#wrestling is subjective and I recognize that

[debbiechanclub]

Also please know I'm not trying to slight anyone's favorites. This is just for s's & g's.

[hiitsm]

All I want is to have some Peace, with You.

You find yourself wrestling with recurring negative flashbacks from your childhood, unsure how to broach the subject with your girlfriend, consumed by fear of her reaction.

All I want is to have some Peace, with You is for 18+ only.

PTSD, Childhood trauma, Smut, Fluff

-

Important note:

This piece is deeply personal to me, drawn from my own journey through PTSD. It's important to note that everyone's experience with PTSD is unique; what I've shared here is just one perspective.

I'm incredibly proud of everyone navigating their own path through this journey, no matter where they are along the way. And want to give a shoutout to those who support their loved ones through it all-it means more than words can say.

Sharing this piece is a vulnerable step for me, so I ask that we all approach it with kindness, no matter our thoughts or opinions.

-

Just before you met your girlfriend, you were exhausted. Your body constantly felt tired, and you couldn't quite figure out why. The doctor advised you to wait and see if things worsened, suggesting you return if they did. Although it didn't worsen, your body remained tense all the time, draining your energy.

To you, life felt monotonous. You woke up, had breakfast, went to work, and often conversed with your parents, where your mother would eventually get upset over something small you did or said. Then you'd have dinner and go to bed.

It was the same routine, week after week. Despite this routine, you couldn't understand why your body constantly felt on edge, always tense and drained of energy.

Then you met your girlfriend. One rare evening, you decided to go to a bar in the center of Barcelona, and she happened to be there. She offered you a drink, and the conversation flowed effortlessly. You couldn't quite grasp how such a beautiful girl would notice you, let alone want to talk with you.

Your body completely relaxed when you talked with her. Every time she chuckled while sharing a childhood story, you felt at ease without realizing it. You were so captivated that you didn't notice how much your body was unwinding, as if to say that everything would be okay, even though you weren't sure what "okay" was anymore. You had become so accustomed to the tension that it felt normal, which is why you didn't recognize the change.

When you went home that night, you couldn't help but feel light. For the first time, life seemed to have more purpose, all because of her. She was intoxicating in the best way possible. The conversation had been wonderful, and she looked so beautiful. You exchanged phone numbers, and just as you were lying in bed, she texted you. That's when you realized she was one of the greatest footballers of all time: Alexia Putellas. But you didn't care about her awards, even though they were quite impressive. You cared about her as a person and were so glad you got to know her without any preconceived notions.

Your first date together came swiftly. Despite not consciously noticing the change in your body when you were with her, whether in person or talking on the phone, one thing was unmistakable: she made you feel cared for and loved, and you reciprocated with the same warmth. You made an effort to support her during her matches, even though the loud environment and crowds weren't really your thing.

After a particularly hard-won victory for her team, Alexia invited you to dinner at her mother's place to meet her and her sister. Nervous as you were, you couldn't say no.

That's when you finally noticed a change in your body, but it wasn't the positive relaxation you felt when you were with your girlfriend; this change was unexpected and negative. One moment, you were holding your girlfriend's hand under the table, laughing at something her kind mother had said, and the next, you accidentally knocked over a glass, causing it to shatter on the ground. Alexia's family reacted warmly and kindly, reassuring you that they had plenty more glasses, but you couldn't hear them over the ringing in your ears and the racing of your heart.

Suddenly, a flashback hit you. A memory of your younger self, maybe around eight years old, dropping a glass and your mother reacting with intense upset, even physical punishment. You had buried that memory deep within, but now it resurfaced with startling clarity. You found yourself in shock, unable to even apologize to Eli before Alexia squeezed your hand under the table, grounding you instinctively. Eli was kind and forgiving, but the tension in your body remained.

Despite Alexia's loving gestures and efforts to ease your discomfort, the tension persisted throughout the dinner.

As days passed, you found yourself struggling with daily tasks more than usual. Simple things like focusing at work or even enjoying a meal became daunting. The tension in your body seemed to escalate, and more flashbacks from your childhood would unexpectedly flood your mind.

You hadn't yet spoken to Alexia about what was happening. In truth, you didn't fully understand it yourself. The memories that resurfaced were fragments of a past you had buried deep, and confronting them felt overwhelming.

One evening, when Alexia came over to your apartment she noticed that you hadn't done the things you normally would have. The dishes were piled up, and the laundry was untouched. She could see that something wasn't right.

You had experienced more vivid flashbacks of your mother physically hurting you in the past, but when Alexia asked if you were okay, you hesitated. Instead of sharing the truth, you told her you were feeling sick. Without a moment's hesitation, Alexia took charge, helping you into bed and preparing homemade soup to comfort you.

As she sat by your side, her concern was palpable. When she gently inquired about your parents, your body tensed involuntarily. You had been avoiding your parents for a while now, a fact she wasn't aware of. Once again, you chose to lie, deflecting her concern with a half-truth.

The next day, as Alexia headed off to training and you had a rare morning off, you found yourself overwhelmed with emotions. But amidst the turmoil, the strongest feeling was guilt. Guilt over lying to your girlfriend. It wasn't about the physical pain you had endured in the past, nor the mental scars left by your parents' admonitions to keep quiet about it. No, what weighed heaviest on your mind was deceiving Alexia.

You spent the morning wrestling with your thoughts, debating whether to confide in her. Would she stay if you told her the truth? You couldn't bear the thought of losing her. The fear of her rejection paralyzed you, yet the burden of keeping these secrets from her felt increasingly heavy.

Throughout the day, memories resurfaced, each one a testament to the walls you had built around your past. But Alexia had breached those walls with her kindness and genuine concern. As you recalled her comforting presence and unwavering support, a flicker of hope emerged. The hope that she might understand, that she might stay.

But it wasn't easy. Every time you tried to open up, the words faltered. You could see the concern in your girlfriend's eyes, her worry for you evident even though she didn't fully understand the source. Her deep love for you acted as a balm, soothing many wounds, but in her absence, the shadows returned.

When she wasn't around, the flashbacks intensified. The memories you had buried resurfaced with a vengeance, overwhelming you with panic attacks. The tight knot in your throat, the trembling in your legs, the waves of nausea, they all surfaced when she wasn't there to anchor you.

It took time for these panic attacks to manifest fully, but now they were a part of your reality. They reminded you of the unresolved pain and fear that lingered beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged and healed.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of frustration and self-blame. Here you were, a grown adult, yet unable to carry on with your day when the flashbacks hit. You questioned yourself relentlessly. Why couldn't you move past the memories of your childhood? There were surely others who had been through worse. Why did these emotions surface now, when you had found happiness with your girlfriend by your side?

These thoughts stirred a mix of emotions within you. Anger, confusion, and a deep-seated sense of inadequacy. You berated yourself for being so emotional, for letting these past experiences affect your present life. In response, you pushed your emotions down once again, burying them beneath a facade of composure.

Whenever you felt overwhelmed by negative emotions, you found solace in kissing your girlfriend. Her kisses had a way of making your mind go pleasantly fuzzy, and you knew they had the same effect on her. It wasn't necessarily the most practical solution, but it worked, if only for a fleeting moment.

You would kiss her softly, savoring the sensation of her lips against yours, a reminder of the love you felt. Every time of day, you couldn't help but tell her how beautiful she looked, still amazed that such a radiant woman had chosen to be with you. Your kisses lingered, slowly exploring each other, shedding any barriers between you.

You would gently undress her, admiring her soft, full form, and your hands found their way to her curves, losing yourself in the pleasure of her touch and the sweet sound of her moans. With tender care, you would lift her, laying her down on the bed, whispering words of love and admiration, reaffirming how much she meant to you.

As you kissed your way down her body, you would marvel at her beauty, taking in the sight of her soft arousal. You circled her clit with gentle pressure, lost together in the waves of pleasure. Making love to her was a slow, deliberate act, a tribute to her kindness and support, unaware of how deeply she touched your heart and healed your soul.

Until one night, your mind was besieged by flashbacks, but you refrained from seeking solace in kisses because you respected her need for rest, always mindful of her boundaries. As you grappled with your thoughts alone, you recognized that continuing this way wasn't sustainable, prompting you to take action.

Sleep had become elusive, and after a particularly taxing day, you pushed yourself to seek help. The journey led to an unexpected diagnosis of PTSD, a revelation that caught you off guard. To you, the symptoms had felt like a part of daily life, a burden you had unknowingly carried for so long.

You lay on your side, your back turned towards your girlfriend, feeling the weight of tension in your body and the ceaseless churn of thoughts in your mind. It was important to you that she got the rest she deserved after a challenging game. Meanwhile, she lay on her back beside you, still wide awake, sensing the emotional distance between you both.

You knew she was overthinking it, and despite your efforts to suppress it, the need to unburden yourself grew stronger. "Amor," you whispered softly into the quiet of the room. Before she could respond, you found yourself blurting out, "I want to tell you something, but I'm afraid you'll leave," your voice catching as tears welled up.

Your girlfriend shifted closer, wrapping her arms around you, her front pressing against your back. "I won't leave," she reassured you, her own heart fluttering with anxiety. Her embrace was a testament to her unwavering support, a gentle reminder that you were not alone in this moment of vulnerability.

You broke down in tears, turning to bury your face in her neck, unable to stop sobbing. "I lied to you, and I'm so sorry, but I didn't know how to tell you," you managed to choke out between sobs. Your girlfriend held you tightly, her hand gently running through your hair in a soothing gesture, trying to comfort you through your tears.

"I've been having these flashbacks from my childhood, and my mother wasn't kind," you finally confessed, the words heavy with pain. Her response was a gentle whisper against your ear, "I'm so sorry to hear that, mi amor," her voice filled with compassion, causing another wave of tears to escape you. "I didn't realize... I had buried it all, but it's all coming back," you hiccuped, the weight of the memories overwhelming.

"It's coming back, and they says it's PTSD," you admitted, feeling vulnerable yet relieved to finally share this burden with her. She continued to hold you close, recognizing the emotions that had been building up over time. Her presence and understanding were a source of comfort as you let yourself cry in her arms.

"Who says that, mi vida?" she asked softly, her voice free of judgment.

"My therapist," you replied, feeling a twinge of embarrassment. Alexia's response was a gentle sigh of relief upon learning that you had been seeking help from a professional.

"Aren't you mad?" you asked cautiously, uncertain of how she might react.

"I don't understand how it's PTSD," you continued, struggling with the concept because you had always associated PTSD with a single traumatic event.

"It's okay, mi amor," Alexia reassured you tenderly, her voice soothing. "This stems from your childhood, from being in a toxic environment for years. I'm so proud of you for taking this step and seeking the help you deserve from a professional. PTSD is just a diagnosis—it won't define who you are, I promise you that."

After Alexia's reassuring words, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders, if only slightly. Her acceptance and understanding were more than you had dared hope for. You turned to face her, eyes filled with gratitude and a hint of disbelief.

"I... I didn't know how you'd react," you admitted quietly, your voice still trembling with vulnerability.

Alexia gently cupped your face in her hands, her touch grounding you in the moment. "Mi amor, I'm here for you. Always," she said earnestly, her eyes reflecting unwavering support.

You leaned into her touch, feeling a rush of relief and gratitude. "Thank you," you whispered, overwhelmed by her unconditional love.

"I want to understand," Alexia continued softly, her thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. "If you're comfortable, tell me more about what you're going through. I'm here to listen."

You hesitated, grappling with the fear of burdening her with your pain. But her patient gaze encouraged you to share. "It's like... these memories keep coming back, and they feel so real," you began haltingly. "I thought I had buried them, but they're here, haunting me."

Alexia nodded thoughtfully, her expression one of deep empathy. "It must be incredibly difficult," she murmured, her fingers gently tracing soothing patterns on your back.

"It is," you admitted, feeling the weight of years of suppressed emotions. "But having you here... it makes a difference. Knowing that I can lean on you."

"You can always lean on me," Alexia affirmed, pulling you into a tender embrace. "We'll face this together, mi amor."

As you rested in her arms, the knot of fear and uncertainty began to loosen. For the first time in a long while, you felt a glimmer of hope. A sense that with Alexia by your side, you could navigate the stormy seas of your past and find peace.

The therapy sessions had become a regular part of your life, a deliberate effort to untangle the tightly wound threads of your past. Through EMDR, you revisited memories long buried, each session leaving you emotionally drained yet oddly liberated. But it wasn't just the memories that haunted you; it was the residual effects that surfaced unexpectedly.

One evening, as you strolled through a crowded plaza in Barcelona, a sudden movement caught your eye, triggering an involuntary flinch. Alexia noticed immediately, her concern etched on her face.

"It's okay, mi amor," she murmured softly, drawing you closer as you continued walking. "I'm here."

Grateful for her understanding, you nodded. These moments were unpredictable, flinches at sudden movements, a racing heart at unexpected sounds but Alexia's presence was a steady anchor. She knew about the therapy, about the fragments of your past you were piecing together, and she didn't flinch from your moments of vulnerability.

As you settled into a cozy café, Alexia reached across the table, her fingers intertwining with yours. "You're doing so well," she reassured you, her voice unwavering. "Facing all of this takes incredible strength."

You managed a small smile, feeling the weight of her words and the warmth of her touch. With Alexia, there was no need to explain yourself, she understood without words, offering solace in her silent support.

One evening, as you and Alexia were relaxing together at home, she moved suddenly to hand you a book, and you flinched involuntarily. It shocked you because you knew deep down that Alexia would never hurt you. Tears welled up in your eyes as you whispered, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Alexia's heart broke as she immediately took you in her arms, holding you close. "Shh, mi amor," she whispered softly, her voice laced with understanding and concern. "It's okay, I know you didn't mean it."

"I just... I just want to have some peace with you," you sobbed, your words choked with emotion. Alexia held you tighter, gently rocking you as you released the pent-up sorrow and fear.

As your tears subsided, Alexia continued to hold you close, her touch a soothing balm to your troubled soul. Feeling a surge of gratitude and love for her unwavering support, you gently pulled back to look into her eyes.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice trembling with emotion. "For understanding, for being here."

Alexia smiled tenderly, brushing a tear from your cheek. "I love you," she whispered, her voice filled with sincerity.

Moved by her words and overwhelmed by the depth of your feelings, you reached up to cup her face in your hands. "I love you too," you replied softly, your heart swelling with love for this extraordinary woman who had changed your life.

In a spontaneous gesture of affection, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to hers, a kiss filled with gratitude, love, and a promise of healing together. Alexia responded eagerly, her arms wrapping around you as she deepened the kiss, both of you melting into each other's embrace.

[blackleatherjacketz]

Shadow and Sin: Chapter 1

Klaus Mikaelson x Female Reader

Summary: Having just recently moved to New Orleans, you get intimately acquainted with both Mikaelson brothers, but don't find out who they truly are until it's too late.

This Chapter: Your art is finally put on display at a local gallery, and Klaus has a vested interest in it.

Warnings: Klaus Being Klaus, No Personal Space, Alcohol, Flirting, Almost Kisses, Art Interpretation, Dark Themes

Word Count: 1.2k+

Read the rest of the story HERE

Your first art show in New Orleans isn’t nearly as extravagant as you thought it would be, despite the small jazz band in the corner and the free champagne being served at the door. The jubilant music seems to fade off into the distance as you stand just a few feet away from one of your pieces, silently stalking the patrons as they walk by and observe it, muttering amongst themselves. You try to hone in on what they’re saying about your work, about how it makes them feel, or if they’ve caught onto any messages you’ve hidden in your mixed medium on canvas. So far it’s just been a mixture of silence and solitary comments like “interesting” or “hmm” as the glass of champagne warms to room temperature in your hand.

“Which one’s yours?” A man’s eloquent voice pulls you from your anxious thoughts, forcing you to look over at his delicately handsome face as he walks toward you with a confidence that could rival royalty.

“Huh?” You take a sip of your lukewarm champagne in order to gain some liquid courage to engage with this gorgeous man who seemed to appear out of thin air.

“I’d recognize that look anywhere,” he starts, touching one of the sculptures he clearly wasn’t supposed to. “Will they like it? Will they understand it? But most importantly, will they buy it?”

“That obvious, huh?” You take another sip, letting the bubbles take their time to crinkle your nose as the rest of the carbonation slowly fizzles out.

“Painfully, I’m afraid.” That smirk of his warms into a coy smile as he takes a step toward you, his own glass of champagne nearly empty. “Yours isn’t the landscape with the sailboat, no… those waters look far too calm for you.” He stands next to you and continues to guess, letting his fresh clean scent surround you as hints of a bergamont settle into the air. “Not the still life either, you don’t strike me as someone who focuses on something as mundane as coffee and beignets.” He pauses and looks at you briefly, taking in your features. “No, a work of art from your hands has to contain something different, something much… darker.”

“And what makes you think that?” You chide in return, enjoying this little game he’s created for himself. “Maybe I love coffee and beignets.”

“Well, darling, who doesn’t? But that’s not why you became an artist, now is it?” He raises his eyebrows, giving you a chance to notice the hints of green and gold in his blue eyes.

He was good, you’ll give him that.

“My money’s on the portrait of the faceless woman drenched in blood.” His tone drops to the level of darkness he previously described as he steps behind you, his voice like butter as it melts down each vertebrae of your spine. “It’s beautiful, really; the way you captured the themes of the tortured and macabre while still maintaining an intimate beauty of the feminine experience. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

His change in tambre and location freezes you in place, forcing you to look at your own painting through his eyes as he hovers behind you, making you shiver with the anticipation of his intentions. The fact that you’ve allowed him to get this close so fast makes you wrestle with the idea that you may already desire this stranger based on nothing more than the words he’s chosen to speak with that velvety voice of his. Are you that subject to flattery? That desperate for validation? Longing that deeply for some level of intimate connection? Perhaps you are...

After what seems like an eternity of moral gymnastics, you no longer resist the temptation to turn toward him as he guesses correctly, noting the triumphant look on his face as your lips linger mere inches away from his. You barely notice the still breath that remains inside your lungs, expanding your rib cage for far too long as you stare at his plump lips, taking heed of the single droplet of champagne that rests on them.

“And what makes you such an expert on the feminine experience?” You manage to ask as he allows you to stare at him a little bit longer before answering your question.

“Oh, I’m not. I’m merely a curious third party who’s invested in the local artists that my charitable donations help support.” He confesses with a step back.

“You’re a benefactor?” You don’t mean to sound so judgmental, but he doesn’t exactly look like most of the ancient relics who usually pour money into the city. If you’re being honest, he looks more like one of the musicians you’d find on the street corner playing a cover of ���Wonderwall’ on guitar for tips.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised, love, we come in all shapes and sizes.” He laughs, looking you up and down while the shock of his financial status slowly begins to wear off. “Now, tell me, was I right? Is that your painting?”

“Maybe.” You cross her arms over your chest, trying your best to resist his evident charms. “But you already knew that, being a benefactor and all; that’s cheating.”

“Cheating is such a harsh word. I merely used my astute powers of observation to put two and two together.” He casually places his hand on your shoulder with a gentle squeeze in order to keep you near. “Surely, you can’t fault me for that.”

“I suppose not.” Your heart races at his sudden touch, the gleam in his eyes barely hiding the raging fire behind them. He’s going to be trouble, you can already tell. “Do you flirt like this with every new artist you meet?”

“Just the morbidly disturbed ones that I find deeply enchanting.” His strange compliment is oddly personal, hinting that he might know a little bit more about you than he’s currently letting on.

“You think I’m morbidly disturbed?”

He gives you a knowing look.

“Oh, it’s all over the canvas, love. It doesn’t take an expert to notice the hurried brush strokes in the busy background, the aggression with which you plastered the feminist news clippings together contrasted against the time you took to purposefully pour the viscous, slow drip of blood on it until it’s nearly spilling onto the floor.” He closes the gap between you, his hand now in your hair.

You swallow hard as he fishes around in your psyche for an accurate interpretation of your work, his proximity nearly turning your insides to quicksand as his cologne dizzies you on the spot. Good god, he’s beautiful.

“You know there are other ways of releasing all that pent up rage and aggression… all that passion.” He leans in so that his lips ghost over your cheek as it blushes against his stubble. “Although they aren’t quite as lucrative as this.”

“And what would those be?” You ask coyly, eagerly daring him to show you.

But instead of going in further for a demonstration, he leans back with a satisfied grin, as if he’s already gotten everything he wants from you at that moment. He grabs a pen from a nearby table and takes your hand, writing his phone number on your palm. “Find me when you feel like it gets to be too much, when all those emotions make you feel as if you’re absolutely about to burst.”

[glassrowboat]

Childe. Where is Childe. You would do him justice.

Falling In The Snow. Childe.

Okay, I... actually, I don't think I know who you are. Tbh, I don't have that big of an interest in Childe, but given my love for writing banter, I could Def see where you're coming from, Anon.

This is not proofread

Your feet stopped as you heard a voice calling out for you leaving you with one buried in the snow and the other hanging in the air only to be forced to the ground as a sudden weight chambered against your back. It hit you suddenly drawing out a groan from your already chapped lips as you struggled to manage the little monster claiming you as his jungle gym.

“Hi, Teucer.”

You heard him chirp back a hello as his tiny hands settled on your shoulders to grab onto your giant puffer jacket.

“And where's your big brother?”

“Uh, around?”

You heard as your feet stepped into the snow again, forcing it to crunch under you. With each step, a new footprint was left behind, your soles leaving an obvious track you could only hope Childe would get the hint to follow as you headed to your home. Given the cold and the sniffling in your ear, you could already tell some hot chocolate that would be appreciated by all three of you once you were inside those cozy, warm walls.

“So you ran off again.”

He was already denying your words, but with one pointed look his hat covered head was hanging low as he admitted defeat. “Maybe I did.”

It seems both brothers were completely hopeless when it came to sitting still, then.

“Well, if you're going to be naughty, it seems you're going to have to sit in the corner with nothing to do but shiver.” Fixing your hold on him, you shifted Teucer up higher along your back. Mittens, apparently, weren't a help in carrying an overactive child around. “My mom used to make me do the same all the time.”

“That sounds….”

“Horrible? It was. She wouldn't even give me any toys to occupy myself with, either. Can you believe it?” You asked, trying to get a proper amount of horrified shock to your voice even when the cold was turning your tongue into a popsicle.

“Awful.” Teucer agreed.

“And that's the punishment awaiting you when we get back, kiddo.”

You could feel him wrestling against your back the minute his sentence was set, trying to get free of your hold and almost succeeding too as you cursed under your breath when pulling him back to rest against you again. Arms wrapped around your neck. “I don't like that idea very much. Can't we just say I got lost?”

“The same kid who managed to go all the way to Liyue to find his brother got lost in his own hometown? What bullshit.”

Immediately, you recognized your mistake as Teucer gasped. Hands going over his mouth at your curse despite the fact you know his older sisters and brothers have said much worse in front of him; you have too. “You know, mom and dad say you're not allowed to say those words.”

Grumbling to yourself you huffed out an “I know.”

“So…” For a moment you thought you didn't catch what he said over your footsteps, but there he was leaning over your shoulder to ensure you saw his cheeky little smile framed by freckles and a red face. Like this, there was no denying his relation to Childe, not when you saw him in the same twitch of Teucer's lips and wrinkle in his nose. “Say you don't give me a punishment, and I don't tell anyone you said a bad word in front of me. Again.”

And his cheekiness certainly matched a certain ginger.

“You brat.”

“Does that mean I'm in the clear?”

Your foot kicked out a bit more snow with your next step. The flakes flew up in the air only to fall back down to join the piles on the sidewalk your neighbors had shoveled out of their way that morning. “Childe may let you get off easy, but you'll still get something coming to you.”

Your home was in sight by the time you finally settled on a just punishment, the old wooden door already waiting to greet you and welcome you inside as you approached it.

“I won't subject you to the corner, but you're not getting any whipped cream or marshmallows in your hot coco.”

For a moment you were expecting Teucer to try and hassle you even more only for his little hand to reach out and try to shake yours as he declared it to be a “deal” only to realize you couldn't quite shake it when you were giving him a piggyback ride.

With a sigh, you lowered him down, took his hand, and shook on it.

“Now go inside, you scamp.”

Before you even had a chance to chase him inside, following after his fit of giggles to run around the sofa in circles like you've done so many times in the past you saw Teucer's arm raising up and waving through the chilly air. “Ajax! Come on! They agreed to make hot chocolate for us!”

Your head turned to see another head of ginger hair, ever so bright against the white backdrop of Snezhnaya's endless winter it drew your eye with ease. He waved back, easily treading through the snow covered ground like it was a field of grass instead of the very thing you had been trudging through for the last five minutes.

It was only when a flake of snow landed on your nose were you able to pull your attention away from Childe and his casual stride over to you both.

“Go and get inside, kid, or I'll make sure your drink is as cold as ice.”

“Why, so you and my brother can do that gross thing where you kiss and-”

Before he even had a chance to finish that sentence, you were pushing Tuecer. inside your home. He stumbled at first, trying to adjust to the sudden force he was subjected to only to turn back around to try and say what was undoubtedly another comment about you and his brother before you shut the door in his face.

“Kids.” You huffed.

“Kids.” Childe said as he finally made his way over, a cheer to his voice as he smiled down at you.

“Can't live with them, can't live without them.” You stood back up to your full height as you spoke, mitten covered hands trying to brush yourself off to avail as once one layer of snow was gone a new came from the sky to replace it.

“I think he's a joy to be around, even with his adventurous nature. If anything, it's a good reason to get out there to stretch your legs as you try and keep up with him.”

“Of course you'd say that.”

Childe’s hands came to peek out of his jacket, breaking past the layer of black fur you had no doubt was keeping him nice and toasty to reach up and fix your - or his- scarf. The red fabric was brought up to your cheeks, brushing against them. “And I'd say you're a little thief, but we'll call it even if I get a kiss before we head inside.”

“I don't know. That's a big ask.”

The scarf rustled again, but this time, it was accompanied by Childe pulling you closer. His gloved hands held tight onto the fabric, ensuring you couldn't budge an inch when his head ducked down to press a kiss to your snot dripping nose.

A tiny part of you hoped he regretted that, but given the way his eyes where shining, you couldn't help but think he didn't.

“That wasn't even a real kiss.”

“Oh, so now it's not a big ask if it's what you want?” Childe asked, a single brow raising until it hid behind his mess of a haircut. You'd need to trim it for him again.

“Exactly.”

“Well, I suppose if it's what the lady wishes.”

Before you could even try and wipe your nose off on a handkerchief, mainly for his sake, Childe’s hand was resting on your lower back, running over your jacket to pull you in close to him as your lips met. He was warm. It had you stepping in closer to him as he kissed you, and you didn't hesitate to linger even when your lips parted and you were once again greeted with a brilliant smile framed by freckles and red cheeks. The only difference was that this one happened to be your favorite grin in the whole of Teyvat that never failed to have you smiling back.

For a moment, you two stood there, taking in each other's presence as the cold started to seep into your bones from staying still for long until his laugh broke the silence.

“So, hot chocolate?”

“Yeah, hot chocolate.” You repeated as you pulled him through your front door.

There could always be more kisses when you were both under a blanket and curled up on your sofa together with a mug in both your hands.

[m4rv3l-girl]

Curiosity

Bucky x Y/N

Bucky has a question. One Y/N did not expect.

Requests Open - See Blog!

Warnings: Mentions of sex. Bucky being a precious little thing..

"Y/N?"

The familiar sound of Bucky's voice drifted from the living room, a mix of curiosity and hesitation woven into the single utterance of her name.

Immediately, Y/N felt the prickle of anticipation that had become second nature since they’d moved in together. Bucky's endless stream of questions had started innocently enough—about pop culture, slang, or even the latest in music. Every day brought a new inquiry as he tried to fit into a society that had changed so drastically since the 1940s.

But every now and then, a question came up that was... a little less innocent.

She made her way down the hallway, half expecting to find Bucky with his phone in hand, ready to show her some bizarre internet meme or picture that had left him puzzled. Yet when she stepped into the living room, what greeted her was entirely different.

Bucky sat in the corner of the couch, hunched over, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. His steel-blue eyes, normally so focused and sharp, were trained on the floor. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as if he were wrestling with something in his head. It was an unusual sight—he looked more serious than usual, contemplative in a way that tugged at something deep inside her.

"Yeah?" she prompted gently, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, trying to break whatever spell he was under.

At the sound of her voice, Bucky looked up. His expression softened when his eyes met hers, and a small, almost sheepish smile pulled at the corner of his lips. He seemed relieved to see her, yet that tension in his shoulders hadn’t fully dissipated.

"I just... have a question," he said slowly, as if trying to ease into the conversation.

Y/N raised an eyebrow but moved across the room, lowering herself onto the couch next to him. The fabric gave way under her weight, and she could feel the warmth radiating off his body as she settled in.

They had grown close since living together—comfortably so—but every now and then, he could still surprise her with the bluntness of his questions. Something in his voice, though, told her this wasn’t one of his usual inquiries.

She turned to face him, nodding her head in silent encouragement.

"What’s edging?"

The question was so unexpected that she nearly choked on her own breath. Y/N blinked, her brain scrambling to catch up with what he had just said. Did I hear that right? She turned to him, wide-eyed, as she processed the bluntness of his question.

"You—you what?" she managed to stammer out, her voice strangled as she fought the urge to laugh or cry—maybe both.

Bucky's brow furrowed further, his mouth pulling into a frown as he looked at her with genuine confusion. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, almost as if he regretted asking in the first place.

"I, uh... I read it. Somewhere." He rubbed the back of his neck, an action she had come to recognize as his default when he was unsure of something. "Is it bad? If it is, you don’t have to—"

"No, it’s not... bad. I’ll tell you," Y/N interrupted, cutting him off before he spiraled into some apology about making her uncomfortable. She could already feel her cheeks heating up. "It’s just... kind of inappropriate. But not your fault you don’t know these things." She smiled awkwardly. "Plus, you’re an adult."

Bucky shifted again, this time leaning back slightly, still looking uncomfortable but more curious now. His fingers twitched on his leg, betraying the tension he was holding inside. He glanced away from her, as though mentally scolding himself for making things awkward.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "Maybe you could teach me how to use the Google better after this so I don’t need to keep asking you stuff like this all the time."

At that, Y/N couldn’t help but laugh softly. His words were so sincere, almost innocent despite the heavy subject. The sound of her laughter lightened the tension in the air, and even Bucky cracked a small, embarrassed smile.

"Sure, I’ll teach you how to use ‘the Google,’" she teased, the warmth of her voice softening the edge of the conversation. But the humor faded quickly as they both remembered the question that had yet to be answered.

Bucky cleared his throat again, straightening himself. His eyes flickered to hers, and suddenly, the room felt smaller, the weight of his curiosity palpable in the space between them. "Right," he said quietly. "So, edging..."

Y/N took a deep breath, her palms rubbing against her jeans. Never thought I’d be explaining this to Bucky Barnes of all people, she mused to herself.

She felt a strange fluttering in her stomach as the words began to form in her mind, the awkwardness building.

"Okay, so... edging is... a sexual thing," she began slowly, carefully choosing her words. She risked a glance at him, noticing the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly, his attention fully on her. "Basically, it’s when you—or a partner—bring you close to, um, release and then stop right before it happens. You do it over and over again, as many times as you want."

The explanation spilled out of her quickly, almost clinical in nature, but it didn’t stop the deep flush that began creeping up Bucky's neck and into his face. His ears turned a deep shade of pink, and he seemed to stiffen beside her, his breath catching for a split second.

"Oh." His voice was rougher than usual, and he cleared his throat again as if trying to shake off the sudden intensity of the conversation. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked away, avoiding her gaze.

For a moment, silence settled over them. It wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable, but there was an undeniable tension that neither seemed to know how to break. Y/N glanced down at her lap, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the edge of her sleeve, unsure of what to say next.

It was Bucky who finally spoke, his voice quieter than before. "Have you ever, uh... done that?"

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. The question hung in the air, bold and unflinching. She felt her face heat up again, and she wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or something else entirely. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her pulse quickening as she considered her response.

"Not with another person," she replied honestly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s gaze shifted to her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke again, his voice low and careful.

"...Would you want to?"

The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken words. Y/N’s eyes widened, and her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not today.

[stuck-writing-sickos]

In Poor Taste [P6]

(Yandere Reader Insert)

[Series Link]

[STRONG WARNING: sexual abuse, ephebophilia, substance abuse, addiction, suicidal ideations, victim blaming, xenophobia, violence, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK]

(A/N: this is a heavy chapter that catches you up on certain characters' backstories. Please do NOT read if ANY OF THESE SUBJECTS can trigger you. I repeat: DO NOT. I will put a recap on the next chapter. these are strong contents. i will not take responsibility for anyone who disregards the warnings.)

Also i still do not know what tagging people in the next chapter entails (low tech, offline). Lmk how: @perhapstheyregone @ssak-i

You were never crazy about spoiled rich men. They were nothing but troubles.

"Sakamoto!"

Lukas jumped at the scream. He turned around to meet three coworkers he hadn't ever spoken to: a short, tubby middle-aged man with his tie going undone and a button missing, revealing his belly. Another is a taller, lanky, bespectacled young man who was speaking quietly but very excitedly, his shoulders high and closing into himself. The shorter man lumbered past Lukas and toward the pair of smokers. From inside the restaurant, a female voice called out for a "Hanaosan".

Lost and incredibly intrigued, Lukas instinctively stepped to where you were, his body shielding you away from the commotion. He smelt the smoke and alcohol wrestling away your flowery perfume, his eyes darting back and forth between Sakamoto and the old man who was shouting something in Japanese, drowning out the voice of his companion. From behind them, a short woman he also recognized to be from the office ran after the duo and tried to join voice with the onesided arguments, her tone sounding a lot like that of glasses. From their repeated "Hanaosan", Lukas assumed it was the name of the drunken, improperly clothed man. Sakamoto only took long drags of his cigarette as Hanaosan closed the distance with his arms going every possible direction.

Sakamoto leaned back and listened to the rant, only occasionally replying with one word which sounded a lot like "yeah" whilst shaking his head. At one point, his cigarette went out. He silently tossed it on the ground and snubbed it with his shoes, his eyes not leaving the senior colleague's red face.

This went on until Sakamoto directed his attention to the woman who was guiltily hanging her head. Lukas gathered another name here - "Sasakisan". This Sasakisan was on the verge of tear, her head of dyed chestnut hair shaking vigorously and her hands waving, seeming to deny something. Upon this, Sakamoto turned to Hanaosan to speak. He must had said something insulting, because Lukas didn't have time to react when Hanaosan raised his voice even louder, turning heads from the stream of strangers walking by. The short, fuming man then reached out and grabbed Sakamoto by the collar, shaking him vigorously, his chubby, hairy fingers were clutching against Sakamoto's shirt so hard Lukas heard a tear. Horrified, glasses and Sasakisan tried to pry them apart only for Hanaosan to knock them back with the surprising strength that only ever graced drunk uncles in family gatherings. The two tried to talk - probably desperate to get some sense through the chaos - but nothing budged the Incredible Hanaosan now in a rage. He stopped shaking fand waited for a respond from Sakamoto who was bent in half to accommodate for his height and superhuman grab.

Sakamoto sighed and clicked his tongue. He spoke, his voice now slow but firm, the same voice Lukas assumed one would use to discipline a child. This only added fuel to the fire. Hanaosan shed his last layer of blind anger and decided that words would no longer be of use. He winded up a punch and hurled it toward Sakamoto's chest.

Lukas had his back turned to you. Naturally, he didn't see it coming when you harshly pushed past him, your fingers of steel grabbing him by the shoulder, throwing him aside and slamming his back against the wall. Lukas didn't have time to savor the pain, but his heart did not forget to race. He could only see you as a blur as you zipped past him and wedged yourself between Sakamoto and Hanaosan just in time for his punch to land right on your gut. A pained groan escaped your lips, though you did not fall nor lose composture.

Nobody spoke. Everyone stared at you, horrified. You steadied your breath, shaking a little as you bent over, half in pain, half to speak to Hanaosan.

"I apologize, Mr. Hanao", you said, your voice still wavering from the shock.

"Lady, why did you do that for?" -Hanao (apparently not Hanaosan, Lukas noted) scoffed - "Stay out of it, this is between us men!"

"I'm so sorry", you kept your bow, "I just remembered that Mr. Sakamoto here will see his family soon, and I would hate to imagine how difficult it would be for him to explain the bruises."

Hanao laughed in disbelief, his expression souring from angry to scornful.

"So what, you lived here for 3 years and you think you can try to act like one of us? Do you know how ridiculous you sound right now?"

"That's enough!" - Sasaki (Lukas noted again - not Sasakisan) yelled, her high voice was weak compared to the rest - "Mr. Hanao, you're drunk and embarrassing yourself! Please take him home, Mr. Fujiko!"

Nodding hastily, the thin man tugged at Hanao now seeming completely deflated at Sasaki's words. Still, from where he was walking, Hanao still couldn't help but spoke loudly for you to hear - "that's why letting those foreigners work here is no good, I'm telling you."

Lukas burnt at that. "Fuck...", he muttered, planning to go after Hanao. Before he could move, you had a strong grip on his wrist, yanking him backward. The force you'd exerted left him sore, but Lukas' couldn't deny the heat in his chest as he felt it.

"Sorry", he said, his voice barely containing his untimely arousal. You were too in pain to notice it, and Lukas was too focused on you to see Sakamoto's quick glance when those words came out of his mouth.

"You're not okay...", Sakamoto softly said to you, "I'm so, so, so sorry for that. Please, let me take you home."

"Are you sure?" Sasaki interrupted, "Mr. Sakamoto, you're not okay either. I can take her home for you."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Sasaki. She lives quite near mine, so it works out well either way. Mr. Lukas, would you mind accompanying her back to the party and keep an eye on her just in case?"

In case of what, Lukas thought, a biting discomfort brewing in him. This guy was just trying to get rid of him.

Sasaki was quietly glancing over to him, hesitant and nervous. Lukas felt more annoyed than ever at the thought of Sakamoto monopolizing the rest of your night, though under the watchful eyes of another colleague, he felt it would be best to not start another argument.

"Yeah, sure, no problems", he sighed, his voice getting cold, "get home safe. Text me if you need me."

Sakamoto better not take that last sentence as directed toward him, too. Lukas could not give two shits.

__

Sakamoto had you hanging onto him as he hailed down a cab. The sleek black car stopped, its door sliding open. You felt shame as you sluggishly sat down and scooted your body into the inner seat. Awkardly loosening the seatbelt to not irritate your bruise, you leaned back.

"Hey", he spoke, tapping on your shoulder, "are you feeling alright?"

Your mind was on something else when you said yes, nodding begrudgingly. Your chest was still twisting. You held your head, trying to remember your address upon hearing the driver asking for it. Unsurely reciting it, you turned away from Sakamoto for him not to see your crumbled face. Still, you could hear him shifting nervously as the leather seat squeaked under his pants.

"I'm sorry... of course it is nothing", you said, your voice hoarse.

"I'm sorry, too..."

He spoke as if something was stuck in his throat. You could tell he felt guilty about Hanao's punch. Sakamoto had a bad habit of feeling like he owed people for the nice things they did, so much so that it worried him sick. You yourself hadn't been much of an expecting returned favors person - were you to be one, you would have been stuck playing debt collector to your brother for the rest of your live. That would not be fair.

"It's not your fault, Sakamoto."

The ride was quiet. You wanted to turn and look at him, but you didn't let yourself. You were worried by the heartbeat that drummed against your chest as if wanting to break your ribs open. Help me make this feeling go away, you wanted to say, but you knew he wouldn't know how. He couldn't fix your brother's drug addiction. He wouldn't know how to steady his nerve were he to find the frail, bony boy in a stranger's bathroom lying in his own vomit, arms and legs twitching with glazed over bloodshot eyes who, upon seeing his older sister at the door, could do nothing but bare the row of yellowed teeth to laugh. What was there to do but call the ER and explain what happened? Your 17-year-old self did not cry as you sat and wait for the ambulance, watching his shoulders and the lock of hair over his nose move to make sure he was alive. You could almost recall the conversation in the next room wherein the teenagers were freaking out and deserting the kickback, yelling to put blames, all of them too drunk or high for their young body to handle. Stupid, you thought with your head on your knees, you guys were supposed to be studying for finals. What would 15-year-olds in a private school need molly, stamps or snow for? They could not have possibly been that bored, could they? Couldn't they have smoked weed and have panic attacks like the rest? You even remembered when a girl poked her head in to ask if your brother was okay, to which you said "fuck off". You didn't feel bad for it. You still don't.

Your head spun thinking back about it. You closed your eyes and tried to calm your beating heart, fighting the lump that built in your throat. Whatever, you told yourself, nothing changed - that was all. You would call your mother and console her like always, then your disappointed father who had not much to say, then your brother who would moodily ask what you wanted and then tell you to save it with the life lessons. Then you would hang up and put away your phone, take a nightime painkiller without water before crawling under your cover and hoped to not wake up to 80 missed calls.

So you didn't say anything.

Upon seeing the familiar apartment complex, you fished for your wallet only to find Sakamoto's cold palm resting atop your hand. "I got it", he softly spoke and handed the driver two crisp bills, telling him to keep the change. The warm summer air flooded the cab as the door opened, and you felt the humidity clinging on your skin when you stepped down, your kitten heels knocking harshly against the pavement. Sakamoto hopped off as well and hurried over to where you were.

"Mr. Sakamoto, thank you for taking me home, but you don't have to walk me to the door. You will miss the train."

"It's okay", he said with his face turned away from you, "I like to enjoy the nightime."

You laughed at the white lie. Of course he did not mean it, especially not with the heavy backpack on his back. Sakamoto who liked to clean up and prepare food for the next day would hate staying out late - hell, he barely tolerated tonight's dinner party.

"Well... I appreciate it. Then, would you mind walking me to the elevator?"

"I will walk you to your door."

The softness in his voice matched your own.

_____

Yuki lied. He did not live near you, but he figured that didn't matter much. He could take a cab back home and skip the coffee-making, even though he had just started trying to consume less sugar by brewing his own the night before. The way your face drained of any liveliness when he first saw you at the alleyway was a pointer that whatever you were going through was more urgent than the brand new coffee kit he left sealed near his sink.

As he waited for the elevator with you, your phone buzzed. You looked at the screen blankly and picked it up, your hands trembling just barely. He incredulously watched you when he led you into the dingy lift, making room for you to punch in the floor number. You did not say a word, simply listening to the other end who seemed frantic and fast-talking. The flourescent light from above highlighted clearly your sunken eyes and smile lines, casting sharp shadows on your face now looking years older than your normal self. You did not say anything but the frown on your tired face deepened the longer your caller spoke, and by the time the elevator ride was over you could only sighed and said "I see... I will talk to him soon, mom. You go ahead to bed now, it's getting late."

He tailed you out, expecting you to lead the way to your door. Instead, your body dropped down to a squat. Burying your head into your hands, you painfully let out a quiet sob, your body shaking like a leaf.

"Hey...", he spoke, trying to be as gentle as he could so as not to alert anyone who might be sleeping behind the thin apartment walls. He wanted to say that it would be okay, but that would be stupid. He did not know what happened.

You kept your sobbing down, stiffling it until completely smothering it. Choking on tears, you sniffled and looked at him. Your mascara had made a dark black smudge under your glossy eyes, and your lips were twisted as you grinded your teeth to keep from crying more.

"... Let's get you back home first, okay?" was the only thing he thought of to say. You nodded and took his outstretched palm. Your skin was warm, pressing hard against him as you stood up. He failed to expect the hand that threw the fierce uppercut at his show to feel so limp in his own. He did not let go as you walked him to your door and punched in the code.

"Thank you, Mr. Sakamoto", you spoke again, hoarse and labored. Even in disarray, you still made a point to take a look at your phone to check for the time. Idling at the door now wide open, you held a sigh in your chest. He watched as you took a moment to think before turning to see him again.

"I'm sorry you missed the train. If you don't mind it, you can stay the night."

He had heard that many times in his life, and everytime he found himself going dizzy and trying to make an escape. In his younger years, he wasn't so sucessful. He would be swayed by guilt or pity toward the recently divorced family friend who then wiped away her soft pink lips with his body. His 17-year-old self did not know how to feel... she was always gentle and kind when she first met him 4 years prior. Outside her bedroom she was never unperfumed, never dressed improperly, never spoke in any tone other than soft, yet she always left him feeling undone and fillthy. She was nice before she wasn't, before the door closed and he was told what to do and how to feel. Sakamoto always vomitted after, but it never mattered to her - she had her fills. He still couldn't forget begging for his father's help after the secret ate at him, only for his own kin to ask what about becoming a man made him want to die.

Though, the look in your eyes was not one of temptation. It was one of someone barely holding it together, trying their hardest to make something right. You didn't seem to want anything from him.

Yuki felt something other than panic when he stood at your door staring down the dark hallway, your face just a shadow now when you turned straight ahead. For the first time in a long time, Yuki found himself saying "okay" to being invited to stay over.

[manic-sapphic]

nope this isn't me talking about save the cat again~

and no, ofc it totally doesn't center around adora choosing to jump after catra... again. and yes, i am lying. lotsa lies with lotsa love <3

-- promise just renewed - of course adora's gonna jump after catra. whether you think she did or didn't break the promise the first time doesn't matter, the point is, she's not breaking this one. decided, confirmed. --

adora's finally fully seen just how much their promise had meant to catra - and her heart's been ripped open the entire time she's been forced to fight her - since the moment she sees catra and hears that hello. her mind's gotta be flooding with so many damn emotions that had either been repressed or she'd simply been conditioned not to recognize or consider relevant enough to acknowledge - which i would imagine, especially w her past trauma, had her feeling an insane amount of mental distress, since so much of what she was feeling, she couldn't hope to really identify or even describe. so, she probably doesn't quite entirely understand or even realize it - but suddenly, she's fully feeling just how much their promise had always meant to her, too.

it definitely seems to be what's determining every damn decision adora makes, even before she's there on prime's ship. before she's even seen catra. that promise lit up blinding bright in her brain during that comm's call w catra- she couldn't ignore it. she "can't just leave her there." but really, she just didn't want to. if i was tryna explain it to adora herself in terms i thought might help her get it, it'd go somethin like -

"know it or not, this was a moment where what you care about, arm-wrestled what you're supposed to care about, and broke that bitch's wrist, ok"

alright now my patented sorta-silly/serious whiplash, sorry --

-- forcefully pitted against each other, after it being so long since the two of them last fought - and with catra now basically a puppet on a string, carelessly subjected to all kinds of injury and pain, and never showing even the slightest response to it on her face - everything she's seeing and experiencing gives adora a horrifying display of what prime had done to catra and how much she must have gone through for him to have been able to warp, flatten, and take control of her like that - and all because of something she chose to do for her. (which tbh could be phrased in a similar way to adora's "i can't just leave her there" with "i can't just let her come here")

yeah. it's like throughout it all, the promise once again became the everything to adora she'd forgotten it always was.

so of course she follows after catra into the shadows.

she can't and won't just leave catra alone in the dark.

[the-crooked-library]

Hannibal and Control

Alright so out of all the Hannibal interpretations out there, I don't think there are any that irritate me more than the idea of an unequal balance between him and Will. There's this opinion floating around - that he is so much of a control freak that he can never let Will make his own decisions; I've seen it in fic, in Tiktok videos, an occasional textpost, and it is just so grossly incorrect that I have to say something on the subject.

As early as season 2, we get this:

This is perhaps one of the most famous scenes in the series - in which Hannibal states, out loud, canonically, that the reason he is so fascinated by Will is because, unlike most other people, he can never truly predict him. No matter how much he may "whisper through the chrysalis," Will Graham will find a way to surprise him; he expressly doesn't follow the lines Hannibal has written for him, and that is a key element of their relationship throughout the show.

Now, I am not denying that control is a prominent element of Hannibal's life - it is indubitably important; but it is not everything - especially in this particular context. As much as he maintains that iron grip on himself, it does not reach nearly the same extent with Will; and it falls apart entirely by season 3, in which Hannibal explicitly gives up his control of the story, risking his life and freedom - both things he valued above all else earlier in Mizumono.

The message here is clear; as much as his control, his liberty, his own continued existence matter, Will Graham is infinitely more precious to him; and to suggest otherwise - that he would attempt to fully subjugate the man he views as his only equal, as the only deity he recognizes - frankly, he'd call it blasphemy.

Moreover, this interpretation of their relationship stems not only from a mischaracterization of Hannibal himself, but also from a rampant infantilization of Will. There is a tendency in some areas of the fandom to entirely absolve Will Graham of his guilt; and, with the culpability handed over to Hannibal in its entirety, he assumes the role of an innocent, redeemable, good person in the eyes of such viewers - which could not be further from the truth. Will Graham's agency is integral to the story; though he wrestles with some moral dilemmas throughout the series, he is ultimately responsible for his own choices, especially post-season 1. There is a clear distinction between circumstance and desire - for instance, Randall Tier did invade his home, which did force him into violence; however, it did not force him to throw aside his gun, or relish the brutality, or bring the body to Hannibal, or eat of it, or display parts of it, or store the rest in his freezer.

He did all that himself.

He knows that.

Will Graham's infantilization (no, he was manipulated, he was tricked, Hannibal tempted him into something he didn't want, he didn't want to be a murderer, he is a sweet darling boy) is rooted not only in homophobia, but also in the same sort of ableism real-world autistic adults face every day. His own desires and agency get overwritten by that ever-present bigotry; the same way that some people believe that autistics cannot give consent to sexual activity, or participate in nuanced discussions, or understand the harm or violence they do, the other characters assume that he is fundamentally an innocent right until the very end. Jack, Alana, Molly, even Chilton make that mistake; and Will does play on their ignorance within the world of the story - but it is truly discouraging to see the success of his act extend to the viewers, who should have the necessary context to understand it for the lie it is.

He has agency, and it is paramount to the themes of a series that explores queer desire, internalized homophobia, and the guilt that often surrounds this sort of experience.

As such, the story, from Hannibal's perspective, is about learning to let go of his otherwise unwavering control; it's about finding a common ground with someone that understands him, and allowing himself the final trust fall. From Will's perspective, it is a coming out story, with everything that entails - which also culminates in him taking a leap of faith into the arms of the man he loves. The reason why Hannigram is so enduring as a ship is because it is founded on that balance; to deny this equality, therefore, is to fundamentally undermine the theme of these characters' narrative, and twist them into caricatures of themselves.

In short, it does them a disservice.

[11queensupreme11]

I was thinking of baby Percy AU again and just thought of what would happen if Poseidon just… lost her in Valhalla. There was an emergency meeting, he forgot babies shouldn’t be left alone. Left unsupervised, Percy promptly toddled off towards the sunset (the human side of Valhalla) and gets lost amongst the masses. The encounters I’m picturing:

Leonidas chilling in his hammock, reading his book and drinking his wine only to reach down (to get a refill) and grab a baby instead of a bottle. There’s a baby lost in the Sparta training grounds and this man is panicking.

Adam eating his grapes with his family only for his ears to pick up the unmistakable sound of a baby babbling nonsense. He stands immediately and, without saying a single word to his wife or sons, just runs off and comes back cradling a giggling baby which he promptly places on his lap while saying ‘our daughter now’. His family only nods and goes back to what they were doing, as if this is completely normal (it probably is)

Nikola Tesla finds a baby playing among the detritus of his last failed experiment and decides he has found a new student to teach the art of Science(tm) to. She can’t even speak yet? No matter! It’s never too early to learn! Besides, don’t you know babies’ brains are like sponges?? He can teach her so much!

Sasaki Kojiro is out there in the wilderness, becoming one with nature (or whatever it is that he does when he’s not training - is there a time when that man ever stopped?) only to all but trip over a baby lost in the woods. What does a man who only has swords in his mind do?? Why, hand her a stick and teach her how to swing it.

(Almost predictably, Lu Bu does the exact same thing except they meet on the edge of a cliff and he tells her to aim at the sky)

Qin Shi Huang finds a baby blocking his path and instead of doing something normal (like stopping to make sure she’s alright, look around for the parents maybe), simply picks her up, at once recognizes her as a princess (royalty recognizes royalty) and continues on his merry way (he’s heading towards his adoptive mom’s house to show off the new subject/little sister he picked up on the way - he’s gonna teach her everything she needs to know about ruling).

Raiden finds baby Percy in a restaurant - specifically, he finds her well-fed round little body sitting inside a (now empty) plater she had crawled inside of when no one was looking. Raiden orders another plate and the two enjoy a very pleasant lunch together before he takes her back to the sumo training area so she can watch him wrestle everyone into the ground. Percy’s clapping the whole time.

Jack finds her lost and whimpering while skulking around in dark alleyways and, being the gentleman he is, immediately kneels down to offer her a handkerchief, picking her up and looking around for any sign of the parents (lmao, just realized he’s the only one in this list alongside Leo who’s going to make his top priority be finding Percy’s guardian first)

Meanwhile, at the god’s side of Valhalla:

Hades: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU LOST HER.

Poseidon: I told her to stay put.

Hades: SHE’S A BABY POSEIDON.

Poseidon: And? I was a baby once too and followed orders perfectly.

Zeus: and look how you turned out.

(They enlist Anubis to track her down)

THE RAIDEN ONE WHERE SHE EATS EVERYTHING ON THE PLATTER AKSJFJHFBV I CAN JUST IMAGINE HER CHUBBY CHEEKS 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

and the nikola one.... i feel like she's actually grow up with more than one brain cell if nikola's the one that raises her (full offense to poseidon lol)

I LOVE EVERY SCENARIO HERE SO MUCH. THE ADAM ONE IS ACTUALLY PRETTY CLOSE TO WHAT HAPPENS IN ACT TWO LOL

i bet you after this incident, they're gonna create the "percy alert". its basically the amber alert, but it's only to look for percy lmao 💀

[inevitablysomber-dark]

Ladybug (Chapter 3)

Intensely Dark! Rafe Cameron x Acutely Aware! Reader

WARNING: Non-Consent, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Stalking, forced interactions, Causing trauma, unhinged obsession. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY. MINORS DNI

Summary: After a fresh breakup with her ex, Kyle, a chance encounter leads to an entanglement between Ladybug and her friend, Sarahs, volatile brother, Rafe, who had long standing conflicts with her friends. However, what began as an accidental hookup, quickly spirals into a troubling situation as Rafe's infatuation takes a darker turn. His fixation becomes a source of distress, as his persistent harassment disrupts Ladybugs Peace.

Series Masterlist

The encounter with Rafe left an unsettling feeling lingering within you. As you retraced your steps back to John B's residence, a persistent unease had you glancing over your shoulder, an instinctual response to the sense of being watched.

Nevertheless, you successfully navigate your way, unscathed by any further incidents. Entering the Chateau, you found yourself contemplating the path forward. Surveying John's modest dwelling, you acknowledged that a prolonged stay there wasn't a realistic option. Your financial resources, built from your mother's contributions, neighborhood odd jobs, and modest online ventures, weren't bottomless.

Your attention shifted to the Lazy Boy chair, a long-standing fixture with a conspicuous stain. A sigh escaped you as you rose from your seat, conducting a visual sweep of the living space, intentionally avoiding John B's room. To your relief, you stumbled upon a small closet stocked with untouched cleaning supplies.

Without hesitation, you embarked on a cleaning mission. Recognizing that merely dousing the couch with Febreze wouldn't suffice for the questionable air quality in John B.'s living room, you aimed for a more comprehensive solution. Organizing scattered paperwork into a neat box discovered beneath the dining room table, you proceeded to dust, sweep, and mop the living area. Taking it a step further, you wrestled the Lazy Boy outside, subjecting it to a thorough wash. While not achieving pristine cleanliness, the prominent stain was significantly diminished.

As you finished your cleaning spree, you couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. The Chateau, once filled with the typical disarray of a bunch of friends sharing a space, now had a renewed freshness. The air felt lighter, and you hoped the environment would contribute positively to your own healing process.

John B. and JJ walked in, seemingly surprised by the transformation. "Wow, did you hire a cleaning crew or something?" JJ asked.

You chuckled, "No, just needed to do something productive."

John B.nodded in appreciation, "Well, thanks. It looks great in here."

You nod “No Problem, and by the way I’ll be making dinner soon, if you’re interested”

“I definitely am” JJ responds 

“Totally just let us know when it’s ready.” John B. nods before he and JJ head outside to do god knows what. Engaging in your newfound routine, you migrated to the kitchen, initiating the task of preparing dinner—Mac and Cheese with cut-up hot dogs. Anticipating the possible arrival of the other pogues, you opted for two boxes to accommodate everyone. While orchestrating the meal, your gaze swept across the kitchen, prompting a realization that it could be your next cleaning endeavor. Contemplating the prospect of future projects—perhaps extending to the porches and the yard—you found solace in having something to occupy your time, a purpose emerging from the mundane tasks.

And  It turned out your anticipation was accurate, as the other pogues eventually made their way to John B's place. While John and JJ were outdoors, Sarah arrived and opted to stay inside, providing you with some company.

Pope arrived with his peculiarly defined girlfriend, Dragonfly. Their relationship was enigmatic; despite her denial of them dating, their actions spoke otherwise. Occasional hugs and kisses added layers of confusion. She was amiable enough, but their dynamic left you puzzled.

As Pope prepared to join the boys outside, Dragonfly chose to remain behind, accepting a kiss on the cheek before Pope's departure. You exchanged a glance with Sarah.

"There's Mac and Cheese with cut-up hot dogs if you want any," you offered.

"Maybe later," Pope responded before heading out.

"I'll have some," Dragonfly sighed, heading into the kitchen to fix herself a plate.

Meanwhile, Sarah stayed, engrossed in her phone.

"Can you believe Topper is still sending me 'I miss you' messages?" Sarah asked.

"Isn't he dating that girl... um?" Dragonfly began, struggling to recall Topper's current girlfriend's name.

"Butterfly," you supplied.

"You're not responding, are you?" you inquired.

She looked at you for a moment before responding, "No, I think it's gross."

Though you weren't entirely satisfied with her answer, you had no reason to doubt Sarah's honesty. She didn’t know about Kyle, since you’ve had yet to let her know, but  you had also kept her in the dark about what had happened with Rafe, since even you weren’t so sure what went on that night.

"Anyways," she shifted her attention back to her phone, "Rose and my Dad are going out next week and said I could have a little get-together. You guys in?" she asked.

"Sure," Dragonfly agreed.

"You know I'm up for it," you replied before adding, "Rafe's not going to be there, is he?"

"No, I'll make sure of it," Sarah assured, raising her eyebrows.

Sarah got up and said, "Alright, I'll go let the boys know," leaving you with Dragonfly.

"The macaroni is good," Dragonfly remarked between forkfuls.

"Thank you," you sighed.

Thinking about your next endeavor within the Chateu.

That was when Kie had shown herself, “Wow, it’s so clean here.” she said

***

The get-together Sarah had planned started out small and simple, just the pogues playing games, enjoying each other's company, and sharing stories. Everything was going well until Rafe walked in with his own group of friends.

Glancing over at you, he then turned to Sarah and explained that it was his house as well, and he had the right to host his own "get-together." An argument ensued for about 15 minutes, with Sarah insisting that she and her friends weren't leaving. Rafe shrugged and said he didn't care, proceeding with his friends toward the kitchen. Despite the rapid beating of your heart, you hoped that would be the end of it.

However, within an hour, what was meant to be a small gathering had transformed into a full-blown house party, with the pogues scattered in various directions. Pope and Dragonfly stayed on the couch cuddling, while you assumed Sarah was with John B. Kie and JJ were nowhere to be found.

Standing in the kitchen with a red solo cup of water in hand, you contemplated whether you should just go home. Your gaze swept across the island, and into the living room and you noticed a pair of bright blue eyes staring back at you from the living room.

Your heart began to race. Since Rafe had shown up, you had implemented a strategy to replace his presence wherever he went, aiming to avoid direct interaction. If you saw him come inside, you would go outside; if he moved from the living room, you would move to the living room, and so on. The hope was that he wouldn't return to a place he previously occupied.

He smirked before advancing toward you, prompting you to abandon your strategy and rush outside. The goose chase began, and for a while, you managed to elude Rafe's grasp, navigating through the sweaty bodies of individuals under the influence. However, a crucial mistake led you upstairs instead of heading home.

You knew it was only a matter of seconds before Rafe found you, and though part of you wanted to confront him and tell him to back off, you recognized that you weren't in the right headspace for such an encounter. Seeking refuge, you locked yourself in the bathroom.

Soon, you heard footsteps, assumed to be Rafe's, wandering around the second floor and opening different doors. One door opened, followed by a scream, and then Rafe's disappointed "really?" You figured he had caught someone engaged in extracurricular activities before closing the door again. His footsteps faded away, disappearing altogether, and for a brief moment, you believed you were in the clear. However, uncertainty lingered, so you decided to stay in the bathroom for another 45 minutes to ensure he wasn't lingering in the hall. The quiet, tense minutes passed before you finally sighed in relief, rushing out with a plan to head straight home.

Unfortunately, the plan fell to pieces to moment you ran into Rafe. You look up to find him smirking as if he'd won your little game.

"Where you been?"

He quickly grabs you lifting you from your feet and forcing you into his bedroom. You screech as you struggle to get away but, he slaps his hand against your mouth. He manages to get you in and your stomach drops when you hear the door shut. 

He drops you to the ground, before you hear him locking the door, cementing your fate.

You struggle to back away as Rafe gives you his full attention. Another struggle ensues as he lifts you from the floor and drags you along the bed.

“I’m gonna need you to be a good girl, and take care of me again,” he says, you feel prickles form along your neck at his statement. “Rafe, I’m scared, I wanna go home,” your body trembled as you tried to move away, but Rafe was bigger and heavier than you. “You can go home when I’m done,” he states, before pushing his lips against your own. 

You take the opportunity to bite him as hard as you can, and in that moment decidedly push him off of you. Unfortunately you didn’t have enough force to get him off, so you were stuck as he grabbed you by the neck, choking you out before slapping your face. The pain of the slap, and lack of air you were unable to take in, forced you into a panic attack. Tears forming in your eyes, as Rafe gets really close, his own nose touching your own. “We can make this easy or hard, I'm getting my way regardless.” he growls.

You frantically nod, as your vision starts to blur and darken, willing to give him anything as long as he doesn't kill you. Rafe waits a beat letting you stew, in what you assumed he thought was a punishment, before letting go. Your vision starts coming back, as coughs erupted from your lungs as your body struggled to breathe. 

Not allowing you a moment of calm, Rafe lays on top of you trying again to place his lips over yours. This time there was no fighting back, you stayed still as you allowed him to do as he pleased, tasting the blood from the bite wound on his lip. “Kiss me back,” at first you ignore him, keeping still as you grapple with the fact that Rafe managed to get his hands on you again. Then you felt the tickle of his fingers against your neck. “I said to fucking kiss me back,”. Your lips begin moving against his own, charged by fear and the possibility of how this could end. 

You feel him everywhere, all over your body and eventually all under your clothes. Before you know it, he’s nestled between your legs pushing his member inside you as he latches his mouth over your nipple. 

His movements were careful, as if he didn’t want to break you, but it was too late for that wasn’t it. The true horror came when pleasure started building in your lower abdomen, your legs tightening around him as his movement became more erratic. “Fuck,” he gasps before looking down at you. 

You’re sure he’s facing your weeping visage, but the bright smile shining on his face, made it seem like you too were enjoying what was being done to you, it didn’t help that your body tensed with pleasure and a chuckle resonates from his throat as he feels you tighten around him. 

He presses his mouth to yours with a final thrust, and you can feel as his seed spills into your body. 

His sweaty body collapses on top of you, and you feel his breath against the side of your face. You can’t help the next words that come out of your mouth. “Is that what you did last time,” He looks at you, and just laughs.

Tags: @applelovesposts

[mantis-dea]

Alternate Modern Day Dio Headcanon

Modern-day Dio is an alternate Dio Brando I canon and will be writing future short fics for.

From a young age, Dio’s life has been nothing but tragic. When he was just six years old, his mother succumbed to an unknown illness, leaving him only fading memories of her love and warmth.

Dio’s father, on the other hand, was a deeply troubled and abusive man. Dario was an alcoholic who would turn on his son in a fit of rage. For years, Dio endured both physical and emotional abuse at the hands of his dastardly father, making each day a living nightmare for Dio.

When Dio was just 12 years old, his father met a timely end, sparing him from further torment. With no other family to turn to, Dio found himself thrusted into the challenging world of the foster care system. Since that fateful day, he has moved from one foster home to another.

His tragic life played a significant role in shaping him into the teenager he was.

He held contempt for many of the foster homes he was in, thus he often spent his time in the streets. He possessed a natural talent for pickpocketing, a skill he honed out of necessity from when his father would refuse to feed him.

Dio refused to go to food banks. On her deathbed, his mother asked to care of Dario. Despite his abusive nature, Dio, out of pride and an unfulfilled sense of loyalty, couldn’t bring himself to report his father or accept charity from others.

Instead, he turned to pickpocketing tourists to provide for both him and his father.

Dio, like the suave man he is, used his charm and persuasion to get what he wanted from others.

Modern Dio is a true chaotic neutral:

If he witnesses a crime in progress, he will take advantage of the situation.

He’ll grab a few items from the store, before innocently going up to the store owner, “oh, what happened.”

Pickpocketing is also how he met his S/O.

S/o is a comic book artist. At the young age of 16, her talent in the comic book industry began to garner recognition from both fans and professionals.

When she turned 18, she wanted to expand her storyline outside of the United States. Impulsively deciding where her next series will take place, she purchased a passport and booked a one-way plane ticket to London.

As she strolled through the streets of London, lost in the architecture of the old buildings, she suddenly found herself colliding with a stranger. Dio, ever the charismatic figure, flashed his signature charming smile and gave a polite apology. He extended a hand to help her up and then continued his way.

She chuckled at his actions; though she had never travelled out of the United States, she was not a clueless tourist.

Intrigued by Dio’s skill and charm, she decided to trail him, gradually recognizing him as a captivating subject of her art.

She followed Dio through the streets of London, analyzing his every move, her smile growing every second; she found her muse that would open a new chapter in her series.

Dio led her to an alley with a dead-end, interrogating her.

“Why on earth do you keep following me?” his brows furrow, feigning worry, “Did you perhaps drop something when I bumped into you? I am so sorry.”

She walks up to him with a giant smile on her face, “I want you to be my muse.”

“…Pardon?”

After an explanation of what she does and offering generous compensation, Dio – though cautious – agrees to be your tour guide.

As the two of you spend more time together, Dio and s/o’s soon build a genuine friendship. Their shared experiences with childhood issues draw them closer. And that friendship soon turns into love.

Dio wrestles with these newfound emotions, attempting to bury them with casual encounters with other women. However, the more he tries to deny them, the more conflicted he becomes.

On an abnormally cold winter week, Dio became severely ill, and his s/o rushed him to the hospital. Throughout his stay, s/o was a constant presence. When she could not be by his bedside, she would anxiously wait in the waiting room.

As Dio battled his illness, his love grew stronger, and he finally confesses the day he is out of the hospital.

Personality of S/O

Modern Dio’s significant other embodies the essence of a laid-back workaholic. Her passion for her comics is similar to the famous mangaka Rohan Kishibe’s; in amidst a new series, she sacrifices sleep and eating, much to Dio’s chagrin.

There was an occasion when Dio discovered her unconscious in her office and rushed her to the ER; he discovered she did not eat, drink, or sleep for three days. Ever since then, Dio has become a vigilant guardian. When he cannot be present, he asks his associate, Pucci, to keep a watchful eye on her.

Her nurturing nature shines through in her relationship with Dio, doting on him to an extreme degree. When she is not engrossed in work, she prepares dinner and offers soothing massages to Dio.

Her selflessness towards her family is particularly evident when she and Dio have kids; she puts their own needs and desires first. She will even stop working on her writing if her children need assistance.

While she is nurturing to those dear to her, strangers will most likely never get the privilege to witness this side completely.

For example, when she noticed a local business getting robbed, she never called the police. Instead, she allowed the robbery to unfold and whipped out her sketchbook to capture the moment; it's not like it's her problem anyways.

Modern-Day Dio Dating

Dio is unmistakably possessive of his s/o. I mean, it’s Dio. What do you expect? He despises the idea of sharing what he considers rightfully his.

Why must you go to Amsterdam?” he inquires, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“It’s essential to experience different cultures in person. One of the characters I am working on…”

He scoffs, interrupting her, “Not alone. Either I go with you, or…” He suddenly picks her up, carrying her to the bedroom with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I make it so you can’t.”

As he approaches his early twenties, and his relationship with his significant other deepens as the years passed by, his chaotic personality mellows.

His unwavering loyalty to his partner becomes intertwined with his pride, and thus the idea of cheating is out of the question for this version of Dio.

Dio also reluctantly befriends his s/o’s acquaintances. For instance:

“Johnny Joestar, is it? Why on earth do you dress like a character from a ghastly 1970s cowboy film?”

Johnny, unfazed, remarks, “You’re British. I don’t need to say more.”

His high libido and strong desire to have children with his s/o led to the decision to start a family at a young age. They welcomed their first child when s/o was 21, and their second arrived a year later.

Dio marries s/o when they discover they are expecting their first kid.

Both s/o and Dio have dual citizenships in the UK and US. They opted to purchase a home in the UK – with s/o’s money – since Dio aspires to attend law school there.

All-in-all, this Dio is a much tamer version who actually gets along with the Joestar family and finds happiness in a loving relationship with is s/o.

[iirulancorrino]

Movies that attempt something different, that recognize that less can indeed be more, are thus easily taken to task. “It’s so subjective!” and “It omits a crucial P.O.V.!” are assumed to be substantive criticisms rather than essentially value-neutral statements. We are sometimes told, in matters of art and storytelling, that depiction is not endorsement; we are not reminded nearly as often that omission is not erasure. But because viewers of course cannot be trusted to know any history or muster any empathy on their own — and if anything unites those who criticize “Oppenheimer” on representational grounds, it’s their reflexive assumption of the audience’s stupidity — anything that isn’t explicitly shown onscreen is denigrated as a dodge or an oversight, rather than a carefully considered decision. A film like “Oppenheimer” offers a welcome challenge to these assumptions. Like nearly all Nolan’s movies, from “Memento” to “Dunkirk,” it’s a crafty exercise in radical subjectivity and narrative misdirection, in which the most significant subjects — lost memories, lost time, lost loves — often are invisible and all the more powerful for it. We can certainly imagine a version of “Oppenheimer” that tossed in a few startling but desultory minutes of Japanese destruction footage. Such a version might have flirted with kitsch, but it might well have satisfied the representational completists in the audience. It also would have reduced Hiroshima and Nagasaki to a piddling afterthought; Nolan treats them instead as a profound absence, an indictment by silence. That’s true even in one of the movie’s most powerful and contested sequences. Not long after news of Hiroshima’s destruction arrives, Oppenheimer gives a would-be-triumphant speech to a euphoric Los Alamos crowd, only for his words to turn to dust in his mouth. For a moment, Nolan abandons realism altogether — but not, crucially, Oppenheimer’s perspective — to embrace a hallucinatory horror-movie expressionism. A piercing scream erupts in the crowd; a woman’s face crumples and flutters, like a paper mask about to disintegrate. The crowd is there and then suddenly, with much sonic rumbling, image blurring and an obliterating flash of white light, it is not. For “Oppenheimer’s” detractors, this sequence constitutes its most grievous act of erasure: Even in the movie’s one evocation of nuclear disaster, the true victims have been obscured and whitewashed. The absence of Japanese faces and bodies in these visions is indeed striking. It’s also consistent with Nolan’s strict representational parameters, and it produces a tension, even a contradiction, that the movie wants us to recognize and wrestle with. Is Oppenheimer trying (and failing) to imagine the hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians murdered by the weapon he devised? Or is he envisioning some hypothetical doomsday scenario still to come? I think the answer is a blur of both, and also something more: In this moment, one of the movie’s most abstract, Nolan advances a longer view of his protagonist’s history and his future. Oppenheimer’s blindness to Japanese victims and survivors foreshadows his own stubborn inability to confront the consequences of his actions in years to come. He will speak out against nuclear weaponry, but he will never apologize for the atomic bombings of Japan — not even when he visits Tokyo and Osaka in 1960 and is questioned by a reporter about his perspective now. “I do not think coming to Japan changed my sense of anguish about my part in this whole piece of history,” he will respond. “Nor has it fully made me regret my responsibility for the technical success of the enterprise.” Talk about compartmentalization. That episode, by the way, doesn’t find its way into “Oppenheimer,” which knows better than to offer itself up as the last word on anything. To the end, Nolan trusts us to seek out and think about history for ourselves. If we elect not to, that’s on us.

[a-little-revolution]

i hope you're well!! i'm a huge professional wrestling fan and, today, i saw an article detailing the announcement of a docuseries on a wrestling promotion of LP! i'm personally really excited and hopeful for this program, and will definitely be watching when it's out. here's the description from the article (which i'll link below):

"“Big Little Brawlers” focuses on the Micro Wrestling Federation, described as “one of the most successful little person wrestling leagues in the world.” Set in Pigeon Forge, Tenn., the series revolves around “Pinky Shortcake” and “Syko,” who are both parents and wrestling partners. There’s also “Ivar the Micro,” the announcer/hype man who hopes to become a wrestler himself. “Lil’ Show” is the veteran wrestler still aiming to support his wife and children. “Hot Rod” is the up-and-coming wrestler looking to prove himself.Despite internal dramas and frustrations, Micro Wresting Federation CEO Jack Darrell Hillegass encourages the group to work together as a family as they approach ‘MicroFest,’ the biggest micro wresting event of the year,” reads the show description. “As they attempt to achieve their piece of the American Dream, a group of remarkable little people athletes with larger-than-life personalities are forced to overcome ego, injury, and the limitations imposed by society."

pro wrestling has not been kind to Little People and, while this is my opinion as someone who does not have dwarfism, i haven't seen a lot of reconciling, reparations, or progressiveness when it comes to LP in wrestling. especially not compared to how (some) other marginalised communities have been able to reclaim their right to dignified, self-directed representation - while i obviously acknowledge there's still a long way to go. i'd never even heard of the MWF before today and i'm looking forward to learning about their history and watching matches.

the quoted article: https://wrestlingheadlines.com/big-little-brawlers-wrestling-series-coming-to-discovery/

i'm curious about your initial opinion on both the show and the MWF itself conceptually/in execution if you have more knowledge about the promotion, as well as any thoughts you have on LP in professional wrestling in general. Nd no rush to respond - i know you're busy! be safe, be well, stay warm, we will see a free palestine in our lifetime, and i look forward to hearing your thoughts!! thank you for all your insight and activism

Hello!! Thank you for your patients, as I've taken quite a while to get back to you!!

LP wrestling, though it can be reclamation to many, still holds lot of weight as it's historically been a way for able bodied people to openly mock, objectify, and hold power over little people through public humiliation and display.

I recognize my bias as someone who is not passionate about wrestling (or sports in general) but the activity still fills me with worry. I see these incredibly talented, strong, charasmatic athletes, but then I turn to a predominantly abled audience and fear that amongst those who genually appreciate and respect the wrestlers, there are still many who get a sick sort of ogling entertainment out of it. Overall, I'm mixed on the subject, and pretty seperate from the wrestling world.

What I will say is that all those involved need to have an understanding of wrestling history for little people in order to keep it a safe space.

- Elliot (they/them)

[likealittleheartbeat]

I perhaps sacrificed clarity for wit in the wording of my poll: Which queer fiction experience would you prefer--queer representation without queer themes or queer themes without queer representation? "Queer," after all, has been famously hard to define among its theorists. On of the founders of its theory, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, does some work to articulate the history of its definitional flexibility in her article "Queer and Now." But I think Heather Love's introduction to Feeling Backwards gets at the heart of it, "When queer was adopted in the late 1980s it was chosen because it evoked a long history of insult and abuse--you could hear the hurt in it." This is what I mean when I say "queer" themes, messages that invoke and evoke the hurt.

Of course, as @irresistible-revolution pointed out in a question in the comments of the poll, "don't queer themes produce queer subjects." If queer is understood as the queer theorists define it, this is inevitably true. Words wrestle away from the theorists, though. If you do a tumblr or google search for queer representation, you can imagine what you find. LGBT identity--Q with it's variation between questioning and queer, though often included in the label, fails fabulously in crafting a workable identity; note it's lack of a pride flag or stripe--requires an affirmative action, which is why certain pieces of the narrative are so important to its politics. You need to come out, you need to make your identity visible (either visually, with public actions like marriage, dress, etc. or with speech, which brings us back to coming out), you need to have pride. Any failure to follow through with these acts puts your access to identity at risk. Identity is a potent political mobilizing force and has led to some pretty incredible legal changes in the past 70 years (although, as far as queer identity mobilization, the AIDS crisis certainly kicked that into overdrive beyond simple identity politics). This is what undergirds the general usage of "queer representation:" lgbt identity made visible and explicit. Identity, in this case, requires from its media the same as its subjects. They must be total and pure in their positive identification--positive, meaning additive, here, although the need for emotionally positive depictions seems to often follow--which is why so much discourse erupts about the quality of representation. The legitimate identification of the characters and the work in total is being debated.

If "queer" as the theorists posit it is about the hurt, it's about the open negative spaces where the barbs stuck in. To wrestle the word away from the academics for a second to talk about real life, instead, we LGBT-identified individuals might remember a time before our identity emerged or crystalized, when experiences of strangeness, difference, pain, and alienation were the markers we could recognize. Can this recognition exist in a representation, either a character or a human being's census marker? Perhaps--especially if we consider that's what the word queer is supposed to mean according to the academics lol. But, as the theorists realized when they tried to define it, the definition was liquid and dodged their attempts to pin it down. Describing it involved putting individuals in relationship to their hurt, to those that hurt them, to their attempts, failures, and successes to make peace with those injuries. I hear a proud voice in my head complaining that LGBT individuals should not be defined as disabled, deficient, or inherently traumatized by their gender or sexuality. Queerness, the hurt we hear in it, while it derived from the language hurled at certain gendered expressions that deviated from the conservative norm, elaborated a more general difference and expression of that difference in relation to others, so it wasn't limited to LGBT individuals (which is why it was so functional a theory for literary analysis that preceded those identity categories and tucked experiences and meanings into subtexts). You see, unlike identity, queerness is not individual but relational, relational with those with similar kinds of hurt but more importantly relational with the individuals and institutions opening the wounds.

This queer relationality blossoms into strange solidarity across what we would consider typical identity groups, because the shame or injury they experience because of their marginalization is familiar and understandable (Zuko and Aang are great examples of this). It also means that engagement with narrative is vastly more important than engagement with signifiers and visibility. Relating takes time. Even more dangerous to the tribalism of identity (that's often, as in the case of LGBT identity, established in the face of oppression) is the encouragement that queerness can engender to relate to those that caused them harm, to even empathize with the harm they might have incurred which caused them to project their hurt onto others or to the harm they feel but work to ignore caused by hurting others. In a way, this strips persecutors from their perceived sense of "normalcy." It queers them and returns them to profane, queer, humanity.

I created my poll while watching the anime Fruits Basket. It made me consider other animes like Neon Genesis Evangelion and Revolutionary Girl Utena, which draw LGBT-identified viewers in. All three shows depict cross-dressing and same-sex attraction but, two out of the three, conclude with heterosexual coupling for their happy endings, and Utena doesn't end with any of its same-sex couples together, exactly.* Despite this, the shows are rife with queer themes around parental abandonment, abuse, gender deviance, attachment, etc., more so (and much more successfully, I'd add) than a lot of proper shows with LGBT representation.

Closer to home for this blog, Avatar the Last Airbender is adored by LGBT identified people even as it lacks any LGBT representation (I won't compare it to LoK because it's more complicated than matters of representation to compare the sequel series quality and the subsequent admiration or lack of it). What moves these people in the show? I could be wrong, here, many people watch shows with a much less analytical and empathetic style than me. Yet, it's hard to ignore how prevalent the queer themes of Avatar the Last Airbender are. These narratives of disappointing and losing parental figures, attempting and failing to live up to expectations, betraying your own values in response to alienation and grief, embracing victimhood or villainy or savior status to garner a sense of self even if it is false until you find something truer. These are deeply queer themes not because only LGBT-identified people experience them but because they are in response to deep wells of hurt. What they result in when probed, however, is a world much more open to LGBT practices and queer practices. It's often thought said Katara and Aang's final kiss feels tacked on, as if it furnishes this queer text with a conservative heterosexual ending. Focusing merely on their genders, this ignores so many aspects of Katara and Aang's journey, of course, that make their particular heterosexual dynamic quite queer (their colonized status, their gender expressions, the development of their relationship beyond simple dynamics of hero and damsel in distress), not to mention the embrace between Zuko and Aang at Zuko's coronation that offers possibilities like 1800s style romantic friendships beyond the last scene. It's quite possible, I'm saying, that we love ATLA because its more queer than other explicitly LGBT offerings.

If it isn't clear, when choosing between the two options, I'd choose queer themes without queer representation. I appreciate the inclination toward the other. I want to see character allowed to have fall for and have sex with the same genders. I want to see characters who explore and transition with their genders and gender expressions. I yearn for characters like myself. But I recognize how hollow that can quickly turn. Who I am is more complex than a simply LGBT identity. In fact, there are plenty of LGBT characters and people I feel no personal connection to. Aang feels much closer to my personality than any explicitly gay character I've ever encountered. And I've often related to people who experienced marginalization because of their race and intellectual intensity much easier than I've related to anyone over their LGBT status. Representation is cool and interesting and can be explored in so many cool ways, and I love it and obsess over it, but it has it's limits, and one of them is that representation doesn't render good fiction. It's just a demographic. If you're into that stuff (and it's intricacies, like me), cool. Fiction just needs to take a little more time, breathe a little more, be a little more weird and long-winded and hurt, and by all that I mean queer.

[gloopytits-chaosmod]

it wont matter how great you make a thing, people who see art as a productive force will always judge you for how well your life fits into an office environment you're not even working in. like the act of work is so worthless you gotta make up reasons to be upset at people as if mild pressure from the guy above the guy above suddenly promotes you to "middle manager of the internet people"

i can't see myself working with office people for this reason. im sure it feels great to publish but like graduation and childbirth it feels like a moment you build up to in order to alleviate the pains of abiding by the system that creates its conditions.

like think about it: authors are okay with publishing. it's a given they'd want to publish because in their craft they are labourer first, craftsmen second. Writing is an all consuming profession that as a protocol wants to create as much writing as possible. Through the lens of laymen lithit, authors are recognized by their extensive bibliographies and not by individual works because a subjective categorization system that'd acknowledge the art isn't compatible with a complete system of categorization when the end product is something acceptable to the vibes in the room.

When authors fight and wrestle a literal industry of money bags and their middle managers and their legalese translators how much of that effort build a foundation that whatever comes after was worth the time and effort and retroactively paints the "bumpy road" authors survive through as a path up in some immeasurable quantity of success even if it was just a path forwards in time?

What gets me about these questions is the paranoia I come to regard my fellow writers with. Why should someone on the outside looking in believe there is a balance between supporting existing power and getting the bag? Arguments could be made about "holding the door open", but what does that do? I think it feels good to think about a philanthropic gesture and we focus on that feeling of the possibility of goodness and we ignore that any radical voice would still be watered down to hell and that "risky and radical" projects that "indie houses" are taking "chances" on are still selected by the projected capacity for that work to keep the lights on.

Where does that leave any radical project? Can radicalism exist in a world where there is no basis for self-rejection, for stepping out of the grindset and judging what you've become? "It's better than nothing" is all it boils down to, but there's no capacity for the creation of radical art when opinions like this are actively argued against by people who see that tiny crack in the door and got their eyes fixed on it. I mean I'm not hating on anyone who gets the bag but I think there's a violation against the medium itself for it to only be discussed through a lens that is friendly to Capital and copyright and yadda yadda. Small artists LOVE capitalism. And after all, why wouldn't they? Do you get paid being a downer?

Nobody gets paid being a downer. You gotta choose to be a downer, that's my superpower. You choose positive positive and then you'll be pickme'd by the algo or some dutch broad with 1.5k followers as long as you give out the vibe of someone who is compatible with an office environment. There are no friendships or comradery in here if the conditions of art involve 1 person and 10 others contractually obligated to review. Yes, the process makes good art, great art even, but it creates a soulless forum where everyone is arguing against their self interest in building independence from the incentives.

"I got rent next month! I got family to feed! People depends on my income. These are just idealist ideas not coherent plans for what YOU'RE going to be doing. It's unfair to say we are arguing against incentives when we are doing what makes sense in our current conditions."

I know what I'm going to be doing. I want to make my art. Not great art, or even good art, just my art. I've rambled on my perspectives because I find them increasingly uncommon in a very corporate digital environment. and I'm not reading medium articles fuck that. They got guilds and stuff now! You can self publish but the top spots appear reserved for people who are signed with a publishing house IT JUST KEEPS HAPPENING WAAAAH i was gonna fact check this but the sign is now locked behind login? i guess?

A society of evil is made through the virtual happiness. An untainted happiness that cannot be smeared by human imperfections or a refusal to feel joy when it knows of indignities committed in her name. This intelligence exists because everyone believes they are doing their best with what they are. They were. The current state of affairs is hundreds of millions of people over centuries doing their best and a handful of white guys in offices at random times undoing that work periodically as a heart pumps. Those guys only stayed there because even at the height of enslavement nobody with arms reach shot to power recognized what they were doing as evil. The same way indignities were codified through law and underclasses were created by warping biological facts and historical myth to fit the notions of what "felt right", we continue this tradition of mythmaking to paint the pointless suffering our existence leaves behind as somehow good, as somehow contributing, as somehow spiritual, all while praying whatever poison lies at the bottom of the pond doesn't clasp its maws around your neck as you bend down for a gulp of fresh dharma mmmm yum yum. What we leave behind is already clear to me: a soup that can tell any story we like. Authors defined by their bibliographies and not what they said. Corporate fluff pieces and twitter threads.

What we leave behind is an untainted happiness that cannot be smeared by human imperfections or a refusal to feel joy when it knows of indignities committed in her name. It exists because everyone had a really good idea of what they should be doing, and they did it, so the only ones left to tell you what happened will tell you that their lives was good. Perfect. Like everything that existed, like everything that ends.

[dilf-in-peril]

have you any definitive thoughts now, i now you've been pondering on this subject for a while, about wrestlers perfroming increasingly dangerous feats in the name of "real graps". I think wrestling is a dangerous enough sport without wrestlers actively trying to hurt each other. idk, i wish Shibata had never done those head butts and didn't almost die because of it. I wish wrestlers weren't called the real deal for wrestling with debilitating injuries

Definite thoughts? No.

It's a miserable subject when the entire art form is build on the pain and endurance of its performers, even without pulling risky stunts and wrestling extra stiff on top. Your body can handle only so many clean, safe back bumps too. Unless we return to crowd work, pulled punches and grappling it's going to stay part of the business, the way ballets will fuck with a dancer's feet.

I do hate that some people's only response to criticism of death-defying stunts is "real graps" with no empathy for the wrestlers or thought for the way celebrating that stuff creates an environment where wrestlers think that's something they have to do to be recognized (if they ever put any throught into it at all...) and no one else involved in the production stops them either.

And I hate that yet other people make it some WWE vs the world thing as if WWE did not have injuries, and wear and tear, as if that was not part of the industry that's built around falling on your back (or front, or sometimes side) in exciting new ways.

Maybe it's my abundant, almost supernatural empathy, but seeing people land on their heads does often ruin my enjoyment of a match, which is why I don't like a lot of supposedly all time 5 star matches as much as others so.

...maybe my definite thoughts are that wrestling is bad and evil and should be outlawed the same way that fox tossing and dog fighting is, but for now I'm gonna thoroughly enjoy it.