#plastic paradox

[codexofforbiddenknowledge]

The irony is real! 🤦‍♂️ Everything I buy is wrapped in plastic… but I can’t get a plastic bag to carry it home? 🤔♻️

[lntrusiveknock]

im going to need to be blackout drunk 24/7 i dont know how to be more like a man or rational and actually feel pride in being that way god you made me a female for a reason and if im being honest i just want love but like i cant even love myself physically God is every narcissist drop dead irrefutably universally gorgeous or what drugs are we on bc i need them I Need It….

[spaceferren-comics]

Mr. Stretch Sketch!

[izvmimi]

"You follow her around like a dog, man," Sero says finally, and even if the surrounding ballroom chatter doesn't cease for a moment as the table set for ten starts to receive their first course salads, the parallel conversations among the group of old friends halt abruptly to a stop. Eijiro gives Sero a raise of the eyebrow, then turns to Katsuki, expecting to have to mitigate his hot temper.

The latter clearly has heard the jeer, but he's not the same as perhaps a decade ago, where any one of Sero's teasing comments could have set him off. Glancing back for a second in the direction where you left just moments ago to go to the bathroom, followed by most of the other women at the table, he then turns to look directly at Sero.

"Yeah, that's love, right?" he says, calmly.

Kirishima blinks for a moment, incredulous, then exchanges a look with Kaminari beside him.

Katsuki, as if he hasn't said something highly uncharacteristic of himself, reaches for a bread roll in the middle of the table and then a butter knife.

"You didn't see me follow her into the bathroom, did you?" he adds. Sero snorts, but leans back into his chair.

"I mean no, but-"

Katsuki smears butter on the roll, and sets it on your empty plate, then takes another piece of bread to and butters it the same before taking a bite.

"But what?" he asks. The edge to his voice is back, something that paradoxically puts Sero back at ease.

"It looks strange on you," Denki finally points out.

Katsuki chews for a moment, then swallows, his eyes making a quick scan across the room. At another table, Midoriya's partner is focused on adjusting the lapel of his suit, and at yet another table, Iida is trying to convince Mei to keep her gadgets off the table before the MC starts another toast.

The bride and groom continue to cruise around the venue, and Katsuki cannot stop thinking about how beautiful you would look in that exact dress.

Or something of your own.

"I just can't imagine what the fuck she did-" Sero starts again before Eijiro cuts him off.

"Just knock it off for a second," he says, gently but assertively. Katsuki doesn't pay any mind to him as he observes the table favors.

These flowers are beautiful, but they aren't your favorite. They're gorgeous, but made of plastic while you'd prefer hundreds of real ones.

You've told him small weddings feel more intimate. This wedding isn't in the right season for you, but it's your second choice. You don't yet know how many people will be in the bridal party but you've floated some ideas.

You don't yet have a ring on your finger.

The many thoughts dissipate when your hand rests gently on his shoulder as you slip back into the seat next to him.

"Oh, they didn't bring out the food yet," you say, and Katsuki points to the bread on your plate, reminding you to eat.

His friends are captive audiences as you smile and take a bite, and perhaps horrified as he smiles back warmly, genuinely.

Love does look strange on him, perhaps.

But they'll have to get used to it because it will not go away.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Supermarkets

Alien: What makes this place “Super”? Human: It has all the food you can want. Alien: Does it serve human? Human: …….. Human: It has almost all the food you can want. ---------------------------

Alien: And you call these things “Spices”? Human: Yup. Human: From all over the world and you put them on food to make them tastier. Alien: They don’t seem that noteworthy. Human: Don’t tell the british that; they fought several wars over them. Alien: And yet their food still tastes terrible. Alien: *Stops and turns to see human friend smiling Alien: What? Human: I am just so proud of you right now. --------------------------

Human: *Watches alien friend debating between two different brands of milk. Alien: *Becoming increasingly angry wondering where the rest of the 98% of the cow is. ------------------------

Human: What are you doing? Alien: *Unwrapping candy and measuring it Alien: I am ensuring it really is by the foot. ------------------------

Alien: I now understand why your species is so random. Human: Really? Human: Why? Alien: *Points to liquor aisle. -----------------------

Alien: Why do you put your young in tiny containment chairs? Human: Have you ever seen a child free in a supermarket? Human: They are like terrorists hopped on Colombian snow. Alien: None of what you said makes any sense to me. ----------------------

Alien: You have been debating between those rectangles for the last ten minutes. Alien: Please pick one as I wish to see the crustacean torture box once more. Human: Please do not call the fish tank a crustacean torture box. Alien: Do you not make them watch as their comrades are taken away one by one to be devoured. Human: Well, yes, but- Alien: Then it is a crustacean torture box. ---------------------

Human: I can’t decide. Human: *turns to alien friend and holds up two boxes. Human: Which one should I get? Alien: *Looks at both boxes, then points at right one. Human: Really? Human: Why pick that one? Alien: In a fight these tiny pointy eared mutants would be no match against a terran tiger. Human: *sighs Human: You can’t pick cereal based on which mascot would win in a fight. -------------------- Alien: Why does this fruit not have skin? Human: It was peeled so the customer doesn’t need to peel it. Alien: If it was meant to be easy then why is it in a plastic container? Human: Because without the skin it rots faster, so the plastic keeps it contained. Alien: Was the skin not already an effective container? Human: It was. Alien: So you skinned the fruit to make it easy to eat, but then put it in plastic to stop it from rotting. Human: I DIDN’T MAKE THE RULES; OKAY?!?! --------------------

Alien: I wish to use the mobile throne. Human: That’s a mobility scooter and you can’t use it. Alien: But my legs are tired of walking. Human: It’s meant for people with disabilities so you can’t just- *Loud snapping sound Human: *Turns to see alien has broken one of their legs and is now limping over to scooter. Human: Your lack of pain threshold is infuriating. Alien: Kiss my thorax ground pounder! *Proceeds to drive slowly away. --------------------

Alien: Why do you store your cheese as wheels? Human: Ease of access I guess. Human: How do you store your cheese? Alien: Paradoxical Cubes. Human: That doesn’t seem possible. Alien: For centuries it wasn’t. Alien: We lost a lot of good scientists in the endeavor.  Human: ……. ---------------

Human: *Wondering where alien friend is when alien friend comes running around the corner. Alien: We need to leave. Human: What did you do? Alien: They were offering samples of fried fish. Human: And? Alien: And I took two. Human: Dear god…. *angry supermarket workers come swarming in from every aisle

[parsleynsage]

BASHIR: You’re misunderstanding the point; yes, she’s a Barbie girl in a Barbie world, but her life is merely plastic. It isn’t real.

GARAK: Ah, but therein lies the paradox. If life is a creation limited only by imagination, then what is the difference between true or imagined happiness? Some, my dear doctor, would even call it “fantastic.”

QUARK: look you two either need to order something or get out

[seaweedstarshine]

Oh good, that’s absolutely the bigeneration interpretation I prefer, I just got so concerned by RTD talking about the Doctorverse… (I'm here hoping he was trolling. he might've been! fingers crossed).

Not that it makes it any less complicated with all of that, wow. I hadn't remembered that about the Cult of Skaro — oh no, not their work going unacknowledged when every Dalek gets Doctor DNA (or at least his regeneration energy) all over again as a possible Hybrid candidate?

And — the fact that River is the TARDIS' child and the Doctor's wife, but the TARDIS is the titular Doctor's Wife… okay I know it's just just the episode title, but how could I not draw attention to it in this context? Not like the Doctor and TARDIS won't still be linked by the baby they had together apparently… (I am absolutely thrilled to learn that Bessie got a consciousness, it's adorable, so thank you for the information)!

Bless this canon for being such a tangled mess. You're stronger than me for this lol, but no way this won't be spectacular. Massively zoom-in-able, too c:

Doctor Who family scheme

I'm still working on this, but it's an attempt at a family tree of the doctor. (Or rather a web of family trees surrounding them)

It is of course pretty difficult and chaotic per definition

[nieceeee]

"VIDEO PHONE"

P/S: Gojo was more reserved about his personal life than most people. From the outside he was a standup guy. Mostly quiet to those who didn't know him. He kept his head low, his grades high, and his mouth closed. But Gojo had a very nasty secret. Because deep in his mansion, with his doors bolted shut Gojo has an obsession. One that just happens to be the melanated girl that sits in front of him in class. He never spoke to you in public but the thoughts he had about you in private would make a porn star blush. But Gojo failed to realize one little thing. You knew exactly who your favorite streamer was, it was only a matter of time until you addressed him about it...

WC: 2.7K

A/N: SMUT MINORS DNI, nerd gojo x camgirl reader, use of pet names, p in v, black coded, semi-stalker gojo (he lurks her camgirl page basically) video sex, masturbation, they're in grad school. all dat yadayada

Satoru Gojo was a paradox. 

Two sides of the same coin. A mirror some may say. 

To the outside world he was Satoru Gojo. Head of the Gojo clan. A man of restraint and a decorum. The picture perfect reputation in every category - grades, looks, social status. Nothing seemed to phase him and nothing could break him. His quiet yet nerdy exterior of silence seemingly impenetrable. Professors adored him, women coveted him, men loathed him. But nothing. Nothing could break him. 

If they only knew.

The deep dark secret that Gojo kept well hidden. One that was exposed only to the privacy of the four walls of his bedroom in his mansion. A secret so dark and twisted, it kept him awake at night. Heart racing with anticipation, mind drowning in lust, body littered in sin. And it was all centered around you. 

You.

The girl that drove his obsessions. His cute classmate who sat a row in front of him. Always dressed in the cutest outfits with your bold hair and pink outfits. Shirts always a little too short, exposing the skin of your lower back when you sat up in your seat. Gojo never spoke to you but that didn't mean he didn't think of you.

Oh how he thought of you.

Gojo hid it well. The way you tortured him. Masked underneath an ever-so-calm facade. Gojo couldn’t help himself. The more he watched you, the more obsessed his thoughts became. He had this thing. Not a kink, but just a…thing when it came to a specific type of woman. A woman who appeared so innocent but her power and confidence radiated through her skin. A woman who was assertive, oozing dominance yet still subtly submissive. A woman like you. 

You would be his undoing, the very thing to unravel his perfectly sculpted figure. 

It started off so innocent. He walked into class and noticed you sitting there. Hair freshly braided and tossed to one side, a headphone in one ear and a school girl skirt that cut a centimeter too high. He watched you focus, always sharp, always confident. A boisterous laugh and infectious smile. The first time you spoke to him was when you were passing back a paper. Your freshly manicured nails slipped him his test. “Great job” you whispered as you held it out for him to take. You voice flowing through his eardrums smooth as molasses, sending a warm coating down him body. You were a breath of fresh air. A sweet song serenading him and he wanted to get lost in you. He was so wrapped up in your eyes that he completely missed what you had said. You tilt your head a bit in confusion. “Gojo?” you say. How he wished he could hear you say his name again. “Y-yeah.” he stammers. “Your paper?” you say motioning down to your hand. “Oh! I-I…sorry.” he quickly pulls the paper from you, catching it on your finger and slicing into your skin. “Shit.” you say softly pulling your hand back. “I..I’m sorry.” he repeats lifting his bag and digging through it for his first aid kit. He pops open the plastic container and hands you a bandaid. “S-sorry.” he drops his head. You open your mouth to speak but the bell rings and he darts from his seat before you get the chance. 

The next day was nerve wrecking, how could he face you. His steps were heavy as made his way into class that day. You were already seated. You looked up to acknowledge him but he averted your gaze, still embarrassed from the day before. “Hey you.” a voice says to him during a class breakout session. His eyes widen. “I’m really sorry about yesterday.” he blurts out. You giggle at him. “Gojo. It's fine. It was just a little paper cut. See.” you hold up your hand and press your lips against your finger. “All better. Kissed it better.” You smile as you turn back around. 

Heat flushed across Gojo’s face as his mind dove into that deep dark tunnel that he tries so hard to keep hidden. Your lips. A simple gesture but the way his mind warped reality into seeing them wrapped around the head of his dick make his face burn red. 

This was all his fault. 

She has no clue he groans to himself. 

That image burned into his mind as he went throughout the day, quickly racing home to his room. Bolting himself inside. He tossed his bookbag into the abyss and rushed to his laptop. “Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” he groans. He types as fast as his fingers would allow, loading up his private browser. 

Those lips.

He pulled up your page. hi$f@vebunniii_ Images loaded and it took everything in him not to release right there. Your image flooded his screen. Photos. Videos. All of you. His obsession. His muse. He clicked your most recent upload. Lips pursed and pressed against the bandaid from yesterday, Rihanna: Kiss It Better playing in the background, caption reading “Got a little scratch today, who wants to kiss it better for me?” Another groan left his lips.

That was his bandaid. 

Sick, twisted and lustful, his hand slips into his pants, gently stroking himself to your photo. His eyes flutter shut and he hears your voice again. “A-aah…” he whimpers as he strokes himself faster. Bright white lights blind his vision at the images of you before his release oozes from his tip. “Oh fuck y/n” he cries out. His head falls back, chest heaving. You had no clue what you had started. 

And that was just the beginning.

Before long. Gojo was scouring the web for your content. Photos. Videos. Live chats. Anything he could find to see you. He nights obsessing over you, fucking his hand into overstimulation at the thought of you. 

It was wrong. You were his peer. His classmate. You sat right in front of him. 

But he couldn’t stop. 

Behind his hidden page, he subbed to you. Your highest donor and most frequent viewer.

The woman who lit his fantasies was his sweet classmate who knew nothing of his perverse thoughts about her. 

So he thought…

But you. The smart girl that you are. You figured it out a long time ago. It started with the frequency of his appearance in your streams. The cryptic 6ix_blue!3y3s user who would watch your stream from beginning to end. Always quiet in chats but never one to shy away from donations. 

He was obvious. 

The cute white haired boy in your class who threw subtle glances at you throughout the lectures. Whose eyes lingered longer than they should at your low cut tops and too high skirt. Who could never fully face your right after a stream, head always held down. And when you did get his attention. Oh, the way he turned red at your interactions. It didn't take long for you to put two and two together. Anyone else may not have caught on so easily.

But you? You knew.

You knew how to read people. You’d watched him intensely. You weren't blind. You weren't naive. The way he looked at you was familiar. A hunger he tried to bury deep within himself but one gentle touch and his chest began to rise and fall at a rapid pace. He wasn’t alone in his feelings. The way he looked at you sent something electric through your veins, a type of heat that you couldn’t ignore. The same heat you’d been chasing every time he joined your stream late at night. The one where Gojo Satoru, would send donations but never message in the chat—always lurking, always watching.

You knew who exactly who he was. You knew it was him. He never gave it away on stream, but the way he would try to hide his identity with those random, cryptic responses when you did get him to speak made it clear. That was the reason for the bandaid photo. A little experiment of yours to see if he would crumble. And that he did. Eyes darting away from you every chance he could, unable to speak, nervous glances in your direction. Yeah, you knew. The notorious Gojo Satoru, with his perfect grades, his “innocent” charm, and the eyes that followed you like a shadow.

And yet, here he was, still pretending to be just another sweet face in the classroom. Still pretending that you didn’t know what his secret was. That you didn’t know what kind of fantasies he had when he was alone, tucked away in the darkness of his mansion.

But it was about time you brought the dark to the light

That night you set up the stream, an energy bubbled beneath your skin. You checked yourself over again. Braids pulled into pigtails, light blue cotton crop top just barely covering your chest, skimpy white silk bottoms and knee high socks. You pulled your knee to your chest and the screen went live. He was one of the first to appear. You held in the smile playing at your lips. 

It was time to confront him, to rid yourself of the tension that had been building for weeks between your two. You wanted to see how far you could push him. 

You converse in the chat here and there. Speaking to everyone. He popped in every now and again. Then you put your plan in motion. 

“Oh guys I didn't get to tell you about my cute classmate today.” you say setting the bait. On the other side of the world on another screen, Gojo was walking back into his room, snacks in hand, your stream pulled up. He almost dropped everything when the words cute classmate came out your mouth. He rushed back over to his screen nearly tripping in the process. 

“...He’s so fucking cute. I just want to eat him up. Ah, gojo.. The things you make me feel.” you voice says through the laptop and his heart feels like it will burst from his chest. “Me?” he says aloud to no one. You go on raving about him. 

“Oh and I can only imagine how big it is. You know they say the quiet nerdy boys are usually the freakiest” you say directly into the camera. He couldn't believe it. There was no way you were talking about him. It wasn't possible. But here you were going on and on. You knew he was there on the other side, he had stopped messaging in the chat. Maybe too stunned to speak. You smirk to yourself. “Tonight, I’m dedicating this stream to my sexy ass classmate Gojo Satoru.” you say. “Oh fuck…” he whimpers. You slide back from your seat and reposition your camera. “Let’s see how pretty and wet Gojo makes her tonight, hmm?” you say as you undress. Gojo’s mouth drops open.

You take your time undressing yourself before walking over and sitting on your bed, breast poked out and legs spread, clad in only your thin lace panties. You hand slips down your body and onto your clit, circling slowly. Gojo’s eyes were glued to his laptop as the circular motion mesmerized him. You pull a small vibrator out from behind you and switch it on. The buzzing sound rings in his ears.  The vibrations provided automatic stimulation as it rustled against your panties. A small cry of pleasure slipped from your lips as your head tilted back. “Shit.” he gasped, his hands quickly making work of removing his pants. He lubes himself up and starts to stroke his dick, his eyes still glued to where the vibrator met your panties. 

You used the tip of the vibrator to slide the fabric to the side, exposing yourself to the cool air. “Fuck Gojo.” you groan aloud into the camera. He whimpers, goosebumps trailing his skin. His eyes stayed laser focused on you. “Doesn’t she look pretty?” you whine. He nods into nothingness in his room between strokes. “So pretty” he responds knowing you can’t hear him. 

You quickly sit up and remove the panties. “Now let’s have some real fun.” You increase the speed on the vibrator before spitting on it to get it wet. Gojo moans aloud as he watches you take the vibrating silicone and slip it inside your tight walls, already clenching around it. The squelching from your juices filling the air and ringing in his ears as you pump it in and out of your walls. Gojo matches your speed, tugging at himself as his breath gets choppier. Both rooms echoing with your arousals as you purr his name and he moans yours. Each of you living out your own fantasy. 

You feel your climax nearing so you increase the speed, adding pressure to your clit with your other hand. “Fuck Toru, I’m gong to cum.” you whine, back arching from the bed. “Please. Please.” he whines aloud, hoping none of his servants were walking his quarters. Your orgasm crashed into you like a wave as you ride it out. 

“Shit…m’fuck.” Gojo whines as he shoots his release out, splashing all over his lap, cum hitting his screen.

You take a few moments to collect yourself before gently cleaning up. “Well, I hope you all had as much fun as I did.” you say with a smile. Your chat floods with thank yous and responses until one by one they leave, leaving just you and Gojo. He, on the other side, trying to clean up the mess he made. “And Gojo, I can’t wait to see you tomorrow in class.” you say before signing off. His eyes widen at your message but the stream has ended before he can chat back.

“Oh shit.” he lets out. 

You knew. 

The next day, you sat in your chair patiently waiting for him to enter the classroom. As soon as he stepped through the door, his eyes were on you. That familiar red hue brushes across his face as he approaches you. “Good morning Toru.” you say sweetly. He tries to suppress it but a little groan slips from his chest. You press your lips together to keep from smiling. Throughout class he tries his best to focus on anything but you. But each time he looked at you, flashes from the night before play in his mind and he feels his dick hardening underneath his desk. 

When the bell rings you pack up and head out of class. He opens his mouth to speak but you’re up before he gets a chance. After a quick beat, he stuffs everything in his bag and runs after you. “W-wait..” he calls down the hall. Passerby eyes raise at his actions. The notorious Satoru Gojo, coming undone. 

He catches up with you quickly, chest rising and falling. “Yes, Gojo?” you say innocently. “I-...uh, I, fuck..”  He expresses. You step closer pressing your chest into his, looking up into his eyes, “Yes. Toru.” you say softly. “You…uh.. I’m..” he tries to find the words to say it. How can he? The kogs in his mind spin as he tries to find a respectful way to say what you already knew. You motion for him to come closer. He leans down as you cup a hand around his ear and whisper, “Did you enjoy your stream Toru?” He gasps, hands instinctively coming up and gripping your waist. 

His jaw clenches as he tries to collect himself. You meet his gaze again. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” he says breathlessly. Your heart raced as you respond, knowing full well what you were doing to him. "You think I don’t know?" You leaned closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, letting your eyes pierce into his blue ones. "I’ve been watching you just as closely as you’ve been watching me." you say softly. 

His eyes widen at your confession. “The question is… are you going to keep watching or are you ready to play?” you challenge. His adam’s apple throbs as he swallows, processing your words slowly. 

“I..” he takes his time. You wait patiently. Arms wrapped around him still. He takes a deep breath before pulling your body flush to him.

“Let’s play.”

[quasi-normalcy]

The problem that I'm having with a lot of science fiction is that, like...I'm not sure that we, as a culture, know how to move on from the "modernist" understanding of the future; and so we just pretend that the plastic-and-steel, unlimited-growth, better-higher-faster vision of the future that you see in 20th century sci-fi is still viable; or we imagine complete civilizational collapse (or we just set in another universe, or far enough in the future that everyone's out in space and it doesn't matter); but unless you're like...Kim Stanley Robinson, there doesn't seem to be much attempt to thread the needle of, like, "how do we live in the future that we're *actually* building?"

I think that this is a very important question, and also kind of a paradox. Because SF is famously the genre that's supposed to draw on actual scientific findings; but it's also a genre that was born in the modern era and that has modernity bred in its bones.

[assaultmystic-archive]

i guess what im interested in is moving past transfeminine positivity when talking amongst ourselves. there will always be a place, always always, for celebration, affirmation. for the new girls critically, and for all of us, endlessly important. but it cant be to the exclusion of the negativity.

i dont want to try and construct a femininity safe from misogyny, a transfemininity safe from transmisogyny - because gender is violence. transfemininity exists as, has its beauty constituted of, a rejection of gender as oppression - and it wouldnt be possible to talk about anything we can recognise as transfemininity if it werent for that violence. and so i dont want to silo out from transfemininity when we talk about it that we are not all just made this way out of our own choice, but can be beaten, raped, coerced emotionally, sexually, financially….

and that this coercion and this choice, can, paradoxically live together. that neither is more true, that memory is plastic and remembering is strategic and our histories are things we wield to survive. sometimes transmisogynisation will be a story about choice, about you, about will over an opposed reality, and sometimes it will be a story about the emotional labour your exes made you do. or about childhood abuse. or about institutionalisation. or anything else besides and all of these things together. and neither of these things needs ro be more true, because i love you, and i want you to be able to be as many ways as you possibly can.

[spurbleu]

mouth, reprieves ♛︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. Ken Sato is a bitter loser. And you are patient- if not a little giving.

warnings: mdni, blowjob

word count: 2k

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

A pity bloated between your lungs.

The loss wasn’t significant, only by a point. But you supposed that’s what made it sting - the stain of ‘so close’ and ‘almost’ near wicked in the grooves of the bat hold, or the home plate- plastic patched in rifts of dust and dirt (hard to swallow, all of it). Its grief was visible- slumped shoulders and buckling knees stuck to the grime on their uniforms, the announcer’s voice coming in- static and lame.

“And that is a wrap for the Giants 3rd game of the season. First loss this year- what does it mean for the future?”

It rattled the stadium- the echoing disappointment. It folded in the gaps of the chairs, salting the air in a bitter, frustrated sigh. You were unsure if you wanted to join the chorus or curse it.

The memories seeped through- distinct. The pull of his lips when they met yours. The twitch of his knuckles when he held his liquor. His light heels after his last physical therapy session (when magnified- wings. Stamped on the bone of his ankle- fluttering- impatient). The thrum of his snore, thick with anticipation- and expectations (never met).

Kenji’s first game of the season- a loss.

You didn’t take the frigidity personally. You knew the clouds in his iris, the roll of thunder from the back of his throat and off his tongue, was just an indication he cared. The breakage of his indifference, esteem cracking through its steel walls. He had learned to remove blame from his teammates- but as a result the weight on the breadth of his own shoulders grew immense.

It simmered- his insecurities. Boiling beneath the thin patches of skin where he slid on his knees- tender and spiteful. Drives home were borderline silent, aside from the heavy breath against his philtrum and the shifting of his shirt as you rubbed the tense muscles connecting his shoulders. Sometimes, it felt like talking to a wall- resistant to reassurance- as if the letters in ‘you did just fine’ and ‘I’m proud of you’  were venomous (fearful of the gentleness in cyanide).

But it was how he was. Equally as accepting of praise as he was averse to it. A paradox at home base.

You stood on the balls of your feet, swallowing dry air in timid gulps, watching the entrance to the locker room doors. Other wives and girlfriends- some children- and family members stood there in tense guilt- hands itching to embrace the men in a hug that promise ‘next time’.

Eventually, the belly of the stadium spit the players out, slick in its drooly chagrin.

There was a drop to the regular sharpness of his cheeks, ending at the base of his lips- dry and cracked. His hair stuck to his forehead- wet with outlines from the notches of his helmet- which was tucked under his arm (it looked more like a burden than a prize- its frequent glimmer dimmed by dust). The valley under his eyes a depressing shade of plum- his eyes dimmer yet festering.

But it was his brows that exposed the loss of immunity. Pleats in the center of his face, furrowing so low, that if you weren’t close enough, they would have looked joint with the shadow they caused.

When he found you amongst the hushed comfort, the rigidity in his shoulders collapsed into a softer word, striding towards you like a kid who broke a window (baseball myth, but maybe you’ll let him live in it for now).

“H-“

He curled into in gap of your shoulder and your neck, arms lazily embracing the small of your back and pulling you into his chest. You felt the hairs of his brows sink deeper into your shoulder, his breath fanning on your collar bone.

Your hand came to fill its gaps with the tangle of his hair, palming his temples. This embrace was familiar- not because he lost often, but because you found it somewhere in every day. The mornings during breakfast, pillow talk under plains of insomnia, the after-sex glow. Touch tugged a heart string in you both, and although there was no proof, you swear you could feel his heart slow when it kissed yours.

(He made you a romantic, and even after years the shoe still feels too big)

You pull away, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. He didn’t kiss you back, but you didn’t mind. It was more of a reminder anyway- a way for you to say I’m here.

“Let’s go home.”

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

Looking from a doorway in the movies always appears more tranquil than it actually is.

There is nothing peaceful about watching your partner blister under their own defeat. The bounce of his knee, a desperate attempt to relax the tension that mends his muscles to the bone. You, left in your own uncertainty, bit the bumpy flesh behind your bottom lip, legs flinching with the impulse to do.  

Comfort, rally, motivate. Your mind searched for a better plan of action in the rise and fall of his shoulders, as he scrutinized the recordings of the game in dim light under a magnifying glass (ants in summer heat).

The body talks. Yours was saying thousands of things at once- none resonating. Dry hands, calloused by hourglass sand and the gruff reality of your own exhaustion, would do nothing but stir him from his own brood then bring him deeper into it. Your mouth would say filtered words with little connotation, leaving you both in a spell that felt purposefully blundering.

Then a spark, somewhere lower than your hips. A blushing growth- spoke in deep tones of arousal and charity.

Alone, your hands and mouth proved useless.

But together…

You pushed yourself off the wide wall, shuffling over in your pajama set loud enough that he could hear you coming. He didn’t move, eyes still trained in silent remorse as he watched his tapes. Your heart dragged on the surface of your ribs- pity.

You came to stand in front of the television, reaching behind you and grabbing the remote before forcing his chin up with your other hand. His jaw rested on your curled fingers, vulnerable. His eyes looked burned at both ends, the wick of his iris without fire, or rebuttal.

You took a seat on his lap, wrapping your arms on his slumped shoulders. A beat, before he caved into you, pulling you into the crook of his hips. You molded into him, taking a moment to turn the television off, dowsing you both in a dark, somnolent ease.

You familiarized yourself with every version of this pose. In his lap, drowse eating at both of your guts, limbs pulling each other closer still. It wasn’t a planned routine- just comfortable. You’d heard the line ‘we were made for each other’ about a dozen times in different movies and books- and although you found it cliché- there was a truth to it.

Good love can be cliché. Done over and over because it feels right. Kenji- his arms and his heart- feel right to you and they always have.

(Again, he makes you a romantic).

“You were amazing today, baby.” You said into his ear. He huffed- but you took his grip on your thighs as encouragement.

You kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and with each purse of your lips you tried to make a point. “You are the best baseball player in the league,” you continued down to his neck, hands coming to rest on his collar bone, “one game doesn’t change that…”

You felt his throat rumble, and it took you a few kisses to realize he had spoken.

“Keep…going.”

Fuck.

It was embarrassing to be aroused when you’re supposed to be comforting someone, but God. The timbres of his voice, their effortless depth and coon, pleading you of all people to do more was enough to make you start riding his thigh.

You reminded yourself that tonight was about his pleasure, and your own would have to be on the back burner.

You slipped your hands under his shirt, cool flesh meeting his hot abdominal, twitching under your nails. You traced the shadows of his muscle, enjoying the mumble that shook his adams apple as you kissed under his jaw.

“You’re talented and everyone knows it,” down the dip between his collarbones, “you’ve carried the team and brought them together…” your hands made your way to his chest, where you could feel his heart beating under the grooves of your palm. Good. You tapped his shoulder from underneath his shirt, and he understood, immediately shedding the shirt and throwing it carelessly into the dark.

You continued down his stomach, sending occasionally glances up. His face was veiled in something rounder now- the earlier layers of woe and its harsh lines drawn by the furrow of his brow replaced by something a little more sanguine. It peaked from behind the whites of his eyes and glowed under the plush of his cheeks in a blooming pink.

You dragged your lips further down, navigating the narrow of his waist, “You’ve got a handsome face to match your wit,” you kissed the band of his sweats, before you curled the digits of your fingers over, peeling it back to reveal the near painful tent spring from the cotton of his boxers, “and…fuck your big…”

You swallowed, massaging the cusp of his cock, feeling as he curved his hips into your palm, a soft moan breaching the clench of his teeth. You looked up at him- beautiful in the light of his own rousing. His throat bobbled; words caught in his tonsils.

You didn’t need him to speak- you knew what they were.

You brought back to his boxers, cock slapping the underside of his stomach. He sucked a breath through his teeth above you- desperation in the discoloration of his bottom lip- bruised. The shroom cap was weeping your name in a pearl of pre-cum, which you massaged with your thumb. You slowly pumped his length in your hands, hand moving in slow, tight swells at the base of it.

You knew it well- you had felt it a dozen times over. The vein that crawled from its root on the right side- thick- spelling your name in morse. The deepened pink as it ran up to his tip, the glans warm in hot colors of desire. The velvet that patched its stiff underside was particularly memorized- molded in the walls of your cunt.

But there would always be that stutter in your breath- your body talking in haphazard beats- a need he fills to the brim. It wasn’t shock, it wasn’t admiration, but you settle for somewhere in between.

“You’re so strong- from your injury, to protecting the city,” if felt somewhat strange- authentic compliments paired with the pumping of his cock, the tip of his jaw and buck of his hips begged your fruition in low moans, “there is no other man like Kenji Sato…”

A gruff groan from the pit of his lungs made your own sex thrum with a familiar density, and you let a soft moan escape your own lips as you slipped them down his cock.

Hypoxia bloomed in the back of your throat- bright purple capturing oxygen. You let your maw clench and reel at the pressure- familiar but desperate for accommodation. Your breath came out in a single syllable against the base of him, nostrils flaring.

He moaned above you, the tremble of his ecstasy rolling down his shoulders and to the bridge of his cock, rattling your tonsils with an unflattering gag. His hands came to hold your hair, grip massaging the back of your scalp with a needy grip.

“Hah…shit…you’re too good to me…”

You bobbed your head in protest, tongue flattening to cup his front. Your fingers worked what your mouth couldn’t, fondling the sensitive bonds of his groin- slick in saliva. He let out a gruff growl, holding your head with a fatal grip- pushing you down to swallow more of him.

You held his thighs for balance you kneeled between them- tears pricking your eyes. You swear you feel him at the ends of your tongue as he rolled his hips into your mouth- hollowed cheeks to take the grit of him- avoiding grazing teeth.

You glanced up at him- met with the bend of his jaw- mouth open as he moaned your name like a mantra. It was so melodic- and for something so lewd it was sweet. Honied in the places that we were taught filthy- buried beneath the stickiness of arousal and sex was something warmer.

You sped up your pace- promising a song from him as you pushed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, tightening the plunge of your throat.

“Ohshit- fucking hell you feel so good baby…so good to me,” His ruts were becoming sloppy, breaking under the weight of his own overstimulation, “I’m gonna cum down that perfect mouth of yours…”

You loved him like this. Goo in your hands, the sharper edges of his jaw and his tongue softened when laid next to you. Saying your name like he’d forget it- hoping it brands into his flesh, maybe his bones. It brought your own weeping hole thrilling pleasure- the puff of your heart rapid.

Lost in rapture- the smaller moments and the forgotten words- somewhere in the craters of your bodies. You’d accepted it- becoming idyllic- eased into a life where love could mean so many things at once and all be right.

As in- the kiss goodnight is just as important as the blowjob after a loss.

You were made ugly- snot drippling down your lips in blunt weeps, tears wetting your lashes in asphyxiation. You were positive the round of your cheeks was rosed- glossed by the precum and spit that wetted your lips as you slipped up and down, tandem rhythm with his hips.

You could feel strands of your hair being ripped from the sensitivity of your scalp- his hands gripping hard enough it felt as though he’s trying to hold your skull. His moans were restless now, a wet and sickening chorus to the hymn of your nose hitting his stomach.

“Shit-shitshitshit oh fuck I’m cu-cummm uhmm…”

It painted the cave of your throat, the cap of your tongue, the roof of your mouth- ruthless. Filled your throat in hues of stress, lost to the compassion of your molars and the crest of your mouth. You could feel the excess ropes peel back the corners of your lips as it bubbled to meet his pelvis, which was still fucking your mouth in a noisy, orgasmic frenzy.

It slid from your fissure with a quiet pop, and you took his wrists, pulling them limply from your head as you stood, sitting back on his lap, softening cock resting behind your ass. You kissed his throat, feeling the shuddering breaths that fogged the air around you, catching his expression- knotted brows and tight nose- compressed in a vague expression of lust- and thanks.

You ran your fingers through his hair- kissing up to his ear, “I meant everything I said, earlier, y'know.”

You felt him nod shakily. “I know…sometimes I just like to hear you say it.”

You snorted- there he was. “Cocky bastard.”

He chucked, pulling you into his chest, smile soft against the indent of your shoulder. “Well, you had it down your throat.”

You pulled back, giving him his first real kiss of the night. Admittedly, it was to shut him up, but when he pulled you closer still, lips molding to yours in the way they always do, you both knew it was because you wanted to.

You pulled away, eyes opening to his face- lips pursed and eyes closed (adorably stupid, stupidly adorable- somewhere between the two) you laughed, pressing a kiss between his brows.

“Okay Mr. Romance let’s get you to bed.”

You began to slide off his waist before he pulled you back down, eyes open and revealing something much more earnest. The harsher edges of his face seemed to smooth over (rock eroded, calmed), and he leaned his head to your chin.

“Thank you.”

You sighed into his hair- deep down you wanted to say he didn’t need to thank you. But he had enough about him tonight.

“You’re welcome- my throat is going to be sore because of you.”

His head came up to meet yours, and you knew he was back when you saw his classic smirk pull at the corners of his lips. “Should I loosen it up again?”

You rolled your eyes, sliding off his waist before grabbing his hand and pulling him up. You wrapped your arms up to base of his shoulder blades and he returned the embrace, body molding to the shape of your front.

The sensitive part of you wanted to stay like this forever- pushing into him- held- safe. If you closed your eyes, you could, and somewhere in your forever you heard,

“I love you.”

[bloodmoonmuses]

mediocre party crashers: the x-mas special! | mark lee

read part one here! genre: mark lee x reader, fluff

summary: Your message in a bottle has found his way back to you. You hope the tide wasn’t too bad. or You and Mark are reunited at a corporate holiday party.

Crashing parties has now become a hobby of yours. A real, habitual thing with methods and strategies and memories… From galas, to masquerade balls, frat parties and the occasional wedding, it’s safe to say you’re a pro. 

Your identity is something you’ve made malleable and mutable. Everchanging and morphing. Slowly shifting like a mood ring. You’re everyone and no one at the same time. You’re a paradox. And even in all the grandiose you’ve experienced, your absolute favorite type of party to crash was corporate holiday parties. They’re no-man’s land, really. The gaudy festiveness of them coupled with hollow smiles. The hum of a near broken radiator and a shitty karaoke machine. Lukewarm instant hot cocoa made with water instead of milk. 

The atmosphere is electric in the weirdest way- so palpable to be shrouded in such greyish mundanity. 

Tonight is no more different than many of your other outings. You and your partner in crime, Ningning, lock elbows as you wander around an office building. You had fought for an hour about what’s appropriate to wear to an office party (which resulted in you having to unpack Ningning’s understanding of an office siren. “-I wanna look hot!” she had said. To which you replied, “Time and place. We’re not amateurs anymore.”)

And so here you are, clad in an itchy sweater and pencil skirt, scouting out the scenery of some podunk town’s marketing firm. The manager has seemingly insisted on not updating any of the technology, filing cabinets lining the walls and chunky monitors on the cubicle desks. Tinsel has been strewn gingerly on a real fir tree, and plastic tablecloths cover foldable tables. Wrapping paper has been taped along the back of the cubicle walls to give the office a festive feeling. 

“Ugh,” says Ningning, as the two of you load up paper plates with homemade desserts. (Banana pudding for you. Caramel cake for Ningning.) “Fluorescent lighting.” Then, as if on cue, the bulb above her begins to flicker. Then she says, “Let’s mingle.”

You sidle up to a sharply dressed man, who you assume is the owner of the firm based on the wayward glances of the other attendees. He introduces himself as Doyoung and eyes you curiously. “Do I know you?”

“A friend of a friend… of a friend,” you say. “Here for moral support. How were the quarter four stats?” A classic diversion.

“Good enough for Christmas bonuses for the first time in three years. Finally bounced back from Covid.” Greyish mundanity, but the most beautiful variation of it. Will persevering through catastrophe. The human tendency to endure and endure together.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” you say. And you mean it.

“Cheers to the new year?” says Doyoung, extending a paper cup with snowflakes on it in your direction.

“Cheers indeed.” 

The night progresses with twinkling optimism. You like intertwining yourself in people’s life stories. Hearing about their kids, the new boutique that’s opening on the square, or how some of the upper management can be real assholes. Small talk and human connection. Contentedness wafting off warm bodies. 

“We were nearly snowed out,” says an older gentleman, who you’d think were cute if not for the hideous mustache adorning his face. He had just regaled you with the details of planning this highbrow shindig. “And who are you again?”

However, you’re too distracted to answer him, having now noticed a suspiciously young-looking guy assembling a cup of cocoa. As you walk up to the table, he shifts to the left, giving you access to the other side of it. Through your periphery, he seems familiar, but you can’t seem to place him.

“This might sound weird-”

“Do I know you? -” You begin speaking at the same time. When the two of you make eye contact, both of you are stricken with recognition. Mark Lee.

“No way. Preppie!” he exclaims, putting his cup down and scooping you into an embrace.

“Preppie? That’s what you remember me as?”

He pulls back from the hug and scans your features, almost as if to confirm his eyes aren’t deceiving him. “From that yacht party, like, a year ago. You never texted me back!”

“I didn’t text you back? You never texted me!” you counter.

“Here, I’ll show you.” Mark takes out his phone, scrolls for a bit, then shows you an unanswered text message from a year ago. 

July 25, 2023

Mark: Sooo…. How about that rodeo party? [unopened]

Upon closer inspection, however, you see your number is incorrect.

“It’s an 8 at the end, not a 9.” you respond, taking his phone and updating your contact without question.

“I thought you got creeped out or something,” Mark says, sighing in relief as enter the number. When you’re done, he asks, “How have you been? What are you doing here?”

“Fine. Good. Ning and I have basically hit up all the companies in the city this year, so we figured we’d try the ‘burbs. Gotta love a company Christmas Party.” He nods in agreement. “You look dapper,” you add. 

He’s wearing a slate gray suit and a holly-printed tie.

“A little overdressed. It’s my wedding suit,” says Mark. “You look…”

“Like a middle-aged salary worker?”

“I was gonna say cozy.”

“Right.”

Suddenly, Ningning walks up from behind, poking your ribs with her fingers. “ Hey, nerd, they’re gonna play Pin the Nose on the Reindeer! First place gets a $20 Target gift card!” Then, when she notices Mark, she says, “Oh! Hey, Bottle Boy.”

You glare at her. How does she even remember him?

Mark’s face twists in confusion as he asks, “What does that mean?”

“Nothing!” you shout. Mark shrugs and shuffles off to join the festivities. Before she can walk away, you yank Ningning by the elbow and whisper into her ear. “Ningning, you did read my journal!?”

“Perhaps I’ve been a part of one of his lifetimes- a message in a bottle finally surfacing on a beach’s shore. I believed in the existence of fate, but only for a night..” she says, mocking you as she recites lines from your diary like a monologue.

“You’re the worst,” you sigh, facepalming. You remind yourself to change the hiding spot for your journal…

“What happened with that whole situation, anyway? Hasn’t it been over a year?” asks Ningning.

“Gave him the wrong number, apparently.”

She scoffs, taking your elbow in hers once more. “You idiot.”

“I know.”

When you walk into the conference room where the game is being held, you notice Mark lingering in the doorway at the back of it. You make your way to him slowly, trying not to look too excited when you catch his eye and he promptly smiles.

“I’m dyingggg to see them play this game,” says Mark, watching as Doyoung gets a blindfold tied over his eyes.

Then, again, Ningning appears out of nowhere. “Don’t look up!” she exclaims to the both of you.

And, of course, the two of you do. Placed squarely above the door frame is a mistletoe, now glaringly obvious as you look at it with your neck craned. Mark stifles a cough and you feel the back of your neck heat up.

Mark looks at you nervously. “Uh, are you a mistletoe observer?”

“‘Mistletoe Observer’? Why are you asking like it’s a religious practice?” you ask.

Mark shrugs and says, “I dunno, man! Just trying to be respectful!”

“Respectful? It’s an arbitrary tradition. Are you a mistletoe observer?” you retort, half-joking. But Mark looks at you with such intensity, if only for half a second, that it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“I mean," he starts, already regretting his words and looking at his feet, “I’m not not a mistletoe observer…”

“You can’t keep saying ‘mistletoe observer’ and acting like it’s a thing.”

Mark pouts. “So we’re not about to kiss right now?”

You grab Mark’s stupid tie and pull him closer, giggling as the smirk is wiped off his face. 

Then you kiss him, melting into it like snow in the morning sun. Mark’s hands come up to grasp your face, deepening the fervor of the display of affection. You’re awestruck. Your message in a bottle has found his way back to you. 

You hope the tide wasn’t too bad.

When the kiss comes to an end and you open your eyes, you see and hear the rest of the partygoers cheering you on. Ningning has snapped a photo with her digital camera. Doyoung pipes up, still blindfolded and ready for the game.  “What’s happening? Are we playing the game or not?”

a/n: merry christmas and happy holidays! hope you enjoyed!

[mistyresolve]

Request for Reader asking to wrestle ghost and then he does that one move he does when he goes under someone’s legs and flips them on their back

Please if you want to 🫶

| Takedown

Word Count - 1.5k

Summary - Y/N is regularly called upon by Ghost to help out as a fake assailant. Today's close combat lesson is on disarming and takedowns.

Tags/Warnings - Depictions of combat, slight sexual tension,

A/N - i think i know exactly what you're talking about! i believe it's a finisher from MW2019 called "Fangs Out".

I also found this TikTok by cctvsoap that shows the actual finisher.

Masterlist  ❤︎  Tag List Form 

There was truly nothing worse than when Ghost roped you into agreeing to be his pretend enemy when he did his hand-to-hand combat training with his troops. Ghost preferred to demonstrate his lethality on someone who was resilient enough to take the blows and was trained enough to know how to safely take them. Why you agreed to it every time was a mystery, because you would go home at the end of the day and count all your new bruises. Last time, it was seven. 

At the very least you weren’t alone. Soap has also fallen prey to this scheme more than his fair share. You and Soap had created a “Victims of Ghost” Club. It mostly consisted of you two texting each other to run and hide when Ghost began his training doll recruitment. 

You could hold your own in a fight. Even against Ghost himself. However, this situation was different. You would be subjected to taking all the hits and tackles he needed to do for demonstration.

Today he was going over disarming and disorienting. His forte. Which meant a lot of being thrown on the ground and having your ass handed to you. 

Ghost was explaining the purpose and importance of close combat when he signalled for you to join him on the mat. You positioned yourself at the front of the mat, with a plastic gun in hand. Standing as if you were on a watch. Feet slightly apart and gun poised. 

He always started off by letting you know what moves to expect from him so you could prepare for it. The best you could. Then he would do a full run-through of the move, followed by a slowed down set-by-step explanation.

He began the training session with simple disarms. His motions were snappy and well-practiced, the gun was knocked to the floor and a hand was pinned behind your back. He moved like it was second nature to him. 

“Sorry,” he said lowly, dipping down to your ear. Your heart dropped down to pulse between your legs. 

This was why you kept saying yes.

You nodded, rubbing at your wrist where he had grabbed it and offered him a thumbs up. He returned the nod, eyes watchful. Once he was satisfied that you were truly fine, he proceeded to the step-by-step. He was extremely gentle when he did this, his hands ghosting across your body. A complete paradox from just moments before. Like when his fingers linger a second too long sometimes. Or when his thumb drew little circles on the bare skin of your wrist when he pinned it behind you once more. 

Near the end of the session, you felt like you were going to burst into flames. The man radiated heat like he was a furnace and his proximity throughout the last hour has been torturous. That and every time he whispered apologies to you, you felt yourself melt a little more.

Only to be brought back to the cold earth when he announced the next disarming tactic and takedown. You had yet to decide if you hated or loved this next one. 

Ghost turned back to you, “I’ll be going between your legs. Try and break your fall this time, would you?” he teased you about the last he taught this one in class he had moved in on you so fast you hardly had time to catch your fall. Your face had made friends with the floor that day. 

If the situation was different the words “I’ll be going between your legs,” would have made you weak in the knees. 

You glared over at him, “Go easy on me,” you had to force yourself to relax your muscles. It would make the fall hurt a little less. Once again you positioned yourself at the front of the mat, allowing a little extra space in the front of you this time. Since you’d be falling forward. You made sure you bent your knees and your grip on the gun lose. 

Ghost tapped your left leg as he passed you, letting you know which leg he’d be attacking. It helped with knowing which direction you’d need to twist towards when falling. 

He didn’t give any cues when he moved in. Aside from the quiet swish of fabric, he was nearly silent. 

A foreign leg hooked around the lower half of yours, and a well-placed hand pushing at your back forced you to lose balance and teeter forward. It was instinct to toss the gun and bring your hands up in front of you. You were still free-falling when a large hand wrapped around the ankle of your right leg, redirecting your momentum to the side so you landed on your shoulder. By the time you were on the ground, you were facing him with your back to the floor. You struggled to catch your breath for a moment. The force of the fall had stolen the air straight out of your lungs. Ghost was kneeling over you, a hand placed into your chest to keep you to the ground. There was no pressure to the contact thought.

He kept his attention on you until you gave a reassuring tap to the arm pinning you down. He remained as he was to allow you extra time to regain composure. His eyes flicked between the group of soldiers and you as he decoded his motions for them. There was no anxiety behind his eyes, just a hushed concern. He knew you weren’t injured, but the fall was never pleasant and he was well aware of that. 

He helped you back to your feet, squeezing your shoulder lightly before walking everyone through the action. This time when he hooked his leg around you there was no push or pulling. You still followed through with how it would have gone if it were happening at full speed. When he brought your right leg across his body so you were lying facing him once again, his watchful eyes were on you. Before he had to drag them away from you. 

He allowed for the remaining time for the troops to use as practice. You made your way to your water bottle, needing the ice cold water to chill the heat in your core. Ghost trailed after you as he watched the soldiers try out all the different moves and techniques he showed them today. 

“You’re going to have to go track down Soap for the next class,” You were half kidding.  

“If you stop giving him a head start every time I try, I just might do that,” he fixed you with a bored look. 

Of course, he knew. 

You faked a shocked expression, “My loyalties lay with McTavish.” 

“Then I’ll see you on friday,” he stated. He could pull rank on you, but you knew if you said “no”, he wouldn’t. He very very rarely pulled rank on you.  

Bonus of Ghost taking the legs off Soap 

If there was one thing in this world that Simon had no issues throwing class and grace to the wind for, it was when someone challenged him. He also had no qualms about besting Soap in a fight. So when Soap told Ghost that he could take him down in a fight, Ghost rose to the occasion. A few members of the 141, including yourself, were in the training room when Soap contested that he could take on Ghost in a duel. To which he immediately denied the thesis. Much to no one’s surprise, Soap didn’t back down. Claiming that his agility was superior to Ghost’s resilience and power. 

You and Gaz set up camp on the benches. Placing bets on how long Soap would last.  

“No holding back on me,” Soap pointed a finger at the Brit before taking a ready position. 

As soon as Ghost tapped at his chest, a silent sign to begin, Soap was moving. It looked promising for the first few punches. Ghost on heavy defence.  

...It ended quickly. 

He blocked one of Soap’s punches, deflecting the momentum to create an opening for himself. With a quick jab to the abdomen to disorientate, then a sweep of his foot, and a body check, Soap’s feet were above his head.

You sighed, hanging your head as you dug into your pocket to retrieve a few bills, “I thought he’d last a little longer,” you mopped as Gaz took the money from you. 

“You gotta stop betting on the dofus.”   

Across the room, Soap rolled over to his side, “That hurt.”

Ghost was already walking to the bench, “It’s supposed to. It’s an ass kicking,” he turned and pointed a finger at Soap in the same manner he had done to him just moments ago.

Masterlist

Close Quarters

A/N - everytime i see ghost in hand to hand he goes for their legs... everytime

Taglist - @thychuvaluswife ❤︎ @shuttlelauncher81 ❤︎ @lostinsideourminds ❤︎ @v1naco ❤︎  @konig-breedme ❤︎ @wolfyland07 ❤︎ @cumbersome-robes ❤︎ @adelaidai ❤︎ @ddioriez ❤︎ @johfaam0 ❤︎ @ryethebrokengae ❤︎ @mychrysanthemums ❤︎  @purplefishingline ❤︎ @dog55teeth​ ❤︎ @mymommmy ❤︎ @lockleywife

[dandelionjack]

the girl who waited (episode) is pure existential horror, tempered by the tragedy of the passage of time.

jaded amy. old amy, battle-worn amy, embittered amy, weathered amy. cold hardened unrecognising eyes. thirty six years. thirty six years in a containment facility alone. solitary confinement. facing grim reality with nothing but your wits, nothing but the faintest hope of some semi-mythical men from a distant past coming to rescue you, princess in the tower a second time. not this time. you forge weapons. you fight. you force yourself to forget. and then out of the blue, that bloody, bloody distinctive shade of blue, comes his voice, cheery as ever, spouting technobabble, cracking puns, all with that sickening babytalk – wibbly-wobbly bibbety bobbity boop. promised you a dream and gave you hell, hell, hell again, your beloved's death, your beloved's death, traps, paradoxes, a daughter, a daughter who was never there, a daughter who was never yours to raise, a childhood best friend that you'd never met, a life you never got to live. he dropped out of the sky and burnt up your world over and over and over, displaying something like a true exhilaration, something like amusement while he's doing it. and now when there's nothing left, no stars to explore (they're all flaming balls of dead matter) no planets to discover (they're crawling with dread and disease and pollution and war) his carefree tone cuts through the stillness announcing – we've come to save you, little girl. it's only been a blip for us, a glitch, an oopsie, locked on a bit too late, sorry rory.

these men brought you to purgatory and left you there. and now one of them's back (wearing the other's voice on his eyes, the omnipresent voice of your cruel god) your husband from the life before, unchanged, un-aged, same as you last saw him. you haven't been touched by another living soul in thirty six years and he's grabbing your arm.

who are these men, now strangers to you both, one frozen in youth, another ancient? here, the other one: on the screen, ever unchanging, ever friendly, that knowing gaze. they both promised you a universe, then allowed it to narrow to the size of a cage. you're not plastic like your dear "husband" had been all those millenia he spent "waiting". you're not a mysterious transtemporal entity. you're alive, you're human, so much more human than these aliens standing in front of you now, and you've felt every moment, every agonising moment, every hour, every year of your indefinite sentence. isolated. alone

that glowing gadget in your hand? it's a probe. sonic probe. because in a world with no wonder left, we refer to objects by their proper names.

[cod-dump]

Nik: You’re misunderstanding the point; yes, she’s a Barbie girl in a Barbie world, but her life is merely plastic. It isn’t real Graves: Ah, but there lies the paradox. If life is a creation limited only by imagination, then what is the difference between true or imagined happiness? Some, my love, would even call it “fantastic” Price, stuck between them in bed: Please, save this conversation for the morning. I'm tired

[realbeijinger]

Another semi-coherent rant on climate change, the value of idealism, and TGCF (I finally finished!)

Well, I finished Tian Guan Ci Fu. And, oh man, if you read my last post, you’ll know that I was terrified that the entire novel would be a criticism of blind idealism. But I am SO glad I was wrong!!! Looking back on what I wrote before… it’s kind of hilarious how worried I was. I was so sure that I knew where it was going, was so busy preparing myself to be offended/emotionally crushed, that I wouldn’t even entertain the idea that maybe MXTX had a similar worldview to me all along.

In my defense, aside from the line, “Something like saving the common people… although foolish, it is brave,” everything seemed to point toward the idea that trying to do good is pointless. I mean, up until the moment when Xie Lian was lying with a sword in his chest on the streets of Yong’an, all of his efforts to do good had essentially been in vain. He hadn’t been able to help anyone.

And then, when the one guy stopped and gave Xie Lian his hat, I dunno, I just cried. It was so perfect! Like, ugh, damn you, MXTX! So sneaky… destroying us, just to bring us back later!! It was such a small, insignificant win, but it was exactly what Xie Lian (and I) needed. I love the line, “Just one person was enough!” Just one person doing something selfless. It’s enough to give us hope.   

It really resonates with me because I think a lot about how to maintain hope. In terms of the climate crisis, I feel like Xie Lian—completely powerless. I want to stop eating meat, use less plastic, spend more time on environmental activism, but honestly, what do any of these things matter? The meat industry is not going to change because I choose to stop consuming. Even my activism has a completely negligible effect—whether or not I join a protest or write a letter to my congressman will almost certainly not be the deciding factor for any climate legislation, no matter how much effort I put in.  

And yet, I still want to. I love the moment when Xie Lian chooses to get stabbed over and over rather than create a second plague of Human Face Disease, and White No-Face asks him in shock, “Why??”—as in, why would you ever do that? And Xie Lian responds: “I don’t have a reason—just because I want to! Even if I explained it to you… Useless trash like you wouldn’t understand.” This line is so great. Xie Lian can’t explain it to White No-Face, because, in truth, it isn’t entirely logical. It can’t be explained by reason. I want to do my measly, unimportant part to help the world… because I want to. Because it feels right. Because it’s my way of keeping my heart, of maintaining faith that there is some good in this world worth upholding. (As an aside, I love how the English title of the live action drama—which we may never get to see, God damn censorship!!!!—is called “Eternal Faith.” Of course it refers to Hua Cheng and Xie Lian’s faith in each other, but I think it also means having eternal faith in the value of doing good, despite centuries of experience that seem to show its pointlessness.)

As I talked about in my last post, if you zoom out far enough, nothing really seems to matter. Everything we love and care about will one day be gone. And yet, I believe we still have to act like it matters. This is the basic tenant of existentialism, and I think MXTX portrays this philosophical paradox really beautifully.

It’s funny, because I think MXTX has a lot of profound things to say, but in an interview I read, she warned against viewing her work too deeply, saying, “I am not a guru.” I get that she may not want the responsibility of giving people spiritual advice, but I do think she presents some really fascinating, really novel, philosophical ideas. So, sorry MXTX, but I’m about to analyze TGCF like it’s a piece of freakin scripture. Soo here we go…

The main theme she comes back to again and again is that fortune is limited, so the only way you can do good for others is by taking fortune from somebody else. Which leads the characters to a bunch of ethically impossible choices: the people of Yong’an and the people of Xianle can’t all be saved (Xie Lian must choose who to help), neither can the people of Wuyong and the surrounding kingdoms (Prince of Wuyong must choose), and Shi Wudu can’t save his brother from a tragic fate without taking fortune from an innocent person. When the characters try to avoid choosing, and try to “play God” by creating a “third path,” it just invites disaster.

But is this really true? Is fortune actually limited? It’s an idea that reminds me of Buddhism and Daoism, but also seems kind of revolutionary… (I like to think I know something about Chinese philosophy but it could certainly be a thing and I don’t know). I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in limited resources, and the idea that nature tends toward balance. I think conceiving of it this way, as a pool of fortune, is really interesting.   

It reminds me of this Meme:

In other words, who is the protagonist and who is the villain is entirely based on perspective. And, according to the laws of nature, we all must survive by eating others, or causing others to starve (i.e. avoiding being eaten).

I tried to think if this is really true in all areas of life. I’m a teacher, and one of the ways I convince myself that I am doing good in the world is by helping my students—preparing them well for college so that they can get into good schools and follow their dreams. But then, is this just taking fortune from others? If I do prepare my students well, and as a result they all get into top universities, does that mean they are taking spots away from other students? Am I simply just helping “my own,” at the expense of others?

One place where I see this concept play out very clearly is with our modern, industrialized society. As I mentioned in my last post, we live in a world of abundance. Most of us have enough food to eat, live in houses with electricity and running water, and don’t worry about a whole host of diseases endured by our ancestors. It seems we have done what Xie Lian couldn’t—we have expanded the well of fortune for most of humanity.

But this fortune wasn’t spontaneously created. It was taken from other species. It was borrowed against our own future, when climate change will likely destroy this world of abundance we have created, causing untold suffering. In truth, when it comes to prosperity, there is no such thing as a free lunch.   

Even now, when we ought to be enjoying our fortune, most of us are not happy. We want other things. We take food, clothing, and shelter for granted, creating even bigger, more lofty demands—a bigger car, a better house, a machine that’s sole purpose is to make bread. In fact, it seems like whenever we make things “better,” the goalposts just move. I recently read a book called Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, which mentioned that with the advent of washing machines and vacuum cleaners, everyone assumed there would be more free time. Yet, the real outcome was that standards of cleanliness just changed. Suddenly, people expected you to wear fresh clothes every day and have a perfectly dust-free home, which meant spending just as much time cleaning as in the past.     

And according to psychologists, getting what we want doesn’t really make us happier. Instead, something like getting a promotion causes our happiness to spike, before it quickly returns to baseline. The psychologist Dan Gilbert writes that the purpose of our emotions is to act like a compass—to tell us which direction to go in. If you feel good, you can continue the way you are going. If you feel bad, you should probably turn—make a change. But if you get what you want and become permanently happy, your compass is now broken. It’s stuck in one direction and becomes useless.

All of this is very Buddhist, of course. Suffering is not caused by our external circumstances, but our desire to change them.

Like I said, I don’t necessarily believe in “fate” or “fortune.” But I believe this all points to something deeper that MXTX is getting at: which is that we cannot fundamentally make a better world, for the common people, or for anyone. This idea of “better” doesn’t really exist. The world is as it is. Trying to alter that is like playing God. And like Xie Lian says, “In this world, there are no true gods…”  

So, what do we do? How can we survive this absurdist tragedy of life? I don’t think we can just throw up our hands and not give a shit—that way lies depression and Jun Wu-style cruelty. We cannot lose our heart. But we also can’t try to fix everything.

One thing I find a bit difficult about MXTX is she is very clear about the impossible situations our characters find themselves in, but not really clear about the solution. She seems critical of the characters’ actions (I’m thinking also of Wei Wuxian here), but what exactly does she think they should have done? In other words, what is the point?

I spent a long time thinking about this. And I realized that Xie Lian was able to get back on his feet, find happiness and make peace with himself. How did he do this? Ultimately, I see Xie Lian’s solution as having three parts: self-sacrifice, gratitude, and purpose. Which all sounds very academic and maybe not that profound on an emotional level. But hear me out. Because, in the end, I think these choices are incredibly beautiful. They are the kind of thing that make me feel like reading TGCF was actually a spiritual experience, no matter what MXTX says. That makes me admire Xie Lian and want to follow him (like the God he is).

Okay so first: self-sacrifice. If fortune is limited, and the only way to make others’ lives better is to take fortune from someplace else, then there is really only one place you can take it from without hurting others—yourself.

So, part of Xie Lian’s solution is to take fortune from himself and give it to others. It’s why he asks for a cursed shackle that disperses his fortune, so that his fortune will naturally flow to those around him. It’s, of course, a very small thing. He is no longer playing God, or trying to “fix” the world on a grand scale. He is simply, in his own, quiet way, serving the common people.

My desire to give up meat and to spend more time on activism—these things feel like big sacrifices for me. And yet, they will have a very small impact on the greater situation in the world. They’re a drop in the ocean. I still want to do it, but it’s hard. It’s hard to care, or think that these things matter. Yet, this is the trade-off Xie Lian was willing to make. I really admire him for it.   

I believe self-sacrifice is actually a really important, beautiful thing, that our society has forgotten the value of. We are individualistic—obsessed with our own wants. As I mentioned previously, our expectations have risen, so we buy and buy and buy. We are unwilling to rein in our consumption. I know a lot of people baulk at lifestyle changes as a solution to the climate crisis, and I agree that putting pressure on individuals instead of governments or corporations is misguided. But, first of all, there simply aren’t enough resources on earth to sustain our current levels of consumption. And, second… I don’t think we can completely let individuals off the hook. What is society anyway, but a collection of individuals? If we are going to address this thing, it’s going to take a massive movement—bigger than the civil rights movement or the works’ rights movement or the women’s movement. It’s going to take millions of people worldwide getting out of their own heads, their own lives, and concerning themselves with the greater good. That requires immense sacrifice.

Which takes me to gratitude. In order to be willing to sacrifice, you have to appreciate what you already have.

People often talk about gratitude these days as a path to mental health. Instinctively, it sounds like an uplifting, positive thing. And it is… but it also entails having a relatively negative worldview. It means remembering all the horrible things that exist in this world which we are lucky enough to avoid on a daily basis. You stepped in some dog shit? Well, that sucks, but you could have stepped into an open manhole and broken your neck! So! That’s something to be grateful for.  

We are all so lucky. I’m sure everyone reading this has pains and traumas and challenges. This isn’t to diminish those, but, I hope, at least we all have at least one person to love. That’s all Hua Cheng had, and it’s what kept him going. Just one person was enough. And most of us, I hope, get to eat food every day, get to sleep in a bed, get to play video games or read novels or write poetry when we are sad. Not everyone gets those things.  

Xie Lian, of course, was the king of low expectations, because he knew his future was going to be bad. He had intentionally accepted bad luck for a lifetime. So, there was no point in hoping for things to get better.

I think this attitude is best shown by his interaction with the Venerable of Empty words. The Venerable of Empty Words feeds off people’s fears. But Xie Lian didn’t really have any. When the Venerable of Empty Words warned him that his hut will collapse in two months, his response is, “Two months? If it’s still standing in seven days, then it’ll be a real miracle.” Because his expectations are so low, he’s essentially immune to fear. I can’t help but think that if you could really think this way, it would be a kind of superpower. It reminds me of the famous quote by spiritual teacher Krishnamurti, “Do you know what my secret is? You see, I don’t mind what happens.”

And so Xie Lian is okay with everything. He can sleep anywhere, crash boulders on his chest for money, not eat for three days, regularly suffer corpse poisoning, and still be okay.

Which leads to my third point: purpose. Xie Lian is able to endure such hardship because his expectations are low, but also he knows all his suffering has a purpose. “If I am to become a God of misfortune, then so be it,” he says. “As long as I know deep down that I am not.” He is okay with being laughed at or avoided for his bad luck, because deep down he knows he is doing the right thing. People can withstand a great deal if they feel their suffering has meaning. In Man’s Search for Meaning, the psychiatrist Victor Frankl’s writes about the horrors of living through a concentration camp, and how over and over, it was creating purpose that allowed him, and others, to find motivation to survive. Which I think has an important lesson for self-sacrifice. People are willing to sacrifice a lot, if they feel their sacrifice has purpose.

I get it when MXTX says that she is not a guru, and maybe it’s a lot to ask of a danmei novel to take spiritual advice from it. The book wasn’t necessarily perfect, and I do have some critiques (which I was gonna add here, but this thing is already wayyy too long). But… I do think I found something really meaningful in this story—some inspiration. I want to follow Xie Lian’s example, and live with gratitude and acceptance, while keeping my faith in doing the right thing. In other words, WWXLD! (What Would Xie Lian Do?)