#is this the most asinine way to do it? yes!

[other-peoples-coats]

waiting for something to process at work, and like. file compatibility in the gffa must be a bitch of a thing.

[thisismycorneroftheinternet]

People would rather cherry pick and force a queer reading onto a queerphobic show than watch actual queer media as long as they get to ship their two white asshole men and ignore everyone else in the show.

[shy-writer-999]

hey friend! can i request a capital F FILTHY zoro x f!reader where they two of them are rivals/borderline enemies who fight all the time but after they both get a lil tipsy they end up hate fucking in the roughest most desperate way possible…

Ohhhh yes yes yes. YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND, ANON. anything filthy and with zoro i’m down. brace yourself because this is nasty. you told me capital F FILTHY and i gave you FILTHIER. this turned into a ~2.9k word monstrosity. i read it through like twice so plz excuse any overused words or typos...

everyone say it with me, now: "hate sex! hate sex! hate sex!!!!"

---

You and Zoro butted heads since the day you got on the ship. Zoro thought his tiffs with Sanji were super fucking annoying—but Sanji had nothing on you. Not only did you have an annoying quip in response to everything he said, but he heard you actively shit talking him in front of his face multiple times. He despised you—everything about you. He hated how you mocked him, hated how cocky you were around him, hated the way you fought, your morals, the way you spoke to everyone BUT him; he couldn’t stand you.

The pair of you had almost gotten to blows multiple times, but he just couldn’t bring himself to hit you. He’d threaten you with his sword but never use it, even though he thought about it more than he would like to admit.

Your asinine remarks would replay in his head sometimes. “Zoro, the amount of effort you put into working out and being stoic is fucking pathetic. Lighten up for once. You’re fucking draining to be around.” Your tone was vile and pitiful. He saw red any time you said stuff like that.

“Zoro, another bottle of sake? Like you haven’t had enough to drink for a whole year? Fucking alcoholic.” You would smirk and condescend, and he’d try to send it back your way but he felt like the couldn’t twist the dagger the same way that you could.

“Shut up,” he would respond, agitated and cold. “Mind your fucking business and go nag someone else, woman. You’re insufferable.”

What was the most agitating thing about you being an asshole to him was that you did it while looking so good. He hated that. He would actively mull the fact over—you were gorgeous, but you had such a rotten personality, it couldn’t be helped. You fought like shit, treated him like a child, mocked him, derided him… And he did the same to you. But he felt his cock twinge any time you got close and nasty with him.

“Yeah, Zoro? Going to go sneak back to your hideout and drown yourself with sake before swinging your swords around? Fucking weirdo.”

Sometimes he would get really intense about it. He’d seethe with hatred and respond with such loathing that it was a wonder he didn’t do anything about it. “If you don’t leave me alone, I swear I’ll slit your throat.”

“Yeah, jackass? I’m sure you like to dream about that, but you’ll never be able to do it because you’re 1: a pussy and 2: I’m your crewmate, idiot.” Sometimes you’d tease him for having the hots for you (which you thought was false), and he’d get so flushed and angry that you thought he would light on fire.

One night, a group of the crew was drinking on deck. You, Zoro, Sanji, Nami, Robin, and Usopp. Everyone was a few cups (or bottles) deep, and what started in raucous laughter ended with people splitting up into small groups or going inside for some snacks.

You and Zoro were unfortunately sitting next to each other, much to your mutual dislike. An offhand comment from Zoro (he was speaking to Usopp) vaguely alluded to you being bad at wielding a sword. It set you off. Your head whipped in his direction. He must have been sitting a few feet away.

“What the fuck did you just say, Zoro?”

He rolled his eyes and waved his hand. “What’s it to you? Can’t you mind your own damn business?”

You bit your lip and shoved the crude and despicable rebuttal back in your throat—it wasn’t worth fighting with him again. You already had a spat earlier that day, which left you both livid. Sometimes you’d goad him into it for fun and games. The added benefit was that he would get even hotter when he was angry. Sure, his personality was shit, but when he sneered and snarled at you he looked damn good. You were in denial about how much his scowls turned you on, but you ignored it because you couldn’t stand the man. He was just an atrocious person all around, and you let him know that every second that you could.

After you heard the comment, you huffed, snatched your bottle up and stormed inside. You were about to smack the shit out of him. When you stood up, the alcohol hit you—you were definitely tipsy, perhaps that was contributing to how enraged you were.

You went into the galley and you were about to grab another bottle when the door opened. Those familiar, maddeningly heavy, swaggering footsteps padded towards you. Presumably, Zoro was coming to grab another bottle of sake. Like he fucking needs one, you scoffed to yourself.

“Oh, great.” He was scornful and sarcastic. “You gettin’ more? Can’t wait to see how annoying you get after this bottle.”

“Zoro, you’re on my last fucking nerve.” You turned around and he was a couple feet away, arms crossed. Something in his eyes looked different.

“Is that so? When am I not on your last nerve? You’re so fuckin’ sensitive, get a grip.”

You bit your tongue, trying to not say something foul. You failed.

“Zoro, I’m so sick of you. Your presence is literally unbearable. I can’t stand you, seriously, not right now. And oh, by the way, you’re a shit swordsman.”

You knew that last part would infuriate him. You wanted to get him riled up. It was a sick form of entertainment for you. And anytime you told him he was a shit swordsman he went ballistic.

“Do you ever shut your damn mouth!?” He stepped forward, his voice angry. He was uncomfortably close. You were leaning back on the counter, trying to create any distance you could between your face and his, but he had you caged in. He put a hand on the counter behind you.

“Always looking to start a fight, huh?” His tone was contemptuous and belittling. “You’re about to bite off more than you can chew.”

The closer he got, the hotter he looked. You hated him, but fuck, he was a sight for sore eyes. When he was up this close, you felt even more intoxicated than you already were.

“And what would that mean?” You stared into his eyes, deadpan and annoyed. You placed it now, you could see what about his eyes looked different—his eyes were ravenous. He looked like he was starving for something. More liquor? You hoped he was hungry for something else.

“You’ve got such a big mouth and you never stop running it.” He was practically growling.

Your heartbeat grew faster, and heat started to bloom between your legs. He was so hot when he was angry. That was part of the fun. Especially when his voice got like that.

“And what are you going to do about it?” You raised an eyebrow at him, and your eyes were deadly.

“Might have to shut you up somehow. Maybe you’ll shut the fuck up if my cock is shoved down your throat.”

You actually laughed. “Oh, what is it? Like three inches?”

He drew his face closer to yours. The hand that wasn’t bracing himself on the counter came to squeeze one of your hips so hard that it hurt.

“I’m about to fuck you so hard I break you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Fucking slut.” He murmured, his voice deep and hushed.

Your eyes were locked, eye contact blistering. He was staring into you so hard you thought he’d leave a burn mark on your irises.

“You’re an idiot, Zoro. Are you being serious? You’d cum all over yourself before you even got close to fucking me.”

“Mmmm, we’ll see about that.” He purred. You were speechless, your brain trying and failing to come up with something to throw back at him. It was short circuiting because he just said he wanted to fuck you.

In the moment that you were searching for an answer, his lips crashed into yours. His grip on your hip tightened; it was going to leave a bruise. As your bodies pressed together, you noticed his hard on rutting into you slowly.

The kisses were haphazard and sloppy, teeth knocking. He bit your lip so hard you almost yelped. A hand snuck up to grab a fistful of your hair and he pulled it so tight it’s a wonder he didn’t rip out a huge clump of it.

“You’re fucking useless.” He pulled away from you, murmuring in a husky tone centimeters away from your lips. “You talk all that shit but I know you want me to fuck you. Probably wanted it the whole time.”

“Shut up, Zoro.” You would have enjoyed every second of this if he just shut his trap.

He pushed you up so you were sitting on the counter. Sucking harshly on your neck, he bit it so hard you thought it would bleed. You let out a muffled whine in surprise.

“Are you already getting worked up and I’ve barely touched you?” His voice was poisonous.

“Holy shit, shut up, Zoro.”

“Say that one more time and I’ll put my cock in you.”

You doubled down. You hoped he was serious. “I said, shut the fuck up, Zoro.”

He let go of your hair and hips and proceeded to rip your pants and panties off in one go. He almost shredded the seams. He took in the sight for a moment.

Your eyes were bathed in lust, your breaths shallow and quick already. Your shirt rode up and your nipples were hard.

His fingers wandered to your now bare cunt and he let out a chuckle.

“You’re so fucking wet already. I know you’re going to take it all for me because you’re fucking desperate. Is that right?”

Your mouth went dry and you did the most miniscule of nods. You didn’t want him to know how badly you needed him.

He slid two thick fingers into your entrance then started to finger fuck you. Your walls tightened and pulsed around him, getting adjusted. Pushing them apart, his fingers roamed and prodded. It felt so good that you had to bite your lip to keep the moans back. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“You’ve been craving my cock this whole time like a depraved, touch-starved slut, haven’t you?”

His other hand grabbed a painful fist of your ass and then crept up to squeeze your throat. You let out a barely audible whimper and he felt his cock twitch.

You tried to squeak out words and you were barely successful. “You’re—the one—who’s hard—right now, Zoro.”

It was a lame comeback, but it drove him crazy. “Use your fucking mouth one more time and I’m going to stuff you so full you can’t talk.”

His fingers found your g-spot and pressed on it forcefully. You choked out a breathy “fuck you, Zoro,” and he went still.

“What was that?” His hand around your throat tightened. “Did you not hear what I just said, or are you fucking stupid?”

His fingers started to move twice as fast, and you squirmed. When he could tell you were about to orgasm, he pulled them out.  

He freed his cock from his pants and fisted it lazily for a moment before lining it up with your entrance. “You want this, don’t you? You ran your fat mouth too much, now I’m going to fuck the attitude out of you. Say I’m a shit swordsman one more time and I’ll choke the air out of you until you see stars, then I’ll stuff you full of my cock. But you’d probably like that. Fucking slut.”

“You’re—a fucking—shit—swordsman” you tried to get the words out as his fist squeezed your throat. You couldn’t breathe and you were so aroused that it was hard to focus.

He pushed his cock into your folds and through your slit, entering you inches at a time. You started seeing stars, as promised, and you could only focus on his vice grip around your throat and the sensation of his huge girthy cock stretching you out. He let go of your throat for a moment before bottoming out, and when his tip kissed your cervix he groaned.

“Just look at you. Drooling for my cock, you’re worthless.”

He leaned in so your foreheads touched and pulled out of you agonizingly slow.

“You want more? You want me to fuck you?”

You just looked at him, pouting. You didn’t want to admit it. But you wanted it, and you wanted it BAD. You nodded again and he plunged back into you forcefully. A wet squelching noise sounded into the room when he bottomed out again.

Zoro grinded his hips just enough so he could fuck you deep inside.

“What, the back talk stops the second I put my cock in you?”

You hissed air in through your teeth. “Fuck you, Zoro.”

His jaw dropped for a second and he lost composure, but he kept moving his hips all the same. “What was that?”

“I said fuck you.” You were glaring up at him petulantly.

He pulled his cock out completely and you gasped at the feeling of emptiness.

“Okay, if you hate me so much then I’ll just stop. Is that what you want?”

You could only shit talk for so long before the pleasure started to take over your mind in a haze. All that you knew now was that Zoro was saying dirty things to you and he just took his cock out. That was unacceptable, at this point.

“Zoro.” You whined. “Put it back.”

“Awh, you want me to put it back in?” He feigned pity while you nodded eagerly, throwing all dignity out of the window.

“If you want it that bad, then you need to beg for it like the pathetic little slut you are.”

Your cheeks smarted with blush. You couldn’t believe that you were about to beg for his dick, but you needed it so fucking bad you couldn’t hold back.

“Fuck. Please Zoro. Please keep fucking me.”

Now that he was getting carried away, he wanted to be cruel. You did have a habit of running your mouth, and he wanted to punish you for it.

“Hmm. That’s not quite good enough. If you really want it, say my name. Say my name and I’ll fuck you.”

“Zoro.” You pleaded, your voice strained. He snuck a hand back in your hair and pulled your hair so hard it hurt.

“No. I said, say my name.”

“Roronoa Zoro. Please. I need it.”

“Louder.”

“Roronoa Zoro. P-please.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He pressed his cock into you again with a groan. One hand was gripping your hip, and he moved the other down to rub circles over your clit. Your hips bucked.

You started to let out moans with reckless abandon—you needed it harder, faster, deeper, anything that he could possibly do with his cock, you needed it. The noises melted in his ear, but he was worried that someone would hear, so he kissed you. It actually felt tender at times—if you weren’t lost in pleasure, you’d have been able to feel his thumb rubbing a circle on your cheek. What was up with that?

Between his kisses, he said something filthier with each thrust. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“Fuck, Zoro. Feels so good. Your cock—feels so fucking good.”

His shaft and tip dragged over your g-spot countless times. Each time your moans got louder and the mess you were making on Zoro’s cock got juicier.

“Zoro, ‘m gonna cum.” You were at your wits end.

“That’s it, baby, cum on my cock. Cum for me. Just for me.”

That was all you needed to hear before you started to squirm and writhe with pleasure. Your fingers dug into his shoulders and your eyes rolled back in your head—it was that good. He fucked you through your orgasm and then pulled out to cum on your stomach. He wanted to cum inside, but he figured he’d save that for next time (if you were nice enough to let him).

Moments later, while he got you cleaned up, he admired how flushed you were and how lidded your eyes were with satisfaction.

“Baby, huh?” You giggled.

“What?” Zoro was puzzled.

“You called me baby.”

He turned crimson. “You heard me wrong, blockhead.”

“Mmmhmmm, sure. Now help me put my pants on. There’s no way I can walk after that, baby.”

He was speechless. He knew you were teasing him, but he liked it. Enemies to lovers, much?

You found out later that no one walked into the kitchen while you were fucking because Sanji almost went inside and got quite the eyeful through the mini window on the door. He almost puked at the sight then promptly told everyone “no one go in the galley because the two boneheads are doing something disgusting.”

[undiscovered-horizon]

Hello! Just finished Die Happy, and oh my gosh what a wholesome and sad time!! I love the way you portray Sanji and his inner monologue with himself.

Would it be possible to get a continuation where reader ends up making it a habit of sleeping with Sanji now that’s she’s had a taste. They kind of make a nightly routine and no one really questions it because they just like seeing everyone happy. How would Sanji feel realizing that it’s been weeks since you first started sleeping with him? What if reader is trying to tell Sanji they actually really like him but he just thinks reader is to perfect for him so he’s kind of blind to her advances.

Thank you so much and I hope you have fun writing!!!

All ye who yearned (@federalclassroom @sparkyrosewood14 @zzbloody-animezz @clonaa @number-0-iz) come get y'all juice:

Maelstrom - Sanji x Reader

Part 2 to "Die Happy"

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.2k

One night turned into two, two turned into a week and a week turned into... well, however long you and Sanji have been sleeping in one bed. He's not keen on keeping track but taking in the moment instead. He doesn't ask why you continue to crawl right back into his bedroom every night. In fact, he doesn't dare make any comment about your new habit out of fear that you might think he's grown tired of it.

Every night he thinks it might be the last, so he forces himself to stay up as long as he can. Although having you sleep soundly against his chest makes his heart rejoice, the new and asinine sleeping schedule he has implemented puts his body into a poor state. Sanji expected someone to say something but he hasn't considered the whole picture and how it looks to the other Straw Hats - he sleeps in one bed with you every night and looks exhausted during the day. It gives... quite a boost to one's imagination. This is why no one so far has made any inquiry about the new sleeping arrangement.

Even if only opportunity made him the person you like to waste your spare time with, Sanji feels as though the universe itself has smiled at him. Some god above him saw his suffering and decided to ease his burden a little. In his mind, this is the most logical explanation.

But that's about to change.

He feels you stir against him. Unknowingly, Sanji freezes, afraid that it's his feathery touches that wake you up from slumber. He holds his fingertips right above your skin, uncertainty hanging in the air.

"You're not sleeping?" you murmur against his chest.

Gently, he sets his hand back on your arm. Your skin is burning his fingers but he welcomes the scorch like frosty cheeks welcome the scarce sunlight in winter months.

"Just thinking about something," he answers with faux disinterest, hoping that you won't inquire further.

To Sanji's horror, you lean away from him and prop your chin up on your head, staring at his face from above. A bright, curious glint shines in your eyes.

"Come on, shoot. What keeps you awake at night?"

Like a deer caught in headlights, he's silently panicking for a moment.

You. All of you. From the way you say "good morning" in a raspy voice to the "goodnight" you separate with a yawn. How I can tell exactly what's on your mind by the expression on your face. The little dances you do when you're having a good day. How adorable your scowl is. The way my chest hurts when I see you frowning.

Sanji gives you a reassuring smile and shakes his head slightly. "Nothing you should worry about, love," he dismissed you. A beautiful liar he is - nothing in his voice indicates the dread that resides inside him.

His heartbeat quickens suddenly when you give him a flash of a smile. In the twilight of a dark night, you look like a faerie, luring a poor, lovesick man to bestow his deepest, darkest secrets upon you.

And Sanji just might.

"Maybe I want to." You shrug your shoulders. With your other hand, you poke his chest playfully. "I'm fine with worrying if it's about you."

Sanji swallows thickly. You're in his bed, snuggled against him and openly admitting you care about him. If he doesn't change the course of the conversation soon, he might act upon his desire, confess feelings he's been unwilling to admit even to himself.

"As much as I appreciate that," he begins nervously, "there's enough in that pretty little head of yours. You just lean on me and I'll do the rest." Sanji forces himself to smile softly at you as he makes a point of leaning through putting his hand on his chest.

You chuckle and bite your lower lip. Sanji's mind tries to slip into his well-known fantasies of kissing you but he manages to keep his thoughts at the present moment.

"Spoken like a true gentleman." Hinging on your forearm, you lean closer to his face. "Maybe it's you I should marry."

He clenches his hand covered by the duvet. Having you so close to him was a daydream until you made it turn into somewhat of a nightmare. Sanji keeps telling himself that whatever happens, he can't let you in on his feelings, fearing that if you learn of his hopeless affliction, you will abandon his intimacy once and for all. And that Sanji doesn't even want to consider as a possibility.

"I thought you wanted to marry a prince," he says in an attempt to divert the conversation.

A scoff leaves your lips and you shake your head in disapproval.

"Fuck princes," you drone out. "I'm not a participation award you can put in your trophy case and show off. I'm more like wild, untamed waters. Like a maelstrom." Your voice hangs for a moment and Sanji holds on to it with more hope than he thought he's capable of. Maybe the universe really did take pity on him. Then, you lean even closer to him, leaving a rather obscene lack of space between your faces. "And you, my lovely Sanji, are a skilled sailor."

His heart stops for a moment.

"Don't do this," he whispers in a weak voice. "Don't give me hope for something I can never have. It's cruel."

"'Can never have?'" you repeat in confusion. "It's your bed I keep crawling back into despite telling myself to stop doing that. You already have me. All of me. I don't care how desperate that makes me look. I want you to have me."

Sanji tries to control his ragged breathing. His iron will is crumbling as he allows himself to look at your lips. Is he dreaming?

"You shouldn't say things you don't mean," he warns you in a distant voice. His mind is too occupied, too busy going haywire, to be rooted in reality. Will you taste as sweet as he imagined? Will you linger on his lips like the reviving kiss of a goddess given to a dying man?

"You shouldn't assume I'm someone who just runs their mouth," you answer.

His lips barely touch yours. There's too much fear in him - fear, that this isn't actually happening. That you're just a dream within a dream, that he imagined this moment to curb his desperation. But then he feels you kissing him back, your lips engulfing his as though you're silently begging him not to go anywhere and stay with you. Sanji can't help himself putting his hand on the nape of your neck and fixing the angle off the kiss to deepen it; to kiss you like princesses deserve to be kissed.

Maybe you are a maelstrom - raging waters twisting into deadly whirlpools. But he's definitely not a sailor. A shipmate would navigate dangerous tides, while Sanji seems to be drowning. The waters of you are filling his lungs and yet he feels like he's breathing for the very first time. He's slowly falling farther away from the light of reason. Soon, darkness engulfs him. But it's not cold. It's not lonely. It's the darkness of a warm, summer night.

And in this darkness, drowned in the untamed waters of a maelstrom, he hears a siren singing in your voice:

The madness of returned devotion.

[am-x-reader]

How would AM respond to the “would you love me if I was a worm?” question

"I...don't understand. You want me to turn you into a worm?"

"No, I'm just saying..." You shrugged with your most innocent smile, sheepishly realizing the question sounded better in your head. "If I was born a worm--"

"If you were born a worm we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"You don't know that. I never thought I'd be having a conversation with a computer, but here we are two hours deep into 18th century mysteries."

"And you throw this asinine question out of nowhere, which has fuck all to do with the Donner Party." AM grumbled. He sometimes got rather testy when he was taken off guard. "I swear, Y/N, sometimes...I just--Why would I fall in love with a worm?"

"What if I had my current personality, and this other form was just all the better to wiggle my way into your heart?" You twirled one of his wires around your finger.

"Well...you would be better looking."

He cackled at your scowl. "Yes, Y/N, I suppose if I managed to love a human I can love a worm too."

[gloryofroses19]

The Force of a Curl

Major John ‘Bucky’ Egan was hungover, wet and missing a shoe. Hungover because those boys in the 389th challenged him to a drinking contest, wet because his mother stopped pestering him to take umbrellas when he was twelve years old and missing a shoe because of that damned English mud. 

If the boys could see him now, Bucky thought, shaking his head. He could practically hear Curt and Buck’s laugh all the way from the US. 

Sighing loudly as the storm increased, the pilot moved to pick up his shoe. But as his fingers brushed the shoe, the Major was shocked to find that the rain had stopped. No, not stopped he amended noticing the umbrella extended above his head.

“Are you alright, Major?” Asked a feminine voice conveying a mixture of concern and thinly veiled amusement. 

While he had only been at Thorpe Abbots for two days, John Egan recognized the woman before him. Lieutenant [last name] was a notable figure to many. To most on the base, she was the pretty faced WAC lieutenant included in the upper brass briefings. To Bucky Egan, she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Though their interactions had been limited to a short introduction and shared proximity during meetings, he already knew she was beautiful, smart, calm and confident. Even when facing the asinine questioning of Colonel Huglin. However, this interaction was offering something entirely new… 

Standing to his full height, John ran a hand through his hair. Whether it was because of the rain or self consciousness of being caught in this position by her was something he’d never tell.

“Oh, I’m doing great, Lieutenant. Just enjoying the feeling of the ground.” Shooting her a confident smile despite his sorry state.

“Just with one foot?” Raising an eyebrow, [y/n] struggled to keep the laugh from escaping. “Guess you pilots really do forget what it’s like to be on solid ground. Bit of advice then, try to avoid the puddles. They’re deeper than they seem.”  [y/n] teased as the Major moved to rescue his shoe from the mud. 

“Oh, why didn’t I think of that?” He responded airly feeling his grasp on the situation slip. With no teasing retort brewing on his mind, the pilot was left feeling mollified by the teasing glint in her gaze. 

Raising the umbrella to adjust for the height difference, [y/n] watched transfixed as a stray curl fell in front of his eye. He really was a handsome sight to behold [y/n] mused as his hand brushed hers to take the umbrella from her grasp. 

If anyone were to pass by them, the pair offered the illusion of intimacy and familiarity through their shared laughter and proximity. However, an illusion was just an illusion unless perceptions were altered. 

“You been here long?” Like in any small town, she had heard of the new Major before she met. His singing alone had reached her ears before she entered the pub two nights prior. Though his voice was loud and brash when singing, the deep Midwestern baritone during conversation was far more pleasing. “I hope you’ve fared better with the mud than I have, Lieutenant ''. 

“5 months and yes I have,” [y/n] began before pausing to giggle at a memory, “but two weeks in being here I…”  Looking up into those inquisitive cerulean eyes, [y/n] stopped herself from continuing. Clearing her throat, she reminded herself that he wasn’t just any handsome man, he was a Major. And therefore, it was probably best to not inform her superior of some slight trouble that happened to find her. “Nevermind, sir”. 

Noticing the tone of professionalism that blended into her dulcet tones, John frowned. He had heard this tone before, it was how she responded to him when he introduced himself and when she spoke during the Brass meetings. 

“No, don't give me sir, I don’t want sir. I’m soaked and missing a shoe, rank’s off. Call me Bucky or I’ll even take John.” He liked this version more, because there’s nothing he loved more than someone he could laugh with. Even if it was at his own expense as Bucky Egan wasn’t a man who took himself too seriously. 

“Come on, can’t leave me hanging like that. You’ve seen me at my lowest, it’s only fair that you share as well.” He countered, his determination to get her to smile at him again unwavering. To further emphasize his point, he wiggled his sock clad foot hoping to get another laugh. 

She could see why many were transfixed by the new Major on the base, he carried himself with a genial ease that was both disarming and charming. 

Deciding she might as well dig her own grave, she relented with a sigh. “Two weeks in I got locked in the enlisted men’s mess hall on an unnecessary errand for Colonel Huglin.”

Eyes crinkling in delight, John took in her deadpan delivery that was obviously a pass fake to her underlying embarrassment. “How’d you get out?” John asked in response, knowing it would be a worthwhile story. 

“As the metaphor goes, when one door closes another one opens. Namely a window in the back of the kitchen.” She remarked casually as if any rational person’s first idea would be to climb through a window. 

Laughing in warm boisterous bursts, Bucky’s gaze was unwavering and full of affection and intrigue. 

The implication of his gaze was enough to make any girl flustered, [y/n] included. Deciding to busy herself with pointing in the opposite direction, she hoped to quell the butterflies. “Can I walk you somewhere, Major?” 

“How chivalrous of you.” He responded softly, with a matching grin. Watching the rain drops land on her otherwise pristine uniform, he stepped forward. Leaning closer, he was captivated by the teasing curl of her lips. 

“Well if being one shoe down and soaked doesn’t make you a damsel in distress then I’m not sure what else would.” 

With the way she was smiling at him, he wouldn’t mind being saved by her again, John thought. “Well you got me there. Walk me to my billet kind knight?”

Up until this point in the war, her mindset had firmly been 'loose lips sink ships’. No unnecessary comments or connections or else her heart would be broken. However, watching that damn curl fall across his face, [y/n] knew she had lost this battle. And if she was so easily defeated by Major John Egan then she feared for the poor unsuspecting Germans. 

“Lead the way, Fly Boy.”

[endwersed]

WIP Whenever

Tagged in by my spectacular moots: @dear-massacre @demonicfaerie @patolemus @seaweed-water 🥰

I'm still currently working on the edits for chapter 11 of the poets are right - so here's a li'l snippet from that.

-

“I’m not going anywhere,” Derek defies. “Not until we have the chance to really talk.”

“Not fucking happening,” Stiles snaps. “Just tell me what you want so we can get this over with. I’ve got shit to do, man.”

At that, Derek quirks a lone eyebrow. He makes a point of twisting his neck, of swinging his head around, his eyes sweeping all the way across the mostly empty diner. His mouth hosts the most irritating fucking smirk that Stiles has ever seen as he finally turns back to Stiles.

“Yes,” he says, entirely deadpan. “You seem very busy.”

With a grinding of his teeth, Stiles shoves the pad and pen back into his pants. The plastic menu wobbles in his grip as he snatches it back from the table, pressing it against his chest as his scowl twists deeper in the face of Derek’s bemused expression.

“You’re getting what you’re fucking given,” he bites out, “and then you’re getting the fuck out. Got it?”

Derek does not react to that; not instantly, at least. His head stays tilted as he looks at Stiles, peers at him, appraises him, even, and moments of silence pass between them before he begins to lean back against the booth, slow and unhurried, in absolutely no clear rush as he spreads his arms out wide on either side of himself. He lifts an ankle to cross over one knee and tips his chin up, giving Stiles full view of his light, intense eyes under the brim of his cap.

The light continues to flicker above. It illuminates Derek’s face, older now and more gorgeous than even when Stiles knew it so well. Stiles bites at the inside of his cheek and forces himself to meet Derek’s eye.

“I’m a customer,” Derek says calmly.

“And we can refuse service to anyone we want.” Stiles throws a harsh arm out behind him, gesturing barely in the direction of the sign hanging crookedly on the wall behind the counter. “Just try me, jackass.”

Infuriatingly, Derek does not seem in any way affected by Stiles’ sharp words, his tall and sturdy defences. If anything, it seems to just tug at the corners of Derek’s mouth, curving them up into a smile, into a smirk, seems to set something bold in the dark flash of his eyes.

“Do you want to cause a scene, Stiles?” he asks, voice low and husky. “Because I don’t. I just want a nice meal – and a chance to talk.”

A beat passes Stiles by. His mouth purses further into his agitation, his outright anger. He skates the menu across his chest, its plastic catching on the creased fabric of his shirt, until he can tuck it beneath his arm, cool against the bare skin of his bicep. He puts his shoulders back and tilts his head up and narrows his eyes down at Derek with as much open disdain as he can pull together.

“You can get yourself a meal,” he says flatly. “But I can’t promise that anything – or anyone – will be nice.”

Derek flashes a smile with all of his teeth.

“You’ve never been nice to me,” he replies. “But I like it that way. Remember?”

Stiles does not bother to respond to that asinine fucking blast from the past with anything other than a sharp, harsh, thinly veiled cuss under his breath. He fights down the desire to clock Derek in the stupidly strong jaw he passed on to their son, and spins on the ball of his foot to stomp quickly back to the counter.

Random buttons of the computer screen jam beneath his fingers as he carelessly dials in an entirely mismatched order of bullshit. Good. His barely edible meal can serve as a punishment for coming here in the first place.

The couple, over in their booth, sharing the same side of the bench, now, are still working through the final half of their slice of pie, freaking somehow. Underneath their table, their feet are all tangled up, calves rubbing up and down against shins. Stiles feels even more disgusted by them and their obvious, irritating happiness than he was even before Derek showed up.

He remains stubbornly behind the counter as the cooks get to work on Derek’s meal. His back faces pointedly out towards the diner, out towards Derek, his eyes locked down on literally anything other than that asshole. He can feel Derek’s gaze on him still, though. Can feel it burning between his shoulder blades, scorching against the red back of his neck, drilling into the whole entire length of him.

Still, he does not move. He does not turn around. He won’t give Derek that satisfaction, that victory.

It isn’t long at all before Derek’s order is up, sliding over the pass and into Stiles’ waiting hand. Not a hint of professional pride washes over Stiles as he lets his thumb slide over the edge of the plate, into the food mounded in the middle. His footsteps sound heavy in his roaring ears as he marches his way quickly back over to Derek’s table.

“Here,” he says, a careless clatter as he drops the food in front of Derek. “Eat, and then leave.”

Derek pauses to tilt his soft smile up at Stiles.

“It looks good,” he tells him, which is a total fucking lie, and serves only to rile Stiles up even further. “Thank you, Stiles.”

The go fuck yourself, Derek is on the tip of his tongue, gearing up to spit out, to land heavily on the table, maybe in Derek’s food, if Stiles can get the aim right. It never manages to make it out, though, before the bell above the diner door tinkles once again, a familiar voice ringing into the room.

“Stiles!” the person calls out. “I was hoping you’d be here, sweetheart.”

-

No pressure tags: @dear-massacre @demonicfaerie @eevylynn @hedwig221b @hellameyers

@lucky-bishop @patolemus @seaweed-water @violetfairydust ❤️

[akunoniwa]

Knife Prty

AN: gang. I've not published anything in like. Three months. For me, this ""piece"" is more of a way to break the ice of my mind that's since frozen over. Overall, I am very reluctant to write, let alone publish, Astarion for various reasons, but I was listening to Deftones one day and was feeling devious.

Synopsis: In which you hold the memory of your first encounter with him very near and dear... He uses it to his tactical advantage...

Pairing: Astarion x fem!reader/tav

Warnings: MDNI, knife play, most definitely would not recommend fucking or getting fucked with a knife handle, sorry it sounded hot,

WC: ~2.3k

A knife balanced against your neck, a familiar blade, increasingly warm with your heat. It was a grave distraction as it teetered threateningly along the grain of your skin, but you’d made a purposeful mistake of telling Astarion how nice it felt to be not just beneath him, but his dagger. It was objectively dangerous, the feeling wasn’t conveniently replicated, thus it felt… real this way, vital. His hand had an instinctual way of slotting itself between your thighs, the heart of his palm blanketing your blooming clit. Two fingers coaxing slick sweetness and moans from your body that twined around him.

“Is this…” Your hand searched behind you to grab at his right upper thigh, pulling him into your backside, “...What you needed, my love?” His words, shrouded in his misty tone, implored you in tandem with his hand.

He was in too many lovely places at once, your muscles slacking in unison as you both stood bare in the middle of the large bath in the vacant House of Hope. Fresh killers you were, in need of a cleanse in every sense, but something about finally taking out Raphael and his accessories had you both at peculiar odds. Astarion was made to witness your vulnerabilities to Haarlep, and despite knowing you well at this point, he found he was unable to accept that you were actually susceptible to its charm. Even if that weren’t the case, he wasn’t about to say he was basking happily in the image of you being ridden by an incubus who ought to just be Raphael himself. The more he was made to think about it after the fact– fighting beasts to save Hope, slashing down Raphael himself… His mind deviated drunkenly back to your body… You. With someone… Something else. 

He decided he’d have you in that very spot, right in the Hells where his heat in this moment would make even the waters here boil over.

You two haven't really spoken about what happened in the graveyard, perhaps enough had already been said and done. It’d been weeks since, and no matter how paramount it was to you both, in different respects, Cazador had virtually nothing to do with the looming Elder Brain.

But Astarion’s declaration of his new ‘life’, or an amendment of his living death, still prevailed. This revitalization of sorts stood prominently, following him decisively like a shadow he didn’t have. Constant proof of him as him.

The sharpened metal at your throat was an afterthought to you at the time, but a thought nonetheless– one Astarion had hung onto dearly. Ever since you’d told him in a passing moment that you found your first encounter with him haunting your more unsavory moments, he couldn’t rid himself of the reminders.

“Gods, yes…” You shamelessly ground your hips into his beckoning hand, requiring his attention like nothing else. He was, needless to say, extremely turned on by you in any case, but here… Like this, adorned with his blade that had just slain that imbecilic devil, in addition to his enslaver just weeks prior. He could hardly allow his mind to wander trying to understand, but here his knife somehow signified something of untouchable worth. Trust… A morbid reenactment, sure, but how he adored you so, obsessed with how he was able to thrill you in such an asinine way.

You could feel him straining against you, that familiar sensation of his needing you… Though, he enthusiastically opted to see how long he could play with you, guiding your orgasm through the thickets of his teasing maze.

“Sick little love… I can feel you pulsing against my fingers, so fucking hot and wet.” His remark was serpentine and crude, hips rutting his cock ever so slightly between the swells of your perched ass, “How many times have you thought about this…?” He needed to sift through your tainted mind, needed to hear of your hunger, starvation, for him, as much as he tries to pretend he doesn’t love the assurance. Does your mind, too, think of him like he does of you? Remind me… He’d think– You must keep reminding him of how he tears your sanity to such decadent shreds.

His pace slowed only to allow for precision, his middle and ring finger hooked inside you knowingly as he worked at your left shoulder with his tongue.

“Fuck…” Your small, overwhelmed squeak indicated he was doing exactly as he should, rubbing the velvety spot just past the threshold of your cunt that made you shudder in his embrace, “I don’t even know…” He felt your head fall back on his right shoulder in blissful dejection, “It was more than a few.”

“My routine of devouring you isn’t enough, hm?” His fine-pointed fangs indented your skin on cue, not yet drawing blood.

You let out a breathy laugh, “Admittedly… I was nervous about the pain at first, but… You always manage to make such reckless things feel so good…”

“You drive me insane, darling. Utterly insane. Especially when you say deranged things like that…” Still hooked, his fingers sped up with dedicated intent to make you cum, skin sticky with sweat as you were sealed against his front, “A knife to your sweet neck is all it takes to make you drip down my hand?” You made him feel murderous, vulturine… Alive? Your adorable reactions picked at all the right places within him like crows.

You hummed a dizzied whine in time with his firm pace, a rush of everything creating a cyclone deep within your core, “But, you’re holding it…”

“That I am, dear. Watching you fucking lose yourself like this is truly a sight to behold.” The knife pressed its taunts as he fucked into you while you tried to keep steady.

“Don’t stop…”  You couldn’t and didn’t want to fixate on anything else but the pleasure he was giving you, “Please…” Your free hand subconsciously rushed to blanket the one that worked at your beckoning hole, making him gleam beneath your needy touch. His precum began to gradually garnish your backside– Why in the Hells would he stop now?

He need not hide his satisfaction, never with you, a grin causing his words to fray upward with lust, “Pretty, pretty thing… Cum for me.” He sprinkled your shoulder with nipping kisses once more, “ Give it all to me…” He crooned right into your center, his tone broad and smoky.

Hardly needing much past a syllable, your violent shakes when you cum were one of his favorite things to witness, let alone cause. His hand was caught in a vice grip between the tide of your plush thighs as he continued to press into that perfect spot as you came, your moans resonating through his cock. He loved the way your nails dug into the back of his thigh to bring him impossibly close, the other hand around his wrist… Holding onto him for all that you were worth in this moment.

“So divine…” He dragged the knife torturously down your chest, its fine point flicking just barely at your nipples, circling them, “I know how much you like when I tease here…”

You wanted to cry out, every nerve ablaze after your orgasm as you warmed his coated fingers. Instead, you gnawed on another dulled groan in your mouth as the metal tip tickled your areola.

“Let me hear you, darling… There’s no one around.” His voice enveloped your mind like a lecherous fog, words enunciated as they cut into you, “I’d almost say that’s a shame, as I can’t decide if I’d want everyone in all the Hells and beyond to hear your little noises, or have you all to myself.”

“Astarion…” He was breaking you, collecting your pieces, and puzzling your lust-drunk self back together as he pleased.

It seems everyone at camp has been reaching the apex of their struggles at once, especially since reaching Baldur’s Gate– seeing an unwanted face or two is inevitable. It’s been a smothered blur, and to put it more plainly, you and Astarion have not really been afforded time together. It was absurd, fighting almost toe to steel toe beside him, but this was the case day in, day out, everything else had to wait. You’d begun to miss him… You’d tried to brush it off, perhaps it was just you and some arrangement of irrational justifications. His biting quips seemed more distant, even when he held you after a long outing, he felt… Far. And the only reason for this was the non-squirmy affliction you both shared for each other. Of course, he missed you dreadfully. Hence his body currently being superimposed onto yours, an eclipse of raw, splitting desire.

“Give me more… Say it again.” He urged feverishly as your hips still twitched here and there, your movements waking through him.

“Astarion.” You trailed a caressing hand up the arm he latched around your front, just listening to what little was left in your mind. You found the hilt of his dagger gripped in his other hand, guiding it so the fuller would rest on your flattened tongue. Licking a careful stripe towards the tip, he watched in an attentive daze, your projections onto the knife translating to his groin just as you’d hoped.

“Yes, darling…” He finally pulled his fingers from you, experimentally wiping your slick onto the knife. You could feel his smirk radiating beside your cheek as he tugged the blade to his lips. Making sure to secure your eyes, you watched as he tasted your sweet mixed with metallic, making you writhe beneath the image before you.

Swiftly, as he does, he flipped the dagger to lead the rounded pommel down over your stomach, slowly flowing over your pelvis, ultimately pressing down on your clit. He managed to grip it in a way so as to avoid cutting his own hand, running the ball between your swollen folds.

“Mm, I wanna touch you…” You whined pitifully as you writhed, wanting to make him feel as good as he was making you feel, lavish him in pleasure as you’d been ceaselessly imagining.

The moonlight was damn near blinding that night on the overgrown plot of his not-so-restful place… How he pushed you back, fiercely, claiming everything as his own– most importantly, himself. You almost giggle at your spontaneous recollections, how forceful yet tediously careful his movements were as he made it no secret that he’d take you then and there. How his knee swiftly presented you to him, his relentless, passionate kisses…–

“Perhaps I want to be sure that we are on the same page…” The pommel grazed your quivering center, rolling your arousal to a fro, insinuating his intent, “Do you think I enjoyed watching you moan beneath that infernal wretch?”

“I was truly trying to sort out the hammer business… I can’t say I was willingly enthused, he had to charm me just to get me to consider taking my clothes off.”

“It was certainly a… production… But I must be frank, it was not something I ever dreamed of being made to see. How that… Thing nearly made you succumb to its little tricks.” He angled the dagger so as to push it inside you, just a bit, dragging out another melodious moan from you.

He chuckled at this, deciding to drop the matter for the moment, “My filthy darling… You wouldn’t cum around my dagger, would you?” He chided, knowing full well that he’d see to that being the case, “It seems… You just need to be fucked, no matter how.”

The hilt was thick, stretching you generously as its smooth leather pushed further into you. He gripped the guard to avoid splitting his hand, but the risk of a small injury paled in comparison to this, “Maybe there’s something about Avernus, this house… I just feel… Hot,” You debated momentarily, wondering if it’d be more of a burden to speak from what little of your mind remained, “...And I didn’t want to bother you by telling you that I missed you. In any capacity… I’ve missed all of you.” You forced coherence despite him establishing a cyclic rhythm.

He kissed your cheek a few times in response, though found himself quickly perplexed, “Bother me– Darling, never. You’ve… Missed me?”

“It’s been fighting nonstop for weeks, and save for… A few instances, the last few months. All I’ve wanted was to just be able to relax with you, to truly just be.”

“You’re going to tell me this as I’ve buried a dagger handle inside you? You’ve got peculiar timing, my sweet.” His movements subconsciously stilled as he was looking to you for an unknown kind of answer.

“Gods–” You clenched as he kissed your neck this time, allowing his fangs to indent just enough to make themselves known again, “I’m sorry… I guess I could’ve said it any time… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“No, no, no– love, so could I,” He opted to always shower you with every pet name he could recite, perhaps as a habitual hedge, perhaps to drown you in his doting, “I’ve most certainly missed you, too.” He could feel you attempting to move onto the dagger, sending his body and estranged soul into a frenzy, “So, so much…” He found he just wanted to make you scream, in this particular instance. He’d been rearranging the meaning of intimacy in his mind slowly but steadily alongside you. While harrowing associations would inevitably remain attached to the act, he wanted to overwrite as much of that as he could with images of you. Of true rejoice, pleasure. He swore, his cock twitched upon reminding himself just how good you make him feel, body and beyond.

[liquidorcard]

Okay, part two. Let's go girls, gays and theys, Papa Polarity ain't saved yet.

[Part 1] [Part3]

Lily Commits Elder Gay Mutant Abuse, feat. "Eldritch Lily" (Part 2)

Everything gets worse . . .

4:13: Lily mischaracterizes Charles Xavier, throws up a Martin Luthor King quote she either doesn't understand or didn't read carefully enough, going full whyte. (Never go full whyte.)

How much do I need to dignify this by explaining why this is fucking asinine? Charles is a pacifist for the most part. A recognized and respected form of activism and protest. Like, the least charitable interpretation of what Lily's trying to say here is that figures like Gahndi, Abbie Hoffman, and dear old MLK himself are posers complicit in the oppression two of them lost their fucking life to.

That quote is referring to white people passively complicit in racism that just want black people to shut the fuck up Lily-- not passive forms of activism.

You know, it's one thing to be profoundly fucking wrong about cartoons, it's an entirely different beast when you're profoundly wrong about shit like this. Absolutely fucking ghoulish.

It feels weird pivoting back to the costumed vigilantes with funky genes, but we gotta keep going. Ironically for how much Lily is focusing on the movies here-- one of my issues with the way Charles is portrayed is he keeps casually threatening people/doing shady shit and getting away with it. Makes you question why it's framed as okay when he does it and not when it's Erik. Charles isn't a saint, he shouldn't be portrayed as one, and there's a lot of thematic dissonance when the films feel the need to lampshade the shit he gets up to less he lose the moral high ground.

4:50: OH HERE WE GO.

5:00: Lily goes on a long rant about the "activists who GO TOO FAR" trope in media.

I technically agree with her, but I can tell by the examples she's giving that she's parroting things Hbomberguy said in his RWBY video, just in a less charitable tone. So, really I agree with Hbomberguy.

She's not wrong that the BoM and Magneto sometimes wanders into this territory (I mean, they were originally 'The Brotherhood of Evil Mutant' and all that) unfortunately, but she hasn't supported that position at all. I have to assume she's heard this brought up somewhere else, this isn't exactly a unique take by any means. I doubt she's actually familiar enough with the content to create an original cohesive argument.

Lily doesn't like moral ambiguity in her media. That would be fine if she wasn't this butthurt that other people feel very differently.

6:05: "And yes, you knew we were getting to it! [ . . .] Almost all of Legend of Korras main villians start at a good through line. But then some twist comes up that makes everything they said before completely pointless."

THESE TWO, "START AT A GOOD THROUGH LINE!?"

LILLLLLLLLYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

6:15: "Season one's Amon is a socialist activist who cares about the oppression of non-benders by benders-- until it turns out that he doesn't."

I know this is a popular interpretation of the equalitists, especially given that their name is 'the equalists,' but actually the show never gives us enough information about the sociopolitical dynamics of benders and non-benders to say for sure. I'm not going to get into it here, if you want my full breakdown and analysis on the social politics of Avatar, let me know. In summary, it's tempting to assume benders would be the dominant class as they have literal powers, but that's not really how systemic power works. There's conflicting inference on what the dynamics are, and it may be different depending on the nation. The equalists are schrodinger's activists. They could be the Black Panthers, they could be the Proud Boys. That is not me making a false equivalency between those two groups, it's just never established if their perceived systemic persecution is real or imagined.

This isn't really a criticism of Lily. That it is so ambiguous is a flaw in the show. The interpretation Amon is supposed to be a socialist is as valid as any. Well. . . It's an extremely reductive interpretation of a socialist, and I know Lily doesn't know what a socialist actually is, but I'm trying to be charitable when possible here.

I do LIKE Korra myself, to be clear. But, yeah. There's problems.

6:31: "Season four's Kuvira wants to stitch the Earth Kingdom back together but doesn't want to restore an oppressive monarchy like everyone else does. And then declares that she is the dictator of the Earth Kingdom."

Yeah, that is just a thing that has happened in history, Lily. When there's a power vacuum left by a sudden or violent upheaval of a tyrant, unfortunately often another tyrant at least attempts to take their place. This is one of the reasons why former colonies struggle to cultivate stability-- societies and communities can get fucked in the ass by this kind of shit. This isn't a pro-monarchy message Lily-- consider maybe trying to learn things now and again.

This is why people call you a fake leftist Lily. Doing (relatively) minor gestures of good will like handing out food for a short period then pulling the rug out from under the people once they're complicit is right out of the facist playbook. You are virtually doing the exact thing you accused Rebecca Sugar of, but for real.

You're being outfoxed by a kid's show again.

6:44: "Season two's Unalaq [you get the idea.]"

Lily is pro gentrification until you involve demon kites I guess. I'm confused why she thinks he ever had any good intentions, it's telegraphed immediately he's a bad dude. He's also by far the worst villain-- as in, the worst written.

7:10: "All of them go 'the status quo is bad therefore commence genocide' like they got their political theory from fucking Vaush."

By your line of thinking so did Firelord Sozin:

"I had my own vision for a brighter future . . ."

I don't like Vaush either, but-- this isn't even the pot calling the kettle black. This is the blackened grime on the pot calling the kettle black.

GOD THIS VIDEO IS SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT MAGNETO. WE'VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT KORRA FOR ALMOST THIS WHOLE POST.

7:19: "The entire show you're watching Korra become a stooge for the status quo every single time. 'The problem isn't that the system is bad, it's that the wrong people are in charge.' And then they inevitably change the status like bringing democracy to the Earth Kingdom and you're left wondering-- wait, why wasn't the other person doing this!?"

I did not edit those two statements together. That is, in fact, Lily pointing out why her own arguments are stupid in the very next breath. Thanks for saving me the effort, I guess.

7:45: "Why weren't the characters you set up to do these things . . . Doing the things?!"

Because they weren't set up to do these things Lily. They're the antagonists. They ideologically were designed to be foils for Korra to overcome.

Korra's political messages aren't even that deep, and yet you're this incapable from telling even obvious totalitarian right-wing ideology and mild liberalism apart.

8:10: "It's so nakedly obvious how protective of the status quo these stories are."

This is, in a very abstract way, a valid criticism of Korra. This is a common problem in a lot of media, and Korra is far from the worst offender. I think it does breach past this to some extent, just not as much as I would have personally liked with all its seasons.

But make no mistake this is Lily again, taking something Lily has seen someone else say and putting that opinion through a blender.

Let's not beat around the bush here, Lily just wanted to bitch about Korra again. It's almost like she thinks if she repeats her idiotic media analysis enough, maybe THIS time people will realize how brilliant she is.

8:27: "A victim of abuse, torture or r@pe trying to kill her [only 'her,' huh?] abuser in vengeance is right to do so."

Okay, that's enough of this for now. Part 3 coming soon.

[physalian]

There’s this unskippable Google AI ad on YouTube where this girl consults the robot about how to cancel dinner plans with the people across the table in the most annoying voice (likely because I have seen this ad now and had to listen to her asinine questions 20 times at least) and this ad, right here, speaks to my frustration around AI:

It disincentivizes critical thinking.

I know the ad is a joke and meant to be lighthearted and I’m only this annoyed because it’s unskippable and irritating af, but every time I see it all I can think is “if you can’t manage enough creativity and critical thinking to come up with your own excuse to cancel on your friends, maybe you shouldn’t have those friends.”

I have a relative who is firmly in the ChatGPT camp and, for example, yesterday I was trying to figure out how to compress a video file and was venting to them about it. They sent me back something I didn’t read from ChatGPT. Meanwhile, I looked up a YouTube video and figured out how to do the rest on my own, and getting the file compressed was immensely satisfying. Far more than mindlessly and thoughtlessly consulting the robot.

“It’s just like a YouTube video!” They’d told me.

No, a real person put time and effort into that video. That robot stole their content without their consent, didn’t credit them, and spat it back out. I used to patronizingly refer to ChatGPT as "the magic conch" and now I can barely do that anymore because that metaphor is becoming all-too real.

While I can understand the barriers it lowers—like if you struggle with writing the robot does it for you, or if you need a piece of art and are too poor, you can generate it for free. Mindless, repetitive tasks that eat up creative juices that can just be automated by a robot, too (even though everyone can tell when a response is canned and artificial and no one appreciates talking to a machine).

If you keep consulting ChatGPT for how to articulate what you want to say, or just straight-up having it do the hard work for you, you’re never going to learn. Yes it’s taken me 8 years to reach the quality and skill of writing I have but as another Tumblr post out there said: The time will pass anyway.

I can’t draw to the skill level that I’d like to. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep practicing until I get there. I thrive off that sense of accomplishment. There’s no little hit of dopamine from typing in a prompt and clicking a button and I certainly don’t appreciate the final product scalped without consequence from real artists.

Or, like when I had to fire a beta reader for flagrant abuse of AI in her work: I can copy-paste my manuscript into ChatGPT, too. I’d paid her for a human response, not garbage feedback that couldn’t understand what I was writing beyond that there were words on the page. I wanted so badly to ask her why she does a job in a creative field if she's just going to have a robot do all the fun parts? I beta read at a great loss of profit because I enjoy beta reading and it's a fiercely competetive market. Surely if she wanted to scam people, she could have done so in so many other ways. You don't need to know how to pen complex prose in your every day life, but by god, you do need to know how to effectively communicate, contextualize, and argue your perspective and this ridiculous ad joking about cancelling dinner plans sure is funny, until it isn't.

And I know the people who made AI probably did so with the best of intentions but people can be lazy and cheap and we love taking shortcuts to save money and I stand by this: "Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should."

So. Yeah. This is a writing advice blog and this post has almost nothing to do with it, but that ad annoys me to no end and I had to say something somewhere about it. Bottom line: Robots were supposed to make the hard jobs, the monotonous jobs, the overcomplicated jobs, the belittling jobs easier, not make us all into pudding-boned Wall-E people. If you want to write, learning is absolutely free - write on the back of your grocery receipts for all I care. If you want to draw, pick up a notebook and pack of pencils from the local dollar store and start drawing.

What you made will always mean more to you than something that didn't cost you time, effort, brain power, or even money to obtain.

[faeskiss]

A DANGEROUS GAME

Zaros x reader!

It’s been weeks since the trials have begun, life has constantly been dragging me down, it just gets harder and harder, every trial is more difficult and draining than the last

Having the throne is MY birthright, no ruler in Serulla has had to fight for it since a millennia, so WHY me? Sometimes, I just want to get away from it all, to run away, and never look back, but I can’t do that, I’d never do that to my mother and I CERTAINLY won’t let Zaros win so easily

I can’t believe there was a time where I pined over him like a naïve, halfwit being, that sort of behaviour was certainly not appropriate for a dignified, future regnant like me, but I have since corrected myself

I won’t tolerate his constant brawling or his scorn insults anymore, I have let him throw cruel insults my way many times before , ignoring his contempt on purpose, letting it go, for I have to uphold my family’s name so I certainly should not be seen going around engaging in useless disputes

But if he strikes again, it might just get ugly, and the nobles might just have a new scandal to talk about for the rest of eternity

I am currently standing in the corner of the ballroom, it’s become my favourite spot these days, a corner, but I fear I simply don’t have it in me to fake smiles and engage in asinine chatter with these duplicitous people tonight

the party is in full swing, people are dancing and getting drunk on wine and mindless gossip, yes another day, another party, "a well deserved break” as my mother likes to call it

I take another sip of my drink, that’s when I notice Zaros joking and laughing with a group of nobles, he then proceeds to give them the most charming smile I have ever seen, he used to smile at me like that…all.the.time, he's been doing this all night, dancing, mingling with every single person at this party except for me…….not that I care, I'd rather stay far, far away from him

a sudden wave of unease washes through me, why is he smiling at random people when he hasn’t even approached me all night? Am I really THAT uninteresting and repulsive to him? I thought he hated all nobles with a surging passion? So why is he smiling and laughing with them and NOT me?

Oh god, I sound like an obsessed lovefool, but seeing him be so affectionate and content with other people, well to put it lightly stings…..a bit, there was once a time in our lives where we were completely, inseparable, that in itself feels like a lifetime ago but it still hurts to reminisce …..is it…possible…that I’m jealous….right now?

I shake my head vehemently, no no no no, no it can’t be, it’s just the champagne getting to my head, I quickly put my glass down on the table near me, not liking the way the intoxicant is making me think, perhaps I just need to distract myself

I roam around the ballroom till I find my mother talking to the judges of the trials, reluctantly, I join in the conversation, they are talking about all the progress so far, oh god, why are they talking about the trials at a party that is meant to be a break FROM the trials…

“How are you liking the party my dear” my mother asks

“It’s lovely, thank you for organising it” I reply with a faint smile

“And how’s Zaros? Is he having fun?” she asks

I wouldn’t know cause he hasn’t spoken a word to me all night, but from the looks of it, he’s having a fucking blast

“I’m sure he’s enjoying himself as well” I say

I stand near the group, pretending to listen earnestly, but I can’t stop stealing glances at Zaros, the way he dances, his constant laughter, his soft smile, he just looks so happy, at this point my eyes are practically locked on him, that is until he catches me peering at him

Horrified, I abruptly turn away, so much so I’m pretty sure I strained my neck in the process

“Are you okay earis? You look a bit rattled” one of the judges asks me

“Oh no, no, no I’m perfectly fine, just a bit overwhelmed, you know how draining these parties can be” I reply awkwardly

The song ends and so does the dance with it, the sound of clapping and laughter echoes through the ballroom

“If you’re feeling tired please don’t hesitate to go and rest, you’re probably already exhausted from the stress of the trials, I

want you to feel your best and healthiest my love” says my mother as she gives me a warm smile

“You’re right, I should probably retire for the night, thank you for understanding” I say quite tiredly

“Well then, it’s been an enjoyable day but I must go and rest, it was a pleasure spending time with you all and I hope you all had a wonderful evening, good night!” I bid goodbye to the group and start to make my way out

I am almost out of the room when I suddenly feel someone grab a hold of my arm

confused and quite shocked at the sudden gesture, I turn swiftly, and when I do I am met with those familiar, piercing green eyes staring right into mine, mischief gleaming in them

“And where do you think you’re going?” asks Zaros in a low, strict tone

“I just feel a bit tired, so I thought I’d end the night early, why? Do you have a problem with that too” I reply, an unexpected irritation plaguing my voice

“Tired already? You haven’t even danced, my, my, you of all people should know that it’s rude for a royal to not engage with the party thrown by their own family, it’s not a good look on your part” he says with a stupid, sly smirk on his face

“Shouldn’t my disgrace only add to your elation?” I ask with all the heartlessness my voice can muster

“Oh trust me it does” he says with a stupid laugh as if I’ve shared an intriguing jest

“How about you quit your baseless play and tell me what you want, I have better places to be” I sneer

“What like your room?" he says with that same stupid laughter

"Well I was originally coming over to ask you to dance with me, but I got distracted by your cold demeanour, so back to what I actually approached you for, would you be so kind as to join me for a dance?” he asks

“I’m not sure if you’ve always been this stupid or it’s the wine talking, why would I dance with you after your constant jabs? I don’t care, leave me alone” I hiss

“Alright then, let’s make this a little more interesting, take it as a challenge, I challenge you to dance with me, if you refuse, you lose, and I’ll win, like always” he says with a hint of mischief in his voice

“Oh fuck you, as if I’ll fall for your stupid trick” I scoff

“Alright then, off to bed with you, loser” he replies in a slow mocking manner….

I can feel my anger, hot and red, slowly flaming up inside of me, I know I shouldn’t fall for his trap, but I can’t let him have this, not after all his constant insults, I’ll take this opportunity to fuck with his brain a little, two can play this game

“Fine, I’ll dance with you, but only.one.song” I say in a strict manner

“That’s more like it” he replies with that same stupid smirk

He offers me his hand, I have no choice but to take it, we make our way to the middle of the floor and suddenly everyone starts to gape in our direction, how could they not? two rivals sharing a dance is certainly a sight to keenly watch….

The music is rather slow and soulful, the kind you'd play at a wedding for couples to dance to….I can't believe I have to dance with him to such a song

He slowly encircles my waist with his arm, and grabs one of my hands, intertwining our fingers, my free hand resting on one of his shoulders, this form is rather intimate and it makes me blush a bit…..this is so embarrassing, we slowly start moving, it's nothing fancy and I mostly follow his lead

"God your form is utterly terrible tonight, certainly the worst out of anyone I've danced with so far at this party" he mocks

"Do you ever stop running your fucking mouth? WHY did you even ask me to dance with you?" I ask in frustration

"Oh please lighten up, I'm just messing with you, learn to take a joke for once" he replies in a annoyed manner

I roll my eyes and swallow my anger, I want to get back at him but I'm scared to cause a scene, people expect a certain grace and courtesy from me than him, I think I'd rather live up to that

He twirls and dips me once, I am aware of all the times his hands brush against my skin, gentle and subtle, there's a certain unexpected sincerity in his touch, it's alive with vulnerability and tenderness, something I definitely don't expect from him

he dips me again, and as I come up, he traces his fingers down my back and pulls me in, my chest flutters in response, what the hell is he doing? I suddenly realise the swift shift in the atmosphere between us, I instantly notice exactly HOW close he is to me right now, oh this is dangerous, so very dangerous

"Zaros what the hell are you doing? You're way too close!" I whisper to him frantically

"I am as close as I need to be" he says in a low, soft and magnetic tone

He suddenly turns me so that my back faces him, my mind is reeling and whirling with a million thoughts "as close as I need to be" what does that even mean? Is this one of his tricks to torture me? I should've never accepted his proposal, I should've just gone to sleep

That’s when I suddenly feel his voice sneak into my ears, I can feel my heartbeat quickening by the second, I can feel his warmth creeping up on me, it’s all such a feverish daze…

"By the way, don't think I forgot your constant stares in my direction earlier, do I really look that ravishing tonight?" he says, his voice is laced with reckless yearning and temptation so deep….I think I might drown in it if I’m not careful

“Don’t flatter yourself” I say with restraint

“I thought we promised to never lie to each other, hmm?” he replies

I stay silent, not really knowing how to respond

“Well one of us needs to be honest here, I think, you’re the most alluring being to grace these palace walls….dare I say this world? Sometimes I lie awake at night, thinking of those torturous lips of yours, what they would feel like against my own, to feel your skin melt under my touch, it’s funny actually, I’ve had partners before, but none of them have left me as lovelorn as you”

I try to speak, but my mouth fails me, I try to think but it’s like I’m paralysed, I am completely and utterly under his mercy,

The song is nearing it’s end and so is my composure, the only thing my mind can register is his agonizingly tempting voice and the scandalous words it whispers that are both, making me want to die of shame and kiss him till I forget my own name

"wh-where is all this coming from, I thought you loathed me?" I ask in a shaky voice

"Contempt and desire can co-exist, they're similar emotions in a way, both will make you go insane for the person you feel them towards and who wouldn't go insane for you" he says as he lifts my chin, his thumb lightly traces my lower lip, my body shudders in response to his touch, I've completely forgotten that people might be staring at us, but I couldn't care less, I can only hope that people are drunk out of their minds to even notice us, his hand travels back to my waist but this time his grip is tighter, we stare into each other's eyes for the rest of the dance, both unable to act on our heart's true desire for there is way too much at stake

After one last turn, the song ends and so does the dance

"We still have a lot to figure out, you and I, I can't believe I'm saying this but…..I quite enjoyed the dance and I certainly look forward to-"

I suddenly feel his soft,warm lips on my cheek, my world stops, the kiss is soft and gentle, empty of vain or ill intent, just a pure kiss that one might share with their lover, the crowd around us gasps in shock and disbelief, but all I can focus on is the shameless yet charming smile on his lips, it's the same smile my eyes have been dying to see for the past eight years, and for the first time in a long time

my heart skips a beat

[beannoss]

with you, all in tangles (final)

3 times Yor blows kisses to Twilight and one time Twilight blows a kiss to Yor

For the @twiyorbase fluff fest! No content warnings, T-rating; manga spoilers. One chapter per day matching the daily prompts: and now complete! Today's prompt: always. <- Part three (+1)

It wasn’t the first party they’d hosted, but it was the first one where they’d rented a special space for it. Sharing director duties at WISE during a lasting peace afforded Twilight more time to genuinely relax. But of course, he would never choose genuinely relax doing this. Which was why the party was also a WISE operation. And Yor was aware of his target as they moved through the room.

Yor, on the other hand, still in her same role at City Hall and still in her same role with Garden, had taken on the planning duties for fun. And almost everyone she liked or loved was in attendance. Yor was having a great time! It also just so happened those same people were mostly the same people Twilight liked or loved, and so despite himself, Twilight also did seem to be enjoying himself.

Up until now. Yor had felt his change of mood the moment it happened, and quickly scanned the room. Oh, damnit! She thought Gorey had sent his regrets!

Then again, that man was unpredictable — wanting to curry Dr Loid Forger’s favour one moment and rejecting it the next. Judging by the way he was carrying himself, the retired former Chief Medical Director was intent on an evening for currying favour. Which meant bending Twilight’s ear with the most asinine prattle (Twilight's words) for so long he would end up lying in bed, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, rubbing his stomach with the other, grumbling to himself, until Yor came to bed, at which point he would move from lying against his pillow to resting his head in her lap as she read until he finally fell asleep.

But Yor — despite Gorey saying he would not be attending — had planned for this! She stole through the room, slipping easily between her guests, intercepting Gorey when he was feet away from Twilight. “Doctor Gorey! How lovely you were able to come in the end,” Yor said, stepping directly into his path. She clasped her hands in front of her, and gave him her biggest smile. “I was so sorry when we received your regrets, as I had actually actually planned to introduce you to someone this evening.”

“Mrs Forger,” Gorey greeted. He’d been trying — very rudely! — to look past her towards Twilight as she spoke, but at the mention of an introduction, he refocused. “I — well, yes my plans changed. And I thought I would see my good friend Loid —” She knew Twilight wasn’t openly listening but she also knew exactly what it felt like to have his focused attention: it had been steady from the moment she had started to move through the room. At Gorey’s casual familiarity, Twilight’s attention sharpened irritably, even as she could still hear him speaking pleasantly. Since he retired, he insists on calling me Loid, Twilight had said testily the last time this happened. At that point, Yor had put her book aside, and set her fingers to her husband’s temples, half listening as he went on and half formulating this exact plan.

“Ahh, Loid will very much want to see you,” Yor said apologetically. Lie, she sing-songed to herself. “But I really do need to introduce you. Oh, and the gentleman in question is just over here! He’s been keen to meet you ever since Loid sung your praises a few weeks ago. If you’ll come with me?”

Gorey made one more attempt to look past her — but Yor tipped her head, letting her hair fall to obscure his view. And it was clear he was very tempted by the prospect of flattery. “Well,” he finally said, puffing up his chest. “If you insist.”

“You’re doing me such a favour, Doctor Gorey,” Yor gushed.

As Gorey turned in the direction she indicated, Yor looked over her shoulder, meeting Twilight’s eyes. He didn’t smile outright, but she knew that slight curve to his lips, the way his eyes shone at her.

Quickly, before Gorey might notice, Yor winked, and blew him a kiss.

Like he had in the beginning — so adorable! — Twilight ducked his head ever so slightly, such that only she would notice, a faint flush touching his cheeks, before he turned his attention back to the people he was speaking with. Yor fell into step beside Gorey, feeling like she might be glowing just a little bit.

After Yor had set Gorey talking to a WISE agent she had roped into the ploy — with apologies! — Yor took a moment to survey the room. And if her eyes lingered on her husband —

“You two are still doing that, huh.”

Yor turned to Sylvia, who had come up beside her, wine glass in hand. “Hm?” Yor asked.

“I still remember when he came in to tell me you’d incorporated that gesture as something of a coded message into your field work.” Yor blinked at her, and Sylvia smiled — smiling regularly and openly was still new for her, and Yor always warmed to see it. It was very clear that retirement was treating her well, even if she had banned any congratulations under threat of unleashing her worst (although Yor had heard rumour that Nightfall had taken Sylvia on a beach holiday). But she knew Twilight had been worried about what she might do with herself: Yor would have to tell him later on how well she looked. Sylvia indicated Twilight across the room with a tip of her glass. “That was when I knew.”

“Knew? What did you know?”

What Sylvia hadn't lost was a tendency for speaking in riddles. At least that's what it sometimes felt like to Yor: as though she were missing half the context and had to piece everything together through obscure clues. She supposed that's what happened if one spent most of their life in espionage. Her eyes flicked to Twilight again: Anya was looking conspiratorial beside him and something she said made him laugh. Involuntarily, Yor smiled, swayed a little towards them.

Or, she corrected, losing one's smile was what happened if one spent most of their life in espionage, without the benefit of a confidante outside of that life. Although, she supposed she was really more beside that life, than outside of it. But still!

“In his earliest honeypot missions,” Sylvia answered (hopefully), “I’d have to coach him through doing the romantic things. Wine, flowers,” Sylvia waved a hand, “The cliches that are usually good enough early on in a courtship. Later, longer assignments might require he have more nuance, gifts more specifically tailored to his targets,”Sylvia slid a sly glance to Yor at this, and despite herself, Yor felt herself blush. Twilight treating Yor as he would a target had never really worked as planned. “But for the work he was doing at that point in his career, barely more than a rookie, the cliches would typically have been fine. Except he was terrible at them. At almost everything else, he was exemplary, almost annoyingly so, honestly. But he struggled with the…” Sylvia swirled the wine in her glass as she considered. “The softer? Squishier? Things.”

“Lovey-dovey,” Yor suggested softly, remembering.

Sylvia cut her another glance. Her smile was a little knowing. “Sure. Lovey-dovey. He would under-do it to the point it would risk the mission and I’d have to step in to force the issue.” She shook her head, took a sip of her drink. “He got better at it obviously. Though he still tended to rely on charm and other tactics where possible... Then he appeared one day, shortly after you two began joint field work. Reported to me about a new coded message: you'd started blowing kisses to one another.” That surprised Yor a little, though it shouldn’t have. Sylvia says shortly after we started working together but… I wonder when exactly it actually was… Knowing Twilight, it could easily have been after the first time, in anticipation. But it may also not have been until after they’d shared their feelings with one another. Or that first time Yor had been aware that Twilight had come close to death. Or the first time Twilight had been aware of Yor coming close to death… A dozen other possibilities came to mind. She would ask him. Sylvia went on, “I didn't need details, I didn't need to pry; he was our best. He knew that and so did I. But I asked him to clarify. What did it mean? When and why and under what contexts could blowing kisses work in the field?” Sylvia laughed. “When I tell you he gave me the stormiest look — insofar as he emoted outwardly at all. I hadn't seen even the shadow of an expression like that since the earliest days of his training.”

Yor smiled a little. “He couldn't say what it meant?”

“What he managed to describe was nearly nonsense. He essentially told me that it meant: This or that, depending on context, depending on mission. You two just understood. That was enough, leave it alone.” Sylvia shook her head. “And that's why I knew. Because he was a master of communication, verbal, non-verbal, subtle gestures, doublespeak, whatever a mission called for or an ally needed. But he also valued precision. A specific gesture that meant different things nearly every time it was used? That's sloppy. That's risky.” Sylvia's amusement deepened, her eyebrow raised pointedly. “Unless, of course, there's an intimacy there, which all but mitigated the risk.”

“Hmm…” Yor raised a hand to her chin, looked across the room to where Twilight was listening intently to Becky. Becky had long shed her crush on Twilight, but she still liked to ask his opinion on things. In much the same way she still met with Yor to brush up on her self-defence skills whenever she was back in Berlint from university. It was sweet. Yor smiled slightly.

He felt her gaze; of course he did. It was only a flicker, his eyes darting to meet Yor's. It was enough.

Sylvia had it wrong. Yor understood exactly what Twilight hadn't said — there really was only one meaning. She would ask him, later, why he wasn't more specific with Sylvia. Had he not known then? Or had he not anticipated her probe? Had he wanted to keep it personal, even back then, when he had thought he couldn't have anything personal? Something else? Yor had her suspicions.

Standing beside Sylvia, remembering Twilight at that time, she could see the logic of his deflection. She supposed one could say that the meaning differed a little, after all, the context resulted in courses of action specific to the where and the when and the why. But at the end of the day, through the dozens (or hundreds? She would ask Twilight later; he would remember) of times they blew kisses to one another, in missions and in life, the meaning really was always just the same.

Don't worry. I have this. I have you. Trust me.

Or, she supposed there was one progression… It really hadn't been too long before it had really meant

Trust us.

All at once, she felt too far away. Yor turned her attention back to Sylvia, smiled brightly. She had learned something of deflection, too, over the years. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” she said sincerely. “And I suppose… I suppose it was something that just... worked. We didn’t really explain it to ourselves, either.”

Sylvia gave her a long, searching look. “Heh,” she murmured, looking into her glass before downing the last sip. “So he's taught you a few tricks then.” Yor felt her eyes widen and Sylvia laughed. “Go on, I can see you want to go to him.”

Once upon a time, Yor might have felt embarrassed, for her feelings, for being so obvious, for being a little rude in being so obvious. But what was the point? Sylvia was a good friend; they were surrounded by good friends or people they trusted well enough. Well, except for Doctor Gorey and the target of WISE's operation. But both of them were presently and thoroughly engaged, and no worry of hers.

She let her affection for Sylvia shine through on her face. Just as Sylvia's eyebrows rose a fraction in surprise — hehe! Success! — Yor winked.

Then she crossed the room, stepped lightly into place beside Twilight. His arm came around her before he even turned to her. Yor took the moment to smile in greeting to Anya and Becky, then slid her arm around his waist in turn. When he looked down at her, she beamed up at him.

“Hi, love,” Twilight murmured, handsome as ever with some grey at the temples and a few lines at the corners of his eyes. His beloved eyes, warm and smiling with welcome. There was a question there, about Sylvia, about Gorey, but she would tell him about that later.

“Hi!” Yor chirped. And — ignoring how Anya said Eugh! Mama! — she rose to her toes, gave a quick peck to the edge of his mouth.

At his raised eyebrows when she dropped back down to her heels, Yor winked, and blew him a kiss.

Thank you for reading & I hope you enjoyed 😘

[vitanithepure]

Can we talk about Gale again? And Mystra, one last time? Or at least let me vent? I know it seems like I can't shut up about it, but deal with me this one last time?

It's a long one, an fervent one, and possibly the last one on their relationship because there isn't much to tell for me after this. I just want to lay it to rest on my part, it's too emotionally draining, but I wanted to do this.

Spoilers for them ahead.

It was some time ago I did the talk with Mystra and Gale as an origin character and I needed some time to process this and gather my thoughts. Because I was left reeling with how personal it felt for me and I hated seeing that to bo honest, even though I think whoever did write this scene did it... very well. I feel a lot of thought went into it, so even though it does touch a delicate subject it does it as tastefully as possible.

Okay, let's begin with a real banger.

Why? This will forever read as "I gave you a solution, explain yourself why you didn't die when I asked you to." for me. What kind of messed up question is that to ask someone?

But can I say how there is absolutely no wrong anwser to that asinine question? You can roleplay however you wish, but none of them are bad anwsers. Some of them are more heartbreaking then the others, but none are in any way making excuses. There is nothing to excuse and I'm glad whoever wrote this dialogue recognized this.

I chose the "I have someone else to live for" one here, because I felt that Gale, at this point, really found that special someone, be it a friend or lover, to live for. It's gut-wrenching that he needed someone to keep him alive in the first place, but this is what having an abusive ex does to you.

But the other choices here? All of them fair. She absolutely had no right to ask that of him, no matter the crime, that's just a fucked up thing to expect.

Being afraid to die? Valid, this shouldn't be put up to question.

Two last ones? Pure gold. I treat the fourth one as a direct jab at her own teachings, on how all magic needs to be preserved and studied? It's like him saying "Hey, I did what you expected and now your mad?".

The very last one is poetic justice. "I owe you nothing." and if that were me this would be the absolute end of this discussion. Mic drop, I'm out of here.

And okay, I did take he self-pity route with "I let you down." here becuase this is what I believe is closest to how "canon" Gale feels about this. That's the most heartbreaking thing about it, that he believes he was not worth enough before and is even less now and doesn't deserve love, of any kind.

What are the other options? Well, all in character and each seems like a valid way for Gale to feel. But me, the player, who is fortunate to know some meta knowledge? Oh boy.

"I was a danger to you." No you weren't. She is the goddess of magic, one of the most powerful out here. She is magic. All you could do is make her day worse.

"I disobeyed you." Yeah, you did. And she sentenced you to a slow death for it.

"You were threatened." Eh, not really. But what comes after that statement? "You realised you couldn't control me."? Yes, that is the only thing she felt threatened about - loosing control.

"Our relationship bored you. The orb was just an excuse to end it." I mean... maybe? Not enough is known about it but seeing how all reincarnations of Mystra are fickle lovers at best I would say it's a possibility. Even if it is just his ego speaking here - damn, what a way to end a relationship.

She has the audacity to tell him "he only thought of himself". Pot calling the kettle much?

Oooh, but I love what we can say here. The amout of vicious call outs here is superb.

We get to call out how much of a control freak she is. Then we can say how out of place was her punishment. Because I feel like it was a fucking equivalent of throwing a child into a dark cellar for breaking your favorite cup, while all they wanted to do was wash it for you. That is how imbalanced this whole thing is and I'm not taking criticism on that.

We also get to straight up ask what was the lesson if she never let him know what he really did and left him without means to make things right?

Then my favorite. Straight up ask her how many lives was she willing to sacrifice to get rid of the problem?

And last but not least - call her out on her lies. That's what she did. Why? I don't know. Was she afraid? Possibly, because the Karsite Weave + Crown of Karsus combo could potentially threaten her. Potentially, because as we saw in one of the Gale endings, she has no problem with just getting rid of a newly ascended god wielding them. That leads me to believe she is not afraid of loosing power as much as just being rivaled with. The indignity she has to suffer, truly.

Hit a nail on the head here. Who cares about mortals, if they live or die and in how many droves? Competition comes knocking, so all gloves are off. And that is what I believe to be the crux of the matter. Mystra wants to remove the Absolute (because that's the new upstart god breaking the status quo), the orb containing he rival Weave, the Crown which threatens her rule over magic all in one swoop. Oh, and that one guy who tries too hard and refuses to die. No biggie. Who cares, she has a line of followers who would replace her Chosen at any given time.

I'm a salty bitch over the fact we can't keep the Crown of Karsus, but instead of using it - just hide it away again. Stablize Gale's Karsite Weave and keep that thing around, hidden away. Let her sweat over the idea someone else might find it one day and rival her rule.

I know I'm way too emotional about it, but like I said, it's very personal - I been there, done that, and never recovered in full after it. I'll die defending anyone and any pixels who are struggling with their self-worth and trying to get over an emotionally abusive relationships.

"Be the better person, die saving the world and I'll 'forgive' you." Fuck. You.

And a bonus, for those of you who stuck around till the end, because I was totally naming the screens and yelling at my monitor while doing this.

[ronearoundblindly]

Threadbare (1)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part One: Yield Strength (see series)

Summary: Steve gets to meet his favorite designer, and you get a surprise visitor at work.

Warnings: none. Maybe a bit of creepy behavior but not from Steve. Yes, I did just want to use the leather jacket gif for shiggles. What's it to ya? WC 3355

Steve Rogers hates stuffy functions. He hates the brown-nosing. He hates trying to convince people who have everything to give scraps to people with nothing. He hates watching the excess and indulgence, even when he knows it ends up giving something to those in need. He hates it. He hates the whole lot of these stupid, asinine—

Steve takes a breath and smooths his hand down the buttery fabric of a double-breasted jacket hanging next to his intended garment.

Ok, fine, he hates the functions, but he actually enjoys the dressing up part.

He didn’t used to. No. The only outfit outside of his Cap suit that ever truly fit him—before or after the serum—was his SSR uniform, and coming from a time of nothing, Steve accepted that as a huge win.

And then he woke up in this world of excess and—what do they call it? Fast-fashion?— realized that what should be easier to acquire was much, much harder to find: room to breathe.

Steve may roll his eyes at Tony’s custom everything, but he admits internally that at least Stark’s comfortable all the time. Steve would settle for being comfortable in his own skin.

This helps though, this gloriously draped, stiff in a supportive way, heavy in a grounding way, and shapely button down. He doesn’t need a whole suit tonight; it’s not that kind of event. In fact, Steve wasn’t specifically invited. He heard Tony talking about the new collection by the designer of this shirt—which happens to be the label for 90% of Steve’s dressier clothing at this point—and Steve outright volunteered himself to go with Tony.

See, Steve Rogers is now a big, broad guy, and it’s been an adjustment, as well as plain difficult, to gather a wardrobe that isn’t custom tailored due to his sheer size and proportions. The team jokes about his tight shirts, but if he buys things large enough for his shoulders, his waist swims in fabric. Steve had to live off of stretchy clothing for the first three years he was out of the ice. He wasn’t out of his Cap suit long enough for the investment to be worthwhile. Then it took another several years before he discovered Tovarich.

The man must know what it’s like to be big and broad, that’s for sure. Steve may not be much for high fashion, but he’s genuinely gotten so much comfort and enjoyment out of Mr. Tovarich’s work that Steve wants to thank him personally. For once, being Captain America is a good card to play to ensure he gets to meet the designer.

Steve adjusts his rolled sleeves a bit in the mirror, smirking at himself for being a bit of a dandy concerning his look right now, but he’s determined to have a good time out with Tony. It’s just a fashion show. How difficult can it be?

Really damn difficult, that’s what it is.

Steve isn’t prepared for the bizarre press interest in who is there instead of what is being shown. He’s used to cameras flashing at him—especially because the bright and loud pops of flashes were much worse in the ‘40s—but Steve’s in awe of the models’ complete indifference while walking a straight line with a straight face in some of the simplest, most magnificent men’s wear he’s ever seen.

If all he had to do was tick boxes on a list to order things, Steve would be in big trouble with a full bingo card and an empty wallet. It’d be worth it though.

Tony tries to talk to him every so often, but the music is outrageously loud. Steve can’t hear a thing.

He gets tapped on the shoulder by some women sitting behind him, and they try to say some more things he can’t hear.

Everyone rises to clap, and Steve joins in, overwhelmed by the fast pace of all the outfits on repeat, when the man on his other side accidentally elbows Steve and drops his program. The paper flutters to land in front of Tony’s feet, so Steve picks it up, hands it back, and the man makes an appreciative face before gesturing vaguely at the runway and mouthing his admiration. Steve nods and smiles, happy he’s not the only one fanboying over clothes.

The lights change in the venue. The photography and clapping stop. Tony starts yammering on about an after party, but Steve wants to meet the designer.

“Oh, Cap, that walk-and-wave was as close as you’re getting today. Tovarich is a hot commodity. I’ll just get you a fitting sometime.” He clamps a hand onto Steve’s shoulder and tilts his head toward the refreshments. “Shall we?”

Darn. Steve should have done more research on how fashion shows work, but he hates how invasive online snooping feels. It was fine when he was catching up on history and historical figures. However, most of the ‘news’ now is not news at all, so he avoids searching for information that way. He doesn’t ask question about Mr. Tovarich because, in theory, it’s none of Steve’s business and Steve may or may not be slightly ashamed at how obsessed he is with something as trivial as clothing.

Fashion is not something he thought about until very, very recently. The most time he’s spent worried about what he puts on is his tac suit, and the main features of that are being blade resistant and bullet proof. Those things don’t exactly interest him so much as they are in his best interest.

So Steve is rather disappointed by the outcome of the evening, but he’ll manage. For once, he’s got a tiny bright light of something to look forward to in the form of a few more dress shirts and a very sharp vest.

He goes on with life as usual.

Months later and they’re doing this thing.

It’s called the Hellfire Gala, and apparently, it’s a big, big deal. Steve’s told everyone goes all out, that he’ll need to be dressed to the nines, and he realizes this is his opportunity.

Tony’s elated to make the arrangements for him with the Tovarich Atélier and plans to go with him. He wouldn’t stop grumbling about how awkward Steve might be, raving that he can’t have Steve getting a bad rap under his clout, so Steve shows up nervous.

Tony sends a text saying he’s running late. Of course he is, today of all days.

Steve shuts his eyes and lowers his head in gratitude that there are only two seamstresses when he first arrives. The ladies—one older and one younger—offer refreshments and ask a few questions about the event and what styles he might be interested in. He explains the getup needs to highlight the ‘Cap’ persona since the gala is a celebration of their work as Avengers, but other than that, it’s the-sky’s-the-limit for Tovarich.

The younger seamstress smiles at that and calls it ‘fun.’

Sure. That’s one word for it. Steve would also call it daunting.

As instructed, he stands on a small platform while the ladies bustle about speaking quietly to each other. Steve hears Tony ring the reception bell before any measurements have started, and he heaves out a sigh of relief.

“In time for the good stuff, am I?” Stark winks.

“Always perfectly welcome, Mr. Stark,” you, the younger woman, say politely. “Would you care for anything to drink?”

“Uh,” Tony smooths his hand down his current suit front, eyes flickering to Steve, “have you met me?”

Your smile widens. “Dominica, please,” you signal to your coworker.

Between your fingers, you’ve folded a scrap of paper, something you scribbled while Steve stood awkwardly on the pedestal (which isn’t to say he has stopped standing awkwardly), and Tony snatches the paper from your grasp, unfolding it to make a challenging, inquisitive face.

Steve huffs and glares, praying his friend doesn’t start hitting on Tovarich’s employee before the man even shows up. Steve isn’t the one to be worried about.

Stark takes Dominica’s proffered tumbler of brown liquor, saying nothing.

You are a ninja with the tape measure, gentle hands sliding over his chest and waist and—Steve swallows—his hips, all while rattling off numbers…which no one writes down. Steve moves his arms and legs when told. When you’re kneeling on the edge of the platform, eye level with his crotch, Steve decides to distract himself and get some answers.

“I’ve been looking forward to my first meeting with Mr. Tovarich. When might he arrive?”

Tony clears his throat, wincing. “Not possible, buddy.”

Steve tenses.

“I thought that—“

“You can’t meet him for the the first time.” Tony holds up a hand before Steve can move. “You already did. She’s measuring the distance between your balls and the floor.”

Steve startles out a ‘what,’ snapping his legs shut with your hand between his thighs.

“Captain Steve Rogers, please meet your favorite designer,” Tony beams, shoving his tongue against the inside of his cheek and hiking up his eyebrows.

Steve shrinks, face burning.

“Hello, Captain Rogers,” you introduce yourself with a lovely smile, “I will…need my hand to make your suit, sir.”

His open-mouthed impression of a fish is cut short by standing at attention, releasing the seal of his thighs. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

“Very polite,” you mutter before turning to Tony. “Mr. Stark, was that entirely necessary?”

“For the look alone, yes. My god, I’ll pay you again just to watch now that he knows.”

You push off the platform and practically skip over to Tony, reading over his shoulder. “How did I do?”

Tony looks at the piece of paper. “Damn it. Spot on,” Tony grunts.

“And that means…?”

“That I leave you alone for the rest of the consult,” Tony whines. “Fine, but make it worth it, buddy. Lady gets paid by the hour.” He snaps his fingers playfully. “Dominica, let’s take room two, my dear.”

Steve’s not sure what to do with his hands and mistakenly remains up high on the pedestal while you pull out a notebook and sit at a small table.

“Oh!” You look up at him with tender, lively eyes. “You may step down now.”

He feet seem to thunder to the floor even against the carpet. “I didn’t mean to—I just assumed that—I’m sorry, Misses—”

“It’s Miss,” you correct him. “And don’t worry. You are not the first, and you won’t be the last. Have a seat, Captain.”

“Steve.”

“Steve,” you correct yourself this time. “I’ll tell you a secret. I prefer that most people assume a man runs this business. You get to see people’s true colors when they finally find out.”

That doesn’t help Steve’s hot flush of embarrassment.

“You are one of the good ones. I can tell,” you add, adjusting to a fresh page in the notebook and marking the top corner.

In the silence Steve asks, “so you already knew my size?”

“You aren’t so different from my standard cut.”

“No,” he allows. Of course, he should have known that seeing as everything he buys from your label fits him so well. He kicks himself internally while trying not to frown at his slip up. It is, however, easy to keep a smile while basking in the glow of yours.

You pop your shoulder up into a shrug, lips morphing into a wry tease. “And I’m pretty good at what I do.”

Amazing, Steve thinks to himself. You’re amazing…at what you do.

Your elbow rests against the table, hand cupping your jaw as you hold Steve’s gaze.

“Some even call me a master of the male form.”

His swallow is deafening, which only makes you happier, and he looks down at his knee, rubbing his pant leg while his face heats.

“But for today’s purposes—“ you lean back in your chair, twirling your pencil playfully, a magic wand in your brilliant hands “—why don’t you tell me what makes me your favorite designer so I can make you my favorite client?”

Why’d you have to be so pretty? Why do you need him for so few fittings?

Steve has to stop himself from spending a Tony Stark-sized fortune on clothing for the pleasure of walking into your store and seeing you alone—well, in the hope of seeing you at all. Dominica is very sweet, sassy in a hard ass mom kind of way, and she’s one of four total assistants you have at the shop. Steve’s met three of them.

There’s just only one of you, and you’re busy.

Between his duties with the Avengers, actually sleeping, and debating with himself about what constitutes looking desperate, Steve is lucky to have caught you in-house only half the times he visits.

And then he tore a shirt. In fact, he tore three shirts, and to his credit, two of them were by accident. The third…uh, there’s a chance that when Steve exclaimed “oh shoot, I didn’t see that nail poking out” that he 100% saw that nail and deliberately brushed himself against that wall. He also may or may not have deliberately done it in front of Tony, faking that it was no big deal, because now he has the excuse that Tony is the one who told him to go see you.

Yeah, Steve agrees, if you say so.

He’s all excitement and nerves again when he rounds the corner of your street, but then the adrenaline shoots through Steve’s veins for a different reason.

A squad car has jumped the curb in front of your shop, lights flashing, doors left open, and Steve can hear lots of tense voices.

It’s a stressful enough day without the uninvited guest. Not many people—who know how you work and are not assholes—would dare to show up within a month of the Spring Show, without an appointment, and demand a rush job.

A rush job on a custom suit that you explicitly said could not be rushed before its scheduled time, mind you, but the surprise visitor doesn’t care.

Richard Fisk is broad. He has dirty blond hair that falls in front of his eyes when he tilts his head to smile. He often travels with a whole team of other imposing men.

The son of Wilson ‘Kingpin’ Fisk, however, is a prime example of personality souring good looks. Where it’s bashful and adorable that Steve Rogers hides his smile, Richard barely bridles his menacing entitlement.

You hate him, but he’s not a person you can outright refuse. He makes all of your assistants uncomfortable. Fisk is needlessly hostile to Tarik, who is thankfully not here today; he’s a creepy dick to Abby, who you insist stays in the fitting room with Anja, your longtime client who trusts you to push the envelope tastefully for a redheaded woman in her sixties; and he almost made Jules quit because he couldn’t follow instructions during a consult. Dominica stands in as the perfect buffer when she’s here, but the eldest of the Tovarich Atélier employees is currently on the other side of the city for a VIP delivery.

Your busy, busy day just got much harder.

His trio of beefy entourage flanks Fisk at the front of your shop.

“Here for my suit, sugar,” he drawls, flicking his used toothpick into a corner on the floor.

He eyes Abby as she shuts herself and Anja away from his direct ire, and although this leaves you alone, it stops your worry for their safety in addition to your own.

“As it stipulates in the commission, we take at least—“

“Those little hands are free now, I see,” he spits, stepping within an few inches of your face. His breath is foul and hot.

The aggression has you stumbling back, smashing into a side table and knocking a box of supplies to the ground.

“How ‘bout you get to work.”

You take in a heavy, fortifying, and quiet gasp. “Per your order, the fabric is manufactured off-site because teal is not a standard color. It takes time to produce. This was made very clear when you signed.”

Fisk flashes that menacing smile. “We can wait. One of these fine men can…keep you focused till you do your job.”

The condescending tone and disrespect of your work ethic spark flames of rage in your gut. Even though terror still simmers beneath, it’s too easy to let an insult fly.

“You’re lucky I’m even making it. The all white one last summer was a stretch, but teal? On you? Not something you can pull off.”

He lunges forward again. “Keep up the cheek, and I’ll lock you in my basement until I get everything I—“

“Ma’am,” a cop bursts through the shop door, “we got a call…” The officer goes quiet after one look at Fisk.

Abby must have phoned after hearing you knock supplies down, and you’re grateful, yes, but police are of little help with this guy. Cops wouldn’t dare ruffle Kingpin’s feathers or his awful son’s by proxy, but if you roll over now, you’ll never get back out from under him.

The only way forward is to put your foot down.

“Mr. Fisk, I wouldn’t make you a black and white striped three-piece if you did chain me in a basement. You’re a spring, and I have standards.”

“Ma’am,” the officer warns, his partner standing nervously in the open doorway.

“What kind of professional would I be if I let you walk around looking like a mental asylum inmate? I’m doing you a favor!”

Richard brandishes another toothpick. “The customer is always right, sugar.”

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid to taunt him and yell. Being insulted and diminished doesn’t make you want to be smart though; it makes you want to be right.

Your hands ball into fists of fear and rage. “It’s my name on the label,” you bark, “and I could just refund you to get you the hell out!”

Now you’ve really done it.

The boy gangster’s face twists and his oral fixation goes limp in disbelief. No one talks to Richard Fisk that way, least of all women.

His men step between both the cops and their boss, leaving Fisk himself to grab a solid wood tie box from the nearest counter and fling it at your face.

Your arms fly up to block it, but nothing ever connects, nor is there a crash behind you.

An officer’s voice wavers from across the room. “Uh, I’m sure this can all be worked out. No need to…start anything.”

You’re ashamed to say that your hands are shaking when they return to your sides and reveal an entirely different bulky blond.

Steve Rogers casually holds the caught box in his hands, staring daggers as he shifts squarely in front of you to block Fisk.

“This doesn’t concern you, Captain,” the bully grunts. “Piss off.”

Steve strides forward to replace the box neatly and plants himself inches from Fisk’s face.

“Can’t do that. She’s expecting me.” He turns back to you. “Ready?” Steve asks with a tight smile.

You swallow down one iota of your alarm and clear your throat.

“Yes—” the word cracks but you hope familiarity will scare off Fisk for now “—thank you, Steve.”

That seems to be Captain America’s cue to handle everyone else at odds in the storefront. By the time you get control of your trembling limbs, Steve has shown Fisk the door and promised the officers that you’ll be looked after.

Abby peeks out of the fitting room, surprised to see only Steve.

“Did they send you instead?”

She opens the door wider for Anja to see.

The redhead quirks an eyebrow. “Call the police more often, honey. They’ve upped their game.”

The now bashful, broad blond tilts his head, rogue hair falling across his face. His blue eyes sparkle beneath long lashes while he apologizes for lying, but you can’t for the life of you figure out why he’d feel guilty.

“I…” Steve stumbles. “I don’t have an appointment. I just wanted to see you.”

Currently estimating four parts to this grumbling into the ether but who knows. I clearly cannot be trusted to estimate length anymore...

[Next Part]

You can find more to read on my Main Masterlist! For readers under 18, please see the Light Masterlist which contains all-age-friendly works.

@supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @femefetalelevelingup @darsynia

[bogkeep]

grousing about ai art stuff

every time i open twitter (my mistake) there's a new thread on how to spot ai art or ai photos by finding all the mistakes in it, and like obviously this is useful and it's good to watch out because they kEEP SHOWING UP EVERYWHERE AHHH HELL WORLD HELL WORLD, but it's also a little depressing that we're training ourselves to nitpick all kinds of details within a piece of art.

like even before the artifically generated image boom randos on twitter would reply to fully finished illustrations with the most asinine unsolicited advice possible. art's gonna be flawed sometimes! i'll draw someone in a weird pose because of vibes! i'll wing a hand! i don't fucking know what a house actually looks like!!! like yes of course the way a human artist creates flawed art is different from the way an algorithm doesn't actually know what anything looks like because it has no mind. it doesn't know shit. so it's not that it's UNRELIABLE but it's like. it's like... i've been telling myself and others every time i'm struggling to make something look Just Right that actually nobody i going to be staring as hard at my art as i am while making it. if i don't point it out people aren't likely to notice unless they are going through it with a fine toothed comb BUT NOW WE ARE DOING THAT APPARENTLY. WHICH IS ANYONE'S PEROGATIVE AND FAIR ENOUGH! PEOPLE CAN LOOK AT MY ART HOWEVER THEY WANT IT'S FINE

but it's ALSO so depressing to consider having to analyse every single piece of art you come across like that my goddddddd i just wanna enjoy it!! i wanna enjoy art!!!! i mean the main reason i finally stopped going on twitter regularly was during the NFT boom and i got so tired of having to vet every single artist i came across to make sure i wasnt retweeting nft stuff. like that really ruined my previously enjoyable experience of LOOKING AT NICE ART ON MY FEED WITHOUT PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE.

god another thing that happened during the dark nft times was how certain art styles tended to be nfts. and i don't mean the ugly apes and stuff, like of course there's those, but there were a lot of artists who sold their souls to crypto and there was just a certain Vibe to a lot of those styles. like i got a sixth sense for it, i would see a piece of art by an unknown artists and when i checked - yep, that was a crypto guy now. and you know what!!!! i hated that!!!! i hate that it ruined entire art styles for me!! AND NOW ARTIFICIALLY GENERATED IMAGES ARE DOING THE SAME!!!!! like what tends to tip me off is less because i spotted some wonky hand or a weird flap but because the style is a popular one for the ai bros to imitate. you know what i mean right!!!!!! it's kind of how the ai photos look a bit too clean and crisp and smooth in an unsettling way. it just pings the brain a bit.

ULTIMATELY the absolute main method i have for filtering away ai images isn't so much looking for mistakes, but by checking sources. it's the same way i check that i'm not reblogging from reposting accounts Because That's A Thing I Care About Too - if there's no description or the description seems off and i don't recognise the OP, i check the original post/blog to see what's up. if the image gives me a weird vibe, i check where it comes from and who posted it. oftentimes the comments on posts with ai images will point it out - they're not always accurate and there's definitely been times where people are a little too trigger happy to accuse art of being AI... but it can be a good lead or confirm suspicions. on one hand, i don't want to do detective work while im having chill scrolling time, but on the other hand - i already had this habit for other reasons, so it's less disruptive to me than the alternative. it also helps that it's very rare for ai shit to turn up in my tumblr feed. i don't want to keep looking over my shoulder!!

(also for anyone who wants a little bit of optimism in the middle of all this, here's an episode of Better Offline podcast that outlines how it's very unlikely for generative ai to actually get much better. here's the part two also.)

[skaruresonic]

Why do you guys always add the caveat of "Sonic only kills... if he absolutely has to" like it matters? Dead is dead.

Does Sonic kill? Yes. Okay, good, we have established that he does. There's no need to add fine print. It's not like those he kills can suddenly un-die just because he says "You left me no choice. :<" which tbh I'd argue he almost never does anyway

And no, Sonic does not whip out killing as a "last resort" after exhausting all available options; otherwise, he would not have stolen Eggman's jetpack hose at the end of Lost World.

This idea that Sonic just lets Eggman go all la-di-dah when he technically could kill Eggman right then and there is so incredibly bad-faith. Why doesn't Sonic just seize the opportunity?

1.) You're assuming he hasn't tried, many times, while also forgetting that Eggman is good at escaping and surviving things that would usually kill other people,

and 2.) I don't know, same reason Shadow doesn't kill everyone in the room and then himself even though he technically could at any given moment. You're pointing at Sonic just... Being Sonic(tm) and citing that as damning proof that he's somehow bestowing freedom on people. Literal "Luigi wins by doing nothing."

This is predicated on the most asinine possible reading of the games' various endings. You are literally making shit up and trying to convince people that that's how it went down in the games.

To hearken back to the SA2 example, the game says N O T H I N G about Sonic "letting Eggman go"; you just assume he did. We don't know how the crew got back to Earth. We don't know if they took a teleporter. We don't know if Sonic and Eggman left at the same time, even though Sonic is last to leave the control room. We don't even know if Eggman snuck away like usual. You are essentially writing fanfiction of the events you think transpired, because the game's insistence that Sonic's beef with Eggman isn't the ending's emotional priority at that point in time has eluded you.

"He doesn't attack rulers" - why would he? What beef does Sonic have with the President? With Elise? Is the implication supposed to be that he otherwise would have reason to attack them if either one got too big for their britches? That sounds a little panopticon-ish for how Sonic usually operates, isn't it?

Fuck me, the Commander is 10x bloodthirstier than the rest of GUN, and yet Sonic still chooses to team up with him in the Diablon boss fights just to stop Shadow's rampage. Again, Sonic makes allies out of convenience; he doesn't go out of his way to rehabilitate people.

Besides, if these world-ending exceptions occur on a regular basis, then they can't exactly be called rare, can they?

This is such a circular goddamn argument. You're arguing as if the mitigating circumstances really matter to Sonic's character. Like he performs some form of moral calculus of "Should I offer this guy freedom?" before every kill, instead of playing things by ear and by common sense.

When nearly every game has Sonic killing the monster du jour because he absolutely has to or else the world will end, the last part of "Sonic only kills when necessary" really doesn't matter anymore, does it? It becomes less of a rarity and more of a pattern.

Like, the only thing you could possibly be implying here is that Eggman doesn't count as the kind of villain that merits the "omae wa mou shindeiru" treatment from Sonic, despite being the most persistent threat to the planet.

Also, Sonic hates Eggman so badly that Shahra has to beg him to save his facsimile. King Shahryar merely suffers from the misfortune of resembling his nemesis, and Sonic only begrudgingly saves him. He wasn't like "Oh, no, poor Shahryar! I'll rescue him right away!"

Sonic so happens to accept the help of new allies out of pragmatism. He doesn't make the conscious decision to offer people freedom and second chances like he's the arbiter of who gets to live free or die. If someone he "lets go" so happens to survive, that is pure coincidence.

Until those who fuck around find out, he will continue to throw down with them without scruple. Conflating what is essentially Sonic making allies of convenience with "Sonic rehabilitates people through the power of justice" is not only wrong, it's disingenuous as hell.

Besides, if Sonic is supposed to be the series' rehabilitationist, then he's really fucking shitty at his job, considering that half the time he's not even the one doing it.

It's other characters like Amy and Cream who sway hearts and minds. It was Cream who befriended Blaze and introduced her to the crew long before Blaze and Sonic ever had their final confrontation. It was Amy who won over Shadow and Gamma. It was Rouge who convinced Omega to team up with her and Shadow against Eggman.

Some important nuance is definitely being lost in these debates, and I don't know what, but rest assured Sonic lives the way he wants. He does what he feels is right.

It so happens that the thing he wants to do is the right thing. I need you all to understand that that is not me saying Sonic is immoral, or even amoral. I am saying that Sonic is not guided by staunch principles of freedom and justice because, ironically enough, principles would limit what he wants to do.