#like YES so much of this post is so correct

[ridingtorohan]

hey!! i saw ur recent post about the tulpar crew walking in on reader touching themselves, could u do the same but vice versa?

Ask and ye shall receive!

𓇻 ft. tulpar crew x gn reader

𓇻 content. 18+ content, minors dni. possible second hand embarrassment. masturbation, sexual propositions, the whole shebang. this is a sequel to this post. this one can definitely be read on its own though. lightly implied that reader didn't accept swansea or daisuke's offers in the prequel but that can be left up to interpretation. jimmy's definitely happened though.

𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, reblog, or send in asks!

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Masterlist - Want to Join my Taglist?

Curly is just so damn tired. Tired of the reports, faxes, checking the straps in the cargo bay. One of the few downtimes he gets is when he can sit and watch the constellations pass on the common room monitor. The Augira, Constantine and Mitena were all ones that he recognized from this sect of the system, all penned from the eyes of Saturn and further.

Movies are a scarce commodity on the screen, given Jimmy's track record of not wanting to hook the systems up, but it helps him nod off most times.

Working out, though? Working out he can do. Pony Express has given him permission to bring his weights on board, alongside a slew of magazines and audiobooks to listen to.

While Curly doesn't think of himself as a gym rat, those moments to himself are some of the best. Nothing but the burn of iron, the strain of his muscles with each rep. It's methodical work, one that sets his mind at ease and off of reports for once.

Some days, he can get Jimmy in on the action, but most of the time his co-pilot bemoans it. Each time they worked out, the stretches between the next session grew longer.

He's pleased when you agree to attend a few sessions with him. By then, it's almost amicable between you two, as if him walking in you didn't even happen. He's very much acted the part of a dutiful captain, though, he can't help his own eyes from wandering when he sees you stretch. Can't help himself from putting his hands firmly on you when he goes to correct your stance. It doesn't linger, doesn't wander, but goddamn, does he wish he could throw propriety out the window.

It's after one of his solo workout sessions when he chooses another way to unwind. Really, that's the only explanation for it. One that he tells himself anyway, because the strain of propriety is heavy. If he still thinks of you from time to time, if your face crops up in his thoughts while he touches himself, that's his business.

The only places you'd catch him in the act is either in the bathroom or his room.

Curly has always been imaginative, thoughts trailing to roads not travelled, paths that burn out of sight. Of you, sprawled out on the bed, and how he wished he had stayed. How he'd have given anything to hike your legs over his waist and kiss you senseless when he slid against you.

As it always is, every fantasy comes to an abrupt end. Every night that he had dreamed of walking in to find you waiting, you found him. Wifebeater drenched in sweat, towel draped over his shoulders, every line of his well built body on display, hand fisted around his cock.

There's a difference between wishing you'd walk in on him and actually receiving it.

A painful, terse moment lingers between you two, tension so thick he swears he can cut it. His hand completes the motion, wiping from his base to the tip, each breath deep. Despite how uncomfortable he felt (for more than one reason), he also felt more prepared. "Hold on a minute." He'll cover himself, boxers and uniform hiding himself from view.

If you believe you could flee from the room without Curly following you, you're dead wrong. He'll track you down, put this to bed once and for all. He'll catch you, half-dressed in his uniform, blue workwear draped around his waist, hand against the wall. "We have to talk about this."

Regardless if you stay or leave, not talking about it is no longer an option. You've both seen more of each other than was warranted, then what you both signed up for, but dammit he wants this. And he's so tired of shying away from things that he wants. From the person that he wants. All because of some higher-ups sitting cozy back home saying that it's wrong to do. He can't do it anymore, not when he feels like he's on the cusp of something great for once in his life.

"I know that what happened isn't what either of us expected," he'll start, voice low and perhaps far too sensual to be appropriate considered his half-dressed state. "And frankly, we can keep it to ourselves, pretend we never saw it." Biting the bullet is one of the fewest things he's done in life, but this is something that he wants to do. By fractions, Curly leans in closer, his voice entering a low murmur. "But... it doesn't have to be. We could give each other a.. hand, so to speak."

Routine. That's one thing that the Tulpar is good at. Routine. Each meal time, the rigid necessity of clocking in and out on time, even bathing. Pony Express may be a shit machine but it's well oiled, worked raw by the people under it. Delivering the payload is a smooth easy task because they all work on it together.

Part of that routine is shift work. Jimmy, ever the night-owl, works evening and night shift. This makes it so incredibly easy to avoid him if you wanted, especially since he walked in on you tending to yourself.

But he doesn't let you forget it. Since that moment, there's a smoldering heat in his gaze, eyes hooded as he watches you go about the room. Watched as you did your tasks, always standing too close - enough that you can get a whiff of his woodsy cologne, or feel his arm against yours.

He's almost helpful, even when your tasks really don't necessitate the need for another. His hands linger, hot against your uniform, his hips against the back of yours whenever he steadied you, or reached above you. Each word a rumble in his throat.

Except there's never really any change to talk to him about what happened. Not when every moment is tense, fraught with unresolved desires and need. Not when Daisuke or Curly walk into the room, silencing the burning questions and words that haunt your lips. Jimmy seems especially disgruntled about the interruptions, getting almost snappy towards the other crewmembers.

All in all, you rarely have a moment to speak with him. It's the furthest thing from your mind when you step out of the shower, more than eager to collapse face first into bed and sleep the weariness away.

If you're the sort to bring clothes into the washroom to change into, the absence of them is noted fast. No amount of scrounging around turns them up either. At a loss, it's to your sleeping quarters to wrangle up something else to wear.

Except you're very much not alone the second you step into your door. The door swishes behind you but you're effectively grounded, eyes drawn to the man lounging on your bed.

His head is tilted, messy hair falling across his hooded eyes, a dark and smoldering look to them. A slow stretch of a smirk crawls across his face, a pleased look darting into his eyes.

Jimmy is just as bare as the day he was born, an arm languidly thrown over your pillow. A leg bent up, not at all coy about having himself on display. His other arm is resting against his thigh, one hand smoothing along his flushed cock in a slow, slick motion. His fingerstips are all but slathered in precum - or actual cum, as you might suspiciously think when you look at your clothes haphazardly thrown onto the floor, looking sticky.

"There you are. Took you long enough." He breathes out your name, chin tilted upward, something primal lurking deep in his eyes. Jimmy clicks his tongue, ever the disapproving copilot. "You should know better than to keep someone waiting." Despite the curt, wanting tone to his words, he doesn't move towards you. Letting you go to him. Like he knows you will.

"I've been thinking," each word is low and deep, husky in his mouth. Jimmy's hand very much doesn't stop moving, stroking himself as you're rooted to the spot. Whenever you glance down between his thighs, his smirk deepens. "That you owe me for what I did for you."

It's not like you could dance around the topic forever; each touch, every interrupted conversation, it all would have culminated to this. Jimmy waiting for you, eager to put his hands back on you, to feel you tremble and shudder beneath him as he pulls you apart.

The thing was, you realize, it'd be terribly easy to leave him here. To not respond to his advances. The door was to your back and even Jimmy had enough sense not to walk out nude in pursuit of you. It'd be easy to walk to another crewmate's quarters and pilfer clothes. It'd be laughed off, brushed under the rug just as another incident, excused as you being unable to enter your room because of 'technical difficulties'.

The thing is, though, you can clearly remember how his hands felt, the way he moved. How Jimmy watched you with the same intensity now, his eyes a dark promise of a repeat experience, if not more.

You don't really want to refuse such an offer, do you?

Try as Anya might, she can't get the image of you out of her head. The sounds you made, how your hands moved. She'd tried to be civil, though how quickly she averts her gaze and fidgety hands betray how much it affected her. Nerves, she'd try to excuse it. Nothing ever related to you, of course, because that sounds too much like blame. She blames herself for walking in on you masturbating, and blames herself for wishing that she hadn't left.

But by god, did it make her needy and so sexually frustrated. She's found every excuse under the sun to touch you then jerk back, at war with herself. She has to act professional. Doesn't she?

Something about you, seeing you like that, had coiled something burning inside of her. Something hot, that festered low in her gut.

For the most part, she can act professional. Mostly. But she can only get so far from letting her eyes trace your silhouette, from sitting on her leg whenever you talk to her. It's risky business, even riskier when she decides to keeps a few tokens of yours. Things that smell like you, even distantly - papers, a bracelet. Things that you've lent to her before.

It's been a while since she got laid, since she's even been attracted to anyone. But something about you just sets her on fire, burning with want and need. She needs you like she's never needed anyone before.

Realistically, Anya knows it's because of the forbidden nature; because of the close proximity day in and day out, but there's something so tantalizingly beautiful about it too. She's a sucker for it.

One of her favourite places to get off is in the medbay; she can lock herself in it - but she doesn't. Because it's so much more tantalizing when she thinks about you walking in. When she thinks about pressing you against the desk and using her medical expertise on you. She wants to hear you - taste you - feel you. Is that too much to ask for?

That's exactly where you catch her. Her breath coming out in hot breaths, eyes shut tightly, uniform pulled open. It'd be so easy to mistake it for something else, such as the room being hot - if it weren't for where her hands were.

One has all but ridden up her shirt, rolling the peak of her breast between her fingers. The zipper has gone all the way down to her waist, one hand curled tightly in her underwear, motions jerky as she fingers herself.

Every inch of her wishes that it was you, your fingers working her over, touching her clit and prodding at her walls. She feels so close, having edged herself for a bit until you came in.

It was just to ask her her input on supper, or for a nonsensical question that very well could have waited for another moment.

The door swishes shut behind you and her eyes flutter, dark as she looks up at you, flush all but crawling up her neck.

Seeing how you look at her - how you came to look for her- needing her for something, a question halfway on your lips - and it's her undoing. She moans your name, guttural and hoarse, hips jerking, dripping over her knuckles. "Wait-" Singlehandedly one of the better orgasms she's had, better than when she pined endlessly.

When her senses come back, Anya is breathless and shaken - and you're long gone.

She's not letting you go this time. Not when a new, burning question lodges inside her. Did you like what you see? Did you wish you weren't there?

Anya approaches your door at night, knocking crisply and when you grant entrance, she stands there, the atmosphere almost palpably awkward. She takes a few steps closer, feeling flighty and desperate, eyes searching your face, whispering your name.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she whispers, voice low in the room, nerves biting at her throat. She can't not know anymore. "But I'm... glad that you did."

"Is this.. tension between us all in my head, or, do you want me too?"

It's one thing after the next. Couplings came loose, Daisuke's homework is not up to par, the lightbulbs need to be changed but no one seems capable of doing it. It all amounts to a sort of frustration winding up in him. Swansea has enough grace not to lash out at anyone, but it's there, palpable in his tone.

By some saving grace, you're willing to help him out with his work. Passing over screwdrivers and wrenches, new copper wire as he needs it. Swansea has noticed that you're attentive and eager like that; willing to help. Sometimes, he really wished you were his intern instead of Daisuke, not that he blames the kid.

He really needs a damn beer.

Wanking out his frustrations as a teenager and young adult had really suited him just fine, and with each passing day, it becomes a far more likely possibility.

It surely does not help when every little moment with you feels charged. Knuckles brushing when you supply him with mechanic tools, or when his arm brushed against your thigh as he steadied the ladder for you.

Swansea finds his gaze lingering.. on how your uniform bunches, the sway of your walk, the excited chatter to your tone when you've launched into some spiel or other. Each look he gives you is in quiet contemplation, though perhaps not as obvious as to why.

He's long since brushed off your curious questions.

It's when Anya outright slipped and fell over an oil spill that Swansea called it quits. There's only so many small annoyances that he could take before it became a hazardous snowstorm.

After it's suitably cleaned, he tried to find a place to tuck himself away. Keyword: tried. Something else always needed to be fixed, and he had enough years under his belt to know the ins and out of everything. Leaky faucet? Hold his glass. Vaccuum given up? He's got it. Curly, goddammit, he has it.

It's so grueling to find a moment of peace, so he takes what he can. That just so happened to be in the utility room, frustrations to a boiling point.

He knows his body, knows just the right way to stroke himself, the perfect amount of pressure. Learned it long since his youthful days, since his amicable divorce from his wife. Sure, it might feel mechanic at a certain point, but to him, it was a small reprieve. A getaway that only booze came close to.

Foreskin pulled back, his head is tucked low, eyes heavily lidded, fingertips pressing under the tip of the head just like he likes.

Swansea has himself sticky with precum when the utility door rattles and open. "Swansea, I found your keys-"

His eyes track up, eyebrows raised. Whatever hasty attempt you may have made, it's blocked by the aging mechanics of the utility door. It's from an older rig, one that still uses keys instead of the security bars that the medbay and cockpit use. Which means it's faulty as shit.

He sighs, head tipped back, eyes still on you. "That's on me for not leaving a sock out there," he grumbles, voice gruff and husky. A reference to how he told you to ward off people when he caught you masturbating earlier.

Moving his hand from his cock, his gaze is surprisingly steady, arm draped against the back of the chair. "Listen, kid, I won't say shit about this if you don't. Keep it jammed tight better than a olive jar when making margaritas. But." He rolls his neck, feeling a satisfying crack run through him. "I can show ya a few things that the ole cap' or other men won't, if yer interested."

Daisuke has been, for lack of a better word, edgy around you. Hovering, then trying to create distance. He can't seem to decide how to act around you. Not when he's seen you that way, pleasuring yourself. When he wishes you'd involve him.

He's seen plenty of naked people before, got hard over them, but wow, did you take it to the next level. Even how you tilt your head or roll up your sleeves has him in an outright tizzy, straining hard in his pants.

Daisuke often has to excuse himself from your presence. Ignoring Swansea's rolling eyes and knowing scoffs is easy; ignoring you is harder.

It's during one of those mundane tasks, where you're prattling about your work to the others, his eyes glued to your form, absorbing every word that he can't take it anymore. Excusing himself, he pops right out of the room, awkwardly striking towards his bunk.

But of course that is the exact moment you decide you need to return his gameboy - or comic, or whatever he had lent you a few weeks prior.

Daisuke is completely in the groove, pants folded down, back propped to the wall, knees folded and lips parted with each heavy breath. He's always been loud, noisy and boisterous. But his saving (and falling) grace is that he's also often playing movies in his room, and what muffled sounds you may hear from the other side of the door is easily chalked up to that. (Or perhaps, you knew.)

You catch him like that, hand fisted around his lean cock, shirt ridden up over his stomach, his movements sharp and jerky. It's bad enough that you walk in on him like this - but another to hear Daisuke rattle out your name, the sound breathy and full of want coming from his lips.

He's a poor, flushed mess, eyes wide when he looks up at you - and it's so plainly obvious to the both of you that he didn't call out because he heard you come in.

"I- I can totally explain." Except he really can't, can he, when he has his dick in his hand, just moaning your name literally seconds ago.

Any attempt to backtrack out of the room will be greeted with a hasty, "Oh my god, no, pleasewait!" As he all but tries to leap from his bed, tripping over his pants in his haste to get to you. Daisuke is nothing but determined and will try to talk to you about this, even if you manage to successfully flee.

Choosing to stay has him utterly red-faced, almost ashamed as he rambles through a tirade of, "Okay, so," punctuated by repeated, stumbled phrases before he manages to get out, "So, me calling out your name just now - total accident. Unlessyoudon'twantittobe? But, like, I definitely understand if you want to leave but I'dreallyratheryoustaybecause I really can't stop thinking about you and, - oh hey, is that my gameboy? You can just set it-- that's not important! I just. Really don't want you to leave. Please."

[doomdoomofdoom]

okay so regardless of whether it was him or not, there's misinformation in this post and it's gonna bug me if I don't point it out.

Angles of camera footage and press coverage are different and yes eyebrows can grow back fast as fuck depending on your grooming method and genetics. something something italians.

I haven't seen any claim of him being arrested with the found clothing. They found the "distinctive" backpack in the park, the one he was arrested with wasn't described in any coverage I read. The jacket found inside the distinctive backpack was only described by brand. If both released photographs from the Hotel lobby (taken on different days btw) are to be believed, he owns at least two jackets.

The found fingerprints are not from the crime scene. They were recovered from things assumed to belong to the shooter, like a phone, wrappers of a protein bar and a bottle or other drink container. That being said, I strongly do not believe these can verifiably match. The recovered print was both partial and smudged, and fingerprint analysis is in large parts subjective. Similar skepticism should be applied to any DNA samples and matches. (As far as I'm informed, they haven't done any yet)

Also I've said this before but being on the run from the cops makes "keeping your belongings with you" the smartest move. If he discarded the gun somewhere, he'd risk having it found and pointing towards him. I presume he kept the manifesto on him in case he was killed by police.

Also how exactly does picking a centrist scapegoat reignite a right vs left culture war? Picking a rich guy, sure, but why a centrist white guy? (Also this assumes the cops are competent enough to think that far or think at all, which is the most unrealistic part so far)

Ongoing news stories also do change as they develop. That's normal. The current understanding is that a patron alerted an employee who called the police.

You can believe Mangione was framed or you can believe he did it, but use the correct facts or your argument falls apart.

Much more importantly: Luigi Mangione has no shot at getting a fair trial. News everywhere have been plastering his face as the ("alleged") killer. He's supposed to be innocent until proven guilty, but we all know the system works the other way around. Even if he is fully cleared by the courts and they find the actual guy. This is now the legacy of Luigi Mangione. And he will never be able to be free of it.

That, if nothing else, should piss you the fuck off. Fall Guy or not - the way his case is being treated and displayed for the public, it's disgusting.

I don't want to be a conspiracy theorist on main but all the memes about Luigi Mangione kind of piss me off bc I am 90% sure he is not the assassin.

I know I've joked in the past that all white men look alike but Luigi Mangione litterally does not look like any of the shooter pics.

The shooter has a long face and a sharp chin, Mangione has a more square face and rounder chin, and THE EYEBROWS!! You're gonna tell me he groomed his eyebrows before commiting a murder and they just grew back completely in less than a week? Nah

Not to mention, police claimed he was wearing the same jacket and backpack from the day of the shooting. You know, the same jacket and backpack the NYPD found discarded in Central Park?

And they're saying his fingerprints match the crimescene even though security footage clearly shows the shooter wearing GLOVES!!

Not to mention, after every meticulous step taken to get away with the shooting, why would the perpatrator still be carrying the murder weapon and a manifesto??

I genuinely believe the cops are using Luigi Mangione as a fall guy. They found a centrist Ivy League kid who kind of matched the description in order to shift the narrative from class war back to a less threatening "left vs right" culture war.

His politics are messy enough that people will spend more time debating over what side of the spectrum he is on than the actual issue at hand. THIS IS A DISTRACTION!

Also the story is all over the place. Was it a McDonalds employee or patron that reported him? The story keeps changing but either way it sends the message that the working class will turn on itself during an unprecedented moment of class unity and solidarity in the United States.

Also I think pinning this on an Ivy League kid was done in an attempt to shift the narrative from the assassin being a working class hero to just another trust fund kid. That being said, even if it WAS him, an Ivy League trust fund kid has more in common with you than you have with the 1%.

So people in the US, please think critically about the distraction tactics being pushed onto you and don't forget who the real enemy is.

Keep solidarity.

Deny

Defend

Depose

[mystellenia]

soft christmas morning with vi ❄︎

summary: you and vi wake up on a chilly christmas morning

content: nothing nsfw :] just stupid fluffy domestic vibes with vi and christmas morning brrrrr. making vi my stupid cutie pie little domestic baby i need her in my bed so we can bedrot Together. also i posted this for like 5 minutes with ellie instead of vi but then i was like hey ive been wanting to post for vi so how about this be my first vi post yay.

notes: tell me why i’m in my active era again (two posts within a month and a half). this reminds me of a fic i wrote waaaaaaaay back when for ellie so go check it out and smash that like button for more killer vids like this. and i double posted too i’m such an active queen. read christmas mirror sex with vi thru the link ;)

(wc 0.8k)

vi's soft snores wake you up, her parted lips pressed against the shell of your ear. her red hair was messy laid out on her pillow, and stray tendrils tickled the curve of your neck. you press a feather-light kiss to her forehead to not wake her up and brush your hand over her head to smooth the loose hairs out of her face. she stirs a bit, quietly mumbling into your jaw. 

"baby...?" she mutters. her hand dips under the side of her blue whale boxers, scratching at her protruding hip bone before coming up to her face to rub the sleep from her eyes.  

"yes, honey?" 

your small, four-foot christmas tree stood tucked in the corner of your shared bedroom, dim fairy lights blinking around the polaroids and small drawings you two had opted for instead of ornaments. a couple of boxes wrapped in adventure time wrapping paper—vi had insisted—sat beneath the tree.  

the sun had just begun to rise, and the dim light from the crack in the curtains was enough to make her wince and shove her face into your shoulder. "what time is it?" 

your hand fishes in the sheets for your phone. you find vi's instead and lift it to your face to wake the screen. "it's... 6:07," you read from her dimmed display. 

she groans, pulling the duvet over your heads. "it's too early... let's go back to sleep, please." 

you fondly chuckle at her grogginess. "it's also christmas," you whisper, your smile audible in your voice. 

she just mumbles, sniffling and smacking her lips. "yeah..." she rolls onto her side, having your body spoon hers. "wait..." she says urgently, as if just processing what you had said. "wait, it's christmas." 

"well, that is what i said, violet." 

"ohh my goosshh, it's christmasss..." she slurs, her enthusiasm quickly replaced by exhaustion. you press your nose into her hair, huffing deeply as you begin to lull yourself back to sleep. just when you think she's fallen back asleep, her morning voice cuts through the silence. 

"do you think honey baked ham is open on christmas?" she asks. 

"maybe. maybe for very last-minute christmas meals." 

"oh... okay, okay." a few seconds go by, and then: "do you think we could doordash a honey baked ham on christmas?" 

"christmas is today. do you mean today?" you correct her.  

she leans over and grabs the glass of water she got in the middle of the night, bringing the rim up to her mouth and downing the water left in the cup. 

"christmas is today. yeah, can we doordash a honey baked ham tomorr- today?" 

"yes, vi, if they still have them, we can get two—one for you and one for me." 

"hell yeah," she mutters. 

her body twitched with a chill, and she cursed under her breath at the sharp temperature in the room. "shit, it's so cold. the one and only thing i hate about christmas time." 

"the quilt my parents sent us is in the linen closet. you want me to get it?" 

she looks back with pleading eyes. "please, my perfect sugarplum princess pie who i love so much." 

"i'm gonna leave you to get frostbite and freeze to death," you joke while getting out from under the covers to walk the short distance down the hall. 

you reach the closet and pull the thick, padded quilt out from in between two other blankets, its tightly folded fabric hiding the full design of sprouts and ferns. shivering at an especially sharp draft, you pick up the pace and shuffle back to the warmth of the bed. 

shaking the quilt out, you quickly spread it across the bed and rush to get under it, pressing your body against vi’s.  

"i’m gonna set an alarm for 7 so we can order the ham because we're gonna have to order early if we want one. then once it gets here, we'll sleep until 11." 

vi rolls over to face you, a mischievious smile curling her lips upwards. "i couldn't think of a better plan." 

"perfect." you pull the freshly laid quilt up to yours and vi’s chins, nuzzling your head into your pillow. "good night, baby. i love you." 

"um, actually, it's 6 am, so it should be good morning." you can tell if it weren't so cold, she would take her hand out from the blanket to push a pair of imaginary glasses up her nose. 

"you're such a smartass. good morning. merry christmas, vi." 

"merry christmas," she whispers back. "i love you more." 

merry christmas to those who celebrate!!! happy holidays to those who dont!!! yay spread peace and love and joy to the world hooray

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

yin & yang pt.5

Pairing: Ben Tennyson x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.6k words

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Summary: You were an unlikely pair, everyone could see that. But what happens when you get a glimpse into a future where your differences were too much for you to bear?

A/N: Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates! Happy Holidays <3

AA/N: Hella OOC. Once again I do not care. This part is shorter than the others and I just made it as random snippets from different episodes in Omniverse. For now I think I'm tapped out from this series but who knows maybe I'll watch another episode and want to write something

s1e3: A Jolt From the Past

Ben was not having a good day. Leave it to the universe to try and give a deep blow to his ego the second he thought things were looking up. He had expected to just go about his day, doing his job when all of a sudden, the universe decided to reward him with a new partner. Just when he was starting to get comfortable going solo.

It was only a couple of months after Gwen and Kevin had moved towns so they could be closer to Gwen's college that you had been made leader of a new task force. Details unknown to him because even though he's the wielder of the most powerful weapon in the universe, he wasn't cleared to know what his girlfriend would be up to.

Not knowing what the task force was about didn't sting nearly as much when he found out it was based on another planet, and you'd be living there indefinitely.

When you had left, Ben was in a funk for weeks, refusing to leave his bed, waiting for you to get off work so you could call him, only going through the memories of you he had; the jacket he had stolen from you, a rare framed picture of the two of you on his bedside table and more.

He had just gotten himself out of the house when 'Rook Blonko' suddenly appeared, whisking him out of trouble when he was about to embarrassingly get his ass handed to him.

And while his new partner was beginning to grow on him, Rook still found moments to drive Ben to wits end.

“It's why I'm looking forward to this. I'm anxious to see if Ben Tennyson lives up to the legends.”

“There are legends?" Ben was excited now.

“They can't all be true though, for instance, Alien X, that is just a myth, correct? And your relationship with Proctor (Y/N), that obviously must have been a result of some fan posting rumours on the extranet.”

Ben’s mouth dropped open in offense, he didn’t even know how to respond to that. Was this partner, who he has only barely gotten to like lately, seriously questioning his 3-year relationship with his future wife?

“Both of those things are true!”

Rook turned back with a small look of surprise before it dissolved and he chortled, “This is earth humour, you are being sarcastic, yes?”

“I’m not! Alien X is real, and I’ve been in a dating (Y/N) since we were sixteen!”

Rook took his irate tone in stride, shrugging like a complacent mother would humour her child, “Of course. I’m sure you’re in a relationship with the youngest ever proctor in the entire galaxy. You see, even I am capable of earth sarcasm.”

His jaw dropped even farther, "You're shitting me, right?"

"Well, if you're so insistent, why don't you show me some proof? As I understand, it is common for humans to take many pictures with their partner."

"I would if you hadn't thrown me into the canal!" He exclaimed, fishing his sopping wet phone from his soggy pocket and waving it in his face as water dripped down his wrist.

Rook didn't even blink, turning back so they could walk to the proto-truck, "Convenient."

Ben scowled, more annoyed than ever, trying to switch on his phone so he could try and show him any proof he had but it was in vain. His phone was completely damaged.

Ben stopped in his tracks staring at the now ruined phone with wide eyes. He hadn't backed anything up.

The candid snap he had taken of you while you unconsciously played with the necklace, he had given you as you sipped a smoothie. The text message where you said you loved him AND used a heart emoji. That picture of you asleep, your hair mussed, wearing only his T-shirt as you slept soundly against his chest!!!??

"Aw, man!"

*

Ben was lucky that he had a change of clothes at the Plumbers base. He should have known that when Rook said he wanted to stop by for a briefing, it wouldn't have been brief at all. He briefly considered ditching his partner and going home to take a much-needed nap. There really was something about water fights that tired him out more than usual.

He loitered around the mess area. All of the agents were currently on duty, so he had his feet kicked up on the table as he scrolled through his phone, absentmindedly liking Gwen's story of a picture of herself and commenting 'No one wants to see u dweebus, where's Zedd?'

"You look comfortable; almost like you're dating the proctor of this quadrant."

Ben's neck almost snapped in his shock, nearly falling to the floor in his effort to stand up. You were leaning against the frame of the door, an almost invisible smirk on your face and Ben’s stomach did a flip.

“(Y/N)! What are you doing home so soon?!” He exclaimed and bound over to you, to pull you into a tight hug.

“I asked for a week to spend with you, since I missed you so much.”

His heart jumped, "Really?”

“No.” His face fell, and you chuckled, gently tilting his chin up with a single finger as a tiny apology. He leaned into you like always and you let your eyes rake over him, tracing over every single line of his features before ending at his lips, leaning back when he attempted to kiss you.

“I just met with the Magistrata to give a brief on our progress. Due to the sensitive nature of the mission, we wanted to refrain disclosing any details over the comms." You explained, only feeling slight guilt at the sight of his sunken shoulders when you avoided his kiss again, "I did miss you, though. So, I’m on earth for two weeks before I’m deployed again.”

His face brightened, both at your confession and at the knowledge that you’d be in his arms for the next two weeks.

You chuckled again at the sight of his wide grin, “That happy?”

Ben nodded, finally capturing your lips in a sweet kiss that you intended to be short, very aware of where you both currently were. But when Ben’s hand cupped the back of your head so he could deepen the kiss, you found yourself winding your arms around his neck. It was times like this that you were reminded that Ben wasn’t the only one who was head over heels.

“Missed you.” He murmured against your lips, hand moving to gently frame your face as he coaxed your mouth open with his tongue.

“Ben, I have finished the mission repor—Oh my!”

You pulled away too slowly for your liking, but too quickly for Ben's liking, still keeping your hands on Ben’s shoulders, knowing that Ben hated whenever you parted too quickly as you tried to catch your breath.

Even as your subordinate stood at the door, averting his gaze out of respect but also still not being able to contain his shock, you still felt dizzy from the earth-shattering kiss you had just shared. It had clearly been far too long since you’d been together because while you were embarrassed that your subordinate had witnessed such a vulnerable moment of intimacy, a part of you couldn’t help but want to continue kissing him anyway.

However, you were technically currently off-duty, so you were free to kiss your boyfriend as you pleased. Technically, of course.

Still, you blinked away the stars in your eyes and stepped away from Ben, letting him hold your hand, “Blonko, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“You’ve met before?” Ben asked, pulling you closer by the hand and winding an arm around your waist. He sent a look to his partner that was extremely smug, but you couldn’t quite decipher why.

“I was on the selection committee to choose him. Given my experience with you, we figured it would be best for Magister Tennyson and I to be the ones to recruit your new partner.”

“A little heads up would’ve been nice.” Ben grumbled into your shoulder, now resting his head in the crook of your neck.

“You would’ve complained. It was necessary now that I’m leading the new task force. Besides, Rook is a great cadet; patient enough to deal with your temperament and dependable enough to put his foot down when you get carried away.” You explained, leaning into Ben as he began playing with your hair and interlocking your fingers with his that were on your waist.

Ben mumbled something negligible under his breath and you turned back to Rook who finally managed to compose the look of shock that almost seemed tattooed into his features.

"So, Agent Blonko, I heard from Magister Tennyson that there has been unusual activity in Bellwood. I know I'm off duty, but would you mind giving me a quick brief?"

Rook immediately took you up on your offer, eager to be recognized by proctor of this quadrant and the two of you conversed about the weird sightings that had happened as of late.

Ben didn't pay much attention to your conversation with Rook, already preoccupied with the way your thumb was running gentle circles over his knuckles. At first, he pulled you closer to prove to Rook that you were, in fact, in a relationship but he also was ecstatic that you were in his arms finally after missing you so much.

He wanted to keep showing you the affection he’d been holding back for so long, but Ben knew that if he kissed your neck right here, you’d slip out of his grasp—so he resisted the urge.

You heard his lips part and immediately responded, "Do not bite me or you're going to sleep on the couch for the next two weeks."

When you turned your head, sure enough, his teeth were inches away from your unmarred skin and he pouted, affronted, "It's not my fault you're giving him all your attention after we've been apart for 2 months!"

You rolled your eyes, casting a cautious glance at Rook before you were whispering, "Behave and you may bite me all you want back home."

Ben was all too happy to shut up and let you finish your conversation.

You certainly regretted making that promise two weeks later when the other agents in the taskforce asked what exactly you had done over your holiday to warrant marks all along your neck and collar.

***

s3e6: Frogs of War

You were outnumbered, outgunned; you knew that. The safety of the civilians was top priority and while their Freedom was priceless, saving their humanity meant nothing if the Earth was blown to smithereens.

Ben fighting against the Incurseans for longer could have taken down a couple more ships, but you knew it wouldn't take long for more to appear. Where was Paradox when you needed him?

A surrender really was the only option for the food of the humans and living organisms still remaining on the planet. You knew that. But the price of a peaceful surrender came at the forceful exile of the love of your life.

He wanted to fight. He wanted to go down fighting.

But fighting would only bring more destruction.

And while the thought of him living as a prisoner for the rest of his life tore you to shreds, you couldn't put his life above the countless citizens who needed you to protect their best interests.

"(Y/N)," He whispered helplessly, trying to convince you to take his side. You bit your lip, turning your eyes downward and his shoulders sank. This couldn't be the end; you didn't want him to leave with the sting of your betrayal.

You stepped forward, wary of Princess Attea that glared at you, waiting for the moment you stepped a hair out of line to kill you in your place. Heart beating wildly against your ribs, you moved toward Ben, coiling an arm around his shoulders and framing his face with your other hand before bringing him down to a passionate kiss.

Ben inhaled deeply, holding onto your waist in an iron grip, tilting his head to kiss you deeper. This was it; you were saying goodbye, the taste of apologies and pain on his lips. He didn't want to stop kissing you; he never wanted to stop kissing you. But ending the kiss meant goodbye, and he didn't want to say goodbye.

Kevin looked away uncomfortably at the sight of your tongue pushing past his lips.

You pulled away finally, lips wet but eyes dry. Ben didn't try to chase your lips like he usually did and that hurt more than you had expected it to, "I love you."

He nodded, mouth locked shut.

He was shackled shut in the escape pod and you watched with bated breath as the door shut in on him, catching a final glance through the foggy glass.

The sad smile you had meant to be reassuring had wobbled at the sight of his cheeky wink, trying hard to hide the upturn of the corner of your mouth.

*

His name was Bullfrag.

Only he could come up with something so imbecilic that it ended up creative. You had forced yourself not to laugh at the absurdity of it when he had introduced himself to you; appearing along with the other rebels in order to break you out of your holding cell.

You wanted him to embrace you, but he was hiding his identity for a reason, so you had to bite your tongue and meet his gaze through those stupid shades.

He knew that you knew, it was apparent in the tenderness of his touch, by the way he gently nudged you behind him, but the gestures had flown over Kevin's head, which made you question your time spent as team babysitter. Clearly, he hadn't been babysat enough. Personally, you blamed Ben for claiming all of your attention.

Once Magister Tennyson was rescued, he revealed his identity—a revelation that came as no surprise to either you or Gwen.

You didn't try to hide your relief when Ben transformed back. It might not have been obvious to many others, but it was apparent to him, judging by the immediately relaxing of your spine and your boyfriend, who knew you too well, pulled you into a hug before you could pretend like you weren't interested. Ben could feel every tense muscle in your body begin to ease once he had his arms circling your waist.

Your fingers immediately found the short hairs at the nape of his neck, heart reaching for him the second he sighed and surrendered to your hold. You exhaled, hiding a kiss to his shoulder by pressing your forehead to the fabric of his shirt.

"Are they gonna make out again? Because it was uncomfortable as fuck the first time"

Ben rolled his eyes, lifting his head from the nook of your neck, "That kiss saved my life!"

"Yeah, yeah, lover boy." Kevin drawled.

"No, seriously!" Ben argued, pulling out something from his pocket, "My amazing girlfriend passed a skeleton key in my mouth! It's how I was able to get out."

You gave him an unimpressed frown, he really should have been babysat more often in your early days, "Did you really think I would kiss him like that in front of his grandfather?"

"I mean, if you thought you were never gonna see him again?!"

You simply tutted at him, holding your hand out for the skeleton key, which he happily returned, not without a kiss to your hand and fingers, "I love you, too."

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

[fandom-rants-here]

I'm kind of stupid and slow on things and have only in the past few months started getting into D&D, so bare with me on this. Also, correct me if I fuck anything up.

I'm starting with Mike because I'm looking into paladins right now and recently saw a post that the paladin description reminded me of.

In the post, op talked about how, to Mike, promises were a really big thing. Something people don't break. Ever.

He, as far as I remember and based off of the only two moments mentioned in the post, only makes two promises. Both to El and both of which he is visibly hesitant about making. He knows what promises mean to himself and how he explain them to Eleven. No matter how his feelings change, he does not break his promises.

Now, this ties into his character as a paladin as they are described like this, "Paladins are united by their oaths to stand against the forces of annihilation and corruption. Whether sworn before a god’s altar, in a sacred glade before nature spirits, or in a moment of desperation and grief with the dead as the only witnesses, a Paladin’s oath is a powerful bond. It is a source of power that turns a devout warrior into a blessed champion." (D&D and Beyond)

An oath and a promise are practically the same thing, especially given the context. I think that this is another reason Mike's character was chosen to be a paladin. Yes, he's a leader and yes, he defends people, but there also the oath aspect of his character. These three things delve into so much of Mike's actions throughout the show.

Will calling Mike "The Heart" isn't just because he's super fucking gay for him, but Mike is one of the main connectors and leaders of The Party. Lucas and Will met because Mike befriended them both. El met The Party because Mike hid her in the basement. Jonathan and Nancy got close because their brothers were close. Mike is the first of the main Party to have any connection with Steve (even if it isn't the strongest literally ever). He, especially in seasons 1 and 2 (before he has a major fucking identity crisis and all that good shit) is a major leader and strategist.

He physically defends the people around him at his own expense all the fucking time. Season 1 when he jumps off the cliff (that needs to be brought up omg). Season 2 when Dart dares to even look in Will's direction and Mike tries to kill the fucker immediately. Season 3 when he tries to fight Billy multiple times in hand to hand combat. Season 4 where he activley puts himself between Will and the bullets as much as he can. He fucking defends the people around him. (There's more, but I'm clearly not good at being brief.)

And the whole thing with one fucking promise when he was like 13 dictating his whole damn life for well over a year. He promised El to take her to the Snowball. A simple promise that he thought would help her, and it did. But then that led to them dating. And it was fine because they'd kiss and hang out at Hopper's cabin but at least he can hang out with everyone else outside of that. And then Hopper makes him lie to El, which leads to the break up. Sure, Mike's a bit bummed and a hell of a lot confused, but he's ranting to his friends and it's fine.

And amidst his whole "They're conspiring" bullshit, he says he loves El. Looking at his and everyone else's face, ain't nobody expect that, especially not Mike himself. But El hears say that, and she says she loves him too before kissing him goodbye. Most people would be fucking thrilled. Not Mike though. He looks confused and sad. but El is in Cali so he's fucking fine.

But it just got worse and now he won't let himself back out. Now he has to be her boyfriend, now he has to keep her happy, now he has to do all these things even though he doesn't anymore. By the end of season 4, El doesn't need him anymore. But he doesn't kmow that, so he lies to her (something he really does not like doing). And, again, he can't get out.

Mike dictates his whole damn life around promises. Paladin fucking behavior.

[thedissonantverses]

So not to hijack this post because I fully agree here but you keyed into something that’s been bothering me.

We have to reconcile the fact the fandom is racist and would have killed Davrin over Harding way more often. We all saw the romance stats.

Comes back to them feeling like they had to and it is worse writing but I hate that I get why they felt they had to.

We talk about death of the audience around here a lot and I do think BW hamstrings their own writing frequently worrying too much about their audience. But I’m also well aware of video game audiences being filled with the worst kinds of people and if we critique the writing(which please do OP is correct in saying this) we also have to hold the mirror up to ourselves.

Because it’d be great to be able to live in a world where a black man whose writing is this strong should be able to sacrifice himself heroically without his skin color being a major factor in the decision. Like it should not matter and it’s insane I have to say this in a game with fucking magic and dragons and where his race is actually “elf”.

But that’s not the here and now. It legitimately makes me angry that his arc is equal to Harding’s narratively and the writing is so good and people frequently skip over it to focus on Iyessa and Assan and not the man himself. Or I’ve seen people prioritize a white woman turned blighted monster and a baby animal because they’re part of a black man’s story and his journey is less important to them by virtue of his skin color. Despite the fact he’s the human here.

Would BW’s writing be improved if they stopped worrying so much about their audience? Yes. Is that audience racist to the point they have to worry? Also yes.

I actually think Davrin's death would have been more heartbreaking if Assan didn't die with him. You take over caring for a piece of Davrin's legacy and have to learn how to cope with the loss with Assan. You build Davrin a statue in Arlathan amongst the ruins of the statues of old, dead Elven gods and name him the Father of Griffons.

Davrin becomes a legend, remembered not for being a monster and killing, but for saving the world and for being a caretaker. His arc is complete.

Throwing Assan down that hole was just a cheap shot at the player's emotions. Davrin's arc deserved better.

[answermywearyquery]

the theerapanyakul kids: how close are you with each other?

loan’s kinnporsche 2nd anniversary: favourite familial relationship: the theerapanyakul kids (insp: ½+½)

[front-facing-pokemon]

[luckyemo]

ok i do really hate the danganronpa fanon category of "antagonists" (ie. komaeda, togami, + ouma as a group). in part because its just the wrong term for these characters and it can be confusing whos being referred to, like i saw a post saying like 'danganronpa is wild the antag will tell the protag they want them carnally and just move on no explanation' and i was like ???????????? when does junko say that to naegi?????? tsumugi said something like that????? kamukura????????????????

and my bigger issue with it, is its really hard to not see this as like a direct symptom of people ignoring women characters and over-valuing male characters. i know this accusation gets brought up a lot in fandom spaces, and then it just becomes a circular argument of misogynistic writing leads to fans favouring male characters which reinforces the demand for male focused stories etc etc or ppl being like 'im gay of course im going to have a preference for male/male stuff over things with women', but it really really does feel like women get completely pushed to the side to center two men. using the dr1 characters as an example, its not even like how kirigiri and fukawa are "pushed to the side" as romantic interests so togami and naegi can be together, its over crediting togamis character to be at an "antagonist" level when junko (and mukuro and even sakura if u want to generalize her role as 'the traitor') is Right There. it also isnt lost on me how out of the main three actual antagonists kamukura is included in fanworks/written out the least (though the 'ultimate evil abuser' kamukura vs 'totally innocent' hinata that happens frequently isnt great either...... but like at least hes there vs junko and tsumugi who are forgotten.)

but idk, i know languages changes and a group of ppl being like 'hey to our group this term means this even if is not the original definition' happens all the time. sometimes these shifts are useful, especially for the in-group doing the re-defining, but it can also be confusing and frustrating for the fandom at large when the words have other agreed upon meanings and when women are being ignored/erased

[deafeningfanlight23]

It's none of my business. This is correct.

But please refrain from using so much profanity when I literally didn't hurt you with any insults, or at least didn't intend to hurt you. Please don't insult my intelligence so many times based on ONE take I have. But of course, I can't force you to not insult me or not see me as a stupid fool you think I might am, and of course the intend and the impact of my actions are very different things which can be perceived very differently. I don't blame you. Yes, maybe it came off harsh what I said. I'm terribly sorry for that. I should have worded it differently or should have more emphasized that I really didn't want to offend anybody nor make it seem like I gotta put others down. I DIDN'T want to invalid someone's identity, anybody's identity, YOUR identity. I REALLY didn't want to.

And yes, maybe I have wild takes on things just like you when you were a kid. And of course, opinions can change. I don't think ALL neopronouns are stupid. I should have emphasized this point as well. But I just don't really support such neonpronouns like "Rat" or "Corpse" because of PERSONAL reasons, but I must accept it and not bother anyone for using them because I have NO right to choose which neonpronoun someone uses and which identity they find comfort in. It's MY PERSONAL opinion which doesn't have to bother anyone nor prevent someone from choosing an identity they want to, because, again, it's MY PERSONAL opinion, meaning MY OWN OPINION that I don't have to make anybody else's nor use as a weapon.

And it's true that nobody cares what I think. I didn't want to come off like I get to decide who identifies with something and which neonpronoun they use. Because, again, like you said, IT'S. NONE. OF. MY. BUSINESS.

I don't really know how to end this post now ^^' I'm just sorry.

Do you support neopronouns?

[gremlin-pattie]

Psych fics that altered my brain chemistry (most of these focus on Shawn and Gus’s friendship):

One Undead to Another

(vampire!Shawn, angst, the gang (Gus + Lassie + Jules) being there for Shawn)

same eyes as your father

(Henry learning how to accept and support trans!Shawn; he’s a little confused at first, but it’s very sweet)

Second Shooter

(trans!Gus and trans!Shawn surviving middle school together)

every superhero has an origin story

(a look into how knowing Shawn has changed Gus’s life)

these first few fragile months

(Shawn and Gus reconnect after Shawn returns to Santa Barbara, once Shawn finally decides to stop running)

[quinn-pop]

im not sure what happened to me but suddenly i love queen ripple and she’s my new dress up doll

anyway, let’s talk about her!!

taking the fact that ribbon’s name is ribbon entirely too far (and going off their designs) i think it’d be cool if ripple star fashions leaned into frills, bows, and long or exaggerated silhouettes

since the planet is literally just a heart shape i imagine their aesthetics lean into that sort of romantic and elegant vibe. a lot of ivory, pinks, and reds

(ripple dresses up a little different to see her friends tho)

also flower and butterfly motifs. because they’re fairies of course <3

think it’d be a little ironic if butterflies were a symbol of beauty and all that…

also she’s friends with carol and dedede. they can go to pta meetings or something /j

(taranza can come sometimes too because he’s cool and it makes sense to me)

btw ripple star probably exports a lot of silks (because silkworms in a land of butterflies feels right) and luxury items whereas dreamland is more agriculture focused + maybe some livestock and furs

…yeah i’m saying these places reflect their rulers basically. ripple star can be a little more traditional and whatnot. that’s what makes ripple so endeared to her dreamland friends—they’re silly! and yeah, tragic princess angle, it’s my favorite trope—i think that would really pull at her heart

i won’t get into that right now, but i gotta imagine getting possessed gives you a lot to think about lol

…gah i have so many thoughts on this

there isn’t much to go off of in canon, sure, but i think there’s a lot of interesting directions something like that could go ^^

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

god tywin lannister deserved worse

just remembering elias death and i wanna puke and the way tywin talks about elia and what happened is so damn gross

but rip tommen and myrcella we all know what’s about to happen in the next book :/

the cycle of violence just keeps spinning and damn you tywin for beginning it

(i got a bit crazy in the tags 💀)

[starsonablackboard]

okay, lemme "yes, and" this

i support and condone the message, joffy you're entirely correct about numbers not being the representation of worth of any given art piece

HOWEVER

you (any person reading this posting stuff online) have the right to be upset when something you made doesn't get as much of those numbers as you want it to. the fact that social media stats don't represent the worth of your work can coexist with your sadness about not getting as much recognition as you want. it doesn't automatically make you insecure, too dependant on opinions of others, etc. we're social creatures, we crave recognition and feedback and love and it is absolutely normal to feel discontent about not getting enough of it

what I'm trying to say is – don't let numbers on screen dictate what you do and what you create. if you made a thing and noone clicked reblog on it but you liked making the thing – make more of it. if you made a thing and it did a shitton of numbers but you don't want to make more – don't feel pressured to make more. if you made a thing that you liked to make and everyone else also liked the thing – horray, you found your people!!

but it's normal to be sad, frustrated, even heartbroken about those numbers, it doesn't make you stupid or shallow. it's normal, i promise. it's hard to just stop feeling things about social media stats because no matter how "not real those numbers are" they still feel real. and they are in a sense. there are real people behind at least part of the engagement, and we humans want other humans to see what we do and to like it. we need support. you can create in and into a void, but it becomes so so so much easier and happier when the void answers back

it kinda reminds me of body neutrality versus body positivity. forcing yourself to feel love is hard and often dishonest, but trying to feel neutral is much easier.

you can't just erase your want for recognition and I don't think you should. "im gonna do what i want and fuck what everyone thinks" is good as a starting point, but it can quickly lead to "why am i sad when i nobody likes what i do im so shallow" and that just adds more hurt. don't force yourself to be what you're not. don't force yourself to make art you don't want to or don't make art you wanna make. don't force yourself to stop feeling feelings.

you're allowed to feel hurt about "silly numbers on screen". this hurt is valid. don't let it stop you though.

DO ART FOR YOU! 🫵

FUCK EVERYONE ELSE!!!

Seriously.

I'm so sick and weary of logging on here and seeing creators I adore, and people I don't even know alike, apologising for not uploading or basically begging for a break like they're not a human with needs.

You're literally a human being, with thoughts, feelings and emotions. You're not an art factory, you're not some positivity pump, you're nothing other than a genuine human being living a genuine life experience.

SO GO LIVE IT!!!

YOU OWE THE INTERNET NOTHING!!!!

There should be, and realistically is, no shame in just fucking leaving if you want to. There's no contract you signed, there's no permit you bought or lease you hold. You're a person who decided to share their art with the world, FOR FREE, and garnered an audience of faceless people behind screens who enjoy that art because YOU wanted to make it and share it.

Let me be frank as best I can. You owe the internet nothing, you owe the world nothing and you owe yourself EVERYTHING. You are the only person who can live your life, you are the only person who can create the things you create and you are the only motherfucker that should matter to you when you create those things.

Art is supposed to be a wondrous joy that inspires the mind and indulges ideas that other creatures can't even comprehend. It's supposed to be a magical and fun fantasy land where anything is possible because you make it possible. It's not a 9-5 unless you make it one, so stop making your hobby a 9-5 unless you're getting paid for it, and even then put in limits because no job that you choose to do should end in you burnt out and wishing you'd never started in the first place.

Remember when we were all kids? When we all drew and wrote for fun simply because we could? We'd show people are shit and be like "Mama look!" and she'd clap her hands all proud. But she wasn't why you picked up that crayon, you just did it for you because you wanted to make some shit.

That's how it should be. That's how it is unless you let those fake ass numbers on a screen rule your life. It's all meaningless, the praise may be genuine but that doesn't mean you should spend your whole life running in circles and performing for an audience.

Be a human being! Be an artist! Fuck everyone else!

Just be yourself <3

[crossbackpoke-check]

yOu'Re gOiNg fOr a LiTeR? | "Habs react to Quebec Maple facts", 10.22.24

[stephantom]

I’d need to watch it again to confirm this, but I’m pretty sure that Thomas Becket is the only character who independently initiates touch with Henry?

There are plenty of people whom Henry touches, and it’s almost always possessive or threatening: the villager woman in the first flashback scene, the Saxon peasant girl (and possibly the old man? I think he prods at both of them with his riding crop), Gwendolen (holding her shoulders/neck), the French prostitute (kissing, leaning over, sitting on, slapping her butt), his sons (pushing and kicking them), the bishop (strangling), his barons (clutching onto one, tapping one’s head to indicate his vapidness), and Thomas too—(clasping his shoulders when he realizes Thomas is hurt, holding his hand to put on the chancellor ring).

Interestingly, I don’t think we ever see Henry touch or be touched by his mother or his wife. There’s the moment when he grabs/kicks their needlework, and later on he knocks all the plates off the table, possibly vaguely in their direction—so there are two physical interactions which are violent but still sort of… distant? And still the direction is just Henry to them (in terms of physicality, anyway—verbally, they do initiate conversations/fights with him).

Does anyone touch Henry? There are the monks who whip him in the end, but Henry has ordered them to do it. Likewise, there’s the servant/valet/page who begins to wipe him dry in the bath scene, but again, that’s someone performing a duty. Thomas Becket though, cuts in and takes over the drying, and the dialogue tells us explicitly that he’s not expected to do this, and doesn’t have to (“You’re a nobleman—why do you play at being my valet?”) but Becket seemingly wants to do it, and he knows Henry likes how he does it: enthusiastically, confidently, warmly, and freely (“No one does it like you, Thomas”). He towels Henry’s head, helps Henry put on his boots, and then casually uses Henry’s legs to push himself up to stand.

There’s the scene in Henry’s tent, after the French prostitute has left and the two of them are sitting on the bed: Becket sort of leans in and briefly clasps Henry’s arm where it’s lying in his lap, casually and warmly.

There’s also the getaway horse ride, where Becket is holding onto Henry, arms wrapped around him, and they’re both laughing and smiling. Henry’s shirt actually falls open a little and Becket’s hand winds up on his bare torso.

And then there are the thwarted attempts at touch, after the split: the two scenes where Henry accuses Becket of not loving him. Both times, Becket moves toward Henry and reaches out to touch him, and both times, Henry moves away and tells him to keep his distance.

They’re quick little things, but if they are actually the only instances of anyone touching Henry affectionately (or even of their own volition) that we see over the course of the movie, it does support an impression of Henry as fundamentally isolated—maybe there is truth to his claim that Becket is the only person who’s ever loved him.

What’s tragic is that 1) Henry doesn’t really know how to express love himself (see: Henry expressing nothing but violence and entitlement to everyone else around him, and even to Becket for the most part), and 2) Becket’s love, albeit huge in Henry’s world, is conflicted and unfulfilling—for both of them.

Becket might be the only person who’s dared to reach out to Henry and meet him on something close to a human level, and Henry loves him for it, but why does Becket do it? Part of it may just be an instinct of Becket’s to fulfill a need where he sees one, if he can, and if it benefits him. I think it’s so interesting that Henry seems obsessed with the question of whether Thomas really loves him, when it seems the truth might be that Thomas actually doesn’t know; maybe it’s an unanswerable, even nonsensical question to him. Like, what else could he do? I don’t know. “Insofar as I was capable of love, yes I did [love you].” But the fact that his last words, unwitnessed and private, are, “Poor Henry.” Fuck me up.

Ok, that last paragraph got away from me and now I can’t stop. Tempted to draw comparisons to “Beauty and the Beast” (this is a sad version where no magical transformation happens… unless you take a particular Catholic stance and consider that both of them maybe took real solace and meaning in Thomas being made a saint and that Henry maybe found real absolution through his penance).

I also want to compare all of this to “The Lion in Winter”, where it feels like, rather than a story about one lonely monster in a castle full of people he sees as objects, it’s a whole microcosm of traumatized and power-hungry people, reaching out for power and security and love and stabbing each other in the back, over and over. (Like, of course his mother and wife and kids have complex feelings for him—some of which involve love!) I think that depiction is better and less myopic, more true to life and probably a more accurate portrait of the historical figures involved (even when it comes to Henry and Becket—Becket was of that world too, after all), but I think I’ve rambled enough about all of this, so I’m going to end this post now. I’ll just say that there’s something nevertheless appealing about the boiled-down fairytale melodrama of “no one else ever loved me but you!”