#should I post it on AO3?

[vole-mon-amour]

it's the middle of the night, early morning even—around four a.m. Astarion doesn't need much sleep (meditation), he's had a meal, he's in an elevated mood. he visits Halsin (who went to sleep not that long ago) in his tent because he feels like it (the dude is in Love and is feeling like being close. cat owners call it 'being clingy' and 'wanting attention').

Astarion is being all flirty and playful—"mrphh", "darling", kisses all over his face, neck, shoulders; a smile lingering on his lips, trying to be seductive. only for Halsin to scoop him in his bear arms, pull him closer, snuggle him tightly—Astarion's face is quite literally being smooshed into Halsin's chest—and response in a sleepy manner without even opening his eyes, "what is it, my heart? can't sleep? no luck with hunting? want some blood?"

Halsin's reaction is basically, "my love, let me sleep." but in an lovingly embracing manner. he is going to rest while also holding his grumpy pale cat in his arms. the cat, by the way, is mentally going, "damn you!", while verbally his grunts are muffled due to his position, "let. me. uhh. go!" and trying to wringle himself out of Halsin's arms.

and Halsin, being too close to unconsciousness, starts letting him go but wildshapes in the process. by the time Astarion is free, Halsin—a big brown bear—is fast asleep. Astarion—his hair ruffled, his look disheveled—stands there and states at Halsin in an exasperated way. with any kind of playfulness long gone, he can storm off and sit by the fire.

then, as he starts coming down off of it, his expression softens. he sighs. fine, he thinks. perhaps it won't be too bad. perhaps tonight this will have to do. besides, it's not like he has a lot of options—sulk there by the fire and sleep alone or go back to his lover. he chooses the latter—because he's already used to sleeping next to Halsin.

in the tent, Astarion lowers himself next to the bear. he willingly gets in between Halsin's big paws—the bear is so, so warm, almost as warm as the fire. and is quite fluffy, too—Astarion has already gotten used to Halsin's fur. even though it's coarse, it's not itchy. it's like sleeping next to a very warm and giant dog. and even though Astarion doesn't like dogs, this one is not that bad.

as Astarion drifts to sleep—while being cuddled by a literal bear—he thinks that, actually, it feels quite nice. he can definitely do with more of this. just, perhaps, with less face to chest smooshing and they will be fine.

p.s.: guys. the size difference while we're at that. Astarion is sleeping next to a heated breathing blanket. the mighty paws next to Astarion's elegant claws, too. sharp teeth and dangerous claws. they match—in a way.

[greenteaandspikes]

Guess who is writing FNAF x TXF fanfic in the notes app at 1:35 am….

Parents got confused and chose loser child lol.

[not-so-mundane-after-all]

Okay it happened. My first time writing for Agents of Shield. My heart and mind are taken over by Coulson and Daisy and well, girl gotta do what she gotta do and ✨process✨ those feelings. Full thing under the cut because I accidentally hit over 2k with this thing and who knows, maybe it'll end up on AO3 as well! For now I'm just testing waters.

@skoulsons @outer-edges I hope you'll enjoy this little tearjerker.

"There's no S.H.I.E.L.D. without you."

Maybe. But to him, there's no S.H.I.E.L.D. without her. He's the past, but she's the future; she's the one who will bring this pile of ashes back to life, who will lead with her giant heart and a brilliant mind and create something extraordinary. She's the legacy he couldn't be more proud to leave behind.

"There's nothing without you," Daisy sobs as she breaks down in front of him, and Phil's heart shatters to pieces in his chest like she just hit it with her powers. He answers its call, its desperate plea to bring her closer, and he pulls her in, a soft come here on his lips as he gathers Daisy in his arms and lets her fall apart against him.

Her tears soak into the collar of his jacket. She's shaking, wrecked by sobs she can no longer hold back. He brings a hand up to cup the back of her head, and he closes his eyes at the softness of her long, brown waves under his calloused fingertips, letting it overcome him.

Holding her had always been quite a difficult task for him because, once he had her in his arms, he never wanted to let go. But he had to. Because duty called, because he was needed elsewhere, because she had to go. There was always something that forced them to pull apart, always something that had him stepping away and releasing her, always something that made him let go.

Now he's dying. He could be gone in an hour, a day, a week.

This time, he's not letting her go.

She seems so small in his arms. This force of a woman, powerful, brave, and fierce, now a sobbing little girl who wants to hide in his embrace and never leave. Phil feels a lump form in his throat as he thinks of a time when she really was little, when she had no one to hold her and dry her tears, when she had no one to go to. It only makes him hold her tighter and squeeze her against him so hard that he could crush bones if his body wasn't too weak for it.

If only he had known back then. If only he had found her sooner. How many nights did he spend thinking about this? How long had he sat by her bedside after she'd been shot, going over all the what-ifs in his head? For how long had he held her hand against his lips, staring at her pale face, wondering what it would've been like if he had the chance to raise her?

Four years together doesn't feel like enough all of a sudden. He's one foot in the grave; he accepted his fate and made peace with it, but if there's one thing he regrets, it's not having more time with her. If he had found her sooner, they would've had a whole life together; he would've watched her grow up, graduate from the academy, he would've been privileged to see the road she's been on to become who she is now from beginning to end. Instead, he's only a blip in time, there one second and gone the next.

He won't see her restore S.H.I.E.L.D. to its former glory. He won't see her reach the full scope of her gift. He won't be there to watch her finally find the love and happiness she deserves, won't walk her down the aisle like he secretly dreamed he would one day. He won't hear the laughter of her children as they run into his arms with her smile on their faces and call him 'grandpa'.

He wanted that. More than anything, he wanted that.

And now…

Here she is. The daughter he never had but had always wanted. Breaking apart in his arms because soon he'll be gone and there's nothing she can do to stop it. She will try; he has no doubt about that. He can give all the orders he wants, but Daisy will move heaven and earth to keep him alive. It's a futile task, really, but he'd be lying if he said he wouldn't do the same thing if the roles were reversed. He had done the same thing, and they had only known each other for a few weeks at the time.

He already loved her even then. A few short weeks, and she was already everything to him.

A violent sob shakes her frame and makes Daisy cling to him tighter. His jacket strains against his back when she grabs fistfuls of it and trembles, her breath hitching in her throat. This time, when he squeezes his eyes shut, a single tear rolls down Phil’s cheek.

"Daisy..." His voice is breaking.

"No, I can't, I can't..." She shakes her head and chokes on a sob that turns into a wail, muffled only by his shoulder. It's like a knife plunged into his heart and twisted around.

"Shh, shh… It's okay," he whispers into her hair, even though the words taste like ash on his tongue. He's leaving her, it's not going to be okay. Not for a while. She will grieve, she will hurt, she'll need time and space. There will be a hole in her heart that nothing will ever fill again. He knows because the same hole opened in his chest when he held her lifeless body in his arms, blood oozing from two gunshot wounds in her stomach staining his hands red. It was stitched together and closed, but the fear of it reopening again remained, making itself known every time he watched her head out for another mission.

"Daisy," he tries again, Skye at the tip of his tongue. It's the name she had given herself — the name of someone who didn't know her story. Everybody laughed at him for having a hard time getting used to the change in the beginning, but Phil couldn't help it when the name alone made his heart beat louder. Her true name has the same effect on him these days; it pumps life into his veins whenever he says it, and if only that were enough to keep him alive, he'd take it.

Daisy burrows deeper into his shoulder.

"Please don't," she weeps. "Don't tell me it's okay. I can't– I can't do this. I can't lose you."

His hands automatically move to cup her cheeks as he pulls away. When her eyes find his, they are bloodshot and brimming with tears; he makes no attempt to conceal his own. They are both barely holding themselves together, but they need this. Daisy needs this to survive after he is gone.

"Listen to me," Phil pleads, leaning in close. "I might be gone, but I will never leave you, okay? I'll be here," He taps her temple with his finger, then presses his palm right above her heart, "and here."

Tears roll down his face now, and his voice cracks and trembles, but the smile on his face couldn't be brighter. "I don't know if there's Heaven or anything else waiting for me. I didn't stay long enough last time to find out. But whatever happens, I'll be watching over you, Daisy. I promise."

That's the one thing he's absolutely sure of. No matter what the other side holds for him, he is not leaving her side. His teachings, his guidance, his care, it will all help her carry on through life. She'll find him in herself but also in others — a whole bunch of people who love her just as much as he does and will be there for her every step of the way. He might be leaving her, but he's not leaving her alone.

Her hand lands on his over her heart, and holds on tight. It's warm, soft, and so gentle, despite holding the power to crack the world apart. Her eyes stay locked on his own, deep brown wells of pain and sorrow and for a long moment she stays quiet, only looking into his eyes.

"Dad," Daisy sobs out, and Phil feels all the air leave his lungs in one sweep. "Dad, please…"

"Oh, baby girl."

Before the impact of these words can knock him to the floor, Phil crushes her back to him, and he holds her closer than ever before, tighter than his body has the strength for. His back hits the wall with a soft thud as he presses a kiss to her temple and begins sobbing into her hair. Daisy collapses against him, nestling into the crook of his neck, and they both slide down to the chilly concrete floor.

He's not sure how long they sit there. Could be minutes, could be hours. Daisy is curled up across his lap, leaning sideways against him with her head pillowed on his shoulder. Phil rocks her slowly, like a child who wakes up after a nightmare and needs comfort. He wishes it was only that — a bad dream he can chase away, kiss her forehead and dry her tears, then put her back to bed with the promise that no monster can get to her. He holds her, both arms encasing her and keeping her close to his chest, where her palm rests, feeling for the drum of his faint heartbeat through his shirt.

Phil rests his cheek against Daisy’s hair with a sigh. If only it didn’t have to hurt so much. If only there was a way for him to go without leaving her in so much pain.

Her sobs die down after a while, and when they do, she just stays there, limp against him, forcing herself to breathe. She's exhausted, he can tell, and if he wasn't still feeling so weak after fainting earlier, he would've picked her up and carried her to bed. All he can do instead is tuck her closer and let her rest for as long as she needs, right where they are. Wait until she's able to stand back on her feet and walk back to the base with her head held high.

Because she will. And she will let Hell break loose to save him. There will be nothing he can do to stop her.

"I am not giving up on you," Daisy says into the empty space around them, as if reading his mind. Her rough voice scratches against the walls of her throat.

Phil closes his eyes. "I know."

She lifts her head and looks at him. There's fire in her gaze that knows no objection, a determination as strong as her powers are. She's taking her grief, and instead of letting it break her, she's using it to fuel herself.

"Please, don't make me give up on you."

And what can he possibly say to that? He won't convince her. He won't change her mind, just like she won't change his. Daisy has always been stubborn, but so has he, and over time, Phil came to terms with the fact that he might have accidentally bestowed even more of that stubbornness on her.

He smiles, stroking her cheek instead of saying anything, and the way Daisy leans into his touch with a sigh melts him. It's a rare occurrence when they get to be like this, when they allow themselves to be this close and open with each other, and he doesn't take a single second of that for granted. Only wishes it was happening under better circumstances.

"You're good?" He asks, ducking his head to catch her eyes.

Daisy wipes her face with the sleeve of her shirt and nods. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

They both know she won't be, not for a long time. But for now, it's enough. He's not gone yet. They still have time. They still have work to do.

Phil lifts her to her feet, and the two of them take a deep breath, trying not to think about how much of a mess they are. He hasn't let go of her yet, and now Daisy is staring down at their joined hands, her face obscured by a curtain of hair. Her chin wobbles, but Phil is fast; he reaches out and tilts it up, making her look at him.

"You'll be okay," he tells her.

Fresh tears glisten in her eyes.

"How do you know?"

He catches one drop with his thumb.

"Because I know my little girl."

Her smile is everything to him. It's sad and a little shy, her cheeks blush when she drops her head to try and hide it, but it still lights up his chest like fireworks on the Fourth of July. He'll hold onto that smile for as long as he can.

When he wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her to his side, the rest of Daisy's tears are gone. She rests her head on his shoulder, lets him kiss her hair one more time, and as they head back to the others, they both feel somewhat lighter. A lot will change in the next few days; the weight of the world is still on their shoulders, but as long as he's here, Phil can make sure Daisy won't crumble under it.

After all, she's humanity’s shield. And her father's daughter.

[whataboutsimple]

Groundhog Day expect It's 8 whole years and lots of pain.

In other words, it's Gabriel The Warrior angst. Who knew that little medallion will drag you into pit of repeating hell? He called it "races".. race to survive.

!!TW: serious injures, blood, suicide themes!!

Please, if you don't feel safe or good, ask for help, there are always someone who will hear you!

He felt tired.

So tired, so tired.

Want to sleep.

Body does not obey.

The Warrior slowly trudged through the back streets with his Bodyguard, Reuben his name was? Who was trying to "avoid crowd of fanatics." He seemed to be saying something, but Gabriel wasn't listening. He felt like he was about to fall down and never get up again. He didn't have any strength. Everything seemed to be just a white noise, an insignificant squeak against the background of the approaching storm.

Oh, yes, The Storm.

Today he meets Ivor for the last time, before Potion Master creates this terrible monster.

But he was tired.

He doesn't have the strength to talk to him.

The Warrior wants to sleep, he wants to sleep so much. There was nothing but white veil before his eyes, it seemed like he didn't see where he was going at all. Perhaps he's just mechanically following the same route as usual.

Interesting, if he falls asleep, his body will continue to act according to the script? Oops, here he is, bumped into Bodyguard, because he noticed suspicious crowd of fanatics. Here, blond guy tells him to wait while he checks everything and makes sure it's safe to go.

Here he is, alone again.

At some point, it seemed to him that his skull would simply burst, splitting in two from the headache that he had been feeling lately.

His body didn't obey him at all, he felt numb. It was as if the Warrior was just a puppet, a puppet in someone's hands. Or is it a white, blind pain still haunting him after the last "race" as he dubbed them?

The Wither Storm caught him, dragging through the whole city and collecting every building along the way. Gabriel didn't knew, what he had died from. Perhaps the broken ribs had dug into his lungs, tearing them to shreds and causing him to choke on his own blood. Perhaps the impact of his head on one of the buildings was strong enough to shatter his skull into pieces. Perhaps that pillar that went straight into his stomach tore apart all his internal organs, forcing him to spit out the remains of his liver or kidneys. Or perhaps all those numerous fractures and open wounds caused the brain to pass out from shock and he died in WitherStorm.

The Warrior really doesn't know, but he sincerely sympathizes with the one who found his mutilated body.

He saw only a veil and heard only noise, not caring about anything. Brunette has experienced this moment so many times, seen that exact street, he probably knows every crack on it. Gabriel stopped trying to count the number of his "returns" back a long time ago, stopped trying to help everyone, to save them.

The closest thing Warrior has ever had to "good" ending are both alive Magnus and Ellegaard and not missing Soren.

But even in that scenario they abandoned him.

Everyone just went to their cities and homes. They left without even trying to ask how he was feeling. They didn't care. It was the moment Warrior felt broken for the first time. Trampled into the mud, absolutely crushed.

Since then, his blank expression has been almost the only emotion you could notice. Of course, he continued to pretend in public, to pretend that everything was fine. But everything was not fine. Nothing was fine. His eyes had not shone with the kindness, care and determination they used to for a long time. He went out inside, burned to the ground and left behind only ashes, which are now trying to move and live.

Gabriel could almost clearly draw an analogy with himself and the phoenix. Only in his case, each rebirth was accompanied by a deteriorating condition. Almost all of the scars received during these "races" remained on his body, even when he returned to the very first day. They made it very difficult for him to live. To exist. Every time he looked at them, they remind him what he had been through. Notch, his body were barely recognizable under the armor. Seemed like he was the main target of Griefers from BoomTown.

Sometimes it hurts. Every inch of his body in agony, so intense that his voice cuts off from screaming faster than it stops.

Sometimes he doesn't feel anything. Like now. He is only aware of where he is, what he is doing. But he doesn't control it at all. He's just.. just there, somewhere deep down. Exists, but doesn't seem to exist at all. An empty, empty cold gaze and nothing more. He had never looked so broken.

The nasty clatter of the stone on an iron block suddenly made him a bit awake. Here's Ivor.

To be honest, the Warrior didn't really care, he continued to stare at the same wall he had been looking at before. Ivor will notice him now, start ranting about how he needs to stop lying to people, then, without achieving the result he needs, will get angry and advise him to be careful tomorrow. Nothing new.

God, he was so tired.

He hadn't slept well in so long.

Unbearable, constant nightmares haunted him in every "race". It's safe to say that the Warrior has completely forgotten what a "normal sleep" is. He wakes up with a heart-rending scream of fear almost every twenty minutes, and the scenes of blood and violence that his brain projects are still in front of his eyes.

He had seen it all live and more than once. Saw and felt it. Felt and saw.

All those accidents when someone from the Order accidentally killed him. Ivor won the battle at Soren's temple. Magnus blew up TNT incorrectly. Ellegaard's machine went horribly wrong. These deaths were the most painful for him. They constantly haunt him in nightmares, always, always one of his own.. former friends are trying to kill him.

Disgusting, horrible nightmares that have been a reality many times.

He tried to run away from it, he really tried. He went far, far away, made new friends, even a family. But no matter what he did, those 8 fucking years were always repeating themselves. He could freely start killing everyone, knowing that if he was killed, then 8 years would begin anew.

But there was no point in such actions. None of this would have helped him get rid of the terrible curse that had overtaken him anyway.

The tips of the Warrior's fingers began to twitch, wanting to pick up a sword. After all, he felt the approach of someone behind him. Ivor. The tirade is about to begin.

He wants to sleep.

The Warrior had no patience left at all. He had been watching all this for so long, had endured this torture for so long, this sneering tone of the Potions Master, the way his eyes glittered with malice, how he did it.. He enjoyed his position. Is the simple disclosure of the truth so dear to him? Does he really just want to humiliate them?

The Warrior didn't know the answers to these questions, and did not really want to. His nerves were on edge. He couldn't take it anymore.

With one swift movement of his hand, the Warrior pulled out his diamond sword, immediately pushing the Potion Maker against the nearest wall and plunging the sword up to the hilt into the stone next to Ivor's head.

«Can you just fucking stop threatening me every time? Just shut the fuck up, shut up!» — The Warrior's eyes glittered with fierce rage, such, such intense rage. He had never been so angry at anyone before. Gabriel almost felt like he was going to slit his old friend's throat... Just let him shut up, please, keep him quiet, shut up, shut up, don't talk, don't get in the way, it hurts too much, it's scary, I don't want to hear anything.

The warrior clutched his head with his free hand, suddenly feeling a strong stab of pain, as if someone had hit it with a sword. He was so angry, so angry. Leave him alone, please.

«Why do you.. always.. come to me? Why are you trying to beat the truth out of me? Why not one of the others? An Engineer? A Rogue? Why not them, why the fuck me?!» — the Warrior almost shouted last words, taking a few steps away from Potion Master, still clutching tightly to his curly hair. Want to sleep.

Shaking his head several times, Gabriel tried to calm down. What's the point of asking anything at all? Do something? Anyway, everything will start over one way or another.

The dull headache continued to throb somewhere in the back of his mind. Why does it hurt so much?

Why was he so tired? Tired, tired, tired. Help.

Uncontrollable trembling, like a bucket of cold water, overcame the brunette. What's wrong with him? Why is he shaking so much? Why is he afraid? Want to sleep.

Something nasty got stuck on the walls of his throat. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, stop it!

The hero literally hit the nearest wall, unable to stay on his feet. Throat hurt, lungs burned, and head was spinning. The attempt to stand up and pull himself together not only failed, but also turned out to be a fatal mistake. Suddenly, the Warrior coughed, unable to stop the flow of tears that burst from his eyes. Why does it hurt so much? It seemed as if he was trying to spit out his lungs.

As soon as the coughing fit was over, the man slowly removed his hand from the mouth, realizing the cause of pain. Blood. He just coughed up blood.

So tired.

A new fit of rage seized the Hero's body, from which he instantly hit the nearest wall with terrible force, destroying one block and leaving cracks on the rest. Breathing heavily, the Warrior slowly turned to face the Potion Master, looking even worse than before. Trickles of blood slowly trickled down his chin, dripping onto the blue armor.

«The truth.. you just want to tell the truth?! You're a liar like the rest of us, Ivor! You're not a bit better than the others! You were there during the battle. You were there when we were all arguing, swearing and shouting at each other, and you were there, and you AGREED, just like the rest of us, to keep quiet! You promised you won't tell anyone the truth any more than we did! And now what?! Are you trying to get me to talk?! While you stay white and innocent?!» — Gabriel was literally at the limit, his head was throbbing violently and it seemed to him that he would simply fall and never get up again. He will die so stupidly.. Which time? 785 race. Maybe 823. He stopped counting after the 600th.

The Warrior's furious gaze could scare anyone away, making them think that he was crazy. Maybe it's true.

He doesn't know. He was tired.

This nightmarish, nightmarish headache made the man shed a couple of tears. Let it end, please, please, please.

For a split second, it seemed to him that he was right inside the Storm again. When Jesse saved Petra, not him. He wandered and wandered there, feeling his memories slipping right out of his hands. And then the pain came. Headache. Such a strong, throbbing, dull, disgusting pain. And it was, and was, and was there, tormenting him, making him want to die in the end. At one point, he didn't even remember who he was, how he got there. He just felt the pain. He was breaking down, breaking down with great speed. And no one tried to save him.

After particularly bad races, he was seeing a lot of things. Hallucinations. The doctors said it was schizophrenia, but after the race all the symptoms disappeared. He've just.. seen some things.

Sometimes it seemed to him that his former friends were nearby. That they're there. An Architect, a Rogue, an Engineer and a Potion Master. They were there, they really were. They were silent, they watched, but they were there. Although as soon as he tried to get closer, they left. They disappeared. Even his hallucinations didn't care about him.

For the first time, he was delighted. He was so, so happy, but he also broke down quickly. The Warrior thought they had come for him. That they had finally remembered him! They will help, they will calm him down. Then he thought about it. Why do they always leave? Don't they want to see him? Then he assumed. They're making fun of him. They mock him and his weakness. That he was alone and completely helpless. And then he realized. They are not there. It's not them. It's someone else. They don't exist.

That day, the Warrior began to doubt his own adequacy. Had he really gone mad? Maybe it's all just his nonsense? Or maybe it's hell? Then where are cauldrons of boiling water and Herobrine on the throne? Why is there no one else here? Is he alone? Did he really do something so bad that no one had ever done before, and for that he fell into this endless circle of agony?

He didn't know the answer. He didn't want to know. He wanted it all to stop. It doesn't matter which way.

He have been killing himself so many times. but still came back to the very first day. When he found this stupid medallion. He tried to break it, and there was absolutely no point in it, he just did everything he could, but these 8 years kept repeating themselves. Maybe he really deserved it all.

«Do you really have the nerve to ask if everything is okay with me?» — The Warrior slowly raised his gaze from the floor to the Potion Master — «You abandoned me, you all.» — he again became as empty as before. Once bright blue eyes, shining with joy, and resembling the sky, now seemed to be one continuous emptiness of the opera.

Lifeless.

«You left me alone to die. You, Engineer, Architect, Rogue. And never remembered again. Architect had his little meetings with Engineer. And you're with Rogue. I know you saw each other in Nether. I know you've been talking. But none of you ever thought to find out if I was okay. Even people began to worry. But not you. You didn't care then. You don't care now.» — the Warrior mechanically went for his sword, no longer looking at his former friend and loved one.

He was tired.

He wants to sleep.

Slowly pulling the sword out of the wall, he pointed it at himself.

Maybe he'll get some sleep.

[duchessdepolignaca03]

several sentences Sunday - except its 500 filthy crack words

It wouldn't be a Several Sentences Sunday if I wasn't posting on technically Monday morning, and if it wasn't much longer than several sentences. Thank you for the tag @onthewaytosomewhere @sparklepocalypse @priincebutt @hgejfmw-hgejhsf and @taste-thewaste. I'm not going to tag anyone else because its MONDAY.

I seriously contemplated posting some bullets for my interview assignment just to troll/bore everyone. But after my work computer died, I decided to put my brain to better, less productive uses. And this is what happened to answer the question: What if Alex is a journalist who is tasked with confirming a scoop that Prince Henry is gay as a maypole?

It's 500 words. I don't know if there's more to this. Probably not. So I'm going to post it here and decide whether to post it on A03 later.

Warning: EXPLICIT and Spicy! This is the spiritual sequel to "Pull It, Sir, Prize" I suppose, with far less gloriously unhinged vocabulary.

This is the story of how Alex Claremont-Diaz found himself doing a Grand Plie at the end of a kitchen island in Kensington Palace, eating the deliciously majestic ass of His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Wales. 

HRH is making the most obscene sounds as he fellates a cornetto, licking it from cone tip to the top of the rapidly disappearing mound of strawberry ice cream. Alex watches from his vantage view between the Prince’s legs, though his view is partially obscured by the enormity of the Prince’s cock. His Royal Cock (HRC, for short), by the way, is wet with precum and Alex’s saliva from when Alex was the one doing the fellating. The HRC, not the cornetto - the latter of which is objectively less delicious than the former.

Alex’s own WCC (Working Class Cock), is sadly helpless and lacking for friction besides the kiss of the cold marble. It twitches when HRH starts lewdly licking the cornetto drippings from his unexpectedly and hornifingly muscular forearm. Alex squeezes his glutes to steady himself, but they are burning with effort, especially as they are already slightly sore from the brutal spanking HRH had given him in the backseat of his opulent Rolls-Royce. 

Better speed this up, he thinks, before he comes untouched or his knees and glutes give out from the uncomfortable position. He presses down on HRH’s prostate with his finger as he licks broad stripes with the flat of his tongue along HRH’s perineum, giving him some dizzying internal and external stimulation.  He’d found the Royal P-Spot a while ago, but stimulated it sparingly out of a desire not to see the cornetto flung into his hair by the overly aroused Prince. 

It’s clear he’s made the right call when the cornetto does get flung across the room as HRH’s orgasm rips through him, HRH shouting obscenities that only makes Alex work harder, like the sadist he is. When he’s come down enough, HRH wipes the cum off his own belly with the flat of his palm, then shoves that hand through Alex’s curls, gripping tightly and pulling Alex up to face him. Rude. And filthy. Turns out Alex liked that.

“So, does this confirm you’re gay then?” Alex asks, grinning cockily. How HRH still manages to look imperious is beyond him, especially when he barely seems able to catch his breath. Alex takes a moment to wipe his face with a wet-wipe and rinse out his mouth with some whitewash. They learned from Round Two. Breath smelling minty fresh, he walks to the other end of the kitchen island to place an upside down kiss on HRH’s “dictionary definition of dick-sucking” lips. 

“I’m still not sure. I think I’ll need at least four more go-rounds to make sure before we put it on the record.”  “Four rounds? Let’s make it five. For the sake of journalistic integrity.” “Well, in that case, if it’s for the sake of journalistic integrity, we should make it at least ten sex sessions, and two romantic dates. We’re going to get you that Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Journalism, baby.” 

“Deal.”

[aludraslytherin]

His arm was making him hurt. It was burning. Making him feel sick. He could feel his skin, his cells, his whole being protest against the inky dark magic being forcefully put on his arm.

He wanted to die. To disappear and never come back. He wanted to make them pay for it, but most of all, he was scared.

It was time for him to go back to Hogwarts. He would have to face Dorcas. Pandora. He was scared they won't understand. He has no idea how will he be able to function if they turn their back to him, although he would understand if they did.

But worst of all. He will have to face James. How is he going to face him? He is so pure, so kind, so gunt wrenchingly nice and loving. Regulus knows that James said that he will always love him, always be here for him.

But will he? Will he bend his morals just for him? Is he really going to taint his soul with Regulus Black's madness?

He is doubting it. He doesn't mind, he doesn't really care. (That's a lie, he cares so much. But lying to himself is easier then to accept the reality). James is too good. If he break up with him, Regulus will understand. Will accept it.

He loves James with his whole being. He knows that breaking up will be the safest option. He would be cursed ten thousands time before he'll let anything happen to his love. So be it.

"Hey love." Greeted James as Regulus entered in the Come and Go room. He was even more afraid as he just confronted Dorcas and Pandora. Thankfully they understood, but their reaction when they saw it will feed his nightmare for a whole months, at the very least. "I missed you Reg."

They hugged, tightly. When James noticed how bad Regulus was shaking, he tightened his embrace again.

"I missed you too Jamie." Muttered the smaller teen, who was holding James like he was a piece of wood in an angry ocean, like he was the last string helping him to stay out of the water.

"Are you okay? What happened?" His tone shifted, from sweet and caring, to concerned and angry. "What have they done to you? Tell me, please."

Wanting this to get over with as soon as possible, he let go of his boyfriend, and, taking a deep breath in, rolled up his sleeve carefully, showing that hideous Dark Mark staining his skin, and just seeing it uncovered was enough to make it throb, to make him ill.

Putting his other hand down, he rolled it into a fist, trying to hold on his tears, but no matter how hard he was trying, the panic attack was creeping through his body, and his iron grip on his emotions started to fade.

He distantly heard James gasp, and he was getting ready to be cussed out, yelled at, when instead James carefully rolled his sleeve back into it's place, and pulled him back into a hug.

"Shhh... There is no need to panic alright?" His said soflty, strocking Regulus back in a slow, steady pace for him to match his breathing too. After a long moment, the Slytherin calmed down. "Okay, I wil ask just two questions alright?"

Regulus nodded, and James dried his tears with his thumbs as he was cupping his face with his hands.

"Did you take it voluntarely?"

"No! No I didn't James I promis-" Regulus started to panic again.

"Hey, calm down, it's okay." Cut James. "So they forced you to take it?" His boyfriend nodded, once again, biting his lips. "Alright then. It was not your fault. I don't hate you for it baby. Actually, thank you for trusting me. I know it was hard for you. I'm proud of you love."

He then kissed his forehead.

Damn, Regulus thought. I guess I'll have to obliviate him...

His heart was bleeing, and he wanted to die. Because he had to keep James safe. And staying together would just endanger him more.

[bardofavon]

not to be controversial bc I know this is like…not in line with shifting opinions on fanfic comment culture but if there’s a glaring typo in my work I will NOT be offended by pointing it out. if ao3 fucks up the formatting…I will also not be offended by having this pointed out…

‘looking forward to the next update’ and ‘I hope you update soon!’ are different vibes than a demand, and should be read in good faith because a reader is finding their way to tell you how much they love it. I will not be mad at this.

‘I don’t usually like this ship but this fic made me feel something’ is also incredibly high praise. I’m not going to get mad at this.

even ‘I love this fic but I’m curious about why you made [x] choice’ is just another way a reader is engaging in and putting thought into your work.

I just feel like a lot of authors take any comment that’s not perfectly articulated glowing praise in the exact manner they’re hoping to receive it in bad faith.

fic engagement has been dropping across the board over the last several years, and yes it’s frustrating but it isn’t as though I can’t see how it happens. comment anxiety can be a real thing. the last thing anyone wants to do is offend an author they love, and that means sometimes people default to silence.

idk where I’m going with this I guess aside from saying unless a comment is outright attacking me I’m never going to get mad at it, and I think a lot of authors should feel the same way. ESPECIALLY TYPOS PLZ GOD POINT OUT MY TYPOS.

[iamanartichoke]

I don't know who needs to hear this, but as a creator -

I am fine with "the audience" -

downloading my fics

printing my fics

copy/pasting or screenshotting my fics

sharing your saved copy of my fics with anyone else who might want them in the unlikely but never impossible case that my fics are no longer available on ao3

making a book of my fic(s) and running your fingers across the pages while lovingly whispering my precioussss

doing these things with anything I create for fandom, such as meta, headcanons, au nonsense like 'texts from the brodinsons,' etc

I am not fine with "the audience"

doing any of the above with the purpose/intent of plagiarizing my work or passing it off as their own in any capacity

feeding my work into ai for any reason whatsoever

Save the fandom things. Preserve the fandom things. Respect the fandom things.

Enjoy the fandom things.

[introspectivememories]

was it casual when i sat in your lap in public? was it casual when i said "recently my heart is crying because you're leaving"? was it casual when we decided how your last name would fit with mine? ("yuki tsunoda-gasly" / "no tsunoda, only gasly" / "yuki gasly?") was it casual when we sang adele's "someone like you" together at your going away party? was it casual when i knew it was you just by touching your ass? was it casual when i knew it was you by smell alone? was it casual when "will you miss me?" / "for 2-3 minutes maybe" / "i'll take that. even if it's just 2-3 minutes, i'll take that"? was it casual when that bus was completely empty and we still sat right next to each other, all the way in the back? was it casual when i picked you up multiple times so you could dunk a basketball? was it casual when i begged to come over to your house multiple time and then you finally let me and we cooked fried rice together? was it casual when we played christmas twister together and i said "your big eggplant is touching my ass"? was it casual when we were pressed up against each other on a scooter going two miles per hour? was it casual when-

[sanguinesmi1e]

A Round Door Like a Porthole, Lazarus Green Pt. 1 (you're here) Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4

Wayne Enterprises didn’t really need a small business specializing in “ecto-weapons” invented by self-purported ghost hunters, but S.T.A.R. Labs tipped Lucius Fox off that Lex Luthor was trying to buy an obscure little company in Illinois, and thwarting Luthor was always worthwhile. Now Tim just had to figure out what to do with all the equipment and the concerningly large arsenal of guns and things that looked like normal household items but seemed to have other, horrific purposes. He would have laughed at the way they slapped “Fenton” in front of every invention name (do ghost hunters really need a Fenton thermos? Won’t a normal thermos keep their coffee hot just as well? Are ghosts like trout, to be caught with a Fenton Ghost Fisher which just looks like a normal fishing rod but glow-in-the-dark. And what the fuck even is a Fenton Peeler!?), but he thought with some chagrin about the batarangs, batmobile, and everything else that had “bat” as a prefix in the batcave. 

However, of all the things Tim hadn’t expected to find when he flew out to do an inventory of assets after they bought the business sight-unseen, a portal generating a Lazarus Pit in gaseous form was probably at the top of his list. He didn’t even know that Lazarus water could change states from a liquid to a gas like that. Maybe there actually was something to the whole ghost thing. He supposed that it made sense for ghosts to exist, after all Deadman was part of Justice League Dark. Speaking of. . . he should see if Bruce could call in someone from JLD to assess things. He was feeling decidedly out of his depth.

John Constantine did not like to consult for mega corporations like Wayne Enterprises, but Batman had specifically requested he go check something out and he figured, where's the harm? 

There. 

There’s the harm. 

It turned out the “thing” he’d been called in to look at is a machine that can tear open a stable portal into the Infinite Realms. That is not something that should be possible. That is not something technology should be capable of achieving. That is definitely not something that should exist. Bloody hell, what had the Bats roped him into!?

This really should have been Zatana’s job. Or Deadman’s. Hell, Raven or Secret would be preferable. Because John would prefer not to be dealing with this. In fact, he would prefer to be back in literal Hell than deal with the crazy shit in the Infinite Realms. Could John handle demons, archangels, and even gods? Yeah. He can bind or exorcize most supernatural threats. Does that mean he relishes the idea of going toe to toe with heavy hitters from the Infinite Realms? Absolutely not. 

Some beings who lived there were just little blob ghosts made from ectoplasm and emotion. Some were the restless undead who could not or would not cross over to their afterlives. And some were the embodiments of concepts like nature, destructive weather, and dreams. He wasn’t sure where Death fit into the Realms, whether she ruled or visited, or if it was actually just an extension of her, but he didn’t really want to find out. There were many things John could defeat. Death wasn’t one of them. And now he was looking at a portal into a realm where the living were not meant to be. 

Danny hadn’t returned to Fenton Works since graduating high school. It turned out that he was less anxious when he was not living with people who fantasized about “tearing him apart molecule by molecule” and thought that discussing their plans to dissect him (although he maintained that it would be a vivisection since he’s only half dead) made for fascinating dinner conversation. Who would have thought that his constant stress, anxiety, and insomnia were caused by environmental factors? He’d been unpacking things with a very nice therapist his sister helped him find, and seen great improvements in his mental health. It really helped that she was dead too, and unlike Spectra she didn’t feed off the misery of her patients.

Danny hadn’t intended to ever return to Fenton Works, but when Jazz told him that Jack and Maddie sold their life's work to Wayne Enterprises and a multibillionaire playboy was about to have unfettered access to the Ghost Zone, he was. . . concerned. To say the least. And that was why he was in the middle of doing some light sabotage when Tim Drake-Wayne and a guy in a trenchcoat who reeked of cigarette smoke entered the basement lab. It’s why he was hiding under the Specter Speeder removing the ecto-engine, and there to overhear the conversation that followed.

“So, am I right in thinking that’s a Lazarus Pit?” Tim asked Constantine.

The older man stared at the portal, then at Tim, then at the portal for an uncomfortably long time. Then he pulled out a flask and drained half its contents before saying, “Yes and no. That is basically the same substance as the pits, but I think that this does something else entirely. It seems like this machine basically functions as a summoning circle, but instead of pulling one entity from one side to the other, this is just an open doorway that is perpetually pulling in anything or anyone who gets within its sphere of influence.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good thing, John.”

“It’s really not,” 

“So what does that mean, is it like a blown hatch in space causing rapid depressurization?” Tim felt a little ill at the thought. “What is it even pulling into our world?”

“No, no. Nothing so dramatic as that. It’s more like, hm, so the way summoning circles work is they invite or compel a specific entity to manifest, by basically making a one-way magical portal for them. This portal is kinda like an invitational summoning, which entices, but doesn’t force anyone to enter. Usually a summoning will have a purpose though, and the being you summon will be offered a deal. If this is doing what I think it is and pulling citizens of the Infinite Realms through and leaving them on this side without a contract or direction, they’re probably getting pretty frustrated and causing havoc. It’s like offering someone a job in another country so they have to get a visa and uproot everything, only to get off the plane and find an empty office, no housing, and no paycheck.” John lit up a cigarette and took a drag.

Tim wrinkled his nose, but knew from long experience that it wasn’t worth it to argue about American tobacco restrictions in the workplace with Constantine, especially while the man was doing him a favor. Also, the man looked like he really needed either a cigarette or another drink, and he’d prefer second hand smoke to a drunk sorcerer. “So then why hasn’t this town been overrun by these beings from the Infinite Realms?”

“Good question kid, but what I really want to know is how is this portal staying open? Really, how was it opened in the first place is the most pressing issue.” John mused.

Tim had already located the blueprints for the portal while waiting for Constantine, but either the Fentons had intentionally falsified the documents to seem plausible just long enough to make off with the money, or he just didn’t understand enough of the interaction between physics and the occult to comprehend how the portal could possibly function. 

He flipped back through the blueprints while the blond man sat cross legged in front of the swirling green portal and his low, distracted mutterings took on the cadence of a chant. The curl of smoke from his lit cigarette unfurled into some kind of spell array, and began to glow. Huh, maybe Tim shouldn't be too quick to judge him for tobacco misuse. Tim triple checked the flat file for any more information about the portal, and came up empty handed.

John, meanwhile, kept chanting as the magical array grew and spread to encompass the entire entrance to the portal. At last he stopped speaking and stood up, stepping back to double check his work. “Alright, Drake. You might wanna close your eyes for this one. It’s gonna be bright,” he said, popping his cigarette back between his lips. Then he stepped forward and blew a mouthful of smoke on the center of the array. The smoke caught against the softly glowing lines, pushing them until they floated back and collided with the nebulous green swirls and, despite Tim closing his eyes, flashed so incandescently white he could see them through his eyelids.

“OW! Fuck!!” John clutched his face, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’m doubling my consulting fee,” he grumbled under his breath.

“You alright?” Tim asked, blinking spots out of his vision.

“Yeah, yeah. Just give me a sec.” He too was blinking now. “That was not supposed to be so bright.”

“I’m assuming it worked though.”

“It had bloody well better ’ave worked.” The older man squinted at the slightly dimmer lines which still shone painfully bright against the green. “Oh. Yeah, that worked. Fuck. . .”

“What?” Tim looked on in alarm as Constantine pressed a hand over his mouth. 

“Oh man. What wanker did you say created this portal?”

“Presumably Drs. Madeline and Jack Fenton. Why?” He drew the last syllable out skeptically. 

“Because, they opened this portal with a child sacrifice, and bound his death and all the lost life potential to their bloody machine to create a perpetual gateway to the Infinite Realms.”

[vantablackdraws]

real sleepy hours

bonuses:

[thevoidstaredback]

Enough Caffeine to Kill an Elephant

Listen. It was an accident. He didn't mean to! It just kinda happened.

So maybe he brought a drink with enough caffeine in it to kill an elephant within a few minutes, and maybe he forgot to put the sleeve on his cup so he could tell it apart from the others, but it's not his fault! He didn't think anyone else was going to have the exact same Yeti cup as him! It's not like he'd seen any of the others carry one before. Besides, he worked with superheros. They should be smart enough to check before drinking someone else's drink.

Danny had been summoned by the Justice League Dark a few years back in order to help with a world ending crisis and he just didn't leave. It's not like he could go anywhere anyway. His ghost half hadn't grown past fourteen and his human half had stopped visibly aging at eighteen. He'd had to leave town as Danny Fenton, but he'd stayed in Amity Park as Danny Phantom. When his parents died of old age, thank god, he'd closed down the portal, stuck around for a few more years, before traveling the world as Danny Fenton.

Anyway, he'd taken up residence in the House of Mysteries after the JLD had summoned him. Constantine, at first, had been wary, but he and the rest of the JLD had grown to accept him. He was an honorary member of the team.

At some point, just after Robin had become Red Robin, Danny had been introduced to the Justice League. He liked those guys, too, and worked with them sometimes. Though, he usually only went to bug them.

Red Robin had been very interested in the fact that his was fourteen and working with grown heros, like he was one to talk, but Danny hadn't explained anything other than saying that he had died and come back. The following conversation was an interesting one that lead to Danny knowing that Nightwing was the Batman he'd met and that Batman was lost somewhere. He'd confirmed that the man was not dead, but he hadn't offered to help look for him. He probably should have, in retrospect.

Back on topic! Everyone in the JLD knew not to touch Danny's drink. They'd all seen him make it before and had been horrified on varying degrees. It's not like it could kill him. He's already half dead! So long as he only drank this specific brew as Phantom, he'd be fine.

The Justice League, apparently, didn't get the memo. He blames Constantine because Zatanna and Raven can do no wrong. No, John, he's not biased.

The point is, Red Robin just had a sip of Danny's drink. The horror he now felt was akin to the fear he held when he'd told his parents he was Phantom. (An interaction that had gone very well, thank you very much.)

Danny knew the exact moment that the vigilante realized he grabbed the wrong drink. His eyes widened to an astonishing degree, and, if he'd been able to seen his eyes behind the mask, Danny knew that the man's pupils would've completely overtaken the irises. His hands started shaking, too. Oh, no. The man's already addicted to hellish amounts of coffee. This is only going to make it worse!

Quickly, and without drawing any attention, thank the Ancients, Danny rushed over. "You, um, you okay, man?" Obviously not, but he tends to talk when he's anxious and he was certainly anxious right now. He could've possibly just killed a man via poison!

"What the fuck is in this coffee?" Red Robin asked, going to take another sip.

Danny pulled the Yeti from his hand and gave him the proper one. "Enough caffeine to kill an elephant."

"Obviously not, seeing as I'm still alive."

"Yeah, I can't tell if that's a good thing or not."

"Excuse me?"

"I-I mean-! I didn't-! You know what I mean." Caffeine is poisonous in excess, and his drink was way beyond excess, but it's the only thing that works for him as a ghost! Superpowered metabolism and all that.

"Do I?" The laugh in his voice answered for him. He took a sip from his drink and frowned at it. "I don't think any coffee will ever be enough again."

"And that's my cue to get my drink very far away from you." Danny turned, fully intent on moving to the other side of the room. Besides, the meeting was going to start as soon as the Flash and Kid Flash arrived, which would be soon. Something about one of their Rouges getting out?

"What?" Red Robin asked, "Why?" If he was a little desperate to get another sip of that coffee, he'd rather not acknowledge it.

"Because you don't need anymore lethal coffee," he muttered, "The sip you took will already keep you awake for three days at least, and it probably jump started an addiction. Best to stop it now. Besides, I need to go have my crisis on how the hell you're still alive after even a sip of this stuff."

"Again, rude." The bird themed vigilante crossed his arms as best he could while holding his cup. "If it's so dangerous, why do you drink it?"

Danny took a deliberate sip as he locked eyes with the technically younger man. "I'm dead. I don't need to worry about my heart stopping or having a seizure."

"Excuses."

"No, it's not 'excuses'. I'm saving your life."

"You're a kid. If I can't have that coffee, then you shouldn't be having it."

"First, I'm older than you. Second, I already told you: I'm dead. This isn't going to hurt me. Third, you can't tell me what to do."

"There's no way you're older than me. You're like, ten."

"I'm thirty-eight!" He balked, "I only look fourteen because I died when I was fourteen. We've been over this."

Neither noticed the entire Justice League looking at them. The two they were waiting on had arrived a few minutes ago and everyone was ready to start the meeting, but they'd been distracted by the two's conversation. Was that true? Had Phantom really died so young? They'd all been made aware he was not living, but they didn't think he'd died so young! Though, that was probably the denial speaking.

The Justice League Dark had been fully aware of this and didn't really bat an eye. Though, someone should probably get this meeting started. A potentially world ending threat was the topic, and that was a pretty important thing to discuss.

Captain Marvel was the first to pull himself together, though that was only after Atlas and Zeus had mentally slapped him out of his stupur. "As, ah, riveting as this conversation is," he stepped between the two boys- er, boy and man? "we really need to start this meeting."

Batman did not clear his throat because he'd not lost his voice in the first place. "He's right. Everyone take your seats."

Storyboard Part 2

[californiatowhee]

old fashioneds and tipsy daydreaming

bonus: the subsequent drunk texting

extra bonus, if you made it this far: what happens next, in fic form (spoiler: Phoenix and Miles kiss)

Behavioral Phenomenon | Phoenix/Edgeworth | 2.5k

[swordsmans]

today on ao3 tips, here's a quick follow up to this post about the ao3 "mark for later"/TBR/save for later function! ive seen some stuff going around lately lamenting that there's no easy way to filter out "character x reader" or "character x OC" fics from search results, but there absolutely is!

very quick and simple fix, just add "-reader" and/or "-original*" to the "search within results" bar (not "other tags to exclude", which might be where the confusion is coming from). it looks like this:

here is what it looks like with both filtered out:

the "*" after original is an indicator for the filters to catch the "original female--", "original male--", and "original character" tags, which is why is should be included! as a caveat, this also removes anything that has the word "original" in the summary or tags, so do be aware of that. (meaning this will also grab anything that has original characters tagged even if they AREN'T in a pairing, plus anything that uses the word "original" in the normal sense)

also, || designates "OR" for the filter search, so it is optional (and can be replaced with just a simple space) but i like to include it to be extra sure. i have checked and both results work.

anyway, happy reading, everyone!

[sarasade]

One of the most generally useful things to come out of Hbomberguy's plagiarism video and Todd in the Shadows' similar video on misinformation is how they bring transparency to the internet phenomenon of "I made up a guy to get mad at".

Seriously, I've seen people make up a lot of stupid shit on the internet over the years and it's often just a manipulative attempt to paint a group of marginalized people in a bad light.

That's the TL;DR version of this post. 

ANYWAY here is the long version

Those videos are mostly about James Somerton's plagiarism of other queer people's work. However I'd like to talk about that 20-30% of Somerton's original writing- and oh boy. It's mostly about complaining about White Straight Women and misgendering well-known trans creators such as Rebecca Sugar and calling Becky Albertalli a straight woman while it's pretty common knowledge that she was forced to out herself as bi because she received so much harassment over "being a cishet woman who appropriates LGBT+ stories".

One thing that irks me especially is how in his Killing Stalking and Gay Shipping videos Somerton brings up how straight women/ teen girl shippers exploit gay men for their personal sexual fantasies. This gets brought up several times in his videos.

Being all up and arms about Somerton being a "White Cis Gay Who Hates Women and Queer People tm" is not that useful because the kind of rhetoric he's using is extremely common in fandom and LGBT+ spaces on Tumblr, TikTok and Twitter. We really don't need to bring Somerton's identity to this since he is in no way an unique example.

It's hypocritical to make this about an individual person when I've seen A TON of posts, tweets and videos where queer people talk about these Sinister Straight Women who are supposedly out there fetishizing and exploiting queer men. It's pretty clear to me that this is just an excuse to shit on women and queer people for having any sexual interests. At worst these comments are spreading misinformation about BL, a form of media that has been excessively studied by both Asian feminists and Asian queer women.

This all sounds really familiar and I think it's good that people are calling it out as what it is: misogyny and transphobia. I'd also point out the potentially racist motives behind being this hypervigilant about Asian media.

People can absolutely be misogynist regardless of gender or orientation. I really don't know why we need to create some kind of made up enemy to get mad at. I actually think it's almost sinister how "anti-fujoshi" people call Slash shippers and fujoshi misogynists or claim that they have internalised misogyny while being dismissive about women's interests and creative pursuits under Japanese obscenity laws, China's censorship, book bans in American schools and various other disadvances that are part of being a queer and/or female creator.

I think we shouldn't be naive about the bad faith actors who want to turn queer people against each other. For example Fujoshi.info mentions anti-gender (TERF, GC etc) movement using this kind of rhetoric as well.

Anyway if you want to read more:

- about the false info around BL fandom fujoshi.info

-There is the scholar Thomas Baudinette who studies gay media in Japan. Here is a podcast with him and the scholar Khursten Santos

-James Welker is a BL scholar as well. Here is a podcast interview about the new international BL article collection he edited.

-I've already talked about this Youtube channel by KrisPNatz and his great Killing Stalking video that actually engages with the themes of the manhwa

- There is also HR Coleman's thesis DO NOT FEED THE FETISHIZERS: BOYS LOVE FANS RESISTANCE AND CHALLENGE OF PERCEIVED REPUTATION where she interviews 36 BL fans and actually breaks down why fetishization has become such a huge talking point in the fandom discourse. Spoilers, it's mostly about young queer people and women being worried that they will get judged and pathologized for their interest in anything sexual.

-Great podcast about Danmei and censorship with Liang Ge

[sleepywinchesters]

"Hey, babe, grab me another cookie?" Buck asked when Tommy stood to clear his plate.

"As you wish," Tommy replied.

Chim laughed, earning him a blank stare from both his wife and brother and law.

"The Princess Bride? As you wish? Guys?" Chim asked, when neither provided the requisite chuckle the reference required.

Tommy turned from the counter where he was poking through the cookies, trying to find the cranberry white chocolate he'd spotted earlier, and mentally claimed for dessert. Buck's oatmeal chocolate chip already set aside on a napkin.

"Neither of us have any idea what you're talking about, Chim," Buck said, after a long moment.

"The movie?"

"I think it was a book first, actually," Tommy said.

"The movie," Chim continued, ignoring him. "Dread Pirate Roberts? Princess Buttercup? Death cannot delay true love? Have you not understood all my mostly dead references?"

"That's a reference?" Buck asked.

"Maddie, my love, did you think I was just complimenting your breasts this entire time?"

Buck made a face.

"Yes, I did," Maddie said, starting to look a little offended.

"And they are perfect, of course. I'd show you if we didn't have company, however-"

"Also a reference to, what was it?" Maddie said.

"The Princess Bride," Tommy said. "ROUSes? Six fingered man? You killed my father prepare to die? None of this is ringing a bell?"

"No," Buck said.

"Howie, how have they never seen The Princess Bride."

"That is a question I have been asking myself for 5 years, Tommy. I still haven't gotten an answer."

"Evan, what were you even doing in high school if not watching these classics?" Tommy asked, returning to the table, cookie in hand.

"Having sex."

"Maddie?"

"Keeping my little brother from accidentally killing himself," she said.

"Thanks for that, by the way," Tommy said around a mouthful of cookie. "I quite like him."

"Love you too, babe," Buck said, with a soft smile.

"Well, before you two get started on that, we have to rectify this frankly atrocious gap in your pop culture knowledge."

It was not the first time Buck and Maddie had been subjected to an impromptu movie night, as their friends discovered gaps. Buck automatically turned to Tommy, eyes wide.

"Oh don't give me that look, Evan. It's movie time," Tommy said with a smile. He reached across the table to take Buck's hand. "I don't know if I'd go so far as to call it atrocious, but you'll love it. I promise."

Buck groaned, Maddie echoed him.

"Fine," Maddie said. "But we aren't sharing the rest of the cookies."

@samwellwinchesterthebrave @honestlydarkprincess @monsterrae1

@desert--moonchild @bibuckkinard @buddiekinard @judesstfrancis @ohlookitsthearkhamknight @rdng1230 @diazsdimples As always let me know if you want added/removed