#to learn draw men correctly

[ffanck01]

TOO LAZY TO LEARN HOW TO DRAW MEN 😔ANYWAY FEMALE BAKUGOU AT YOUR ORDER!!!

[raionmimi]

Have you ever drawn Symweaver NSFW?

I have a handful of WIP doodles but 😅 I’m pretty sure it’d be against Tumblr rules to post em. I’ll probs post anything I do end up finishing to my OW Twitter and/or my nsfw twitter

this is the only one that’s close-ish to being a done piece… but I’m putting it under the cut because haha 😖

[lxvvie]

Phillip Graves who's obsessed with you.

You caught his eye long before you even knew who he was.

There's something about you, darlin', something that draws him in and he wants to know more. While he's bidding his time, he'll gather all the intel he needs.

Thank god for Shadow Company. His boys are the best at what they do and it's nothing to reward 'em for a job well done. Everything about you, from what you had for dinner last night up to your favorite coffee blend is his for the keeping.

Graves makes it a point to learn your mannerisms, too. He takes notice of the way your nose slightly scrunches and your eyes flick to the right when you're thinking about what to say next to your friend you met for drinks at one of the local bars. He drinks in the way your middle and index finger run over your lips as you contemplate which drink you're trying to order at your favorite coffee shop. You'd never know he did it, either. Thank goodness for plain clothes and baseball caps, eh, darlin'?

But when Graves does make his presence known, he does so in small doses. Your favorite bakery? Oh, what a coincidence, darlin'. They make good sourdough bread. You favorite deli? Oh, darlin', have you had their chicken club sandwich before? The bar you're at? Him and the boys come here all the time to decompress, sweetheart. Their craft beer is fuckin' amazing, too. It's enough to keep your suspicions to a minimum if they even exist. To you, he's just the friendly, well-meaning resident with similar tastes.

And then he finds out you're dating, or, well, you're trying your hand at dating. Same friend you met for drinks was playing matchmaker. The boys did their homework. Your date was a simple fellow, accountant or human resources or some shit, white collar kid with the looks but not the self-esteem to go with them. Regular hobbies not worth mentioning. A boring sumbitch if Graves ever saw one. He's not bad. He's not good for you, either, darlin'. Not like Graves himself is.

And when the time comes, you'd be left wondering what the hell happened. Knowing you, you were dressed to the nines, ready to chow down on some good food, and... he bailed on you. A short text. Nothing more, nothing less. Everything was probably just fine and dandy a couple hours ago. Phillip counts on it, and he thanks his lucky stars that he predicted correctly as he sees you at your favorite dive, nursing the craft beer he recommended. And he makes his move.

By his estimation, it's been about 30 to 45 minutes since he came and sat next to you and helped make your would-be date seem like a bad, faraway memory. Graves has you embroiled in conversation, has you laughing, replacing what would've been a boring ass date with his charm and wit, and before you know it, Graves drops the coup de grâce on your love life. "A bit starving here, darlin'. How about we grab a bite on me?" And shit, you couldn't turn that down. Not when he turned what would've been a bad night on its head. You beamed, accepted without hesitation, and off you two went. For a boring bastard, the kid's got good taste in food.

And when Graves sees the poor bastard again, he'll thank him. For stepping aside, for the dinner reservations, y'know, a friendly conversation between men. And as for his boys, well, Graves figures a bonus is due. After all, he got his. Why not spread his joy around?

[sapphic-agent]

Why & How Katara is the Strongest Waterbender

The ATLA fandom is funny. Because if there's one member of the Gaang whose skills are continuously doubted, it's Katara's.

No one hesitates in saying that Toph is the strongest Earthbender in the world. Aang has always been maintained as a natural prodigy. Sokka's strategic intelligence and cleverness are never in question. Most people are positive that Zuko would have beaten Azula if she hadn't targeted Katara and hail him as a swords master.

But for some reason, it's always Katara whose proficiency is either called into question or severely downplayed.

Some are skeptical about the legitimacy of her becoming a master in a short time. Others are certain that her victories are due to plot manipulation. Both of these arguments that ATLA is a kids' show which pushed it into giving her the win.

(Funny how ATLA is the greatest piece of media ever read until it comes to anything pertaining Katara's character lmao)

So I wanted to take a minute to talk about the progression of her waterbending skills and how she became Master Katara.

Pre North Pole

The first time we really see Katara practice waterbending is in The Waterbending Scroll when she decides to show Aang her limited very skill set. She noticeably has a difficult time with her bending, whereas he seems to pick it up rather quickly.

As we know, Katara has never met another waterbender before. She has no idea what their bending is supposed to look or feel like. And that's reflected in the moves she shows Aang.

I want to draw attention to Katara's stance here. She's stiff, even a little awkward. She's standing where more like an Earthbender. We see this repeated when she's practicing the Water Whip.

Even later when she does perform the Water Whip correctly, there are still traces of this.

You know how Iroh learned to redirect lightning watching Waterbenders? Well, my assumption (at this point I'm 80% sure it's meant to canon) is that Katara learned most of her bending by watching Aang and the Earthbenders they met around the world.

It makes sense, right? They would have been the closest thing to Waterbenders she could have learned from. She even asked Aang to teach her in the first episode. So the start of her bending began with incorporating the forms of Air and Earth.

And we see the results of that in her fight with Pakku.

Fighting Pakku

Katara's fight with Pakku is a great demonstration of his visually. He's a master, so he's already proficient at "push and pull." Katara is not. She's done it before, but it's not her go-to style when she's fighting. And we can see it in this fight.

Again, her stance is firm. She either blocks his attacks or bats them away. She doesn't reinforce and redirect them like he does hers. She isn't fighting like a Waterbender, she's fighting like an Earthbender.

Not to say this is a bad thing. Pakku himself even admits that she's good even though they both know she can't beat him.

Why am I bringing this up? Because one thing about Katara that's overlooked is her adaptability. When she didn't have a waterbending teacher, she made do with observing Earthbenders. She picked up Pakku's teachings even better than Aang had. And going forward from here it really begins to shine in her bending.

She completely dominates Pakku's other students and Zuko (twice). Why? What makes her so special compared to men who have been training their whole lives?

Because water is the element of change. By being so proficient in adapting (not just in her bending, but openly embracing different things and experiences and people), Katara unknowingly embraced the mentality of her element.

(It's actually a funny twist of fate because you could make the point that the North held its other Waterbenders back by being so bound to and unflinching in their traditions. It would explain why none of Pakku's students even stood a chance against her)

If you think about it, you could draw parallel to Yue explaining the history of Waterbending to Katara to the Sun Warriors explaining fire as an element to Zuko. In both cases, you can see that they're able to see and understand their element in a new light. Although it's more of a realization moment for Katara as she already knew about pushing and pulling and it's more of a lesson for Zuko who was taught something completely different.

Katara vs Azula (Round 1)

You know how I said people attribute her wins due to plot manipulation because ATLA is a kids' show? Well it seems like Katara vs Azula is the scene they focus on the most for that.

But let's be real, this isn't a fluke. The show purposely draws attention to Katara prowess and skills during this fight.

Azula is someone who's always in control. She's someone who goes into fights with full confidence. But she is completely thrown off by Katara's abilities here.

And this is something that persists throughout the entire fight. Katara completely overpowers her. At no point during the fight did Azula have the upper hand against her.

And remember, this is Azula's fight. She's the one who imprisoned Katara and Zuko. She's the one who attacked Katara and Aang to begin with. Sure, she was probably counting on her manipulation of Zuko working and him backing her, but there was no guarantee that he would be able to get away from Aang long enough to help her.

And right after this, Aang really struggles against Azula. He doesn't own the fight nearly as well as Katara does.

So, we know it isn't a fluke. The creators intentionally made Katara outclass Azula here. She's canonically the superior bender between the two of them. And that's not a small feat by any means. Azula at this time is one of the best Firebenders alive, probably fourth (after Ozai, Iroh, and Jeong Jeong (she could possibly be above Jeong Jeong)).

So what was the reason for this? Why was Katara able to outclass Azula so effortlessly?

Well here's where Katara's mastery of the meaning of her element comes into play again. She understands and excels in the concept behind water. Always changing, always adapting. She embraces water to its fullest capabilities (which also includes incorporating other elements into it; water would actually be the best element to do this with). The entire fight, she's switching stances and forms and keeping Azula on the evade. Whatever Azula throws back is dealt with without an issue.

And as we know, Azula (and most Firebenders) misunderstand fire as an element. She uses it solely as a destructive force, but it's also energy, life, and passion. This is also part of the reason Zuko lost so easily in the Northern Water Tribe; he also had the same issue. Katara's proficiency in water as not just a weapon, but an element, gave her the advantage over Azula she needed.

Katara vs Hama

A debate that comes up a lot is who's the better bender between Katara and Amon. To that I have always said Amon was taught Bloodbending, Katara just did it.

Let me reiterate: NO ONE TAUGHT KATARA BLOODBENDING. Hama explained the concept to her, yes, but never actually taught her. In fact, she did not expect her to pick it up without guidance. In her own words, "You should've learned the technique before you turned against me."

This was a technique that took Hama decades to learn. Tarrlok and Noatak were trained relentlessly. And Katara just... Did it. No guidance and no build up. This supports that Katara's adaptability and versatility in her bending is unmatched. She's able to comprehend and perform advance concepts with no training or teaching.

Now that we got that out of the way, this fight is so comprable to Katara vs Pakku. This is the second time she's fought a master and we can see how much she's improved. So much so that she doesn't even struggle against Hama.

At this point, she's mastered "push and pull." She's able to take everything Hama throws at her and send it right back with little to no effort.

But she takes it a step further.

Instead of redirecting, Katara completely stops Hama's onslaught. This undoubtedly is something she picked up from Earthbenders. It certainly isn't a Waterbending technique, yet somehow she made it into an effective move.

Look at Hama's face. She's completely thrown off by this. This was not something she ever expected out of any Waterbender. She was completely unprepared for Katara to be able to outmatch and overpower her.

Katara completely surpassed her, solidified by using the technique she invented against her.

I was going to talk about Katara and Azula's second fight, but there isn't much to add there. I already compared the difference in their skills talking about the first fight, and the Agni Kai is an escalation of that. The outcome of the Agni Kai was already decided and confirmed in the catacombs.

And that my friends is how and why Katara is the best Waterbender in the world

[hellowoolf]

on strawberries and masonry: chapter i

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

OR

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, ANGST👈🏻👈🏻, reader has a violent past but we don’t get graphic about it yet, knives (at present we only use her for gardening), age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), mention of masturbation (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 3.1k

authors note: i would consider myself a mildly experienced writer but this is my first ever fic! kindness is appreciated but so is constructive criticism. i really hope you enjoy🍓

by the way, a big ol thank you to @macfrog @netherfeildren @5oh5 @swiftispunk @bageldaddy (and others), whose fantastic writing gave me the courage to put this story to paper🫶

series masterlist | masterlist

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you don’t remember much about the little fruits, from the time that came before. you were only a child then, 8 when it all crumbled to pieces, and those small sweetnesses aren’t things you’re taught to notice when you’re that young. lemons and airplane engines and the neighbor’s dog; these you remember, what with all the ruckus they made, but berries and peaches were far too soft of creations to make an impression. you suppose to anyone who could see your life in full, it would seem ironic in a tragic sort of way that they were all you cared for now.

you like to ponder these things—torture, really—on your way to the garden in the morning. there’s something about the honesty of jackson air, the clarity of it at daybreak, that make such musings, painful as they are, the only bearable passtime. keeping your hands close to your sides inside your jacket, you let your fingertips brush against the knife stored there. maria had offered you gardening tools, things more fit for the work you did now, but you’d refused; this knife was your father’s once (if you were remembering correctly) and you wouldn’t let it rust over on your nightstand. you like to make use of things, things and people if you’re honest, and trimming plants and flowers and little fruits are no less noble uses for it than what you did before jackson.

the crunch of your boots beneath you whispers up as you trudge along. your house isn’t far from the garden, but ages, it feels, from everything else. you’d gone to the tipsy bison, once, within the first few weeks of moving in, convinced you were young and entitled to normalcy after what they’d collected you from on the outside. the scotch burned your throat in a cliche kind of way, and you suppose you enjoyed that part, but the walk alone in the dark on your way home was enough to keep you from the establishment since. you moved back and forth from your garden, the dining hall, and occasionally tommy’s house when you couldn’t bear the loneliness; these pathways you’d carved out for yourself here are few and stubborn, but you love them because they’re yours. the other young men and women your age in town, most of whom have lived the better part of their lives within these walls, don’t think of you enough to find you as strange as you perhaps are, but their not thinking is a comfort to you. the crunch crunch crunch of your boots on the gravel mumbles in agreement.

“speak of the devil.”

tommy is leaning against the glass of the greenhouse wall with noah when he calls it out to you, grounding you in place. you’d made it all the way to the garden in the time it took for that ugly contemplation, but the both of them are smiling with that back and forth glance only boyishness forgives, and now the morning is real. it’s cold enough that numbness has clawed its way up the bridge of your nose, the frost keeping last night’s snow frozen to the ground. it’s these moments, the arrivals to your garden at dawn, when the day comes to you. you like the both of them, noah and tommy. they make you feel like somebody’s sister. you turn up the ends of your mouth. “all bad things i hope.”

“awful, really,” noah chuckles, tugging on the arm of your jacket to pull you inside with tommy behind you, the both of them still smiling in conspiracy.

you begin to slip your arms out of your coat, laying it carefully against a wall, the wet warmth of the greenhouse rushing you immediately. you’d been heating the inside for a few weeks now, trying to maintain a healthy summer crop output despite the freezing soil, and a few of the sturdier vegetables had steadily been peeking their way up. you plucked a full radish from the dirt last week and nearly wept over it. you look back up at tommy and noah, standing shoulder to shoulder now in the aisle between the planter boxes to block your path forward, humming still with whatever tommy-and-noah-elation they’ve concocted. you tilt your head a little and smile.

“are you gonna make me guess? or can you just tell me?”

they confer with a nod and a jostle side to side, tommy turning back to you. “there’s a strawberry.”

your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth as something golden and beautiful unfolds inside of you. “there isn’t,” you counter. noah turns himself sideways so you can walk through the aisle to the end of the left planter box and you rush there (you’re rarely frantic, nowadays, but you allow this sort of thing for your little fruits).

maria had placed you here in the garden as a safeguard. she thought you dangerous (and you were, at least back when you met her), so she put you to work where your hands could do good and be far from people. it helped, you guessed, that the greenhouse is made of glass; she could keep an eye on you this way. and oh, how you’d resisted it, the softness of a gardener’s job. in the end, though, the black and grime of life left as residue on your palms felt like forgiveness, and you’d taken quickly to thinking yourself a botanist.

by the time you arrive at the end of the left planter box, on your knees like a worshiper at a pew, you’re eye level with the little poetry of red and green parting the soil you’d scooped by hand last month. tommy and noah, you feel, are behind you as your shadow casts itself over the soil, and you almost have to pull the thing out just to bear this feeling. there’s a strawberry. and you actually say it out loud, softer than anything but wild, still, and staring at the child of plant and earth you’d nursed to color. noah and tommy drop to your sides, and you notice then that the three of you are crying, and you laugh and laugh over the little thing like madness and sweetness and pride.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the euphoria of your strawberry lasts you well into the late afternoon. tommy and noah had left you to bask in the glory of it to continue with construction on a little post office right off the main road, and you worked the morning with your thumbs in the dirt, slicing browning leaves off the budding plants with as much gentleness as you could muster. you look down at your knife, cradled close in the cup of your palm, to finger out the soil packed through the engraving along the handle. a last name meant nothing anymore, what with your loneliness and the end of the world, but still the slopes of it peer up at you; you watched your father make the engraving, you think, though the actual memory of it is lost to time.

by the time you reach the beets at the end of the right planter box, a commotion has stirred outside. men’s voices ring and rumble from the main road, and the bass of it hums under your knees on the ground. a great bark of tommy reaches you clearly, even tucked away as your greenhouse is, and curiosity consumes you enough to resign from your garden for the day. these days you are quiet, and reserved, sometimes frightening because you like how it feels, but still curious, always curious, and so you curl yourself back into your jacket to join whatever audience has congregated by the front gates.

he is beautiful in a holy sort of way, whoever he is. you come upon tommy wrapped up in a great big stranger, a horse and a young girl behind him, and the slopes of his nose bend the waning sunlight off into a ribbon of a beam. jesus, when was the last time you’d looked at someone this way? tommy pulls back from him, glassy eyed and awestruck, looking around at those who’d crowded the scene almost incredulously, but you stare still at his stranger, who is so broad and so timid and so clearly unused to his own timidness that you can’t pull your eyes away. he meets your gaze for a moment, as he sweeps his own across the crowd, and looks at you with about as much detachment as he does the rest of this spectatorship. but oh god, he is so divinely pretty, and so you can forgive his lack of immediate fascination with you.

tommy begins walking his stranger and his stranger’s small companion through the throng, introducing and shaking hands, and as you watch them slowly shuffle towards you, you are struck with the thought that this is tommy’s brother. as he shifts his face along the axis of his shoulders, taking in the town, you see more and more of tommy in the motion of his stranger’s face. you’re sure of it now, as tommy calls your name and shepherds the man in front of you.

“my brother here’as decided to make a grand entrance!” tommy says, slapping a mittened hand across his back. you shake his stranger’s hand and give him your name, hoping your little smile doesn’t give away how awful it felt for him to look this way.

“joel,” he musters (and it really does seem like it takes a mustering), and gives your hand a firm shake before stuffing them back in his pockets. he is disinterested, surely, but afraid, too. it almost hurts you how clear his prevailing apprehension is, and you nearly make to apologize for forcing him to introduce himself. his eyes squint in the golden light cast over jackson.

“i work in the greenhouse, a few blocks from here on the edge of the settlement,” you explain, eyes drifting between joel and his little shadow, who both joel and tommy have yet to introduce. she looks a little feral, and this endears you immediately to her. “welcome in,” you offer, and you do your best to direct this message to her from around joel’s shoulder. her eyes are so big for a thing so ferocious (and you are certain she is) and they widen further at your acknowledgment of her.

“we won’t be here for long,” joel grumbles out and you straighten back up. he says it like you’ve offended him, and you bristle a little. tommy’s beautiful stranger is very guarded, you decide. regardless, the width of him, from left to right, blocks the mountain range behind him, and the patchy scruff along his jaw makes you die a little death.

“alright, well,” you start to back away then, feeling increasingly overwhelmed by his face and his broadness and this little girl who looks and moves like you used to, “you know where to find me,” and you nod a little to tommy before turning and walking away. you lasted all but five seconds in front of him, relishing in how little you were in his shadow cast upon you and loving whatever creature the girl he brought with him was, but all the same he looked too tired and cautious and vicious that it suffocated you. he wouldn’t be here for long, apparently; you’ll likely never see him again. as you step towards your little house, you figure it was worth the meeting, if for nothing else than a face to keep you company in the dark when you’re a woman and alone, and a real image to pair with the descriptions tommy gave of a brother who loved him once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

for a while, it seemed you really wouldn’t see joel again. you watched, through your greenhouse walls, the great expanse of him ride out with the girl, and you were left with the comfort of knowing how gorgeous you found him and that you would never have to speak with him again. you warded off your own psychoanalysis of your relief at his faraway-ness in the face of your immediate physical attraction to him, and sunk your fingers again in the soil.

but then he had returned. what with how consoled you felt at his leaving, he almost had to; fate was funny this way. but you figure, still, you needn’t disturb yourself with him. you imagined he’d keep to himself with how unspeaking he was when you first met him, and other than crossing his path every once in a while, leaving tommy’s house or marching himself along somewhere or other, you were right.

you think of him at night, though. in the morning you wake up with the shame and hilarity of it, of this lusting over a man you neither know nor want to know, but past midnight in your bed you let your fingers slip over yourself thinking of how small he’d made you feel. the wanting of him strikes you somewhere between your shoulder blades, and you blame it entirely on how long it had been since you shared your bed with anyone. strictly physical, strictly physical. you’d learned again to care for yourself these years in jackson, and you’d wrought kinship from tommy and noah without realizing it, but in all you attend mostly to flora, and in this you are protected. yes, joel keeps to himself as you surmised he would, but you avoid him, too; to want him in this way, all hands and hips and somewhere within you, is harmless, you determine, so long as he stays tommy’s stranger. he could never be anything or anyone to you.

it’s six weeks or so of joel’s continued disinterest in you, and your insistent avoidance of him (barring the way you touched yourself at night to his face), before a knock at your door past sunset brings you out of bed. people rarely appear at your doorstep, though you imagine it’s noah dropping off seeds found on patrol, or tommy with a similar sort of package, or even ellie, joel’s little creature, who’d spoken all but five words to you about your garden, but all the same materialized rather often there to see the colors of your little fruits. but when maria blinks back at you when you open the door, any semblance of a greeting dies in the back of your throat.

“can i come in?” maria asks, although she’s already leaning her shoulder towards the gap between your body and the doorway. you step aside to let her through. it occurs to you that maria has never visited you in your home before, not in your five years in jackson, and when she turns back to you, back pressed against your kitchen counter, it’s clear she’s just had the same thought. the way she crosses her arms over her chest, the authority of it and the terror, too, beckons you toward her from your place at the threshold.

“is everything okay?” you sigh out as you prop your hip against the adjacent table top. she is inspecting you, but smiles.

“yeah, yeah.” one of you sniffs. you shift your weight. “i came to see what you thought of joel.”

you almost laugh then, really laugh. “i don’t think anything of joel.”

she rolls this answer around behind her teeth. “mhm,” and then this time with finality, “mhm”.

you inspect her, now. “you don’t want him here.” it isn’t a question.

maria hums. “tommy wants him here.”

“that isn’t what i said.”

she purses her lips a moment. “yeah, i know.”

and you’re making the moment torturous for her, you’re certain, because you know why she’s come to you, why she’s standing in your kitchen like the elected leader she is, while something awful, something almost like alarm, leaks from the back of her neck onto your floorboards. you’d come to jackson a wild thing and she’d tamed you, and now you lived as a dirt woman who sunk her dagger into earth and green and life more permanent than humanity. she is proud of this, you think. and joel came as much of the same, with red hands that opened dripping, and maria needs him watched now the same way she watched you through your garden’s glass. you sigh again.

“what do you want me to do, maria? anything i’d say to tommy would be infinitely more effective from you.”

maria nods. “i don’t want you to say anything to tommy. i can live with joel in jackson. but he’s insisting on patrol, and i don’t know who else to put with him.”

your jaw seizes, and the heat of anger spreads itself along your neck and around your ears. you remember when you’d pleaded so kindly, crouching to make yourself smaller, hands collapsed together, begging to be useful, to be put outside, to protect jackson like it was yours. maria was as honest with you then as she is now, and she’d cited your instability (the reality of which is neither here nor there) to keep you off the rounds. you’d told tommy maria envisioned your actions before jackson as far more unforgivable than they were, though you knew that was a lie before you opened your mouth to say it. “patrol?”

she looks so solemnly at you you think you might die right there between your kitchen and the staircase. “yeah. i want you to be his patrol partner. i’m not looking to send him out there with a gun strapped to his back with one of the other gu-”

“and why does it have to be me?” and you’re really angry, now. for your unyielding quiet in this jackson existence you’d sewn together and the little strawberry you’d grown from nothing, still, still, you were at most and at least a violence. “why can’t you assign someone else?”

maria has this answer constructed already, it seems, for how fast she releases it, “because you’ll kill him.”

“noah would, if he had to. and leila. i can think of at least fi-”

“i’m not saying you would kill him. i’m saying you could.”

and suddenly you were again a wasp or spider, poisonous and unthinking, and the weight of the killing you did before jackson, which you had halfway successfully ignored to piece yourself into something good, perched its chin on the crown of your head. your father’s knife, laying up next to your bed after what was now years of tending to vegetables and stalks and leaves, howled with laughter, and it carried down the stairs to you like wind in summer, leadened and screaming and satisfied.

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i hope you enjoyed this first part! like i said in my authors note, this is my first time writing a piece like this and certainly my first time posting it, so kindness is much appreciated, as is constructive criticism. part 2 coming (hopefully) soon🍓

update: chapter ii!!

[mynameisonionhaha]

Matthew Patel Analysis

I would like to say first off, I am not Indian. I am a Mexican kid who just really likes learning about different cultures. If anything in this is incorrect, offensive, or just overall dumb, I would really like to be corrected and would REALLY like to be able to fix it.

I’ve been trying to decipher what the markings on the demon girl’s and Matthew’s foreheads are. The main assumption would be that they are bindis, but that doesn’t sit entirely right with me when you think about what they represent in Indian culture.

For the demon girls, you COULD say that the markings are bindis, and that they are supposed to represent something “marital”, which would then imply that their binding to Matthew is more complicated, but I personally disagree with this for multiple reasons.

Then of course, for Matthew that would be a bit more complicated. Married women aren’t the only ones who use bindi markings of course as they also can have other uses and meanings, such as representing the third eye. Given Matthew’s powers, this would make sense, but it still doesn’t fully fit correctly in my beautiful mind.

The biggest thing that perplexes me is their colors and shape. They aren’t exactly round--they actually seem to be more elongated, like a very thin teardrop. This made me wonder if they were actually supposed to be tilaks instead, which makes slightly more sense to my big brain. This has to do with two main reasons: 1, both men and women can wear it. 2, Shiva and Shakti.

Let’s start with Shakta.

“Shaktas (worshippers of Devi — the feminine manifestation of the Divine) use kumkum to either draw a single red vertical line, or place a red dot, as a symbol of her divine energy and power.”  Source: https://www.hinduamerican.org/blog/5-things-to-know-about-tilak

Shakta is the consort of Shiva, the goddess who is often personified as “Devi”, who acts as the divine feminine to Shiva’s divine masculinity.

“Yoni, (Sanskrit: “abode,” “source,” “womb,” or “vagina”) in Hinduism, the symbol of the goddess Shakti, the feminine generative power and, as a goddess, the consort of Shiva. In Shaivism, the branch of Hinduism devoted to worship of the god Shiva, the yoni is often associated with the lingam, which is Shiva’s symbol. In sculpture and paintings, the lingam is depicted as resting in the yoni as a cylinder in a spouted dish. The two symbols together represent the eternal process of creation and regeneration, the union of the male and female principles, and the totality of all existence. In a myth narrated in several Puranas, the body of Sati, an avatar of Shakti, is dismembered and scattered throughout India. Her yoni falls, and remains, in Assam, regarded as the home of Tantra (esoteric practices).” Source: https://www.britannica.com/topic/yoni 

These statements already clear up the shape, color, and meaning behind the girl’s markings. They are the feminine consorts to Matthew Patel and his escapades. Personally I really like this for multiple reasons, the biggest being that it makes their dynamic significantly more wholesome. This article, https://hridaya-yoga.com/blog/yoni-puja/, talks about the yoni tantras and overall adoration and respect for women. While Matthew and his girls don’t interact together much in terms of actual conversation, the general case seems to be that they are protective, uplifting, and devoted to him, while in return we see that they are treated with respect and not once does he ever see them as lesser or treat them as such. (This could be countered with the fact that they do get put in harm's way a lot, but given that they seem to be able to respawn just fine it probably isn’t an issue and something they are willing to do for him anyways.)

With that, let’s talk about Shiva.

“Shiva meaning “The Auspicious One” is one of the three major deities of Hinduism. He is worshiped as the Supreme God within Shaivism, one of the three most influential denominations in contemporary Hinduism and is also called “the Transformer and the Destroyer”.” Source: https://www.templepurohit.com/shiva-worshipped-form-linga-lingam/#google_vignette 

Matthew and Shiva have lots of things going on, which personally I find really freaking cool. He literally summons what appears to be the trishul, which is Shiva’s trident. How dope is that?? 

“The Trishul, also known as the trident, is the primary weapon of Lord Shiva. It is characterized by three sharp blades connected by a long handle. The three blades always point in the upward direction. Shiva is always found to be holding the handle of the Trishul when he is depicted in the saguna linga form. The three blades have various representations in Hindu mythology.” Source: https://servdharm.com/blogs/post/significance-of-shivas-trishul#:~:text=The%20Trishul%2C%20also%20known%20as,in%20the%20saguna%20linga%20form.

When it comes to the actual symbol on his forehead however, that becomes more difficult. I wondered if he was Shaiva (Shaiva meaning “follower of Shiva”), and that was what the symbol meant, but I couldn’t find anything regarding his specifically.

“Shaivites (worshippers of Shiva), for example, smear their foreheads with three horizontal lines of vibhuti, a sacred white ash that acts as a reminder of the temporary nature of the material world. Made of the burnt dried wood from Hindu fire rituals, the three lines of vibhuti are called tripundra, and represent Shiva’s threefold powers of will, knowledge, and action. Tripudra is also frequently worn with a dot made of kumkum (a powdered red turmeric) in the center, symbolizing the creative and energetic force of the Divine known as the Goddess Shakti.” Source: https://www.hinduamerican.org/blog/5-things-to-know-about-tilak 

Interestingly enough, the tripundra does share the teardrop shape that Matthew has. What confuddles me is the lack of the three lines, and the color. I am unsure as to whether or not this has meaning, was on purpose, or was just what they decided to go with.

I did however come to the conclusion that the color might be related to bhasma (calcine ash), more specifically, “Pushpa Kasisa, which is crystalline with bluish green color.” Source: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3530270/ 

“Bhasma is a Sanskrit word that means “bone ash,” “cinder” or “disintegration.” It comes from the root bha, meaning “delusion,” “appearance” or “likeness,” and sma, meaning “ever” or “always.” In Hinduism and yoga, bhasma is sacred ash. In some traditions, it is thought to contain the energy of Shiva.” 

“In the spiritual context, bhasma symbolizes burning the ego to ashes in order to unite with the higher Self or the divine. It represents liberation from the limitations of mortal life and freedom from the cycle of reincarnation. It is also a reminder of the temporary nature of the physical body, which will one day return to ashes.

Also called vibhooti, bhasma is the sacred ash from the fire of a yogi or saint or from the sacrificial fire known as yajna in which special wood, herbs, grains, ghee and other items are offered as part of a worship ritual. Bhasma is thought to destroy sin and consume evil.” Source: https://www.yogapedia.com/definition/5934/bhasma#:~:text=In%20the%20spiritual%20context%2C%20bhasma,from%20the%20cycle%20of%20reincarnation. 

Overall it appears that bhasma is applied to protect its wearer from physical harm/illness as well as serving its spiritual purposes which works really well given that it appeared during a fight where Matthew was in fact, getting harmed.

(I do want to mention though that I do think that it is not actual bhasma as that really wouldn’t make sense, but the similarities and “coincidences” are really cool to me.)

Okay, how does this relate to Matthew’s powers?

“According to yogic texts, there exist seven major chakras (discs of subtle concentrated energy) that run along the center of the body, each of which relate to some aspect of a person’s physical, emotional, and psychological make-up. Tilak is placed on the forehead between the eyebrows where the ajna chakra is located. As ajna means to “perceive” or “command,” the ajna chakra is considered to be the “eye of intuition,” through which a person can discern information that cannot otherwise be seen with one’s physical eyes. This “third eye” is a spiritually potent part of one’s being that helps one to focus inward on the Divine. Tilak, therefore, is placed on the ajna chakra to invoke this divine energy, as well as act as a reminder of the ultimate life goal.” Source: https://www.hinduamerican.org/blog/5-things-to-know-about-tilak 

If Matthew is invoking the power of Shiva to aid him through the third eye, or the ajna chakra, this would make the most sense (and would explain why we hadn’t seen it before, probably). I also think it explains his fireballs pretty well, as I’ve noticed a lot of fire and burning practices and metaphors throughout my search for answers.

Oh, also, this: “Shiva's tapas generated so much heat that his body transformed into a pillar of fire - a blazing lingam that threatened to destroy the whole world. The gods did not know how to control Shiva's fire.”

In fact, the whole summary article thingy is really cool to me, so i’ll put it all here.

“Shiva saw no sense in the transitory pleasures of life, so he rejected samsara, smeared his body with ash, closed his eyes and performed austerities.

Shiva's tapas generated so much heat that his body transformed into a pillar of fire - a blazing lingam that threatened to destroy the whole world. The gods did not know how to control Shiva's fire.

Suddenly there appeared a yoni - the divine vessel of the mother-goddess. It caught the fiery lingam and contained its heat, thus saving the cosmos from untimely destruction.

Shiva is often pictured in a pacific mood with his consort Parvati, as the cosmic dancer Nataraja, as a naked ascetic, as a mendicant beggar, as a yogi Dhakshinamurthy, and as the androgynous union of Shiva and Parvati in one body (Ardhanarisvara).

Shiva also takes the form of Ardhanari, his androgynous form. The right side of the sculpture is Shiva and the left side is Parvati. The attributes of each are split directly down the middle.

Another example of Shiva's apparent synthesis of male and female attributes is seen in his earrings. He often wears one earring in the style of a man and the other as a female.” Source: https://www.lotussculpture.com/shiva-hindu-god-lord-destruction-meaning-symbolism.html#:~:text=Shiva's%20tapas%20generated%20so%20much,how%20to%20control%20Shiva's%20fire. 

So yeah, there you have it. Here is every single source I used:

Shiva

https://servdharm.com/blogs/post/significance-of-shivas-trishul#:~:text=The%20Trishul%2C%20also%20known%20as,in%20the%20saguna%20linga%20form. 

https://www.lotussculpture.com/shiva-hindu-god-lord-destruction-meaning-symbolism.html#:~:text=Shiva's%20tapas%20generated%20so%20much,how%20to%20control%20Shiva's%20fire. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shiva

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trishula 

https://www.templepurohit.com/shiva-worshipped-form-linga-lingam/#google_vignette 

Shakti/Yoni

https://www.britannica.com/topic/yoni 

https://hridaya-yoga.com/blog/yoni-puja/ 

https://kripalu.org/resources/shakti-power-within-you#:~:text=Shakti%20means%20power%2C%20energy%2C%20or,the%20divine%20masculine%20god%20Shiva. 

Tilak

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/tilak-ancient-practice-significance-neeta-singhal 

https://www.hinduamerican.org/blog/5-things-to-know-about-tilak 

https://www.britannica.com/topic/tilak 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tilaka 

Bindi

https://exametc.com/magazine/details.php?id=900 

https://www.sanskritimagazine.com/bindi-meaning-and-significance-of-the-dot-on-forehead/ 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bindi_(decoration) 

Bhasma

https://www.yogapedia.com/definition/5934/bhasma#:~:text=In%20the%20spiritual%20context%2C%20bhasma,from%20the%20cycle%20of%20reincarnation. 

https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/24696811/#:~:text=There%20are%20various%20importance%20of,heavy%20metals%20in%20the%20body. 

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3530270/ 

Third Eye

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third_eye 

[olderthannetfic]

Pronoun discourse is just as exhausting in person. A trans girl in my group project for History of Modern Europe refused to use he/him for me because "they/them is neutral" and I looked her in the eyes and said, "I will not reply to group texts, upload anything or share resources if you don't refer to me correctly. I use silence to train my dogs, I use it to train transmisandrists, too." She was furious and spent a few weeks misgendering me... until she realized I was serious and I would let all of us fail this group project because this he/him? Yeah, this he/him had a 100 on every single assignment up until that point and could take the grade hit. If other people can't, well, that's not my problem.

She learned to call me he/him with incredible regularity once her grade was on the line. Suddenly, two words weren't incredibly hard to recall and abruptly, not every conversation with her turned into her lecturing me on how trans women have it harder than trans men. We were able to talk about the actual subject of the group assignment and she was able to remember he/him.

Meanwhile, the cishet members of the group had not struggled to recall he/him for me once, nor had they turned group project meetings into discourse once.

Why are queer people always most vicious with their fellow queers? I'm in MONTANA, and the people worst to me aren't the fucking rednecks, it's other queer people. Rednecks don't condescend to me about how they/them is neutral and good and indicates they're trying their best and trans men have it easy actually. It's the city queers sitting there going, "Rather than just call you he/him and spend this meeting for our group project focusing on the project, I'm going to treat you like the enemy and lecture you." People talk about the concept of a 'queer community' but getting lectured about how trans women have it worse than trans men (because I guess my saying 'use my pronouns' secretly implies I think trans men have it worse? idk, I don't speak bullshitese) doesn't make me go, "Ah, yes. My community! I feel so supported!" it makes me go, "Oh, fuck. Great, I'm stuck talking to an asshole."

Between this, the lesbians I've met on campus who keep making, "gays can't do math or science or history or whatever other subject we're in right now" jokes who seethe with contempt for the privileged gay men, the cis gay guys terrified of doing something perverted who view drag, cosplay, wearing a skirt, wearing makeup or fucking around with presentation at all as not okay/possibly problematic and the NBs who cannot emphasize enough to you that they're one of the good ones who don't dye their hair or wear stupid shit or use neopronouns like the bad ones do, and the utter disgust they all look at anyone with who dares use the word queer, I'm beginning to feel like "the queer community" is one of those things you don't get access to until you're 30+. Alternatively "the queer community" appears to "antis, but with rainbows and flags and ew you think the rainbow flag is for everyone you're so problematic", which is... not great, honestly?

I know this will get a lot of queer people very angry but I'll say it: there are 492 anti-queer laws proposed in the USA, not counting the ones that have passed. We should probably focus on that instead of going for each other's throats and then saying we're a "community".

--

I don't think it will get many queer people around here angry, but yes.

We have more of a need to draw together into a community when everyone's dying of AIDS or getting beaten up or trying to stop laws that make it illegal for us to exist.

Some people have the privilege to shit all over that community. They don't see it as one, but it is.

[pjunicornart]

Papercut (Reclaimed)

I've decided to reclaim Papercut for the fandom! Here's the explanation.

Papercut (a Fell variant of Paperjam) was originally created by the person who created PJ's Daycare and NaJ. I'm not name dropping them because... I just don't want to. Anyway, the creator (if you know you know) is not a great person. I believe fandoms can reclaim characters from people who were less than role models. Now, a QnA under a cut:

Doesn't Paperjam already have a Fell variant? Yes. They already have a canon Fell and Swap variant if I'm remembering correctly. That being said, this is what I propose for Papercut: He's a completely original variant away from the Fell labeling. He's from a universe where he was named Papercut instead of Paperjam. Outside influences made him edgy instead of it just being his nature.

What did you change about Cut's design? For starters, I made his design less "rule of cool" and more practical. Admittedly some of the AU Sans designs I think are bad because they follow too heavily on the rule of cool. His outfit ties into his new story. Plus, if I'm going to draw him again, I want his design to be simple. Second, I desaturated the color palette, except for around his face. I kept the "hairstyle" Cut had, because I think it makes him stand out compared to other Sanses.

What's his lore? Currently I'm going for a troubled teen angle. Gets mixed up with the wrong crowds, been in and out of juvie, that type of thing. He's clearly hurting, but his environment and home life make it worse and hard for him to stabilize his life. Speaking of his home life, Ink and Error are NOT his parents... creators... people. They don't even exist in this AU. Instead, his parents are two completely different people who will NOT be classified as Sanses. These two people are one of the many reasons for Cut's rebellious persona.

What are some specific details about Cut? He's 17, a cis boy (amab), and pronouns he/him. Because he's been suspended and put into juvie a lot, his formal education is lacking. He can read and write just fine, but he won't be able to answer questions about history or sex ed. If his parents cared, they'd realize he needs serious help in this regard. But they only care about themselves and making sure he's out of the way. He's been arrested for minor crimes - Theft, vandalism, and misdemeanors. His vandalism is graffiti, of which he is quite skilled. His graffiti includes the usual stuff (tagging and such), but also political and artistic pieces. He thinks he's only into girls.

Does he have any powers? Yes, but he's not especially powerful or skilled with them. He can control paint fairly well since graffiti art has given him practice with it. He got this power from his mom. His other natural born ability is a blade only he can summon. This is something he inherited from his dad's side of the family. All the men on this side have their own unique blades. His is a dagger with a serrated blade for a ripping flesh effect. As for learned abilities: Teleportation (short distances), Healing (can't heal major wounds, but he can heal a bruise), and various stat boosters (attack, defense, and speed - minor changes). He's not particularly powerful because he hasn't taken the time to learn his abilities.

Will his story have anything to do with The Playground? We'll see. His story is still in the early stages of being fleshed out, so things are definitely subject to change. However, if he were to be in The Playground, he would become Playjam's third little brother.

Since he's technically not a Fell variant, could he be put into RNaJ? Yeah, he definitely could! He'd probably skip class and hang out alone. Maybe smoke a joint or two. Very confrontational and rude at first, but if you tolerated him enough he might open up a little. His vulnerability will be layered under tons of jokes, though.

Outfits, roleplay, and fan stuff? Outfits: I don't have any more at the moment, but if you wanna design some, be my guest. Roleplay: I'm down to roleplay as him, but you can also rp as him if you wish. I'm not gonna police you about it. Fan stuff: Everything is pretty loosey-goosey right now, sooo... go nuts.

Any more questions I didn't address can be sent to my ask box!

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 6

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 5k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! A/N: I went with the chariot outfit from the books. If there's ever any confusion about something being described that doesn't match the movies, it's because I mixed it with the books :))))))) I feel like this chapter really hammers home the fact that Hozier inspired this fic. And while I have your attention, Finnick says the word too instead of to later on in this chapter because he means also. Just for those of you who don't know the different meanings of the word.

Past (vi) - Finnick

[18 & 19] -  THE CAPITOL; TRAINING CENTER; ELEVENTH FLOOR

You and Finnick are sitting side by side when they flood the arena.

An earthquake breaks the dam open, and the tributes closest to it die almost instantly, the crushing weight of the water pressure either breaking their necks or knocking them out before they drown. Multiple canons fire one after the other. If Finnick counted correctly, only six tributes are left—five of which aren't from districts with large bodies of water. It’ll only be a matter of time before they tire out. 

He's not hoping that the other kids die, but he is hoping that Annie makes it. She's a sweet girl, and she actually took his advice to heart, unlike his other tributes, who usually didn't take him seriously because of his age. 

He feels a smaller hand slip into his and he doesn’t have to look down to know it's yours. Your tributes had died in the cornucopia and it’s been ten days since then. You had no reason to stay behind. But you did. For him.

You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

Once the waters have calmed and the rest of the tributes strive to stay afloat, Annie does the smart thing and moves to float on her back. 

Of course, in a test of endurance, she's the strongest swimmer in the arena. In District Four, kids learn how to backstroke before they can walk. However, there’s no telling how long they’ll be in the water, and trying to tread it will only drain what little stamina she has left.

It takes three hours for three of the tributes to die and five for Finnick to have his first victor.

Socialites and mentors alike surround you and Finnick to congratulate him as they airlift Annie out of the arena. Augustus claps him on the shoulder, and Gloss shakes his hand. But the only hand he cares about slips out of his when four different people try to rope him into a conversation at once, your bracelet catching against his.

You say nothing to him as you edge out of the crowd, and he supposes you don’t owe him an explanation, but it leaves a pit in his stomach to watch you walk away.

When he comes to the Eleventh floor later that night, Chaff is the one who greets him when the elevator opens, presumably heading out himself. Something he should have expected since you aren’t the only one who lives on the floor, but he’s still taken by surprise.

“Oh. Hey?” It comes out as more of a question than a statement, the letters curling and drawing out at the end like he’s just discovered the human language.

“You’re acting like I’m not the face you wanted to see.” Chaff crosses his arms with a beaming grin that spells trouble for Finnick. “What? Am I not pretty enough, Odair?” 

“No, you’re plenty beautiful, Chaff,” he laughs, “I was just expecting Star.”

“Yeah, alright. Go ahead.” He steps aside, and Finnick feels like he got caught sneaking into his girlfriend's room. Which isn’t too far off. “I’m sure you know where her room is.” He decides to pointedly ignore that last comment.

He spots Seeder dishing out playing cards and Haymitch drinking at the dining table, and he just knows this will spread like wildfire among the victors. Despite being grown men, Chaff and Haymitch are the biggest gossips he knows.

“Ah, there’s the blushing bride!” Haymitch half shouts—half cackles, halfway into a bottle of expensive Capitol wine. He ignores them, which only makes them crack up harder. Finnick is nineteen years old, and as they laugh behind him, he actually feels his age for once.

He’s come to your floor for the past two years. So when your door slides open, you only look slightly surprised to see him. 

“Finnick,” you look over his shoulder like you expected him to bring someone with him. “I didn’t think you’d come. I thought you’d be spending time with Annie.” You venture tiredly.

“I spoke to her after they got her into medic, but not for long.”

After Talon, his other tribute, was decapitated in front of her, something happened. Something broke. She cried uncontrollably and screamed when the nurses tried to take her vitals. He was able to help calm her down enough for them to sedate her, but Finnick knows that isn’t going to be an easy fix. No victor comes out of their games the same as when they entered.

You take a step back from him. He didn’t even notice when he got so close and gravitated to you; he never does.

“Well. Thanks for letting me know, I guess. You can go now.”

He stands there, mouth opening and closing.

“Go..." he blinks, furrows his brows, and then blinks again. "I can go—are you mad at me?” He asks incredulously.

"No!" You deny it like the idea of being mad at him never even crossed your mind, yet he can't help but feel like he’s upset you somehow. 

"Are you...sad at me?" You hesitate at that, and his heart sinks. You sigh, and for a second, he worries you’re going to send him away.

"C’mon." You wave him into your room. “I’d rather not have an audience for this.” He glances over his shoulder and spots the three adults in the room clearly eavesdropping as they pretend to play cards at the table.

“Leave the door cracked!” You flip off the cackling trio, herding Finnick into your room, and you barely get the door closed before he’s apologizing.

“I don’t know what I did, Star, but I’m sorry, okay? And—and whatever it is, sweetheart, I swear I won’t do it again.” He pleads, feeling just as desperate as he probably sounds. He’s trailing pretty close after you through the hallway that curves into your bedroom, so he almost bumps into you when suddenly you stop in front of him.

“Finnick, calm down, okay? You didn’t do anything.” You claim, but if that’s true, then—

“I don’t understand. Wh–what’s wrong?” Because there’s definitely something wrong. Your body language is closed off. You’re never closed off around him.

You cross your arms, then drop them and place your hands on your hips. 

“Annie.” You mutter, staring over his shoulder.

“...Annie?” He repeats, eyebrows furrowing.

“Yeah.” You speak muffled, biting at the nail of your thumb. “I’ve been thinking and I can only imagine how exciting it is for you to have someone your age in Four who’s gone through the same things as you. You guys have much more in common, I’m sure. Not to mention you can see each other whenever you want. So, I won’t fault you for, I don’t know, spending less time with me. Or, if you forget to respond to a letter or…something.” You finish off your rambling in a mumble, losing steam.

He blinks at you.

“And why would I do that?” He asks, and you throw your arms up in frustration, walking further into the room to crash down into a forest green armchair. What is he doing wrong?

“Because we don’t see each other outside of the Capitol.” You avoid making eye contact and pick at the skin around your nails instead of biting them, a habit he thought you grew out of. “And I’m fine with that, but that doesn’t mean you have to be. You don’t have to settle for...this.” You wave a vague hand around, either referring to your room, yourself, or your relationship. All of which Finnick finds unacceptable for you to put down. 

“Do you feel like you’re settling?” He asks, doing, in his opinion, a pretty good job of acting like his heart isn’t hinging on your answer.

“What? Of course not.” You look at him like he grew a second head. As if his question isn't completely reasonable given how you're behaving. “But, we just... We have such little time together.”

“Yeah, and that makes the time we do get to spend together special.” He argues. Finnick tracks your movements, coming to stand before you. You clench your fists together before hiding them by folding your arms. “What is this really about?”

You take a breath.

"Finnick, we can never be together outside of this city.” You laugh, hollow and brittle. Beautiful. “With Annie in the picture, you can have something close to normal. You’ve earned that much.” He takes a second to look you over. Finnick has always been able to pick things up through body language. A skill he developed after Mags lost the ability to speak, and even that took him years to perfect. With you, someone who is practically mute when it comes to your emotions, it was almost instantaneous. He can read you like a well-loved book.

"Will you look at me?" He ducks his head down to get you to look at him, but you're being especially avoidant. 

"I’m sorry, it's really not that serious." You mumble, stubbornly keeping your eyes on the ground, "You don't need to—” He places his hand on the back of your neck, bending over to touch his forehead to yours. 

"There you are." He smiles when you finally look up at him. He holds you tighter, free hand sliding down to your waist and his neck straining at the position. "I'm not gonna leave you behind for Annie, okay—I would never leave you behind. For anyone." And he would appreciate you not taking that choice from him. There's already so little he has control over in his life, and, knowing you, it wouldn't be a reach for you to cut him off without explanation if you thought it was for his benefit. 

"Why?" You ask barely above a whisper, confusion so genuine that it nearly breaks his heart. As if you can't wrap your head around Finnick wanting to stay with you, choosing you. He’s failed you somewhere along the way if that’s the case.

He takes a different approach, dropping down to one knee on the cold brown marble floor and then the other until he’s kneeling between your legs, giving his neck a break. The big green chair becomes the backdrop behind you, and it really is an enormous chair.

“Finnick,” you laugh, as dulcet as a melody. “What are you doing?” 

“I don’t want normal. I want you. That’s all I ever wanted.” He grins up at you, wrapping his arms around your stomach. "I'll stop needing air before I stop needing you.” He could spend the rest of his life being the most altruistic bastard in Panem and still not deserve you.

You loop your arms around his neck, fingers carding through the back of his hair. He leans into the warmth of your hand and wonders if there will ever be a moment better than this. There’s always been a level of affection between the two of you that's a little too intimate to call friendship, but Finnick’s grown so accustomed to it that he'd feel unsettled without it.

You lean closer to him, practically sitting on the edge of your seat. "Can I…” You hesitate. “Can I try something?" You ask and he agrees like he always will. He can deny you nothing. 

You move one hand to his cheek. The other grips his shirt as you lean toward him. He holds still—barely breathing, afraid that any sudden movement will make you lose your nerve. 

You run cold, you always have, it’s just another thing to love as far as Finnick is concerned. He himself emits heat like a furnace on the best of days.

He remembers cold hands touching his heated skin, cold toes shocking the skin of his legs whenever you lay together. But now, now Finnick feels nothing but a hissing heat as your mouths press together. Heat like a hot knife cutting into a block of ice, like a blazing star consuming him in a ball of fire, only to sizzle into a warm embrace. He melts into you, trusting that you’ll sculpt him back together with your glacial grip.

And you will, won’t you? Take him into your arms and mold him into whatever shape he needs to be to fit inside your heart. He’s had no experience with that sort of thing. He’s never had to, his heart automatically made room for you without any input on his part. There’s a perfect you-shaped hole in his chest, and you’ve already slotted into place. When you hold him like this, kiss him like this, he can believe it. Believe that maybe, maybe this is something you’ve been hoping for too—that you aren't only doing this because it's what you think he wants and that he hasn’t been alone in his longing.

Your lips are soft, softer than he imagined. You’re softer than he imagined. It’s more of a peck than anything else, but it means everything to Finnick. You stop to take a breath, and he moves to follow you as you pull away. He doesn't open his eyes for a second. If it never happens again, if he never has the chance to kiss you again, he wants to commit this moment to memory. Every detail, down to the puff of air against his lips before you leaned in.

Finnick is well aware of the effect he has on people; he’s had five years to come to terms with it. But he’s never been on the receiving end of it before. It’s all new to him—new and utterly terrifying. Terrifying and utterly beautiful because it’s you. It's always been you, and it’ll keep being you even if this ends here.

"What was that?" he asks, just in case he’s reading this wrong and you aren’t looking at the kiss the way he is, in case you’re not looking at him like he looks at you.

"...I don't know." You whisper like it’s a secret shared between you two.

"Okay," he exhales between you. He can work with that. Finnick shakes his head. “I don’t need more than that.” He smiles. He’ll give himself to you in whatever capacity you’ll have him, as long as you’ll have him. He doesn’t have the right to ask for more.

“I think,” you start, dazed, and he can’t tamp down the smug satisfaction bubbling up because he did that to you, “I've wanted to do that for a long time." 

He considers it. He's wanted to kiss you since that first night under the stars. When you allowed yourself to be vulnerable—sharing a piece of yourself with him—and you looked at him with a smile that was more genuine than he deserved, too good to be aimed at someone like him. “So why haven’t you?” 

You sway into him like you can’t help yourself, and he gets the feeling. You rest your forehead on his shoulder.

“I…I’ve never had anything I've wanted before—I’ve never taken it, but,” you burrow your face into his neck, and he can feel your lashes fluttering against his skin as you squeeze your eyes shut, and he doesn't like that. He doesn't like not having your gaze on him. When did that happen? Under his nose, he's become so needy for your attention, so needy for you. There should certainly be some shame there. “But I want this more than I’ve wanted anything, Finnick. I want you.”

“Then take me. Have me." He begs into the crown of your hair, sounding so desperate he’s surprised you haven’t run the other way. But, honestly, he isn’t sure he wouldn’t chase after you. He's been yours in everything but name for years at this point. It’s just one more leap, one more line to cross together because Finnick wants too. He wants and wants and wants. He wants to be yours.

"It's selfish. To want this much, right?" You pull him closer to you, and he goes. He can't imagine doing anything else. You nose at his jaw, and he shivers at the brush of smooth lips and warm breath on the sensitive skin of his neck. He moves his head to the side to give you more room. "It has to be."

"I like you selfish." If this is you selfish, he wants you greedy; he wants you heedless. He wants your want. He closes his eyes, every other sense focused on you. He holds you closer. “I know it’s hard to love me—” 

“Don’t say that. Don’t think my hesitation has anything to do with who you are. It’s just…” You pull back far enough to look up at him, your eyes darting back and forth between his, and he thinks he understands what you’re asking for. 

You’re scared, so you want him to make the choice. You want it to be his decision. He’s scared, too, so he understands. He’ll take the plunge and bear the brunt of the fall. There’s not much he can protect you from, but he can do this. He can protect you from himself.

This time, he's the one who leans in, and you meet him halfway. On instinct, he goes to grab your waist and stops himself. Instead, he grabs the hand gripping his shirt, lacing your fingers with his. 

Finnick's never prayed for anything; he doesn't even believe in a higher power. Yet, selfishly, he begs. Let this be real. Let him keep this one thing. 

Let him keep you. 

Present (VI) - You

[23 & 24 ] - THE CAPITOL; CHARIOT RIDES

You stand alone in the elevator, skin bristling with the phantom feeling of scrubbing. If your prep team had scrubbed any harder, you're sure your skin would have come off. You rub at the now smooth skin of your face, trying to soothe the lingering sting from the waxing.

The Capitol has many demeaning traditions, but there’s nothing more performative than the Chariot rides. There’s nothing quite like being paraded before crowds of adoring fans while dressed in a caricature of your district.

The elevator slows down as you get closer and closer to the ground. It raises your hackles like a cat being lowered into water. Water that’s full of bloodthirsty sharks that have already gotten a taste of you and are coming back for seconds.

When the doors slide open, the breeze nips at your bare skin. Victors, stylists, and horse handlers alike mill around as the chariots get set up. You spot Chaff and Seeder conversing by the horses, and you see Johanna, dressed as what looks like a tree, having a very heated argument with her stylists. You choose the safer option.

“Of course, I’m the only one dressed provocatively,” you say as you approach them. “And here I was hoping you’d finally be showing some skin, Chaff.” You joke, but you really wish you were at least given some kind of underwear. It’s not exactly warm in here and that draft is reaching places it shouldn’t.

You scratch at the pins holding the wreath of purple petunias in your hair; they’re digging into your scalp. Two purple maple leaves cover your breasts, held on with nothing but liquid adhesive. You weren’t so sure about the coverage, but it’s not like you have any sway over what you wear. Vines and palm leaves of different lengths are tied low around your waist as a skirt and not very modestly. If you make any sharp movements, you’ll be flashing your ass to all of Panem.

It’s a drastic change from your last chariot outfit. At the time, your stylist insisted you be portrayed as coquettish. Someone people will sympathize with and root for as an underdog. That innocent little girl act has followed you for the past eight years. Until today, of course. The assets on display will certainly convince the Capitol elites that you’re a woman worth sponsoring, not that your clients need the reminder.

“What, you wanna switch?” He laughs.

“Oh, I’d love to, but I don’t think these leaves will be big enough for you.” Seeder ‘ooh’s as you pat one of the steeds on its flank. The only horses you're used to seeing are the ones bred for farming—hulking beasts genetically modified to only do one job. But these particular horses get to live a life of luxury as long as they serve the Capitol.

“I guess we aren’t that different, huh, girl?” She neighs at you and you take it as a ‘yes’.

“The company you’re keeping must be horrible if you’ve resorted to talking to horses,” Haymitch says as he approaches.

“I hope you’re including yourself.” Seeder teases.

“Ha, ha. I’ve gathered everyone that’ll ally with Katniss and Peeta.” He makes to lean against the horse but thinks better of it when she scuffs one of her hooves on the ground rather threateningly. “Districts Three, Four, Six, Seven, Eight, and, of course, Eleven. More than I thought we’d get, honestly.” So, that’s it then. Those are all the people who are willing to put their lives on the line for something bigger than themselves. That leaves five districts out, and if it comes down to it, ten people you’ll have to kill. 

It’s suddenly become very real.

“There’s plenty to plan and discuss, but in the meantime, how about you,” he grabs you by the shoulders and turns you toward the last chariot in the line, “go and make a good first impression.”

“How’d you describe me?” What face are you putting forward? There’s a certain way you’ll be expected to act while you’re here, so you can’t deviate too far from that shy naivety.

“If you must know, I told them you have a lot of influence and that you’d be a very good ally. Gives you a bit of creative freedom. Now, go play nice.” You stumble a little when he nudges you forward. You glare over your shoulder, and he holds two thumbs up.

Nothing he said was a lie. Whether you want to admit it or not, you do have an uncanny ability for persuasion. You like to believe it’s because you’re eloquent, but you can acknowledge people are far more likely to believe something when it comes from a pretty face.

"I've been meaning to speak to you,” you settle beside Katniss. You smile up at the horse, reaching up to pet her, "I’m sorry I missed your Victory Tour celebration." You lie. You had just finished dealing with a client at the time, so Snow, in a rare act of mercy, allowed you to skip the event.

"Everyone wants to speak to us." She remarks sorely.

"I remember what that’s like," you chuckle, feeling the horse's silky, black mane. You certainly don’t miss being the shiny new toy. There was always someone asking your opinion on benign subjects, always someone making up excuses to talk to you. It was exhausting when you were fifteen, and it’s still exhausting now. "I’m sure you’ve got plenty to say."

“Nothing I should say.”

“You can start with everything you’re grateful for. They love feeling like they’ve done charity work.” The number of interviews you’ve had to do where you practically kissed the Capitol’s ass for ‘saving you from the squalor of District Eleven’ will always leave a bad taste in your mouth.

“Well, that’ll be a very short conversation with an even shorter list.” She says, just as monotone as she is in her interviews.

“It doesn’t hurt to embellish sometimes.”

“I’m sure you do enough of that for the both of us.” You cock your jaw at the jab. You smile around it until you realize something. You might be a little biased here, but if she thinks she’s had the worst of it, then that ignorance isn’t as much of an act as you thought.

"...You have no idea how lucky you are." You frame it not as a question but as a statement. A revelation that’s just revealed itself to you.

"And how's that?" She turns to you, skepticism evident. You pause and stare at her. There's plenty you can say. Namely, the fact that she was saved from a world of hurt by that star-crossed lovers bullshit. Or the immunity her family has because the Capitol can’t seem to get enough of them. All of that can be flipped into you criticizing the Capitol by the right mouth, so you refrain.

"Well," you sigh and conjure up something that won't flag anyone's attention. "For starters, you've never had to be a mentor." 

She hesitates before asking, mask slipping for a second, "Rue?" 

You nod. "She was one of mine." She was the youngest you had ever mentored. 

She and you both knew she wouldn't survive on the ground. You and Thresh told her to stay high in the trees, and you gathered as many sponsors as you could for them. 

"The trees were her best bet at staying alive. I don't know how many times I told her that." You scoff and shake your head. She was nimble and fast, as most children from Eleven are. They’re forced to climb high in trees to get fruit, and being malnourished only makes them lighter. No one would have been able to chase her. And you knew there wasn't a chance in hell of her winning, but you still had hope, despite yourself, "and, for all intents and purposes, she never would have come down—if it weren't for you." 

Despite what it sounds like, you're not trying to place any blame on Katniss. She wasn't responsible for Rue's actions. She didn't make her come down and help. That was all on Rue and how selflessly compassionate she was. 

You are, however, trying to make her understand the role she's played in all this.

"And Thresh..." You trail off. You don't know what to say. If he hadn't been reaped, he would have been forced to do more backbreaking labor. But he would have been alive. 

It’s a complicated dilemma. Knowing that if the kid won, they'd never be the same. And there was always the possibility that they'd be thrusted into the kind of life that you were forced to live. And if they lost, then they were another bright star snuffed out of the night sky. 

It's nearly impossible not to get attached to the tributes, especially in Eleven, where you truly only have each other. 

There's no good answer, just a shitty position to be in. 

"It hurts each time you lose a tribute. But those two—I don't know. I guess they were a reminder of how…human these kids really are." You shrug and hold her gaze. "How human we are." She takes a second to absorb your words. Can she hear what you’re not saying?

My humanity, thousands of people’s humanity, you think, was kickstarted by you. Take responsibility.

"Thresh—he saved me. He probably would have won if he hadn't." 

"He did save you; they both did. It may have been unintentional, but they gave their lives for you," and with the way things are looking, they won’t be the last. "What will you do with the sacrifices they made?"

The question sits between the two of you. It’s one you’ve been asking yourself since talking with Haymitch. You wonder if your answers will be similar.

"Katniss!" Katniss turns towards the sound of her name, and what do you do? You keep facing the horse. 

Finnick.

If you went deaf, you'd recognize his voice just from the vibrations it sent through your bones. You never thought about what you would do when you saw him again. How you would react, how you would get through it. It's a grave oversight on your part because he's getting closer, and your heartbeat is in your tongue. 

You glance to the side and immediately regret it.

Your eyes trail from his brown gladiator sandals up his bare, tan legs to…netting. There’s a fishnet draped across his torso and knotted low around his hips, similar to how your skirt is tied. It’s very thin, with very spacious holes.

“Star.” You wince at the nickname. You drag your eyes away from his chest and look up to sea green. He’s just as beautiful as you remember him, just as magnetic. There’s something in his gaze, something complex, and it’s more than you can handle. It was always more than you could handle.

"Finnick," you nod, far more composed than you feel. Your tongue will always remember the shape of his name, but you’ve forgotten the taste of it. It’s bittersweet.

His eyes sweep over you at a snail's pace, and you feel him take in your curves and bare skin like phantom hands.

“Stunning as always, Star.” He compliments you just like he used to in that voice that isn’t meant for company. Not that he ever cared about that before.

You war between the urges to cross your arms over your chest and to preen under his stare like a peacock. Briefly, you’re reminded of the way some plants will shift to face the sun whenever it moves.

Katniss looks between you both. Probably taking into account the way you simultaneously wilt and bask under Finnick’s gaze and the way Finnick has yet to look away from you. You two were never subtle, and apparently, that hasn’t changed.

“I take it you two know each other?”

“We’re victors.” You sigh. “We all know each other.” He opens his mouth, but you cut in before he can say anything. Just saying your name—your nickname—was already devastating. He says one syllable, and it shakes your foundations.

You turn back to Katniss, taking the opportunity to look at anything but him. "Good luck, Katniss. Congrats on the engagement." You rush out, but it can be blamed on you being ‘shy’. You pat the horse on her flank one last time before marching to your carriage, and the blue bracelet wrapped around your ankle feels especially tight. 

You did better than you thought you would. You didn’t beg him for an explanation like you’ve wanted to since you read his letter. You’ve still got that. You still have your dignity.

You can feel his eyes on your bare back, but he doesn't call after you. Not that you expect him to. There was a time when you could predict Finnick's next move, where you could walk away and know he'd be right behind you. But now you walk away and pretend like each step isn't killing you, wound still as fresh as it was when he left you with no hand to staunch the bleeding. 

Like there isn't a box under your bed in Eleven with hundreds of sand-colored envelopes and a blue handkerchief that smells like the sea.

A/N: You 🤝 Katniss = unreliable narrators Peeta 🤝 Finnick = Longing for an emotionally constipated woman

[wisyhana]

I don't know how to say this without sounding rude, but we need artists to learn how weight works so they stop missing on the holding like a princess type of pose.

EXAMPLE

Okay, this is not the greatest example, but I refuse to use other artist's art without their permission. I know I didn't make it correctly but let's pretend I did.

So, if you don't want to look for stock images as reference, I understand, but if you want to find the logic on how weight works you gotta understand how the body's weight works first.

This is how I understand it btw, if I'm wrong with how I explain it well I'm wrong, but this way I can help myself to not get so many floaty bodies.

The human body has a gravity point, if I'm not wrong in males is in the pelvis and females a bit lower. Most of weight on the body resides on head and torso. For infants all the weight is on the head for how big it is in comparison of the rest of the body. So how gravity affects all this points?

The gravity point helps the body keep the balance when you stand, if your were hold this way before you noticed how all weight go crazy, specifically in your lower part. This is gravity affecting the body. The parts of your body with more weight will obviously go down, meaning that your lower part and back will need an external force to not drop directly to the ground.

So depending on the type of body the weight will affect more parts than others. For example the male body isn't made to gain lot of fat but muscles, adding that it also tends to gain on the upper part than the lower. So for men to be held this way is their torso the one getting a lot of the weight and tension.

The person holding the other needs the strength to hold all that weight, so a hand crossing the back and locking under the armpit is more or less a good place to do (AVOID DRAWING EM HOLDING BY THE NECK, THE NECK DOESN'T HOLD SHIT OF THE REST OF THE BODY, THAT WOULD ONLY MAKE THE LOWER PART GET ALL THE WEIGHT AND IMMEDIATELY FALL). But then you have the lower part, where do you hold it? From the back of the knee is an ideal, in this drawing I didn't like how the hand looked in that position so I took some liberties.

But we can't ignore how this extra weight affects the gravity point of the other person.

The extra body easily press against the other, which will requiere more of the other to balance two bodies basically. The back bends to let the pelvis receive the weight of the second person. The work of the arms is to distribute equally the weight to the body, weak arms mean more weight to the body, which ends on unbalance.

You can also work a lot with the balance of the bodies depending on how tense the person being held is. Remember, losing your own balance means extra work of your body to find equilibrium, it probably will end on a very tense body, specially if the person is not prepared for it. If it's a surprise hold probably the person being held will try to grab to the other with their arms and hands, so there's a lot to play with them too. You can show how strong the other is by showing which direction their torso is bending, are they strong? they'd be standing straight for sure, are they weak? they'd bend backwards and instinctively waiting for their pelvis to receive all the weight. In this part body language is crucial to show the personalities of each individual.

Hope this helps in any way!

[hanzajesthanza]

Hii i have a question abt tlol u mihht know thr answer to. ❤️

While geralt and ciri fight their enemies on the stygga castle, geralt tells ciri several times yen wants to look at the sky. (If i temember correctly it was yen) Why?? Its so random? Does it have a hidden meaning? Does it refer to vilgefortz quote 'You Mistake Stars Reflected In A Pond For The Night Sky' ?

i can’t be certain that it’s not a reference to something elsewhere in literature, but i just interpret it as an expression of weariness and exhaustion. as geralt’s emotions are described:

He didn’t feel anger, resentment or hatred. He felt only weariness. And a huge desire to be done with all of it. (…)

as geralt learns from ciri, by a shake of her head, the rest of his company (cahir and angouleme) also did not survive. so he realizes all of his friends were lost. and that there is nothing left for them here.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he repeated.

‘Yes,’ said Yennefer. ‘I want to see the sky.’

‘I’ll never leave you both,’ Ciri said softly. ‘Never.’

* funny mistake here - in the official english translation, it was printed that yennefer says “I want see the sky” :’)

so they go to leave:

In front of them was a stairway, a great stairway drowning in smoke, in the twinkling glow of torches and fire in iron cressets. Ciri shuddered. She had seen that stairway before. In dreams and visions.

Down below, far away, armed men were waiting.

‘I’m tired,’ she whispered.

‘Me too,’ admitted Geralt, drawing the sihill.

‘I’ve had enough of killing.’

‘Me too.’

‘Is there no other way out?’

No. There isn’t. Only this stairway. We must, girl. Yen wants to see the sky. And I want to see the sky, Yen and you.

they want to get out of stygga castle, but between them and escaping it is one final battle, for at the end of the staircase they see stefan skellen and his men, who they know they will have to kill in order to leave from here.

they are tired, they are wretched after having killed so much. the moral weight of killing is a huge theme in the witcher, and here is no exception - it’s not glorified that the heroes brandish their swords, the heroes feel the weight of them.

they don’t want to kill anymore. but they have to, in order to get out of the place where they killed.

it’s like ‘the only way out is through.’

“seeing the sky” = an end to this episode, freedom from this place of killing and death, escape from this black citadel, return to life

why the sky?

a significant reminder here is that they cannot see the sky from within stygga castle. for it had no windows (which was mentioned in chapter 2, but likely ceases to be present in the mind by the time you get to chapter 9). but essentially, it’s dark in that stone castle, hewn from rock:

The tapestry measured about five foot by seven and its tassels rested on the floor. It showed a rocky cliff over a tarn, and a castle carved into the cliff, which seemed to be part of the rock wall.

The castle didn’t have any windows through which she could see the surrounding terrain, or even the sun to try to orient herself.

(what a horrible place, as percieved by our human heliophilia!)

i think generally, darkness/light symbolism (or cave/sky symbolism… hi plato) is very ancient, even primal, even biological.

another analogy might be finishing a work shift at a retail store where you’ve been under flourescent lights for eight hours, and now want to leave this infernal place and finally see the sky above. there’s a feeling of exhaustion, horror, nausea whenever you’ve been separated from the sky for so long

[askror]

Something for Clutch - how much were you worth before you went to prison? A million? A billion? Why chase even more money with your scheme to kill Gods knows how many people? What was there that you couldn't afford? How much better could you eat?

"Thirty million, if I remember correctly. That probably sounds like a lot to you, my friend. Maybe even more than enough to last a lifetime." The opossum leaned back in his chair, filing his claws placidly as he spoke: "It's very common for people to think that there's such thing as 'enough' in this world. When you begin to broader your horizons, you realize that's just a matter of perspective born from your station."

"A man with nothing sees a man with table scraps as a miser. Someone just scraping by sees someone with stability and sees life lived as a dream. Rich men envying kings. Kings envying gods. Up and up and up the chain you go, each selfish little link coveting the one just ahead in turn." He flicked his newly sharpened nail a few times, nodding approvingly. "It's all very futile and unhappy, if I'm being honest. Universal truths rarely are."

Something seemed to sharpen in his eyes. A spark that could draw blood. Something, against all odds, that the old man truly cares about: "I've worked hard for everything I've ever earned, and what I got was never enough. Perhaps I haven't always been honest in getting it, certainly not my friend, no, but there was much blood and many a broken bone. All in the name of going up that damned chain. And you know what I learned, over and over? That chain? While you're busy occupying yourself on keeping your eyes forward? It's wrapping around your neck."

He had been leaning forward as he spoke, closer and closer to the glass of the cell as his words changed from genial conversation to heavy, venomous hiss... But then a wave of calm rushed through him. He settled, letting out a little sigh and relaxing once again.

"The only way out is to stop following the links. To step outside the system. And the process of doing that is... Not always pretty, as you know. Nor does it always work. But maybe one day, you'll feel like you have 'enough' only for that chain to suddenly get nice and tight." He made a visceral little sound, an unnerving approximation to something being sliced. "Maybe then, at the last moment, you'll realize why I had to at least try."

[une-sanz-pluis]

The 'normative' years of Edward III witnessed the establishment of sodomy as the ultimate statement of political unfitness. Inheriting this aspect of gendered monarchy, among many others, Richard II was made to fit into an interpretative scheme that had been created over the course of many decades. Many of the charges from the Lancastrian period repeat nearly word for word the accusations familiar to us from the 1330s and onward. A fifteenth-century Lincolnshire chronicle, for instance, notes that, after being crowned king, Richard 'immediately, after the manner of Roboam, despising the counsel of the wise, attended to the suggestions of the young. Infatuated by their persuasions he oppressed his native subjects.' [...] Similarly, Adam of Usk writes in his Chronicle that 'this Richard, with his callow counsellors [consilium iuuenum], should more correctly be compared to Roboam … who, because he followed the counsel of youths, lost the kingdom of Israel'. The Kirkstall writer raises the spectre of Edward II when (writing after Richard's deposition) he reports the opinion of 'learned men' that Richard, like Edward of Carnarvon, had spurned the counsel of the greater dukes and lords in 1386, relying instead on the wishes and advice of the young lords and of others of less power and influence.' [...] Like these examples drawn from the Lancastrian propaganda of the early 1400s, the queering of the king in the 1380s and 1390s was accomplished through the invocation of certain stock rhetorical figures and characters - like Roboam, for instance, or like the generic type of the excessively passive young man, or the tyrannically perverse old man. Richard himself assisted in the drawing of his reputation as a deviant by stubbornly invoking the memory of the deviant Edward II: in 1383 the king arranged for his great-grandfather's anniversary to be celebrated each year at Gloucester Abbey, and beginning in 1385 he began to press for Edward's canonization - a course he continued to pursue, unsuccessfully, throughout the 1390s. Unlike Edward Ill's calculated restoration of Edward II's moral reputation, Richard's more vigorous attentions toward his ancestor were politically disastrous insofar as they led more or less directly to the revival of the cult of Thomas of Lancaster, who had been murdered and his inheritance seized by Edward II in 1322. No one in this period actually charged Richard with sodomy. But no one needed to; the cultural discourse of sexual misrule from the 1330s onward was so profound as to serve as a kind of code with which to speak about unnatural politics, and its punishment, while preserving the status of sodomy as the 'unmentionable' sin.

Sylvia Federico, "Queer Times: Richard II in the Poems and Chronicles of Late Fourtheen-Century England", Medium Ævum, vol. 79, no. 1, 2010.

[oohbuggypie]

if i can actually learn how to draw buff men correctly ill draw bald bull in a dress for u 🙏🙏

i think God came down 4 this one ANON U SWEET SOUL ... Bull in a dress will cure my ailments heal my partners who r suffering and grace the entire world with wellbeing .. bless u 🩷✝️

[olderthannetfic]

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/730572795212398592/what-is-up-with-all-the-trans-men-on-this-hellsite?source=share

As a trans man, I might have some insight into this one. I'm a lot older than the standard uwu sparkle anti, but I was in my mid twenties for the first wave of weirdness about trans boys on Tumblr about a decade ago, so I was just too old for it then, and I saw a lot of guys my age and a little younger get swept up in it.

OTNF rightly points out that young trans men are a particularily vulnerable demographic. This is part of it, but we're also a demographic that doesn't sit comfortably with our identites (gender identities or otherwise) and are told by everyone (on every side) that we are Doing It Wrong, that our existence harms others, and that we must be this specific way to be good people.

I'm sure you've seen the "trans men are better than real cis men" rhetoric. It's meant to be inclusive and to reassure us that we're not bad people just because of our gender, but it also denies us our entire gender identity.

So basically, you've got a bunch of young guys, most of whom were socialised like girls and learned to never be too assertive, many of whom are straight up suffering from dysphoria and stress, being told by people both within and outside of their communities that the are Wrong and Bad and Harmful just for existing. It makes sense that a lot of them would would find a movement based on moral posturing that will accept them if they perform correctly and will use their real name and pronouns. That's what Antis are; they say "use this vocabulary, send hate mail to that person, put these terms in your DNI, don't be caught reading that story", and, unlike other groups that police people's tastes and performance that hard, they're not overtly hostile to trans identities. So you can spout the right rhetoric, use the right tumblr icon, and they will actually accept you (on the surface, for a time, but we're talking about young and desperate people who aren't looking at the long game).

Helping them harass those badwrong horrible NOTP shippers or aces or middle aged women or some random artist who got caught drawing the wrong age gap or whoever is the fashionable target will prove that you aren't a horrible monster for being a man, you're moral and upright and correct.

And yes a lot of it is internalised misandry (that word has a lot of dumb baggage, but how else can I describe a boy who hates himself for being a boy?), or self-loathing born of dysphoria and just plain having to live in a world that's hostile to trans people.

Being an anti is a way out. It's a way to manufacture acceptence. And they're too young and too hurt to realise that that acceptance is as temporary and hostile as the people who accept them only if they pretend to be girls; the antis will turn on them the moment they start acting a little too manly or if they're caught liking the wrong ship.

(I've seen something similar happen to young cis queer guys and trans girls, too, but it isn't as pronounced since being raised as a boy means you probably already learned that standing up for yourself is ok sometimes)

--

I'm sure it also doesn't help that tumblr is absolutely full of BL/slash fandom. There's certainly plenty of gender diversity in these spaces, but it's inescapable that the majority of participants are women. So for a young, insecure guy trying to assert that he is a guy, it's easy to fall prey to "Waaaah, I need to reclaim my hobby for me!" gatekeepy nonsense.

Sure, it's going to be turned on nbs even harder than on cis women and will be used to misgender other trans men in the end and misogyny isn't cool anyway, but that's not what your average traumatized young fool is thinking when they first join up. They're thinking "I hurt."

TBH, though, probably the largest component is that all of us—all of us—have a mental image of a default human for a given context. It's rarely a trans man. And so anything a trans man does stands out and is A Thing Trans Men Do.

This is true even if you are trans. It is true even if you are not a transphobic dickhead. Unlearning the 'why girls are bad at math' xkcd strip is extraordinarily hard because recognizing patterns and having mental defaults is just how human brains work.

There are shittons of cis women who become antis, but they're just not notable in the same way.

Are trans men more vulnerable to becoming antis? It's possible, and the reasons you outlined above are likely why. I think it's an interesting question to discuss if we are specifically discussing why the trans men who do become antis do so.

But we don't actually have any hard facts to support that they are more prone to it than anybody else. My guess would be that vulnerable people are more likely to become antis, so any cis woman with a strong source of vulnerability like a shittastic home life is similarly vulnerable to a young trans man with no support network, but who knows.

Maybe only 5% of trans men on tumblr are antis and 50% of cis women. Maybe it's 90% of trans men and 20% of cis women. Maybe it's 1% and 1% and they're just all very loud.

We have no data. We just don't know.

And we will never be able to trust our own brains on this until trans vs. cis is such a nonissue that we don't even notice it.

[walkswithmyfather]

John 4:7‭-‬30. “A woman of Samaria came to draw water. “Give Me a drink,” Jesus said to her, for His disciples had gone into town to buy food. “How is it that You, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a Samaritan woman? ” she asked Him. For Jews do not associate with Samaritans. Jesus answered, “If you knew the gift of God, and who is saying to you, ‘Give Me a drink,’ you would ask Him, and He would give you living water.” “Sir,” said the woman, “You don’t even have a bucket, and the well is deep. So where do You get this ‘living water’? You aren’t greater than our father Jacob, are You? He gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did his sons and livestock.”

Jesus said, “Everyone who drinks from this water will get thirsty again. But whoever drinks from the water that I will give him will never get thirsty again — ever! In fact, the water I will give him will become a well of water springing up within him for eternal life.” “Sir,” the woman said to Him, “give me this water so I won’t get thirsty and come here to draw water.” “Go call your husband,” He told her, “and come back here.” “I don’t have a husband,” she answered. “You have correctly said, ‘I don’t have a husband,’ ” Jesus said. “For you’ve had five husbands, and the man you now have is not your husband. What you have said is true.” “Sir,” the woman replied, “I see that You are a prophet. Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, yet you Jews say that the place to worship is in Jerusalem.”

Jesus told her, “Believe Me, woman, an hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. You Samaritans worship what you do not know. We worship what we do know, because salvation is from the Jews. But an hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth. Yes, the Father wants such people to worship Him. God is spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth.

The woman said to Him, “I know that Messiah is coming” (who is called Christ ). “When He comes, He will explain everything to us.” “I am He,” Jesus told her, “the One speaking to you.” Just then His disciples arrived, and they were amazed that He was talking with a woman. Yet no one said, “What do You want? ” or “Why are You talking with her? ”

Then the woman left her water jar, went into town, and told the men, “Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could this be the Messiah? ” They left the town and made their way to Him.“ (HCSB)

“Christ’s Transforming Power” By In Touch Ministries:

“Those who have a personal encounter with Christ are permanently and radically changed.”

“Ephesians 2:1-2 says that before salvation, we all are spiritually dead. But when a person places faith in Christ, he or she becomes a new creation (2 Corinthians 5:17). Nowhere is this more evident than in the life of the woman at the well, recorded for us in today’s passage.

Before Jesus came to Sychar, the Samaritan woman’s life was challenging, to say the least. She was not fully welcome in her community, as evidenced by the fact she was going to draw water during the hottest part of the day, long after others had done so. It’s easy to imagine her walking with her head down and eyes averted, hoping to get what she needed without calling attention to herself.

However, she and Jesus spoke directly—a surprising departure from cultural norms of the time—and what He revealed changed everything. After learning of the living water Christ offered, she no longer ran away from others. Instead, she went right to them to share the amazing news (vv. 28-30). What a transformation! Salvation came to her in a moment when she least expected it, and the same can be true for people in our day.”