#when i do you all will be in for a reckoning

[girl-lostconnection]

Concept of a concept time:

Reader who goes through the whole relationship with Ghoap or the whole 141 believing that they would always come second place, because of course Simon would burn the world down if Soap was taken out of it. Of course, Price would do everything and anything to save Simon. Of course, Simon would turn into monster if it meant keeping his family safe, keeping his TaskForce safe.

Of course, Kyle would go mad with grief if he was to lose Johnny. Of course, Kyle would become a shell of himself if he lost Price.

Of course they would all shatter without each other alive and well. It was obvious. It was a fact.

Reader who sees it and places themselves on the outside of it, because these men were already something before they came along. These men were already tight knit and close to each other.

These men were already family when Reader got dropped into their laps. It’s only natural they don’t really slot fully. There’s just no more space.

Reader who takes every bit and crumb of an affection they are given. Reader who gives away everything. All of them. Every kiss and confession, every hug, every bit of love and care they have. They give it all, because yeah, maybe they will never be a part of these 4. But they can be near and maybe…maybe that’s enough?

Reader, who dies. Not instead of Soap, not instead of anyone. They just don’t come back from the job one day, their foot locker was supposed to be shipped out to the family. But there is no family.

So 141 takes it. Who, if not them, right?

Reader, who dies and haunts the narrative from that point on. Reader who leaves a hole the size of a person and no one can fill it. It’s impossible.

Reader, whose warmth was seeping through them all for so long, the absence of it feels like a whiplash. The absence of it feels in their bones and it’s cold-cold-cold now. Their hearth dies and there is nothing to do about it but keep going.

Soldiers die every day, this one shouldn’t have been special. But they were.

Kyle who takes their personal things before someone else can come and toss them out, sleeping with their T-shirts and hoodies. Part of him dies with Reader. Part of him is getting buried with them. He’s sitting at their funeral until Price leads him away.

Simon who takes their photos and books, hiding them, keeping them safe. He needs to have it, because memory is traitorous and one day he might not be able to put a face to the name and he’s terrified of it to the point of feeling sick.

Soap who takes mementoes — keychains and magnets from all of the deployments, he takes every knick knack they found in the foot locker and Reader’s room, he stores them next to his. There are new keychains on every set of his keys. He’s fumbling with them every time he feels like there’s knot in his throat and he can’t speak.

Price gets the notebooks. Just a few of those were in a footlocker, filled with scribbles and meal plans and random quotes and games Reader played with Kyle during boring briefings. But it feels like them. It smells like them. Reader never wrote a consistent diary, too little time and too much going on, but they notated the places and times and that Soap coughs like a sick Victorian child and that Kyle has the most perfect beauty marks on his thighs and that Price sneezes like dad and that Simon sleeps with lamp on.

It is everything there was of them. Everything there’s left of their love and John isn’t sure he’d be able to part with it. It isn’t fair that it happened like that. It isn’t fair that he feels like destroying his whole office when he reads the “im not sure i fit in. on the bright side I reckon if something was to happen to me, no one would mourn too long. they have each other, I should be happy it is like that. I should be grateful” because it’s not fair-not fair-not fair-not fair.

John doesn’t show these diaries to anyone. John guards them like his most prized possession, reading it over and over because you, silly perfect thing, why haven’t you said anything. Why haven’t they noticed anything.

John doesn’t show it to anyone because he’s not sure if they won’t crumble under the notion. He’s not sure they won’t shatter when the rest find out that Reader died thinking they weren’t part of the family.

John sobs so hard, bile rises to his throat, world swimming in his eyes and it hurts, and he’s so fucking angry and it’s so unfair. Because it’s not true, because of course you were part of them, of course you matter, of course they mourn.

Because you die never finding out how much you were loved. Because there’s nothing he can do.

And it’s not fair.

[lostinlovingrevery]

Smutty Stuff About Logan: The Reckoning

pt 2 about Logan and cute (and maybe nasty) smut scenarios. Grab your vibrators folks

Logan definitely likes to make a mess. A big mess. He cums a lot, so messes are inevitable. But his kind of mess is the kind where he comes inside, or over your pussy and he just sits and spreads it all over, likes he's in a trance. It sends shocks through you every time his thumb rubs his cum over you clit and stuffs it into your cunt. Is he drooling?

You're on a mission. You and logan get put in a position where you won't be able to go anywhere for awhile. Logan thinks it's a great chance for some bonding. The next thing you know your suit is gonna and Logans been fucking you for two hours. Its when Scott finally clears you both that you have to both quickly get your suits back on and you gotta finish the mission with his cum leaking out. Hes very smug about it (such a perv)

hes big about his cum being on (or in) you in general. it's one of his many ways he likes to "claim" you

making breakfast together, it turns steamy. Now he's pouring whipped cream and syrup over you tits and belly and licking it off you.

He doesn't finished cleaning you when he desperately lunges to kiss you, his chest sticking to your messy body, food covering him. you guys just end up a bunch of lovesick horny fools with syrup and whipped cream. You take turns cleaning each other.

I think Logan wouldn't be a huge masterbater. I think he'd do it out of boredom. Maybe if he was pent up. He'd probably prefer the real thing. But when you come into his life, and you guys aren't sexually together yet- he's yanking his chain nearly every night to the thought of you. An animalistic instinct he just can't control bc if he doesn't get himself off to the thought of you he's going to pounce you (pls do Logan)

Mutual masterbation. You both sit across from each other (or your straddling him) and get off on watching each other. It drives Logan insane. The rule is that you don't touch each other during the session but Logan always breaks that rule

I think Logan has potential to be a peeping tom. He wouldn't do it right away, it starts when you shower and he walks back the bathroom, the doors cracked bc you forgot to shut it- and he catches you in the mirror. You didn't see him.

He's now in his room desperately getting himself off because he's picture you naked hundreds of times but then he just saw a nice view of your tits and they're even better than he imagined

It's not how he imagine he'd get to see you, but he'll take what he can get. Now he searches in moments he could catch a look at you.

One night he catches you masterbating in your bed. You're moaning his name. He could smell your arousal. He nearly blacked out

His claws will pop out at sudden things that arouse him. You're planning to go to the beach, and he sees you in a bikini for the first time. He spots you and snikt! They're out. He didn't even notice, too busy staring at the way you tits looked in that top.

I'm currently writing a fic over this BUT, you don't like alcohol, but when you taste it on Logans lips/tongue, you can't get enough. you quickly discover you really like alcohol, but only when logans spitting it in your mouth.

you gift Logan naughty polaroids. Some are of you scantily clad, others are you just straight nude in sexual positions. He keeps one inside his coat pocket. It's not just cause it turns him on, but he deadass thinks you look so damn beautiful in your natural state. He just gotta be careful of where he is when he looks at it.

Sucking on Old Man Logans dick, you drooling and your eyes are hazy. he tastes so good, and feels so good on your tongue. He's praising you for being a good girl, telling you he's all yours, to enjoy as much as you want. He wants you to get sloppy, to suck on him and forget about everything else. You've made him cum multiple times already, and you're still sucking on him, even as he's soft and gets hard again.

Trilogy Logan ravishing you over and over again. It's been a stressful week, and he suggested you both get away from the mansion the weekend. You got a hotel room- and haven't left the bed other than to use the bathroom, and take a nice romantic (and sexual) bath with Logan. Hes putting you in positions you didn't even know was possible, pounding into you with an animalistic fury, stuffing you full of cum. you should probably consider getting plan b (unless you want a baby)

Having an argument with Worst Logan and you say something that implies that you worried about logan really caring about you, a discreet and quiet anxiety you never told him. Of course, it pisses him off and he has to show you how much he loves you. Which involves hot, rough, and sensual sex. he's fucking you and making you tell him that he loves you and that you believe it over and over.

Riding DOFP Future! Logans lap, after he woke back up in this new life. Hes been begging you to keep riding him, to keep fucking him. Kissing you sloppily as you ran your hands through his hair. You were busy grading papers, but Logan stormed into your office and practically yanked you into your bedroom. he found you, his pretty wife that he lost before he fixed things. Safe to say, reunion sex is fun.

70S! DOFP fucking you in an alleyway by the bar you two were in. "You looked too damn good in there baby. All those boys making eyes at you. Gotta make sure you know you're mine." he moans as he buries himself deep inside you, practically lifting you into the air against the wall

Watching Origins Logan chop wood from your pretty little log cabin. You get an idea, taking off all your clothes and standing on the porch, ass naked and waiting for him to notice. His face is concentrated, a cigar hanging off his lips. He just looked so hot, and you found it funnier the Logan he went not noticing your naked figure. When he finally looked up, the cigar hung off his parted lips almost comedically, before falling as he dropped the axe to his side, and he made his way to run after you, throwing you over his shoulder and bringing into the house as you shriek with laughter. He makes sure to make up for the lack of attention he gave you by stuffing you full of him and eating you out for hours

Having sex on Logans motorcycle. You're riding together when Logan pulls off suddenly, somewhere private. he gets you to sit in front of him, pulling your pants (or your skirt) down. The motorcyle still rumbling he makes you lean down so you could feel the vibrations of it, while he fucks you. Lets just say you don't last long- but logans not ready to stop.

Logan certainly doesn't want you to hurt or be in pain, but a certain amount of pride does hit him when he sees you walking around with shaky legs

This man can eat pussy for days. He'll get lost in you, licking and sucking and licking over and over. You'll have to push him off multiple times before he's done

I did my Logan variants BUT riding around with old man Logan in his car. Your legs across his lip. He's got one hand on the wheel, the other massaging your ankles and feet. He made you feel good, so you move around and give him a handjob and a blow. He pulls over, making you get into his lap and ride him- because he can just never get enough of you

Thigh jobs.

Tit jobs

nuff said

Actually no

Logan gets so damn excited when you offer one of those. Something about being able to fuck a body part that's not technically fuckable

this man would get himself off on every part of you if you'd let him

yes, armpits, elbows, knees included. hes insatiable. and gross. but thats why we love him. keep being a freak baby, i'll be a freak with you

anyway, he's fucking your thighs and you're watching as his tip appears and disappears, his precum soaking your thighs, he cums and shoots it all over your belly.

with titjobs, hes sitting over you, thrusting his cock between your wet tits. he spit all over them to lube everything up. his cum lands all over your face and open mouth

Tying each other up? Yes pls

Logan definitely loves it. Tying you up, having his way with you. I mean, he's strong enough to pin you down of course, buuuut something really fun about watching you be helpless to him

and vice versa

logan doesn't have much self control with you, so tying him up can prove difficult. he ends up breaking through the ribbons, rope, handcuffs- etc to grab you and fuck into you

you finally figure it out though, the way to make him behave

you grabbed his box of prized cubans. expensive, rare. he only smokes them on special occassions. you had him tied up, and blindfolded, taking off the blind fold- you told him the rules

"no touching. no breaking the ropes. if you do, I destroy each one of these."

Logans face fell as he saw his prized cigars. okay, maybe you both knew you really wouldn't...would you?

logan couldn't risk that

powerplay is fun

cue the most torturous session logan has every experience. he swears he'd rather have adamantium bound to his organs this time than what you're doing to him

you're playing with him. like a cat who caught a mouse. your messing with him, edging him, depriving him of your sweet pussy. an hour of sensory play. another hour of edging. He's not sure if he can take it anymore. surely he can find another box of cubans...

but then you reward him for being such a good boy. lots of praise. lots of riding and sucking. lots of kisses. when he finally gets to cum he's begging and thanking you for it

now he's starting to see why you like him being so dominant

you had your fun though. next time, he's putting you through worse :)

that's all folks! I'll make a pt 3 soon, i just got a few other fics i wanna focus on ;)

[loramystii]

ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ꜰᴇᴍ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

— ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ; ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴇᴇɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴀʟɴᴏᴜʀɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴɴᴏᴄᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇʀ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴄʏ.

— ᴄᴡ; ꜰᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ & ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴄᴀᴘᴛɪᴠᴇ x ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴏʀ, ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ᴍᴀʟɴᴏᴜʀɪꜱʜᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴅᴜʙ-ᴄᴏɴ!!, ᴅʀ4ɢ ᴜꜱᴇ (ᴠᴀᴍᴘ ᴛʀᴀɴqᴜɪʟɪᴢᴇʀ)

Sevika walked into the abandoned church, footsteps light and cautious as she wandered around to find you. She sensed your presence, the bloodlust and all. She followed the myth that any godless creature would set off in a house of worship, yet here you were, curled under the altar defensively. She steps on branches as she follows your scent inside, making her company known. “Make this easier for yourself.” She exclaimed, holding the wooden dagger in her hand and a bow & arrow on her back. Your whimpers gave you away, she scurried towards the end of the church. You laid beneath the cross and bible that sat atop of altar, blood dripping down your chin, hands tainted with the blood of some innocent man. It was picturesque.

She kept the blade pointed at you, watching fear become prominent in your eyes, widening and all. Your body lacked sufficient nourishment and the little clothes you had on were torn and worn down. It was obvious whoever you had just eaten became your first meal in maybe months. “I don’ wanna’ die—“ Your croaky voice ringed in her ears, unsure of how to move foward with you. Her mind kept yelling ‘Filthy murderer’ but her eyes saw another reality. A woman who was brutalized, and most definetely underfed. Maybe you weren’t as vicious as she had thought, but your inherent nature was immoral to Sevika. The protocol said that if a target had recently fed, they must be maimed.

"You ate," Sevika gestured with her knife to the puddle of blood beneath you. The awful scent of iron and rotting flooded the church, unbeknownst to anybody else. "I was hungry." The desperation in your voice made Sevika back up, slightly shocked at the gravity of your tone. “Since when.” Sevika spat, disdain in how she spoke, trying to keep her utter hatred for vampires and not falter. Your hands snaked around your own waist, blood staining underneath your long, sharp fingernails. You kept crawling backwards slowly. “Three months,” You whispered, a slight gasp leaving her lips. Sevika reckoned you had been starved against your will, what vampire resisted their own urges? “Who made you?” She replied at a similar whisper.

You shook your head, hair disheveled and unwashed. “Nobody— I- don’ wanna kill,” Your eyebrows knitted together, stating what you had been convinced of for a while now. You were villainized for doing what felt right, now a intrinsic guilt ate away at you when you craved sustenance. Sevika grumbled, her shaky hold on the dagger loosening. “That’s who you are. You’re born a killer.” Your whines grow louder, attempting to block out the words you had heard a million times. “You either kill or get killed.” Sevika spoke again, louder, ensuring you heard the words she spat at you. Your hands found their way to your ears, covering them, knees up to your chest. “No!” You shouted, eyes squeezing shut.

Sevika crouched beside you, dropping the knife in her hand and tearing your hands away from your ears. “Look at me— Look at me, damn it.” Sevika yelled, right in your ear. Your eyes snapped open, staring at her and her closeness. You felt her breath upon you. “Fucking breathe.” She spoke sternly, her hands enclosing on your wrists. You stared at her chest rising and falling, trying to match the same rhythm. Yet, when you found the right pace, you remembered who she was. What she was here for. “Get off of me— I don’t wanna die!” Your blood curling yells and kicking had her clamp a hand over your mouth, noticing how you were to weak to even get her off. “You pull some shit like that again, and you’ll actually be dead, got it?” Sevika’s eyes were exhaustive, holding you down.

You nod frantically, attempting to catch your breath. “If I let you go, will you scream?” Sevika asked after seeing you calm down more. You didn’t want to lie, and you surely didn’t want to be murdered in cold blood. You nodded softly, eyebrows furrowed and your body crumpling beneath her. Sevika rolled her eyes, reaching into the pocket attached to her belt. A blue dissolving pill, made to sedate vampires. “I’m going to move my hand, open your mouth when I do. This won’t kill you.” Her free hand now held the back of your head, guaranteeing you understood. You had no choice but to trust that this woman won’t stab you in the back, literally. When she released your jaw and mouth, you darted your tongue out slightly. The god-awful tasting pill began to sizzle on your tongue. The bitter taste already had your eyes fluttering.

When your body grew limp, Sevika’s arms embraced you.

After this moment, you no longer were a stray. Sevika took you to her place, caging you in the dungeon under her home. She figured you were better alive and sheltered than dead and underground. Somehow, you agreed with her, embracing the captive spot you were caged in. Accepting the criminals she threw you to feed off of. Sevika built a power dynamic between you two, where you revered her for not murdering you and where she internally battled with herself for keeping you alive. Sevika came into your cell daily, dragging the corpses out and throwing them away. She felt complacent in your nature. You sat at the bars, head leaning against them, expectingly. When Sevika came in for the day, your eyes lit up, sitting up on your knees to stare at her through the narrow bars.

“Bunny.” She spoke while coming further into the dungeon. She situated on the chair she left infront of your cell to pay you visits and keep you amused. You shuffled on the ground, the bunny stuffed toy Sevika got you laying on the ground besides you. It was dirtied from the months of being left in there. You looked eager to please, eyes wide, brows lifted, staring at her with your hands on your lap. The cold floor felt rugged against your knees. "You like it here?" She questioned, gesturing around to the plain, grey cell. You had the feeling of shaking your head, but deciding to be grateful, you reluctantly nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. "This is my home." You whispered, licking the dryness of your lips and forcing a tiny smile. Sevika stands now, before your figure on the ground. She reached her hand through the bars, petting your head as you pressed against it. Your eyes closed, basking in the tenderness.

"Is it better than the church, bunny?" She asked softly, now crouching to grab your chin through the small gap of the bars. You nodded again, bambi eyes staring up at her. "Feel safe here." You assured her, staring up through your lashes. She cocked a brow, carressing your chin with the pad of her thumb. She acknowledged the mess of your hair and the left over dried blood on your lips. "Safe? How?" She mumbled, admiring your features and then moving her gaze back onto your engaging eyes. "You could kill me," You replied, taking her by surprise with bluntness. "But you won't." You continued, a deep chuckle coming from her throat. She stood, letting your face fall away from her grasp. She tried her hardest not to feel guilty when thinking about how much she enjoyed keeping you here. At her mercy.

The keys clattered, opening your cell door only a few inches for Sevika to slip in with you. She watched your side-sitting, hands on the floor as leverage and legs besides you. You vulnerably looked up at her hovering and towering over you. She sat before you, prying your legs open to kneel between them. She still felt blameworthy. Wanting to take what she yearned for. Fear rattled your body, tensing every muscles within your control. Your hands were behind you, practically laying now on the ground. "Say it." She urged harshly, grabbing your jaw with force. She was pleading with you. "Say you want me, bunny." She contracted her eyes, squinting down at you. You shook, not wanting to displease her.

Her hands circled your throat, keeping you upright. "Say it." You choke out your words, body trembling. "I want—" You cough, her grip loosening, allowing you enough airway to speak. "I want you�� please–" You beg, unsure of what else to do. Tears gathered at your waterline, uneven breathing. "Want what?" She pushed for a more specfifc answer, growling at you. "Touch me, please, need you to touch me," You couldn't get more specific than that, fearful that you'd crumble and let out a choked sob. She released your throat fully, head banging against the floor, a cried out squeal exiting your lips. She moved her hands to your skirt, hiking it up with necessity. Her head dipped, nibbling on your thigh before granting you a large bite. "Sev'" You murmured, hands trailing and fisting her hair. She licked your cunt through your panties, staring at you from her position.

"Taste so fucking good." She grumbled, setting the panties aside and diving into your pussy like a starved woman. She attached to your clit, stimulating it with flicks and suckles. Your breathy moans and your head thrown back made her go faster, pumping her tongue in and out of your greedy, sopping hole. "Sev'! Please—" She kept going, watching you clench around her tongue. She curled her tongue inside you, hands on your thighs, kneading and groaning against you. Your orgasm crashed against you unexpectedly, lips parted in an O shape. She pulled away, placing a sharp smack against your sensitive clit. It was filthy. Your panting was interrupted by her kissing you tenderly, a contrast to the grip she had on your thighs and the words she whispered to get you to comply.

[insanityclause]

“Pressure,” Tom Hiddleston says, “is a privilege.” He apologises for appropriating the title of Billie-Jean King’s memoir, but it’s a sentiment that feels pertinent to him and his co-star Hayley Atwell. They have known each other for 20 years, have both starred in the Marvel universe (Hiddleston as the charmingly villainous Loki; Atwell as the wartime spy Peggy Carter), but this is the first time they have worked together — if you don’t count their group audition to get into drama school.

In a baggy sweatshirt (Atwell) and natty pale-blue jacket with clasps (Hiddleston), they are in a south London studio to rehearse Shakespeare’s bantering would-be lovers Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. It will be only the second Shakespeare play performed at the 2,000-seat Theatre Royal Drury Lane in London since 1957. And the pressure Hiddleston refers to comes from the fact that the previous one — The Tempest, starring Sigourney Weaver, also directed by Jamie Lloyd — failed to go down a storm.

Atwell and Hiddleston in rehearsal for Much Ado About Nothing

MARC BRENNER

Withering reviews such as The Times’s (“Sigourney Weaver’s blank Prospero makes zero impression”) poured cold water on a desert island story that had been relocated by the director Jamie Lloyd to a charcoal-black netherworld. Prices were cut, and an onstage protest by Just Stop Oil looked like light relief.

“We can exclusively reveal that [Much Ado] is not set in a charcoal netherworld,” Hiddleston deadpans. The pair start each day of rehearsals with an hour of dancing. How much dancing will make it into the show? The pair, who are friendly but guarded, can’t or won’t reveal.

What they will say is that you don’t do a show like this by halves. It turns out that Shakespeare is more like a Marvel film than you’d think. “You’ve got to commit with heart and soul and body, like you do for action sequences,” Hiddleston explains. “All acting can be boiled down to how much you commit.”

“I like pressure,” Atwell says. “There is a part of it that is very healthy and useful. But any sort of pressure attached to an idea of my name as a brand or a public persona is so arbitrary and abstract. I turn off the noise that is inconsequential. I find the bit of it I can use.”

Tom Hiddleston as Loki, a mischievous Marvel villain

ALAMY

In 2022 Atwell had to do this while filming Mission: Impossible — Dead Reckoning Part One amid bogus reports of a relationship with the film’s star Tom Cruise; the pair are teaming up again for Mission: Impossible — The Final Reckoning, released this summer.

Hiddleston tells a story about his first big London Shakespeare opening, in 2007. He was playing Cassio in Othello, alongside Chiwetel Ejiofor as Othello and Ewan McGregor as Iago. At five o’clock the three popped out to a Covent Garden Pret a Manger to get a pre-show sandwich. (It is hard, the Much Ado two agree, knowing exactly when to eat before a show.) There was a first-night tension you could cut with a knife. Or there was until Ejiofor just said bluntly: “‘Well, this is a big night. No question.’ And it made us all laugh. Cos, yeah, it’s kind of a big deal — but what can you say?”

“’This is not your average Thursday,’” Atwell says.

“It’s not!” Hiddleston agrees.

Now 44, he already had an agent when he auditioned at Rada, having got one while studying Classics at Cambridge. Atwell, now 42, who grew up with her mother in west London, had delayed higher education to travel around with her American father and work for a casting director. When they met, in the final stage of auditions, it was on a day of working in a group.

Atwell and Hiddleston at the premiere of Jamie Lloyd’s The Tempest last year

ALAN CHAPMAN/DAVE BENETT/GETTY IMAGES

Atwell feels she handled the pressure less well than Hiddleston. “The woman from Rada said to us, ‘We are now looking for the next generation of actors who will be making a profound contribution to the arts.’ And I was, like, ‘I don’t know about that, mate, I’m just trying to get out of being in a housing association — if I can make a living I will be very happy.’ I was very intimidated.”

“It was very intense,” Hiddleston says.

“I was too shy,” Atwell says. “I didn’t commit.”

“I thought you committed,” Hiddleston says. “I thought you committed hard.”

He got in, she didn’t, and went to Guildhall School of Drama instead. But after leaving in 2005 she got a big role in the TV adaptation of Alan Hollinghurst’s novel The Line of Beauty almost immediately. A few posh roles followed, including in the film Brideshead Revisited.

“There was probably a bit more classism around then, and I suppose my own prejudice about ‘I’ve got to sound a certain way to even be considered for the kind of parts that might lead eventually to a film career’. So I thought if I could go down a period drama route, as opposed to the soap route or more working-class plays, I might give myself more of a chance. I had no back-up plan. I didn’t have any kind of privilege, didn’t come from money.”

The Eton-educated Hiddleston may come from a more prosperous upbringing but insists that, as an actor, “you never feel you are on solid ground. I have had to remind myself to smell the roses, because they don’t bloom all that often.”

His next theatre role was Lloyd’s revival of Pinter’s Betrayal in London and New York in 2019, which is how he met his fiancée, Zawe Ashton, who was a castmate. Atwell, meanwhile, last appeared in the West End in Ibsen’s Rosmerholm in 2019. Before that her work included another Donmar Shakespeare (Measure for Measure) and an Olivier-nominated performance in Lloyd’s production of Alexi Kaye Campbell’s The Pride. She didn’t know it at the time, but theMission: Impossible director Christopher McQuarrie saw her in it — something that led, seven years later, to him casting her as the con artist turned secret agent Grace.

He had a moment like that in 2013 — when the second Thor film came out at the same time as he was earning rave reviews for Coriolanus at the Donmar theatre in London. Hiddleston was the man of the hour. “And then you’ve got to do another 75 nights on stage, and make sure you are careful in the fight scene not to slip on the blood. The work anchors you.”

“You can’t predict,” she says. “There’s so much luck involved. I’ve worked for a number of years … and failure is allowed. I didn’t used to find it easy to fail and get a second chance. Particularly as a woman there was this sense of ‘you have to be perfect’. But while you want to deliver, after a while it’s not yours any more. It’s for the audience, and if they don’t like it, or if it doesn’t work, they’re allowed, that’s allowed.”

Atwell as the wartime spy Peggy Carter in Captain America: The First Avenger

JAY MAIDMENT/MARVEL STUDIOS/THA/SHUTTERSTOCK

Hiddleston, meanwhile, who has been filming the second series of John le Carré’s The Night Manager after a nine-year gap since the first, is still Loki to much of the world. The pair have never been in a Marvel scene together, though they did appear at the same event: Comic Con in San Diego in 2013, to which Hiddleston turned up in costume. “Nobody knew it was happening , it was insane and foolish and really fun.”

“I was backstage,” Atwell says cheerfully. “I will never forget the vision of Loki brushing his teeth in full costume.”

She says she is glad she was 15 years into her career before her five-year tour of duty on Mission began with filming in 2020. “I’m so grateful for that, because the level of global exposure on it, purely from being alongside Tom Cruise, can uproot and upend your life. But actually I’m too old to go, ‘What’s next?’ A real sense of security only comes from the commitment to work for work’s sake.” Offstage, both are engaged to their partners: Hiddleston to Ashton (the couple have a two-year-old), Atwell to the music producer Ned Wolfgang Kelly.

What led to today’s professional pairing? Hiddleston and Lloyd wanted to do another play together after Betrayal, and the actor suggested Much Ado. “It seems so light and warm,” he explains, a nice contrast to the heartbreaks of Betrayal. When Lloyd suggested Atwell, Hiddleston said yes immediately. “We’ve known each other for so long, and Beatrice and Benedick have known each other for so long.”

“I had only one question,” Atwell says, “which was, ‘Jamie, how ‘hey-nonny-nonny’ is it going to be?’” Lloyd assured her the hey-nonny-nonny levels would be minimal. “So I thought, this sounds really exciting.”

And if this pulls in a crowd more inclined to Marvel than Much Ado, well, marvellous. Hiddleston, who likes to spin a yarn, gives an impassioned speech about the magic of storytelling in all its forms, about “something being transmitted, from the stage or from the screen, that leaves you feeling more connected, more human, more alive, less alone in the world”.

And that applies to Marvel — famous dislikers of the franchise such as Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola notwithstanding — too?

“One hundred per cent,” they say in unison.

Atwell sees superhero stories as modern-day mythology. “I don’t believe in highbrow or lowbrow — I think it’s just art and film and theatre. You wouldn’t necessarily connect Marvel with Shakespeare. But both can be for everyone.”

Hiddleston remembers going to a screening at the Tribeca Film Festival in New York of the first Avengers film. A group of first responders who had been at 9/11 a decade earlier were there too. “They were all wearing their uniform in the cinema. And the film is about how the Avengers have basically saved New York from Loki. And when Loki gets smashed by the Hulk like a fish at the end, they literally threw their hats in the air and cheered. That was so moving.”

Much Ado About Nothing is at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, London, Feb 10-Apr 5, thejamielloydcompany.com

[softlypaintedseafoam]

your love, like birth and death

synopsis. in which you hope a misguided prince realizes his affection for you is misplaced gratitude for you saving his life. a smitten prince can only propose once more.

pairing. gojou satoru x f!reader

word count. 3.1k | masterlist

content warning. faerie au, seelie prince!gojou, banshee!reader (afab), mentions of pregnancy, descriptions of blood and injuries, mutual pining but gojou's love is heavier, almost kisses

reblogs & interactions appreciated.

another repost of a favorite fic of mine to finally get something on the jjk masterlist i have set up. the title comes from a nizar qabbani poem, one of my favorites. anyone who knows me knows banshees are one of my favorite faeries, so this was a very fun piece for me to write!

This Court is dyed in the colors of Life, you note this particular morning.

Of course, this is something you’ve noted every morning since you’d been brought to this palace nearly a month ago. Yet you aren’t tired of noting it; the Court you have found yourself in is beautiful. From the ledge you lean against, it almost feels like you can see everything in Faerie.

You see the royal gardens, a mass of long grasses and moss dotted by colorful wild blooms. Overgrown and yet each flower seems right where it is supposed to be.

Beyond the walls of the castle, you see stretches and stretches of blue spruces and just beyond that a lake that almost seems purple. If this were a palace in Unseelie territory, you might have thought a kelpie lived in it.

Across the courtyard, souls living and deceased move as if in a dance. The living with their duties for the day, unaware of their ghoulish companions drifting about. Some have the ever permanent dribble of poisoned wines falling from their lips, others’ have blood seeping into their clothes from their torsos and others are missing limbs although they find no difficult in moving.

The sight of death faeries is one that gruesome. A mixture of life and death, the path you folk walk on until you return to nothing.

Neat yet unkempt, wild yet tame, expected yet unexpected ー that is the beauty of Faerie you’ve grown accustomed to in the centuries since your creation.

A beauty you rarely have the opportunity to appreciate when you often find yourself in the realm of humans, heralding death.

You wonder how much time has passed there since you’ve come to the Court of Reckoning. All while the skies have lost the traces of violet, peach and marigold that painted the dawn skies and have begun settling into a lovely shade of pastel blue. 

“I see I’ve finally found you,” when you look over your shoulder, it’s one of the prince’s advisors that greets you. The one with the long raven-black hair and brown eyes that remind you of humus-rich soil. You see the makings of a black tail with a tuft of fur peeking from his cloak and believe him to be some sort of phouka. “I almost thought for a moment our honored guest had disappeared,” his voice is light and airy, but he seems relieved to an extent. “I’m glad my concerns were proven untrue. Satoru would be quite unmanageable if that were the case.”

You shake your head, smiling politely, “I enjoy watching dawn turn into morning.” You look at the large bouquet in the phouka’s hands ー an assortment of lavender roses, baby’s breath and ferns.

“Our prince is too busy to deliver these himself this morning,” Suguru explains once they’ve caught your eye. You make sure to not let your fingers brush against one another when you reach for the blooms carefully. “Love at first sight, purity and fascination it is supposed to symbolize,” the advisor recounts the meaning of each bloom dutifully. He’s exasperated, you can tell. “Do you like them?”

“Yes, they’re quite lovely,” you believe so truly. Everyday since your arrival to the palace, the prince has had bouquet after bouquet gifted to you. Even if he cannot deliver them himself. “As were the rest I’ve received.”

“I’ve never seen Satoru so smitten,” you avoid the phouka’s gaze. “You should have met him when we were younger. He was adamant that he’d never be besotted with anyone lest he become a fool.” There’s a light pause as Suguru recalls the evening Satoru brought you to this palace. You who are cloaked in death and all of her colors. “Look at him now. He’s certainly caused a stir in his insistence you’ll be his queen. He’s a charming fool, though, I am sure.”

You prefer to think of the prince as a ridiculous fool but you cannot deny that he is charming. Dangerously so. If you hadn’t known better, you would have thought him to be a gancanagh, a love-talker.

“Please marry me,” came the soft request as sky blue eyes stared into your very being. “And I’ll love you more faithfully than any man, fae or otherwise.”

You try not to remember the way your chest clenched in surprise. How you were so surprised it almost felt like your skin had warmed. It’s best not to focus on that memory at all.

It’s a ridiculous notion, a seelie prince in love with a banshee.

“The prince is simply confusing gratitude with love,” you return Suguru’s gaze with a polite smile. You hope he believes you. “He’ll realize that soon and I will leave this place.” You know that will bring palace staff a great sense of peace. If there is one thing you’ve learned in your long life as a banshee it is that even if the Folk spurn mortals and their blink-of-an-eye lifespans, there are many things faeries and humans have in common.

A fear of death is certainly one of them.

As such, to the vast majority of faeriekind, Death Folk like yourself are not looked upon favorably. Banshee and dullahans alike, you’re more like pests in their eyes. 

You banshee women who scream and keen if death is near. 

The dullahans who hear those screams and arrive when that final hour has approached.

Yes, you know how death fae are viewed. You’ve heard the whispers in the palace, how you are an omen of malevolence to come. That your kind are like roaches. Should one appear, others will soon follow suit.

This is why you’ve come to appreciate this private ledge on the castle walls that receives less foot traffic than the rest. You’d rather the staff of the palace have peace of mind in your absence while you live in the palace even if their prince insists you can venture the halls as much as you’d like.

Once the promised revel he hopes to throw in your honor comes to pass, you know the prince will lose his interest in you. Then you will leave and continue about your existence until you fade into nothing but a vague memory in his subconscious.

That’s what you truly hope when you see the prince in question later on in the day for lunch in the garden.

How his eyes light up and he stands to his feet as Cypress, a lovely pixie tasked with being your attendant, announces your arrival. How he doesn’t even wait for you to reach the table before he comes to meet you. You are unused to being treated like royalty and yet their prince insists that you are. “You won’t believe how the old hags go on and on,” he sighs, remnants of annoyance dancing in his tone but his voice is soft with you. Cypress takes the dismissal in stride. “I couldn’t even come see you for breakfast. Did you like the flowers?”

He wraps your hands in his own large palms, seemingly unaffected by your corpse-cold skin, as he has done every time you’ve met since your arrival. “Yes, they were beautiful,” your smile is small and doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You hope this ridiculous yet charming fool realizes that loving one such as yourself is more trouble than good. That his love truly is just misplaced gratitude. “You really don’t have to send me flowers every morning.”

The prince disregards your words the way water rolls off the back of a duck, “next time I’ll bring you the flowers myself.” He guides you to the table filled to the brim with food you aren’t accustomed to eating. “Will you tell me your favorites finally? I’ve been going out on a limb with my guesses.”

“My tastes in flowers are unique, to say the least,” maybe it’s your nature, but your favorites tend to circle around the prevailing theme of your kind. Lavender to give the dead peace in passing on, calendula for blessing and love. Dandelions in the seed head stage were quite popular with ghost children, still finding them just as amusing as they did when they were alive. “The flowers you send me are more than enough.” The prince pouts but he decides to let you skirt around his request once more. You bring focus back to the spread, “it looks like you’ve demanded everything in the kitchen.”

There are strawberry-and-whipped cream filled pastries, cold cut platters and buttery biscuits to name a few things. The tip of the iceberg of everything on the table.

“I wanted to make sure our bases were covered,” the prince grins, teeth as white as his hair. “I hope you like lavender chamomile, that’s today’s tea. I’ve never had it before.” He drops cube after cube of sugar into his cup, drizzles the contents with honey before finally pouring in a splash of cream.

You take your tea plain and enjoy the gentle fragrance. Lavender buds are just barely visible below the tea’s surface. You close your eyes as the flavor hits your tongue. It tastes as wonderful as it smells. “Yes, this is quite nice. I really like it.”

“Should we have it for tomorrow as well?” He’s too eager to curry your favor.

You open your eyes to dissuade him but your attention is instead drawn to a headless hob nearing your table. You’ve seen this hob before, skirting about the palace bitterly as he carries his head in his hands much like a dullahan. He’s old, even by fae standards, with a long beard. There’s no question as to how the man died, beheading. You hope it was quick.

His beady eyes glare at you with a quiet rage similar to how most fae spirits do. You wonder how long he has been like this, refusing to board the carriage of any dullahan that may come to collect him and bring him to the Otherworld.

You personally believe that faeries leave behind ghosts more than humans do.

It’s why you’ve often seen ghosts from a distance at revels, dancing from dawn til dusk even if they will not be perceived by the living. Even if they can no longer don the fancy dresswear they were able to dress in.

Time and time again, they will do this. Staunchly refusing death even after they’re already in its hold.

“Oh, is there a ghost with us?” The prince notes how your eyes dart between him and the space he perceives as empty. “What’s it saying?”

“Tell this lout that I sooner hope his rule is contemptuous and brings the Court to ruin!” The hob’s head seethes. “That his many days are fraught with danger! Gakuganji is my name and this is the curse I cast upon him!”

Folk can’t lie, but you you prefer not to relay the bitter message. “He hopes your rule is one that is,” you lick your lips and raise your cup to your lips. “Filled with exciting thrills,” not an exact lie. Perhaps to this radical prince, those sorts of threats are exciting. “He says his name is Gakuganji.”

“Exciting thrills, you say?” The prince barks in amusement, shoulders shaking with his laughter. “That doesn’t sound like the traitorous scoundrel I know. You don’t have to lie, he’s probably cursing me and my bloodline for generations to come as we speak.” The hob growls at the lackadaisical nonchalance of the elf. But it seems he has had his fill as he stomps off before he can hear more insult to his person.

“Gakuganji has lost his touch even in death,” the prince’s amused chuckles turn into light sighs “You wouldn’t have liked him very much when he was alive,” you’re sure you can agree with that much of the prince’s words. Gakuganji, as you now know him, has been one of the more unpleasant spirits in the palace. “He was very stuck in his ways. What’s it like, seeing ghosts all the time?”

Normal?

You can’t quite remember what it was like when you were a newly-made banshee and everything was new. Nor can you remember the life you once led as a human. You simply remember your death was a terrible, terrible thing. “It’s as normal to me as it’s normal for you not to see them,” you set your cup down. “If someone asked you what’s it like to see the blue sky everyday, it would be a strange question, correct?”

The prince takes in your words thoughtfully, not slighted in the least. “I guess that’s true,” he nods to himself. “I just wondered if it was something that took some getting used to.” The prince removes his darkened spectacles from the bridge of his nose. “I told you before I have pretty good eyes. I’m able to perceive a lot of things no one else can from mana to the shape of one’s soul. But the spirits of the deceased are exceptions to my eyes, it seems.”

“Your Highness,” you begin.

“Satoru,” the prince corrects you swiftly.

“Your Highness,” you insist. This boundary you won’t cross for yourself. “I’m not sure it’s really wise for you to tell me about your eyes. I’m not a member of this family or your closest allies.”

“But you will be,” he tells you as if he’s simply remarking on how pleasant the weather is. “I will become king of this Court and you’ll be by my side as my queen.” You’re quite sure that if his mother, the High Queen, has anything to say about it, she’d sooner relinquish her throne to a random nixie than allow a banshee to wed her son. “I trust you as much as I trust Suguru or Nanami.”

You wish he wouldn’t.

A Seelie prince and his banshee queen? That sounds like the start to a ballad meant to insult him.

It’s misplaced gratitude, not love. That’s what this prince feels for you. You tell him as such once again as you have everyday since you were brought here. “You’ll realize that soon, maybe even before the revel you plan for me,” you whisper ー no, you pray. “There will be another you yearn for and you’ll realize the difference.”

The prince will fall deeply, truly, unapologetically in love with someone and he’ll discover the truth.

Perhaps it will be a lake maiden of Spring whose dreadlocks drip with water droplets that fall onto dewy cinnamon-brown skin. Who sings of the beautiful red and pink of the roses and of love.

Or maybe it will be a selkie man who doesn’t mind living far from the sea as he’s brought a love as deep as the ocean along with him. Whose coat is donned in scars and scratches from battles past, a reflection of his form as a seal.

Or maybe he can grow enraptured with his phouka advisor whom he trusts more than anyone in this life.

Someone dyed in Life’s colors.

Someone beautiful.

When that time comes, you’ll be happy for him. Maybe then the ache that resonates through your heart and bones will end.

The prince isn’t the only fool here, you admit reluctantly. You’re just as much, if not more so. But this feeling will come to pass, “this is just gratitude. Fascination. Not love.”

“You think I don’t love you?” The prince asks quietly, resting his chin on his palm as he looks at you. He says he has good eyes, he wonder what you look like to him through them. You who once was dyed in Life’s colors but have since become painted over by Death’s brush.

Death folk with death folk.

Life folk with life folk.

“I know you don’t,” he can’t. You can’t allow either of yourselves to do so. “A banshee by your side as queen,” you want it sound ridiculous to both of your ears. “It’s absurd.”

There are no rules that state your union is forbidden, this you know. But the laws of nature are simple. Life and Death co-exist separately, unable to exist without one another. But there has never been a tale where the two joined together as one.

Maybe you’re just too scared to be the first.

“I want the woman that I love by my side as queen,” the prince replies smoothly. “Your species is of little importance to me. All that matters is that my love is returned in full. Please, allow me to be yours,” he reaches for your hand once more, stepping out of his chair in favor of sitting on bended knee. “More than anyone has or ever will, I love you. This is an unwavering truth.”

The blood of the love-talker must run through his veins. Why else do you feel like this? Your desire for this prince will eat away at you until you become undone and return to nothing. “You’re a prince. It’s the duty of the royal family to provide heirs,” even the smallest sprite knows this to be fact. “Are you asking me to stay with you and have them?”

“Please have my children,” azure stares seriously into your pale eyes that were once [color] when you were human.

Your skin feels warm at his unabashed request.

Gojou Satoru has no shame, that you have become sure of in the near month of knowing one another.

He had no shame when he asked you to be his bride when you first met.

There was no shame to be found when he insisted that you stay in the palace as an honored guest he owes his life to.

Nor is there any shame to be found in him now when he cups your cheek in his furnace hot hands to guide your lips down to his, long white lashes fluttering shut.

I shouldn’t, your mind screeches at you. I shouldn’t allow us to get even one millimeter closer. Yet you make no move to do so as your lips are just barely touching whenー

“Your Highness, your mother is requesting you,” Nanami’s mild-mannered drawl saves you at the last minute.

You jerk back into your chair in relief, heart pounding. You aren’t able to make eye contact with anyone, least of all the overworked horned elf-kobold hybrid brought to receive the Gojou heir.

The prince clicks his tongue in annoyance, glaring over his shoulder at the advisor, “she can’t wait? We haven’t even begun eating yet.”

Nanami looks just as annoyed to be there, “the faster you heed her call, the quicker you can go back to fawning after the object of your desires.” He tells his prince. “And the faster I can get back to resting.”

The prince with snow-white hair clicks his tongue once more, but he doesn’t argue against it. He turns to you regretfully, “I’ll have to leave again. Perhaps we’ll have more time together at dinner,” you hope the wait for dinner is longer still. You know the prince hopes the time passes as quickly as he can blink.

Warm lips press against the back of your hand, lingering for five seconds longer than they should.

The bones of your hands ache.

[intrikatie]

Love you more... Minho

banner by the endlessly talented @skzdreamer13 [my chopstick]

♡ Pairing: Established relationship! Minho x GN Reader ♡ Genre: Fluff, Headcanon ♡ Warnings: none ♡ Wordcount: <500 ♡ a/n: trying to get the hang of short form.

It’s a quiet night at home. The only sound is the low hum of your music playlist and the soft glow of your desk lamp. Minho lounges on the couch, his head resting on your lap as you absently thread your fingers through his hair, enjoying the peaceful moment.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice muffled.

You smile softly, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. “I love you more.”

Minho lets out a mock sigh, cracking one eye open to glance up at you. “Oh? And what makes you think that?”

You smirk. “I’m the one who always knows when you need a break from all the chaos. I can tell when you're getting too caught up in your own head, and I make sure you take a breather.”

He hums, his lips quirking into a small smile. “That’s true, but I’m the one who makes sure you never feel insecure. I remind you how amazing you are, even when you forget.”

You laugh softly, fingers still playing with his hair. “I’m the one who calms you down when you’re stressed. I know exactly how to make you forget about everything else and just be in the moment.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, eyes gleaming mischievously. “I’m the one who always makes sure you’re laughing, even if it means making a fool of myself.”

You lean in slightly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “And I’m the one who’s always there when you need someone to listen, when you’re having a tough day and just need to vent.”

Minho huffs, lips quirking up in amusement. “I still reckon I love you more.”

You pause, then smirk. “More than your cats?”

His eyes snap open, brows furrowing. “Wait—what?”

You grin, watching him shift slightly against your lap. “Well? Do you love me more than your cats?”

Minho scoffs, clearly flustered. “That’s—! That’s not even the same thing! That’s different.”

You tilt your head innocently. “Different how?”

He gives you an exasperated look. “Loving my cats is like… family love. You’re—” He hesitates before blurting out, “You’re real love.”

You bite back a giggle, knowing exactly how much this conversation is riling him up. “Aww, Min. You should’ve just said that from the start.”

He groans, rolling onto his side to bury his face against your stomach. “I hate you.”

You laugh, fingers dancing through his hair. “No, you don’t.”

Minho lets out a muffled sigh, voice quieter now. “Yeah… I really don’t.”

You smile, pressing another kiss to his head. “I love you, Minho.”

He shifts slightly, tightening his arms around your waist. “I love you more.”

♡ If you made it this far, thank you for your support! ♡ please consider leaving a comment, like or reblog ♡ ©2024Intrikatie ♡

[princessefemmelesbian]

One thing I wish MRAs and transandrophobia truthers understood is that the statement “women are seen as more innocent/valuable/worthy of protection” is not a universal truth and is in fact a belief steeped in whiteness. Whiny men who want to pretend that they’re oppressed for being men simply LOVE to claim that women are privileged in society because we’re seen as more innocent and given the benefit of the doubt for some things, or are seen as less dangerous, or are “cared for more” by society, or can use our “tears” to manipulate men and get ourselves out of trouble. And while sometimes this can have some basis to it, like how some people believe that women can’t rape men, or when they say “women and children”, for instances, in the majority of cases it has not been true, and I am slowly realizing why. It’s because that idea(at least in the West) has only ever been applied to white women.

Women of color NEVER get the advantage of being seen as innocent, soft, or worthy of protection, especially Black women who are stereotyped instead as strong, hardworking, mannish mules due to slavery, as well as adultified and sexualized. The same applies to other races of women like mestiza-Latina women who are seen as “spicy” or East Asian women who are seen as innocent and childlike but not in a way that inspires protection like in white women, but in a way that lets them be seen as “submissive” and thus open to be fetishized and exploited/discarded by white men as well.

Women of color are also raped more than white women, specifically due to the idea that we are inherently more sexual and less innocent than white women and always available for sexual domination and don’t deserve our virtue and dignity protected the way that white women do, but also, more twistedly, due to the idea that we are inherently more “tough” and less dainty and feminine than white women and are built to withstand brutalization, thus we can be treated roughly and abused more harshly than white women, because women of color aren’t “real” women you see? You can beat them and sexually abuse them and even murder them as aggressively and inhumanely as well, they can take it! They like it rough! They don’t deserve protection and safety and love, because they aren’t real women, y’see, they aren’t even human! And we all know about white woman tears, that isn’t anything new.

Really women of color are never given the advantage of being innocent or being catered to like princesses the way MRAs and transmisogynists claim, it is really a western/white-centric viewpoint above all else and it bothers me to see people parrot it without realizing that this only applies to white women. It’s like they only consider white women when they talk about women, it’s really sad and maddening but hey there’s white femininity for ya. It makes sense, though, because both groups are comprised predominantly of angry sensitive white men who are upset because they feel like society doesn’t coddle them enough, rather than that it coddles them too much, and take out their insecurity over their manhood and inability to reckon with their male privilege out on the more vulnerable women in their communities, whom they irrationally see as to blame for their frustration and hurt feelings. They don’t give the slightest shits about women of color, and especially not about trans women of color, because acknowledging women of color’s existence would completely upend their worldview and force them to confront the fact that they are not the ultimate victims of the planet, and that they have the power to oppress someone else and they don’t like that! If nobody’s coddling their ass 24/7, then that means that the entire world is against them, doesn’t it? And women become the enemy for pointing it out. That’s honestly all this is at this point. So done.

[charliebug3]

I probably should have included it in my original post but it was kind of a spur of the moment thing, but in a reblog I mentioned the reason I made the post to begin with was because I remembered someone who wholeheartedly credited the creation of the Daedric Princes specifically to Kirkbride, which was just genuinely incorrect, and this happens frequently with more than just the Princes. Strangely the character’s creation I see second-most incorrectly attributed to MK behind the Princes is… Tiber Septim??? It’s just baffling to me because as a fan I do as much research as I can into different interpretations of lore events and such (from in-game sources) so to see people ignore the fact that Tiber Septim has existed as an important lore character since, again, before MK even wrote for TES, is more than mildly infuriating. Especially due to the fact that what Kirkbride DID contribute to Tiber/Talos lore made it a confusing mess, at this point the only way I can reckon with The Arcturian Heresy’s canon is that it must just be in-universe propaganda and lies BY Tiber Septim (because he himself shows up calling himself Wulf in Morrowind) to try to discredit anyone else involved in his rise to power. Which would be fine if the community didn’t take everything MK writes as gospel, meaning “Talos is 3 guys in a trench coat” theory is somehow the prevailing theory among the TES community as to Talos’s origin when it… just doesn’t work with what’s established in Daggerfall nor does it even work as a retcon because again, Zurin is directly called The Underking by the word of-god text section at the very beginning of Morrowind.

That bit is personal though because MK did directly write Varieties of Faith, meaning he himself wrote the words “Associated with Zurin Arctus, The Underking” in Magnus’s description. And yet MK stans still hold up TAH as 100% truth and I just. Hhhh. There is a perfectly good sun/moon parallel with Zurin/Tiber and Magnus/Lorkhan set up directly in Kirkbride’s writing but instead we get to play 2 truths and a lie (to be fair that’s expected from a series that has always had an unreliable narrator but the fact that the only development Talos got in Morrowind was contradictory means we’re effectively at square 1 with no information at all). The only saving grace is that The Prophet from Knights of the Nine’s in Oblivion and 36 Lessons of Vivec both point towards Tiber and Zurin fusing and becoming Talos so at least it’s something to go off of but it just personally pains me as a Daggerfall fan to watch Zurin Arctus’s character get watered down to “uhhh Tiber Septim’s lackey” in Morrowind instead of expanded upon. Like the man objectively committed suicide, stating he didn’t want to meddle further with mortal affairs, and then got subsumed by Talos (easily the most meddlesome Divine) afterwards, and it’s just. Not addressed??? Cmon guys please I beg of you I need more people to catch onto that part of the lore instead of “muh Arcturian Heresy Wulfharth is the Underking Talos is 3 people”

Sorry I am just dropping an entire new rant onto your reblog I did not get enough sleep last night to be concise LMAO this rapidly descended into blorboposting

If I see one more person credit Elder Scrolls's worldbuilding to Kirkbride I'm going to crash out. Everyone who says that should be forced to play Arena and Daggerfall for a mandatory 10+ hours and see that most of the series's major worldbuilding happened before MK was even a writer or concept artist. And even then MK didn't actually do much of the writing for Morrowind, either, he wrote a few lorebooks that make no sense and actively conflict with other parts of the game (ex. The Arcturian Heresy saying Zurin is not the Underking when the GAME'S OPENING CUTSCENE accredits a quote to "Zurin Arctus, THE UNDERKING"). And yes this could theoretically be in-game lying but then so is 36 Lessons of Vivec which is the other major thing Kirkbride wrote, which would mean that basically all of MK's major canonical contributions to TES lore would be lies lmfao

Put some damn respect on TED PETERSON'S name, he's the real fundamental TES worldbuilding writer all the way from the beginning with Arena, through Oblivion. History of the Empire, On Oblivion, 2920, Feyfolken, The Warp in the West, and so many more fundamental lorebooks in the series written by HIM. There are, fairly obviously, many MANY other writers for this series. It's been going on for decades. But since everyone seems determined to attribute all of TES lore to one guy, at least pick the correct one

[concretejunglefm]

I think all 4 boys have a submissive side to them, some more than others however how do you think they would like ‘come into’ their submissive side? Like what makes the realize they might be into being submissive with you? What ignited that flame and how did they let you know?

I love how you think anon and i love this question and even more than that i love love love my subby boys.

For Noah it's all about trust. If he doesn't have that connection and trust with you, then he's not going to be vulnerable in that regard, however when it's there you'll know because even before there's anything sexual about it, he's already giving you the puppy eyes, so willing to do anything and everything you ask. You toss him even an ounce of praise he is preening over it. The words 'good boy' are an easy set off, but he also loves being called your sweet boy, that makes him melt and especially in relation to instruction or praise. How he lets you know is definitely not by asking, not at first, the sweet boy is far too shy for that. Instead he's dropping hints, calling you miss or goddess, or when you do start to move things along, he's taking your hands to hold his wrists or moving them to his throat just to make you squeeze it, even a little. He wants to feel you have power over him but he's too shy to ask. Eventually you coax it out of him with soft praises and assurance until he's down on his knees and begging to be your good little puppy.

Letting the word pup or puppy slip out around him is an instant head turner, I'm surprised his tongue isn't already out his mouth from the panting and drooling being called that can triggers.

When it comes to Ruffilo, while he's used to being the one in charge, worshiping you and being completely soft as he takes charge of your pleasure, he finds himself enjoying when you toss him a lighthearted mean remark every now and then. Your sweet and attentive boyfriend, who will do anything for you loves it when you degrade and humiliate him. Honestly it surprised him more than it did you. From a light hearted mean comment to calling him 'useless' and even 'pathetic', he was already down on his knees and ready to beg for a crumb of attention from you. His favorite thing becomes when you don't even let him fuck you, but you make him fuck between your thighs because he hasn't earnt the privilege, yet.

He also loves complete sensory deprivation and being turned into nothing more than an object for your pleasure.

Is there any surprise that Folio would want nothing more than to be your good boy? He's always been overly eager, always willing to please. You say jump and he's already halfway over you, spreading your legs and holding them back while he dives between your thighs, except you need to teach your eager puppy patience and that's the hardest part. He never realized how much restraint he had in him until you literally had to restrain him. It's a slow process to release him from them, because he hates it, but you love to watch as he struggles with being unable to reach and touch you, the muscle memory of doing so too prominent. When he finally learns he's the most obedient pup boy you could ever ask for.

Sometimes he loves to purposely misbehave and ignore any of your requests purely to be punished. His favorite punishment is being over your lap, his cock milked and his ass filled with whatever little toy you choose to treat him to today. Instead of teaching him to be patient, you're teaching him the benefit of it by completely overstimulating him to the point there are literal tears in his eyes he's so overwhelmed with pleasure.

Jolly is a force to be reckoned with, but that man on his knees for you is a sight to take your breath away. It starts with him wanting to worship you, and while usually he holds the power, a complete control and dominance, you can feel the power exchange when he's down on his knees and looking up at you with soft eyes, wanting nothing more than to feel you take charge. Your fingers wrapped around his hair, you pull him to you and he likes it when you get rough, when you tap into your own little sadistic side and give him a taste of his own medicine.

Sometimes it becomes two doms fighting for power, but he's always quick to relent because he never wants to steal it from you, he just wants to make you work for it and he loves when you finally get that light in your eyes as you deliver a slap, grab his face or pull his hair.

Including Matty in this for my own enjoyment because the way you discover this man has a submissive side is when he is beyond stressed. Usually he takes out his frustration on you, pulling you into some nearby room before having his way with you, being rough and unapologetic. You love him like that, when he just grabs and takes what he needs, finding his release and clarity in you. Except one time it does little to actually take his head out of things, so you try something different. You take charge, tying him up and blindfolding him while teasingly stroking him. Naturally he starts to get a little bratty, a little too mouthy and impatient. You solve that with your hand over his mouth as you work your hand on him until he's seeing stars, even surpassing that because you're not stopping, not until you've gotten another out of him and he's completely forgotten about whatever he was in his head over.

The addition of toys to this really become his favorite, especially if you choose to keep him tied up while you play with and overstimulate him.

Which one of them is most likely to have a voice kink you can use and exploit? Especially when they're on tour and you're apart.

[sokkastyles]

Hi,

Hope you are doing well.

I saw the ask about Aang's choice to spare Ozai not being well received. It got me thinking about something I had heard in Captain America: The Winter Soldier. In a scene where Nick Fury and Captain America discuss the latter's actions during WW2, Fury says that Cap and his team did some nasty stuff. Cap accepts that, but also says that they did it so people could be free.

The point from this was that in a war, everyone who is involved in the war may have to make choices that goes against their morals, because sometimes its a necessity. So, when Sokka or Zuko are labelled as "bloodthirsty" because they want Ozai killed, its because they see it as something necessary to stop the war. It also reflects that they have had to adapt to survive a war torn world, or even Jet. I doubt Jet wanted to do those actions that he did, but he must have felt that they were necessary. This is something I think Aang doesn't fully understand.

I would like your thoughts on this.

You don't have to take my word for it, it's canon that Jet wanted to change.

It's also canon that Aang does not understand the reality of violence and never takes it seriously up until the end of the show when he realizes that he may have to kill Ozai and panics because he has never learned how to take it seriously. I have a hard time taking him seriously as a pacifist because so often, his attitude towards violence is just childish, and this is something he never grows out of. We see it in the Deserter and the Avatar State when Katara tries to warn him to be careful with his own capacity for violence, and it shows up again in the finale when Zuko tries to explain to him the importance of properly redirecting lightning and he blows it off because he thinks Katara can just heal him.

And Katara is usually the one tasked with trying to teach Aang the consequences of this, and often the one who gets hurt because of it. So Aang thinking that Katara will just take care of it for him shows that he hasn't learned anything and will continue to place that burden on Katara, to her detriment.

This is also why I can't see Aang as anything but hypocritical when he tries to lecture Katara, of all people, about nonviolence in The Southern Raiders.

And then they never have Aang have that moment where he is forced to reckon with the consequences of violence. They give him a way out that isn't revealed until the second he pulls it out of his pocket.

The problem is not that Aang is unwilling to use violence, it's that he has no real understanding of the reality of it. Both when it's used against him and when he's using it. He's never forced to reckon with how his carelessness with his own power hurts Katara (multiple times), he says some very callous things to Zuko about how his abuser is "still a human being," tells Katara to forgive her mother's murderer, and even in the finale he doesn't take it seriously when Zuko tells him very bluntly that there's a good chance he may be killed.

So, why did the show give this trait to Aang if they weren't going to have him learn from it? My guess is that they wanted to, but didn't know how to, because they are white people who themselves don't fully understand a Buddhist view of pacifism, combined with them writing themselves into a corner and not knowing how to resolve it. That's why people call the lion turtle a deus ex machina, and it has all the hallmarks of when a deus ex machina is used clumsily, including the narrative not revealing it until the last second that Aang went into the battle having already had the solution.

And like, Winter Soldier is overall a darker show than ATLA, so of course I don't expect the protagonists of ATLA to act like grizzled war vets. But that's also why people need to stop acting like Aang made the choice not to kill Ozai "because of his culture" or that the show is saying anything profound about pacifism.

[specialagentartemis]

Feel like dropping the rant about how "pre-written records = prehistory" is not a good way of conceptualizing history? It's not my area at all so I'm fascinated.

Hah absolutely

It’s a mix of semantics, and word connotations, and the way history gets presented, and tbh legacies of racism.

So. Part of it comes from the distinctions between the academic field and practice of history, and the academic field and practice of archaeology. The practice of history means analyzing the past through written texts and records; the practice of archaeology means analyzing the past through the material remains left behind. This is fine. It refers to the way you approach information about the past and what tools and theories you use to do so. I have no problem with this part!

Of course, it starts to get more complicated when you also have classicists (who study ancient Greek and Roman history primarily through texts but also incorporate some aspects of archaeology) and Assyriologists (ditto but for Mesopotamia), which have their roots in old-school European practices of formal education. There’s also historical archaeology, which is primarily archaeology but incorporates written records of the time and place for a fuller picture, or uses archaeology to complicate or fill gaps in the records. Historical archaeology is a practice that can be applied to any place and time with historical records, but primarily it refers to archaeology of the Americas post-European colonialism.

These refer to the ways we study the past. Where I start to disagree is when these terms get applied to the past itself.

Historians study history through written texts, so there is often a delineation where history = the presence of written texts, and prehistory = before that. And I have problems with that delineation of time.

For one thing, the connotations of the terms. History, in common use, is important, it’s everything that built the world we live in and led to where we are now. Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. While prehistory conjures images of dinosaurs, or cavemen. It implies that the things that happened in it aren’t as important as the things that happened once history proper started. It also feels very, very old—it feels weird to call, say, the Inca empire prehistoric, when the Inca Empire is younger than Oxford University and the first Inca emperor was crowned in Peru after the Norman Invasion of England in 1066—something nobody calls prehistoric.

Because that brings up a more objective issue with splitting time into “history” and “prehistory”: writing was invented at different times in different places, and used to different extents. Writing was first invented in Mesopotamia in the Early Bronze Age, about 5,000 years ago. It was probably independently invented in Egypt shortly afterward, and was independently invented in China 3400 years ago, and in Central America about 2500 years ago. Writing spread across Asia, India, North Africa, Europe, and Mexico/Guatemala; it was not used in North America, South America, southern Africa, Australia, most parts of Polynesia, Micronesia, Australia, or New Zealand at all until European contact. According to the written records definition, this means history starts in very different times in these different places. Not only does this unbalance what we think of as “history” a lot, it ends up discounting or minimizing these people’s own ways of reckoning history, making their history start when Europeans arrived.

This is an incredibly dismissive way to consider whole continents’ worth of people and cultures! It turns them into a “people without history,” and implies that whatever they were doing before Europeans (or Chinese, Indians, or North Africans depending on the region, but mostly Europeans) doesn’t really matter to what happened since. If anything happened at all in that “time before history”; a common perspective of both early colonists and modern pop-history in places like the American West or Australia is that the people there have been living the exact same way for thousands of years, unchanging since the Stone Age. Only upon contact with Europeans did anything change and “history” start. This is hugely dismissive of these people’s autonomy and their past. (You’ll notice it’s a lot of people who suffer from racism who are denied the title of “history”!) It’s also just not true.

I’m an archaeologist who studies the US Southwest/Mexican Northwest region; I focus on Arizona and New Mexico in the 1000s–1400s AD. And one of the things that opened my mind so much in studying the US southwest was just how much things changed from decade to decade and century to century in the past, the same way they did anywhere else in history at this time. There was no written history in this part of the world, but what we do have is very precise tree-ring dates. Using tree rings, we can date when this or that building was built down to the precise year. And because it’s a desert, things preserve well for a long time, so we have lots of ancient tree-ring dates. Because of this, we can see how art styles, architectural styles, settlement patterns, family organization, farming practices, religion, politics, and cultural interactions changed over the past four thousand years. And we can see that they did change, and sometimes they changed slowly and sometimes they changed rapidly. People did things. They had new ideas, they formed new political organizations and adopted new religions, they came together and broke apart, they developed new art styles and new technologies, elite lineages controlled the social order until their power fractured, people moved into new places and adapted their old practices to what they found there, or developed new ones… and because of tree-rings and desert preservation, archaeologists can see it in ways we can’t in cooler and wetter environments. This is history. This is people doing things, shaping the physical and social landscape for the centuries that followed.

And of course, Pueblo and Diné and Apache and O’odham people of the Southwest have their own oral histories that overlap with these archaeological studies. This is true in many, many places that did not traditionally use writing. They can’t be discounted just because they weren’t written down.

So to me, history = writing and prehistory = before writing is a false dichotomy that’s unhelpful at best and racist at worst. To me, history starts when people become socially organized enough that they care about what happened before, what happened where, and why it’s important, and what it means. Every culture has history, whether they wrote it down or not. Studying it may not always be suited to the skillset of historians, but that doesn’t mean it’s not history.

[anzynai]

Okay, we got lee!riddle and ler!reader... but what about lee!reader and ler!riddle? The hour of reckoning. I have a real brainrot... No pressure tho.

A Cure for Boredom

Riddle & Reader (TWST)

a/n: yes. request from forever ago. i actually did get ten likes on my post so here is my promised fic. 30 minutes late, but still. are you guys proud of me? kidding. ANYWAYSSSS ive been thinking about riddle lately cuz i love him and there was a request for it so why not do it now? he might be a bit ooc so im sorry for that but besides that, enjoy!!!

summary: you’re bored, unsure what to do, so you decide to hang out with riddle. tickling ensues.

word count: 1.3k

——

You walked around the courtyard, a bit aimless and more than a little bored. You had completed all your homework for the day in between your classes and felt like getting some fresh air, so you decided to go for a walk.

There wasn’t really much you could think of doing. Ace was at his basketball club and Deuce was studying for an upcoming test, and everyone else just seemed occupied so you didn’t bother asking. Hm.

It wasn’t until you were near the end of the courtyard, mostly secluded from everyone else when you spotted a familiar face. Riddle, who was deep in concentration, staring down at a black notebook at a picnic table. In his hand was his magic pen writing diligently on the paper.

Riddle had intimidated you at first, but the longer you were at Night Raven College, you had learned that, although a bit strict at times, he wasn’t a bad person at all. In fact, he was actually pretty fun around, and you believed yourself to be close with him.

Or at least close enough to bother him while he looked like he was studying. You came up from behind him, sliding on the bench beside him, as he turned to look at you.

“Oh, it’s you,” He said, seeming a bit startled but trying to play it off. You smiled. He must have been really concentrated.

“Hey Riddle, what are you doing?” You asked, as he gestured to his paper, your eyes following.

“I’m working on an essay for my alchemy class,” He explained.

“Is it hard?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Well, mind if I keep you company?” You asked, tracing your finger absentmindedly on the table.

He turns to you again, offering a gentle smile. He had always seemed so… unhappy all the time, but recently, he had become more open-minded, and you couldn’t help but feel happy for him. You liked seeing him smile.

“Why not? Your company is much more preferable to some… others,” He replied, a certain tone behind his words that you couldn’t quite understand, but you decided not to ask.

He worked on his assignment, but you would talk to him, about the weather, about your day, what Ace and Deuce had been up to. You had a feeling those two wouldn’t exactly want you telling their business to their Housewarden, but you were sure to keep quiet about anything that could get them in trouble. They were your closest friends, though, how could you not talk about them?

Suddenly, all of a sudden, there was a flutter against your ankle, ticklish, and you jolted, moving your legs up. You looked down, seeing a small cat nuzzling against the leg of the table.

“A cat? On campus?” You asked, tilting your head.

“They sometimes come onto campus. There are a few strays on Sage island, so it only makes sense that they’d sneak into here every so often.”

“Oh, I guess that makes sense,” You leaned down, holding out your hand as the cat nudges against you. You smiled, scratching at its chin softly.

“More so, did it bite you?”

“Bite me? Why do you think that?” You said confused.

“Well, you yelled. It isn’t a small matter if a stray cat bites you. It can carry disease,” Riddle replied.

“Oh, no it didn’t bite me!” You rushed to explain, not wanting to risk worrying the other. “It must’ve accidentally grazed against my leg. It just tickled, that’s all.”

“Tickled…” Riddle said, seeming relieved, but suddenly, you felt curious.

“Are you ticklish?” You asked, your words exiting your mouth before you had the chance to think.

Riddle’s face went as red as his hair, which you didn’t know was possible, but you still found strangely endearing. “W-what kind of..?!”

“Sorry, guess you weren’t expecting that,” You laughed at his reaction. Riddle tried to clear his throat and calm himself down. “Is that a yes then?”

“It is not.”

“Really?” You replied, but a cheeky smirk appears on your face and before he had the chance to respond, you decided that the best way to answer your question was trying it out yourself. The cat, startled by your quick movements, ran away. You felt a little disappointed and guilty, but you were on a mission now.

As you pinched his sides, Riddle bit his lip, as he shook, his homework forgotten. Exactly two seconds later, Riddle was giggling and laughing, seemingly unable to know what to do with himself.

“Y-youhuhu stohohop thihihis!” He cried, embarrassed, putting his arms in front of him.

“No way, this is awesome!” You said, pure glee plain as day on your face as you grinned brightly.

If you told yourself months ago, you’d be tickling Riddle Rosehearts, you would not have believed yourself for a second. But here you were, your hands tickling his sensitive skin and him laughing and laughing as a result. You had to admit, you were feeling pretty great.

That is, until you felt fingers pinching at your sides, causing you to flinch hard. You faltered, before Riddle leaned over you, tickling you ruthlessly.

“Wahahahit! Rihihihihiddle! Stohohop!” You exclaimed, feeling your face flush as you realize you had let your guard down and forgot who you were dealing with.

Now if you told yourself months ago, Riddle Rosehearts would be tickling you, you definitely wouldn’t have believed yourself. In fact, you’d probably believe you’d die before that’d happen. It just wasn’t his style, you know? And yet again, you were proven to be very, very wrong.

“Did you think I would just let you.. tickle me?” He said, hesitating a bit and you would’ve laughed about it, but you were currently occupied in.. laughing for other reasons.

“I dohohon’t knohohow!” You cried, squirming as you fell back, trying to get away from Riddle without falling off the bench.

“Well,” Riddle said, a smug smile on his face, clearly proud of himself for catching you off-guard and turning the tables. “I’ll make you regret ever trying.”

Oh no. You were in trouble, weren’t you?

He moved his fingers to your stomach, scratching and scribbling. His movements were obviously awkward and inexperienced, but effective, nonetheless.

“Plehehehease!”

“Please? I can’t understand what you’re saying.” Riddle asked.

“Rihihihihiddle! W-why!?”

“Are you seriously asking that right now? You started this. I’m ending it, simple as that.”

He began poking at your ribs, and you let out a squeal. How embarrassing…! You squirmed, frantically, pushing away at his hands, but he was stronger than you thought he was, to your dismay.

When he started making his way to other sensitive spots on your body, you felt your laughter raise an octave, as much as you tried to stop it.

“Nohohoho, plehehhe— GAH!” You shrieked, leaning back a bit too far and falling off the bench on the grass. Riddle, obviously, stopped right away, looking down at you in concern.

“Are you alright?” He asked, as you rubbed your back, breathing deeply.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” You assured him, feeling the pain slowly go away, as you stood to sit back on the bench. Riddle didn’t try to tickle you again, something you were grateful for because you felt as though if he did, you wouldn’t last a second.

Still, a part of you felt happy that you were at least close enough to Riddle to be getting into tickle fights, of all things, with him. You couldn’t imagine him tickling someone he was only acquainted with.

“You’re evil,” You said, after finally regaining your breath. Riddle had gone back to working on his assignment after ensuring you were okay, so casually as if nothing had ever happened.

Knowing him, though, you were sure he was still thinking about it. At least a little bit.

Hearing your words, he looked at you. “Evil?”

“So evil! You totally destroyed me,” You whined. “So unfair.”

At that, Riddle let out a laugh. “Don’t start fights you can’t win. It’s not unfair at all.”

You rolled your eyes, half-heartedly. “You won this time, but who’s to say you’ll win the next time. Or the next one after that?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Riddle replied, and it took you a second to realize that he was agreeing that there would be a next time, and you resisted the urge to celebrate. Riddle went back to his work, and you.. well, you’ll be coming up with ideas to get Riddle back, in the meantime.

[edwad]

so why do you specifically want communism? like what would you yourself ground in your advocacy of communism/critique of capitalism (which I suppose are the same thing) in?

a great question which i have been frantically trying to pose to everyone else because im not sure i have an airtight case to make anymore. it hasn't stopped any of my political activity etc (ironically ive actually gotten more involved), but i think ive been very explicit about this as a sort of anxiety of mine because im chasing a politics i have a hard time justifying theoretically. i still feel comfortable in my criticisms of certain political strategies which i don't think are dependent on a particular analysis of capitalism (when they're just logically contradictory, based on other flaws, etc) so im sorta just holding formation until i figure out what else to do. it doesn't feel great, but this is partly why ive been so adamant about this. i think ive been taken as dismissive by a lot of the people who want to criticize me (and tbf when they're being unhelpfully rude etc i often am), but ultimately i am trying to ask people what they think and how they would resolve the problems i can't help but see everywhere. unfortunately though, im at a point where i don't think denying the problem is possible -- you simply have to reckon with it one way or another -- so most of the marxy responses aren't satisfying. i'm pretty comfortable in my reading of marx, so if you want to quibble about that (which i'm open to tbf! in fact i think this is probably the easiest route to refuting my position) then you can't just send me excerpts from the paris notebooks or whatever as if i'm going to drop to my knees and repent. i've read these texts and one of the most annoying traits of dogmatic marxists (which i have undeniably been very guilty of) is to think that reading him means automatically agreeing with him, as if all one needs to do is "read capital" etc.

[grimst4rs]

Sirius took a deep breath, grinning as he looked down to the street unfurling under his window.

His feet were dangling off the edge of the windowsill and, with a last glance back to his bedroom (his ears perked, trying to make out the smallest of noise), he let himself fall.

Sirius felt the bite of the December air before his feet even hit the ground. His jacket, a worn leather thing, hung open, just slightly too oversized. He shivered slightly; he could no longer hide behind his hair, a mess of dark waves, now shaved closely to his head.

The cold whipped through the streets as he tucked his hands into his pockets, the weight of the night pressing on his shoulders. He could barely make out the stars above, but he didn’t care; he felt like everything was just a little bit sharper, more alive.

Sirius ducked down an alleyway, the city pulsing around him, and made his way to the station, flicking the lighter to his lips to light up his cigarette. The sound of heavy, thudding footsteps echoed, the only thing in the stillness.

As he reached the platform, he spotted James standing by the edge of the tracks, a grin already plastered on his face. Slightly rumpled coat, messy hair that was the perfect kind of unkempt. His eyes flickered with something dangerous, something playful, and it made Sirius’ heart race just a little faster.

“Hello, you,” Sirius said, his voice low, teasing.

“You’re late,” James replied with a smirk, his gaze flicking over Sirius’ figure.

Sirius shrugged nonchalantly, leaning against the tiled wall. “Had to make an entrance,” He replied coolly, stubbing his cigarette against the wall. “Reckon you missed me, didn’t you?”

James didn’t need to answer. He was already stepping forward, pressing Sirius against the cold tiles. The station was completely empty, dim light casting long shadows, accentuating the sharp angles of their faces. Without a word, James kissed him; rough, hungry, like they hadn’t seen each other in months, though it had only been a few days.

Sirius let out a rough laugh against his lips, one hand sliding into James’ hair, the other gripping his jacket, pulling him into him. The kiss deepened, heated and desperate, their breath mingling in the cool air, coming out misty. It wasn’t a first kiss, but every time it felt like one; the same rush, the same recklessness.

When they pulled apart, both of them grinned, breath ragged. “Should we…?” James asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

“Yeah,” Sirius muttered, already dragging him toward the dingy bathroom at the back of the station, the door creaking loudly as they pushed it open. Inside, the walls were stained, the place grimy, but that didn’t matter.

Sirius leaned against the sink, hands still tangled in James’ shirt rumpled in his fist, the urgency of the kiss returning. Time didn’t seem to exist anymore, when it was just the two of them.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Sirius grinned. “So you did miss me?”

James grinned back, already tugging him toward the exit. “Always.”

When they got to the ticket office, Sirius leaned against the till and passed the tired woman the money for two tickets, one of which he passed to James wordlessly.

“I still cannot understand Muggle currency,” He tsked, leaning against the wall nonchalantly, looking to the direction the tube was supposed to be coming from. “Where to?”

“Brent,” Sirius replied, lighting up another cigarette and passing it to James, who rejected it with a shake of his head. “Wembley and all. D’your parents know you snuck out?”

James only grinned as an answer. “Yours do, I assume.”

“Clearly,” He chuckled, grabbing James’ arm as he pulled him into the tube, blending into the night and between the worn, tired faces of London.

[wurmh0le-aol]

“Watching [the Basement Tapes], I thought, You stupid idiots! All this talk about hating everyone and everything, and you don't even know what you're talking about. It's all something you've invented in your minds to sustain your anger.” — sue k, a mother’s reckoning (pg. 136)

i often think of this quote from sue’s book when looking at this case in retrospect. to me, the rage they had honestly seemed so directionless that they latched on to anything and everything they could in order to feel like they had any control. that, combined with how much more intense emotions like anger and hurt are when you’re a teenager, created a spiral of negativity that they encouraged each other to fall further and further down.

it’s truly crazy just how young they were. when i first started researching this case, i was just barely in high school myself, and i identified with the rage and misery they expressed in their journals, but now when i go back and read them (and even the transcripts of the basement tapes), it’s almost shocking how high school many of their troubles are. of course, there was underlying untreated/improperly treated mental illness, but the things they griped about the most were things that really only matter in high school.

for me, as soon as i graduated, things that used to bother me a whole fucking lot (cliques, bullies, who-liked-who, homework, etc) suddenly didn’t bother me anymore. and, years later, that’s still the case—i’ve never once thought back on my high school gripes and thought, “yeah, that still has relevance on my life now.” (i do still struggle significantly with my mental health, but it’s leaps and bounds easier to manage after getting out of high school).

as a teenager, it feels impossible to fathom life being anything more than high school (because frankly that’s the only life experience you’d had at that point), but once you’ve graduated, it becomes so clear how little high school actually matters to adult life. i truly think that if they were able to get adequate therapy and understand that high school is such a short period in a person’s life, the entire thing could’ve been prevented.

it’s sad to me, knowing how close they were to graduation when the massacre took place—all they had to do was stick it out a few more weeks, and they’d never have to think about the school again, then they, along with the 13 innocent people they took down with them, could’ve lived long and happy lives.

[nova-anya]

things are heating up in henford...

previous || next

TRANSCRIPT:

The Gnome’s Arms

MAIRA and IMRAN: (giggling)

RAHMI: Maira! Imran! You’ve already lost your Voidcritter privileges for the weekend. Don’t make it for the week.

*Imran and Maira groaning* *bar chatter and friendly conversation*

THIAGO: Alright, fill me in—on a scale from ‘mild inconvenience’ to ‘angry mobs with pitchforks,’ how serious is this meeting supposed to be?

FIONA: It’s a town meeting, not a revolution. Keep your hair on; The Bachelor will still be on when you get home.

THIAGO: I do not watch--

WILLOW: (unconvinced) Kim looks pretty ruffled. She’s over there at the bar and she looks like she’s got a whole hive of bees in her pants. Reckon this’ll be a ‘nod along and move on’ meeting or a ‘full-blown debate’ kind of night?

WILLOW: (grinning) Five quid says a barstool gets thrown at someone tonight.

THIAGO: Oh, you’re on.

FIONA: That is if Sara--

MAYOR CHOPRA: (clearing her throat) Excuse me everyone! *The room starts to quiet*

MAYOR CHOPRA: I appreciate all of you for coming out tonight to a meeting regarding our beloved Henford. Our grocers and markets have always been a crucial part of our economy, and we need to make sure that it remains fair and stable.

MAYOR CHOPRA: That is why I am proposing a new small vendor permit fee and certain updated regulations for sellers in the town.

*The crowd is silent for a moment, stunned.*

*immediately angry chatter erupts from the townsfolk*

CECILIA KANG: There’s nothing small about a fee when we’re barely getting by!

*other members of the town just stare, quietly*

THOMAS WATSON: (angrily) You can’t slap fees on people selling honey and crops from their own land!

MAYOR CHOPRA: I understand the sudden change may be confusing and a little upsetting, but I don’t want--

KIM GOLDBLOOM: (speaking over the crowd) You always act like everything is a conspiracy, Cecilia.

KIM GOLDBLOOM: Let’s be honest—the market’s turning into a free-for-all. People are setting up wherever they please, taking up more space than they should, and don’t even get me started on the undercutting... I’ve been running my grocery stall for years, following the rules, paying my dues. But then you’ve got folks selling produce on the side for dirt cheap, no rules, no accountability. How is that fair to those of us who make a living from this?

WILLOW: (under her breath) Fair? (more loudly) You think charging people just to sell what they grow is fair? Some of these people aren’t running businesses, Kim. They’re just sharing what they have with the community!

KIM GOLDBLOOM: Sharing is one thing, undercutting is another. Maybe you don’t see it, Willow, but people like me—who rely on this market to survive—can’t afford to have half the town treating it like a hobby fair.

SARA SCOTT: Hold on, let’s not turn this into a personal thing. Mayor, what exactly are we talking about here? What kind of fees? What kind of rules?

MAYOR CHOPRA: Nothing drastic. A small permit fee, scaled based on how often someone sells. Casual vendors would pay a little more, while established sellers—like Ms. Goldbloom here— would pay less. We also want clearer guidelines on stall placements, crowd flow, and product safety. It’s about maintaining order, not driving anyone out.

WILLOW: (calling out) And who decides what’s ‘too big’ or ‘too often’? What if a single mum just needs to sell a few baskets of fruit here and there to make ends meet? You’re telling me she has to pay just for that?

KIM: I get it, Willow, I do. But people have to follow some rules, or we’re going to end up with a mess on our hands. It’s already heading that way...

MAYOR CHOPRA: The goal is not to push anyone out, Ms. Everwood. But markets don’t run on goodwill alone. If we want to keep it thriving, we need structure.

DEREK MCMILLAN: Doesn’t sound so bad. Keeps things from getting overcrowded...

IAN MCMILLAN: (snoring softly)

MAYOR CHOPRA: I will outline the proposed fees and criteria in the coming days. We’ll hold a formal town meeting next week. I encourage everyone to come and speak their minds!

MAYOR CHOPRA: I want this to work for everyone—but I also want a sustainable future for our market.

WILLOW: (fuming silently)

THIAGO: Would it be a bad time to cash in on that five quid?

WILLOW: (grumbling) Just give me five minutes and it’ll be me cashing in.

FIONA: Willow, no.