#sorry to post a hot take

[herebecritters]

Please understand that, more often than not, works of fiction are a fictional exploration of concepts and ideas rather than a declaration of morality

[mamawasatesttube]

i still can't believe that "you should read comic books in the comic book fandom" is somehow some kind of spicy hot take tbh. comics are cool and some of them have my best friend superman in them. and if that's not enough they even have lois lane. what's not clicking

[charcubed]

There's one specific aspect of Deadpool & Wolverine that's important in relation to the queerness of Wade/Logan:

The fact that Vanessa isn't single.

I'm not kidding lol

Doesn't seem like people are talking about this so I'm going to be the one to say it I guess!

So… beyond trying to save his world / family, Wade's (flimsy) motivation is indeed partially motivated by Vanessa – or more specifically by things she said to him during their break up. He wants to figure out how he matters or how he can be a hero without being an Avenger, etc.

Shitty as it is that Vanessa is relegated to being a two-dimensional motivation mouthpiece… She and Wade didn't just break up; they tell us immediately that she's seeing another guy. By my memory, Wade never disrespects that, not even jokingly. And the plot isn't framed as a quest to ~win back the girl~ either.

The end scene underlines this too, where [SPOILER] he says he did it for her even if she doesn't want him or whatever the line is. Their little hand touch isn't really a romantic rekindling.

So, what am I getting at?

This all gives weight to Wade's mischievous flirting and (later) built connection with Logan.

If Wade and Vanessa were framed as "taking a break," or if she was still single and he was trying to win her back, the queerness with Logan wouldn't work quite as well. There'd be more room to claim it's an unserious joke.

But Vanessa's moved on.

Wade, taking LOGAN home, did too.

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

Big clockwork fan here. I'm begging you. Make him hot. Pretty please!?!?!?!

boo wdym?? WDYM BOO HE IS ALREADY HOT

but also like lol thanks for thinking that i could/somehow managed to draw CW hot, i guess???

here have some doodles of him haha

i dunno what is it about him, but nowadays thinking about CW activates some sort of sleeper agent desire to actually try and draw him attractive

i think it stems from early days on DA during dp era and seeing people draw him cool and thinking i wanna do that but also having no ability to do that whatsoever lol

but now i somewhat can ;) so thats nice

[qiu-yan]

thoughts

also wasn't sure what to do with the lan simp brothers so i guess they can sit on the side

[makiswirl]

he's infodumping:)

[indistinctchatt3r]

Sol and Jecki have the dynamic of Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan if Qui-Gon mildly cared about the code and/or the wellbeing of children

[genericpuff]

idk who needs to hear this but if you're a writer looking for a webcomic artist and the best offer you can come up with is a 50/50 split "after gaining revenue", then that's literally asking for free work just with extra steps.

like first of all (and i'm sure people are gonna fight me on this) writing a webcomic and drawing a webcomic is not a 50/50 split, a scene that took you a half hour to write will take them hours to draw so it's literally more like 30/70

but also even IF your comic gains revenue, it's still not gonna pay for that labor, there are comic projects out there that have been going on for upwards of 10 years and beyond who are still maybe only making like $30/month on their patreon... and you only wanna pay them $15 of that?

please just consider writing a novel or short stories, or doing tabletop campaigns, or pitching scripts to comic publishers, or learning to draw yourself (even if you're bad at it! webcomics are allowed to grow and evolve in their art!), or doing RP, or doing anything that will get your ideas and stories out there without being at the expense of a whole ass other human being doing the brunt of the labor for free

no matter how dedicated you are to an idea or how convinced you are that it's truly a unique one that's worth working on, none of that will pay for the labor and time and efforts of people who you're asking to work for free to make your dream a reality. They have their own dreams that they're working on too.

[cuubism]

literally just smut, dreamling, prince/knight dynamic, uh. lowkey virginity kink. lowkey degradation kink. yeah.

--

The war camp is dark, the tent only barely lit by a few scant candles, but Hob is wide awake.

It had been a fantastically successful battle, that day. Much needed after a string of losses. They’d absolutely destroyed the enemy, Hob’s only just managed to clean most of the blood off himself—and he’s still riding that high hours later, blood pumping, restless energy racing as he occupies himself cleaning his armor and his sword.

Technically, he could get someone else to do these menial tasks. He’s a knight, he’s of high enough rank to request it. But Hob’s always believed a man should tend to his own weapons, should know every piece of them. It’s the same reason he takes care of his own horse, and his own tack.

Besides, the repetitive motion of the cleaning is taking the edge off.

There’s another thing that can cut the edge of the battle high.

Sex.

How fortunate, then, that Hob is on good terms with so many of the working ladies of the camp.

Not that it’s really so hard to be on good terms. The bar is so low that simply not behaving like a total dick seems to do the trick—but the fact remains that when Hob calls for one of the messenger boys who hang around outside to send for whoever’s working that night, he knows someone will come by. He pays them well, he gets along with most everyone, and it’s really not that hard to get one’s prick wet under those circumstances.

He’s just finished oiling the final leather straps on his armor, is hanging it up to await the next fight, when he hears the entrance flap of the tent, to his back, swish open and shut again. The rush of cool night air into the warm, close space.

“Be right with you, luv,” he calls, tying off the last strap, and a deep, sonorous voice responds—

“Please, take your time, Ser Gadling.”

Hob whirls around, nearly falls over like a buffoon he goes so fast. Standing there is not one of the working girls he’s come to know. It is, in fact, Prince fucking Morpheus, dark hair tousled by the wind, wrapped in a long velvet cloak that sparkles like stardust where the light catches it.

“My prince,” Hob stammers, trying to decide whether he’s meant to bow and managing only a dip of the head. It’s Prince Morpheus’s fault, this awkwardness, Hob would have managed with perfect politeness the sudden arrival of one of his siblings, or even the King himself. It’s only Morpheus that fells him so. “I—”

“—called for a whore?” Morpheus finishes, quirking a brow. Hob can only describe the look in his eyes as mischievous.

Anything Hob might have possibly managed to say is derailed by the rush of interest to his dick. That look, that phrase in Morpheus’s pretty, proper mouth— and what is he implying—?

“That’s… not the word I’d use,” Hob finally manages, throat tight. “Did. Did you need something, my prince?”

“As I’ve said,” repeats Morpheus, taking a fluid step closer to him. And he’s— he’s fucking barefoot in the grass. Lord have mercy. “You called for a whore.”

Hob should step back. Instead he’s rooted to the spot. Paralyzed by a swirling mix of fear and arousal. “That’s not— you’re not—”

Morpheus keeps advancing on him, liquid and predatory. The deep vee of his robe suggests he’s wearing nothing underneath. He’s got some kind of glitter under his eyes. And he’s— he’s so beautiful. Hob has always thought so, especially on that one blessed night when—

“Do you think me not a whore?” says Morpheus. He says it with allure, almost pride, not shame. “Do you think, my knight, that I have never slunk into some lord’s bed to steal secrets? That I have never used my body to seal an alliance, when my words were not sufficient?”

Hob should be horrified at the thought of his prince debased so. Instead, the image of Morpheus on his knees flashes through his mind, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from whining. “That’s not— the same,” he manages.

“Is it not?” Hob’s ankles hit his bedroll and he trips back, falling on his ass and bracing himself on his elbows, and Morpheus follows him, crawling up Hob’s body in a long, sinuous movement, the velvet of his robe soft wherever it touches his skin. “People can make sex their trade for coin, but it is different when I offer myself up in exchange for goods or laws or partnerships?”

If that’s all the case, Hob should find out what Morpheus wants with him now. Instead he asks, breathless, taken in by Morpheus’s eyes, “What did you trade for, then, my prince?” Maybe Hob doesn’t care what Morpheus wants with him. Maybe he only cares that Morpheus wants him. “When you let a foreign king bed you, did you use your mouth?” He touches Morpheus’s lips with his fingertips, and Morpheus smiles, sharp and pleased. “Or did you let him fuck you?”

The thought is as jealousy-inducing as it is arousing. Hob has no right to be jealous about his prince. But.

“What I needed to,” says Morpheus. “I have learned how to bait my lures. Many kings, I have learned, like to ruin pretty young men. Do you know—” he taps a fingertip along Hob’s lips “—how many times I have ‘sold’ my virginity? Played the hapless youth desperate for an older man to teach him, to use him?”

Fuck. Fucking hell.

“And did you learn?” Hob asks, hyperfocused on every point where their bodies are touching.

Morpheus tilts his head at him, suddenly all innocence. “Learn what?”

And, well. He does know how to bait his lures, it turns out. Even knowing he’s sinking his mouth onto a hook, Hob growls and flips them, pushing Morpheus down into the sheets. Morpheus lets out a startled breath that Hob’s pretty sure is affected but still succeeds in sending a thrill through him, and a powerful sense—careful, delicate, don’t hurt him. Even though the small part of Hob’s brain that’s still checked in to reason knows well that Morpheus is the one truly in control of whatever’s going on here.

“Should I teach you, then?” he asks, dragging a hand through Morpheus’s hair— so soft. “Show you how good I can make you feel?”

“Please,” Morpheus breathes, wrapping a delicate hand around the back of his neck. Hob really hopes he isn’t going to get drawn and quartered for this. Might be worth it, though. He doesn’t want to die, but if there were a way to go… “Hob, please.”

Fuck, his name in that wanting mouth.

“Got my mouth on you last time,” he muses, the sense memory of Morpheus’s prick on his tongue rushing through him, the hard press of the palace flagstones on his knees, “think I can show you something new, now.”

“I defer to your experience,” Morpheus breathes, as Hob pulls open his heavy velvet robe. As he’d thought, Morpheus isn’t wearing anything under it, and the thought of him walking through the camp like that to get here makes Hob want to bite something. Morpheus makes him so base and irrational.

Hob hadn’t gotten nearly this far last time. Had simply pulled open the ties on Morpheus’s breeches, let his prince tug on his hair as Hob took him in his mouth. Now, he has Morpheus fully unveiled to him, like a gift, like an offering, and, just like an offering, Morpheus stretches, arches his back, long limbs in relief and his cock laying hard against the crease of his thigh. He’s so pristine, always tucked away in his palace, where Hob has been out in the trenches—literally—getting sun-tanned and rough and dirty.

Although. Not so pristine as Hob might have thought. Apparently.

“You’re beautiful,” Hob tells him. “Your body is beautiful. I can’t wait to show you what I can do with it.”

Morpheus shudders, keeps playing along with their little facade of inexperience. “Will you ruin me for other men, Robert Gadling? Defile me, destroy my reputation so no respectable lord or lady will ever dare take me as their spouse?”

“You came crawling to my bed, pretty thing,” Hob says. Nips at Morpheus’s belly, which makes him cry out, such a pretty, keening sound, and then soothes where he’d bitten with lips and tongue. “You’ve been wanting it, I think. Someone to take you down, someone to fuck you.”

“Perhaps I simply wanted to reward my favorite knight,” Morpheus says, trailing off into a groan as Hob leaves another mark low on his pelvis.

“Should have told me you were the prize for valor,” Hob says. “I’d have killed twice as many men. Come to your bedroom still covered in the blood I spilled in your name.”

Morpheus actually moans at the image. “I’d have had you that way. My knight.”

“You can have me now.” It’s tempting, to do as he did last time, and take Morpheus into his mouth. But Hob wants to do something different to him. And he has the sense that Morpheus wants something different done. “Go on. On your belly.”

Morpheus’s breath leaves him in a shuddering rush, but he does as Hob says. Hob runs his hands down over his smooth back, his ass, his wiry thighs, kneeling between them and pushing them further apart. Morpheus whines, moving his hips in little circles to get the barest amount of friction on the sheets.

“You need it so badly.” Hob parts Morpheus’s cheeks with his thumbs, rubs over his hole, and Morpheus keens. “Don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, Hob, show me—”

Hob swipes the oil from the bag beside the bed—because yes, he is prepared for these sorts of things, if not specifically for his prince showing up—and dips his fingers in. Rubs them together to warm it, then slides one finger into Morpheus, without pause, straight to the first knuckle.

Morpheus lets out a choked gasp, fingers clenching in the sheets. The sound makes Hob’s cock twitch where it’s already straining in his breeches. “Hob—” he moans, strangled, “Hob, I—”

He starts to lift himself up, and Hob pushes him down with a hand on the back of his neck. Morpheus struggles for a moment and then goes boneless under him. Hob releases him and strokes his hair. “Good boy. You want it, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” Morpheus says shakily, pushing back on Hob’s hand when he starts working that finger inside him. “Please. Please.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Hob promises. Having Morpheus, his prince, his beautiful prince, splayed out under him like this is heady. If he weren’t so focused on Morpheus’s reactions, he might have lost his grip on his own arousal already. “But you’re mine.”

He slides another finger in, and Morpheus moans raggedly. Hob doesn’t know if he’s truly getting overwhelmed or if he’s still trying to play the clueless virgin, but either way it’s burning through Hob’s veins. He gets Morpheus writhing on his fingers, achingly hard in his own pants, taking each of Morpheus’s pleasured, crying moans as its own prize.

Morpheus is shaking, panting, as Hob pulls his hips up, undoes the laces on his own breeches to pull out his cock, lines himself up. Morpheus presses his face into the bed, fingers tight in the sheets. Hob touches his lips to the base of his spine, tastes the sweat there. “My prince?”

Morpheus swallows hard and it still doesn’t seem to clear his throat. “I am ready.”

So Hob braces his hips and pushes in, one long slow slide. He groans at the same time as Morpheus moans, so ragged it’s almost pained. “Fuck you’re tight.”

“Well,” says Morpheus, “you are the first to have me so.”

Even aware that Morpheus is only playing at it, the words make Hob feel like he’s clinging to sanity by a thread. “You’ve been waiting so long, haven’t you?” he manages, as he starts to move, still holding Morpheus by the hips. Morpheus sighs at the slide, thighs trembling. It’s enough to make Hob obsessed. Morpheus is so tight and hot, Hob really doesn’t know how long he’s going to last, but he’s determined to give Morpheus just a bit of that ruination first. “Waiting for the right cock to fill you?”

Morpheus pushes back on him with a whine. “Yes.”

“Kept yourself as a prize for me?”

“Yes. Hob.”

Hob reaches around to take him in hand, and Morpheus cries out, bucking into his touch, pinned in place. Hob moves faster, each thrust pushing Morpheus into his grip, his breeches scraping roughly over Morpheus’s bare thighs, and it feels so base to have him like this, still clothed, taking him like a casual whore when he’s a prince. It feels wrong. But so good.

“How’s it feel?” he asks, voice gratifyingly steady. “For your first time?”

Morpheus lets out a wordless groan. Then, “Good. So much. I—” he trails off again, losing his breath. And this, too, is gratifying, reducing Morpheus, usually so eloquent, to broken sentences and simple words.

“Good, love.” Hob soothes a hand over his hip. “That’s good.”

But before Morpheus can settle, Hob increases his pace, pounding into him so hard and fast that Morpheus loses what remains of his balance and is held in place only by Hob’s hand on his hip, his arm wrapped around his belly. Each thrust pulls a sharp gasp from him, his face pushed into the sheets— and Hob’s nearly insensate with how good it is, but still he manages to pull Morpheus off in time with each thrust.

“Hob—” Morpheus chokes, “Hob, I’m—”

“You can come, love. I want to see you.”

Morpheus comes with a bitten-off cry, spilling over Hob’s hand. He’s so beautiful like that, Hob’s formal, perfect prince—crumpled in pleasure, eyes screwed shut, hair damp with sweat. It’s a collision of every illicit thought Hob’s swallowed down when he’s looked at him. In the palace, on campaign, at times when he was meant to be guarding Morpheus and when he wasn’t. He can’t last long thinking about that, seeing that, so he bends low over Morpheus’s back and kisses the back of his neck. One small, tender touch in this game of roughness and transaction, one touch before Morpheus inevitably swans back out of his tent, back to his writing and his diplomacy and his other diplomacy, and— fuck—

Hob holds Morpheus to him as he comes, wishing he could say, don’t go back to anyone else. You’re mine now, come to me. But those aren’t his words to say.

Morpheus slumps down to the bed, boneless and satisfied. Hob follows him, breathing hard against the back of his neck, finally releasing him from under his weight. Morpheus only winces a little when he pulls out, and Hob yanks off his own shirt and uses it to wipe off Morpheus’s stomach, between his thighs. Morpheus sighs, tipping his head back, a tiny smile on his face, then turns to face Hob, leaning on his arm.

Hob’s swiftly learning how weak he is for that smile on the face of the usually unreadable prince. He trails an exploratory finger along Morpheus’s jaw, up his temple, into his hair. Morpheus closes his eyes at the touch, slow and sleepy.

“Was that better than your many transactional trysts?” Hob asks. “Or do I have work to do?”

“I would not know,” says Morpheus, a self-satisfied little smile now curling on his lips. “Considering those did not occur.”

Hob blinks hard, mind going blank. “What.”

“I spun you a story, Robert,” Morpheus says. His voice is sex-rough, his hair a mess, his gaze drags over Hob’s body with a proprietary touch. “And it is a fun story, is it not? Plying secrets from between the sheets, returning home victorious when one was thought to be had. And,” he drags a fingertip down the center of Hob’s chest, “coming back to the bed of a lover. One whom one wants to be with. To be made his again.”

Hob is still stuck on this. “Wait, are you telling me you made all that up?”

Morpheus smirks. “Do you truly think that my words would ever be insufficient to obtain what this kingdom needs? Do you think I need to use my mouth other ways to get treaties signed?”

Well, when he puts it like that.

“It was a compelling story, though,” Morpheus muses as Hob continues gaping at him. “You seemed compelled.”

“Morpheus, why?”

“I wanted to see how my favorite knight would respond to knowing other men had had me,” he says, and keeps dragging his fingers through Hob’s chest hair in self-soothing patterns. Then his expression shifts from clever to almost shy. “And. I thought that if you knew the truth, you might defer too much to me. Treat me only like your prince.”

Hob’s stomach swoops. “And… what’s the truth, then?”

“That evening at the state dinner, when someone meant me harm and you saved me…” his voice holds a note of wonder now. “That. Was the first time that I had ever.”

“What?” He can’t lie to himself, the thought of being Morpheus’s first, for real, does spark something in him. But also. Morpheus is a prince. And Hob had been…

“I had never before had cause,” Morpheus explains. “I was uninterested in marriage. And I never found anyone worth threatening my reputation over. Until…” His lips purse, stressed now. “And I wanted you so. And. You wanted me.”

Hob is speechless, running through every second of that night in his mind. Sweeping Morpheus into his arms and out of the way of a blade. Morpheus’s wide eyes staring at the slice in Hob’s arm, the blood welling there. Blinking and finding himself crowded into a side hall, Morpheus panting into his mouth, the hunger of his pretty lips, heat and adrenaline running through Hob’s body, pushing Morpheus against the wall and sinking to his knees in front of his charge, his dear, his prince to worship. The tears that had pricked at Morpheus’s eyes as Hob had taken him all the way down.

Christ.

“Does that bother you?” Morpheus asks, uncertain now.

“I’d have shown you a better time then if I’d known,” Hob says, because doesn’t he deserve to be properly taken care of? “In an actual bed.”

Morpheus lets out a little huff of a laugh, expression easing. “I enjoyed it.”

“And then…” he lets his hand come to rest low on Morpheus’s waist. “You came back for more.” He kisses Morpheus and swallows his pleased sigh. “Hungry little thing.”

Morpheus’s breath shudders, and he clings to Hob’s hair, his shoulders. Hob’s about to roll on top of him again and kiss him properly, maybe more once they’ve recovered themselves, but pauses as a realization sinks in. “Wait. Does that mean—”

“Yes, Hob. You were the first man to fuck me.” He sighs. “Use that information against me if you wish. It is out of my hands, now.”

Hob is reeling with shock, and even more so with arousal, heat flashing through his body at the mere thought that all Morpheus had pretended at, newness and learning and raw, unpracticed want, had been, at least somewhat, real. And he had let Hob have that. Catch it. Had trusted him.

“Never,” Hob swears, kissing his cheek. “I would never. You’ll be my secret. Besides. I don’t think anyone would ever believe me even if I said. Me, with you? A prince? And a gorgeous one at that?”

Morpheus runs his hands over Hob’s shoulders. “You are handsome. And very gallant. I do not see what you mean.”

“Well, that’s flattering. And I won’t tell you to take it back.”

Morpheus runs his tongue over his lower lip, eyes dark where they trace over Hob’s jaw, shoulders, chest. “I have. Wanted you from afar. For a very long time.”

Obligingly, Hob kisses him, and sweeps his hands over Morpheus’s lower back, drawing him close. “You’re a prince,” he says, breathless again with want for this wonderful being. “You can have whatever you want.”

“So,” Morpheus nuzzles at his jaw, “I may steal my way into your bed? You would not mind that, Ser Gadling?”

“Sneak in, or stay, I won’t mind. I’ll give you all my secrets.”

Morpheus hums. “And your loyalty?”

Hob thinks he means it playfully, a continuation of his ruse from before—but it comes out much more serious. His gaze finds Hob’s with a deeper wanting than when he’d swanned into Hob’s tent, all draped fabric and fluid lines of desire.

“You have it already,” Hob murmurs, and Morpheus’s pleased sigh as Hob kisses him is a balm to his soul. “My prince.”

[aq2003]

really love how throughout a lot of smith and jones martha is really skeptical and apprehensive towards ten (+ one of my favorite exchanges between them - "what, people call you 'the doctor'?" "yeah?" "well, i'm not. far as i'm concerned, you've got to earn that title."), not taking everything he says at face value, even doubting the fact he's an alien until over halfway through the episode.. And like. i really truly think the thing that wins her over isn't him kissing her or any of the other insane mixed messages he manages to send, it's this scene here, where he /earns that title/ in her eyes:

(+ david's bit in the commentary, where he says: "[the doctor] has actually sacrificed himself, and - i would say, that that final act of selflessness is what finally, eventually, welds martha to him. [...] and she now returns it. she returns that act of selflessness.")

this is what their relationship is built on. it isn't about martha being the second-best replacement to rose or a rebound or whatever. bc it isn't really about rose. it's about doctor-in-training martha meeting someone (quite literally, "the doctor") whose ideals she aspires to, and doing her best to be the same person to him as he is to everyone else. it's about ten in return admiring her intelligence and inquisitiveness and how she cares for human life, recovering his compassion, letting himself lean on her for support - and then remembering at the most inopportune moments that he's supposed to not need anyone and be on his own forever. And around in their little nightmare loop they go where they save each other over and over until one of them breaks

i've seen ppl look at martha and go "why she does she admire/why is she so in love with ten if he acts like that to her?" or something along those lines and like. it's not just the fact she's in love with him (in fact i'd argue she actively tries to push it aside post-gridlock). it's the fact that she knows he's the kind of person to put everyone else's lives/well-being over his own. she trusts him to save her when she's in trouble even though it's been like two days at most that they've known one another bc she recognizes that same "deep all-encompassing drive to help others" in him. and she also recognizes, much much earlier than him, that he needs someone to save him, especially when he's unwilling to save himself. and yeah for a bit she thinks he returns her feelings and is just playing hard-to-get, but she realizes pretty early on that this probably isn't the case, and i think that realization fully solidifies here:

(this is when she's listening to ten talk abt gallifrey). And idk it might just be me but i think this expression isn't just her empathizing with his loss. it's also guilt, for wanting something from him that he's clearly unable to give when he's wracked with so much grief. (and you see it in the next episode, where tallulah asks if they're together and martha says for certain that they're not, and that he doesn't know about her feelings for him. she keeps everything to herself bc she now knows that when he shut her flirting down at the end of 3x01 it was the genuine reaction of someone who a) isn't interested and b) is scared of getting close with someone else again)

freema described their dynamic as "she's keener than him" and i think about this all the time. martha doesn't really take what ten throws at her. what she does instead is constantly poke holes in his already-failing front of "i will show someone the wonders of the universe so i can ignore what is wrong with me". what she does is stand up and fight him when he tries to go off on his own. what she does is put aside her well-being in favor of helping someone - just like what she saw him do for the people in the hospital when they first met. tldr, that's the doctor and his doctor and rip martha you would've loved who's gonna save u now by rina sawayama

[shower-phantom-ideas]

Jazz becoming the next big Gothem villain is such a solid concept. Theres so much to explore.

She targets corrupt mental institutions. Corrupt companies who destroy their workers state of mind so they wont quit. She attacks landlords who make it impossible for people to live comfortably.

She is the staple anti-hero of anyone struggling to get back on their feet. People should have to work three jobs just to afford a crappy one bedroom, no utilities, half bath, in crime alley apartment, with a roommate.

Shelters should be aiming to gain a profit instead of using the donations to support others.

She is tired of these big name heros leaving children to clean up messes. She has watcher her own brother wither away to a shell of his former self trying to make a change and she is sick of it. Hell she herself is a child but if this is what it takes, then this is what it takes.

Enter from the left The Manipulator™️

Feared by all corrupt. People think she has mind control or something. When she targets someone they make almost a full 180 in their ways. “She will do anything to get her way or to make people into what she thinks they should be. And she mist be stopped” cries big business.

In reality she is the worlds best damn psychiatrist ever to be known. She doesn’t force anyone to change but gives them the choice to be better. To see how much more they can be. And it terrifies them. Helps them find themselves again and to move past their troubling pasts. No force and no mind control. No manipulating. No one but those who she has helped know the truth but when they tell the truth it only fuels the fire of her being controlling.

Theres one thing also fuelling the flames of mind control. Thats the fact that every single major hero to go after her can’t. Any who approach her find themselves no long near her. Superman just wants to talk, well she doesn’t, and he is then back in his city?!? Batman is stalking her to figure out how to deal with her but once he gets too close he suddenly finds himself in the batcave?

At first they think it’s teleportation but time is passing? Theres video feed and tracking of no they just went back themselves. No response from them the whole trip. As if possessed. (Lmao it’s just good brother danny pranking his sis a little by making her seem all powerful but also protecting her anyway he can. Or could be Dan instead)

[incessantlark]

new interest dlc unlocked

[greenplumbboblover]

"OMFG A SHOULDER"

[qiu-yan]

tbh i feel like i don't understand jiggy very well but here is my reasoning nonetheless:

i see jiggy as someone who wants to be a hero; or rather, someone who wanted to be a hero, before society destroyed his dreams and he was forced to dirty his hands. he had legitimate wishes to improve society and a vision for what society should look like. but jiggy has also spent his entire life getting dunked on by others for being the son of a prostitute. no one ever saw beyond his circumstances.

until lan xichen and nie mingjue, the first people to genuinely believe in him and give him a chance. both also people who are (or appear to be) morally righteous.

that must have meant the world to jiggy. the confirmation, from two deeply admired and socially respected people, that he too--even him the son of a prostitute, him who the rest of society disdained--could be a hero.

jiggy wants to be a hero! jiggy wants to help people!

(wanted? rip)

jiggy saved lan xichen when the latter was on the run from the wen, and jiggy also saved qin su. and both people come to admire him and stand by his side as a result.

personally, i also see jiggy and nie mingjue's falling-out as being based in this. the reason why jiggy kept nie mingjue's head in his secret room wasn't just as a failsafe, but rather because jiggy also carried a grudge.

because through his repudiation of jiggy's reasoning and excuses for his actions, through his refusal to accept that jiggy "had no choice," nie mingjue says (in jiggy's view):

"i take back the dignity i gave you before. you in fact cannot be a hero."

"the fact that you are unable to resolve this situation without causing some moral violation is proof that this path was never open for you. such is intrinsic to your nature. such cannot be separated from your very existence. from the very beginning, there was never any place for you here."

this is not what nie mingjue said, but i think it’s what jin guangyao heard.

[mishy-mashy]

I said this in a whole reblog, but just copy-pasting to a separate post because I think it'll give some reading comprehension and reblogs don't show up in the search feature.. again, I'm reiterating what I said in another post.

Go check out @demidokuriya 's post for this; OP's post made me put this all down in like. 20 minutes. Mind went vroom vroom cuz HEY THEY'RE ONTO SOMETHING.

(They also reblogged the post with some hint to some behind the scenes of what led to the ideas if you wanna check that out)

Look below at how, when Mineta told AFO to spare Tokoyami, AFO specifically went "..."

He remembers Jirou and thinks, The braying howls of the weak...

He was going to take Tokoyami's Quirk. He took Hawks'. But after Mineta pleaded with him, AFO just straight-up left and didn't take anyone else's Quirk.

AFO saw Yoichi in Mineta.

These scenes are near-identical to each other.

Mineta and Yoichi (at that time) are both much smaller than the normal person at their age

They're both hurt, yet dragged themselves up from the ground to throw something at AFO, to get his attention and make their voice

Both are considered weak, even if they have a Quirk (Mineta's Pop-Off and Yoichi's undeveloped Factor)

The fact that Yoichi got AFO's attention here by throwing a can at him, while Mineta got his attention by throwing a Pop-Off ball; and it stuck.

Mineta's call for his attention landed and actually stuck to AFO. This is unlike when Yoichi and his can bounced off, and AFO kicked him, not listening to him; AFO listened to Mineta and left Tokoyami alone, technically doing what Mineta wanted—to not hurt this person.

AFO just went on to hurt more people away from Mineta's [Yoichi's] eyes so the small weakling wouldn't see.

Yoichi and Mineta both cried to AFO to not hurt in his ways, when AFO was intent on stealing people's Quirks

AFO even stole Hawks' Quirk during this time.

He had time to steal Hawks' Quirk, and though he could've tossed him to the side, he let Hawks stand in his way.

He had the energy. Right after this event, he flew off and left the scene. But he didn't go for Tokoyami immediately.

And this let Mineta play his part, and remind AFO of Yoichi.

"A putrid, festering Quirk Factor."

That sounds like Yoichi, AFO.

".. such garbage."

Hey hey hey, what did Yoichi throw at him when they were kids?

A discarded can. Garbage.

This chapter (385) where AFO listens to Mineta is literally called [A Youthful Urge].

Mineta told AFO to take his Pop-Off (hurt him) instead. But last time, AFO hurt Yoichi by kicking him; this time, AFO not only listened to Mineta to not hurt Tokoyami, but didn't touch Mineta at all.

Even though this time, Mineta [Yoichi] offered to take that place of suffering.

Yoichi didn't do that back then. AFO just turned on little Yoichi anyway.

Yoichi through his whole existence is literally [the braying howls of the weak]. AFO acknowledges he's weak and idealistic, yet he still loves him.

Side note about this panel, I think it's interesting that in this vision, this was the first time we saw Yoichi's eyes: when he was being defiant, despite being pushed down by someone much stronger than him.

Really characteristic of him, honestly. Yoichi's soft-spoken and frail, but it's always reiterated that Yoichi had a powerful will against his stronger big brother.

Mineta at this moment reminded him too much of Yoichi, because the two scenes are near-identical to each other. Parallels, really.

Reiterating something from OP's post that I reblogged this from;

"The reminder of his brother made him uncomfortable, so he hurried away."

AFO didn't want to hurt Yoichi again.

[edwinisms]

pro tip if you want a positive fandom experience: do not follow confession blogs. you’re just asking for a bad time if you do that just don’t