tumblr are not reposting, because you are not removing the content from its original context, so that would still be an acceptable means of sharing the creator's work.

can I give credit to the original creator in my new post? ensure there is an accessible way to offer credit. for example, if you're using a screenshot of a poem in a tiktok slideshow, you could put the credit in the caption of the post or on the image of the poem itself as an overlay. but, if you are using someone else's work in an icon or banner for a social media account, you would have to find somewhere less direct to put the credit (like in your bio, as is often the case for icons and banners).

how should I credit an artist or writer in a repost?

use the original creator's name and/or online username. this is the most important part. if you don't do anything else, do this. to make your credit even better: if they use the platform you're posting on, consider tagging them, or if you found the work on another platform, name that platform.

poem by [originalcreator] OR poem by O. Creator / @[originalcreator] on instagram

link back to the original creator's post. if the format allows, include a hyperlink to the creator's original post of the content you're reposting. you can also copy and paste the link address in your caption (it looks a little messier, but does provide a direct connection back to the creator, which is helpful). some platforms also have an "image source" input built into their interface for posts—keep an eye out for that as another option.

the drawing in the background is by @[originalcreator], linked here OR the drawing in the background is by @[originalcreator]: https://originalcreatorsblog.com/posts/the-drawing-youre-reposting

put the credit somewhere clear and accessible. putting credits in the content or caption of a post is generally the best practice—place it clearly somewhere people can easily see. putting credit in the original caption of a post is much better than putting it in a comment or other secondary interface feature (such as an image's alt text).

ask the creator for permission to repost their work. this is something of an extra step, as not many people necessarily expect it, but I know myself and many of the creators I know would be flattered by the courtesy to ask before sharing our work elsewhere. this is helpful because it makes the creator aware of the repost, your support, and also gives them the opportunity to decline if it's something they're not comfortable with.

what if I can't find the source for something I want to repost?

in this case, you have two good options: 1) don't repost that thing, or 2) try to find the original source yourself.

for finding sources yourself, I know search engines are the shittiest they've ever been, but lots of previously posted or shared work can be located online with some quick searching. for word-based work, try searching a few lines of the text—I've found lots of poems and posts this way. images can be harder to track, but it's worth it to try using a reverse image search tool like tineye or something similar to see if the work can be found somewhere else on the internet.

if all else fails and you really want to find the source for an image or a work, making a post and asking others for help locating the source can be an effective option, but there is a definite difference between making a post like:

can anyone help me find the artist who made this drawing? I want to put it in a web weaving collection but I can't find who made it.

and making a post like:

here is my web weaving collection! if anyone knows who the artist for the third drawing is, let me know.

while both lack credit, the first post isn't using the uncredited drawing and the poster is actively trying to find the credit to be able to use the drawing respectfully. meanwhile, the second post still uses and benefits from the artist's uncredited work while only really passively seeking out the credit / passing the torch to other people when their repost has already been made.

—————

that's my advice for reposting! if anyone has anything to add please feel free. and remember, it's very often not too late to go back and fix old posts to add credits if you have left them out in the past! if you think you may have posts that have used uncredited works by others, I urge you to take the time to either edit them or take them down.

in the current treacherous terrain of ai use in the realms of art & writing, the basic decency of credit extended to artists & writers is more important than ever. please. credit the creators of work you share.

[animentality]

Depression and ADHD took away my ability to enjoy novels a long time ago, when I was 18.

I used to be a big reader. Ever since I was a kid, I'd plow through hundreds of books a year, no joke, no hyperbole. I was raised by an older mom, who didn't let me watch TV or use the internet until I was about 12, so books were the thing I loved most, aside from games I could play on the Gameboy Advanced or the SP or the Nintendo DS.

But books I could read under the desk at school. Books I could smuggle more places. I always had a hyperactive imagination. It was like watching a movie or a tv show in my head. I was a child perpetually lost in day dreams and fantasies.

I could read anything at all. Romances, historical fiction, fantasy, science fiction, literary.

I snapped up just about any story I could get my hands on.

But then I became a teenager, and then I showed symptoms of depression.

And I still read books, but in lesser numbers.

I read less and less every year.

And then I went to college. And then things just got worse.

I stopped watching movies, which were something I used to adore. I couldn't, literally could not, watch TV shows. I couldn't muster enthusiasm for anything at all.

I played video games, but they didn't make me happy. They didn't stimulate my imagination or give me joy.

They were just something I could use to while away my time in between the agonizing bouts of loneliness and apathy.

If I didn't have them, I would just be lying in my bed, in the utter darkness, staring up at the ceiling, wishing there was something, anything at all, that I cared about.

So I got my BA and master's degree, and all the while, every day, I asked myself why I did anything at all. Why I was not happy.

Why I didn't care about anything.

Just about the only thing I cared about was the books I was writing, and even them, I felt this horrible notion that they were all I had, and yet, that was nothing. They were as empty as I was.

So anyway.

One day, I started researching bridges to throw myself off of.

And uh. Well. Not to go into any gory details, but there was one friend I had, a long distance internet friend, who got concerned and sent some of my more troubling messages to my mom.

Who then took me to a hospital. And anyway, that part actually isn't important. All that matters is that I got medicated.

And the world sort of turned itself over, and I could start over.

And then suddenly the world wasn't brighter, it wasn't happier, but I could feel things again.

I could have interests. I was interested in everything, the way I used to be.

And then I started to love movies again. and then I started to love TV shows again (Cocaine Bear and Severance come to mind first, not sure why, but that's irrelevant, I guess).

And finally, we come back...to novels.

So this year, I have been reading books. Great books. Some bad books.

And some wonderful.

And I just wanted...to talk about The Night Circus.

by Erin Morgenstern.

Because this book...was breathtakingly good. Like.

Like...I have been out of practice.

I have been reading some decent books. Books with great premises, but disappointing follow throw.

Some great books, but with predictable twists or rather tired prose. Books that I liked, but won't think about again.

And then I read Night Circus. And suddenly, I...I knew what it felt like. Again.

For the first time in maybe seven years, I suddenly remembered this feeling I used to have, as a child, hiding behind a bush during recess, and reading Redwall or Animorphs or Goosebumps.

I was almost giddy with the feeling, it was like stepping back in time.

Back to before I started hurting, and even before I started feeling nothing at all, and everything felt so bright. So filled with lively colors.

I was vibrating, I was so emotional, I was so invested.

I literally was about to go to bed at 2 am, a reasonable time, but the Night Circus picked up, and it was suddenly so imperative that I finish it right now. I could NOT tear myself away.

And I am close to tears.

Not just because the book was wonderful and sad.

Honestly, this is hilarious to me, but as much as I loved the book, I still found myself criticizing some of its makeup, specifically slow pacing and some of the meandering. There was also a somewhat anti climatic solution to a problem that I sort of wish had been explained sooner as a possibility.

But honestly, it doesn't matter at all! All that mattered was that it thrilled me! It fascinated me! It spoke to me directly and grabbed a hold of my heart.

It tore me away from what I was planning on doing and dragged me into its world, in its pages, and I was moved by the book!

It's so fucking hard to move me! Especially a novel.

Movies and TV shows can move me much easier, because there's something so very human about needing to see faces, hear voices, experience the raw emotions through a screen that captures it all.

But this novel....Night Circus...oh my god, I had not felt so powerfully fond of a story in a long time.

I finished it, and I thought, this was what it was like, being ten...and yet, at the same time, as familiar as it was, it was also something new.

This was rediscovering something beautiful and lovely and old and new. It was drudging up the past, while creating something worthwhile, in the present.

It was the good kind of hurt.

It'll stay with me forever.

I was so happy. I am so happy.

I never expected to love this book so much.

I honestly don't even care to call this a review. I almost don't even want to talk about the specifics of its plot or its world or anything.

I just wanted to talk about how wonderful it felt to be so immersed in anything again.

To fall into a book and never want to leave its pages, and to be jarred by reality, when you realize it's over.

I am so glad to be happy, after that long dull period where nothing mattered.

I am so happy to be here. I am so happy to be alive.

To watch a good movie, to see a good show, to write novels where good things happen, where love and despair and joy and misery all happen.

To read a spectacular book, late into the night.

If I die tomorrow, I will be most disappointed, but at least, I could experience the best things in life again.

At least, I remembered in the night before my passing, what it felt like to be inspired and shaken by the creation of another person, to be touched by art, that moves you and changes you irreversibly.

I want to read more.

I want to be alive for as long as I possibly can.

I want to see the world change and I want to live every day of my life and I want to watch every good movie and every good tv show, and I want to read hundreds of books again. I want to write thousands of books.

And I don't know how you, in particular, found me or this post, but I hope whoever you are, you're also doing things that you like.

I hope you find that story you need. or make the story you need.

I hope you remember this feeling, and experience this feeling for the first time.

Maybe Night Circus is your book, maybe it's not, but either way, I wish it upon all. Upon everyone.

Read, write, draw, watch, create.

Do it all, and then do none of it, and go the fuck to sleep.

[leighsartworks216]

I Come With Knives Pt7

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Trying to post this quickly so I still have time for a shower before I resign myself to my fate and show up to my class suuuper behind on work. Not proofread

Warnings: blood drinking, bruises, nightmares, references to Astarion's worst memory, slight panic, swearing

Word Count: 2,784

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

For once, it wasn’t you suffering from visions of your past.

Now that Gale knew what haunted you, even vaguely, he wished to do what he could to keep the group leader in tip-top shape. He had suggested a potion that could remove dreams - temporarily, of course. It was a rather experimental potion, as the inventor could never remember their dreams anyway, and it was unclear whether it actually removed the dreams or simply put the user into a deeper sleep. You certainly weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth if it meant relief from seeing her/

No, rather, the thing that woke you up tonight was the sound of someone else’s nightmares. It took a while to process that’s what it was. You woke up bleary and disoriented, and praying falling back asleep now would not ruin the effects of the potion. And then your mind finally caught up.

Soft whimpers and quiet no’s drifted in the cool night air. They’d have disappeared under the cricket songs had you been across camp. Fortunately - or unfortunately - your bedroll was set up right by the tent the sounds came from. The rugs and pillows immediately gave away that it was Astarion’s. And suddenly, you felt rather guilty for using Gale’s potion.

You rub your eyes as you crawl from under the blanket, quietly tiptoeing your way over. You stop at the door, er, flap. Your mind, still moving slowly, chugged to figure out how to announce your presence and perhaps even wake him up (without waking the others) so you don’t just barge right in.

You try knocking, but the canvas just slides right out from under your hand.

You try clearing your throat, but he just whimpers again.

“Astarion?” you whisper-shout. You try again. Still nothing. And your brain can’t find any more options.

Biting back the guilt settling like sludge in your stomach, you take a breath and pull aside the opening.

You’re almost surprised to find a candle burning low in a metal tray, soft orange light fighting back the darkness. You don’t have to struggle to figure out why - he briefly told you of the conditions under Cazador. This was his way of staying out of complete darkness.

He writhed on top of his bedroll, sheets thrown haphazardly around. His hands swatted away at invisible specters, eyes flickering wildly under his lids, sweat gleaming on his forehead. His cries were barely more than single words, pleas to stop or go away. You wondered if you were the same during your nightmares.

Avoiding his hands, you knelt beside him. You didn’t really know how to help, but surely waking him up would be better than this? Better than whatever hell he was experiencing in his mind, be it memory or a hyperbole of events.

You reach out and touch his shoulder. In an instant, his hand is holding your wrist in a death grip. The cold touch of sharp metal is at your neck. His red eyes stare unseeing at you, dark and fearful. Your heart jumps as your tongue turns to lead. This was no empty threat.

He studies you for a tense moment. You’re too scared to breathe, worried he would see it as a threat. You can feel the blunts of his nails digging into your skin, but you don’t dare look away from his face. Any wince, any whimper, any visible or audible form of pain you should be making right now, is locked away. Instinct protects you.

He blinks. Once, twice. And then he sighs. The blade of his dagger leaves your throat first, before he realizes he’s holding you like a vice. Even once you’re free, you don’t move. But, you slowly start to breathe again. You swallow, reminding yourself over and over that this is Astarion.

“You were having a nightmare.”

He huffs and sits up, setting his dagger aside in favor of wiping the moisture off his face. “I know,” he bites out. You slowly, carefully, remove your hand from his shoulder. He doesn’t react. Sarcastically he drawls, “My apologies if I woke you.”

You clear your throat, mind finally starting to clear. “I don’t mind.”

The candle flickered and sputtered as the wick began sinking below the melted wax. He flinched at the encroaching darkness. Your own heart leapt in your chest, unwanted thoughts of what lingered in the shadows coming to get you. Even in a tent, you didn't feel safe.

“I have another candle,” you mumble, eyes lingering on the waning light for as long as you could as you headed for the door. “I’ll grab it.” The tent shuts behind you.

The moon is full and bright, the sun’s reflections scaring away the gloom. Out here, you feel like you can breathe again, but you don’t linger. You dash as quietly as possible over to the camp supplies and rummage through for another candle.

Along your journey, you’d stashed away a veritable horde of candles. Tall, thin candles; fat, stout candles; black, red, white - even a blue one. Though, you’d never used them. The dark terrified you, of course. Even the shadows cast by buildings drew you eyes as you searched for threats. You’re unsure why, but to use a candle to stave away the dark makes you feel weak. Cowardly. It was pathetic to be so scared of the dark, like a child shivering in fear under their blanket, begging their parents to keep a lamp burnt low to chase away the boogeyman.

And yet, this was not true when you considered Astarion. He used a candle at night to fight against the dark, and not once has the thought crossed your mind that he was any weaker for it. At least you know why this is: To your mind, Astarion’s fear of darkness was more deserved.

The specifics of his spawn-hood were largely unknown to you still, but you were too well-aware of the conditions Kir Parthene’s spawn were kept to believe Cazador would treat his thralls any better. Two hundred years in the dark, where you’d barely scratched the surface. It was a terrible way to think, but you couldn’t help it.

You found your stash and picked through until you found a candle almost the width of your hand across and a little taller. It would last for a couple of nights, at least. You closed the chest a little louder than intentioned and scurried under the moon back to Astarion.

You held open the flap, bathing the inside with moonlight. He hadn’t moved from his spot on the bedroll. There was no longer a trail of smoke coming off the old candle. You reached out the new one to him.

He took it with one hand and struck a match with the other, face set as he tried lighting it. Each millisecond the wick does not take the flame, the more dread you feel. You can only imagine grabbing a defective one, too far gone to light anymore, and having to leave Astarion in the dark again to fetch another. When at last it catches, you almost sigh with relief. He places it carefully on the same metal pan as the old one, where its light reaches to fill every corner. Safe.

You continue to stand, uncertain. He’d had a nightmare, but he was never as forthcoming with them as you were, and you didn’t want to overstay your welcome or cross a boundary without meaning to.

“Are you coming inside or not?”

That was as good an invitation as any. You step inside and drop the flap behind you, shutting out the cool white light of the moon in favor of the warm orange glow in here. You sit back down, a foot away. Even if you were welcome inside, you didn’t want to press it.

“I’m sorry,” you say after a moment. “I tried to find the biggest one. I should have left the flap open.”

He produces a wry smile. “I could see perfectly fine, darling. I’m perfectly accustomed to the dark.”

“But you don’t like it.”

He almost snorted, continuing sarcastically, “No, really? Whatever gave it away?”

He’s laying the bravado on thick, creating a barrier between you. You tilt your head with a frown. Even in the short time you’ve known each other, he wasn’t as defensive with his past or Cazador as he could have been. He didn’t like talking about it - you didn’t blame him - but he’d never bury the lead this much.

“What did you dream about?” He looks away, facade slipping. He wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he thought. “Was it Cazador?”

“What else?” he bites, but the bitterness isn’t directed toward you. He scowls deeply, the creases by his mouth becoming as deep as canyons and his eyes as dark as his past. Dark circles had formed beneath his eyes. You wonder when he last ate was.

You’d come up with the compromise shortly after he fed from your blood: He could drain any enemy he wished, feed off any foe you crossed paths with, as long as he left your companions off the table. This was a rather beneficial deal for him, and it was never usually an issue. But the only thing you’d encountered worth drinking for the last few days was the Gur, and you’d taken quick care of him.

Your heart leapt to your throat thinking of ways to help. Most likely, he’d go hunting soon, if only to distract himself from his nightmares, but the animals were never really enough. You could do what you’d done before; cut open your hand and bleed into a vessel for him to drink from. But the thought of blood on your hands again, even your own, made you feel sick. And you sure as hells weren’t letting him near your throat, lest you be reduced to protective instincts and fearful obedience.

There was one way you could help…

With a breath to gather your courage and tamp down the rising anxiety within you, you hold your wrist out for him.

He quirks a brow at the gesture.

“When was the last time you ate?” you ask. He opens his mouth. You cut him off before he can be a smart ass. “From a… thinking creature.”

“I’ll be fine as soon as the next bandit decides to try stealing the clothes off our backs. I’m sure there’s one just dying to raid us as we speak - you do always seem to attract trouble.”

The thought, even as a hypothetical, of someone lurking in the shadows at the edge of camp made chills run up your spine and raise the hairs on the back of your neck. You cursed how easily it messed with your mind.

“Please, Astarion.” You hold your wrist out more insistently, bending your hand back to expose the veins clearly. His eyes trailed along them without even intending to. “If you need food, I can help. I- I’ll tell you when to stop.”

He tore his hungry gaze from your arm to study your face. You were determined to help, even as your eyes flicker uncertainly and your throat bobs with an uneasy swallow. He remembers the spawn who were punished for your mistakes. He wondered if you saw their eyes, wet and pleading, when you looked at him. He frowned deeply.

“Are you sure, darling?” he asked, with a sort of distanced tone. Like he was preparing to test you. “I can’t imagine you’d be too keen to have a vampire biting you again.”

You huff a strained laugh, even as you tilt your head to rub your shoulder against your neck over the scar. If you touched it, you could be sure she wasn’t right there, draining you. “No, but, if you need to eat, I’ll be fine. Just,” you stare unseeing at your veins, “don’t rip anything out.”

He considers you for a moment longer, before loosely wrapping his hand around your arm and guiding you toward his mouth. There was a bruise beginning to form from when you woke him up. You bend your hand further back, trying to give him wider access. When he glances over, your head is bowed toward the ground and your eyes are shut, waiting. He watches intently as he brings it to his lips, merely brushing over the skin there. Your heart skips a beat, though from anxiety more than attraction. It continues to beat a little faster as his breath fans across your skin, coming to a head when he continues, dull teeth gliding over the short expanse of your wrist until his mouth is wide enough around it to get his fangs into position. He fears any longer of this and you’d faint. So, as gentle as he can be, he bites down.

The ice and the draining are familiar sensations, though it stings differently when it’s not coming from your neck. You can feel your blood being pulled through your body to his mouth, until he drinks enough you no longer feel even that.

It’s odd, how different he draws your lifeblood from you. You’re so used to fast gulps that dig teeth further and further in as your master swallows all she can in as short a time as possible. He takes long, methodical pulls, slowly siphoning the sanguine fluid from you. You don’t get lightheaded as quickly, and you’re able to breathe without fear of having your trachea torn out.

Your hand is first to fully numb, fingertips growing cold and pale. You think he’s supporting your arm with his other hand, holding it mid-way up your forearm, but it’s the second thing to go numb and you refuse to look to find out. An easily recognizable haze begins consuming your brain like a fog. It starts light, but grows thicker. You can keep going.

You don’t stop him. As soon as he bit you, your instincts from before kicked in - not a sound, not a single twitch - and you forgot entirely that you could stop him. You don’t know when he does, too numb and tired; you don’t even startle when his cool hand is at the back of your neck, guiding you backward.

He moves his pillow to be under your head as he lays you down. You lay there awkwardly, in a way that will undoubtedly make you ache tomorrow, but he leaves you for now. Instead, he turns his attention to your wrist.

With a roll of bandages from his pack, he delicately wraps the still lightly bleeding puncture wounds and the bruise surrounding it. Your fingers are so cold it startles him. Once he’s finished, he holds your hand in both of his and breathes as hot a breath as he can produce, trying to rub the warmth into them. It doesn’t hold, but he doesn’t let go.

Your lids flutter open, but the eyes underneath are dull and unfocused. You try to speak, but he isn’t sure what you’re trying to say, as it all comes out in one big slurred jumble. He shushes you instead.

“Sleep, love. I’ve got you.”

It takes a moment for the words to reach as you stare up at him, but then your eyes slip shut, and he can hear just how quickly sleep lowers your heart rate and evens your breaths. He sighs into the silence of his tent. The flame flickers with the air movement.

He’s satisfied, full. There really is no need for him to go out and hunt tonight. But the image of Cazador hangs just at the edge of his thoughts. The memory that haunted him: his master opening that damned tomb and smiling at the husk of a man within. Smiling at Astarion’s bloody, broken nails and hunger-crazed eyes. He knows it’s all he’ll see if he tries to rest again. Even meditation would not save him from it.

After a moment of deliberation, he resigns himself to his fate. He lets go of your hand and carefully shifts you so you lay full on his bedroll. He pulls the blanket over you, tucking it over your neck and under your chin as he’s seen you do several times before. Then, he lounges back into his mound of pillows, book in hand, and passes the time until morning. He glances up at any small movement you make, at any sound other than your even breaths. It feels silly. But, as he turns the page (though he’s absorbed none of the words on it), he cannot bring himself to even speculate on carrying you back to your own bed.

The candle burns on.

---

Tag List:

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[olivieblake]

HI OLIVIE (again)! sorry for bothering you again, i know i already sent asks 😭 but i also wanted to say that i love the way you write about mortality. ESPECIALLY IN MASTERS OF DEATH!

i just love the idea that life is precious because suffering makes the sweet things sweeter. that everything ends, which is why it matters here and now! i especially love the line "Isn’t it all good because it’s something? she asks. Isn’t it all bad because beneath it—any of it, her wish sighs—I may collapse?"

feeling is a gift! suffering and starting over and picking yourself up again and again! you could choose to never hurt, but that only meant never loving. AND I ALSO LOVE "All the monotony of being mortal is in the trying-to-live bits before you realize the whole thing is your life." that life is made up of little moments that end in an instant!!!!! THAT LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE IT IS TRANSIENT!!!

ALSO ALSO tac stuff (bc i am always thinking about gideon drake) BUT THE FACT THAT GIDEON AND NICO WERE. NOT. SOULMATES. THAT THEY MIGHT NEVER MEET AGAIN AND THAT'S WHY THEY COULD LOVE EACH OTHER BEST IN THIS UNIVERSE!!!! okay i'm crying

OKAY I'M SORRY FOR THIS RAMBLE/RANT, I LOVE YOUR WORK!! SORRY FOR BOTHERING YOU 😭😭😭 WAS FEELING PARTICULARLY POETIC?? TODAY

p.s. your books changed how i see the world

sorry for answering this one million years later but your little postscript made me do this 🥹 and I mean that very seriously. I know I overuse it but in this case it was a non-hyperbolic self portrait

[sjbattleangel]

Public Service Announcement: Please, stay away away from HellYeahHeroes, Ubernegro, Chadfarsight*, KK4EverStuff, and Cohore.

*I'm aware Chadfaresight doesn't speak to HellYeahHeroes anymore but she's still responsible for spewing the very same toxicity.

HellYeahHeroes/HellYeahTeenSuperHeroes, Ubernegro, Chadfarsight, Cohore and others are the most vile, most pettiest, most hateful people who have no right to call themselves "comic fans".

[Trigger warning for screencaps in the links] They will personally target comic writers using hyperbolic, personal attacks on them: Disgusting insults, making horrible assumptions of them like calling them "Hacks" multiple times, along with "Pussys", "eugenists", "homophobes", "perverts", "mysoginysts", "sex offenders", "cowards", "rape apologists", "fascist sympathizers", "Nazi apologists", "dog f***ers", telling them to "lick goats" and more.

The way they talk about writers like Jason Aaron, Jonathan Hickman, Ed Brisson, Matthew Rosenburg, Dan Slott, Donny Cates, Brian Michael Bendis, James Tynion IV, Scott Snyder, Joshua Williamson and others, it's clear that they hate them solely as people. In fact, they have held a deep personal hatred for them WAY before they read any of their works. Yet they will happily mask what is clearly a bloody vendetta against people ,who never harmed them, under a smokescreen of "criticising crappy writing" and wanting their favourite characters "treated with respect".

KK4EverStuff has gone on to send death threats and wish harm upon creators, it's very possible HellYeahHeroes, Ubernegro, Cohore and Chadfarisght have done so too.

Please, report and block them. They are the most hate-filled toxic people to ever exist in the comic fandom.

Eventually, My friend Samasmith23 and I bumped into @Majingojira and told him HellYeahHeroes and co.'s behaviour since he is their friend. Because of his more chilled, open-minded attitude, we thought he would listen to us and condemn this behaviour but instead...

...he just kept shifting the goalposts; using whataboutisms: Like "Oh, HYH doesn't talk about comics anymore", "KK isn't a member of our group", "That was old stuff", "he (Samasmith) should hold SJBattleAngel to a similar standard", "Screencaps as ammunition is a C*micsgate tactic" and others.

He then suggested that I "fabricated" the screenshots.

But worst of all?

He made excuses for their abhorrent behaviour towards creators. He dismissed our calls for acountability as "tone-policing", being "puritanical", operating under "Tumblr Morality" ect.

He even excused HYH and co's attacking of comic writers by saying: "Complaining about insults towards creators is rich when creators themselves are generally okay with its existence. Just don't do it to their face."

NO.

Calling for innocent creators to be fired is NEVER "okay"!

Telling them to "lick goats" is NEVER "okay"!

Attacking them as "perverts", "eugenists", "fascism apologists" is NEVER "okay"!

Encouuraging harrasment against them NEVER, NEVER "okay"!

Sending them literal death threats is NEVER, NEVER, NEVER "okay"!

Majingojira turns a blind eye to toxic fan harassment and, by doing so, enables it. Stay away from him.

I've wrote to multiple comic/nerd/fandom blogs on Tumblr, telling them about HellYeahHeroes's and his friend's toxicity; asking them to shame this sort of behaviour. But most never reply back. They probably think I'm some sort of "troll" trying to "start drama". And I don't blame them, HellYeahHeroes, Majingojira, Ubernegro and others are some of the most beloved, well-respected comics/social justice bloggers on this website, I understand looking up to someone thinking they could never do any wrong. I know because I was once one of those people.

You know, this takes a toll on my mental health: Trying to tell people that some of the most revered members of our communities are actually horrible pieces of work, but they don't believe you. It's like being trapped in a room all alone, with no door. You scream the truth at the walls, hoping a door will appear. But it never does, and you're stuck forever with no-one to hear your cries. And it hurts. This pain of never being believed.

I hope you all understand.

I just want our community to be safe and healthy. Please, believe me.

Dear @Hellyeahheroes, @ubernegro, @farsight-the-char @Cohore,

The way you targeted and demonized creators like Dan Slott, Tom King, Donny Cates, Jonathan Hickman, Ed Brisson, Matthew Rosenburg, Grant Morrison, Jason Aaron, Brian Micheal Bendis, Adam Glass, Tom Taylor, Scott Snyder, James Tynion IV, Joshua Williamson, Rian Johnson, Neil Druckman was just disgusting and horrible. You have every right to dislike their work but to personally attack and vilify them is unacceptable! They are not "misogynists", they are not "creeps", "they are not "racists", they are not "antisemites", they are not "eugenists", they are not "fascist sympathizers", they are not "Nazi apologists", they are not "closeted Neo-Nazis" but most of all: They are not "hacks!"

To @Hellyeahheroes, @ubernegro, @farsight-the-char, @Cohore,: Seeing your disturbing parasoical hatred of creators like Slott, King, Cates, Hickman, Brisson, Rosenburg, Aaron, Bendis, Snyder, Tynion Williamson, it's clear that outside of comics, way before you read any of their work you've always held a personal vendetta against them as people.

Why? Did they personally hurt you or your loved ones? Did they ruin your lives? Even if they did, that gives you no right to email them countless death threats!

I don't know what you think but personally attacking these writers and sending them death threats will not magically undo the likes of One More Day, Robin: One Year Later, Avengers Academy: Arena, Avengers Undercover, Heroes In Crisis! No! Your actions are the very reason people see nerd fandom as a toxic cesspool of bullying and entitlement. And you're just proving them right!

Apologise, do better or leave.

Tell Lily Orchard, CinemaSins and Mr. Plinkett I said hi.

[trlvsn]

i’m thinking about mvk right now wtf happened to him? why is he like that? who did this to him? what do you think his tragic backstory is i know he has one and i need to know right now

oh anon you're gonna wish you didn't send this ask.

what i think people often forget when trying to understand certain characters is that characters are a part of a story first and a person second. to understand manfred and some other related things, let's look at this from the beginning, specifically, from the first "evil" major character we get introduced to (and by evil i mean someone the protagonist opposes) - miles edgeworth.

miles edgeworth is introduced to us as the demon prosecutor, the guy who uses dirty tricks in court, is famous for being ruthless and thinks everyone should be punished, a guy who strives for perfection is his job as a prosecutor. that brings us to a point where we think miles edgeworth represents something the justice system overall should not be - biased, devoid of empathy, driven by a perfect record and a desire for a good career instead of the genuine desire to find the truth. the story could as well have made us defeat edgeworth because of that - that approach is not needed in the court, so we expose him for some kind of crime and get him fired, goodbye, who's the next character going to be? however, the writers make the decision to humanize him, make him not just a character that represents a wrong idea but a person who has a backstory and some good in his heart, a person with a pretty good moral code, actually, a nerd, a friend, a man. this is where we start to question what exactly made him like this - this is why miles gets a tragic backstory. he is meant to be explained, he is meant to be human, he is meant to be more.

so manfred von karma becomes the answer. he is the reason, he is the influence, the part of miles's life that made him like this and the part that he starts to oppose. manfred von karma is an asset, a tool we are given to understand edgeworth better and draw some conclusions: "hey, maybe the guy wasn't, like, evil and demonic, he was manipulated as a kid, you know". manfred is like a mirror of edgeworth, which is a tool one can see frequently in ace attorney writing. there are characters that represent one character trait of another character, hyperbolized and extended. damon gant is edgeworth's authority mirror, representing what could happen if miles went from cutting salaries to grabbing more and more power to himself. manfred is miles's perfection mirror (self-explanatory).

what do we get from this, then? manfred von karma is undeniably linked to a more important character, appears for one single case (if we don't count aai) and serves one purpose - get the idea across. "don't get too focused on perfection, kids! this is a job that determines other people's lives, and to manipulate the verdict in order to serve your own selfish purposes is yucky!". manfred is a symbol first, person second, that's why he doesn't get a backstory.

manfred von karma is not just a man - it's what every prosecutor could become. a prosecutor gets a high salary, which the game establishes, and that salary depends on the amount of cases won, or, if i'm wrong, one's reputation depends on that, and the reputation causes bias. in such an objectively terrible system any prosecutor would slowly go from "i'm going to find the truth!" to "i'm going to win", and manfred went there a little too much. manfred's backstory is his habitat, he is the product of the system. with every case won and every close call, every paycheck earned, with all the competition in the field empathy and common sense leaves him - it gets to a point where a penalty causes him to commit murder. he is not a sane person at the moment of the crime - he is quite literally delusional thinking it was some kind of fate that the gun was there. he is what happens when a man loses himself in his career, what happens when the law is about money and success and not fairness, what can happen to anyone and should not happen.

so, to me, manfred does not need a backstory, apart from the one i mentioned above - he on his own is one.

but let's imagine this is the real world for a second and ignore the fictional, ideal aspect of it all. it's quite definitely possible manfred was somehow abused, but do i think it HAS to be so? no. a person does not need to be traumatized or a victim to grow up shitty. he could simply be spoiled, actually, with all of the wealth he clearly has. to prove my point, imagine a scenario where you raise a child with nothing but praise. you give it all the love and care, feed it, cherish it, but a child is curious by nature. eventually, it will do something bad, like pinch you or hit another child. you, the universally loving parent, still give it love and feed it candy after it does the bad thing, and you continue to do so. with nothing but love and care, the child will grow up with a defected sense of right and wrong, selfish, entitled, unempathetic.

point is - i don't find a tragic backstory to be a necessary thing for manfred's character. i don't think he needs a backstory at all.

however, that is not to say i'm somehow trying to prove anon wrong. theorizing and coming up with explanations IS fun and good. i'm just giving my personal view of his character here.

[avissapiens]

JBS retrospective.

Jockbull summer was definitely something where I shot for the stars. 15 tasks where everyone else had only 5. Fairly stringent time limited goals that got more intense and all consuming with each set that was developed. I knew I wasn't going to be perfect at it or even approach 50% completion. And yet i still feel fucking amazing to have done it! In an 8 week span i jockified certain segments of my life in ways that really did feel like they resonated through my whole being. It sounds a bit hyperbolic, I know. But I do think that undergoing such a structured battery of tasks, having it constantly in my mind every single day, even to the point that for 8 weeks straight my phone background was some of the images I generated for each set of post diaries did something to me. Thinking about these Jockbull tasks definitely left a mark on my mindset. And the tasks themselves left a mark on my life because I think some of them are simply going to stick with me. 

But they were starting to drag and i noticed myself getting more and more exhausted with..well..everything as the cut came to its end. So it had to come to a close as all good things must

Set A

 Of the tasks that are gonna stick with me here I definitely think elements of the competition task are gonna have a big impact. It was perhaps overenthusiastic to demand weekly competition from other people. But I have noticed my approach to things the longer I've held this task in my mind is a lot more geared towards winning and just enjoying competition in general. It’s still not fully realized yet though. There is more I can do to embody that jock mentality of victory at any cost. Maybe i should delve into some specific self programming so that i take it beyond just video games

The other task I think is going to stick is Baki. I just didn’t anticipate how fucking fun it would be and how much it aligns so well with my particular kink ecosystem. But moreover, I think deliberately pursuing baki rather than just mindlessly consuming it has opened me up for more media exploration, and exploration of the sort that will help me see the archetypes in more forms of art. That definitely had an impact on my vibes sets too. And in the time since then I've opened up to exploring shows like Letterkenny which has a whiff of jockbroness to it.

Set B

I feel like Set B was mostly more geared towards accomplishing a specific goal for the cut. And now that it’s accomplished and thensome I can thank it and file most of it away. Maybe bring some of it back around when I do a cut in future. One thing that will definitely be sticking is the Personal Training element. Keeping this task in my mind has really opened up the possibilities. Especially as I’ve talked it through with Abg and others more thoroughly. I want to keep synthesizing my loves and my passions. I moved here to NZ specifically because I wanted to combine my interests into something niche and eclectic but that could still serve me. And the same goes for Personal training. At first I thought I'd be stuck just working in a gym and I was fine with that. But I want more. I want to be able to take this knowledge, this business, and combine it with the different brilliant works I've already put so much work into. The abyss, the archetypes. I wanna do online training and help you all actually physically attain these goals and help you make a transformation Even more astonishing than my own. Combining Personal training and the hypnotic structures I've created. And I'd love to be able to make something steady and sustainable out of it so I can get my own space and grow even more while finishing my degree here. I know it’s lofty. But I've always put in the work and this is no exception. We’ll see how things go once I've got the quals.

Set C

I truly wish that the meditation task was the one I was gonna keep around. Set C however really illustrated how precarious setting too many things in stone can be. Daily routines, a biweekly creative work schedule, weekly fast days. It was a lot. Things eventually had to give and meditation was one of them. Now that I'm trying to gain some muscle mass, fasting days are actively counter productive. And being on commission mode means that a lot of my creative bandwidth is taken up by those. I will however be maintaining the daily routine. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And it sure as hell isn’t for everyone. But I am very much an abyssal creature of habit and structured chaos. And the creation of a daily routine for skincare, supplements, Breakfast. It all makes me feel a lot better and has 100% elevated my aesthetics. Not to mention really entwining himbo as something I relate with and aspire to more and more. For most of JBS i was also using a pretty strict time table for a bunch of summer related things.

But I've decided to retire it because the longer it went on, the more tired and numb I grew and the lower my success rate with any given day’s tasks were. But it was incredibly successful at the start of summer and allowed me to get a lot done and set a great momentum for the rest of it. My libido never really “went away” during the cut like sometimes happens to bodybuilders, but it defo got attenuated or at least shifted. But holy fuck now that i’m back on carbs you can bet that i’ll be doing task 3 almost unthinkingly

All in all, I really enjoyed this experiment and I’d love to try it again in a different form. Maybe with a wider sample of bros who might also benefit from the structure and accountability. In a way the dudes I generated these with stopped being the main form of accountability for me, and you all reading the blogposts and listening to the Voice logs kept me going instead. So thanks so much. Back to regularly scheduled programming

[unma]

Thoughts of The Coffin of Andy and Leyley?

idk why it took me so long to answer this, but I remembered that this was sitting in my inbox just now so I might as well. I'm going to assume you came here because you wanted to hear my actual thoughts on the game in good faith and not so you could find someone new to harass.

I like the game and really want to see what happens next. I love how dysfunctional both characters are, and it's fun to see awful people be put in awful situations and do awful things to survive. Especially when they're surrounded by equally awful people (and demons too I guess).

The hate over the game was stupid and was basically just people going "I can accept cannibalism, murder and demon summoning, but I draw the line at incest," which is frankly hilarious and one more reason I simply don't touch twitter anymore. Incidentally, you could probably dig through my posts and find an old one of mine where I opined that the game wasn't going down the incest route after chapter 1... That aged like milk, lol.

All in all, I wish the dev well. Nemlei didn't deserve being harassed off the internet, and I wish I could play the rest of their games. I actually had their itch.io page open at the time, so it was a shame to suddenly see it go blank. Oh well, that's on me for procrastinating so much.

I'd ramble on more about how I love the game's deep exploration of themes, and- actually, scrap that. I'm coming back in 5 minutes and I'll write my thoughts over both of the characters under the cut.

Ashley is pure evil. Is what I would say if I was someone who believed any person could be distilled down to those two words. No, she is very clearly a product of her downright terrible upbringing, and her downright obsessive love for Andrew is shown time and time again to be a product of her emotionally isolated childhood in which Andrew was the only one who ever gave her love. He was the only person who actually treated her like a person. Anyone with that kind of childhood is bound to end up at least a little maladjusted, so Ashley as a person is not unrealistic in the slightest. Her sabotage of Andrew is also rather clearly a method to ensure he will never leave her, even if he reassures her time and time again that he would never do so. Ironically, as her visions show, it may be her own obsessive actions that cause him to finally abandon her, which is just the most delicious flavour of ironic tragedy indeed.

Andrew is a coward. Through and through. I feel for him constantly, but he truly, truly, needs to learn to say no to Ashley. Or, well, he should've learnt to do that before she forced him into their current position. And yet, he's not malicious or actively evil. He's passively evil, in fact, though using the word 'evil' feels like hyperbole. He's consistently trying to never make a choice, and hoping he can simply pass on all responsibility to Ashley. And while I get where he's coming from, given everything they do and go through, he doesn't realize that not making a choice is still a choice, and he still did commit many of those deeds even if at Ashley's behest. At first, I wanted to pretend like he was completely innocent in the games, but it really doesn't take a genius to realize he's completely wrong about how responsibility works.

I'd say more, but it's been a while since I've watched Manly's playthrough of the games. My memory is rather fuzzy now. But feel free to ask more questions if you'd like.