#it's not about the conclusion it's about the argument

[tarotsoul]

Smoke & Light — Part One

SUMMARY: Your ex-boyfriend gives you his dealers number, but you don’t expect for him to be so fine. And you certainly don’t expect him to be so goddamn flirty.

WARNINGS: heavy mentions and usage of drugs and driving under the influence (weed), azriel is a drug dealer, kissing, swearing, teasing, masturbation -- don't fuck your plug guys

WORD COUNT: 9.9k

Series Masterlist

Your patience was wearing thin. Very fucking thin. Those three grey dots mocked you as they bubbled at the bottom of the screen—disappearing and reappearing again—until they were replaced with another less than satisfying message.

Brandon: are you taking the piss? Why didn’t you just ask when you were here earlier?

You scanned the message over, swallowing back the groan at the idea of another potential argument. You needed to nip his attitude in the bud, you weren’t entertaining his bullshit anymore. Gnawing at the inside of your cheek, your fingers quickly typed a response.

You: I didn’t realise I was out until I got home. Can you get any or not? Just lmk

The dots appeared again after a few moments of silence, and you prepared yourself for the snarky remark he was most likely to give you, and took a deep breath to compose yourself in advance. 

Brandon: no. I can’t get you any. Sort it out yourself for once.

There was no way in Hell you were going to let your frustrations show. Despite the pure anger and annoyance that began to bubble even more within you.

Brandon could be a lot of things. A liar. A cheat. And a fucking asshole. In all honestly, the only thing he was truly good for was the occasional above par fuck and the fact that his dealer had the best weed you’d ever smoked.

But when they were the only two good things he had going for him, it was hard to justify the disgusting behaviour he showed throughout almost your entire relationship. You broke up every few weeks as it was, but if you’d known about the cheating before, you would’ve left for good sooner.

Instead, you found out a year and half into the relationship, coming to the deafening conclusion that he had, in fact, never been faithful for a single moment of his teenage and adult life.

Fuck him. And fuck his shit sex. The weed, you could get yourself.

You: lmao ok. What’s his number?

A heartbeat after he read the text, he was calling you. And the moment you answered the call, he was his usual, un-charming self.

“What the fuck do you mean what’s his number?”

“Hello to you, too.” You murmured, tucking yourself under the blanket on your couch.

His clipped tone didn’t startle you, didn’t worry you about any form of consequences. He wasn’t scary, even when he tried to be. He was just a douche.

“What do you mean what’s his number?” He repeated himself, that agitation growing thicker and thicker with every word he spoke.

“How else am I supposed to get any?”

“Find your own dealer.”

He was being bitter now, pathetically so. You picked at the aged edges of your book, a novel you’d read five times over but one you couldn’t get enough of. Your love for it could be seen by the fading print of the front cover and the severely broken spine—despite how careful you tried to be with your readings.

“Brandon, I’m not going to find a random dealer. Your Azriel guy has good stuff and I know it’s safe. Besides, me going to the same person as you is not going to affect you in any way.”

He was silent for a moment, mulling over your words. Despite his dreadful personality and lack of love and care and compassion, he knew how little you knew about marijuana. He was the one that taught you to roll, after all.

You’d barely smoked before you met him, and on the rare occasions you did get high, it was usually in the form of gummy edibles your friends had. And you weren’t addicted or reliant on it in any way. You just enjoyed a smoke every now and then if you’d had a long day.

Alcohol had never been your favourite, and you much preferred to feel the chilled buzz from a joint than cradle a hangover for two days after a soirée.

“Fine. I’ll text you his number. Say Marco gave you his number, it’s a code he made up—had cops on him a while ago. He can be a bit of an ass, don’t let him shit talk you. Ask for a 3.5, he usually charges 40 for it. It’ll last you a couple weeks unless you’re planning on smoking heavy.”

It was easy to be pulled back in when he was like that. When he did the bare minimum of offering advice on things he knew you weren’t too sure on. But you were better than that now, smarter. You weren’t going to fall back into your old ways again.

Not with him. Not with anyone.

“I’m not. Thank you.”

The line went dead as soon as the words left your mouth and a few moments later, he texted you Azriel’s number. You would’ve appreciated a reminder of what you were supposed to ask for but at least you got his number. Small wins. You weren’t his responsibility anymore.

It took you a few minutes to figure out what to say, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you typed and erased, typed and erased. Until you settled on ‘Is this Azriel?’ and finally sent the message.

Ten minutes passed and you didn’t get a response. Your nose was tucked back into your romance novel as you chewed on the drawstring of your hoodie. In all honesty, you could’ve quite easily slipped into a peaceful slumber under the warm golden glow of your lamps.

That was another thing Brandon couldn’t respect. Your No Main Light rule. The vibes were always immaculate with gentle warmth from lamps. The main light was not allowed on under any circumstances. You much preferred the cosy feeling of golden hues that accentuated the deep green leaves of your plants and vines that scattered the walls and crevices of your home. 

Your phone chimed from your lap, a small surge of anxiety pulsing in your chest. You unlocked the screen and read over the message.

Azriel: depends who’s asking.

Ah, Brandon did warn you. You considered fucking the whole idea off. Maybe cracking open a bottle of wine and snuggling on the couch with a book or tv show would be better than having to meet this asshole, but the bottle of White Zinfandel wouldn’t give you the mellow buzz you wanted.

Not unless you had at least four glasses which was usually paired with a hangover the next day. Something you did not want to entertain. So, you bit the bullet and typed your reply.

You: y/n, got your number from Marco. You about?

The more you let your mind wander, the more you realised how little you knew. You had no clue how this sort of thing worked. Would he come to you? Your home? Would you meet at a location of his choice? Or would he just stash the weed somewhere for you to collect and you don't cross paths at all?

But the burning fire of the what-if anxiety was quickly trampled and extinguished when another text came through and instead of him deciding for you, you were given a choice. 

Azriel: sure, I can meet you at old tower in 20 if that’s good for you? If not I can drop to your location. 

He didn’t seem as much of an ass now. No, quite the opposite. But you supposed that offer was something he probably gave to all new, female clients. If he truly was an ass or not, you couldn’t fault him for the consideration. 

Old Tower was the old old watermill tucked slightly away in the centre of the city. It had been derelict for years, but due to its location—so close to all the necessities and right opposite the police station—no one ever tried to break in or set it alight like many other derelict listed buildings had been in the past. 

Even now, at almost midnight, that part of the city would still be bustling with city-natives and tourists alike. And you appreciated the safe and public meeting spot he suggested. 

You: old tower in 20 is fine. 

As quickly as you sent the message, you received another reply. A text describing his blue Mustang and his licence plate. You shook the nerves off as soon as they came. Azriel was respectful and well known. He dealt to make his money and that was that. 

But the facts didn’t stop you from sharing your location with Brandon just in case, nor did it stop you from double checking you still had your little pepper spray clipped to your keychain. 

The walk to the Old Tower wasn’t a bad one. There were many ways you could access it, most of them leading you through the city, but here were a few that hid you behind back roads and alleyways—those were routes you never took. Not on your own and certainly not in the middle of the night. 

The air was still a bit sticky from the summer heat, and while the denim shorts you wore kept your body cool, you were grateful you kept on your hoodie—just that extra layer that protected your arms and shoulders from the chill of the breeze that your legs never seemed to experience. 

It didn’t take long for you to reach the Old Tower, and it took even less time to spot the electric blue 2022 Ford Mustang. Small tufts of white smoke emitted from the exhaust as it sat in its standstill, headlights facing the opposite direction of what you came in, but you could still hear the engine humming from your short distance away. 

You double checked the licence plate to the number Azriel texted you, and slowly made your way closer. While you didn’t know much about drop offs, deals, and weed in general, you did know the unspoken rules of picking up. And if you were picking up from someone in a vehicle, most people got inside for a few minutes before leaving. 

Azriel must’ve noticed you from the rear view mirror because just as you approached the back of the car, the passenger seat opened wide, inviting you in. You sucked in a breath but accepted the invitation, keeping your eyes forward as you settled into the warmth of the leather seat and closed the door shut. 

You finally let your body shift and your eyes met his. And you were fucking done for. 

You’d never seen a man so strikingly fucking beautiful before. He was tall, lean and muscular and oozed pure sex and charisma. Tan, golden skin and dark, luscious hair that swept loosely down his forehead and curled gently around the tops of his ears. 

His face was chiselled not too sharply, a subtle gentleness to the stark contrast of the cold, brooding aura he carried. And those eyes. Christ, those fucking eyes. Hazel iris’ that dripped with a golden hue of honey. 

You swallowed down the dry lump in your throat and willed your lips to part so you could finally speak. “Thank you for meeting me so late.”

And Azriel was absolutely hooked. 

When you’d texted barely thirty minutes ago, he did not expect to be meeting with someone so fucking gorgeous. Your soft hair was twisted in a loose braid that hung over your shoulder, wayward strands having fallen from the updo and framing your face mesmerizingly. 

Your eyes were the most captivating thing he’d ever seen; rich in colour and wide with slight anxiety, despite the sleepiness he could slightly notice beneath them. Your voice sounded like a fever dream. It wasn’t sickly sweet like most women he knew or dealt to. Perhaps it was just the sleep, but there was a rasp—a very slight ruggedness—in your tone and Azriel was certain he’d never heard something quite so sensual in his life. 

He cleared his throat, that all too cheeky grin teetering on the corners of his mouth. “I was already out,” he shrugged, nonchalantly. “How much are you after?” 

His voice was a perfect blend of sweet and rough. A deep depth to his tone that skipped hand-in-hand with a sweeter note. God, he was unreal, and the sound of him had you forgetting entirely what exactly Brandon told you to ask for. 

You pulled your lips between your teeth and offered a very sheepish—but mostly embarrassed—smile. “Um… I’m sorry,” you found yourself apologising for the second time tonight. “My ex used to do this part, so I have no idea how this works.”

You couldn’t help the flush that rose to your cheeks at your own admission, couldn’t handle being the subject of his firm gaze, and you absolutely could not fucking handle the soft rumble of rich laughter that chuckled through him. 

“Do you smoke a lot?” Azriel finally asked, a slightly amused smile on those full lips of his. His pink tongue swiped out to wet them and your heart thundered against your ribcage at the sight. 

“Not really,” you cleared your throat. “Just every now and then. Semi-regularly, I guess.” There was no such thing as semi-regularly when it came to drugs and alcohol. To someone’s own self, sure. But not the general mass that consumed whatever it was they did. 

Some considered three joints a day ‘semi-regular’, while others considered it as a joint every few days. Azriel had a feeling you were the latter, but he didn’t say anything about his thoughts or what you’d said. 

Instead, he hummed and chewed at the inside of his cheek in thought. He wasn’t laughing at you or your lack of knowledge or understanding. Usually, he’d have kicked a new client out of his car by now and told them to figure it out on their own—he was a dealer, not a fucking private tutor—but with you, he didn’t seem to mind explaining or breaking things down so it was easier to understand. 

Neither of you white understood why he was happy to explain, but you didn’t complain. You’d much prefer this than the alternative version of him that you’d been warned about. 

“A 3.5 would probably be best for you, then.” He decided. 

Yes, a 3.5… that sounded very familiar. You nodded, slowly, considering your next words carefully. You had already disclosed the most embarrassing part of not having a fucking clue how this worked, one more probably wouldn’t hurt, would it? 

“This is going to sound absolutely ridiculous,” you chuckled nervously, scratching at the nape of your neck. “But can you break that down in joint terms?”

Azriel laughed again, softer this time, through a breath. It was odd, really. He wasn’t laughing to be cruel or to embarrass you further. It seemed to you that perhaps he found it endearing—your innocence on the matter—and maybe, just maybe, you reminded him of himself when he too at one point, had no idea either. 

“It depends on how strong you have them. Do you smoke blunts or just joints?” 

Your eyes widened animatedly. “God, no. Just joints. I think a blunt might wipe me out.” 

A glint of warmth and light fluttered through his eyes for a split second. “So, a 3.5 would get you like seven joints.” 

“Yeah, that would last me like a week, two weeks.” You nodded. “I’ll have a 3.5 then, thank you.”

Azriel hummed in agreement, and it was only when he reached for the centre console and flipped open a compartment that you saw his hands. His golden skin was marred beyond belief, etched in burns and an array of pigmented colours. Your stomach lurched at the sight. Not from fear or pity or disgust, no. Your stomach twisted in agony, your brain couldn’t comprehend a reason for scars like that. 

You looked away as quickly as you clocked them, not wanting to stare and not wanting him to notice. You supposed he was used to lingering gazes, but you would not be a name added to that list of people. 

Azriel did nothing but make you feel comfortable in the brief few minutes of meeting one another. He was kind enough to not laugh in your face and kick you out of his car after your admittance. You were not about to make him feel uncomfortable either. 

He pulled out a small plastic baggie stuffed to the brim with forest green nuggets and handed it to you between two scarred, pinched fingers. You took it gratefully, a full and genuine smile on your lips now as you thanked him, reaching into the back pocket of your denim shorts for the cash. 

“Did you want me to roll them for you, too?” Azriel’s teasing voice dripped with sarcasm and your eyes snapped to him with a stern look. “‘Cause that’ll cost you extra.” 

“I know how to roll, thank you.” You bit back, and while your voice and tone held all the conviction, the amused glint in your eye and the corners of your mouth told him he hadn’t offended you in the slightest.  

“It’s twenty-five.” Azriel chuckled from beside you. 

Your brows furrowed as you pulled out two twenty’s, meeting his gaze again. “Isn’t it usually like forty?”

The air now smelt of that tangy, vile scent, something that you don’t think you’d ever get used to. Or enjoy. He shrugged, flipping down the lid of the compartment between you. “You’re a new client.”

You raised a brow now, a taunting smirk creeping at the corner of your mouth. “Do you always undercharge new clients, then?”

Azriel liked you. Very much. You didn’t shy away or hide your personality from him, even after only knowing one another for barely an hour in total. He had a feeling he was barely scraping the surface. 

He matched your stare, only he wasn't teasing. “Only the pretty ones.”

There was no hiding the heat that crawled up your neck and sat heavy on your cheeks. It had been a long while since you received a genuine compliment. Let alone one so forward and from someone so unexpected. You averted your gaze from him, looking at the two twenty’s in your hand. Raising them, you pursed your lips. 

“I only have two twenty’s on me. So you may as well take the full forty.” 

Azriel didn’t listen. Instead, he pinched one note from your hand, his skin brushing yours but you didn’t falter, didn’t shy away. He was warm, and despite the scars and marred skin, his skin was softer than you expected. 

You huffed, not ungrateful for the discount but this was his livelihood and taking away from that felt wrong to you. 

“Let me know when you’re out.” 

You smiled appreciatively and nodded, stuffing the bag and cash into your hoodie pocket and reaching for the door handle. “I will. Nice to meet you, Azriel.” 

He watched you climb out of the car, offering another warm smile as the cooler evening air kissed at his skin. He wanted to ask how you were getting home, if you’d be walking alone or if you needed a ride. But Azriel couldn’t cross those lines, especially not with someone he only just met. 

So he bit his tongue and prayed to the Mother above to get you home safely. “You too, Y/N.” 

He started up the engine again as soon as the door closed, but he didn’t drive away. He watched you through the rear view mirror until you were out of sight and when he finally looked down, he found his jeans tight around his crotch and a painful erection. 

“Fuck.”

“Why don’t we give the brownies idea a try?”

Azriel’s head felt like it may explode. For the past two hours, he’d been stuck in a discussion between his brothers regarding new ideas for new products to sell. And while Az and Rhys had no ideas to suggest (all agreeing cocaine, molly and ket were not up for discussion), Cassian was still hellbent on making weed brownies—despite knowing not a damn thing about baking. 

“Cass,” Rhys sighed, pinching sharply at the bridge of his nose. Azriel was going to lose his shit, he couldn’t go through this again—for a fifth fucking time. “We literally spoke about this last week! None of us know how to bake!” 

Cassian paid no mind to Rhysand’s clear frustrations with him and scoffed as he threw his head back on the couch. “It can’t be that fucking hard.” 

“Then by all means, buy your own shit and burn it while you try and figure it out.” 

Azriel blinked, looking between the pair. He’d barely said a word, too worried he may get a bit too heated. Cassian got like this sometimes—most of the time—and more often than not, Az got the idea he only did it to get a reaction out of Rhys, who had very little patience when it came to him.

Someone had to play mediator and devil’s advocate in every situation, and somehow, even since they were teens, that role always landed on Azriel’s shoulders. 

Deciding enough was enough, he leant forward and peered between them both. “As much as edibles would help out sales, Rhys is right,” Cassian snickered at him, “It’s not a good idea right now. Not when we have no clue what we’re doing, and especially not when we’re having problems with our supplier right now.”

It was silent in the room for a moment, for the first time in an hour. And after a few minutes passed and no one spoke, Rhys stood from the couch with a sigh. “I’ve gotta get going to the parlour. All my sketches are there and I’ve got a long day and a huge back piece to tattoo tomorrow.” 

He clapped a hand against both Az and Cassian’s shoulders before bidding them a goodbye and leaving. Cassian remained sulking on the couch, thick and toned arms crossed on his chest with an unsatisfied scowl on his face. Azriel took purchase on the coffee table in front of him, lips pursed to suppress his amusement.

Cassian often got like this if he was told no or something didn’t go his way. When they were younger, Azriel used to roll his eyes and tell him to get over it. But now, in their mid-twenties and Cassian sharing a striking resemblance to that hunky character from that one Disney movie, Azriel found his sulking the best form of entertainment. 

“Are you not working tonight?” Az broke the silence with a lighthearted question. As much as he found his brothers face amusing, he didn’t really have the energy to deal with it all fucking night. He had shit to do, people to see. And he didn’t particularly want to bring Cassian along to his drop off’s—not when Cass scared the shit out of most people. 

“Club’s closed, waiting for Nes to finish. Staying at hers tonight,” he mumbled.

Relief was quick to flow through Azriel’s blood as he let out a breath. His phone chimed from his back pocket as he said, “Tell her I say hi,” and a gentle smile tugged at the corners of Cassian’s mouth.

Az and Nesta had a decent friendship, he was closer to her than he was Feyre, but maybe that was because Nesta didn’t tiptoe around Az like most other people did. Maybe that was why he liked you so much. You didn’t shy under his gaze, and you didn’t treat him differently after noticing his scarred hands. 

Yes, he saw you watching, inspecting with hurt and curious eyes. But you didn’t say anything so neither did he. And when you purposely brushed your skin against his when you took that bag of bud, he knew you’d done it out of silent reassurance. 

And yet, he hadn’t heard from you since you met three days ago. Not that he expected you to message so soon, not after you said the 3.5 would last around two weeks, but he still felt that deep disappointment whenever he checked his phone and your name wasn’t the one to have messaged him. 

He needed to get a grip on himself, really. But you were different. So different from anyone he’d ever met or known before. You didn’t play up to any facade, you didn’t hesitate to tease him back. You were honest, painfully so when you admitted you were clueless, but that only made him find you even more endearing. 

“What about you?” Cassian’s voice drilled into his ears, abruptly pulling Azriel away from the memory of you. He quickly typed back a reply to a client that he could drop off within the hour and shoved his phone back in his pocket. 

“What about me?” Az asked. 

“Any plans?” 

Azriel shrugged, elbows leaning on his spread thighs and the oak coffee table creaked beneath his firm weight. “I’ve got a few deals to do, but that’s about it.”

Cass nodded, finally unfolding his arms and letting them drop to his sides. “Well, you know where I’ll be if you wanna come by, Nes would be happy to see you.”

Azriel raised a brow. “I saw her two days ago.”

His brother gave him a look, one that suggested ‘yeah, I know, but you’re like her best friend and she loves you to literal death’, and that was that. 

Cass left soon after, picking Nesta up from work and leaving Azriel home alone for what seemed like the thousandth night in a row. He didn’t mind it, not really. He enjoyed his own company and when Cass stayed at Nesta’s and Rhys stayed at Feyre’s, it meant Az could play around with new melodies and not be scolded for playing guitar at 4 a.m. and waking everybody up. 

Having the apartment to himself was a win-win for everyone involved. 

Only tonight, he didn’t want to sit and play with new sounds and rhythms. Not when his mind was completely distracted by you. By your smile, your eyes, by that sensual voice of yours that he hadn’t stopped replaying in his memory for the past three days. 

It wouldn’t hurt to send just one text, right? Just the one, just to check in on how you were finding the bud. As if you hadn't smoked it before they met. 

He shouldn’t. This wasn’t what he did—he didn’t chase after girls, he never had, and he most certainly did not get hooked—especially not on someone he’d known for three days. 

And yet, despite that, Azriel found himself on your messages, hovering his fingers over the keyboard and typing out a quick text and sending it before he could even think about it. 

Azriel: how’s the bud?

But it wasn’t his lack of thinking before sending the message that had his jaw slack, no. It was the fact that as soon as the message travelled from the box to the messaging thread, you had already opened it. Like you were already on the chat. Perhaps debating your own text to him. 

Those grey bubbles appeared at the bottom of the screen and Azriel made quick work to click out of the conversation. His heart should not have been stammering in his chest the way it was, he should not have felt so anxious about what you may think if he read your text as quickly as you read his. 

You: very good. And you were right. 7 joints! 

And then, another.

You: I may need a top up sooner than i thought, if that’s ok?

Azriel: what happened to it lasting you 2 weeks?? Nah, that’s fine. Did you wanna meet up tonight?

You: would that be ok?

Azriel: yes. Old tower in 20?

You: life saver <3 see u then!

He tried his damned hardest not to stare at the little heart you sent him, tried his best not to picture you thinking about texting him to meet up again. But all he tried, it didn’t work and a smirk began to tug at the corners of his mouth. 

His Ford Mustang parked outside the Old Tower fifteen minutes later, the engine still humming softly and his eyes flitted between the rearview mirror and his view in front of him, trying to gauge which way you’d come from. 

He didn’t expect for you to come out of the shadows in a third direction, one in the wake of the passengers side, and he didn’t realise until the door opened and you slid your body inside his car, shutting the door behind you. 

“Hi,” you turned to him with a beaming smile—eyes gently blazed with a moody pink hue. 

Azriel drank you in. Your hair was down today in what he presumed was your natural waves, face bare of makeup save for the sheen of pinky lip gloss that coated your mouth. You wore an oversized cropped olive cardigan; the large buttons done up just enough to offer a slither of a peek of the white bralette you wore beneath, and a pair of straight-legged black cargos. 

Gods, you looked even better than he remembered, but Azriel wasn’t naive to your staring either. Your eyes caught notice of his thick, muscled arms. They weren’t hidden beneath a jacket this time. No. They bulged from the black t-shirt he wore, and his brown skin was etched in intricate swirls and shapes and designs in black ink. 

You gulped, visibly so. Tattoos had always been an immediate attraction for you—not that Brandon ever had any—but the sight of Azriels and the one that hid beneath the sleeve of his top and curled up and around his neck… Gods, your throat felt extremely dry.

And Azriel noticed everything. 

“I thought you said you didn’t smoke much?” 

Your eyes finally snapped to his hazel ones and warmth coated your cheeks and chest. You cleared your throat, blinking a few times to regain some sense of composure. “I don’t,” you retorted. “Girls night. And it was my turn to host.” 

Azriel tried not to think too deeply into the idea of you having a night at home with your girlfriends, stoned and warm and cosy and all inhibitions thrown out the window. He wondered if those were the types of things you did with your friends. He’d been with a few before that did. 

He looked away as soon as he felt that familiar tightening in his jeans. “So, you want another 3.5?” He cleared his throat, lifting the compartment between your seats. 

You hummed, eyes following his movements. Your gaze lingered on his biceps for a moment, trailing down to the veins that protruded from his smooth skin. You didn’t know what was wrong with you. Oftentimes than not, you found yourself horny and riled up when under the influence, but never like this. Never so strongly at the sight of two veiny, tattooed arms. 

“Um, yeah… please.” You finally spoke. “I promise it’ll last me longer than three days this time.”

Azriel prayed to the fucking mother above that it didn’t. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he retrieved a 3.5 baggie and handed it to you, closing the compartment again and the second he opened his mouth to speak, you were already grabbing a marred hand and shoving two twenty’s into it before forcing his fist closed. 

Perhaps it was the buzz of the joint you smoked on your way, or perhaps it was the pure arousal you felt at the sight of him and the feel of his hand in yours that gave you a surge of confidence. Whatever it was, it had you saying, “Pretty clients might get a discount from you, but incredibly attractive, tattooed plugs get full pay from me.”

Azriel was stunned for a moment, by both your boldness and the shameless compliment. His mouth blubbered open, a retort just as flirty as yours on the tip of his tongue when the sound of his ringtone blaring through the car’s bluetooth speaker cut him off. 

He disconnected the call a bit too quickly, an amused smile teetering on the curves of your already twisted lips. Azriel paid no mind to his own actions, instead turning back to you with a fire in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place. 

His lips parted in another attempt to speak when that gods-dammed phone interrupted him for a second time and you could no longer hold your laughter. Azriel decided there and then that the next time he saw you, he’d make sure he heard that sweetness again. 

You didn’t give him time to cut the call off again. Instead, you reached for the door handle and offered a grateful smile. “I’ll text you when I’m out.”

His senses were too on overdrive. Too torn between wanting to stop you, even if to spend a few more moments in your presence, and the deafening sound of his fucking phone. But you’d exited the car and closed the door behind you before he could do anything about it. The cash was still stuffed in his warm hands and the incoming call continued to make his ears bleed. 

“What?” Azriel seethed the second he answered the call. It was silent for a moment, the caller caught off guard by Az’s tone but that only pissed him off further. 

“It’s Brandon,” the line paused for a moment again. “You about?” 

Azriel felt his blood boil. “If I don’t fucking answer the first time, that usually means no.”

He disconnected the call without another word, marred hands now gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white. He hated the way he was reacting over you—over being interrupted from your presence. But he couldn't help it. Couldn’t get the thought out of his head of how sweet your lips probably tasted with that gloss. And without it. 

Azriel’s chest heaved slightly, that all too familiar sense of arousal tightening in his pants. He couldn’t stand this, couldn't understand how a tiny slip of your bralette could have his mind and body reacting like this. How a subtle smirk and a sultry gaze could have him ready to blow a load in his pants. 

Christ, he needed to sort himself out. Absent-mindedly, Azriel snuck a hand between his thighs, large scarred hand palming at his length through the fabrics. His breathing turned quicker, his movements growing needier. If he didn’t sort himself out soon he’d been in agony. 

With one hand on the wheel, he forced himself to drive—only for a moment or two until his Mustang was parked idly between two buildings and switched off the engine to not draw too much attention to himself. 

He was above this—above getting himself off semi-publicly. But he couldn’t fucking help it. He didn’t care how shameful and icky he might’ve felt afterwards, not when he was so desperate. 

As soon as the car was covered in shadows of darkness, he unclasped his seatbelt and unpopped the buttons of his jeans. He didn’t bother to pull them down, only releasing the zip and reaching into his boxers to tug his length free. 

The second he felt his skin on him, he shuddered. His slender fingers wrapped around his thick shaft, offering himself a teasing squeeze as he slowly moved. Azriel didn’t need lube or lotion—not when pearly beads of semi-translucent arousal leaked from his pink, ruddy tip. He smoothed it down his length, mewling at the contact he rewarded himself. 

And all he could think about was you. 

Your eyes, your lips, your voice.

He let his mind wander to sinful images of what may lay hidden beneath your clothes—beneath that little white bralette. Azriel quickened his pace as his eyes fluttered closed, the back of his head hitting the headrest. He throbbed in his hand, a gruff moan tearing from his throat. 

Azriel could picture you clearly in his head; on your knees in the footwell, your dainty hands around his cock as your lips kissed and sucked him. His hand in your hair, bobbing you on his length, watching your eyes water from the size of him as he hit the back of your throat. 

His breathing grew ragged, filthy images of your choking on his cock filling his brain, clouding his sensing and coaxing a release out of him. Azriel didn’t think he’d ever come so quickly before in his life, but the idea of you looking up at him with sultry eyes through thick lashes had him spurting warm ribbons of cum into his hand as he cupped his head to minimise the mess. A desperate attempt to replicate what he imagined the warmth of your mouth would feel like. 

As his breathing began to even out, the post-nut clarity hit him like a ton of fucking bricks. Shame boiled in his blood, a tint of pink embarrassment painted on his cheeks as if the shadows judged him, too. The idea of seeing you again while knowing what he’d done to the thought of you… it made his insides churn slightly. 

But more than that, it made his cock leap again in anticipation of soon being in your presence once more. 

“Az, what do you say? Up for a double date?” 

Feyre couldn’t hide her smile, unable to keep her emotions in check when it came to her attempts to set Azriel up. But the instant disappearance of his smile wasn’t missed on her. Nor was the way his shoulders tensed slightly. 

He sighed. “Fey, as much as I appreciate your concern for my love life, I don’t need to be set up.”

She pouted at him. Despite that always being his answer, she still held a shred of hope every time she suggested it. Even if he never changed his mind, she was willing to continuously try, even if he did find it annoying. Even if she didn’t tell him until the very last minute. 

“Who’s the lucky girl then, Az?” Nesta piped up with a wide grin from her seat in the couch, tucked closely into Cassian’s side who paid no mind to the conversation at hand. 

He rolled his eyes at her. “There is no girl.” 

“Guy, then.” Nesta scoffed, waving a hand. 

Azriel didn’t want to entertain this conversation, especially not because it had somehow brought his mind back to you. Something he’d been so desperately trying to avoid. 

Though, he supposed it was inevitable. He would be seeing you again at some point and then he’d be stuck right back where he started. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure why he was doing this to himself— why he didn’t allow himself to pursue you if that was what he truly wanted. 

His phone chimed from his pocket. 

In hindsight, it was probably a good thing that Azriel didn’t hear from you for two weeks. It gave him ample time to attempt to get his hormones in check, but it didn’t stop his blood from warming everytime he received a notification. Each time, he was left with slight disappointment to find it was just another client. 

Until today. Until now. Where your name was in fact the one on his lockscreen and all of that forgetting and willing to get you out of his mind faltered. 

You: Hey, are you free later?

Azriel: I'm free all night.

When you didn’t respond, Azriel assumed you were looking for a more direct answer. So he sent another text. 

Azriel: old tower in an hour good for you?

You: see you then.

He couldn’t help the frown that furrowed in his brows at your reply. Given, your only communication was mainly through text, and perhaps he was looking too much into it, but you didn't seem yourself. And that thought shouldn’t have irked him as much as it did. 

He barely bid anyone a goodbye, throwing a mumbled ‘see you later’ as he grabbed his shit and left. 

His first stop was to Sean, a lean Asian guy that had been buying off Azriel for two years now. He was decent enough, never tried to haggle or complain about the prices. They shared a mutual respect and minimal words were shared when Az handed him a Q and Sean gave 140 in one swift motion. 

And just like that, Azirel moved onto the next.

And then another. 

And another. 

Until he was waiting at the Old Tower and watching your silhouette approach the Mustang. You entered the car just like you always had done, though you didn’t meet his gaze this time. Instead, you kept your line of view ahead. Your hair obstructed the side of your face, effectively shielding you from his prying eyes. 

“Sorry I’m a little late.” 

Azriel absolutely did not like the quake in your voice as you spoke, nor did he like the way you seemed to cower into your body and clothes. Clothes that didn’t seem to match your usual vibe—instead, the mismatched black sweatpants and bright pink puffer jacket gave off the impression you threw on whatever was around you. 

Somehow, Azriel still thought you made it look good. On you, the outfit looked both planned and effortless. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that that wasn’t the case. 

“You good?” he asked through the piercing silence. 

You hummed, twisting the bulky silver ring on your thumb. “Yeah, just tired.” You tried your hardest to offer a convincing smile as you turned to him, but Azriel noticed the way it didn’t meet your eyes—the eyes that appeared slightly bloodshot, though he had a suspicion it wasn’t from smoking.

Not wanting to press on the matter, Az opened the compartment and pulled out a baggie of your usual amount and kept it pinched between two scarred fingers. You reached for it, the cash in your other hand but he kept his grip tight. 

Azriel raised a brow. “You’re sure you’re alright?” 

You could see the concern flood his hazel eyes, and the sight pulled on your aching heartstrings. How could someone who was a virtual stranger care more for you than the ones who were much closer in your life?

You didn’t trust your words, so you nodded and he finally released his hold on the bag. “Alright,” Az sighed. “It’s a different strain than my usual stuff, so go a little lighter with it. It’s pretty strong.” 

You were incredibly thankful for the warning, though you couldn’t help feeling a little offended. Did he really think you were so naive and new to this world that you couldn’t handle a new strain at your usual strength (which, admittedly, was very weak) without greening out? 

But as quickly as that feeling rose, it faded. He was a dealer, afterall, and he couldn’t afford to lose business all because someone thought they knew better and had a bad trip. 

“Thank you,” you muttered out, already reaching for the handle when his ruggedly soft voice stopped you. 

“You wanna smoke before you go? I can drop you back after.” 

You whipped your head to him, blinking through slightly blurred vision. With a brow raised and widened eyes, your lips parted. “Together?”

A smile stretched across his full lips, one so full of charisma and keen interest that it awakened something deep in the pit of your stomach. Something you distinctly remember feeling the last time you saw him. 

“Why not?” 

You swallowed as your hand slowly fell from the handle and made its way back in your lap. Your smile morphed into a smirk that matched his and the air shifted into something unreadable. Something palpable but not quite real. 

“Really? Do you normally smoke with your clients?” 

Azriel’s wicked grin widened. “I do with the cute ones.” 

You choked on a laugh, rolling your head back until it hit the headrest and Azriel didn’t think he’d ever seen or heard anything so fucking beautiful in his life. That laugh would haunt him in his dreams to a blissful paradise. 

“First, I’m pretty. Now I’m cute… what’s next?” 

Damn the rules he set himself. Damn the restrictions he forced when it came to someone who piqued his interest. It was about time Azriel took what he wanted for once. Even if that meant he started with no longer feeling guilty for flirting with you. 

Chewing at the inside of his cheek, Azriel started up the engine and shifted the gearstick. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.” 

He tilted his head to the dashboard compartment and you pulled it open. The small warm white light lit the cove, a golden hue casting on a small yellow tin. Throwing a glance to Azriel, he nodded and you pulled it out, closing the compartment and popping open his travel tin. 

It was packed with perfectly rolled joints and blunts. The smell was strong—potent—but you didn’t mind. Not as much as you had before. You picked one random of the bunch and pinched it between two fingers. It was rolled tightly and packed full, a very small twist of paper at the end and you hummed, impressed. 

Of course he could roll perfectly. And you had a feeling just two pulls of one of those would keep you warm and fuzzy for the remainder of the night. 

“There’s a lighter in the cup holder.” Azriel spoke as he pulled out of the space and began to drive further out of the lights of the city. 

You pinched the lighter. Just a simple black one, no funky pattern or engraved initials like most others had. No, Azriel’s was one that came in a pack of five and the other four were somewhere in the car or back at his apartment. 

“We can smoke in here?” you asked softly, that crack in your voice easing. 

Az hummed, taking a right turn. “If you’re comfortable to.”

You waited a moment, eyeing the joint and then him. “You drive when you smoke?” 

He seemed to notice your somewhat apprehension when he nodded again. He turned to you briefly before flicking his eyes back on the road again. “I drive better when I’m stoned. But if you’d prefer, we can park up somewhere.” 

You shook your head, warmth caressing every inch of your body. You didn’t know what it was, but something had overcome you. An overwhelming sense of pure yearning. You could admit when you first met Az that he was attractive, incredibly so. But now? Watching him, speaking with him, smoking with him… oh God’s… you had a fucking crush on your plug. 

“You wanna start it or should I?” Azriel’s voice broke you from your epiphany and you blinked quickly, willing the rising heat to just fuck off and give you a moments reprive. 

“Oh,” you squeaked. “You can, it’s your weed.” 

He didn’t look away from the road, not for a second. With a hand on the wheel and the other shifting gears, he edged his head closer to yours and angled his face just slightly with his lips parted. You were stunned for a moment, realising what he was asking you to do, and you swallowed back that bubbling arousal as you placed the unlit joint to his lips and sparked up a flame, igniting the end.

Az hummed in thanks as he took a long, deep drag. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. He was a fucking sight. Cheeks ever so slightly hollowed and eyes barely squinted as the smoke filled his lungs. 

A scarred hand left the gearstick to reach for the joint, his thumb reaching for the bottom while his forefinger grazed the top and he pulled it away with another fresh intake of breath, settling the drug further. 

You were soaked, you were sure of it. Your previous problems from today were a distant memory as you finally watched him exhale and bring the joint to his lips again for another long pull. 

The sound of the windows opening broke you from your trance and only then did you realise you hadn’t yet put on your seatbelt. You tore your gaze away to clip yourself in and when you turned back, Azriel was offering you the joint. 

With your free hand, you accepted it, the other stuffing the cash in his cup holder with the lighter. You inspected the joint, tried not to let your heart race. You’d only ever smoked with your friends and Brandon. Never with a dealer. Never with someone like Azriel. 

You slotted your pursed lips over the same area Az did, and inhaled as deeply as you could. The burn at the back of your throat was stronger than when you smoked your own joints, and as it filled your lungs you pulled it away and held back a cough that gagged to release from your throat. 

With a shaky exhale, you swallowed around the dryness of your mouth before bringing it back to your lips for another drag. When you pulled it away, the burn wasn’t as bad and you passed it back to Azriel who took another turn on the roads. 

“Where are we going?” You pondered, a certain rasp to your voice from the strength of the joint. 

Azriel took two short pulls and angled the burning end out the window, flicking off the excess ash before offering it to you again. 

“Wherever you want,” he replied. “But first, we should probably get some food for when the munchies kick in.” 

You laughed as you exhaled another breath and handed the joint back to him, waving a hand to signal you were tapping out and did not intend on smoking anymore. Five pulls of that shit was more than enough for you. You could not handle the idea of greening out in his car with him. 

Azriel stifled a laugh and finished off the rest of the joint by the time he pulled into a drive-thru. He placed his order first, turning to you with flushed cheeks and hazy eyes. You blinked a few times, your brain requiring a few moments to catch up with what was happening. 

“I’ll have the same as you.” 

He stifled a laugh as he spoke into the machine, doubling up on his order and driving through to the next window. Azriel paid no mind to you when you attempted to offer him your money—barely even looked at you as he tapped his card against the reader and then reached for the cash in the cup holder, shoving it back in your empty palms. 

“You can keep that, too.”

You knew it wasn’t up for discussion, so you begrudgingly took your cash back and stuffed it into your jacket pocket again. Az stopped in the parking lot, the two of you eating through hushed yet uncontrollable giggles at the people that passed by. 

It was the first time you’d heard his laugh so unrestricted and it spread another shot of warmth through your body. It continued like that for another undisturbed hour, where after the food, Az sparked up another joint and began the drive to your apartment. You’d told him Old Tower was fine, but he wasn’t okay with that. 

“Too many freaks around at this time of night. I’ll drop you to your door. Put your address in the GPS.”

And it wasn’t until the drive back to your apartment that you were reminded of your previous troubles. The ones that caused your teary eyes and sombre mood. The buzz off the night felt like it had dwindled away the second you thought of your situation, and you were left slumped in your seat again, fiddling with your fingers. 

Azriel noticed your change in mood almost immediately as he glanced over to you before flicking his eyes back to the road. He took another drag of the joint. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You pondered his offer for a few moments, weighing out whether or not you should. In the end, what difference would it make? If you divulge your issues or not, it wouldn’t fix them. But perhaps talking about it might help. 

“My sister got married yesterday and no one told me.”

Azriel blinked rapidly, almost spluttering on the breath he exhaled. “What?” 

“Yeah.” 

He waited patiently, eager for some sort of explanation as to how and why something like that was kept from you. But he didn’t know the relationship with your family, he couldn’t presume anything. For all he knew, you had troubles just like his. 

“My family and I didn’t have the best relationship growing up. I was born from a toxic relationship so I was cast aside as a kid, I guess. I thought we were past that, though. I thought things were better.”

That familiar ache sat heavy in Azriel’s chest. He knew all too well the hurt that came from being shunned by your own family. He wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. Especially not somebody like you. 

“I’m sorry.” His words held such compassion and sympathy. No pity, just pure understanding. 

You blinked back the tears, not wanting to show just how much it had all affected you. But it was no use. A single drop slipped down your cheek and as quickly as it fell, you wiped it away. 

You were agitated now, extremely so. “I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend, Az.”

“Why would they do that?”

There was a pause. And then, “because her now husband was my first everything.” 

You waited for the statement to settle into the thick night air. Your first kiss, first boyfriend, first time. First love. Azriel could understand even more now just how much it hurt you. And the fact they kept it a secret? Even your family knew what they did was wrong. 

“I’m so sorry, that’s truly fucked. But you know, families suck sometimes. I only speak to my mom.”

“Oh?” You hadn’t realised you were even on your street until he parked right outside your apartment and flicked on his hazards. 

Azriel flicked the but of the smoke out the window and held out his hands, showcasing the marred flesh and patchy skin. “My half brothers did this to me when I was eight. They didn’t like that our mom had me with another man before she had them. They said that my bastard blood tainted the family, so they wanted to taint me.” 

Azriel had absolutely no fucking idea why he was divulging such an intimate and traumatic part of himself. But he made no attempt to hide or sugarcoat any of the truth. Especially not when he looked up from his hands and caught sight of your face. 

Salty tears silvered the linings of your eyes at the truth of what had happened to him. Bile crept up your throat and hatred for his family formed. Eight years old. You felt sick. 

“Az… I’m so sorry. That’s… I can’t even…”

But Azriel waved it off with a gentle smile. “It’s awful, sure. But I’m fine. I wouldn’t have met Cass and Rhys if that didn’t happen. They may be my found family, but they’re my brothers. Blood doesn't mean shit to me.”

A single tear slipped down your warm cheek, staining the skin in its wake. Azriel reached out to wipe it away, his touch gentle and soft and yet all-consuming. Your gaze met in a flickering glance of hazy eyes and fluttering lashes. 

And then next thing you knew, your lips were on his. 

Azriel was quick to kiss you back; moulding his plump lips around yours as his large palms cupped the sides of your face. He was sweet on your mouth, a hint of salt from his fries and he swiped his tongue across the seam of your lips, you almost imploded. 

Azriel was no better. The second he got a taste, he was a starved man. Your tongues met in needy strokes and Az had never tasted anything like you before. Sweet like the watermelon lip gloss you wore, and a tang of smoke that haunted your mouth. 

He was hooked, desperately fucking hooked. Your own hands reached up to hold his wrists in hopes of keeping his touch on you. Azriel kissed you deeper, licking across your teeth before settling even deeper in your mouth. 

It was needy and messy and every unspoken word of desire was poured into that kiss, your touch. He could stay like that forever, kissing you, tasting you. Azriel could feel himself stretching in his pants, and from the almost inaudible whimper that strained from the back of your throat, he was certain you were just as needy between your own thighs. 

The thought spurred him on, as it did you. Your hands trailed down his forearms to his biceps, feeling at the muscle that tensed beneath your touch, until your arms were wrapping around his neck and he was pulling you closer over the centre console. 

Azriel kept a palm caressing your jaw while the other snaked to the side of your neck, his long fingers weaving through the hair at your nape and blunt fingernails scratching at your scalp. 

In your drug and lust filled haze, Azriel was shifting in his seat. You let one arm leave his body to reach for your seatbelt, planning to unbuckle it and crawl into his lap for a deeper, richer taste of him. 

But the second the safety belt was released, the blaring sound of an incoming call through the car's speaker jolted you both apart. It was then, and only then, that the gravity of the situation finally sunk in. 

His eyes were glazed over with something you’d never seen on him before, his lips even plumper and smeared with your gloss. You didn’t look much better. Only your eyes were wider than his and your hair had been a lot more dishevelled. 

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, the insistent ringing of his phone jarring your eardrums. For the fourth time tonight, warmth settled over you again but in the form of embarrassment. He confided in you about a trauma so deep, and you’d kissed him. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologised breathlessly. 

Too caught up in your own fear and anxiety of what you’d done, you missed the way Azriel’s brows furrowed. His confusion quickly turned into panic when the thought settled in that perhaps you had regretted it. That even though you kissed him, perhaps you felt he had pressured you. 

And that made him sick to his stomach. 

Before Azriel could utter a single word, your hand was on the door handle and you were pushing it open. “I’m sorry, I should go.” 

You climbed out of the car as you uttered another apology, and slammed the door shut without so much as offering him another glance. The incoming call died to voicemail but Az couldn’t take his eyes off your empty seat, couldn’t get the taste of you off his tongue, the feel of your lips off his. 

Frustration grew at himself. Azriel turned forward in his seat, nostrils flared and teeth grit. He’d fucked it. He’d gone and fucked it entirely. His open palm smacked against the wheel before gripping it tightly, taking a moment to compose himself. 

He looked over at your seat again. 

Despite the lack of your physical presence, you were still there. In scent and touch and taste. 

Azriel was fucking done for. 

A/N: guys you have no idea how EXCITED I am to finally be reposting this series. I love plug!az with every fibre of my being and I cannot wait to share it again and finally finish it!!! This is the original first and second part merged together and I’ll be scheduling the next part for some time next week!!

If you enjoyed it please consider giving it a like and reblog! Writers love to hear your feedback <3

[morlock-holmes]

Towards a Unified Theory of Conspiracy Crank Politics

I've been thinking a lot about what seems to drive the person I will call, for lack of a better term, the conspiracy crank world-view, and particularly, my feelings about the great crank realignment.

A lot of people have said, "It seems like 30 years ago conspiracy weirdos were pretty bipartisan people, but now they all seem to be Trump loyalists."

My belief is that it's not that the conspiracy cranks became more right-wing; rather, it's that the Republicans have largely stopped being a right-wing party and are instead now a conspiracy crank party.

So, I've said this before, and I'm not well enough read in the history of conspiracy thinking to bring up old examples, but as a kid I subscribed to Skeptical Enquirer, and I remember quickly coming to two conclusions:

The reason a lot of the alien conspiracy X Files stuff is so interesting in fiction is that talented fiction writers have used it as a jumping off point to make an interesting story; the primary conspiracy literature is often very poorly written, not very inventive, and frequently openly bigoted, which leads into my second discovery,

A lot of times there is only one degree of seperation between "Big pharma and modern living has severed our spiritual connection to our earth mother Gaia" and "The Jews run the world with the aim of keeping the white race enslaved". Like, the far right conspiracy people were often really willing to ally with and break bread with the far left conspiracy people, and vice versa, in fact much more so then the more grounded parts of the left and right.

And I think that's because the conspiracy theorists have a kind of common mindset with certain shared features, regardless of the specifics of their conspiracy.

These are things that I have noticed as commonalities, and they aren't limited to conspiracy cranks; in fact, probably the vast majority of people have these habits of thought to some extent. My argument is that they are often abnormally strong in conspiracy believers.

Belief in a just world. A lot of fringe types have a really strong belief that the world is fundamentally just, and that in the ordinary course of things bad things do not happen to good people. Bad things only happen because a personified force arranged for the bad thing to happen. The example I've used before is slipping and falling off a ladder. Many of us would attribute such a thing to pure chance; some people will take it as evidence that a witch or a demon has cursed them.

An extreme difficulty with feeling out of control. It is hard for them to accept that in some circumstances they may not have control. Things which make them feel like they are no longer in control are very often interpreted as hostilities against them.

A severe difficulty in actually putting themselves in another person's shoes. Often, the conspiracy minded person is incredibly judgemental about others, and particularly, they really, really struggle with the idea that something might be easy for them, but difficult for someone else, or difficult for them, but necessary to help someone else.

Like I said, we all have these habits to some extent, I just think they are often magnified in the conspiracy crank.

As an example of what I mean by these thought patters, I am in the middle of a podcast reviewing a crank movie about how germs don't cause diseases. And apparently, in this movie, they first have a heroic interview with a restaurant owner who not only never required his patrons to wear masks, he actually banned any mask wearing on the premises.

Which is followed immediately by a scene of a person getting kicked out of a store for not masking, and talking about how it's incredibly shocking that what should be a matter of personal conscience is being enforced by the government.

And there's just no sense that there is any hypocrisy or tension here.

What I mean is, a principled libertarian might say, "Each individual business can require masks, or require you to take masks off, or have no policy, according to their individual decision, and we should allow them to make those decisions and abide by them."

Another principled position might be that we have extremely compelling evidence for the pandemic, and maybe certain kinds of policies should be temporarily enacted to slow the spread, even though they infringe on what would be, in ordinary times, important liberties, because they serve to protect the collective greater good.

Either of these positions sort of takes it for granted that a choice that I, personally, might not fully agree with might still be important to other people.

But the crank mindset says, "I don't want to wear a mask. So forcing people to wear a mask is an imposition on important freedoms. But since I'm already comfortable without a mask, forcing people to take their masks off isn't any kind of imposition on anybody's freedom, that's ridiculous."

You can see what I'm talking about most clearly in certain right-wing Christians. I've seen Christians say that freedom is exactly the same as following God's will, and that disobedience to God is a form of bondage and slavery.

These habits of mind are not, themselves, partisan; the can be applied to any cause, right-wing or left-wing. I might just have easily brought up "Free speech doesn't mean tolerating hate speech."

But I would argue that the reverse is not true, that you can build a political party that caters primarily to people with these habits of mind.

These people tend to flock to politicians who simultaneously promise a strong government which they can borrow to reassert their sense of control in the world, but the actual specific politics of that government are squishy and malleable.

The government has to be strong and able to domineer others because the conspiracy crank understands that they are in opposition to some large portion of the population, and so the government has to be strong enough to say, for example, "We will make sure that no private business will kick you out for wearing a mask."

When the world feels out of control, the government will lend you the tools to reassert your control over the world around you.

But the actual political goals of the government have to be extremely vague and malleable, so that they can move quickly to maintain the illusion that good people don't ever really disagree about this stuff.

A government which is coherently committed to a libertarian project might well say, "Sorry, those businesses have every right to decide who they cater to."

You have to be a weathervane, once a majority of cranks decide that vaccines and mask mandates are bad, you have to swivel and take that position in order to maintain a sort of illusion that whatever freedoms your crank audience wants in the moment are inherently sensible and that no sane person could disagree.

My argument is that Trump has turned the Republicans into the crank party, the party that signals to cranks that it will have their backs, whereas thirty years ago, the parties were still committed enough to coherent political goals that neither one could make that promise, and so cranks had to be politically idiosyncratic.

[artbyblastweave]

Invincible's adaptation has succeeded to the extent that it has in large part due to the fact that the creators of the original book are closely involved; this has allowed the show to effectively act as a second draft of what was already a story with very strong bones, allowing them to systematically punch up and tie together story beats and themes that, by virtue of the seat-of-the-pants writing process of monthly ongoing comics, were significantly more diffuse and emergent in the original. An additional element of why I think the adaptation is succeeding is that the material being adapted was never in any particular danger of biting the hand that feeds; while the comic had a lot to say about toxic masculinity, the pitfalls of strongman authoritarianism, and the superhero genre's historical incuriosity about the material reasons that people turn to crime, it never had much to say on the topic of corporations specifically. (That's fine. Not everything is about everything.)

By contrast The Boys was, at least initially, largely lauded as a success due to its removal from the influence of its creator, Garth Ennis, whose edgelord sensibilities are generally perceived to have been brought under control by the moderating influence of a writing team willing to deviate from the story as written and bring the entire plot more in line with superheroes as they exist in the current zeitgeist. The tradeoff, and potentially the poison pill, is that for all their deliberately unpalatable presentation, Garth Ennis's politics in that comic were aggressively and pointedly anti-corporate and anti-military-industrial complex, in a form that can only survive up to an extent in a production backed to the hilt by Amazon. Furthermore, the argument that Amazon's stewardship acts as a moderating influence on the excesses of the original becomes disingenuous after a certain point, because the show is more than willing to both produce home-grown excess, and to cherry-pick overtly shocking beats from the comic without any of the surrounding scaffolding that made those beats actually interesting. Tek-Knight and Love Sausage are two high-profile examples of the show doing this; none of the surrounding context that made Tek-Knight gut-bustlingly funny, or Love Sausage genuinely heartfelt, survived translation. The shock value survived, what Ennis was actually trying to do didn't.

Do I think The Boys (2006) is good? Do I recommend it? No, certainly not unconditionally. Do I think that the adaptation stripping the auteur elements will result in decisive improvement over the source material? To an extent it has so far, but the bar is some combination of "in hell" and "a weird wiggly shape informed by the industry context in which the original was produced that resists one-to-one analysis." Ultimately my conclusion on whether this was worth it is going to come down to whether they stick the landing or not. And I'm going to be real with you, Supernatural wound up running for 15 seasons

[enjakey]

Physics and Arts

Jake x you | fluff, opposites attract, some smut, students au | smart kink, whimper kink | Jake is a science geek, reader is an academia geek | small drabble

Jake didn’t know how he ended up with someone like you.

For the longest time, he thought he’d end up with someone similar to him. Someone who liked math and physics, could solve numerical problems within seconds- just hand him a pen and paper and he’d prove it to you- and liked music the way he did. He was in a band with his college friends, he played the second guitar and was the lead rapper (whenever it was needed)

But you? You were nothing like him.

But it wasn’t to say you weren’t smart- no, you were so learned, so knowledgeable. Just not in the way Jake was. Because Jake was all about numbers, all about the way he could perceive the world through physics and mathematical theories. He could go on and on about Oppenheimer (he even read his book) and Schrödinger’s cat and about Murphy’s law and about how he wanted to become and space engineer one day. He could ramble about the physics of stars and galaxies and how our universe was infinitely stretching.

You, on the other hand, looked at the world through culture, social institutions and contemporary issues of race, class, gender and religion. You looked at the world through philosophies of Socrates and Nietzsche and whenever you talked about the theory of multiple universes, you looked at like a philosophical question rather than a science one.

It was an argument, a debate, you and Jake had been tangled in during many occasions- during breakfast coffees or nights where neither of you could fall asleep.

You liked to write essays, read knowledge heavy books and nitpick at research papers like it was your hobby. Jake hated reading research papers, hated reading books with too many words and hated doing his citations for his essays (and out of frustration, you started doing it for him, afraid he’d get called out for plagiarism).

While you liked to study in silence, Jake loved to listen to r&b music while doing assignments- cracking numbers in his brain like a calculator.

Your mind didn’t work like his, that much was certain. You disagreed on so many topics, looked at life and the world through complete different lenses and saw the future as two different destinations- one as death and the other as success.

Jake really didn’t know how he ended up here with you.

When he was set up with a blind date by a mutual friend- Heeseung, his senior, who thought the pair of you would be a great couple- Jake didn’t know how he came to that conclusion. Because during that date, where you sat across from him in a yellow-lit café surrounded by potted plants and flowers, he could only ever see you as a friend.

And for the longest time, the pair of you did agree to be friends. And that friendship consisted of early morning coffee runs at that very cafe, standing in line together to guess the special of the menu for that morning, talking about their classes from the day prior.

Your conversations consisted of you quoting various theorists across academia and philosophy- because that was pretty much your whole personality- while Jake hid most of himself away and only showed the fun parts, the goofy parts you seemed to enjoy being around so much.

But then, one day, you fixed his grammar while he was speaking and Jake was taken aback. Jake might have been a science geek but the knowing the English language was important to him. You knew that, and corrected his grammar- something about using the past participle in the wrong context. He didn’t know what else he was expecting- you, who spent most of your time writing essays and buried in academic literature, obviously knew the rules and regulations of English better than he did.

But it was finally when Jake actually started to let his interest show- his spanning knowledge on physics theory- did he realise how smart you actually were. Because when he talked about the string theory, you finished a lot of his sentences. And he was stunned that you’d known about it, that you’d once spent a phase in university studying about the physics of the universe, to see if the world could be explained and understood by science rather than sociological critique.

And you understood both worlds, unlike Jake. You understood the science of living as well as the art of living. And Jake almost envied that about you, that your brain had somehow unlocked crevices that could comprehend things Jake couldn’t fathom.

Because to him, the contemporary world belonged to all the social media scandals and TikTok videos explaining comedic politics and a dying economy.

But to you, it was more than that. It would always mean more than that.

It wasn’t until a night you found yourself laying on his bed that Jake started seeing you differently. Like, physically, actually differently after spending days coming to terms with the fact that he didn’t just find your mind sexy, but you as a whole person too. How did you end up on his bed? You were simply too lazy to leave in the first place, after having stuffed your face with too many bowls of Jake’s perfectly cooked ramen and after arguing over something about the science of manifestations.

Your brain was throbbing from all the times you’d raised your voice to prove a point and he raised his voice to do the same- not that any of it was out of malice. Such conversations were common to you, by that point. It was integral to your friendship with Jake.

Somehow, Jake found himself scooting closer to you, wrinkling the navy blue duvet under him. He hovered over you for only a moment, eyes licking, breath ragged as if he were afraid to you a question- a question of which you knew he’d ask you.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered under his breath and the words hit your cheek with a warm welcome.

And when you didn’t show any signs of discomfort, when you moved your face closer to his and fluttered your eyes closed, Jake kissed you. It was a kiss long over due and if Heeseung found out, he would brag about introducing you to each other- because, perhaps, he was right. He was right about you being a good couple and he was right about you getting along.

And, fuck, did kissing you feel right, too.

Jake didn’t know how to pull away from you. He just let his hands wander, holding and clutching anything he could get get a grip on- your jaw, your neck, your hair, your waist and finally, your hips.

He was heaving for air- but he kissed you like you were the oxygen he didn’t know was missing. He felt so euphoric, he was sure he’d wake up the next morning more blind than he already was.

In between all your pants, all the moments you refused to part your lips from his, your clothes had somehow (somehow? You knew where this was going) ended up in the floor. And as you ran your hands down his chest, his taut muscles under the tips of your fingers, writhing and desperate, you looked at him through your lashes.

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

Jake let out a loud whine as he held your hips harder, feeling his cock twitch at your voice- usually so loud and confident, now teasing and sultry. He loved this change in you, this version of you that only he got to experience.

“Oh, Y/N,” he moaned as he let the tip of his coke slide through your wet folds, hips bucking in desperation. “Fuck.”

That night, he didn’t exactly rail you. He made love to you (the railing would happen later and a lot more throughout your relationship). He whispered all the sweet things that went through his head when you talked about your favourite things, kissed down your neck and chest, sucking on your nipples and the tip of his cock touched your cervix.

As his cock slid in and out of you, careful and calculated in motion to make sure you felt every inch of you, you moaned for him. Well, Jake wasn’t even sure if he could call it a moan- it was high pitched, perhaps a whine, that came in short intervals and sharp breaths.

A whimper, perhaps?

He didn’t know what it was but he loved it- and he planned on hearing it more. It took everything in him to not go feral at the sight of you, at the sounds you made- you looked so breakable under him, so responsive, so weak as you clawed at him, searching for your own high.

As Jake spent more time with you, he realised that those high pitched whines you made didn’t just come from sex. No, you made them in your sleep, when you were tired, when you were yawing or when you were tutting at something you were annoyed at.

There were times when you’d simply collapse on his bed seduce him, hugging his pillow and saying something about being too tired to sleep- and you’d let out that sound again, that whine that made his brain snap into two and his body beg for you.

It was hard to keep his hands off you.

Your relationship, now, consisted of a lot of nights just… doing things together. The pair of you liked to solve puzzles- puzzles of all kind, the kind that had Jake scratching his head over numerical patterns and the kind that made you have a hard time visualise a painting. You liked playing games together- like one of those name all fifty states type of games. They were fun and they made you laugh and by the end of it, if Jake couldn’t resist the allure of your mind, he’d rail you against his bed, into his navy blue sheets.

And he introduced you to a lot of music, not the type you heard in mainstream media, the ones that blew up on TikTok. No, the songs he listened to were personal, old and carried history. Your music taste was… really terrible compared to his.

And while he shared music, you shared your love for film. And not the movies type of film, you loved watching film that was critiqued, that transcended generations, the type that one wouldn’t have heart about if they weren’t keeping up with film history like you were. And though, at first, Jake resisted- absolutely hated the idea of spending three hours watching films he’d potentially hate- he succumbed to you. Because even though he hated the films you made him watch, he loved the wonder your expression held while characters unravelled their stories.

Study sessions meant that Jake would be sitting on his bed with a pen and notebook finishing questions from his textbook with earphones feeding soothing music into his ears while you would sit on his bed, laptop perched on your legs, typing away on essays.

The pair of you could have easily just studied in your respective spaces- you back at your own apartment. But you simply didn’t want to- it was more comforting to be right there, a few steps away from each other so you could reach out whenever work became overwhelming.

There were numerous occasions where Jake would simply give up on his work and would slide onto the bed. He’d close your laptop and slot himself between your legs, head buried in your chest while you killed him to sleep, hands buried in his hair. And there were numerous occasions where you would sigh over an essay and pad over to Jake, pulling his chair just enough to give yourself room to straddle him, to wrap your arms around his neck and cling onto him like a koala.

“What would I do without you?” You’d ask sometimes, accepting the fact that Jake was your anchor now- that there was no escaping it, no denying it. He was your rock, your pull and escape from reality.

“Don’t think about you,” Jake would say. “You never have to know,” because he didn’t plan on letting you go- not anytime soon, not ever.

Because he loves your mind too much- he loves you too much. And you were his counterpart, just as he was yours.

Time and time, again and again, the pair of you would prove that physics and arts went hand in hand, just as you and Jake went hand in hand.

[wonderhello]

I usually don't do this kind of thing but this reblog bugs to hell out of me (as someone who's known I have OCD for about 6 years just to be spared that argument lol) because it is the worst possible faith you could've taken this.

First of all, that reblog wasn't even talking about OCD anymore, it was talking about people who put perfect moral purity above actually doing the right thing. So that's a moot point and we can move onto OP now.

OP is ABSOLUTELY correct that all of these behaviors can come from a place of OCD. They are not ALWAYS OCD for sure, and some can sometimes be normal or even good, but there are circumstances where they're worth looking into. And even if it's not OCD, it's still good to talk to someone about it.

I think the best example of one is having political debates in your head. That can be normal—in fact, it can even be good! It's true! It ensures that you understand where you're at in terms of your knowledge and opinions. However, if you're doing it constantly to the point where it's taking up a lot of your thinking space constantly but you Have to do it or else you're going to Hell or people are going to die every time you don't do it so you have to do it Now or you're Bad and you're tainted with Bad forever...that's 100% for sure something to look into.

Being able to explain yourself when necessary—also a good thing! Again, it's good to ensure that you're solid in your opinions and you have a fully understanding of them. But feeling the need to justify yourself all the time because if you don't then everyone will think you're Bad and Evil and you will Never be clean and you need to explain until you are "pure" again...is also something to look into.

Making sure you're being a good enough ally for marginalized people—doing research, talking to us, donating if possible, etc.? Good! Doing that to the point that you can and still needing to constantly seek reassurance because if you don't you're SURE you're a bigot you're being a bigot right now by existing you're not doing the work you're evil right you're evil for sure you need to do more to ease this feeling of being evil? Something to look into.

The way some people talk about these things isn't just "I'm doing what I can to make sure that I don't get wrapped up in a hivemind and can draw my own conclusions"; it's "If I don't do this, I'm Evil and I'm Bad REGARDLESS of what my true beliefs are and REGARDLESS of if I'm solid in them and have been shown to be in the past". I'm not trying to armchair diagnose anyone, and neither is OP! It's a suggestion because these are common patterns seen in moral scrupulosity OCD and they don't look like what's traditionally thought of when OCD is discussed.

But honestly, like I said above, even if it isn't OCD and it's "just" overthinking—which is for sure a possibility—it's still worth seeking someone to talk to about it to me. Because living like that is exhausting, and you're not even going to be able to do what little you can do if you're constantly bombarded with the things you feel you're not doing enough but literally can't do. It's a horrible, terrifying world out there and there capital w Will be a lot of pain in trying to do what we can, but all we can do is what we can. It's about balancing the awareness of what's going on with not feeling morally reprehensible for not being able to singlehandedly fix it or do every single possible thing to fix it. Just do what you can. Even if it's something as little as doing your one click or a reblog.

Anyway, sorry for the long ramble. 👍🏾 I dunno if I explained myself well here. It's just my opinion + ngl the whole "omg EVERYTHING is OCD" thing bothers me because it's pretty much the opposite from my experience. If anything OCD is minimized to the point where things like this are beyond its scope to most people, lol.

TL;DR, "There is no version of trying to improve yourself or being a moral human being that is OCD" is…not correct. This isn't like some Tumblr woo-woo shit lol morality can ABSOLUTELY become OCD and that's becoming more known even within the medical community.

I DESPERATELY needed someone to tell me this as I grew up in leftist online spaces. So now I am going to tell YOU:

If you

Check what you sent over and over to make sure you didn’t say a slur instead of “hello how are you”

Fear that someone will find you thinking not-leftist-enough thoughts and will call you out and ruin you

Feel you have to make your intentions clear and over-explain your actions

Find yourself consistently resisting the urge to engage in reassurance-seeking WRT being a good enough ally to marginalized people

Stay up late endlessly debating political ethics in your head

Have a set of actions that you take after discovering you made a morally wrong decision so that you can atone, which you rely on for reassurance that you are not a bad person

Would rather not make a decision at all than make a decision that is the lesser of two evils, but is not morally pure

then I am gently, but firmly, requesting that you look into moral scrupulosity OCD.

[nikethestatue]

I think that in conclusion, what today showed, yet again, is that Gwynriels are only consumed by the ship.

Nothing else matters to them.

Any threat to their ship, any argument against their established ship parameters, any canon moments that don’t fit their narrative will be fought over and argued in public, without any evidence or logic.

As long as they get their ship the world can burn.

They don’t care about any of the characters, any of the books, any scenes, any storylines. No SJM, no canon text, no publisher can convince them of anything other than what they want to believe.

There is no debate, no discussion, no logical argument.

It’s just: we are right. You are all wrong. Nothing matters. Gwynriel endgame.

[moonilit]

Please I want to know more about what animals you think Dick and Damian should’ve been in Beastworld

This Got long and I’m not even posting half of it. First, sorry this took so long. Secondly I haven’t read Beastworld, so I’m not exactly answering for that book. And lastly, I know you asked about Dick and Damian specifically, but to answer that I will have to address Bruce. 

My two cents on What animal represents [Bruce, Dick and Damian] in my biased opinion ? 

First: big daddy, Bruce Wayne

His most famous associated animals are bats and wolves, but I don’t think they fully capture his heart. My argument? He’s a silverback gorilla. Here’s why:

Looks intimidating, actually ridiculous.

Leads through dominance. Silverbacks call the shots; others follow. (His "sons" may assist, but they execute his orders—they don’t co-lead.)

Bruce’s core trauma is losing his parents, which left him afraid of new connections. He craves bonds but is held back by fear.

Wolves and bats are social creatures; they form families and raise their young together. But where they don’t fit Bruce is that they thrive on cooperation. Being a team player isn’t his style—he tolerates it at best.

Wolves are pack hunters, while Bruce prefers to work alone. He’s more of a protector than a hunter to me. His goal is to defend his domain (Gotham), and to do that, he establishes Batman’s dominance—which fits a silverback better than a wolf.

Bruce is an absolute unit. He uses his size and strength to intimidate first. Everyone who doesn’t know him sees that threatening glare and imposing presence and fears him… but secretly, he’s a tired dad of five.

It’s also funny how gorillas are portrayed in media (King Kong: scary, monstrous) versus what they actually are: family-oriented gentle giants who only fight when threatened, care deeply for their young, and grieve their losses. They’re silent protectors. Sound familiar? That’s the mainstream’s view of Batman versus who he really is.

In conclusion, a wolf or a bat might describe aspects of Bruce, but they don’t capture his subtext and heart. To me, the silverback gorilla does.

Second: Our favorite loyal son, Dick Grayson

Now, here’s the real wolf of the Bat-family—but not for the angst they project onto Bruce.

Looks cute, actually scary. (Don’t pet the murder dog.)

Wolves are social; their pack is family. Dick is naturally social and adopts people as ride-or-die kin.

No “lone wolf” nonsense. If wolves leave, it’s to find food or form a new pack—just like Dick, pre Crisis Dock just felt like he out grown his Robin custom left and built his own family (the Titans).

Wolves thrive in teams. There’s no squad Dick can’t lead; he’s the ultimate cooperator.

They lead through trust and respect, not dominance—Opposite to Batman and just like Nightwing.

Wolves aren’t the biggest predators, but they’re fast, agile, and win through teamwork. Fits Dick’s acrobatic, hit-and-flip fighting style.

Bruce’s tantrum over Dick leaving? Yeah, that was his emotional support puppy growing up.

I don’t feel like there is a strong reason to make big comparison between wolf a foxes. I feel like its too obvious i honestly was shocked they even thought about making dick a fox of all beings. Foxes are cooperative but solitary, they know a lot of friends but won’t necessarily call it a ‘family’. They are registered as “low threat” which lets be real, even regular mob in Gotham knows not to miss with nightwing he is not ‘low threat’ etc etc

like Read these pages and tell me thats not a Silverback Dad and his over energized wolf son?

>> skipping over: Barbara, Tim, Steph, Cass and all the Titans we get to

Lastly: the most Responsible baby in the world, Damian Wayne

I feel like I should point out that a lot of Damian personally get confused with his Trauma, but I don’t have time to dive into that so lets jump to the direct answer of the question

From what I’ve seen, Damian gets labeled a "cat" to paint him as rebellious, independent, and aloof. I’ll argue this is a shallow take that misses on the his core qualities. and, just like with his father, it fails to capture his heart.

Damian’s core quality imo isn’t ‘arrogance’ its his sense of responsibility.

Some confuse Damian’s violence and stubbornness for pure rebellion. But his independence isn’t about defiance; it’s his determination to do whatever it takes to ensure the group’s success.

inter the Anatolian Shepherd. Independent but devoted. take their responsibility very seriously, you can depend on them 100%. strong fighters who are able to take down wolves, big cats and even on some accounts, bears (?). They Have a habit of taking charge and micro organize the ’flock’ so I can imagine the rest going like “oh god here he comes to see how i got myself injured” lmao

Anatolians are loyal to their flock but don’t see themselves as servants—they’re equals in ensuring the group’s survival. Damian has outright told both his Batmen (Bruce and Dick) that he’s their equal. He doesn’t wait for orders; he decides when to act. Its BECAUSE he have a huge sense of responsibility he would defy orders, hence why he mistakenly gets labeled as “rebellious” aka a cat.

Once Damian felt respected by the Batfam (first Dick, and Stephanie), he started taking active responsibility for them. Even in the League of Assassins, his drive was never "I want this" or "I deserve this"—it was "My family’s honor depends on me." again, responsibility not ego

Anatolians aren’t predators; they’re guardians. Why does Damian care about Gotham? He didn’t grow up there. It’s simple: It’s his father’s home, its where his now family is, so he’ll protect it. His entire arc with Bruce echoes this: "Your son will not fail you." “I had to do it, to protect our kingdom”

Anatolians aren’t tyrants—they’re trusted because they’re good at their job. Damian doesn’t demand obedience for power’s sake (he’s handed authority to Dick and Bruce willingly). He loses it when others disrespect him because they assume he’s selfish or incompetent. Dick broke through to him by respecting him—he just needed Damian to work with him. Its so so important to understand Dick didn’t ‘tame’ Damian, he earned the right to lead him. Anatolians follow equals, not masters.

At the end I don’t think Damian is a Cat or an Attack dog or even a falcon for many reasons, but essentially: non of them fit or explain his deep devotion to his loved ones, his fundamental sense of responsibility. or his strong sense of duty. Damian is like an Anatolian Shepherd—responsible, disciplined, and protective. (Also it doesn’t help this kid just keep collecting farm animals wherever he goes, and be shown feeding and introducing them like he can’t help it)

thanks for coming to my ted talk.

[lemotmo]

I still hate it. I get it from a business standpoint and this makes perfect sense. But he's dad and I'm devastated.

Q. He just signed the death certificate of his own show.

A. I'm going to preface this entire reply by saying I don't think he's really dead but I'm going to answer this way too dramatic ask from a pragmatic standpoint. So for the sake of this reply he is dead. AGAIN I DO NOT REALLY THINK HE'S DEAD BUT SOME OF THESE TAKES ARE INSANELY OVER DRAMATIC SO IM GOING TO REPLY TO THIS AS IF HE IS TRULY DEAD.

Instant reaction being raw and angry is understandable and relatable but the argument that no television show has ever done anything like this and survived is a frankly absurd argument. This is not new for television. It's definitely not new for ABC. In fact if he is truly dead I believe it was an ABC decision and not a Tim decision. There is a legitimate argument to me made for the long term benefit of killing a character like this off. Lots of shows that have run as long as 911 has need a reset at some point. This is an insanely expensive show to make. It will be going into its 3rd season on a new network which means there were probably several cast members who were due for new contracts and given the show's current status on the network those new contracts most likely came with pay increases. If you're a suit in the financial position at ABC it makes sense that something would need to give. Angela and Peter are the two most expensive cast members. And if the choice was between Peter Krause and Angela Bassett you're keeping the movie star every time. That's business. We can all hate it but it is.

As for the people yelling at me that I willed his death into existence by saying he was overused, I cannot help you. There is a drastic difference in saying a character desperately needs a rest and killing the character off. If you don't understand that, I don't know what to tell you. Tommy did not serve any kind of major role in this event. Stop that now. He is a helicopter pilot. They brought him in to fly a helicopter as a distraction, which is what his character was for his entire run of this plot, hello! and to allow Buck to verbally state the EX part out loud. I do think we will get a scene between him and Eddie next week, which I still think was the real reason he was brought back in the first place. Being pissed off at him getting a reaction to the death over Eddie is legitimate, understandable rage. That was inexcusable on every level. And I'm glad even the media is pointing that out. For one the man cannot act. He is incapable of emoting and looked constipated more than anything else. It was bad all the way around. The other problem was it was legitimately not a great episode in general. The plot was absurd with even the slightest bit of critical thinking applied. But moving characters and plotlines along with the use of grief is a media staple. That is common practice so people acting like the show basically has to start over from scratch because Bobby died is ridiculous. I cried hard last night. The dialogue was moving and did its job but the plot overall was absurd and does not feel real in any way. In conclusion I don't think it's real BUT if it is there are legitimate arguments to me made for doing it. We don't have to like it but that doesn't make them less true. I do think hell be alive and back by the season finale though. 🩷🩷

Thank you Nonny!

All right, this is the last ask I'm answering tonight. I'm tired and I need a break. 🥱

I thought this one was fitting to end on for today. 😋

I still hate how they went about this and I'm also still very much in camp 'HE ISN'T DEAD', but yeah... if he is we will have to deal with it in some way.🤷‍♀️ It'll hurt, but I'll get passed it because I still love this show too much to give up on it. ❤️

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[ravewulf]

You didn't answer my question and deflected with more ad hominem attacks. You can't help yourself, can you? You're just like Trump in that respect and resort to these weak tactics because your argument doesn't hold water.

Even if your assertions about Derek were true (they aren't), two wrongs don't make a right. If anything, Scott has been far worse to Derek than Derek has ever been to Scott, but that's beside the point and irrelevant to the question at hand. It does not matter what they did to each other because what Scott said is bad, regardless of anything else between them.

To set the stage, this scene takes place after a hunter (Kate) attempted to kill Derek by shooting him with a wolfsbane-poisoned bullet. Scott has the gall to say "They're a lot freaking nicer than you are" when he has proof right in front of him that the hunters attempted to murder someone (not to mention Scott himself getting shot with an arrow and pinned to a tree in episode 1, which Derek saved him from). So, Derek takes Scott to see what they did to Peter as more proof.

Scott: What are we doing here? Who is he? Derek: My uncle. Peter Hale. Scott: Is he… Like you, a werewolf? Derek: He was. Now he's barely even human. Six years ago, my sister and I were at school, and our house caught fire. Eleven people were trapped inside. He was the only survivor. Scott: So… What makes you so sure that they set the fire? Derek: 'Cause they're the only ones that knew about us. Scott: Well, then… They had a reason. Derek: Like what? You tell me what justifies this. They say they'll only kill an adult, and only with absolute proof, but there were people in my family that were perfectly ordinary in that fire. This is what they do.

A hate crime is a crime that is committed based on a bias or prejudice against people or groups with particular characteristics. Typically, this includes perceived or actual age, race, color, religion, national origin, sexual orientation, gender, gender identity, or disability, etc. In a fictional context, it can extend further to include prejudice against werewolves and other fictional beings.

The Hales were targeted by hunters because they were a family of werewolves and the hunters are prejudiced against werewolves, making this a hate crime. Do you agree, yes or no?

I would hope we can all agree that someone saying "maybe the KKK had a reason for tarring and feathering that black person and their family," right in front of two of the survivors would be horrible. Are you able to draw the logical conclusion that Scott saying "maybe they had a reason" to Derek and Peter about their family being murdered by hunters is just as bad, yes or no?

"Then they had a reason"

[lizhly-writes]

currently staring at my current big wip doc, specifically at my wu youxuan/chen liwei cnovel offshoot, because. look. sometimes, you (me) are impatient. sometimes, you (still me) are not in the mood for writing buildup. what if you (astonishingly enough, still me) skip ahead to the point where they're already in a relationship. what about that point, huh.

...this is the state of mind in which fluff fics originate from, huh.

[metanarrates]

Hello. Sorry if this a stupid question u can ignore if u want.

How can someone get better at media analysis? Besides obviously reading a lot.

Im asking this bc im in a point where im aware of my own lack of tools to analyze stories, but i don't know where to get them or how to get better in general. How did you learn to analyze media? There's any specific book, essay, author, etc that you recommend? Somewhere to start?

I'm asking you because you are genuinely the person who has the best takes on this site. Thank you for you work!

it sounds like a cop-out answer but it's always felt like a skill I acquired mostly thru reading a ton, and by paying a lot of attention in high school literature classes. because of that I can't promise that I'm necessarily equipped to be a good teacher or that i know good resources. HOWEVER! let me run some potential advice to you based on the shit i get a lot of mileage out of

first off, a lot of literary analysis is about pattern recognition! not just pattern recognition in-text, but out-of-text as well. how does this work relate to its genre? real-world history? does it have parallels between real-life situations? that kind of thing.

which is a big concept to just describe off the bat, so let me break it down further!

in literature, there is the concept of something called literary devices - they are some of the basic building blocks in how a story is delivered mechanically and via subtext. have you ever heard of a motif? that is a literary device. it's a pattern established in the text in order to further the storytelling! and here is a list of a ton of common literary devices - I'd recommend reading the article. it breaks down a lot of commonly used ones in prose and poetry and explains their usage.

personally, I don't find all the literary devices I've learned about in school to be the most useful to my analytical hobbies online. motifs, themes, and metaphors are useful and dissecting them can bring a lot to the table, but a lot of other devices are mostly like fun bonus trivia for me to notice when reading. however, memorizing those terms and trying to notice them in the things you read does have a distinct benefit - it encourages you to start noticing patterns, and to start thinking of the mechanical way a story is built. sure, thinking about how the prose is constructed might not help you understand the story much more, but it does make you start thinking about how things like prose contribute to the greater feeling of a piece, or how the formatting of a piece contributes to its overall narrative. you'll start developing this habit of picking out little things about a text, which is useful.

other forms of in-text pattern recognition can be about things like characterization! how does a character react to a certain situation? is it consistent with how they usually behave? what might that tell you about how they think? do they have tells that show when they're not being trustworthy? does their viewpoint always match what is happening on screen? what ideas do they have about how the world works? how are they influenced by other people in their lives? by social contexts that might exist? by situations that have affected them? (on that note, how do situations affect other situations?)

another one is just straight-up noticing themes in a work. is there a certain idea that keeps getting brought up? what is the work trying to say about that idea? if it's being brought up often, it's probably worth paying attention to!

that goes for any pattern, actually. if you notice something, it's worth thinking about why it might be there. try considering things like potential subtext, or what a technique might be trying to convey to a reader. even if you can't explain why every element of a text is there, you'll often gain something by trying to think about why something exists in a story.

^ sometimes the answer to that question is not always "because it's intentional" or even "because it was a good choice for the storytelling." authors frequently make choices that suck shit (I am a known complainer about choices that suck shit.) that's also worth thinking about. english classes won't encourage this line of thinking, because they're trying to get you to approach texts with intentional thought instead of writing them off. I appreciate that goal, genuinely, but I do think it hampers people's enthusiasm for analysis if they're not also being encouraged to analyze why they think something doesn't work well in a story. sometimes something sucks and it makes new students mad if they're not allowed to talk about it sucking! I'll get into that later - knowing how and why something doesn't work is also a valuable skill. being an informed and analytical hater will get you far in life.

so that's in-work literary analysis. id also recommend annotating your pages/pdfs or keeping a notebook if you want to close-read a work. keeping track of your thoughts while reading even if they're not "clever" or whatever encourages you to pay attention to a text and to draw patterns. it's very useful!

now, for out-of-work literary analysis! it's worth synthesizing something within its context. what social settings did this work come from? was it commenting on something in real life? is it responding to some aspects of history or current events? how does it relate to its genre? does it deviate from genre trends, commentate on them, or overall conform to its genre? where did the literary techniques it's using come from - does it have any big stylistic influences? is it referencing any other texts?

and if you don't know the answer to a bunch of these questions and want to know, RESEARCH IS YOUR FRIEND! look up historical events and social movements if you're reading a work from a place or time you're not familiar with. if you don't know much about a genre, look into what are considered common genre elements! see if you can find anyone talking about artistic movements, or read the texts that a work might be referencing! all of these things will give you a far more holistic view of a work.

as for your own personal reaction to & understanding of a work... so I've given the advice before that it's good to think about your own personal reactions to a story, and what you enjoy or dislike about it. while this is true that a lot of this is a baseline jumping-off point on how I personally conduct analysis, it's incomplete advice. you should not just be thinking about what you enjoy or dislike - you should also be thinking about why it works or doesn't work for you. if you've gotten a better grasp on story mechanics by practicing the types of pattern recognition i recognized above, you can start digging into how those storytelling techniques have affected you. did you enjoy this part of a story? what made it work well? what techniques built tension, or delivered well on conflict? what about if you thought it sucked? what aspects of storytelling might have failed?

sometimes the answer to this is highly subjective and personal. I'm slightly romance-averse because I am aromantic, so a lot of romance plots will simply bore me or actively annoy me. I try not to let that personal taste factor too much into serious critiques, though of course I will talk about why I find something boring and lament it wasn't done better lol. we're only human. just be aware of those personal taste quirks and factor them into analysis because it will help you be a bit more objective lol

but if it's not fully influenced by personal taste, you should get in the habit of building little theses about why a story affected you in a certain way. for example, "I felt bored and tired at this point in a plot, which may be due to poor pacing & handling of conflict." or "I felt excited at this point in the plot, because established tensions continued to get more complex and captured my interest." or "I liked this plot point because it iterated on an established theme in a way that brought interesting angles to how the story handled the theme." again, it's just a good way to think about how and why storytelling functions.

uh let's see what else. analysis is a collaborative activity! you can learn a lot from seeing how other people analyze! if you enjoy something a lot, try looking into scholarly articles on it, or youtube videos, or essays online! develop opinions also about how THOSE articles and essays etc conduct analysis, and why you might think those analyses are correct or incorrect! sometimes analyses suck shit and developing a counterargument will help you think harder about the topic in question! think about audience reactions and how those are created by the text! talk to friends! send asks to meta blogs you really like maybe sometimes

find angles of analysis that interest and excite you! if you're interested in feminist lenses on a work, or racial lenses, or philosophical lenses, look into how people conduct those sort of analyses on other works. (eg. search feminist analysis of hamlet, or something similar so you can learn how that style of analysis generally functions) and then try applying those lenses to the story you're looking at. a lot of analysts have a toolkit of lenses they tend to cycle through when approaching a new text - it might not be a bad idea to acquire a few favored lenses of your own.

also, most of my advice is literary advice, since you can broadly apply many skills you learn in literary analysis to any other form of storytelling, but if you're looking at another medium, like a game or cartoon, maybe look up some stuff about things like ludonarrative storytelling or visual storytelling! familiarizing yourself with the specific techniques common to a certain medium will only help you get better at understanding what you're seeing.

above all else, approach everything with intellectual curiosity and sincerity. even if you're sincerely curious about why something sucks, letting yourself gain information and potentially learning something new or being humbled in the process will help you grow. it's okay to not have all the answers, or to just be flat-out wrong sometimes. continuing to practice is a valuable intellectual pursuit even if it can mean feeling a tad stupid sometimes. don't be scared to ask questions. get comfortable sometimes with the fact that the answer you'll arrive at after a lot of thought and effort will be "I don't fully know." sometimes you don't know and that can be valuable in its own right!

thank you for the ask, and I hope you find this helpful!

[gaym3bo1]

i've said it before and i'll say it again

thame and po have Such a wild mix of fantastic communication and bad communication going, i need to study them under a microscope

[1nk-ling]

It bothers me when people use "Best friends don't do that" as an argument for a ship.

Just to be clear, I'm not dumping on any specific ship rn. This could be used as an argument for a ship I liked and it still wouldn't sit right.

Because...Why not?

"Best friends don't hold hands." Why not?

"Best friends don't start wars for eachother." Why not?

"Best friends don't live together." Why not?

"Best friends don't hug like that." Don't they?

"Best friends don't smile like that in the background of a shot." Yes they do.

"Best friends don't go that far for eachother." Yes. They! DO!

Let me tell you a story.

Not too long ago I was crew on a tallship being taken to Martha's Vinyard for touring purposes. I'd been there for a while, but there was another girl crewing who'd just signed on.

We'd stayed at the first port for a couple days, and were now heading out for the shot hop to the next harbour. The first mate was stressing hard because there was wind blowing us down as we tried to get off the dock, and also stressing is what she did best. Stressing may have been her college major.

Now, it was traditional (on this boat, where tradition was more important than sense and sanity) that we take down all pennants and flags, and run up the old stars and stipes as soon as we were out of the harbour. And despite the fact that we were still trying to coil dock lines, stow fenders, set watches, and ACTUALLY GET THE DINGHEY ON BOARD because some soaked guy was still trying to motor alongside in an inflateable-! Despite all that the first mate decided it was really important that my friend take down the flags.

She tried, but one of the pennants had gotten jammed in the rigging. I could see that, and I was haluing a tender up the side of a boat in 4ft chop with people yelling at me. You could not have brought that pennant down without ripping it off. And that was clear.

I was about to go help her when the mate walked by and my friend tried to get her attention and tell her it was stuck. Cutting her off in the middle of her sentance, the mate leaned down, said her name twice like she was so stupid to not have understood, then said: "Take down the pennant." and walked away to yell somewhere else.

My friend just stood there, tearing up, and I was more angry than I've ever been in my life.

I am not a violent person, especially when I'm angry. But

I wanted to DECK that mate. I wanted to climb up those ratlines, rip that flag down, bring it to her, and shove it down her throat. I wanted to say "Here's you stupid flag. It must have been a real danger to life and navigation if it was worth making someone cry over. I'm glad I was able to get it down for you." and drop its mangled remains at her feet.

Now, I'd known that girl for maybe, I don't know, six days? A week? We were barely friends yet. Mostly crewmates. Certainly not lovers. And I was ready to kill and die for her.

So, to return to my original topic: Best friends DO. Best friends WOULD. Best friends CAN. Best friends LOVE. And that love is not less for not being romantic. I have been it, done it, and seen it.

In short: find a better argument for your ship, because "Best friends don't do that" is simply untrue.

[goodluckclove]

Some insurance in case this attracts enough attention to want to start Discussions:

- I think it's good to experiment with your lifestyle habits every so often when possible to see what is working and what isn't, and that better habits are worth practicing if they bring an improvement to your specific life. This mindset is what brought me to this particular conclusion.

- I was never inoculated to social media because of my upbringing so if any post I make gets more than like twenty-five likes in a day I do get anxious by the notifications and mute it. So if this provokes you wanting to be publicly outraged, if you're hoping for a response from me you should maybe come into my asks or DMs.

- My argument is that if you make an effort to know the ways in which your brain functions it's all right to pursue healthy and efficient accomodations for yourself, even if it goes against what wider society/online culture says is correct. I get that's not how the world works, but I think in my experience it's been a net positive.

- I have no interest in being mean directly to people online when I can help it. Any hate mail will be responded with some degree of mild curiosity and probably a long ramble about something mostly unrelated. Maybe I'll review whatever drink I get at the coffee shop when I go to run errands in a bit.

- I personally think you should get consent before pissing on someone, regardless of their income bracket

My Hot Take of the current moment is that cultivating a healthy attention span is good and cool, but I don't believe that doing so takes a one-size fits all solution.

Like I see the discourse surrounding screen time and brain rot and I can't speak a lot on that. But it's all very persuasive, so I had been trying to focus solely on a movie or book while engaging with it.

And sometimes it works. Which is cool! But also I recently realized that's actually never how my brain worked. Before I had a smart phone and before the modern reign of corporate social media, I absolutely multi-tasked while engaging with everything. I used to read a manga while watching cartoons. I have seen a ton of movies just because I played them while writing or drawing in the background. And I venture to say I was absorbed most of them and was touched by many, even if I was doing something else at the time. Also sometimes a movie would be so good I would forget about the other thing I was doing, which I think is a fun feeling. It's cool when art can make you do that.

I don't really write to movies anymore, though I'll occasionally write to video essays or podcasts. But I decided to let myself draw when I want to or something while watching a movie, and it makes it a lot easier to feel absorbed in the movie. It sounds weird, but it's how my brain works. Doing something with my hands lowers my defenses and actually lets me fall into the atmosphere of what I'm watching.

I don't know man, brains are weird. If you have to work in an unconventional way to enjoy something I don't necessarily think that's brainrot gen Z cancer or whatever. Variety is good, but like even if I'm watching a movie in a theater I'll bring a stim of some kind.

I'm watching a movie right now, actually. Cynthia Scott's The Company of Strangers. It's like Lord of the Flies but with old women in the pastorial countryside and they're so far considerably chiller with each other. I'm only like 10 minutes in but I like it a lot so far.

[handweavers]

at what point does something stop being made by a person and start being made by a machine? is someone creating a photoshop action so the computer will run code to edit a photo they found online all that different from someone inputting words into a human made algorithm trained on human made images to generate a photo? if i use a knitting machine to make something does it count as human made or machine made or both? if i design a program that knits the object without me having to manually operate the machine does it still hold emotional value? what if i allow others to use that program to do the same thing and they input a sentence into the program articulating what they want made and the machine creates it? is 3d printing art? is technology itself capable of being art? if we define 'what gets to be art' by the % of machine involvement at what % does it stop being art? does this entire argument not feel a bit futile and arbitrary to you?

everyone will have a different answer just like how everyone has a different answer on 'what is art' and that's an argument we've been having for ages and will continue to have for the foreseeable future. i'm a weaver and an artist and my tendency is to lean toward the romantic, but in my efforts to be a materialist i ultimately find these questions largely unhelpful on the topic of 'should generative ai art be forbidden' because if we're only talking about how things make us feel and how we want the world to be and not the actual material impacts of things from a practical perspective we'll never get anything done. it's why i said that arguments against generative ai that take this stance are unconvincing and if you try to critique ai from an angle that isn't materialist you will run yourself in circles.

[trashogram]

If we’re arguing about a show and I ask you for examples to back up your point but you tell me “just re-watch the show, I shouldn’t have to give you examples!” than you have lost credibility and subsequently lost the argument.

You don’t go to the bank to cash out a check that you don’t have, guy. That’s not how this works. Debates require evidentiary support and I’m not tolerating less.