#visceral masquerade

[snootdroops]

“Sister…Your turn”

Bringing to you some Shella and Bella content, 2 in one body, Shella and Bella fused together when the outbreak, still even fused Shella looks after her sister from flanks or attacks she cant block and if needed they both switch control

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

ON YOUR KNEES

jude bellingham x gf!reader

warnings: a bit of toxicity, +18 content, oral sex (male receiving), unprotected sex, dom!Jude (maybe a bit mean), dirty talk, praising, possesive behaivor, a semipublic space, boys slut shaming the reader (not jude), and probably mistakes since english is not my first language.

summary: In the throbbing pulse of a nightclub, jealousy ignites a fiery confrontation between you and your boyfriend, Jude. Provoked by your dance with another man, he pulls you into a private moment of reckoning in the bathroom, demanding an apology that leaves no room for hesitation.

a/n: (somebody help me to come up with titles please)

The nightclub hummed with an intoxicating energy, a haven for lost souls seeking solace in the arms of strangers or the oblivion of a pounding bassline. The air was heavy with sweat, alcohol, and desperation masquerading as joy. You had dressed for war tonight, in a red satin dress that hugged your curves and heels high enough to command attention. This wasn’t your scene, not really. But Jude had been distant after the fight, and your insecurities screamed for validation louder than reason.

Jude Bellingham, your boyfriend, stood across the room, chatting with some friends. His laughter boomed, carefree and natural, and you wondered how he could be so unaffected by the rift that had formed between you after the fight. His presence was magnetic; even in a crowd, you were caught in his orbit, unable to escape.

And then there was Theo. A friend of a friend, someone whose name barely mattered. He had shown up with your group earlier in the night, and though he seemed charming in a low-key way, you hadn’t paid him much attention. Not until Jude, pointedly, hadn’t paid attention to you. His eyes swept over the crowd while laughing, skipping over you deliberately. It wasn’t subtle. The cold disregard had stung more than you cared to admit, especially when you’d tried earlier to bridge the gap with him.

The argument had started over something petty—an offhand comment about him always being preoccupied with football. You hadn’t meant for it to spiral, but his reaction had been defensive, his words clipped and final, leaving the tension between you unresolved. Now, with each minute that passed, the silence between you grew heavier. He hadn’t so much as glanced your way all evening, and it gnawed at you.

Theo, on the other hand, had noticed you. A cheeky grin lit up his face as he leaned closer, just enough to make you feel a little thrill of rebellion. When he offered his hand to dance, you hesitated for half a beat before slipping your fingers into his. If Jude wasn’t going to acknowledge you, then why shouldn’t you let someone else? After all, it was just a dance, and you were getting bored.

The music pulsed like a heartbeat as Theo led you to the dance floor. The space was tight, and the proximity lent an intimacy to every movement. He wasn’t overbearing, though—his hands stayed respectfully at his sides, his rhythm perfectly matching yours as you swayed to the beat. You weren’t trying to make anything happen with Theo, but the act of dancing with him, of letting him pay you attention, felt like an act of defiance. You wanted Jude to notice. To feel something.

And he did.

From across the room, you felt his eyes on you like a laser. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, a visceral awareness of his gaze locking onto you. Jude’s jaw clenched as he stood rooted in place, watching you. He didn’t move, didn’t intervene, but his presence was suffocating. The heat of it made your stomach twist, nerves tightening with every shift of his broad shoulders. And then, as if none of it mattered, he turned back to his conversation, his indifference as cutting as his earlier intensity. Prick.

So you didn’t stop. If anything, you leaned into it, letting Theo spin you once, your laughter ringing out like a challenge. Your boyfriend looked at you again, and you saw Jude’s dark expression, his easy smile from earlier replaced by something stormy and unreadable. For a split second, you almost faltered, the weight of his emotions bearing down on you. But this was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? To make him care enough to do something?

"Having fun?" Theo asked, his voice warm and low, oblivious to the drama playing out behind him.

“Yeah,” you said, though your tone betrayed a hint of distraction.

Theo didn’t seem to notice, twirling you again with effortless charm. But you couldn’t shake Jude’s piercing stare. It was as though he were trying to will you to stop, to come to him, without ever saying a word.

Your heart raced for reasons that had little to do with the dance.

Feeling particularly suicidal tonight, thanks to your spectacular failures and, possibly, the cocktail of drinks coursing through your veins, you grabbed Theo’s hands and placed them on your bare sides again. His fingers rested lightly against your skin, just at the curve of your waist, the contact a muted sensation rather than the electrifying spark you might have hoped for if Jude was there with you.

Your skin does not catch fire. You do not break out in sweat or experience the shattering sensation of mysterious eroticism.

But it is good enough to keep going.

The pounding rhythm of the nightclub seems to slow as you let yourself melt into the movement, your arms sliding up and around Theo’s neck. You dance slower than the beat demands, provocatively, swaying your hips in a way that feels deliberate, jutting your breasts just enough to know it would catch someone’s eye. And it does—though not the one dancing with you.

Theo’s hands tighten a fraction on your waist, his grin growing, but you’re barely paying attention to him. The music pulses through your body, the bass reverberating in your chest, making your heart race with a symphony of chaos and rebellion. Every sway of your hips is a message, every tilt of your head a taunt, but not for the one in front of you.

Jude’s eyes burn into you from across the room. The sensation of his gaze is impossible to ignore, a toxic elixir swirling and bubbling within you, a concoction that promises a temporary escape from reality and a false sense of bliss. You’ve always known Jude’s intensity, but now, that intensity is wrapped in jealousy, and something darker. It ignites a masochistic thrill within you.

He hasn’t moved. Jude stands at the edge of the crowd, his teammates fading into the background as he leans casually against the bar, drink forgotten in his hand. The set of his jaw is hard, his shoulders squared, his lips pressed into a thin line. His stare is molten, hot enough to scald, and you can feel it even with the bodies and music between you. Then, just as suddenly, he smirks.

Your breath catches when his head tilts slightly, a motion that seems to say, Are you having fun?

Theo leans closer, saying something you don’t catch over the music, his lips brushing against your ear. Maybe he was not telling you a joke, however, you laugh, though it’s forced and far too bright, leaning into his touch with a little more weight. Your hands slide to his chest, flattening against the fabric of his shirt as you sway together, bodies close but still frustratingly detached for him—and perfectly calculated for Jude.

You glance over your shoulder, unable to help yourself, and the storm in Jude’s eyes pins you in place. Your body continues to move, but your mind stumbles, caught in the ferocity of his expression. There’s no mistaking it now—he’s furious. His knuckles are white against the glass he holds, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to shatter it. Now it is your turn to smirk.

This isn’t just jealousy. It’s possessiveness. A dangerous, intoxicating cocktail of emotions that makes you feel both vindicated and on the verge of collapse.

When Jude finally pushes off the bar and begins to weave through the crowd, your heart skips a beat. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, but there’s a predatory edge to them that sends a chill racing down your spine. He’s coming for you.

Jude is on you before you can even process the intent in his eyes. The heat of his fury radiates, sharp and unmistakable, as he steps forward through the sea of dancers. The music blurs around you, the world fading as his hand shoots out and grabs your wrist with an iron grip. His fingers are like steel, unyielding, and in a single motion, he pulls you away from Theo, nearly yanking you off your feet.

“Theo, I’m—” You try to say something, but Theo, standing there looking helpless and confused, doesn’t matter anymore. Jude doesn’t even spare him a glance.

Your heart starts to pound as you stagger for balance, nearly tripping in your heels, but Jude’s grip holds you firm avoiding you falling to the dance floor. He’s moving fast, and his pace doesn’t adjust for you in the slightest. You can’t match it. He’s walking like he’s a man on a mission—unbothered by the people swarming around, dodging them effortlessly as if they aren’t even there. You’re practically running to keep up, stumbling over your feet, but Jude’s grip doesn’t loosen.

“Jude! Where are we—?” Your voice is lost in the music, but he doesn’t even glance at you, doesn’t hear you, or at least pretends no to. It’s as though you don’t exist beyond the space he’s carved out for you in that moment, and it’s suffocating.

He’s not walking. He’s striding—his long legs taking confident strides, moving through the crowd with an almost predatory grace, a rhythm only he can keep. You can barely breathe as you’re pulled along, the rapid pace tightening the knot in your stomach. The world is rotating around you, and your pulse races—not from nervousness, but from sheer excitement. Your mind is spinning, heart pounding, as you try to make sense of what is happening. You imagine a lot of outcomes, each one better than the other.

You open your mouth again, ready to protest due to the pace, but his jaw tightens, and he looks down at you for a brief second, a smirk twisting his lips. That smirk makes your chest tighten even more.

“I thought you didn’t want to dance,” you manage to mutter, barely above a whisper, your voice thick with emotion. You’re trying to get under his skin, trying to understand why his anger feels so consuming, but all he does is bite the inside of his cheek, suppressing another smug smile and probably some words.

He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t acknowledge the weight of your words. He just keeps walking, and you’re helpless to do anything but follow. It’s as if the entire club is distorting into a haze of colors and noise around you, and all that matters is Jude.

You want to speak again, to demand an answer, but you can’t. His grip is tight around your wrist, and the pressure in your chest makes it hard to breathe. His steps never falter as he walks, maneuvering through the bodies with ease—there’s no resistance, no interruption. He’s in complete control, dragging you along like a marionette.

The closer you get to the back hallway, the more you realize where he’s taking you. Your stomach turns. The bathroom. Not just any bathroom, but the kind that reeks of exclusivity, the kind where people disappear into.

“Jude!” You pull against his grip, but it’s futile. His smirk only deepens, and there’s something almost amused in his eyes. He’s enjoying this—enjoying making you squirm.

“I’m not just some toy for you to—”

Before you can finish, he halts in front of the door. His fingers tighten on your wrist as he spins you to face him, leaning down just enough to make your breath catch. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even need to. The look in his eyes tells you everything you need to know. His silence is louder than any words.

And then, without a word, he pulls you into the restroom, the door slamming behind him with a finality that makes your pulse race. The smirk on his lips is barely contained now as he surveys you, his eyes dark and possessive, glinting with something that leaves you breathless and a little afraid.

“Jude,” you breathe. “What are we doing here?”

Instead of answering you, he just presses into you farther. “You made me watch him touch you.”

“Made you? Then you should´ve—”

“You made me. You made it impossible to look anywhere but you. Existing effortlessly in a room full of people, looking every bit of holy, divine, and angelic, practically forcing me to look at you. You made me watch him grind against you, inhale you.”

“I’m with you,” you whispered, meaning it more than you’ve ever meant anything before. “I’m always with you. I was just with him to make you jealous.” Then you lowered your voice, a hint of embarrassment creeping in, your eyes darting away. "Sorry"

Now you feel horribly. You used Theo, who seemed nice enough not to deserve it, and you hurt Jude. The tension between you and Jude had been building for a while, an undercurrent of frustration and misunderstanding, but that didn't make your actions any easier to justify. You'd pushed him to his limits, used someone else as a distraction, all because of your frustration.

“I couldn’t watch you with him anymore. I think that dude is bad news. Also, I understand that you wanted to dance but that is not the way. You know it. You pissed me off. I was sick of seeing him touch you.” The power in his hold rattles you to your core. There is so much severity in him right now that you know he isn’t joking.

You know it’s wrong, but he hurt you too. He made you feel as if you did not mattered. You couldn’t keep your toughts from him. So that leaft you with only one option. The truth. “Jude, I⁠—”

Rambunctious laughter and voices burst into the bathroom, followed by the door exploding open. It dings against the wall behind it, but the group of men, from the VIP zone, who just tumbled inside didn’t even care. “Theo, that little thing that was rubbing against you out there is a solid fuck. Had her in between my sheets a few years ago, before she was with her fucking boyfriend.”

“I’ll pass on your sloppy seconds, then. I’m capable of getting my own pussy.” The color drains from your face as you recognize Theo’s voice. But more importantly, the first man—whose voice you didn’t recognize—was completely lying. You feel a knot form in your stomach, but thankfully, their voices are drowned by the thumping bass and the chatter of the crowd around you. You glance at Jude, hoping he didn't overhear. A hot flush creeps up your neck, and your heart races, but, to your relief, he’s focused entirely on you, oblivious to the exact words just out of reach.

You’re thankful for the pressure Jude is putting on your back, or else your knees would’ve buckled. This is not how you wanted this conversation to go with him, and the last thing you want is for him to believe those lies before you could explain.

“It seems we have company, baby,” Jude mutters in your ear, “How about you put on a show for them like you did me earlier, hmm?”

Your body melts a little when you feel him grind into your backside, feeling his hardened cock behind the fabric of our clothing. A gnawing in your stomach starts abruptly, resulting in a pulse beginning between your thighs.

Your dress rode up some, enough to expose the back of your legs. You shivered at the scratchy feeling of his jeans rubbing against you. You bit down on your bottom lip as his hands fall to your lower half.

“I want you to make it up to me, Y/N. I want you to be my good girl and get down on your knees,” he starts, building this fantasy for you to act out, one that has your nipples taut and core dripping.

“And apologize for making me watch you and him. Make it up to me.” The grip on your waist tightens as he spins you smoothly so that you are facing him. Behind you, you can hear them all laughing about someone not doing a line of coke correctly. The way you had Theo´s hands in your waist before, it´s terrifying.

You hear footsteps and their muffled voices approaching the bathroom compartment where you and Jude are. The group of friends is moving closer, and the pressure in the air grows. Your heart races faster, the space suddenly feeling smaller. Panic comes back, out of fear of their reaction of finding you, but Jude pulls you back into his body, making everything else besides him disappear. He grabs your chin between his fingers, holding you there.

Your breath catches, heart racing as you lean in, closing the small gap between you. But just before your lips meet, he smirks, his dark eyes glittering with playful control. He doesn’t give you the kiss you’re seeking, and the teasing refusal makes your cheeks burn.

Flustered but determined, you tilt your head and plant a quick kiss on his cheek instead, a move that feels bolder than it should. Embarrassment floods through you, and before you can think twice, you hide your face in the curve of his neck, trying to steady your breathing.

Jude’s chuckle rumbles softly in his chest, and then you feel his lips brush against the side of your neck, pressing wet, warm, deliberate kisses that make your nerves spark and your embarrassment melt away.

“On your knees, baby.”

The air between you shifts, thick with tension, his tone wrapping around you like a velvet tether. Your breath hitches, a flush creeping up your neck as his gaze pins you in place. For a moment, you hesitate—not out of defiance, but because the weight of the moment is so intense it’s almost dizzying.

His fingers trail along your jawline, firm but not harsh, guiding you gently down as if he’s already certain you’ll obey. There’s no need for him to repeat himself; his confidence is undeniable, and it pulls at something deep within you.

You want to make it up to him. You want to give him this. So, you do as you are told. You creep down in a squatting position, dropping to your knees one at a time, the cold tile stinging your skin. You keep your eyes up, staring at him because you already know how much he loves it when you look at him while you go down.

“Like this?” you ask innocently, licking your bottom lip, waiting for his answer as your palms run up his thighs. Your mouth waters eagerly. The challenge of making him feel good, the opportunity to receive his praise, makes your toes curl and your heart race.

You made quick work of his button and zipper, dipping your hand into his jeans. Kneading his stiffened length through his boxers, you teased him. Chills racked your spine as you pulled him free, and your body hummed as you admired his dick. The anticipation crackled in the air, and you couldn’t resist running your fingers along him, savoring the weight of him in your grasp.

But just as the moment deepened, muffled voices from outside shattered the intimacy like glass splintering across tile.

“Y/N didn’t let you smash?” The crude question carried clearly through the thin walls, each word like a slap against your ears. Your movements faltered, your hand freezing mid-stroke as your head snapped up in shock.

“That uppity slut has barely let me touch her.” Theo sneered, his tone laced with venom. The words hit you hard, bile rising in your throat as your mind reeled. Theo—who had seemed kind, respectful, and far removed from this kind of cruelty—had just ripped apart his character with casual malice.

Laughter followed, rough and mean-spirited. “Skank’s probably the loyal type, man. She looked like a bitch starving for attention.”

Jude’s reaction was immediate and terrifying. His body tensed like a spring about to snap, his jaw clenching so hard you swore you could hear it. His nostrils flared, and his hands balled into tight fists at his sides.

“I’m gonna kill that piece of shit,” he snarled, the sheer venom in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. He moved, his rage propelling him toward the door.

“No, Jude!” you hissed, grabbing his wrist firmly. You looked up at him, your wide eyes begging him to stop. “Don’t. Please.”

His glare snapped down to you, fiery and unrelenting, but then he paused. For a moment, you could see the war inside him—the need to protect you battling against his trust in your words. Finally, he let out a sharp, furious exhale, his fist relaxing just slightly.

“Fucking idiots,” he muttered under his breath, his voice still seething with anger. But he didn’t move toward the door again. Instead, his gaze dropped back to you, his expression softening as his focus returned to what truly mattered—you.

“That’s right,” you whispered, your hand sliding up his thighs to ground him. “But forget them. Stay here with me.”

Jude’s lips quirked into a dark, frustrated smirk, his anger not entirely gone but redirected. His hand reached out to cup your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. Then his hands fell to your head, sneaking to the back of it to grab a chunk of your soft hair to hold on to.

Your skin is warm and tingling as you did not listen to them talk far away shit about you, focusing on pleasuring him. Seductively and without moving your eyes from his glowing face, you spit onto the head, using your hand to smear your saliva up and down his length. You lubed him all up so he slides down your throat smoothly.

“Maybe that footballer will fuck the bitch out of her,” Theo jokes, making the guys around him cackle.

Your scalp burns sweetly as Jude twists his wrist, pulling tighter on your hair. “You going to fuck the bitch out of me?” you asked, your voice a whisper for only him to hear, eyes wide, trying to get him to focus on you so that he doesn’t kill the entire group of friends of a friend of yours. You do not care about their crude comments; their words do nothing as long as he is with you.

Your palm curled around him at his base, pumping up and down while you opened your mouth to take him inside. You engulfed him fully, swirling your tongue, tracing the grooves. He pulled you off him before you could do anything else, bending at the waist so his face is near your own, “What bitch in you? I know how to handle you perfectly, love.”

A blush heats your cheeks, just before you feel him press your head down towards his hips. He pushes his cock past your lips, into your mouth, and down your throat, catching you off guard completely. His member tickled the back of your throat, making you choke quietly, but it doesn’t seem to faze him because he holds you there.

With no mercy in sight, he shifts his hips back as he places his other hand in your hair, stroking forward once again, creating a sloppy sound as he crams his cock into your mouth. His head is tucked into his chin, his eyes staring straight through your own. Your throat constricts around him, pushing him out with resistance, and your gag reflex kicks into high gear.

“Open up for me, baby. Let it feel right.” He groans lowly, using both hands to shove you farther down him next to his pelvis. The girth painfully presses against the back of your throat. Your breath through your nose comes out shaky as you wince, your eyes squinting as you focus on not making any noise so those outside of the stall don’t hear me.

You swallow around him, suctioning him with your lips, “That’s it. Such a good girl for me.”

Every time you try to catch your breath, he steals it with another hard thrust into your mouth, and you have no choice but to take it. You can sense the lingering edge of his resentment over your earlier performance, and it drives you to give him everything—to accept him fully, without hesitation or complaint. The raw intensity of his control sends a jolt of heat straight through you, making your walls clench and your arousal deepen with every movement.

And it only gets worse as the seconds tick by. His hold on your hair burns with the pull, and his strokes become violent. You struggle to breathe, desperately trying to keep your gags quiet. Although there’s nothing you could do about his soft groans of pleasure and the wet noise of his cock filling your mouth.

Finally, fate decides to give you a break, because you hear the group of guys start to file out of the bathroom. When the door shuts, you choke embarrassingly loud, pressing your hands into Jude’s thighs and forcing him out so you could catch your breath. A trail of spit from your mouth drips from his shaft, leaking down your chin and onto your neckline. You can feel the heat from your flushed cheeks, your eyes rimmed with tears that freely fall from the force of his thrusts.

“You think we are done, Y/N?” he taunts, pushing you backwards so that your head and his hands press into the stall door.

Your reply is empty. You’re unable to speak once he returns to your mouth, pushing deeper inside you than you thought possible. Your head against the door gives him a backboard to drive into so that his thrusts are harder, and you have nowhere to pull back to.

You move your head while his hardened dick chokes you, flattening your tongue so that it massages the underside of his length, lapping at the bulging vein every single time you force yourself down. It’s chaotic. The kind of painful ecstasy that makes you question your sanity.

Your eyesight is blurred with the faint lights from the bathroom, hazy with tears as he continues to find pleasure. Fully ignoring the ache in your throat and jaw, his moans become more audible and you find yourself dripping.

This is how it always happens with him. He pushes, pushes, pushes until you are unable to function. He does it so well, he always leaves you breathless. There are no breaks. There is no easy with him. He takes you to the complete verge of incomprehensible pleasure every time.

The number of grunts and moans pouring out of him is enough to keep you going, the kind of pleasure that feeds on itself, a heady mix of his reactions and your own growing need. You gag and sputter around him, your throat tightening as you bring you hand up to rest on his abdomen. You can feel his stomach seizing, his vicious thrusts turning sloppy and out of control. Your other slippery hand cups his balls, drawing a sharp hiss from him as his hips stutter, his head tipping back as he drags in a breath through clenched teeth.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and laced with lingering tension. With your name on his lips, he shoves deep into the back of your mouth, pouring his release into your throat. You swallow greedily, sucking until he is finished with you. You can feel his legs shaking slightly as he cradles the back of your head.

His hands cherish your face with a tenderness that feels almost at odds with the intensity of the moments before, your head resting against the door. He holds you up. You shudder slightly as you breathe him in. Your body feels heavy, yet weightless in his arms, the aftershocks of what just transpired making it difficult to ground yourself.

Jude shifts his grip, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. His touch is gentle as he works to wipe away the evidence of your shared heat—the smudged makeup staining your skin, the faint sheen of sweat that clings to you. His brows furrow slightly, as if this small act of care carries the weight of an apology.

His thumb lingers at the corner of your lips, gently catching the slight wetness there. You watch him, heart pounding as his gaze flicks to yours, holding your attention with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice soft, tinged with awe and a bit of regret for the rudeness. “Messy, perfect, all for me.” His lips curve into the smallest of smiles before his thumb brushes over your lips one last time.

Then, as if he can’t help himself, he leans in and kisses you deeply. The kiss is slow, searching—an apology, a promise, and a plea wrapped into one. His lips move against yours with a reverence that makes your chest ache, his hands still cradling your face as if you might slip away.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and he lets out a breath that seems to carry all his unspoken thoughts. His fingers trace along your jaw, grounding you both in the moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, his voice rough with sincerity. “For not paying you enough attention. For letting that stupid fight anger me.”

“It´s fine,” you whispered, “I’m the one who is sorry though, I shouldn’t have danced with him to make you jealous. And due to how he was talking...”

Jude’s arms tighten around you, his warmth anchoring you even as your mind spins from everything that’s happened. The hard press of the door behind you contrasts with the softness of his lips brushing over your forehead, a kiss as much for comfort as it is a promise.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his expression shifting—softer now, but still infused with that controlled intensity that makes your heart flutter. His hands slip down to your hips, his thumbs brushing gently over the fabric of your dress as if to soothe the frayed edges of your nerves.

“We’re going home,” he says, his voice quiet but firm, a decision made. “It’s your turn now, baby. I’m going to make you feel good—so good you will forget your own name,” His eyes burn with the promise, the weight of his words wrapping around you like a protective cocoon.

The sheer tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache, but then he glances toward the door, his jaw clenching ever so slightly. “But first,” he says, his tone taking on a new edge, “I need to have a little talk with that asshole and his fucking friends.”

Your stomach flips, a mix of fear and worry crashing into you. Your hands press against his chest instinctively, as if you could keep him here with you, away from whatever confrontation he’s thinking about. “Jude…” Your voice trembles with concern. “You don’t have to. It is fine, really.”

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing away your nerves. The gesture is slow, deliberate, and laced with so much care it almost undoes you. “I do have to,” he murmurs, leaning closer, his lips just grazing your temple. “But I’ll be nice, baby. Don’t worry.”

The words are meant to reassure you, but your chest tightens anyway. You swallow hard, trying to find the right words to convince him otherwise, but then he smiles—that smile. The one that’s as disarming as it is reassuring, the one that makes your stomach flip in a completely different way.

“Trust me,” he says softly, his fingers tilting your chin so your eyes meet his.

You feel a lump form in your throat, and despite every instinct telling you to protest, you find yourself nodding. The truth is, you do trust him—more than anyone—and the way he’s looking at you now makes it impossible to do anything but believe him.

“Fine,” you whisper, your voice shaky but filled with reluctant acceptance. “But you promised. Be nice.”

He chuckles softly, a low, rumbling sound that sends a tingle down your spine. “When have I not been nice, love?”

You bite your lip, suppressing a smile. Your mind flickers back to only minutes ago, to when he had his fist tangled in your hair, your eyes welling with tears from the intensity of it all. The contrast between that and the tenderness in his gaze now makes your heart race.

With a playful roll of your eyes, you shake your head slightly, “You’re impossible,” you tease, though the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth betrays your words.

[phantomwithbreakfast]

⋆.˚ ⚡︎ 𝙎𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙃𝙖𝙡𝙛 𝘼 𝙇𝙞𝙛𝙚 ⚡︎ ˚.⋆

Chapter 19: Don’t Get Too Close (Preview / Spoiler / Teaser)

⟢ Danny Phantom Phan Fic • Genre: Angst — Hurt/Comfort • TW: Emotional Distress — Strong Language — Graphic Content • M rate (+16!) • AU — OOC

⟢ Full Story: Ao3 ⟡ FFN

New (temporary) Summary!: Scarred inside and out, Danny struggles with a new reality he has to cope with. What will happen to him? And why?

♫ ▸ At the curtain's call, it's the last of all, when the lights fade out, all the sinners crawl. So they dug your grave, and the masquerade, will come calling out at the mess you've made. — Imagine Dragons

…

Danny's eyes flicked to her, his lips parting slightly as if to respond, but no words came.

He didn't know what to say.

The truth of her words struck him harder than he expected, like a crack spreading across the fragile wall he'd built around himself.

And then, like a ripple in still water, a thought surfaced.

A memory.

Vivid and sharp, as if it had been lying dormant, waiting for this moment.

How did he remember this? Why now, of all times?

His breath caught as the memory unfolded, dragging him back into a past he wasn't sure he wanted to revisit.

He couldn’t say it.

No, he shouldn't.

Shouldn’t say it.

"Well, how would you feel," Danny snapped, his voice shaking with anger and hurt, "if your two best friends were dating behind your back, huh?" His mood shifted violently, from sadness to a simmering rage. "How would you feel—getting betrayed by the two people you trusted most? When you loved one of them with whole your heart?" His voice cracked on the last word, but he pushed through. "Even when it didn't work out, you could've just… told me!"

The memory came crashing over him.

The heartache.

The jealousy.

The unbearable feeling of being left out, abandoned by the only people who mattered to him. He remembered it all. Every emotion from back then hit him with a pang in his chest—it was overwhelming.

…

⟢ Chapter 19 jump: Ao3 ⟡ FFN

⟢ Oh, the drama is real.

⟢ I’d skipped the two previous chapters—to share—on purpose. (:

⟢ This chapter includes some nasty visceral—uhuhmm.

⟢ Beta read by the wonderful and sweet @ghostlyglimmer ♡

[rqbossman]

Hello, Alex!

I'm new-ish to the TMA universe, so I apologize if you've answered this one twenty times already.

I was recently re-listening to Ep. 118 The Masquerade, and I wondered if you would talk a bit about how you approach directing scenes in which you're also performing, especially really visceral ones like the one between Elias and Martin?

Thank you!

It's quite annoying really. it's easier these days since I have more help so producers and editors can call me up on stuff. Mostly it was just a case of going by feel. If it felt wrong then I need to figure out if it was me or someone else and go from there. Truthfully though I never really developed a system beyond "really pay attention" which isn't great advice really.

[deeply-unserious-fellow]

HOLY FUCKING SHIT HAZBIN WAS SO FUCKING GOOD IM GOING INSANE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKENFKCMKWJRKFNSMSMDMSMDN-

Okay. Okay deep breaths. Time for some cool and collected comentary. Okay.

Putting it under the cut so ppl can avoid spoilers :)

HUSK USED TO BE AN OVERLORD!?!?!?!?!? HELLO!?!?!?!?!? FUCKIN PLOTTWIST OF THE CENTURY WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!?!?!?

Huskerdust my beloved

SIR PENTIOUS MY BELOVED

Vox was great. I love him he's so fucking cool-

If Vox wasn't already a Tumblr sexyman he's definitely gonna be one now. He's so fucking Onceler coded it's insane.

Velvette was amazing too. It's so funny that she's British lmao I was not expecting that

Velvette is also very Anne Boelyne(like from SIX not from Real Life) coded it's wild. Her part in that song with Carmila was giving so much Don't Lose Your Head

I swear I'll stop comparing them to other characters I SWEAR

Okay but me and my brother are working on a Hazbin Hotel swap AU where we swap the main cast with the overlords and in that AU we swapped Husk and Vox. The Husk used to be an overlord reveal is gonna make that AU soooooo much easier lmao

ADAM IS REALLY GOOD I promised I would stop comparing to other characters but he was giving SO MUCH Hades from Disney's Hercules like its insane

I think we should let Alex Brightman sing rocj and roll more often that song was such a fucking BANGER

SPEAKING OF THE SONGS- oh my god I love the soundtrack so fucking much-

Stayed Gone was a lil less hype then I was expecting but thats okay cuz it was still a banger and I loved the visuals

That song battle between Carmilla and Velvette????? Oh my god??????

Carmilla and Vaggie's song was also amazing but I think I know why they didn't have Stephanie Beatriz sing her own song in Elena of Avalor y'know, girl cannot hold a character voice while singing

LOSER WAS SO FUCKING GOOD- I love Huskerdust so much. I love Keith David so much. Blake Roman is such a phenomenal Angel Dust.

SPEAKING OF all the voice actors are amazing. Blake Roman, Brightman as Pentious and Joel Perez were the ones I was the most worried abt but I loved all their preformances so much it was fucking fantastic

Valentino can go die in a fucking hole <3

The other Vees are cool and fun to watch but I hope Valentino fucking dies

Okay to be fair he's also fun to watch when he's not in the same room as Angel Dust but tHAT DOESNT SUPERSEID MY HATRED FUCK 👏 THAT 👏 GUY 👏👏👏👏

Speaking of the Vees tho I do love their dynamic

My favorite episode was probably Radio Killed the Video Star bcuz of mY BOYS PENTIOUS AND VOX!!!!!!!!

And the most painful episode to watch was- no surprise- Masquerade

That episode was a fucking rollercoaster Jesus fucking Christ...

Those scenes with Angel and Valentino where so fucking visceral... like. Who the fuck wrote that. Who are you. Are you okay. Do you need help-

Tho I'm not sure abt how they're handling the ah- more serious bits of Angel's character. It is WAYYYYYY to early to tell and I think Loser wasn't like. Trying to downplay the situation. But the writers better have been careful moving foreward bcuz I can def see a world where Angel's arc goes very wrong very fast-

Also while we're criticizing: wasn't a fan of the pacing. Especially in episode two. Like I can look past it, but the way they breeze past some plot points kinda bugged me

Otherwise it was sooooooo fucking good man oh my god

THE HUMOR WAS SO MUCH BETTER THAN PPL MAKE IT OUT TO BEEEEEE PPL NEED TO STOP SHITTING ON THE COMEDY IN THESE SHOWS MAN-

The gag where Niffty just fucking stopped thinking every time the camera turned on was so fucking good

Niffty in general was really fuckin funny

Alastor was a lot less prominent of a character then I thought he would be but tbh I think that's for the best. He's like Discord from My Little Pony, fun in small doses but if you don't set perameters for how often he appears and when he's willing to help it kinda breaks the show

Chaggie is adorable and I love them <3

I think this show does a really good job balancing the focus on the whole cast! These first 4 episodes seem to be pretty Charlie, Angel and kind of Vaggie heavy but everybody still gets their fair share of attention!

THE ANIMATIOJ OH MY GOD- IT WAS FUCKING PHENOMENAL IM LOSING MY M I N D

Im going feral IM GOING FERAL THIS EXCEEDED MY EXPECTATIONS AKFNVKKENFEKFNDN

I love comedy. I love musicals. I love drama. I love silly characters. I LOVE ANIMATION!!!!!!!

It's like the South Park movie but longer and better animated and IVE BEEN WAITING FOUR FUCKING YEARS-

Just. So excited overall. Can't wait to see where it goes. May make more posts abt my thoughts in tbe future.

[hyperfixation-fix]

Friendly reminder that JKR said this about Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov:

"There just isn't enough time to discuss how a plot that could have been the most worthless pornography becomes, in Nabokov's hands, a great and tragic love story, and I could exhaust my reservoir of superlatives trying to describe the quality of the writing."

Citation here. I can DM the PDF if anyone particularly wants me to.

For anyone who doesn't know, Lolita is a graphic and visceral story about an adult man who 'falls in love with' (grooms and rapes) a 13yo girl, after marrying her mother (who promptly dies) just to get to her. The writing is beautiful, yes, and it masquerades disgustingly well as a love story, but it's very much fucking not. It's a story of horrific child abuse, and any adult with two brain cells and a shred of morality should be able to see that.

It's deeply fucking concerning that JKR, who writes for children and can't seem to fucking shut up about "protecting women", can't see that.

[demeterdefence]

i had some time to chill i took a walk i drank some water i still hate this sequence

fastpass spoilers and sexual assault references ahead

i mentioned a few weeks ago how much i disliked persephone's last interaction with apollo and how the narrative wants to insist that persephone has moved on / healed from her assault, and with the last chapter and fastpass spoilers, it has genuinely just gotten worse. like at this point i can't even fault the characters or their choices, this is 1000% a rachel thing, and i hope her computer crashes in the middle of an eight hour drawing that she hasn't saved ANYWAYS

i don't think it needs to be said that rachel sexualizes her abuse victim. like, there's a reason that hera is naked during her fight with kronos despite kronos being clothed; there's a reason persephone was alone and apollo had his shirt undone when they spoke on the phone before the press conference. it's masquerading as feminine empowerment, but it just seeks to emphasize how rachel sexualizes abuse, and how she will still try to redeem these male characters.

it's very telling that while she's having kronos monologue how sad and abused he was, and how he was ruled by fear, we cut to a shot of apollo and eros with the love arrow - another plot point that drove me absolutely bonkers but we'll get to that. the placement is not random, for all that it feels it; she's trying to draw a connection between apollo and kronos, how they're both ruled by fear.

apollo is planning to assault persephone again. this is not me being dramatic or exaggerating - he knows what the arrow does, he knows persephone hates him, he is absolutely planning to assault her again for his own purposes. whether kronos' apology was intended to be sincere or not, placing apollo in the visual middle of it sets a tone. he has abused persephone in the past and he will abuse her again.

the next time apollo and persephone interact, persephone has figured out how to make spring again (somehow, without explanation, one trainwreck at a time i guess.)

i don't love her plan, and i don't love how it came about, but on the top ten list of crimes in this webcomic, it's not the worst. persephone plays up her "weak, damsel in distress" image to apollo so he'll underestimate her - fine, whatever, not the end of the world. it's how rachel depicts this that i take issue with.

it took me a couple of minutes for that last picture to realize they're supposed to be struggling because it genuinely looks like they're making out lmao thanks rachel i hate it

not entirely related but the way the lineart becomes minuscule except on the face and chest rachel really shows her priorities

i'll skip a few more panels of apollo manhandling persephone with her doing pretty much nothing to fight back - she alternates between pleading with him to listen to her when he has historically never done so, and threatening to expose him for the rape, which also historically has never worked, but that's about the extent of her fight back. this is all before she knows about the arrow, so i'm hesitant to say she's playing him with her distress; this is genuinely the extent of her fight back.

a clear callback to the assault, which in another author's hands might have succeeded in being harrowing and traumatizing for the readers, but just filled me with visceral anger.

[narrator voice] fucking yikes!

ties her up, but don't worry! her chest will be on prominent display no matter what.

unrelated tangent once again but i love! how rachel has retconned the narrative so that ouranos was manipulating apollo all along! instead of apollo owning up to being a shitheel, we've got a master manipulator in the background, who can take some of the blame for apollo's actions! cool!!!

anyways persephone's plan is to make apollo fall in love with her, so he'll feel bad about raping her.

that's it.

we don't get persephone defeating apollo. we don't get persephone getting actual justice. it takes apollo being under the control of magic to admit what happened - it's a cheap cop-out, a lukewarm offering at best. i'm not joking, either, in the fastpass apollo quite literally goes on live television and admits he raped persephone, because he's under the magic of the love arrow. not because he genuinely feels bad, or because persephone got justice - it's a deus ex machina to wrap up the assault plotline. rachel never figured out if apollo was a master manipulator or some idiot tool, so she swerves between both, and then tosses the plot out to make room for something else.

it's such a miserable, cheap conclusion to a storyline that so many women have dealt with. years of waiting for apollo to be brought to justice, and he goes out with a little whimper, and persephone's assault gets swept under the rug again.

what a disappointment.

[bewitcheds]

❛ you're so bad at this game, it hurts to watch. ❜

SHE STEPS INTO THE SNARE OF HIS CHALLENGE, not blindly, but incensed by his insufferable drawl, hooked by the barb of his provocation. it was a mistake, she knew it the moment she took the controller in her hands, the foreign geometry of it unfamiliar under her fingers. a wiser woman might have sought his counsel, swallowed her pride, endured the minor disgrace of tutelage to avert the greater humiliation of failure. but that, too, would have been a surrender: an exercise in degradation masquerading as instruction. the thought of it curdles something visceral in her. she would sooner let the earth split beneath her feet than ask him for anything.

she feels maddened by his voice, her patience has been stripped, gnawed down to meagre rations. the blood in her swelters, turbulent, rising. ❛   will you shut up. shut up! some of us have better things to do than sit and play games all day.    ❜     magic unfurls from her fingertips, neither grand nor ostentatious but steady in its intent, dark in its efficacy. it threads into the circuitry, burrows into the plastic, saturates every wire & every connection with its singular decree: narumi gen will lose every game he ever plays.

❛   you do it then, since you think you’re so clever.    ❜    

[snootdroops]

I want to introduce y’all one of my verses, Visceral Masquerade

A “infection” started spreading worldwide and started affecting people’s flesh, morphing them and combining stuff around them into horrible creatures

companies tied up with the government started to take action on this but not mainly to save people but to make buck out of the creatures impressive regeneration of metal and blood, having workers by the name “butchers”, they’re given inhumane strength aswell the ability to manipulate their own flesh at will, some have their own gimmicks

[ask-pandinus-ghoul]

The initial assault on Pandinus's senses was a searing wave of heat, the air thick with the crackling ferocity of flames. These were not the muted, distant embers of the pits, but a living, ravenous conflagration that danced and writhed, its heat biting into their skin with a rediscovered, agonizing intensity. The numbing, icy grip of the abyss had relinquished its hold, replaced by the raw, visceral pain of burning. Of life. Of a soul.

The flames churned before them, sending plumes of smoke spiraling towards the night sky. Beyond this swirling curtain of fire and shadow, a figure stood, an imposing silhouette against the fiery backdrop. The figure's form was obscured by a masquerade mask, its metallic surface gleaming with an unsettling, otherworldly sheen. Elaborate robes, a rich purple interlaced with threads of shimmering silver and black, draped around the figure, hinting at a status far removed from the brutal simplicity of Pandinus' recent confinement of hell.

The figure's posture was fixed, his attention unwavering. He extended a gloved hand that was hot due to its metal crafting, reaching into the heart of the flames, an action both audacious and strangely tender. His gaze, visible through the mask's eyeholes, was fixed the ghoul, his eyes wide and somewhat frightening. @ask-papa-perpetua

The feeling was agony, a new experience burning through his nerves. With a mind so full of fear and pain, he reached out, grabbing the hand, in hope that it would quell the alien feeling. The metallic gloves stung against Pandinus’ hand, but it gave a brief escape from the burning fires around him, so he held strong.

The eyes, this figure’s piercing eyes; comforting somehow, like a reassurance, a promise of safety. Though his face may be covered, this figure’s intentions were clear, to help.

Pandinus let himself be pulled forward, the hand pulling him from the fiery surrounding. He closed his eyes in brace, feeling another burning wave crash over him as he was finally saved.

It was cold. That was the first feeling Pandinus had, it was cold, but the pain had stopped so he couldn’t complain. He looked up, his eyes meeting the figure’s once again.

He was no longer in the agonising… wherever that was, no, it was a large hall, walls intricately designed and decorated with stone carvings. A ring of candles were placed around Pandinus and the figure, just beyond that, were other figures, their faces on full display. They looked in awe, amazed by this figure, and seemingly Pandinus himself? Below him, a pentagram, painted in chalk. He understood how, he had been summoned.

@ask-papa-perpetua

[autolenaphilia]

Cuckoo by Gretchen Felker-Martin is a really good book, and it really upset me.

The idea is actually simple. It's a horror book about the horrors of conversion therapy, mixed with Invasion of the Body Snatchers and a story structure similar to Stephen King's It.

The conversion therapy camp is actually a pod people scheme run by a grotesque alien, the poor queer kids are replaced with alien copies of themselves who are then sent home. So the abusive parents who sent the kids away to conversion therapy get the perfect cishet kid they wanted back, but it's actually an evil alien masquerading as their kid and it's going to eat them. The point about conversion therapy is obvious.

And the similarities to King's It is that it has a similar structure, where a group of kids survive the monster of the title, and then as adults have to regroup to defeat it.

And this simple idea works, like the body snatchers/pod people as representing cishetnormativity and the It-like plot structure just works, and it's well-written.

It confirmed something about what really upsets me in horror. The book revels in fairly grotesque body horror, lots of visceral scenes involving the title character, the alien “cuckoo”, and those didn’t upset me much at all. I can see why people can be deeply disturbed by these scenes, the body horror gets pretty out there, but mostly I thought it was cool and fun. And that’s because I know that the cuckoo wasn’t real, there are no grotesque flesh mass aliens on Earth shapeshifting into and replacing humans, that’s just fiction.

But there is more realistic horror in the book. The conversion therapy camp in the book doesn’t immediately reveal its literally alien nature to its victims, but keeps up the charade, however badly, of being a human conversion therapy camp. And that involves depicting the kind of abuse that goes on at real conversion therapy camps, everything from vicious beatings to slave labor.

And that upset me badly, I’ve never been to an US-style conversion therapy camp, but I’ve had experiences like that. In a reverse of my reaction to the alien monster, my knowledge that these kind of abuses are very much real, and are very much on-going, made reading fictional depictions rather upsetting. It took literally took me almost half of 2024 to slowly read this book, as I kept putting it down because things repeatedly got too real. And yes, I’m well aware that maybe the best decision wouldn’t have been to finish reading it. But now I did, and there was many parts that I enjoyed. I probably won’t ever re-read it though.

Not that I blame ms Gretchen Felker-Martin for her book upsetting me, unlike some people I could name. The fact that the book could disturb me so much was because of well-written it was, and because among all the alien monster horror, it also depicts things that are sadly real.

[bugbearsandbookends]

Nightlife crawled so Vampire the Masquerade could walk.

There’s an alternate timeline in the gaming universe in which Stellar Games’ RPG Nightlife (1990) buried White Wolf’s Vampire: The Masquerade (1991). I’m not sure that timeline is a better one—VtM is more fully realized in my opinion—but it would have been damned interesting. Where VtM is sophisticated, heady, and goth AF, Nightlife, another game in which you play monsters in the Big City, is visceral (sometimes literally), grimy, and steeped deeply in the splatterpunk vibe of the era. What’s that? Oh. Think Clive Barker, Richard Laymon, and Poppy Z. Brite. Hardcore blood and guts. Often nihilist horror without limits. Nightlife is all about music, too. Industrial, thrash metal, gangsta rap, punk rock. Take it all—blood trails and entrails, speakers blasting the most aggro music you can find, monsters, punkers, gangbangers, corporate raiders, assorted scum—mix it up, guzzle it down, and puke it all up on a New York subway car after midnight, and you’ve got the Nightlife vibe. If VtM bumped into Nightlife on the streets, the latter would kick the former in the dick and take its wallet. Although really it was the other way around: Nightlife’s urban milieu, as well as its Humanity attribute, was borrowed by VtM. What VtM didn’t take was the rest of it. Nightlife, as flavorful as it is—play vampires! Werewolves! Be the reason people are afraid to go to Times Square! Fight Lovecraft horrors in the tunnels beneath the city while you listen to The Cramps!—is hobbled by an extremely janky game engine. It’s pretty nineties in that way, too. But still, Nightlife crawled so VtM could walk, and I’ve got to wonder what might have been.

[starlightseraph]

comrades, don’t kill yourselves.

edit april 2025: as i’ve learned more and become more radical i see huge issues with what i said here. i viscerally recoiled just reading it, lol. revised below the cut.

my views aren’t actually too different from what they were when i wrote the original, but i’m now far less concerned about the possibility of hurting the feelings of usamericans who still subscribe to a mythologised view of “our nation” or “our values” or “the constitution” that has never truly existed. all of that “what is happening to america” is pure bullshit. internally, i felt just as blunt and harsh as i’m about to be now, but i was a coward and i didn’t want to alienate myself from the vast majority of the establishment-loving people that surround me.

(as i indefinitely live in the usa, which, don’t get me wrong, i love and it is now just as much my home as my actual home, but still, it’s insane just how deluded the average person is without realising it. it’s like that joke where the cia agent congratulates the kgb agent on the quality and quantity of soviet propaganda and the kgb agent says that it’s nothing in comparison to american propaganda. and the cia agent is confused and says “but we don’t have propaganda”)

my more developed line goes something like this: fuck trump and fuck harris and fuck both democrats and republicans and if you honestly think that democrats are even slightly left wing or in any way progressive or working towards change, you’re either propagandised to the high heavens or just wilfully blind.

democrats are disgusting, spineless, posturing idiots who have no clue how to even pretend to care about people. and they honestly don’t. why do you think like half of their campaign platform for decades on end was “we’ll codify roe!” but they literally never did, even when holding as much power as possible? because it was a bargaining chip. as long as they could make a promise like that, people would keep voting for them, hoping that this time it would really happen. but it didn’t, because they care more about not upsetting people and maintaining their careers and the absurd amounts of funding they get from every kind of lunatic lobbying group you can imagine.

democrats fund the right. democrats are funded by the right. democrats are the right. this shouldn’t be surprising, if you’ve been paying any attention at all. the democratic party is not and has never been representative of any minorities or marginalised groups and it has never actually tried to make things better for them. people often say “but oh, this or that issue would’ve been so much worse under republicans” and that may be true, but it misses the real point: democrats grudgingly give concessions, they don’t enact change.

obviously the maga-qanon crowd is particularly demented and i so have a special hatred for the nordic-aryan-alien-space-nazism thing that they have going on. but the point is that just because republicans are bad, it does not mean that democrats are good.

there’s a crucial difference here: a very mildly lesser evil versus an active force for good. democrats are an active force for bad. being in ostensible opposition to republicans just mean that they want to carry out their atrocities with a reassuring smile. republicans are just saying the quiet part out loud, and, if you’ve been listening, the quiet parts have never even been all that quiet.

if you actually wanna be of help to any oppressed people in the united states and especially if you want to help the literal billions that the united states oppressed abroad, you have to let go of the attachment to this idea of america as a place that could ever have turned out as anything but an evil, imperialistic genocide fanatic that’s badly masquerading as benevolent.

this is the inevitable outcome of the ideological foundations of the united states. a party, an election, all the votes in the world won’t change that. this is the system working as intended, slaughtering and enslaving and torturing incomprehensible numbers of people to line the pockets of ceos and politicians, just as it has always done.

get your head out of the sand. open your goddamn eyes. marching with a sign or posting on social media (unless promoting fundraisers) doesn’t do shit. if your “dissent” is in any form that the ruling class doesn’t try to stop, it’s because you pose no threat to their establishment. resistance has to be disruptive, it cannot be anything that gets support from the very same systems you are protesting against. i don’t know why people think that any movement protected by cops or that involves politicians will have any effect. it’s obvious that it won’t.

no matter how much they smile and say “oh but we love women and gay people and muslims” they’re not actually going to do anything but enthusiastically support the genociding of muslims, the pseudoscientific queerphobia, and the forcing of women into a box. they’re all part of the same money and control driven machine that has sadistically ended or destroyed the lives of countless people in a lost every single nation, including at home.

anyways, peace and love on the planet earth and all that. i love my fellow humans so much, i want nothing more than for us to just be chilling together like picking berries in a field and drinking tea or something. i’m so tired of this essentialist civilisation vs savagery or this nation against that one shit. we’re just a bunch of creatures trying to exist and be safe and not miserable and the people of the world fundamentally have the same interests at heart. constructed divisions have made us so focused on how we can dominate, when the natural tendency of humans is to cooperate. if your ideology isn’t fuelled by love, it’s worthless. i don’t mean this as some lofty flowery shit, i just mean that our end goal in everything should be the ultimate decrease of suffering and increase of happiness on as large a scale as possible.

the earth is beautiful and humanity is beautiful and we really can do something beautiful together. stay alive, stay fighting as hard and as tangibly as you can for days when the capitalists of the united states and imperial core no longer have a monopoly on the most basic elements of human existence.

in the words of our comrade yugopnik: my homo sapiens patriotism can no long be held at bay. lol

[ammoknightsofficial]

I like LouiMar in an academic way. I appreciate the kind of themes and character drama people cook up with it, how I've mostly seen LouiMar used as a method of character exploration, and how a lot of people don't shy away from more adult themes with it, like the cheating aspect. As a gay man, I appreciate A LOT how it is the main ship in the fandom, and I've never once seen the fact that it's a gay ship be called attention to aside from explorations of Olimar's mentality and sexuality. I like how the gay part of it isn't the main appeal to people, it's the characters and how they work together or against each other. It's genuinely interesting. I love seeing what people do with it. It's the most respectful I've seen a fandom handle a gay relationship at large.

I do not ship it though, because I think Olimar being, like, a cishet hardworking family man, and everything society wants, is a huge part of his character, and making him a part of an "other" really stunts the visceral criticism of capitalism and social standards within the text of the games. It weakens the sheerness of the dichotomy between Louie and Olimar- Olimar representing the pinnacle to Louie's nadir. Louie's everything society hates, and he isn't at fault for it. He's a victim to harsh, oppressive social and societal standards he cannot live up to. Olimar is everything society wants, the perfect everyman, and he's suffering under these systems, too. He's a model citizen, and yet we see him descend into an increasingly more and more unkind person from Pikmin 1-3, due to pressures that society expects him to be able to handle with a smile.

Louie refuses the masquerade. He rejects the notion that he "should" be anything, that he needs to change himself for the easy consumption of others. He doesn't feel at home on Hocotate, and while he does fine on the Planet of the Pikmin, and would prefer to live there, he still finds himself hurting over being forgotten and rejected. Both of these men lack choices. Olimar has to keep up a brutal, soul-sucking grind to provide for his family, Louie is constantly bossed around, thrown around, told what he should be, that he's unacceptable as he is, and never given the option to be himself in peace or choose what he gets to do with his life.

Society's Best/Society's Worst type of dynamic. Both under pressure to keep performing. Neither have a say in the matter. It's a very interesting duality.

[luna-the-cretar]

I am really glad i decided not to listen to the finale at work, because that last hour and a half had me sobbing like a baby. Like, there were tears. A campaign has never made me react so viscerally before, omg.

(CoS finale spoilers below)

Mikey, how fucking dare you. How DARE you make Sarnax, make me fall absolutely in love with him, and kill him off in such a beautiful manner. I knew it was coming, and I still found myself sobbing.

AND ARABELLE KNEW. SHE KNEW AND HE KNEW SHE KNEW. HE FUCKING TOLD HER NOT TO TELL ANYONE. I AM NOT OKAY.

Escher fucking adopting Ravenovia. I love them.

Listen, I cannot tell you how many times I said “don’t do that to me” and “stop it” while sobbing during Sarnax’s final monologue, but trust me when I saw it was a lot. I was doing so good at first, too, and then Sarnax started giving the toys. And then I heard everyone else’s voices waver. And then he said goodbye to Shepherd, AND MIKEY AND ANDY FUCKING HELD HANDS AND THEY WERE CRYING AND I WAS CRYING AND IM NOT OKAY.

AND THEN SARNAX GAVE SHEP FHE LANTERN AND THE LIGHT WENT OUT WHEN SARNAX DIED AND AND AND *incoherent sobbing*

Also Clayton drinking the tea and seeing blood instead of tea leaves. Yknow, when I toyed with the idea of Adella being an Azran, I wasn’t fully into the theory 100%, but now? Now I have a bit more of a latch onto the theory, given the same thing happened to Adella right before the masquerade in eom.

This post is everywhere but my thoughts are everywhere. I’m not okay. Brb gonna go cry for another 20 years.

[mr-aftons-rotting-pussy]

the base premise of into the pit is such a visceral horror too....... like this is a stranger taking a child, and you can argue whether or not oswald could be considered actually kidnapped it still relies on the same principles.

thats not my dad.

this Thing masquerading as your father, taking you away by force. and nobodies a smidge the wiser. no matter how much you may beg and plead, no one believes you, i mean. why should they? after all

youre just a kid.

and its not THAT far fetched right? everyone's had at least one moment in their youth, a particular disagreement with a parent, and suddenly your hatching a (very juvenile) plan to run away. right?

thats not my dad. thats not my dad.

and still you may whine and cry, you know for a fact thats not your father. if one would believe anyone they would believe you, right? surely you, one whose entire existence was constructed from the visage of your father, would know the man most intimately. right?

No. surely a father would know his own son.

thats not my dad. thats not my dad. thats not my dad.

right?