#i would personally not fuck with them in prison.

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Very very early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[ghostofbriggiesmalls]

And to quell dissent, the post 9/11 media (i.e. movies and tv shows - think 24) facilitated this. This is undoubtedly due to influence by the Department of Defense - they pour MILLIONS into funding movies and TV shows every year and give access to military equipment, provide consulting, etc.

They wanted what they were doing to look unpalatable but necessary. And the reality is that MOST people, the military included, bought into that idea. Fuck, I would say even people who should know that shit doesn’t work who were doing the actual torturing probably deluded themselves into believing it does.

Study after study in the post 9/11 world, however, has shown that people will say whateverthefuck under duress just to make the torture stop. Does it make them confess? You’re goddamn right it does. They’ll confess to murdering that guy. And their mom. And to having faked the moon landing. And to having shot JFK. And to being secretly 3 raccoons in a trench coat. Whatever you want just to make it stop. And, for clarity, when people are being enhanced interrogated tortured, it’s not like the detainee is saying “ok, you waterboarded me enough so here’s the plan…” They’re being asked simple questions like, “were you at the meeting” or “do you know Steve” and are being tortured until the torturer gets the desired response. “No” and “I don’t know” aren’t the right answers and result in more torture. So you say “yes” to make it stop.

The FBI was the only US security agency to actually get relevant information from adversaries in the post 9/11 era because they’ve been running interrogations of people for fucking ever and they know how to do it. ACAB. They established a relationship, got the person talking, then got relevant info. ACAB. That’s a normal part of law enforcement. ACAB. Fuck the cops forever but at least they got that right. ACAB.

Interestingly, this is where the movie Zero Dark Thirty is kind of a wild case. When it came out if got MASSIVE blowback for its torture scenes. People were saying it was pro-torture because they show these scenes where a character is being tortured and he ends up giving up information. And the characters in the movie are like, “yeah this is unsavory, but look at how effective it is.”

But, and this is critical, the information they get is wrong and useless. It’s not until one of the characters takes the prisoner out of the cell, starts talking to him, feeds him, and basically treats him like a person, that they get actual useful information. Sure the characters who are ostensibly the protagonists are pro-torture, but the plot shows that it’s actually bullshit and they’re wrong.

All that to say, yeah, torture doesn’t work irl and pretending like it does in media is irresponsible and dangerous because it helps all of us pretend like it does and just keeps us doing more torture.

Things that work in fiction but not real life

torture getting reliable information out of people

knocking someone out to harmlessly incapacitate them for like an hour

jumping into water from staggering heights and surviving the fall completely intact

calling the police to deescalate a situation

rafting your way off a desert island

correctly profiling total strangers based on vibes

effectively operating every computer by typing and nothing else

ripping an IV out of your arm without consequences

heterosexual cowboy

[girlwithadragonheart]

I need to yap desperately about one single gripe I have with this game. MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD read at your own discretion

The first half is me ranting about how much certain things mean to me and how impacted I was, and the actual gripe comes closer to the end.

I'll preface this by saying this post is about Varric's death and my rage and despair regarding it, but more so about my Rook's.

I've seen people who said they picked up on the hints about whatnot, who knew before the Fade Prison. I was not one of those people. I was so relieved when I saw him after the Prologue that I didn't think twice, because I knew that it would destroy me the second shit started going wrong.

I was already not having a good time when I started the game simply because Varric was getting older. I don't handle aging well or death, and his design showing his age, and the comments he would make about "getting too old for this" just made my heart break.

And then shit got worse. I sobbed disgustingly when that knife went into Varric's chest.

After Rook woke up from talking to Solas and she heard Varric, I was so gods damned relieved. And my Rook was better taken care of by Varric in that year she spent with him than she was in the rest of her entire life.

I cried from the end of Ghilan'nain's fight until the romance scene and on and off after that. I got so used to visiting Varric just to be comforted by his presence. Inquisition was the biggest part of my life for a year and a half when I was just a kid.

I did really bad middle school age writing for it but regardless of the quality, those characters were built up in my head becoming even more than they were in the game. Varric was my biggest support character through everything I was going through at the time.

I don't talk about it much, but I didn't have a great childhood, and I know a lot of people didn't, but I coped with it through writing and video games. Varric was the one supporting me through the abuse I suffered and writing was the way I processed how bad things really were.

When Rook was in the prison she said "What am I going to find here?" And Varric said "I think you already know, kid." I DIDN'T until he said that. The second he said that my entire chest tightened and I just said "No" out loud as I watched Rook find his body.

Now for my real complaint!!!

Rook never gets the chance to grieve Varric. They go from talking to him every day to finding out he's dead and it was all a lie. I have personally never been more fucking pissed at Solas than I am now. But Rook comes back and they have that kind of "closing off" scene with Varric's empty bed (which was so hard to go through btw). And then they fuck their pookie LIKE I CANNOT BE THE ONLY ONE UPSET ABT THAT

FYM I gotta find out my dad is dead and then Rook is up for boning like there's no fucking way unless it's to cope. And at least pertaining to the Lucanis romance, Rook is processing everything that happened and they can say "So much has happened, I just don't know how to feel."

And rather than getting to process that in some kind of way, the devs said nah this scene serves one singular purpose, and Lucanis says "I do" and then dicks them down.

Personally, I felt very dismissed despite being overjoyed about finally having the romance scene, I couldn't even enjoy it with everything that happened prior.

Rook deserved the chance to completely break down after everything they went through. Tbh i don't know how they kept it together. Varric said "don't get all misty eyed" and i thought to myself that's way too delicate a term for what's happening here, I was fully ugly crying.

Fuck your "I had a good run" I still need you bitch.

All this to say I'm very upset, and I'm running my second playthrough and every time I look at, hear, or talk to Varric I tear up again. Wtf Bioware.

Rook should've gotten the chance to actually talk about what Solas did to them, especially in the sense that he made them believe Varric was still there. Or at least get to properly grieve the person who was their closest friend for a long time.

I have very strong feelings about this obviously

[londondungeon2]

concept with floyd leech. (expansion from the mafia universe, pre-NARC)

shit hits the fan frequently in floyd's life.

that is how it has always been. an accumulation of monkey doo-doo that is thrown into the fan blades that lead to things like cars exploding into fiery wrecks, new hues of purple bruises and red cuts on his skin, and tender cheek kisses from the grim reaper. he likes it like this. every day, he gets a little taste of death.

this time, he has taken too big of a bite.

he realizes it on the cusp of weaving in and out of death and life's doors. the epiphany settles in when the cut along the left side of his face is deep enough he can stick his tongue out of it. and, the truth of it is thrown in his face when his captors leave him -- floyd fucking leech -- in his four-walled prison with a gun, not to break himself out but rather 'if you truly won't tell us the information, here's this. we'll allow you the mercy of getting to kill yourself.'

they might as well just take out their cocks and piss on him. this is humiliating. this is beneath him. this is ... going to be the end of the line.

cheek on the grimy ground, he reflects upon that. at least every day, tasting the faint lipstick of the grim reaper under his teeth, he lived how he wanted to, did it his way as good old frank sinatra said.

floyd is humming to himself that jazz tune as he watches pinwheels of colors swirl in his vision and little fireworks of black pop in the skies of a blackout creeping up on him.

jade's gonna be pissed. azul's gonna bitch and bargain. mama's gonna cry. pop's gonna deny. you're gonna ...

you're probably gonna be fine. you and floyd don't know each other that well. you've only known each other for two months. most of that time has been spent going at it like rabbits. the pillow-talk is zilch. not really a relationship of substance where you would have any reason to grieve him.

if anything you're just gonna be sad that you're not getting your world rocked in bed ... floyd huffs a humorless laugh at that. at least the sex was great, mind-blowing chemistry from that first night and he has yet to grown bored.

floyd closes his eyes, cheek leaking an oil puddle of red, trying to conjure up a memory from over these previous two months. if he is going to finally bite the dust, he wants his thoughts to be filled with nothing but the euphoric memory of an orgasm as he bounces you on his cock. a good memory to blanket his dying mind with.

that is not what comes to floyd's mind. instead, he is remembering you sitting criss-cross in your panties, feeding your bunny oswald. floyd stands by your kitchen island, digging earwax out with his shower towel, dripping on your vinyl floor. he watches in the small visible space, bordered by your thigh and elbow, as oswald nibbles up piece after piece of kale. you don't talk to him, expecting him to leave soon.

dying on a warehouse's filthy floor, floyd watches you, entranced in his brain with this continuous motion of you handing piece after piece of kale to oswald. in his mind, the bowl never empties or loses its weight of fullness.

your back is pretty, your hair after sex is nice, your panties are a cute color, you're a real good person who deserves a boyfriend.

i kinda wanna know more about them ... the thought causes his eyes to pop open. all that he sees is a lime-green that bounces in watery waves. it surprises floyd greatly, that sudden thought that he's never had before.

he falls into the thought softly ... i wonder if they have hobbies ... when did they get a bunny ... i wonder i wonder i wonder ... he is still wondering when he puts a new piercing into his captor's chest. he wonders all the way home, wonders what’s your favorite food, do you hate a certain type of entertainment genre, are you a silver or gold jewerly-wearer? he wonders more and more questions — favorite sport; pet-peeves; any special talent like being double-jointed or tying knots in cherry stems, any stupid small things about you he yearns to learn — while azul's doctor (paid with generous hush money) stitches the hole in his face back up.

he holds all his questions until after a week later, after he has given you your second orgasm and him his first orgasm. he is pulling out, flopping on the right side of the mattress, closest to the exit like always.

you are not unnerved by this, panting and soaking in the moment, you barely even look at him.

you jump out of your skin when you feel a finger tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "what are you doing," you gasp, partly from exhaustion and partly from bewilderment.

"hey, shrimpy," your booty call starts slowly and sweetly, "ya got any hobbies?"

it is such a surprising question that you laugh ... until you realize, unnerved, that he is being serious. he is looking at you with round, puppy-dog eyes, waiting to soak in all the information you are going to give him.

you shouldn't tell him anything. information is valuable, you know that. but, there is something in his handsome face that makes you take the leap.

you can't help but be a little loose tongued as you shift onto your side, bare chest squishing on the mattress, a heartbeat pulse between your legs, and both hands sandwiched under your cheek.

"yeah, i do. i like to --"

and that's how it starts.

sometimes, you think you should have kept your mouth shut.

[discordiansamba]

iroh was across the threshold of the room in a flash, dragging him into a tight embrace. in any other situation, zuko probably would have complained about the lack of air, but instead he just buried his head into the crook of his uncle's neck.

"uncle," he says, "-i'm so sorry."

"i am the one who should apologize, zuko," iroh says, "-for not being able to protect you."

for a long time, they don't say anything. zuko is keenly aware that they're being watched by the avatar and his friends. seeing uncle again feels a lot like coming home, even though zuko's... unsure where home is now. he'd gotten so used to living in ba sing se.

he can't stay here, though.

everyone in this city knows his face- and knows that face belongs to lee. but zuko isn't lee anymore. he can't pretend to be him. he'd made this choice as lee, knowing that he'd have to give up the life he'd built for himself here. now that he was zuko again, he didn't think he could stomach putting on earth kingdom green and living a life of serving tea.

uncle finally pulls away from him, patting his shoulders. he tells him that he is going to make the tea this time, and that's final. zuko laughs, and lets him. it's weird. he kind of thought he would hate tea after... everything, but it's become a comfort to him. maybe it's just a trace of lee that he's never going to get rid of.

aang and his friends wisely choose to excuse themselves, to give them a bit of privacy. iroh watches them go, and tells zuko that he's proud of him for putting that past of his behind him. zuko just huffs. he congratulates his uncle on becoming fire lord.

they sit and drink tea together. iroh catches zuko up to speed on what has happened in the fire nation in his absence. zuko... hesitantly tells him a few things about his life as lee, since it's all he really has to talk about. uncle leans over the table with a leering grin when he makes the terrible mistake of bringing up jin, asking what his plans are.

"...i have no idea," zuko admits, "-i think i might actually need to see her again first. i don't know if i even still like her. i don't know if she'll even still like me."

uncle tells him that he can take as much time as he likes. he must still have lingering attachments to this city. there is no judgment in his tone. and... he's right. zuko doesn't think he'll ever be able to bring himself to put on earth kingdom green again, but he's grown fond of ba sing se. it's weird. he feels like he should hate it.

it had been his prison.

he just hadn't known it.

the next day, zuko decides to bite the bullet and go see ba sing se with his own eyes. he'd seen it before- but his time as lee had changed him. he stays in fire nation red, but he ties a wound cover around his scar to hide what it actually looks like. he can't see lee in the mirror anymore, but he knows other people likely will.

besides. it's not like he can see out of the damn eye anyways.

walking the familiar streets of the middle ring as himself is a strange experience. he knows so many of these people. for some of them he can even rattle off their usual order. some of them were even his friends. they give him an odd look as he passes, but zuko pointedly does not look at them. if he pretends he doesn't know them, it'll probably be fine.

"lee?"

two years of responding to that name has zuko turning his head before he can stop himself. thankfully, the person who called out to him is just jin.

...oh. it's jin.

...well. fuck. guess he's making this decision now.

[napoleondidthat]

Napoleon, The Director’s Cut

The added material makes the film better but that doesn’t mean it’s good.

So I did it. I rewatched the Napoleon movie with the added material. I was wondering if a second view would salvage it, maybe it ages well.

That answer is no.

It has been awhile since I saw the theater version, so I am not 100% sure that what I will say isn’t maybe a few scenes that were in the movie and I just don’t recall. There are new scenes and old scenes that are longer now.

From the beginning to Toulon are about the same as far as I can tell. One thing I will note: it is curious that they chose as the Bonaparte family representative Lucien. I am happy to see Lucien get some love as he’s my favorite of the dysfunctional clan, but it seems a weird choice. Joseph is usually chosen because he and Napoleon do have a different dynamic of an elder brother who has such a stronger personality younger brother. But what is equally weird is that Lucien serves no purpose. He’s there in a military looking uniform listening to Barras talk about France’s military challenges, he just pops up in Toulon (as does Barras who apparently just hangs around on the perimeter of the battlefield) so Napoleon can hand him the cannonball he fishes out of his poor dead horse (I’m traumatized all over again), and then disappears completely after the coup d’etat.

There might be some new stuff in here but I am not remembering it.

The most backfill is the Josephine arc, and that does actually help the film somewhat. In the theater version Josephine launches on screen stumbling out of prison.

Scene one shows her at her home and some asshole guy is questioning a five year old Hortense about the whereabouts of her father and the Revolution. Eugene stands back with Lucille, the maid. Josephine watches the scene from the top of the stairs wrapped in a shawl. Little Hortense is obviously scared and says that her father is in prison and the Revolution is against the nobility. The man asks her about her and the father (I think) loyalty and is she a noble, and she looks to Josephine for guidance, Josephine nods at her to answer. She says she is noble, her father does support the Revolution, and so does she. The man warns her not to lie because he can tell. Josephine pipes in saying that she’s a five year old child leave her alone she tells the truth etc.

That scene bleeds to the next where Josephine is in the back of a cart of other prisoners and is being unloaded at Carmes prison. She is processed through by a gruff woman who strips her of her rings and demands to see in her mouth. She wanders around the prison and at all the chaos. A woman comes out and calls her name and they embrace. It’s Therese Tallien. She leads her through the prison and acts a bit of a tour guide. The watch some prisoners get in the cart to meet the guillotine. Therese says there is no tears….moving on. They pass cramped quarters where they pass a couple having sex. Therese says if a woman gets pregnant she can avoid the blade and “since when do men need a reason to fuck?”

The next scene is that night and Josephine lays in Therese’s bed and watches her doll herself in the mirror as much as she can. She ties a red ribbon around her neck and tells her how it represents the blade. Therese states she will survive this and Josephine can too or she can die pure. Josephine stays silent in all these scenes.

Next scene is Josephine cutting her hair short, looking a little more sexy in her dress and walking down to the lower part of the prison where she goes to a man waiting for her on a bed. And fade to black.

There is a rather powerful scene of an order of nuns being led to the guillotine. The crowd jeers and screams at them just like they did for Marie Antoinette. But these nuns look pristine in their habits and they go to their deaths calm and cool and singing a hymn in French. The last nun is just a young girl and she watches as all her order meets their end and she goes up the platform and they rip her veil from her and put her down on the bench for the blade and she never misses a note. Her song only ends when the blade falls. The crowd that was bloodthirsty just goes deathly silent and exchange looks with each other.

That follows the scene of Barras confronting Robespierre over his actions. Same as the theater version. Robespierre shoots himself again but the scene doesn’t end with Barras saying “the guillotine for you my friend” the added scene is Robespierre’s death as he is dragged with his bandaged face up to the guillotine with the crowd cheering. He is beheaded.

The scene with Josephine leaving prison is longer. She walks around the city and it’s rather strangely deserted and messy streets. She comes to her house and enters to find it’s been ransacked. She goes up the stairs calling out to her children and Lucille. She is eventually confronted by Lucille who takes her to be an intruder but then recognizes her and calls for her children. They appear and approach her slowly as Josephine takes off her hood and they all reunite.

The party scene where Napoleon and Josephine meet is longer. Napoleon runs into Barras who cheers him but Napoleon like the buzzkill he is refuses to show a smile and Barras eye rolls him off. The scene of the play that they are putting on is a bit longer with Josephine and Napoleon first noticing each other in this setting and exchanging glances. Josephine is sitting at Barras’ table. Napoleon is hanging out with Lucien.

An added scene is that after the party there is a scene of a naked Josephine having sex with Barras after the party. She watches herself in the mirror. Barras tells her she accumulated a lot of debt at the party that night and gets up to get some money for her debts. She quips she should charge him more for the attention she brings him. He tosses the money at her and says he will pay for her debts this time but he’s done. She needs to get to know Bonaparte.

Fast forward to Napoleon and Josephine courting. Lucille and Josephine talk about whether Josephine likes Napoleon that way or not. There is an extended scene of Napoleon receiving her invite but this time it shows him standing outside her door killing time in the street by reading a newspaper. Lucile watches him from the door discreetly. She closes the door when he come across the street. He rings the bell and Lucille stands inside the door smiling. She makes him knock again before she opens and smiles and welcomes him in. I am not sure what this is supposed to be implying? Lucille has a crush on him too?

The wiff of grapeshot is the same but there is an added scene of Napoleon, Barras and other random military men singing a song and toasting their success. They all congratulate Napoleon as the savior but he shrugs it off and plays humble.

The wedding scene is slightly longer I think. The guy talks about their birthdays that I don’t remember from the original.

Italian campaign is merely what they show in the released footage that I posted. There is the dinner where Napoleon notices Hippolyte and Josephine chatting it up at the dinner table.

There are more scenes with Hippolyte and Josephine. Mostly narrated by Napoleon writing to her his love etc. One scene of Josephine buying hats and Hippolyte sits in a chair and watches her. She looks sad like she does through most of this film. Hippolyte puts on a turban and clowns around. The two maids find it adorable and laugh. Josephine seems mortified and keeps telling him to stop and to take it off.

There is an extra scene of Napoleon and Josephine lying in bed and she tells him that the trouble is that he is always off to battle and she is alone and never knows if he will return or not. He assures her he will always return and not to worry. He kisses her all over her face and she looks on gloomy. I don’t remember where this scene is, but it’s around the Italian campaign scenes.

Another Josephine and Hippolyte scene where he is in her garden chatting up people and Josephine sits inside by the piano listening to the musician play. He watches her as she looks visibly upset.

Napoleon in Egypt is pretty much the same as the original. His return is slightly different. He returns to find the house empty and blows up at Lucille. There is an added creepy scene of Napoleon eating alone at the dining table and Lucille comes in with a plate. Napoleon stops her and apologizes for his outburst. She understands. Be great if they stop there. But no. Napoleon slides his chair out and asks Lucille to sit on his knee and she does. He tells her he’s sad and needs comforting what can be done? She tells him she can get him some desert or draw him a hot bath and she will console him. Napoleon just lays his head on her shoulder.

The scene where Napoleon confronts Josephine over the affair is for the most part the same except there does seem to be some added dialogue. Josephine the following day asks Napoleon if had affairs and he admits he did. She asks if they were pretty and did he love them etc. He says they were pretty because they didn’t cry. She then says she doesn’t care as long as he doesn’t leave her. Please don’t leave me. I don’t recall this in the original film but maybe it was there and I just blocked it out.

The scene where Napoleon confronts the directory is longer to me it seems with some additional dialogue but that could be wrong.

There is an additional scene of Napoleon cleaning his guns at the dinner table with Lucien. They are a bit drunk and Lucien says he doesn’t get why Napoleon is going along with the plotters plans. He doesn’t need them. Napoleon says he will need ladies in waiting, right? Lucien says they aren’t good except to lick your balls and Napoleon laughs and says that he will need one of those. Josephine stands on the balcony watching and listening. She leaves, Napoleon hears the sound and swings the gun in her direction but she’s gone.

There is a new scene I think of Napoleon designing the Consulate uniforms. There is also a scene of Napoleon and Josephine hosting a party and mingling along the table where Napoleon kinda flirts and Josephine watches him and the flirts with whoever she talks to.

The assassination attempt scene is pretty much what has been released. It happens incorrectly and Napoleon yells at his advisors. They do show the execution of the Duc d’Enghein out in the forest and not in a moat. He’s some poor sweaty looking guy. He messes with the gravel he’s standing on and turns and there is the firing squad. He reminds them he is a Frenchman and some other nobles stuff and asks to command the execution. The guy who I assume is General Dumas ignores him and commands ready…aim…but then tells the duc that he can go ahead. The duc instructs to aim at the heart and the guns fire.

It’s the scene right after the coronation that Napoleon and Hippolyte Charles have their conversation.

A lot that comes after this is the same I think. There is a whole scene in Russian between the Czar and God knows who. And they only subtitle half of the scene. So you listen to the rest and don’t know what the fuck anyone is saying.

There is a scene of Napoleon huge ass map being painted by David. Napoleon wanders in in his nightgown and starts walking on the map. David tells him it’s not dry and if he must walk on it, he can step on Italy. Cut to the new scene of Napoleon and his generals on the map planning Austerlitz and Napoleon hopping on Italy so as not to disturb the now dry paint? I don’t know.

There is a scene of Napoleon on the toilet before battle, I believe it’s Austerlitz. He gets up and then buries his head in a bowl of water. He strips down and asks I guess the valet to brush him like a horse. Harder etc.

The next new scenes seem to be Napoleon on Elba. There is a scene of him walking down a street by himself and he draws his sword and starts practicing fencing moves but trips over his own feet and falls down in a doorway.

There is a scene of a boy bringing his boots that he shined in and dropping them unceremoniously on the floor. Napoleon chuckles and asks him to go get him wine. Napoleon sees in the paper Josephine is wining and dining Alexander. He gets mad but this time the boy enters the room and Napoleon asks him if he knows who Alexander is. The boy says no. He asks but you knew who I was? The boy says yes. Napoleon dismisses him.

There is a new scene of Napoleon and his mother serving him lunch. She quips she didn’t come all this way to sit and have lunch with her son who is a moody SOB. Napoleon doesn’t react but just broods. She tells him he wasn’t meant to die on this island and puts her arm around him. Napoleon tells her his wife is entertaining the Emperor of Russia in his home. Madame Mere hugs him.

Except she isn’t your wife. It isn’t your home. And she’s dead. And what has happened to his son and Marie Louise? Never mentioned again.

The scene where he learns of Josephine’s death seems longer. There is a scene where he goes into her bedroom and crawls into bed. That might be in the original and I forgot.

There is a small scene of him on the toilet again before Waterloo. He wipes his tush and look into the bowl to see nothing but blood.

There is an additional added on scene of Napoleon showing the St. Helena girls how to fence before he just drops dead at the picnic table.

I think those are all the added scenes. I may have missed a few.

This movie feels like a bunch of baggage the British have yet to unload from Napoleon to me. Like an angry ex who can’t understand why the guy they broke up with is still so popular and why we aren’t writing odes to Wellington. It also feels strangely like English cartoon propaganda come to life. Like all those English cartoons now filmed with people.

I say this because the obnoxious hit you over the head stats at the end tallying up the war dead is just so cringing. I am no war lover but laying the blame at Napoleon only seems the worst of takes. Not only does it ignore that a lot of history is people waging war and killing each other, it’s not as if Napoleon is a serial killer racking up all these deaths on his own. If Napoleon is to blame, then so is Wellington for dragging his army out at Waterloo. He could have stayed away and look how many people would have lived? And a nation that was at one time killing people left and right all over the globe as it expanded empire saying “yeah but Napoleon did…” seems a bit too hypocritical.

Second, if Napoleon is such a baddie, then why portray him as such a buffoon? It’s hard to hate him in this movie because he’s a cartoon. This Napoleon if anything makes me want to flick him off the screen. And that sucks because Napoleon is so much more compelling than this hot mess.

What story are they telling? That Napoleon was a warmonger but also a cartoon? That Napoleon was a serious threat? That Napoleon had mommy issues? That Napoleon and Josephine were toxic were they some great romance?

They keep trying to point to Napoleon having some weird Mommy issues but never follow the thread except for some characters making statements out of nowhere.

The actors do the best with this crap, but they all suck including Vanessa Kirby who usually gets praised. Sure, she does alright if you don’t know the real character of Josephine.

Kirby and Phoenix seem to try to be overly serious about these characters to the point that they become melodramatic jokes. You can make an argument that Josephine did suffer some form of PTSD after the Revolution. She probably did. Except it didn’t last her whole life. The historical record of her is as gracious, cheerful, warm, loved to spend and party, happy for the most part. She also could be a drama Queen and manipulator. Did Kirby just not read this and instead picked up some emo biography that I’m not aware of? He constant “fuck off and fuck you and the horse you rode in on” is so unlike the real woman.

Phoenix I think honestly doesn’t give a shit. He was way too old for the part but he is a gifted actor so I though he might be able to pull it off. Clavier was way too old too but somehow shines better than Phoenix. And Clavier wasn’t that great of a Napoleon either. But when Phoenix was quoted as sort of saying Napoleon was a little weirdo with a small coat that he wasn’t really concerned with playing a historical figure but just a cartoon character.

It could be also because I think the chemistry between Vanessa and Phoenix is in the negative territory that the characters fall flat.

In closing, this a film I can’t see myself really watching again. It has its moments, and it does look like an Assassin’s Creed Unity decorated set (and that is a compliment). It’s just too much for a mess and not really a fun mess. I’m glad I got to see it in the theater because Lord knows when that will happen again, the opportunity to see a movie about something that I live with in my head.

But this is a British cartoon take on a man that they seem to still be angry with and they want you to remember he is a villain, a terrible killer but also a silly man child who is a buffoon somehow.

Oh and he is a shitty lover too who doesn’t know anything about it.

[ferg0s]

hi,

Could I request a scenario where karasu gets a pink lock partner in a spandex suit? 😔

You already know he’s an annoying little shit about it. He likes to tease, get the low blow and bask in the glory of it afterwards. He likes knowing he can get in the other persons head, catch them off guard. He prefers to tear someone’s skills down, but he doesn’t shy away from physical attributes. After all, game is game.

And the frumpy uniforms was like a sitting duck.

“Oi, Cinderella-“ he smirked as he walked up next to you on the field. Water bottle in hand. “Fairy god mother hasn’t shown up yet?”

You roll your eyes and catch the bottle he threw your way, trying to ignore his comments as you gulped the water down. The stupid uniforms they had you in made you sweat like crazy, the thick material didn’t help either. And most importantly, they were ugly. Plain and simple, they were ugly. Frumpy, grey and old fashioned. They looked more like prison uniforms than soccer ones.

“I guess the clock struck midnight,” he mused as he wedged himself infront of you. Steeling the ball and giving you a quick glance, the gentle shove causing you to lose balance and stumble backwards. Cinderella; always in tattered clothes and covered in dirt. You hated it. And he knew you hated it, so he did his best to rub salt on the wound. “Missing a shoe?” He would chuckle as he stole the ball. “I think the ball is a only for pretty girls,” “I guess the rats were busy,”

Karasu learned pretty quickly that you weren’t one to fuck around on the field, you had insane spatial awareness, enough to rival the top guys at blue lock. Which made you hyper aware of how close he would be whenever you two were playing a 1 on 1. You blamed yourself for thinking that he would be a decent partner, figuring ego matched him up with you because you had similar traits - but you were dead wrong. It was like ego had thrown you in your own personalized level of hell.

Karasu was taller than you, and a bit more agile. By a fraction of a second if you wanted to get technical, but he was like a rat, using every little crevice to squeeze his way inside the game. Inside your head. The first time it happened you were stunned, soccer usually wasn’t a big contact sport - there being penalties for shoving or pushing. But he towed the like between accidental touch and deliberate shove. The shoves got under your skin. . Given his height compared to you, instead of hitting your chest it would hit you straight on the collar bone. The pain would linger on for hours after, sometimes making it hard for you to move your arms or neck. But technically, it wasn’t a foul. And you hated that. Technically. You grew up playing soccer by the books - very cut and clean, orthodox even. That’s what made you good, your moves were too flawless to counter. But that was also the problem, because even the purest of glass can be broken by the tiniest of stone.

Your goal slowly began to turn from being the best striker, to now finding a way to get your lick back. And just when all hope was lost..

“Good morning, diamonds in the rough,” egos voice called out in the girls dorms through the multiple speakers. “After a needlessly long wait, you can finally ditch those rags. Please go to the locker rooms and take the bag assigned to you-“

When you entered the field after putting on the official uniform, you had already prepared for the snarky comment that would be thrown your way. Probably something along the lines of; fairy god mother finally pulled through? You placed your bottle down and sat down to tie your cleats, your eyes darting when you heard a whistle. “I guess fairy god mothers do exist,” he chuckled as he walked up to you. Bingo! “Thought she’d get rid of the evil step mother too,” you quip back as you turn your attention back to the shoes. He chuckled, liking that you had started to bite back. “More like she’s found your price charming-“ “Funny, I remember the dog turning into the coachman, not the prince.” You had never been one to engage to trash talk, but god did it feel good to get the last word in with him.

The small 1 on 1 match began, despite the fact you two were supposed to work together, it seemed like the two of you were more focused on trying to score on eachother. With the total score being 0-0 for both of you, making you near the bottom of the teams. He wanted to establish some sort of dominance while you wanted to kick his teeth in for thinking that. Both of you fighting tooth and nail for the first goal, and to prevent the other from scoring.

“So Cindy,” he smirked as he wedged himself infornt of you. He was going to do it, you had been playing next to him long enough to know his moves. The god forsaken collarbone shove. Out of all his moves, you couldn’t find a counter to this one. It was your only weak spot, and he knew it. The difference in height making it impossible for you to dodge it, if you tried to duck you would be too slow and risk injuring your head. Injury wasn’t an option for you. If you went too low it would…

In that moment time seemed to stand still. You were going about this all wrong. You were trying to play chess with a man who was playing checkers with you all along. You had to get on his level to win at this own game, get down and dirty. Maybe the nickname he gave you would make sense in a way. You saw it coming, the shove, aimed directly at your collarbone.

He got in position, his arm moving towards you. He knew that in a second he’d feel your collarbone against his arm, his hand going to cup your shoulder for a second before he pushed off you and got a 3 second frame of confusion out of you. It was like muscle memory for him. In the time it took him to blink the whole ordeal would be over, but as soon as his eyes closed he prepared himself to feel your shoulder… your soft, squishy…

Wait.

His eyes darted open and he looked at you, the smirk on your face appearing as his left. His eyes followed his hand, seeing his hand over your boob. You had moved up instead of ducking his shove, catching him off guard. As a faint blush appeared on his face from the feeling of your literal boob in his hand, you used that to your advantage. He was still reeling from the feeling when you went and shot straight into the net.

“Aw cmon-“ you laugh as you approach him. “You’re acting like you’ve never touched a tit before-“ you tease, feeling the power you had over him in the moment. “Of course I have!” He replied, after defensively. “Okay Pinocchio-“ you scoff, walking to the side to get a drink.

He soon realized what you meant by that.

______

I admit, season 2 animation isn’t as bad as people made it seem to be

[volant-endeavor]

Alien psudeo step daughter like estranged alcoholic primate dad

[polydamnory]

A chance to talk about my OCs? Say no more!

I think my (technically not an OC, technically also is an OC) rendition of Arke from Greek Mythology would be the most interesting because she’s… a lot, to say the least. She probably wouldn’t have much of an opinion on most of them, the empowered characters and demons she’d probably just assume are some weird monsters or demigods, but Blake… Blake would make her angry. Specifically because of D’Deridahn.

In a way she understands D’Deridahn, she too was a deity locked away in a hellish (literally) prison after a very long and arduous war. And she too was only able to escape said prison due to the machinations of a mortal (or in her case, two mortals) fucking around in the world of the dead. But everything else about him is just one big reminder of the pure anger and spite that is driving her forward. Selfish old gods using and abusing those under/weaker than them all because they can is what got her into this mess, and to see them once again be set free, this time without anyone more powerful to keep them in check, fills her with so much rage she can feel it threatening to rip her apart.

And Blake? He freed this being all for the sake of one other person? That is something she could never understand. Because even though she does understand wanting to do anything to keep her loved ones safe, even to her point of doing something drastic that will most likely do nothing in the end but make someone else’s life a little worse, putting so many others lives in danger would ultimately not be worth it. You either do what you can so you are the only one that pays for your actions, or you don’t do it at all.

She’d probably try and kill him, to be honest.

ok cmere listen

take an oc you have from literally any universe that you have (other than redacted)

tell me what’s happening if they were to run into

- david

- huxley

- vega

- porter

- geordi

- blake

- hush

you can doooo as many of them as you want to

(this is just an excuse to hear about peoples OCs btw)

[good-beanswrites]

A little something featuring Fuuta and Es after talking about their criminal lack of interaction in fanworks with @waivyjellyfish ! You had such awesome ideas (a few of which I'm still bouncing around in my head to post at some point,) but this one ended up taking over my brain -- I hope you enjoy 😅 Attempting to answer the widely-debated question:

“Oi, why didn’t you hit me?”

Es looked up from their paperwork.

“Prisoner number three. Most people are glad when they’re not struck.”

“Well, I’m not.” 

Es usually left the door open at this hour, in case anyone had any last-minute complaints before curfew. No one usually took them up on the offer. They figured that if there was any prisoner they could count on to complain, it would be Fuuta marching through their door.

“You hit all the other guys. You even hit some of the girls that were giving you trouble. So what? You think I’m too weak? You think I can’t take it?” Fuuta spread his arms. “I can, so show me what you’ve got!”

Es sighed. They put down their pen. They folded their gloved hands together, resting their chin on top. “Fuuta, I’m not going to hit you.”

“Why not?”

“As of right now, I have no reason to. If you’re referring to the interrogations…”

They reflected on the first one they'd shared with him. To be fair, the thought had crossed their mind. It would have been satisfying to give this rowdy prisoner a taste of his own medicine – striking him after such a dramatic charge at them. But Es was always good at reading people. It didn’t take them long to understand Fuuta was the type to lash out first and ask questions later. In fact, that was likely what had landed him in Milgram in the first place. 

Although Es knew they weren’t here to do any reformation, they wanted to try to show these prisoners where they’d gone wrong. So, they resolved to act as the bigger person. They’d prove that senseless violence was just that. By keeping their composure, they’d show Fuuta just how childish he was being. 

That wasn’t my only reason. I guess that's true, my actions weren’t all purely righteous. I still spent the entire time looking for ways to make him squirm… But it wasn’t all cruelty. I really did want to understand. I wanted to help. That counts for something, right?

Es never struck the prisoners out of anger, or as a petty show of power. It was a way to force the prisoner to mind their ego. When they’d gotten a bit too full of themselves, a bit too comfortable with the awful deed they’d committed, Es’ blow encouraged them to feel a bit more humility and guilt. 

By the time the second trial arrived, Fuuta oozed guilt. 

The moment Es entered the interrogation room, it was clear that he needed no lesson in humility. He hugged his arms to his chest. His remaining eye darted around the room in thinly-veiled hysteria. His voice trembled when he spoke. It didn’t require any people-reading skills to hear the remorse that underlaid all of his accusations and threats.

Hitting the others felt like giving a dog a tap on the nose after breaking a rule. Meanwhile, Fuuta snapped and snarled like a stray who’d been kicked time and time again.

Of course, he could never know any of this. Any way Es phrased it, Fuuta would misunderstand it as pity.

Well, wasn’t it? I thought he looked like a kicked puppy – that sounds a lot like pity. No, it was out of respect. Does that mean I didn’t respect the prisoners I did hit? No. I respected them too. Then, what’s the difference?

Fuuta was still staring at them, asking the very same question. What’s the difference?

“Each of Milgram’s prisoners is unique.” 

They were met with an unimpressed glare.

Es chose their words carefully. “Each one responds best to a variety of treatments. Some need attention to be comfortable, while others need time. Some need validation in order to confess. Others, a bit of debate does the trick. Some need a show of force. You –” remind me too much of myself  “– require something else. I’ve learned to change my approach depending on the person I’m dealing with.”

Fuuta’s features flashed with confusion, then shame, then his usual mask of anger. “Tch. How pathetic.”

“Excuse me?”

“So you just change your personality when it’s convenient? You put up fake smiles and fake attitude? Have some balls and just be yourself.”

Es was caught by surprise. “... I am. Those are all pieces of myself. I choose to bring out different parts when it would be most helpful.” 

“Sounds manipulative as hell to me.” 

It makes sense he doesn’t understand. He’s a very clear-cut person, with every aspect of his personality lining up in a way that makes sense. I find that predictability fun. Or, is it something that I envy? Could it be both?

They had no time to dwell on it, as Fuuta was struck with an idea. “Though, if you can do it on command, why don’t you give me the ‘you’ that wants to hit someone?” 

He spread his arms once more, hands gesturing to his chest. Es pretended not to notice him wince. They remained in their seat. 

“What are you waiting for? Hit me!” 

“I will not.”

“You just said you can change your personality on a whim, so let’s see it!” 

“That is not what I said.”

His good eye began to look frenzied. He raised his voice. “You scared? The big bad warden of Milgram, nothing but a big coward!”

“Stop this. You’re acting childish.”

“No! You’re treating me childishly! Let me see the Es that kicked Shidou! The one that slapped Kazui! Treat me like you treated them!”

“I hit them because they said something stupid. They deserved it.”

“Are you fucking kidding? I deserve it too! I deserve it! Come on!”

At the last word, his voice broke. He stumbled to his knees. He let his head drop. He sucked in strained breath after strained breath. Shidou would surely give him a lecture about getting so worked up with his injuries. 

Es finally stood.

They made their way around the desk. They knelt on the floor in front of him. 

“Why?” he wheezed. “Tell me…”

“Fuuta.” 

Should I just go ahead and do it, just to make him happy? No, I want to talk it out. But what do even I say? I'll tell him that I care. I can’t. None of the prisoners understand that I care. Why? Why is it so hard for them to see? I’m trying my best, why can’t they see? 

Es extended their hand carefully. They didn’t know what they hoped to accomplish, but in that moment their thoughts were too loud and conflicting. They needed to do something.

Fuuta saw the gentle intention, and immediately raised his own hand to strike. It froze midair, though whether it was from Milgram’s restrictions or his own hesitation, Es would never know.

Neither of their gestures connected.

Footsteps. Then Yuno’s voice, hesitantly from the doorway. “We heard shouting, is everything alright in here?”

Es retracted their hand.  A beat. Fuuta dropped his, too. 

“Yuno. Yes, we’re fine. Fuuta was just heading to bed. I’m going to walk him to his cell.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I said, I’m going to walk him to his cell.” 

Es stood, nodding to Yuno. When she’d gone, they turned their attention back to the prisoner crumpled on the ground. They made an effort to quiet their ever-racing thoughts. 

“Listen. I know you can handle yourself. I’m not doing this because I think you’re weak. You’re strong. Don’t think for a moment that I don’t see that.”

They held out their arm to help him up. He didn’t move.

“Sometimes you are a bit too strong, if you ask me. I mean, picking fights with your prison warden, really?” They clicked their tongue. “You should be grateful for a superior that gives you second chances.”

At last, Fuuta  took their hand. He avoided meeting their eyes, but his voice had softened considerably from his rant. “The only thing you give me is a headache.”

Es offered a dry smile as they pulled him to his feet. “The feeling is mutual.”

[imaginarianisms]

more asoiaf comparisons, parallels & antiparallels to the first dance of the dragons vs the second & final dance of the dragons (& possibly the sixth blackfyre rebellion): the blacks being daenerys i targaryen's supporters, the golds being aegon vi targaryen's supporters, tommen baratheon being a close equivalent to gaemon palehair & his mother essie & sylvenna sand which may be interpreted as a parallel with queen cersei lannister & taena merryweather of myr, trystane truefyre being a close equivalent to aegon/young griff & perkin being jon connington & the shepherd being the new high septon the high sparrow, dalton greyjoy being euron i greyjoy's ancestor & the latter surpassing him, alyn waters later alyn velaryon resembling aurane waters later aurane velaryon & finishing what their ancestors started. history repeats itself.

[uzumakichcined]

no i dont care whatever "data books" have to say about Karin and her loyalty to Orochimaru

she's loyal to him, there's no fucking way she would return to working with him so quickly and easily if she wasnt.

[sugarhillpark]

my nana: not doing great my cat: not doing great me: trying to remain upbeat in the face of this, the usual chronic pain dance, having surgery booked on Halloween, the surgery taking me off work and thus taking away part of my already hand-to-mouth income for another 1 - 2 weeks when I've barely recovered from the first 6 weeks off, watching multiple genocides unfold, and the surreal bonus of watching people actively celebrate a 31 year old pop star's preventable death because of abuse allegations me, turning on my pc to write fanfic and look at my gay little scrapbook on tumblr.com: hey look it's a bunch of fever era panic! pics! see, what a nice thing! and you know, i haven't seen people dogpile on brendon urie and wish violence and suicide on him for ages now, so that's something me, scrolling down: mmmm. MMMmmMMMMMMMMmm

[theriverdalereviewer]

everyone jumping to team kamala we will never experience true freedom in this country

[homemade-potato]

HELP me and my friend have a reoccurring issue that every time we go on duo nights out, no matter what club or bar we go to we always bump into these two men who try to invite us back to theirs for drug-fueled gang bangs EVERYTIME and it was funny the first time because they were offering us unicorn colouring books because they're over 30 and we're decidedly not, but now it's just so extremely irritating

[digitalcockroach]

ok so ive only been playing my bg3 durge playthrough kinda sporadically (i also spent like 20 hours on a character i abandoned before coming back to my original durge because i love him so much) and it's wild how im simultaneously finding SO MUCH stuff i missed or just didnt get in my first playthrough while also tearing through the game like 3X as fast because ive got combat down now and can skip a lot of dialog lol