#if you want to dismantle those things you can go about it in a more above-board way

[purplesaline]

And if you REALLY want to help dismantle a belief like this, ask the person sincere questions. You need to chip away at the edges of the belief with these questions, not get right to the core of things or it will feel like an attack. OP commenting that it seemed like this person was regarding any deviation as a physical attack was right on point. Our brains don't see a difference between a physical attack and an attack on our beliefs. It reacts the same to both.

"Oh I'd never heard about the dome before! I just heard that God brought endless rains. Where can I learn more about the dome?"

"Was the dome of water kind of like the moon and just orbited the earth until the water fell? Does water take awhile to create? Is that why God made it all ahead of time instead of making it from scratch when he needed it?"

Stuff like that makes the person examine the logic of the story and the sincerity the questions are asked with prevents them from becoming defensive. Once someone gets defensive they can't think rationally anymore and they'll just dig in further.

I can't stress this enough, the questions MUST be asked in good faith, any trace of sarcasm or cynicism will trigger defensiveness. You must go into this process as if the person's belief could be valid and the only thing stopping you from believing it too is a lack of understanding. You're simply seeking to better understand it so you can believe it too. If you even so much as judge them in your own head you risk tipping your hand.

Now the other important part of this is the moment you see them start to feel uncomfortable (usually because they haven't been able to come up with an answer) you need to stop asking questions. Discomfort can easily trigger the fight/flight response because it's a sign that a belief has been threatened (even if it was by the person themselves) and I guarantee they haven't learned distress tolerance skills yet. You just want them to squirm a little bit and then go back to feeling safe. That little kernel of discomfort will slowly wear away at them over time though and that's the goal.

Essentially what asking questions like this does is teach the person how to think critically about their beliefs. If you've asked sincere questions that are completely rational things to ask and the person hasn't been able to provide an answer they'll start asking those types of questions themselves.

When I was getting my associates degree I took a Mythology class that I loved. But one of the girls in class was absolutely off the rails conservative Christian which made things… interesting.

The professor started off the class by being like, “Mythology is stories associated with religion.”

This girl. Haaaated that. She was like, “No, Christianity is true. It’s not mythology.” Mythology was delivered in the same tone as someone trying to spit excrement from their mouth.

The professor raised her eyebrows and said laconically, “Yes, most people believe their religion is the real one, that’s part of it, and the stories surrounding religion are referred to as mythology.”

The girl stewed in a hateful sullen rage. I truly don’t understand why she didn’t drop the class but perhaps it was court mandated education. We all expected her to drop the class but she dug in like a tick and derailed discussions as often as she could.

On a different occasion the professor was drawing a comparison between social constructs like gender. The girl raised her hand. The class hushed to hear her announce, “It’s just a fact that women like domestic work and even though men are awful and stinky we just have to love them anyway. It’s biology, we’re just hardwired like that.”

I was sitting next to my friend a baby gay Jewish girl and our eyes met in mutual hilarity while the professor tried to pretend she hadn’t just been stricken with a stress induced migraine while she steered the class away from that landmine.

The next sticking point was a week later when the professor informed us that many mythologies have overlapping events like floods but these didn’t necessarily happen in such literal terms. It was a metaphorical way to process and understand the world.

This girls hand shot up. I watched the professor exercise extreme self control to keep her expression bland before calling on her.

“The world did flood. And Noah saved all the animals. Before the flood all the water was in a dome outside the earth and then the dome broke and the world flooded. All of it.”

The whole class stared at her as if struggling to comprehend the overlap of her acceptance that the world was round while also firmly believing that there had previously been a barrier that held up all of the earths water before god smashed it in a fit of pique.

She raged under the attention, glaring balefully at our astonished faces.

The professor stared at her blankly, unable to form words to such a bizarre belief. I wanted to ask clarifying questions- what they’d drunk before the dome broke, if there were rivers or lakes prior, or did the dome allow some rain in somehow, but then I really looked at her.

She had the eyes of a feral, cornered animal who regarded any deviation in worldview from her own to be a physical assault on her person. Like the professor, I said nothing, and after a wretchedly long pause class moved on.

[goldkirk]

if I hear one more person irl or online say something like “it’ll be fine, they’ve tried that three times already and it kept dying in committee/didn’t pass” or “they’d never get it through” or “thats so extreme they couldn’t get it done” or “they’ll be stopped by xyz part of the system, don’t worry about it” I think I’m going to scream.

“oh they’ll never elect x” “oh that’ll never pass” “oh they’ll strike that down before it can ___” LOOK. AROUND. YOU.

I don’t care if it didn’t pass before. The train tracks weren’t finished yet, they were still being laid. We’re past that now. Steam engines are charging down tracks. Holy shit what is it going to take to make people realize that when your systems are being dismantled and when your world is flooded with eighty actions at a time you can’t just count on things to work out!!! we have to actually do things!

And the VERY FIRST THING TO DO is for the entire population to take the SIXTY PLUS YEARS OF DEDICATED EFFORT that various morality and political allies have put in SERIOUSLY. How many fuck ups does it take? How many failures to take them seriously and listen to the plainly stated goals and plans they laid out over decades?

They TOLD you what they were for. They TOLD you they were playing a long game. They TOLD you they were working to raise future politicians and judges and get them into every position of influence they could from the smallest local levels on upward over time. They TOLD you what they wanted to get rid of and what rules they want to add. They TOLD you who they wanted to vote for. They TOLD you what finance and other issues actually get them angry. They TOLD you their growing hatred for the way you talked about them and treated them. They TOLD you they were being more and more radicalized. They TOLD you they believe they won’t fail. They TOLD you they learned from their mistakes. They TOLD you. They said ALL OF IT. Out loud, really publicly AND privately, for decades, and instead like, the entire non-them population in the U.S. decided to live in happy bubbles where the views and opinions of those backwards lame fools just magically didn’t matter anymore because “the world has moved on, progress, change, yadda yadda” THEY DID NOT HIDE THAT THEY WERE STILL THERE.

And now they have all the power they wanted. They have spent YEARS infiltrating the public internet, the military (yes, even the military—I recommend looking into reports on the current makeup of many military chaplains in the past 5-10 years compared to before), law firms, judge seats, school boards, city councils, and more.

And they either stand by not doing anything to stop things, or they forcibly rush other things through, and nobody is putting caps on anyone else’s power, except for the way they’re trying to disenfranchise and silence any judges who aren’t with the program, etc.

What. Will it take. To get people. To stop assuming anything will hold. Institutions do not exist. Rules do not exist. They only exist so long as enough of us collectively agree on them AND enforce them when necessary.

Take. Them. Seriously. This is literally the last chance to do so. We are well into our Weimar government. This is our last train stop coming up. They laid the tracks for years. For the love of everything you care about, please look and SEE THEM.

They’ve told you what they want. They’ve told you how they plan to get it. BELIEVE WHAT THEY SAY.

[karmacharmeleon18]

I need more of your thoughts on the prequel and sequel 👀👀 please yap away my friend

LMAO and yap away I will!

I'm always excited for sequels, especially because there's SO MUCH we've yet to see about the Moriyamas!!! I need those bitches vanquished, seriously it's not a want, it's a need, and there's simply not enough time left for it in Jean's trilogy

I still think one book might not be enough??? But Nora was clear that #2 Kevin Day only needs 2 books... and since one is a prequel, we are left with only one sequel

I guess TSC3 will set things into motion and they'll be finalized in TQG?

Even if it's just one standalone sequel, I think it's a good idea to have if from Kevin's POV because he has insights on that family no one else has

I really, truly HOPE/WISH/NEED Nora is going in that direction, the "let's take down the Moriyamas" route, and Kevin can reasonably be the key to that

So I'm excited and I would be SUPER disappointed if nothing major happened in that regard

I just see no point in making one standalone sequel from Kevin's POV unless we see the fall of the Moriyamas, you know??? Like, what's the point otherwise?

Nora said she had originally planned a #4 AFTG book from Neil's perspective, about the new freshmen, the game against the dismantled and crumbling Ravens, etc. but then she realized it wasn't needed, there wasn't enough plot for a whole book: the Foxes' story was over

So if we're getting a sequel from a current Fox, there must be a specific reason why

(🤞🏾🤞🏾🤞🏾 PLEASE NORA PLEASE LET THERE BE A REASON 🤞🏾🤞🏾🤞🏾)

If it was a trilogy, I could understand, it means Nora just wants to analyze Kevin's character and give him an arc of some kind; maybe a trilogy set at the same time as AFTG, giving us Kevin's perspective of canon events? Or a sequel trilogy showing how Kevin handles being in the world on his own after graduation? An ex Raven, former Fox, dealing with the real world? Both could work

But a single sequel?

Set right after TSC where criminal trials and Testuji's role are still up in the air?

Titled The Queen's Game?

Come on, the Moriyamas are getting what they deserve, right?

RIGHT?

I really hope/think Nora will use this one sequel book to tie up all the loose ends TSC3 will inevitably leave us with, because there's just not enough time to resolve everything in a trilogy finale

So I'm excited and hopeful and would be EXTREMELY disappointed if we got nothing, no justice, no freedom for our Foxes and Trojans

It would make no sense to me

Like, for example, I'm not particularly interested in reading a book about Kevin joining the Houston Sirens, aka Thea's team, and see their relationship develop. Nora recently made a post trying to "redeem" Thea to an extent, where she acknowledged that canon!Thea did not leave a good impression (but then she makes it all even worse in TSC? Nora, what are you doing?), but I'm just not interested in a KevThea book 🤷🏾‍♀️

It has to be something else

One book... The Queen's Game... The Moriyamas are getting 🔪

That's the only thing that makes sense to me 😭😭

Now...

About the prequel...

I'm terrified.

Like, I straight up don't know if I'll read it.

I'll most likely wait until my friends finish it and can give me a trigger warning list lol (laughing not to cry)

Because Nora undeniably has a fixation, even a fetish, for torture, sexual assault, violence in general

And the only thing worse than a story set in the mind of someone who survived the Nest and is out of it now (Jean, Neil in part) is reading a story SET IN THE NEST

Even if it's from Kevin's POV and he was never assaulted

I just don't trust Nora to be respectful and realistic when it comes to portraying abuse in a cult. She loves exaggerating the violence, in a way that can be triggering for anyone. So I don't know what I'll do.

One thing I'll say tho, it's that Kevin's POV is needed at this point

In 2024 Nora shared her list of favorite Foxes in order and it goes: Neil, Andrew, Kevin (etc.etc.)

And in the tags she said:

WELL NORA TSC AND TGR DIDN'T HELP!!!!

Now we dislike Kevin even more 😭

Because what do you mean he knew Jean was being raped? What do you mean he shrugs it off? What do you mean he was never raped because "they had no reason", implying that Jean gave them a reason to do that, brought it upon himself 🤢?

What do you mean he is the exact same type of arrogant, bossy hypocrite with Jean he is with the Foxes?

You really thought Jean and Jeremy's perspective of him would make us like him more??? And makes us think that you love Kevin???

In what universe?? 😭

A "non-Fox perspective of him" made Kevin look even worse

She really thought TSC would make us see Kevin in a more positive, kinder light???? (same for Thea)

So yeah, if she wants to redeem Kevin, his POV is absolutely needed at this point

Show us Kevin's humanity, his insecurity, his loneliness, make us relate to him, in a way that goes beyond the cowardice and hypocrisy shown in AFTG and TSC

(though considering Nora's track record, she could have Kevin fully say "Jean deserved it" and then be all *shocked Pikachu face* when people still hate him 🙄)

Now, what could The Perfect Court be about?

Riko, obviously

But when?

Are we getting the Riko-Kevin backstory? How they met, grew up together, joined the Nest and survived Tetsuji's abuse by clinging to each other?

How Jean disrupted the fragile balance they had found, how Riko descended into madness once given absolute power over another human?

Is it going to end with Riko shattering Kevin's hand, the ultimate act of fraternal betrayal?

And then fade to black, and the rest is history?

... or is it going to start with Riko breaking Kevin's hand?

Is the whole book going to be about Kevin knocking on Waymack's - his father's - door and joining the Foxes? So a direct prequel to AFTG? With lots of flashbacks about the Nest and Riko's Perfect Court delusions?

Or a mix of both? The first half is Kevin-Riko in the Nest, the second half is the fallout?

I don't know. But I know it's going to be graphic. And I don't think I'm ready

But for the sequel, I am SAT

[thelastarchangelaskblog]

Gimme a cheek kiss with Gabriel and Michael for the family healing vibes

I was persuaded by the Discord server to post the whole thing as is, all 2,000 words of it. Yes, that is why it took so long. Also thanks for the prompt that let me do post-Hogwarts stuff.

I do reserve the right to change this scene once I actually get to it in actual story since things might change.

Anyway, enjoy~

**

The last thing Tony expected to happen while he was elbows deep in a flying carriage was for Michael to pop in. Michael rarely visited as it was, and when he did it was to ask Tony (and even more rarely Samael) about something. But Michael hadn’t ever popped into his workshop just like this.

There was a moment of silence as Michael took in everything around him. He seemed to take a moment longer on seeing Tony, eyes lingering on the safety glasses he had on. A slight sense of confusion filled the air.

Huffing, Tony slid the glasses up his forehead. They had been a gift from Dummy, which was the only reason he bothered using them. That and also the fact that some starry-eyed Asgardians had put their eyes out trying to emulate him welding without safety glasses. The eyes had been taken care of but it wasn’t an experience Tony wanted to repeat. 

It looked like today was a human clothes day for Michael. The shirt was a little threadbare and looked like it might have come from Luna’s closet with the sparkly unicorn beaming at the viewer.

“What can I do for you, bro?” Tony asked after a long moment of silence. He could have kept it going a little longer but Michael was beginning to seem a bit nervous.

Michael’s question was straight out of left field. “You parented five children, right?”

Tony blinked, straightening a little further and shoving the glasses up further into his hair. “Give or take… Why?”

“How did you handle it?”

“Being a parent?”

“Yes.”

This was not a conversation that he could half-ass. This was also not a conversation he’d ever pictured having with Michael. “Are you expecting?” he asked. Gabriel thought he would have noticed if Michael was expecting. That kind of thing was hard to miss. But Michael seemed entirely normal except for the nerves.

Michael shook his head, attention falling to the dismantled flying chariot. “It’s…a possibility. Human,” he added after a second.

…Why was Michael here asking Gabriel this question? Why was Michael even considering this in the first place? Gabriel had so many questions and the only one he could really think of to say first wasn’t even a question and more of a statement. “The question of adoption is one best asked of your partner, not your sibling.”

Michael’s lips thinned. “I’m not discussing it without knowing if it’s even a good idea.”

That definitely sounded like Michael there. “So you’re asking me if raising a human kid is a good idea?”

Michael shrugged, then nodded once.

Gabriel spread his hands, shrugging broadly. “I don’t know.”

Michael frowned. “You raised five—”

Gabriel cut him off with a raised finger. “I raised one. The others were out of infancy by the time I realized what had happened.”

“They were still children,” Michael pointed out evenly. “And they all speak very highly of you, even Samael.”

Gabriel cleared his throat, squashing down a wave of embarrassment. “Right. Well. I think that’s only to be expected given they’re my kids. Except for Samael; ne’s probably pulling your leg.”

“No.” There was no room for argument in Michael’s tone.

“…Right.” Gabriel opted not to argue that point. “So…that’s why you’re here? Because I’m the most well-adjusted parent you know?”

“You’re the only parent I know who’s also an angel.”

Gabriel rubbed a hand over his face, pinching his nose. “You’re going to fuck up,” he said eventually. “I did. This isn’t something you can do perfectly.”

“You did it successfully,” Michael said quietly. “And I…I wasn’t very successful before with our family.”

It was going to be one of those conversations…

Gabriel set down his glasses on the table and wiped his hands clean with a cloth before dropping it over the glasses. “Sit down.” He gestured towards the bench of the flying chariot.

Michael shot the bench a look. “It’s dismantled?”

“The engine, not the bench. It won’t bite or take off without me putting the power source back in, so sit.”

Michael did sit without further protest. In the meantime, Gabriel retrieved the ingredients he needed. If someone had told him an eternity ago that he would be making hot chocolate by hand and would have been doing so for years he would have laughed them out of the room.

But life had a way of playing jokes on everyone.

There was definite confusion from Michael as he watched Gabriel, though he said nothing and stayed silent all the way until Gabriel gave him his share.

Michael gave the Iron Man mug a look, looked past Gabriel’s head to where one of the suits was on display, and then side-eyed Gabriel.

Gabriel stared him in the eye, drinking out of his own Captain America mug. It had little wings. 

With a distinct air of resignation, Michael took a drink.

Gabriel let the warmth of the mug sink into his hands for a little before he broke the silence. “What happened with us…you weren’t our parent. Yes, we were responsible for taking care of them, but not as parents. This, what you’re thinking of doing, is already completely different.”

Michael looked down at his hot chocolate. “The responsibility is still the same, isn’t it?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No. It’s more.”

Predictably, Michael seemed aghast.

“Parenting is terrifying,” Gabriel continued before Michael could twist himself up into knots. “You never know if you could mess something up and ruin what you’re trying to protect.” Raising Samael had been the hardest and most terrifying years of his existence and Gabriel had been through literal Hell. His other children had been significantly easier without the pressure of “this is the one who wanted to destroy the world and might again if you fuck it up.” “But it’s also amazing.”

There was no response from Michael beyond a thoughtful silence. 

Gabriel let him sit in it for a little, drinking some more of his hot chocolate. He was about halfway done when Michael spoke. “It’s not something I ever pictured myself doing.”

Gabriel shrugged lightly. “I didn’t either.”

“You’ve always managed to adapt to circumstances.”

Michael continuing to think so highly of Gabriel never failed to baffle him. “And you haven’t?”

“Not nearly so easily,” Michael said quietly.

Gabriel snorted. “Easily? You came in after I already did all the adjusting. I got kicked into gear by two humans all those years ago and still got kicked into gear by my very human friends afterwards. Nothing has ever been busy; I’ve just gotten slightly better at handling situations. And so will you.”

“Your confidence is appreciated.”

Gabriel nudged Michael’s mug in reminder that he should drink it. “I can’t be the only one. What about your parents?”

Michael took a long drink before responding. Half of it seemed to be in order to hide his face from Gabriel. It was very human. “They think it’ll be fine, but they’re…very biased.” He looked down at the slight steam wafting up from the dark liquid in his mug. “And they’ve said they’d be willing to do it if I won’t.”

It seemed to be more than just the average situation if Michael’s human parents were willing to step in. Then again, it had to be considering Michael was even considering this. 

“But you are willing?” Gabriel asked.

Michael was quiet for some time. “Draco needs an heir.”

Ohhh, pureblood politics. “And is this something you’ve talked to him about?”

“Yes.”

“And what does he say?”

Michael ran a finger over the lip of the mug. “He says he doesn’t care, yet the pressure is bothering him. Now this and…it would be a good solution.”

“A kid shouldn’t be a solution,” Gabriel said after a moment, “but something you want.”

Michael stared down at his drink. “You didn’t necessarily want to turn Samael into a child.”

Gabriel winced. “Not…exactly. But I knew what I was signing up for, even though I didn’t feel at all like I was prepared for it. From what I’ve picked from every other mortal parent I’ve known, it’s a universal experience. You’re never prepared to be a parent.”

Michael sighed, closing his eyes. “You’re not exactly helping here, Gabriel.”

Gabriel shoved him. “I’m being very helpful. You just don’t appreciate my lauded wisdom. I can’t prepare you for this because there is no preparing for it. Consider yourself blessed to have forewarning.”

Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I saw him,” he said, “and thought for an instant it was a sign from Him, only to remember that He was gone and couldn’t have anything to do with it. And I doubt you would have done it without informing me ahead of time.”

Gabriel turned a part of his attention to the moment Michael spoke of, gaining full awareness of all he meant. There was a slight jolt from Michael at this, which Gabriel ignored. “…No. I had nothing to do with it.”

Michael sighed again.

Gabriel pulled himself back into his vessel, letting that newer part of himself go. “I would have thought the same,” he said after a moment. “I still do at times. But…we only have us now.” And he was… It wasn’t something Gabriel was comfortable voicing even in the privacy of his own head because he was all too aware of how fallible he was. The fact that he had all the power at the tips of his fingers?

It could go so very wrong.

Unprompted, Michael took a long draught from his mug. “Do you have any advice?” he asked. “As a parent?”

Gabriel bit back his first response, which was something along the lines of “don’t drop the baby on his head,” and which would have netted him a very unhappy Michael. He mulled the question over. “You love your human parents, right?”

There was a twitch in Michael’s jaw, and Gabriel felt the discomfort radiating from him. But it was a testament to how far Michael had come and maybe also how comfortable he was with Gabriel that he eventually responded with a short nod. 

The question had been rhetorical, anyway. Anyone could see how much Michael loved his human parents, and if he’d tried to say anything other than “yes” Gabriel would have called him on it. “Why?”

Michael picked up on his sincerity, since he gave the question serious consideration despite his discomfort. “Their warmth,” he answered eventually.

“What about when you were just plain old Wayne Hopkins?”

Michael frowned slightly. “They were always there for me,” he said slowly. “No matter what I did as a child…they never left.”

A rush of warmth, faded memories, and emotions surged past Gabriel where he was pressed against Michael. He felt hands run through his hair, patting his back, kissing his foreheadcheeksnose, arms holding him close, scolding words that were still gentle, and always the presence of knowing. Gabriel pulled back, breathing in slowly. “Yeah,” he managed, “there you go.”

Michael tilted his head, brow furrowing in slight confusion.

“It’s the same,” Gabriel said, focusing on the feel of the mug in his hands, the hot chocolate that was hot only because of literal divine intervention. “All you need to do is just…listen. Be there. You might not always get it right, but just let him know…you’re always in his corner. If you have that as a starting point, you’ll be fine, Michael.”

Michael pressed against Gabriel, closing the slight distance Gabriel had put between them. There was gratitude there, warmth and love and exhaustion, though that last one was less than it had been before. “Thank you.”

This was about Michael, not his own shit. Especially not shit Gabriel hadn’t even admitted to himself. Gabriel pulled himself together, slinging an arm around Michael’s shoulders and pulling him in the rest of the way. “Any time.” He folded his Grace over Michael’s, then kissed him on the cheek.

There was a startled jolt, Michael staring at him.

“Since you liked the kisses so much,” Gabriel said blandly.

Michael huffed at him, incredulity and shy embarrassment seeping from him. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though his lips were twitching. “Thank you. Really.”

Gabriel ruffled Michael’s hair, then downed the rest of his hot chocolate. “You’ll be fine, Michael.”

[livingfandomly]

This is something I’ve seen a lot and I’ve also joked about a lot but after SotR I just need to clarify my actual thoughts on this topic: Snow’s “twink death” and his inability to let go of, what was essentially, a month long relationship.

The thing is, it’s not Lucy Gray that he’s holding a grudge against… it’s her lifestyle. He got to experience first hand, the freedom and self-assurance that groups like the Covey generated for themselves. He saw Lucy Gray run off into the woods, swim in a lake, sing and dance with her peers, all after a game that should’ve destroyed her spirits - because that is the point of the Games. To have a sole surviving reminder of why the Capitol is in control. To send back one “victor” who every district hates because the person standing in front of them is taking their friend/child/sibling/cousin/partner’s spot. To completely dismantle that person’s ability to cope with the world the way they used to and to have them beholden to the Capitol for “awarding” them with riches. They’re supposed to serve only as a reminder, a threat, a shell of a person who is visibly hollow and tarnished, hated by many, feared by some and pitied by few.

Lucy Gray is not that shell. Lucy Gray, therefore, serves as a constant reminder to Snow of what should not be happening to those who get to leave the arena. The more he takes command of the Capitol and the Games, the more the “mistakes” of the Games stand out to him because his benchmark for measuring them is Lucy Gray.

Keep in mind that the 10th Games were also the first time he got to see from the inside out. He saw what pissed off the tributes. He saw how they were transported. He also saw how the public reacted at the home district. Lucy Gray had nightmares, sure, but her ability to re-mingle with her friends was a failure of the Capitol. He saw the need to maintain a constant difference between “victor” and “friend”. He saw the need to put them on tours so that the divide and distance grows. He saw the need to be able to broadcast every aspect of the Games without having to constantly be frantically cutting the feed or very obviously fixing the narrative, because that was yet another failure of the system the Capitol was trying to enforce.

This becomes so clear in SotR when he has his talk with Haymitch and realises that the Lucy Gray spirit he has been trying to squash is still alive. Not only that, it’s infectious. It can take someone like Haymitch, someone who is very well pressed under the Capitol thumb, and spark a fire inside him. The colours of the Covey, the singing, it doesn’t just represent Lucy Gray, it represents aspects of freedom that shouldn’t exist. Even him saying:

“You love her. And oh, how she seems to love you. Except sometimes you wonder because her plans don’t seem to include you at all.”

Is so telling because he can’t fathom that a person in the districts could have the independence of thought to do whatever they want. To him, she should be desperate to go back to the Capitol with Snow to get a chance to live the dream that they’re trying so hard to sell, but obviously failing.

So no, Lucy Gray isn’t just the girl he couldn’t get over. She’s the girl that serves as a warning, as an abomination of the purpose of the Capitol. As his personal blueprint of what should not be repeated ever again.

[tiramissyoucake]

Oooooo I have a viltrumite mark request! How would he and the reader handle having kids? As a viltrumite I assume it would be on the agenda, but how exactly do you think that would go?

Vomitted a small blurb. i apologize. But absolutely, I think Viltrumites want heirs. In this scenario where earth is destroyed, reader is obedient under Mark's affection because there's nowhere to go. It's either death in space or him.

So they'd change the subject or divert his attention to avoid talking about it, having kids was a huge thing and you don't fake-love him enough for that, he'd catch on to the stalling game at some point.

Reader manages to evade him in this blurb, lmk if you want another where Mark finally gets to mark it

Here you go:

"I need your answer, NOW." He'd demand with folded arms, staring down at you as your back was facing him in the bed, dressed in sleepwear while Mark stood above you, shirt was thrown aside, only in comfortable pants. "I asked you multiple times, and you keep changing the subject. When will you give me heirs?"

The way he phrased it disgusted you, maybe if you spoke honestly now, he'd understand. "I don't think I'm ready." You'd explain as you sat up, the sheets slipping down to your waist. "Mark, kids are... a huge responsibility, who's to say we can take care of them properly?"

He seemed to take the bait, sitting on the edge of the bed and facing you with a stoic expression. "I understand you're scared, but we have everything we need, a powerful empire, a comfy bed, clean clothes and warm meals, what more could a child need?"

He dismantled your arguments so impatiently and was closing you in a corner, you had to think of a way out. Fast.

"... y-your.. conquests." You mumbled, the excuse building itself in your head quickly. "... dear, you've been so absent and neglectful recently." A glimmer of hope appears as his expression shifts to guilt.

"Our children should have present parents, parents who aren't busy with invasions." You glance away, keeping your expression away from his eyes. "I know it's your responsibility, but I can't accept, it's not a good time."

His hands clutch the sheets, frustrated as you illustrated your point. "Sweetheart, is that how you really feel? Have I been neglectful?" He cups your cheek and makes you look at him, your eyes downcast as you nod, ensuring to stab the guilt into his heart as you pouted and looked at him with your most vulnerable, saddened, kicked-puppy look.

Mark sighs, hugging you closely, his bare skin warm against you as he caught a whiff of your scent; he's come to associate it with home. "... I'm sorry, I really am. You know I love you, don't you?"

"I love you too dear, but..." You didn't know if he was rambling or if he wanted a response, nonetheless you absentmindedly replied, he continued. "Listen, let's compromise; okay?"

Too much resistance would raise alarm, you listened. "I'll agree to postponing, I have a few more invasions to carry out for the next 2 months, that should be plenty of time for you to think, don't you agree?"

You bought yourself 2 months successfully, nodding twice, although his smile said he expected a yes after those 2 months.

"Good..." his defined hand trailed up your thigh gently, pushing up the cloth and revealing your skin. The mattress sunk down as he pulled you closely, his heartfelt smile turning into an lustful grin. "Now, come here. I missed you."

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

“DATV is about hope and is escapist” then why is the story retroactively trying to paint Solas, the only person of the Evanuris who used his power and privilege to help end slavery and liberate the elves, as a prideful arrogant self-centered bastard who secretly loved being worshipped as a god when every single thing he has ever said and done contradicts those assumptions made by the Veilguard companions.

Oh I’m sorry, do you think slave rebellions can be accomplished through peaceful means? Through purely decentralized anarchist uprisings? Are we trying to argue that Solas didn’t rebel the “correct way”? Are we trying to argue that Solas actually wanted to be worshipped as a god by those he freed. Solas, a man who wanted nothing more than to be a spirit of Wisdom and act as nothing more than an entity that would help people act and think mindfully?

The game’s dialogue for the companions tries to make it out like Solas enjoyed being a rebellion leader, rather than it being one of the most frustrating and agonizing and embittering experiences of his existence. The game is so clumsy that is seems to imply that Solas trying to do right by the elves with the rebellion was another mistake on his part, as if someone trying to fight for the rights of an oppressed people is something that is ever a mistake one could make.

Real liberal (derogatory) hours here. Even at your most uncharitable—Solas helped give the elves bodies and helped the Evanuris secure their power—he was trying to correct that mistake and was the only one of the Evanuris that was actively doing so. Mythal was dragging her ass the entire fucking time trying to be a fence-sitting centrist that thought you could actually parley and negotiate with slave owners. Oh but wait, Veilguard conveniently proves you can! Just look at Dorian! Apparently all you needed to dismantle centuries upon centuries of brutal inhumane slavery was a dandy saying “please let the slaves go” and everything is all but resolved in ten fucking years. Solas, why didn’t you try taaaalking to the blood magic warmongering slave sacrificing Evanuris? Maybe things would’ve gone better if you’d just asked nicely 🥺

Veilguard tries to go the “Solas is corrupting into Pride” and they botched it so terribly. Solas is prideful, but the writers made him out like his problem was a secret vanity or desire for power. No, his problem was that he thought he was correct. That is a 100000% entirely different issue and it shows that the writers have no concept of nuance for psychology or even what Wisdom and even Pride are. And for people to swallow “Wow Solas was just a power-hungry arrogant bastard all along” is like reading Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee —the abandoned prototype of To Kill a Mockingbird that was meant to remain an unused manuscript—and thinking that is the real story and everything established in TKaM about Atticus Finch was just smoke and mirrors. Like come the fuck on.

Solas’s issue is that as a mortal he is inundated with mortal feelings that interfere with the purity of Wisdom. All mortals have levels of dignity and pride that are inextricably linked and mutually dependent to their recognition of their own personhood. Self-esteem, if you will. Wisdom is the act of deliberating and determining and enacting the best—most morally correct, most benign, most “good”—course of action in a scenario based on an aggregation of information and experiences. Solas’s “Pride” and biggest flaw is that he believes his judgments are the most objectively correct or best because this guy has spent tens of thousands of years watching and observing and experiencing people make the same mistakes over and over, behave in similar cyclical predictable ways in matters of love, power, violence, hatred, greed, tyranny, cruelty, ignorance, oppression, pride, grief, etc. Because Wisdom is derived from being able to apply knowledge and history and experience to solve a present problem, Solas naturally thinks he’s no spring chicken to all this and that he’s got a better grasp than most. Where Wisdom turns into Pride is the nature of the mortal mind, which for many likes to rely on rules of thumb and shortcuts and patterns to solve issues. While this is present in the dissemination of Wisdom, the flipside is that it can leave one vulnerable to stubbornness and partiality to one’s viewpoint regardless of new developments. Again, the mortal mind likes shortcuts because it saves time. Puzzling out whether this person or that scenario is truly uniquely unique every single time, wastes time. This is how presumptions and stereotypes arise. That Solas could only observe modern Thedas through what was reflected in the Fade gave him a half-understanding of people. That he chose to develop a resentment toward the Dalish after one bad encounter and remain detached from other races before joining the Inquisition meant he had fallen prey to these intellectual pitfalls, which is the result of his mortal nature interfering with his Wisdom nature.

It is also why he seems so philosophical and open-minded and lofty in some conversations and extremely definitive and judgmental in others over the same topic, notably modern elves and Dalish. This is the humanitarian nature of Wisdom—the pacifistic thoughtfulness—having been granted reactive, if at times impolitic claws. He is a man in flux, frustrated at the presence of pride in others; flush with his own thread of pride as an ages-old being; forced to endure ignorance of the Dalish that he cannot alleviate because he tried to once and failed, and to try again now while in the Inquisition would risk his identity being found out; and in his frustration forgetting what he knows very deeply, which is that the reason the Dalish are ignorant is because elves have suffered centuries of erosion of their civilization and culture, on top of enslavement, conquest, and cultural genocide. The Wisdom part of him knows that. At times he can remark and highlight very astutely on the plight of people when the topic of oppression comes up. The mortal part of him that is “active”, i.e. flossed with personality, esteem, and cognitive bias, obscures this clarity granted to him by his original nature. It clouds his thinking, it makes him forget, and it is even harder for him to recalibrate and remember their circumstances because once his Pride radar is pinged, it’s what he latches onto and mirrors. Unfortunately, Pride rarely conquers Pride. They only amplify each other, like gasoline on flames, so Solas’s mirroring unintentionally encourages more of what he detests. The pure material world is not like the Fade where strength of will can consume or cancel out another will. He should know that by now, but as stated, he’s in flux. His grasp on How to Be a Person is far more extensive than Cole’s, but it seems former-spirit-turned-mortals possess some lingering cognitive habits from their time as spirits, and this throws their mental gears out of whack.

Solas has never wanted to rule over people. He has never once wanted to be worshipped even at his most manipulative and Machiavellian. He wants to sit under a tree in the summer and idly discuss whether fire could be considered alive and if good requires evil to exist and the pros and cons of allowing collective memory to remain unchallenged. He wants to explore the Fade and see what new gentle incorporeal friends he might encounter.

Like of all things, the butchering of Solas’s character pisses me off to no end. Dislike him if you want, hate him if you want, but don’t for a second try to misconstrue that his problem is that he has secret aspirations for godhood. Does he think ancient elves are a superior race? There are definitely indications. But he doesn’t think of himself as someone to be worshipped by anyone, least of all other elves. Very huge distinction.

Edit: proof of what I’m saying about spirits and Natures straight from the horse’s mouth

[daylighted]

all i can think about is frat boy dean whos dating his nerdy little girlfriend and comes over to her dorm when shes studying and shes like struggling but dean tries to help her study even though he doesnt know shit😭 and then hes like “yeah i have no idea what im even saying” while hes trying to explain random crap

anyways ur theme is so cute!!

all of the classes dean was in, she was in the advanced placements for, pretty much an entire year above him. she was so damn smart that dean sometimes felt like she was humbling herself being around him and choosing him, especially in instances like this, where she'd asked him to study with her, and he realized quickly he does not know how to study properly.

"well, see," he's half leaned over her shoulder, chin resting in the little notch between her neck and arm, "the data's gotta have the answer. wouldn't be part of the question if it didn't."

dean did not have a clue what he was looking at. a table chart with so many numbers. a paragraph above it explaining the numbers and adding additional data. the practice question wasn't even multiple choice; who did that?

her smile is slow, and dean knows that again, he's said the wrong thing. but if there's one thing dean does know how to do, is dig his own grave. "like, math, right?" it was science. chemistry. whatever. "take all the numbers, add 'em up, get the average..."

well, now her eye was twitching, like a parent barely refraining from taking the pen and doing the problem themselves. dean's starting to stutter over his explanation. technically, she did ask for this, asking him for assistance, so... "then multiply the average by the number of sections on the chart. with all those steps, it's gotta be the way, baby, trust."

his beautiful, intelligent, quiet girlfriend did not say a word to argue. instead, she did something worse, and took her pretty pen out of his hand and moved the paper in front of her again. the silence was overbearing. now dean had completely abandoned his books and wanted to see this damn problem through, just out of his own disbelief. they made questions like this? without multiple choice? and all these numbers?

he, in fact, does not shut up, even as she's writing numbers and scribbling them out and repeating. "yeah, babe, to be honest? don't know what the fuck i'm saying."

"i know." two words, and she'd managed to dismantle the fragile confidence he had in chemistry-related things. "but thank you for trying to help in your own way."

she might as well have just stabbed him. "just doin' my job, pretty lady," dean saluted her, tipping his baseball cap at her before plucking it off his head and spinning it around. front facing meant business, backwards meant party. he deserved a party after the couple of braincells in his head had sparked and fizzled out. "hey, how 'bout this," the mischief in his smile is absolutely diabolical considering he was really just starting to hinder you more than anything, "every question either of us get right, we take somethin' off?"

her eyebrows raise. "you're gonna be fully clothed and i'm gonna be naked if we do that."

dean leans in to steal a kiss, that devilish grin still on his mouth. "that's precisely the point. get t'solvin', pretty lady."

she wasn't going to argue. especially not when he used precisely right in a sentence.

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

"HE'S BLEEDING ON MY LIPS"

SYNOPSIS: After a long, hard, and brutal fight with the villain of the week, the teen team returns to HQ exhausted. As team leader, you must ensure everyone is okay, especially your team's powerhouse, Invincible.

You have never met a man more reckless than Mark Grayson. You thought you knew recklessness when you met Rex, but you never knew recklessness like his—not at all. He flew into fights without care for his health or well-being, putting himself in danger every step of the way, self-destructed and thrown around. As team leader, you were the only one there to help him after every battle. After each fight, he always came to the med bay for help with his cuts and bruises. You stayed there scolding him, but it always went in one ear and out the other. You can't with this boy; you really can't, but you really do need him. He’s fast, he's agile; for some reason, you always seem to be able to count on him. Even when he's acting like a total ass, you can always count on him to be by your side, ready for anything. So, what you have to do as team leader is to be by his side and help him.

After a brutal battle with the villain of the week, Mark came to the med bay. You were already there waiting, arms crossed and a scowl on your face, glaring at him. Your eyes peered through his mask; his goggles were shattered, and blood was bleeding from his nose, decorating his mask like bright red paint. At this point, it was part of his suit. If Spirit Halloween ever sold Invincible suits, they would have to make sure to add a bucket of paint on the side as well for accuracy, of course. “So, would you mind telling me why downtown has a crater in the sidewalk?” you said, your legs shaking with frustration, and the guy in front of you had nothing to say for himself.

“Well, I thought I could handle it.” You thought you could handle it? The whole room rumbled. “I gave you that comm for a reason—not as an accessory, but to call us when you need backup. You wouldn't have gotten beaten like that if you just called for help. You could have dismantled the villain quicker and ensured there was no damage in the area! Now, I have to file police reports on why there's an asteroid-sized crater in the middle of the street!” you shouted, and the tall boy sighed before running a hand through his jet-black hair. He walked over to where you were sitting, plopped himself down, and started to scratch his neck—a bad habit of his.

“I’m sorry I had you worried.”

Worried? You were more than worried; you were furious, scared, angry, upset—adjectives you could use to describe how you felt right now—a thousand at this moment. But you kept your mouth shut. “I just want to put so much weight on your shoulders already, team leader. I just wanted to give you a break,” he answered.

Now, you started to feel your heart warming, that cold, icy heart of yours melting into a sweet puddle. God, it was so easy for him to make you crumble like this. Hold yourself together, dude! You cannot allow him to think that you’re going to let him off the hook; there will be no lenience! You were going to tell him off, remind him that you are a strong team leader, and that you’re supposed to carry those burdens. “I’m glad that you’re trying to take things off my shoulders. Things are meant to be on my shoulders. I can handle almost anything, and I know you can too. But at the end of the day, we’re just human. We still bleed, and you’re bleeding on my tile floors!” you quipped, getting a chuckle out of him.

“I’m bleeding out of my nose, and I have a black eye. Are you worried about the tile floors, of course? I’m worried about the tile floor!”

“They’re white,” you answered. “Do you know how hard it is to get blood off of white tile floors?” All he could do was laugh, and he turned around to face you, lowering his head. “Alright, alright, I’ll clean them up, so come on. Take care of your doc, or else I'll start bleeding on your precious cape.” You grumbled, pulling his face closer to yours as you took care of the various wounds on his face. Blood still dripped from his nose, but you didn’t mind. You would deal with it later, you thought, every time you pressed the rubbing alcohol to his face. You had to grip his chin to ensure he didn’t pull away while you continued your work.

You started to feel his breath ghost over yours as he pulled himself closer. Your body began to shiver. What was happening to you? You were acting like a schoolgirl with a crush in front of the fifteen-year-old team leader. “Pull yourself together!” you screamed in your head, but when you looked up at him—his dirt-brown eyes staring into yours, his bloody lips, and his broken nose—you couldn't help but think he looked even cuter like this, so disheveled and vulnerable. He was putting all his trust and faith into you, into your hands, as you guided your fingers around those cuts and bruises on his face. You felt your hands begin to tremble as you quickly finished your job, bandaging his nose and eye, then trying to pull away.

“Doc, my head hurts," he whispered softly into your hand.

“I’ll get some Tylenol for that,” you answered softly.

“No,” his voice was firm. “Just stay.”

And you stayed. You were the one giving the orders, and he was the one following them. This was completely different; it was not in the instruction manual. “Just act professional,” you thought, and you rubbed his temple. “Does this feel better?”

He nods into your hands sweetly, making you sigh. "You're such a baby," you say with a playful grin. "I always have to take care of you. At this point, it feels like you’re just trying to get my attention," you ramble, and he pulls you closer. "Is it working? Do I have your attention, Captain?" you gasp. "Yeah, it’s your full attention, 'cause right now I'm feeling sick, and I think I need you to take care of me." He pulls you even closer, and you don't object.

"Be professional, be professional! Your team leader! Be professional!" your mind screams and yells at you, but you're not listening— not at all. I mean, almost any superhero looks strong next to a cute boy, especially when he’s bloodied and beat up. That must be your secret weakness.

He pulls you into a kiss, and you can taste the metallic flavor of his blood on your lips. You pull away because you're about to object, but he pulls you back in for a peck, then another, and another, until you're making out with him in the med bay, tasting the blood on his skin and on yours, feeling him grip you like a vice. His strong body presses against yours, shaking.

You’re the strong, capable leader. How can you be so weak at this moment? How can you allow him to see you in such a way— so vulnerable? But then again, you’d rather have him see you like this than anyone else. He runs a hand through your hair, tangling his fingers in your locks as he pulls you deeper.

His lips bite at yours, drawing just a bit of blood from them before licking it away. His breath is heavy, and he’s panting, but he doesn’t give himself any time to pull away; he's too busy making sure you’re out of breath. You are; you’re pushing and pulling away from him, trying to tell him to stop, but he’s not, and you’re not. Goodness gracious, what has he turned you into?

You finally pull away, and he’s looking at you with low eyes, the blood smeared on his lips and chin. You touch your face, noticing some of his blood on you now. You kissed a boy with bloody lips, and you liked it.

[clockwayswrites]

Danny In Metropolis, ch3 p1

Masterpost

First draft and not read over. Migraine. Hurty. Currently on phone preying my green light helps. Please no edit or concrit <3

Despite their heart to heart about it, Danny still had to put a token complaint now and then about the lunches. Even with that, he ate every one. He also would also, in an oddly shy way, pass on thanks to Clark when there was something in the lunch that he really liked.

Kon made sure to tell each of those to Clark, in case, maybe, those things might make it more regularly into the rotation. He defended it to himself that it was just logical. If there were more things that Danny liked in the lunch, he was more likely to eat it all. As if Danny hadn’t eaten it all every day.

“So tell me about this Danny?” Lois asked with a smile that Kon didn’t quite trust.

For all that Clark was basically the alien embidiment of a cheerful, friendly golden lab, Lois was like a cliche cat. She was always after the canary too.

(She was also intimidating; she was more eloquent and put together than Kon would ever be, for all he pretended.)

“Um, he just moved here this year with his parents from somewhere in Illonois. Amity Park. He has an older sister, but she’s off at college.”

Lois stole one of the apple slices that Clark was cutting up. “What do his parents do?”

“Inventing of some sort. Danny doesn’t really like to talk about it,” Kon answered.

“A bit odd since he offered to come over and fix anything we needed fixing in return for the lunches,” Clark said. His back was to Kon, but he sounded like he was smiling.

The way Lois smiled when she glanced at Clark pretty much confirmed that. “Anything?”

“From dishwashers to computers to centrifuges,” Clark answered.

“Huh, well if our centrifuge ever breaks,” Lois drawled.

“I think that’s why he doesn’t like to talk about it. Like, I think that his parents used to have a lab at home or maybe more it felt more like they lived at the lab. They’re not supposed to do that anymore but,” Kon shrugged, “I guess habits die hard or something.”

“Hence the lunches,” Clark said. “Apparently food at home wasn’t always free of contamination, or at least percieve contamination.”

“Damn, poor kid,” Lois said, theiving another apple slice. “I guess you’ll just have to bring him home.”

Kon blinked and hoped to whoever that he wasn’t blushing. “Um, what?”

“For dinner,” Lois clarified with that dangerous little smile of hers. “Just to make sure he gets some good food then. I even promise to stay far away from the kitchen that night.”

“Oh, um, yeah, maybe?”

“You boys could work on that project after too,” Clark suggested, “pick Lois’ brain about poetry.”

“Oh god, poetry. I think I’m having flashbacks to Professor Eden’s class.”

“Bad class?”

“Amazing, but very, very weird. When God made that man, he broken the mold. I doubt there has ever been anyone else like him and the world is both better and worse for it. I may not be a poet, but he changed the way I looked at words.”

“Huh,” Kon said. “I guess… I can at least ask if he wants to come over.”

“For Friday. He can even spend the night if he wants,” Clark suggested. He turned around, handed Kon two lunch boxes, and just smiled back at whatever incredulous look Kon guessed he had on his face. “You’ve never had a sleepover, it might be fun.”

Kon felt confussed. “Um, like, every night at Titan’s Tower?”

“That’s more dorms than sleepover,” Lois said. “But just stick to dinner if that makes you uncomfortable, sweetie.”

“…right. Um, thanks, I’ll ask I guess,” Kon conceeded as he stuffed the lunch boxes in his backpack. “I better go before I’m late.”

“Have a good day at class,” Clark called after him.

“Dismantle the hetronormative patriarchy!” Lois added with a laugh at whatever look Clark sent her for that.

As if he could talk, he ran around in spandex with his underwear on the outside.

[seat-safety-switch]

Among car enthusiasts of a certain persuasion, there exists a yearning that cannot be satisfied by regular automakers. The hoi polloi are perfectly happy with their normal, pedestrian automobiles. The elites opt for penis-shaped zoom-zooms that cost more than a house. Those of us in the middle, who have an eternal love for going very fast for very little money, are abandoned. And as we all know, being in the self-described middle is the same thing as being morally correct at all times.

Back in the 50s, people really wanted to go fast for no money. It's what started the whole world of hot rodding. And they had lots of good options, thanks to the government suddenly having a ton of warplanes that weren't currently engaged in a war. Cool plane superchargers, engines, belly tanks – anything that weird nerds could get their hands on – got shoved into cars in the quest to go fast. And automakers were run by those weird nerds, back then.

Sure, a lot of them were putatively "run" by big-dollar, humanity-crushing fascists, but the real fun, in the research and development divisions? That was happening with the same hot rodder nutjobs who would go down to the beach after work and do skids in a car mostly made out of a bathtub, until the cops showed up. And in the late 50s, what those very same nutjobs were excited about were turbines.

See, turbine engines were getting exciting then. It was the jet age. Clean, efficient, very loud, screaming jets. Not inefficient, old clangy pistons with their oiled bearings and pitiful triple-digit horsepower. No, it was time to go fast, and so they dutifully started cramming turbines into street cars. Did it make sense? No. Were any of these cars even close to being practical? Absolutely not. Was it completely bad-ass? Yes.

Unfortunately, it was at this time that the nascent development of "management science" began to metastasize in the Western world. A lot of bosses came down and saw a screaming, shrieking demon burning nineteen litres of gasoline per minute, bolted loosely into a Ford Deluxe Coupe, and they asked: how many cupholders this got? Not having a sufficient answer that didn't start with "fuck you," these same bosses then began dismantling the apparatus that held a promise of a glorious, high-pitched-whining future of thirty-thousand-rpm engines.

There is still hope. For instance, things containing turbines get crashed all the time. Once the FAA is done looking at them to figure out what they fucked up (usually: aircraft contacted the earth too soon,) they don't really pay too much attention to what happens to the carcass. If you're quick, you can cut through the fence and get ahold of your very own helicopter turbine with which to start the project. And what do you use to slice through that fence and retrieve your futurist prize? A thirty-thousand-rpm battery-operated cut-off wheel, of course. Thanks, weird nerds.

[verstappenverse]

The Price of the Podium

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: In the relentless pursuit of racing glory, Max faces the emotional fallout of missing an important weekend in his relationship, leaving your future uncertain.

1.5k words / Part 2 / Masterlist

Max's heart raced as the engine of his RedBull roared beneath him. The familiar hum had become a source of comfort, a steady rhythm that guided him through countless laps and countless victories. But today it felt different, a harbinger of an approaching storm that threatened to dismantle everything he held dear.

The season had been merciless. Each race had been a relentless pursuit of perfection, each lap a battle against time and competitors. Max understood that this world demanded sacrifices, but lately the weight of those sacrifices had changed.

When Max glanced at his phone during a fleeting moment of respite his stomach dropped as a surge of guilt swept over him. A string of missed calls and urgent messages from you filled the screen, each one more desperate than the last.

Hey, can you please call me when you get a chance? I need to talk to you.

Max, you’re really starting to worry me. I don’t understand what's going on?

It’s been three days since we spoke properly. Can you at least let me know you’re okay?

Max’s gaze fell on the calendar, he had promised again to visit your extended family this weekend, a significant step for you both that had been previously filled with excitement and anticipation. Your family were eager to meet him, and Max had been looking forward to it as well. But now with the punishing schedule of the season, he was struggling to find even a moment to breathe, let alone make the trip.

He knew he was being a coward, but it was easier to avoid the situation than confront it directly and risk letting down the person who mattered most.

As Max approached the racetrack for another testing session, the weight of his choices hit him like a sledgehammer. He was about to miss an important milestone in your life together and he didn't think you'd be so forgiving this time.

His mind was full of conflicting emotions. He wanted to be there for you, to prove to your family that he was serious about your relationship, but the world of racing had a way of consuming everything in its path leaving no room for personal commitments.

The testing session was a blur. Max’s driving was flawless, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The track blurred into an endless ribbon of asphalt. He pushed himself to the limit, hoping that the adrenaline would drown out the guilt gnawing at his conscience.

Finally, the session ended. Max’s team were in high spirits celebrating the improved performance. He barely registered their enthusiasm, his mind was occupied with the image of you waiting for him in a small town, wondering why he had not shown up. He could picture you there, waiting for him, checking the clock, wondering if he’d even bothered to leave. And it wasn’t just about this weekend, it was about every missed call, every text he hadn’t answered, every promise he’d let slide.

The moment Max stepped out of the car he took a deep breath and pulled out his phone. He dialed your number hoping against hope that you would answer. After a few rings your voice came through the line tinged with weariness and frustration.

“Max?”

“Hey, I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been out of touch.”

“Out of touch? You’ve been completely absent! I was supposed to introduce you to my family this weekend. It was important to me.”

“I know. I wanted to be there, but things just got out of hand here. I’ve been trying to make time, but…”

“But what Max? You keep saying you’re trying, but you’re never here. There's always an excuse.”

“I’m really sorry, I’ve been working so hard this season...I thought I could make it work, I just…”

“You know what? I don’t want to hear more excuses right now. You’ve missed something important to me again, and it hurts. I needed you here, and you weren’t.”

The silence on the other end of the line was heavy, almost unbearable. Max could feel the pain that you were struggling to mask, like a knife twisting in his gut. It cut him deeper than any criticism he’d ever faced on the track.

“Please. I know I messed up, I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“Make it up to me? I don’t even know if that’s possible anymore. This wasn’t like the other times when you just forgot or lost track of time; you made the choice not to come. I’ve tried to be understanding—I know how hard this season has been, and I know how much time and dedication it takes. I never wanted to undermine that. But I don’t know how much longer we can do this. I get it, you have to make tough choices sometimes, and I’ve done my best to support you, to step back and let you focus on your goals. But it’s happening too often now, and it feels like every time, you’re choosing this…this life over us. Over me. Every single time.”

Max’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to explain more, but he also knew that he couldn't keep making excuses for his absence, and he couldn’t bear to hurt you anymore. He’d run out of explanations, out of promises he knew he couldn’t keep. He wanted to say something, anything to fix it, but he could hear the finality in your voice. You’d reached a breaking point, one he’d seen coming but had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“I don’t know what to say,” he finally whispered, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them.

The silence stretched on.

“I understand if you need space.” he murmured, barely able to get the words out, blinking back tears.

Your voice was barely a whisper throat locking up, it felt like he was giving up. Was this even worth fighting for if he wasn't?

Then, in a voice so small it broke his heart all over again, you whispered,“You’re right. Maybe space is what we need right now.'

The line went dead, leaving Max alone in the garage. The celebration of the session’s success felt hollow. The echoes of the track still rang in his ears mingling with the ache of your absence.

In the days that followed Max tried to bury himself in the upcoming races, hoping that the endless rush would drown out the regret gnawing at him. He avoided reaching out to you honouring your request for space. Each day felt like an endless rotation of driving, media commitments, and sleepless nights. The thrill of racing was overshadowed by the growing distance between you and him.

You had always been patient and understanding of the demands of Max’s career. You had supported him through the highs and lows, celebrating his victories and comforting him through the losses, but it hadn’t been enough. Each missed call and unanswered message chipped away at your resolve. You couldn’t keep repeating the same cycles and expecting a different result. The weekend you had planned for Max to meet your family was meant to be a milestone, a step toward a future together. Instead, it felt like a crushing disappointment.

You replayed the conversations you had with Max in your mind, trying to reconcile the man you loved with the absence he had become. You had pictured this weekend as a chance for Max to understand the importance of your family, to see the life you had outside of his world. The hurt and frustration you felt were compounded by a growing sense of doubt—doubt that maybe this life of constant motion had created a rift too wide to bridge.

You needed time to process the hurt, to focus on yourself and figure out where to go from here. The support you had hoped for seemed distant and unreliable, and the future you had envisioned together felt uncertain.

Loving him had been a beautiful dream, but you knew it was time, you hesitated just a moment before hitting send.

Max,

I need you to know that I’m not angry anymore. I’m just… tired. I need to focus on myself right now.

Max read the message over and over, his hands trembling. The message was brief and seemingly final. The reality of your words sank in, there was no dramatic declarations, no harsh accusations, just a simple statement of exhaustion, a quiet resignation that tore through him. He wanted to call, to beg you to come back, but he knew it was too late.

As the season drew to a close, Max stood on the podium, the roar of the crowd a distant echo, his gaze searching as if somehow he’d see you there. The trophy was in his hands, but it didn't feel like he had expected. He looked out over the crowd searching for a sense of fulfilment that seemed to elude him, it all felt like ashes without you beside him.

Max only thought of you as he stood amidst the celebrations, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that in the pursuit of his dreams he had sacrificed something far more precious, and wondered if there was a path back to what he had lost.

[sahonithereadwolf]

Hey you know how there are always those meme post going around of someone, usually a white dude, talking about how there should be a reverse indiana jones about someone stealing from museum and giving it back to the people it belong to? Then you should support me on my patreon.

Or Follow Me on Itch.io

My name is Gar Atkins, and I'm a professional Indigenous (ᏣᎳᎩᏱ ᏕᏣᏓᏂᎸᎩ) game designer (previously: Evil Hat, Blaseball, my own shit...) with a background in museum work and I've been making that for the past 3 years in the form of a TTRPG called Protect The Sacred.

Protect The Sacred is an Anti-colonial* two-fisted adventure set in a pulp universe (including horror, sci-fi, mystery, and romance) where players play a team of adventure types with magic powers working to Protect, Preserve, and Reclaim the workings of magic as an expression of the intangible goods of culture on behalf and on the terms of the peoples they belong to. Monsters, Magic, and Mystical Artifacts are all on the table as you explore magical otherspaces, secret world and learn to be a better neighbor.

This game looks to interrogate the role of museums and the role they play (what they could be in the future), the actual challenges facing repatriation and what it means. It wants to tackle the legacy of pulp. It wants to ask you to consider what you consider culture, why it's important, and what it means to you through self-definition and roleplay. It also wants to punch fascist and dismantle the stolen and hollow valor they claim.

I got a lot of work left on this project. But I would love your support. This looks to be a 300+ page rpg and I'm a good portion of the way through it all.

*I use anti-colonial as opposed to decolonial because actual decolonial precepts requires concrete action with material results and decries symbolic or token gestures. And while my game can be many things and hopefully gets people talking about some of these subject, it's hardly the work.

[semperama]

I can't stop thinking about this. Ryliver, E, 1300 words. Yes, I'm posting Ryliver on main. No, this is not the Ryliver WIP I should have been working on. No regrets.

---

Afterward, Oliver tries to bolt, but no such luck.

“So, what did it?” Ryan asks, suddenly at his elbow. Oliver’s legs are longer, and he could probably outrun him—even imagines himself doing it—but he would only incriminate himself more. He can still play dumb, maybe.

“What did what?” he asks. His trailer is like fifty yards away, tops. But he makes the mistake of looking at Ryan, meeting his eyes, and Ryan lifts his eyebrows and pointedly looks down, and Oliver—chokes on nothing, grabs Ryan by the bicep, tugs him through a door and onto an abandoned set.

It’s Buck’s old loft, still not fully dismantled. Great.

“Was it my brilliant acting?” Ryan asks, totally unfazed. He isn’t even trying to get out of Oliver’s grasp. His bicep flexes under Oliver’s palm, and Oliver lets go like he’s been given an electric shock. “Was it your brilliant acting? Because I get it, man.”

“Fuck. No. Jesus.” He should have sucked it up and waited until they made it to his trailer. In here, with Ryan next to him, the kitchen island at his back, the stairs to their left, he still feels a little like Buck. He can still hear Buck in his head. He can hear Buck hearing Eddie—"the trials and tribulations of Evan Buckley”—and he’s still—

He’s still fucking hard.

“Was it the shove?” Ryan asks. Wide grin, pointy teeth. On their second take, Ryan’s shoulder grab was a little too aggressive, knocked him back hard into the cabinets, and in the heat of the moment, Oliver had shoved him back, chest heaving. The director let it go, but at the end of the scene, he said, let’s pull it back a little this time, and Oliver had to squeeze his hands into tight fists to ground himself, calm himself down.

They did three more takes after that, and Oliver’s dick hadn’t behaved for a single fucking one of them. And he knew—he knew everyone could see it. Knew Ryan could see it. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to get rid of. If anything, it made it worse.

“Did you not—” Oliver shuts his mouth quick, clack of teeth rattling around in his skull. The thing is, Ryan’s joking. He’s acting like it’s a joke. But Oliver’s cock is aching against the zipper of his jeans, and it doesn’t feel funny. He tries again: “Did you not feel it?”

Ryan’s canines leave white points in his bottom lip as his smile fades, goes rigid at the edges. “Feel what?”

Wrong thing to say. Suddenly, Oliver smells blood in the water. Ryan knows Eddie, and Oliver knows Buck, so the tension had to be palpable to both of them. Ryan’s not doing himself any favors playing dumb. “You know what,” Oliver says, taking a step forward. Ryan’s back is to the door. Buck’s door. “Why were we even fighting like that? Like a—a—”

“Married couple?” Ryan’s voice is light. He’s still trying to be funny, but it falls flat. His face is getting red, those perfect scarlet circles painted on his cheekbones.

“Not a married couple,” Oliver says, firm. “Not even lovers.”

Ryan’s shoulders lift with a deep, silent breath, and Oliver knows he gets it. “Like two people who don’t know they’re lovers yet.”

“Like we’re avoiding it.” Oliver sounds breathless, but he doesn’t fucking care anymore. “Like we’re scared of it.”

Ryan’s face is bright red now, and he’s not meeting Oliver’s eyes. Oliver takes another step without thinking, and he doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten until Ryan’s back hits the door and Oliver can feel the air move when his breath rushes out of him.

Oliver gets about half a second to enjoy the upper hand before Ryan says, so quiet, “Buck.”

This isn’t their first kiss. That was right after season four, when Buck—when Oliver couldn’t stop looking at his hands and seeing red, but they knew nothing was going to come of it, and it was frustrating as fuck, and all he wanted to do was taste copper from Ryan’s mouth.

It isn’t even their second kiss, which was drunk and sloppy, after they were done filming the bachelor party.

But it’s the first time—after Ryan hooks his index fingers in Oliver’s belt loops and yanks—that Oliver feels Ryan hard against him, and he’s confronted, suddenly, with the fact that this isn’t a whim. This isn’t just BuckandEddie. This is licking a muffled groan from the seam of Ryan’s mouth and wanting to taste nothing else ever again. Wanting to leave this room and still remember it, still have it.

“Say it again,” he says against Ryan’s mouth, but he kisses him again, hard, before he can. He reaches down to peel Ryan’s hands away from his waist and threads their fingers together, presses them against the door by Ryan’s head. “Say it.”

“Buck,” Ryan says. “Buck, Buck.”

Oliver’s been hard for-fucking-ever, for hours, off and on, at this point. When he thrusts up into the cut of Ed—Ryan’s hip, it feels like relief, a little shower of sparks cascading down his spine with each roll of his hips. Ryan tugs one of his hands free and grabs a handful of his ass—huge palm making Oliver gasp—and pulls him in harder, and Oliver starts preparing himself to be embarrassed, because this isn’t going to take long at all. Hours of foreplay. Hours of Ryan’s low voice stroking against the pleasure points in his brain. Hours of trying to keep it together, and now he doesn’t have to.

“Eddie,” Oliver says, just above a whisper, but Ryan lets out a breathy sound that’s almost a laugh and nips at Oliver’s bottom lip, sharp sharp teeth, soft flick of his tongue.

“Ollie,” Ryan says, almost back to playful again, and that’s it. Oliver is gone. He pushes his hips against Ryan’s once, twice more, and then he’s coming in his pants, dropping his head to gasp against Ryan’s shoulder, his spine curling.

Ryan’s broad hand is still clutching at him, still pulling him in, and he’s vaguely aware of the little explosions of oversensitivity that are sending tremors through his legs, but it’s fine when Ryan is holding him up, huffing hard in his ear, then groaning as he follows Oliver over the edge, saying Oliver’s name again in that deep, rough voice that’s been torturing him all evening.

“Fuck,” Oliver breathes once it’s over. His face is still pressed against the meat of Ryan’s shoulder, and his hands flatten against the door to hold himself up, to keep himself from sinking to the floor like he wants to.

“Mmm,” Ryan hums, as if in agreement. It takes Oliver a minute to realize his shoulders are shaking—with laughter, he realizes. Not regret, at least.

“What is it?” Oliver asks, lifting his head enough to look Ryan in the eye.

“It’s just—” The color is still high in his cheeks. Scarlet red. His mouth is red too, and Oliver wants to kiss him again so badly. “It’s just, costuming is gonna fucking kill us.”

Oliver dissolves into giggles, and his knees dissolve too, but Ryan holds him up, pulling him in until they’re pressed together everywhere, impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

“Come to my trailer,” Oliver says. “We’ll change, and I’ll take everything to the dry cleaners in the morning.” They’ll bring all the clothes back in a couple days, pretend they just forgot to turn them in, and no one will ever have to know.

He and Ryan will know, though. Ryan tilts his head up to press their mouths together again, quick but firm, and Oliver breathes him in, the familiar scent of him, the familiar shape their bodies make. The two of them will know, will always know, now, and that’s good. That’s so fucking good.

[f0point5]

i NEED jealous Max. Please 🥺🥺🥺 I love jealous/possessive guys haha the feminism just leaves my body

Me too! GOD. Me, too.

It took me ages to decide how to go about this because I had soooo many ideas but I hope you like it!

✨set during the Miami GP weekend 2022✨

Everybody wants you, but I don’t like a gold rush

Max glances down at his watch. 17 minutes. 17 minutes you’ve been standing in the gallery area of the garage, fanning yourself with a magazine - with Max’s face on the front of it, no less - in the Miami heat, talking to some freakishly tall guy in a Louis Vuitton denim jacket and aviator sunglasses. He’s so painfully American that Max wonders what you even have to talk about for…eighteen minutes.

You tighten your high ponytail while Paul Bunyon talks, his mouth wide with every word. Max studies your face for any sign that you’re bored. He’s bored of watching this, but he knows from experience that not looking isn’t a real option. You haven’t looked over at him once in those eighteen minutes, in fact you haven’t even been distracted by the mechanics moving around or the noise of drilling and clattering tools.

This guy must be really fucking interesting.

You smile at something Captain America says and Max feels his jaw clenched so hard he thinks a tooth is going to crack.

It’s like he’s thirteen again, watching you stand in the middle of the makeshift paddock at the karting track, swarmed by every one of his competitors, their parents packing up their stuff as they vie for your attention. He was the only one who stayed away, following his dad’s instructions on how to properly dismantle and store things while sneaking glimpses at the show you were running. He would win every race and still go home feeling like a loser.

It’s different now, of course. He doesn’t take your gregarious nature so personally now, and he can admit he understands what men see in you now, even if he doesn’t feel it. But he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t trigger something in him to see the way men react to you. It might irritate him less if you enjoyed it, but you’ve long since grown out of that. Now, you expect it so much that you ignore it, and Max has no choice to but to notice it, the same way you’d notice a rusty knife embedded in your side.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?” GP says, which snaps Max out of his calculations.

“I’m listening,” Max says, fiddling with the brim of his cap. “Drive fast, win race, I got it,”

GP frowns at his dismissive tone, and Max makes a point of looking at his water bottle, lest GP realise what actually had his attention. “Max, you need to focus. What are you even-“ It’s the sound of your laugh - high pitched over the deep bass of the music - that makes GP look across the garage. His features twist in disapproval as he turns back to Max. “You’ve got to be kidding me,”

Max looks down at his shoes, moving his foot as he inspects them. “What?”

Above him, GP groans. “I’m not going to say anything about the situation as a whole, because it’s waste of my time. But specifically now, she’s right there, she’s not going anywhere. Can we please just go through this once and then you can carry on staring?”

Max rolls his eyes, steeling his face as a cameraman enters the garage. He’s wearing a Red Bull shirt so Max doesn’t mind too much, but he can’t be captured looking as morose as he feels. The cameraman pans past him and onto you and the guest. Max watches you cringe as the guy throws up some hand sign to the camera, clearly at home with the media attention.

“Who even is that?” Max asks, unable to hide his rancour. He’s probably going to be forced to take a picture with Popeye later.

“I don’t know, some American football player?” GP says with a shrug, giving Max a helpless look. GP couldn’t give less of a shit about the celebrity guests touted around the gargae, and normally Max is his ally. “Are we done?”

Max nods, but not even a second later he’s looking again. It gets worse the more you talk, he can see this guy becoming more enchanted by the second. He wonders what kind of steroids they take in American sports leagues because the meathead is acting like a dog in heat. He leans towards you at an angle that is wholly unnecessary, his eyes fixated on your mouth, nodding too emphatically at everything you say.

“My God, why doesn’t he just lick her face,” Max says incredulously, more to himself than anything.

“Max,” GP sighs.

“Come on,” Max implores with a scoff, stopping himself from outright gesturing in your direction. “Look at him. That’s embarrassing,”

GP fixes Max with a deadpan expression. “Right, but you being sulky and jealous is the height of cool?”

“I’m not jealous.”

And he isn’t. Because Joe DiMaggio over there doesn’t have anything he wants. He’s not going to waste time being jealous of a guy getting half an hour with you when he has cats, and a home, and a life with you.

Finally, you look in his direction, but only because GP calls your name. “Can you come here?”

You give GP a thumbs up and excuse yourself, trotting over to Max without a second thought. Wannabe Tom Brady brazenly enjoys the view, and Max swears he hasn’t been that close to punching someone since Monza last year.

“What’s up?” You ask, slotting yourself between the two men as you lean back against the shelf.

GP hands you his phone. “Beat this Candy Crush level for me, would you? Been stuck for days,”

You look at him skeptically, but years of being filmed up close by cameras on the pit wall have given GP a hell of a poker face; he just stares back at you, and you give up with a huff.

“Men are hopeless,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“Couldn’t agree more,” GP says, his eyes pointedly on Max, who can’t even defend himself.

Desperate to avoid GP’s scrutiny, he glances over at the gallery, only to find the Yank looking at him. Well, not him, you. He’s got that curious expression as he assesses you fiddling with GP’s phone, one that says he’s trying to understand if he has something to be worried about. He doesn’t. You’re not his to worry about.

“Here,” Max says, pulling off his cap. You barely look up at him before he puts his cap firmly on your head, holding it steady with one hand while pulling your ponytail through the hole at the back with the other.

The brim of the hat obscures half your face, and Max turns so that half your body is shielded by his, which he tells himself is in case a camera comes by.

“It’s sunny,” Max shrugs in his own defence, when he notices you looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

You adjust the cap on your head but don’t take it off. “Why don’t you just give me your letterman jacket?”

“My what?”

“Never mind,” you chuckle, shaking your head at him as you pat his chest with an indulgent smile.

He takes the opportunity at the sound of a large wheel gun to glance over at the gallery, only to meet the eyes of the guy you were talking to. Now that you’re no longer next to him, Max does sort of recognise him. He plays for some team named after an animal. Max just looks at him - he’ll do this all day if he has to - until the guy shoves his hands in his pockets and pulls out his phone, starting to tap away. Yeah, go back to Raya.

Good riddance, Max thinks to himself as he turns back to you, only to find that you already looking at him. He wonders for how long.

He can tell by your smirk that he’s been caught. If he’s honest with himself you caught him five years ago, this was just one of the few moments he let you know it. And you know it. How could you not know?

He thinks for a second that you’re going to tease him, but you don’t. You shift on your feet so that some of your weight rests against his arm, and go back to playing on GP’s phone.

“Go on, GP,” he says, fighting a smile at the large number 1 on the brim of what is now your hat.

He knows from the way GP is looking at him that he’ll get an earful about this later, but right now, he just clears his throat.

“Right, so,”

[hug-your-face]

Insight today while washing the lettuce and thinking of my friend who doesn't want to vote.

They are an otherwise intelligent, responsible, generous person, who appears to be socially conscious. They have worked hard and long for their position in their profession. They express concern for the planet. They get twitchy if you use too many paper towels.

But they don’t want to vote for Biden for reasons, and quote "doesn't like the whole system where the parties take turns swinging things back and forth" unquote.

I have been dumbstruck at their attitude for about two months now. I've been thrashing back and forth trying to reconcile this person I love with their attitude:

If you care abt the planet enough to conserve paper towels, don’t you care enough to stop a Repub administration from raping the land?

If you don’t like how things can swing back and forth, don't you want an administration that's going to work to shore up, rather than dismantle, more lasting democratic systems of governance?

If you understand the value of the long game, why are you only satisfied with instant results from a single election rather than viewing that election as a single move in an ongoing process?

The insight came to me as I used an extra set of paper towels to dry my lettuce:

These people are not motivated by outcomes. They are motivated by how their choices make them FEEL.

Not how the outcomes of their choices will make them feel. But how the action associated with their choices makes them feel.

In terms of outcomes for the environment, saving paper towels doesn't do shit compared to pushing for restrictions on oil companies. But using half a paper towel is an instant dopamine hit: "Ahhh, I am caring for Mother Earth. I care. I am a good person. Ahh yes that's the stuff."

This model fits for voting too. We know that The Only Votes That Count Are Those Cast. We know that Dems Go Where The Votes Are Not Where The Votes Aren't. We know that voting in every election, every time, in numbers, is a very low-effort way to contribute to moving the Overton window farther left.

But in the moment, for people who are motivated by how their action associated with their choice makes them feel... the absolute best move for their dopamine supply is to abstain: "I am NOT supporting an old fart; I am NOT supporting genocide; I am Challenging The System; I am a good person. Ahh yes, that's the stuff."

At the time, when I challenged my friend on their position, they held up their hands and said "look, I'm not saying I have any answers, I'm just saying I don’t like how the system works."

They didn't like how participating in the system made them FEEL in the moment.

For those of us who think this is madness, hey, we aren't off the hook entirely. We are basing our choices and actions off of outcomes, true. But there's probably a feeling/dopamine component in there too. "I am holding my nose and voting Blue; I am doing my part to actually affect the future even if I hate some things abt my choice; I am a good person. Ahh yes, that's the stuff."

So maybe the difference isn't in the motivation (my feelings and self-image) but in what motivates us (my action vs the outcome of my action).

I don't have an answer to the question at this time and this post is already long enough. But I'll think on it. And I invite you to do so as well:

For these people (who seem to be a sizable part of the population), how to outweigh the choice where their action preserves their self-image, doesn't cost them dopamine for having to take a "bad" action, and maybe even gives them a happy boost for "not being part of a flawed system?"

For these people, how to help them connect more to the outcome?

Off the cuff, I can't think of any means other than cognitive-behavioral therapy. :/

EDIT: Apparently there's a term for this and it's called Emotivism -- ethics isn't abt effects but abt feelings.