#And as someone who does this on the regular

[jellyfishline]

If I can add onto this as an anthropology nerd:

Sexism is not some kind of biological necessity for a society. Forgive me for not having sources on hand (and please, fact check away at your leisure! Don't just believe a random tumblr person saying shit without sources!) but while a lot of schools of thought previously assumed that, for example, Paleolithic hunter-gatherer societies were patriarchal with strong sex divides between "men who are hunters" and "women who are gatherers," modern research discredits this theory, instead suggesting that a lot of the sexist assumptions that societies in Europe and Asia developed had to do with the rise of plow-based agriculture. You can also see this reflected in how many indigenous cultures are matriarchal or broadly egalitarian.

But!

I do think there's merit to what this post is suggesting, in the sense that you can (and really, I think you must, if you want to write compelling and believable cultures into your stories) decouple concepts of "sexism" and "misogyny" and "homophobia" and "transphobia" from your personal concept of sex, gender, reproduction, marriage, geneology, and so on, in order to reinvent them in a bigotry-free world.

If you want to write an egalitarian society where there is no sexist preconception of "men are strong, women are weak," where women are not viewed as property or child-rearers first and foremost, where homosexuality and transing your gender are considered perfectly natural parts of the world, there's nothing inherently unbelievable or unrealistic about it! But the key to making it feel real is that your society still has to have cultural concepts of what sex, gender, reproduction, and child-rearing looks like, because it's those things (not the bigotry surrounding them) that are biological realities that all cultures have their own way of grappling with.

For example!

The biological reality is that pregnancy (for a regular human being, ignoring the ways that magical or scifi technology might change the game as in the Vorkosigan and Ancillary Justice examples above) is an arduous, resource-intensive process, and fairly dangerous to both parent and child (at least compared to most other non-bipedal mammals.) But how your society copes with that biological reality doesn't have to involve seeing women as weak or inherently child-carers. Maybe in your society, those who choose to bear children are celebrated for taking on the task, and are prized for their strength and courage. (Spartan women who died in childbirth were honored the same as men who died in battle, fun fact.) Perhaps because childbirth is so arduous, the task of rearing young children falls largely on men. Maybe it is a man's job to entertain and care for children who are old enough to have been weened but not yet old enough to take on roles and responsibilities in the community. (Another important consideration: what kind of contraceptives does your society have access to? Condoms, abortificants, religious/spiritual rites, and specific sex practices can and probably should all play a part in your society. History is full of them, from the Romans overfarming sylphium (a plant that was reportedly useful as a contraceptive) to sheepskin condoms to folk tales about what rites will or won't increase fertility, your society is going to have something, and there's no reason for it to be a shameful or taboo subject in your pre-industrial world just because it was in Victorian England.)

There are still plenty of ways to have a cultural sense of gender without having sexism or transphobia dominate your fictional world, too. Maybe your society has three genders, each with their associated jobs, clothing, and religious/cultural place in society, but while your male character might be seen as a bit of an oddball for doing the woman's job of making pottery, there are no forces of institutional sexism preventing him from doing so. Maybe your society has a very specific idea of what someone neither male nor female ought to be, and your nonbinary character feels awkward embodying that role. Maybe your female character has to correct people constantly who refer to her with male pronouns because she dresses in masculine clothes, but this is seen by all parties as an amusing misunderstanding rather than a serious gaff.

It's the small details, things like clothing, pronouns, job assignment, artifacts of geneology (like family names or inheritance rules), marriage, and religious practices that make a world feel alive. Your society is going to have some cultural preconceptions, it's just your job as a writer to navigate them, but there’s no need for those preconceptions to involve bigotry, much less bigotry that's similar to that in modern western culture.

My feelings about queernormative worlds in SFF is that I can often enjoy it, but I rarely believe it.

Almost everything surrounding gender, sex, and sexuality, and all the different social norms and expectations that different cultures build up around them, derive ultimately from the various realities of sexual activity and pregnancy: who can have it, who can’t, for how long, who does have it, who doesn’t, and what that means for society. I’m not being bioessentialist here, because human bodies are all quite different and different cultures develop different ways to react to that, and rates of and reactions to fertility can be different, and what different sexual and gender roles mean in different cultures and who can and can’t embody them can get extremely different. (Hell, how pregnancy itself even works can be different depending on where you live, what your lifestyle is like, and what your diet consists of!) But like, the reason gender even matters, historically, has been because of reproduction. And the reason reproduction matters, in agricultural societies anyway, has very often been because of property ownership and the need to work on farms.

So I’m totally here for queernormative worlds. But to interest me you have to answer the questions of: okay, but how does your culture work though, and how is kinship structured, and how is reproduction seen, and how is property inheritance understood, and how does gender fit into all this, for me to feel like you’ve actually tried. (And don’t say that there ARE no norms, so no one falls outside of them. There’s no culture where that’s true.)

Sci-fi worlds can get away with this easier than fantasy worlds, imo. Partially because they can posit that it is our future but we’ve gone through all of the Social Justice Struggles already and solved them, but also because technology can really alter all of these topics. The Vorkosigan Saga, for instance, makes it clear that Beta Colony is as gender-egalitarian and free-love as it is because of contraception and uterine replicators, which FULLY decouple “the ability to have children” from “the need for anyone to be pregnant.” This is huge, and the Vorkosigan Saga treats it as appropriately so! Ancillary Justice is another one that thinks a lot about how the genderless culture that decenters romance as a core social organizing principle works. But I read so many low-ish-tech fantasy worlds that are happily queernormative and gender doesn’t matter and they just feel shallow. I don’t believe this world. I don’t dislike it, exactly, I just don’t believe it, I don’t believe people would be like this because you’ve put no effort into imagining a world that works like this makes any sense.

Which is totally fine for people’s D&D games and cute oneshot comics and personal works and such, but when you want me to take your worldbuilding seriously, you’re going to have to convince me! And a lot of it is not convincing.

[writing-the-stars]

Say Something, Do Something

Pairing: Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Fem!Reader

Summary: The juke joint hums with sweat, sin, and secrets, but none louder than the silence between you and Smoke — the man who loves you  in shadows but won’t speak your name in the light. When you let another man touch what Smoke won’t claim, the night explodes in jealousy, fury, and a love too dangerous to name.

Warnings: Angst (Of course! Can hardly write a story without it), Miscommunication Trope (kind of sorta maybe?), Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Mild Violence (there's a very short and brief physical altercation), Mild Smut (But smut nonetheless so MDNI 18+). Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: You guys have been loving my Stack series. Now it's time to show Smoke some love. Also, this is like one of my first attempts at writing smut, so be nice please. Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy and that you have a wonderful remainder of your day!

Masterlist | Sinners Masterlist

The Delta air is thick enough to drink — heavy with heat and honeysuckle. The day’s been nothing but slow scorch and slower silence, the kind that settles on your skin and in your lungs, turns every breath into something half-swallowed.

You wipe a hand across your collarbone, catching the sweat before it rolls down between your breasts. It don’t help much. Everything’s already damp. The air, your dress, your patience.

You hear the juke joint before you see it — the lazy rumble of voices drifting from the front porch, the twang of a guitar being tuned, the low hum testing the groove of some forgotten Blues record. Even the cicadas sound drunk, their cries high and uneven in the trees. The scent of tobacco, moonshine, and cypress rot clings to the building like perfume made from ghosts.

It’s still early. The crowd hasn’t swelled yet, just the regulars drifting in with smoke curling from their lips and secrets stuck in their teeth.

You’re not sure why you’re here so early. Habit, maybe. Or hope.

You want to see him. You came here for him. It’s been three days since he’s come knockin’ on your back door — not long, but long enough — and you’d been counting down every one of them like someone waiting on a storm to break.

So you let yourself get a little dolled up — just enough to feel his eyes find you when you walk in. 

You miss him. Miss the way his voice drops when he’s tired. Miss the warmth of his hands, the scrape of his jaw against your neck, the way he sometimes looks at you like you are the only real thing in the room. You can’t help but be giddy at the thought of having his hands on you again. 

You round the corner out back, hoping maybe he’s there. And Lord, he is.

He’s leaning against the side of the building, one boot crossed over the other, frame half-swallowed by the shadows beneath the old tin roof hanging low over the porch. There’s a cigarette burning low in his fingers, glowing like the coal of something that won’t die quiet. He wears that battered old hat like it’s stitched to his skull, and his shirt’s half-unbuttoned — showing a stretch of warm, sun-dark skin and the leather corded dog tags you curl your fingers around in the dark.

Smoke don’t usually look like that out in the open.

When he’s inside this place, he’s all armor — suit pressed, shirt stiff, tie like a noose. He carries himself like a man who don’t sweat, don’t stutter, don’t give nothin’ away unless he means to.

But now?

That dark jacket you love to tug off his shoulders when he leans over your bed is hanging off the railing beside him. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, forearms taut and golden in the fading light. His shirt’s unbuttoned more than it ought to be — open just enough to show that spot right beneath his collarbone, the one your lips know better than his mouth ever lets on.

And Lord, does he look good tonight. Careless, half-undone. Relaxed in a way you’ve only seen in private, when the weight of the world melts off his shoulders and he lets you hold the pieces of him nobody else gets to see.

At least — you thought nobody else did. 

Because standin’ in front of him — like she got every right to be there — is Annie.

She’s all hips and honeyed charm, her voice soft and syrupy like she’s tryin’ to sell him something he already owns. You can’t hear what she’s sayin’, but you don’t need to. Her fingers skim along his forearm, feather-light, and she leans in when she laughs — one of those laughs meant to be felt, not heard.

And he’s smiling.

Not much. Just a flicker — a shadow at the corner of his mouth. Soft, in a way he never shows in public. Not to just anyone. 

Then she reaches up — like it’s nothing — and plucks the cigarette from his fingers. Takes a slow drag — her lips touching where his just were — and sets it back between his lips. Her hand brushes his jaw when she does it.

And he lets her.

He lets her.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone do that to him — not in front of people, not in broad daylight. It’s nothing, really — a small thing. Just a cigarette. A borrowed breath. A casual graze.

But the way it happens — easy, practiced — makes your stomach twist. There’s something intimate in it. The kind of closeness that doesn’t have to announce itself. Worn in, like boots that’ve walked the same roads a hundred times.

You didn’t know something that small could hurt.

Didn’t even know there was a line to cross until you watched her step over it like it was never there in the first place.

You remember doing that, once. Stealing his cigarette mid-sentence. Tapping ash off the tip like it belonged to you.

He gave you a look then — half-annoyed, half-something else. But it never reached his mouth. He just took it back from your lips like it was a secret. Like it was something private and quiet and yours.

And that’s what knocks the breath from your chest — the easy way she steps into your place, his space, like she’s been there before, like she’ll be there again.

It shouldn’t mean anything. Not really.

But it does.

Because Smoke don’t offer softness in public. He don’t share.

The man you know is shadow and silence — all hard lines and short answers, like he’s always holdin’ himself back, afraid of what’ll happen if he ever lets go.

But when it’s just the two of you — God.

He’s different.

He’ll curl his fingers around your ankle under the covers, slow and gentle, like you’re something breakable. He’ll hum low when you press your forehead to his chest, the sound barely there but real enough to anchor you. He’ll let you trace the scar beneath his ribs — the one he never talks about — and won’t flinch when you kiss it.

And once — just once — he pulled you into his lap behind closed doors, wrapped both arms around you and said, "Don’t go runnin’ off on me. I sleep better when you’re near."

He never said it again. Never brought it up.

But you kept that moment like a pressed flower in a book — fragile, precious, and too easy to lose.

And standing there watchin’ it — watchin’ him — feels like a crack splitting through your ribs, slow and steady. Because seein’ him let another woman’s hands find him — even just for a second — feels like watchin’ a secret get given away.

You stand there for a moment too long, eyes locked on a man who doesn’t even know he’s breaking you.

You should turn around.

Should’ve never come this early.

Should’ve never come at all.

But it’s not your fault. He keeps pulling you back, again and again, with the kind of gravity that ain’t natural. You crave him — even when it costs you everything’.

Swallowing the burn, you slip away before they see you, footsteps light on the warped wooden steps, heart thudding like a war drum beneath your ribs.

You don’t cry. Not here. Not for him.

Not for a man who won’t call you his but watches you like he owns every inch of your skin.

Tonight, you’ll remind yourself what it feels like to be wanted. Out loud. In the open.

If Smoke won’t stake his claim, maybe someone else will.

-*-

The juke joint pulses — alive and hungry, like it’s got a soul of its own.

A one-room cathedral of sweat, sin, and sound. The wood groans beneath every footfall, the air slick with heat and the ghosts of old laughter. The lights are low, all amber haze and shadow, and up on the stage, Pearline sings like she’s laying down a curse. The air is thick — with smoke, with perfume, with the distant tang of blood and whiskey. It sticks to your skin, clings to the back of your throat.

Normally, you’d look for him first.

Scan the room until you find the line of his shoulders in the crowd — broad and still and unmistakable. Until his eyes meet yours — that slow glance from under his lashes — and something unspoken passes between you like a lit match. You’d brush past other men without a glance, make your way to him like you belonged there. 

Because you did. Or at least… it used to feel that way.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you walked in like you don’t owe him a damn thing.

And Smoke feels it.

From his spot leaned against the corner near the piano, half-shadowed in the amber light, he watches you like he always does. Like a man watches fire — wary, entranced, already a little burned. But tonight, something’s different.

You don’t look at him.

Not a glance. Not a tilt of your chin. Not that secret little smile you usually throw his way before the music even starts. You pass him like you ain’t ever known the taste of his mouth, like he don’t know the shape of your thighs or the way your breath hitches when his hand’s at your neck.

And it sets something low in his chest smoldering.

He shifts his jaw, slow. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Smoke doesn’t chase. He never has.

But damn if he ain’t tempted tonight.

Your dress clings in all the right places, catching the light when you move. You hold your head high, a little extra swing in your hips. You know how to make a room turn, and tonight, you’re damn sure gonna weaponize it. Every look you earn, every head that swivels in your wake, feels like a bullet you’re loading just for him.

You don’t spare him a glance. Not even when you feel the heat of his stare latch onto your skin like a brand.

He’s in the far corner now. Alone. Jacket back on, drink in hand, posture too calm to be natural. His eyes follow you — that much you feel even without seeing. He’s watching, waiting, like he always does. Like a panther in the tall grass, still as the grave.

But he doesn’t come to you. Doesn’t call your name. Just watches.

And it eats at you. 

Not the silence — you’ve grown used to his quiet. It’s how long he lets it stretch. Like whatever’s between you ain’t even worth breaking it for.

So you give him what he’s asking for — your absence.

You slide up to the bar, ignoring the flutter in your chest. Order something strong and cheap. The barkeep raises a brow when he sees the edge in your smile, but doesn’t ask. 

You’re tired of waiting to be chosen.

It doesn’t take long before someone else notices you. Then another. And another. The kind of attention you usually don’t entertain — but tonight? Tonight you let it bloom. You flirt. You laugh. You toss your hair like it means something. You dance with men who don't know how to hold you right, but hold you anyway.

You don’t want them. Not really.

You want to stop wanting him. To prove you can still be wanted — even if not by him.

Smoke saw the way you smiled at the first man who asked you to dance.

Not the polite, quiet smile you used to save for strangers. No — this one was brighter. Bolder. Like you were trying to blind him with it. And you didn’t even glance his way first. No check-in. No hesitation. Just a soft little laugh and your hand slipping into another man’s like it’s nothing.

But it ain’t nothing.

Not to Smoke.

He watches from his spot, whiskey untouched in his grip, eyes locked on the sway of your hips as you start to move. It’s just dancing, sure. But it’s dancing with someone who ain’t him. And that, right there, feels like salt rubbed into a wound he thought had scabbed over years ago.

Your dress rides up a little each time you spin. Your hair’s stuck to the back of your neck, damp with sweat, glinting under the low amber light. You’re having a good time — real good — and you haven’t looked at him once.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

The man puts his hand on your waist and pulls you closer. You don’t stop him.

Smoke’s jaw ticks.

A flicker of something hot flashes beneath his ribs — jealousy, rage, regret — he can’t name it, but it burns just the same. He lifts his glass, finally, but doesn’t drink. Just stares into the amber, like he might find an answer there that don’t involve dragging you off the floor and reminding you who made you shake like that in the first place.

He wonders if you’re doing this to hurt him.

He wonders if it’s working.

You laugh again, head tilted back, and the sound cuts straight through him.

He swallows the drink in one go.

Still doesn’t help.

Because your body’s up against somebody else’s now, and he ain’t sure how long he can let that slide without losing the last of his goddamn restraint.

You catch glimpses of Smoke across the room between turns — every time your new dance partner spins you, every time you throw your head back and laugh too loud. His expression hasn’t changed. Still blank. Still composed. Like none of this means a thing to him.

Like you don’t mean a thing.

Maybe he’s just trying to make you squirm the way he used to when things were easier. When he’d lean against the bar and look at you like he could tear you open with a glance. When he’d wait until the music softened, until you passed by with a drink in your hand, and then he'd catch your wrist and reel you in slow. Low words in your ear. Rough lips on your neck.

But that was weeks ago.

Before things shifted. Before all those almosts started curdling into never minds.

You remember the way he’s been lately — distant, unreadable, always somewhere else behind those dark eyes. Like he’s building walls to keep you out. 

You think back to Annie. How he let her close.

Closer than you’ve felt in weeks.

It used to be you who stood in that pocket of quiet beside him. You who leaned into the curve of his body and felt it ease beneath you. You who could draw out the rare flicker of softness behind those dark eyes.

But lately... he’s been pulling away.

Not all at once. Just a little more each day. A longer pause before he answers. A shift in the way he touches you — careful now, like he’s already halfway out the door.

What if he’s grown tired of you?

What if the reason he hasn’t claimed you — hasn’t said what this is, what you are — is because he never meant to?

Each minute that passes, the truth of the matter gets harder to hold:

That he doesn’t care.

That maybe... he never did.

You’d thought there was something real in all those late nights. In the long silences that felt like safety. The way his voice dropped when he said your name. The callouses on his hands, the soft rasp of them against your skin. The nights he’d stand in your doorway and not say a word, just look at you like you were something he’d never get to keep.

But how real could it have been if it’s this easy for him to let you drift?

So you dance harder. Drink faster. Let your hand linger a little longer on a stranger’s chest, fingers tracing a line that ain’t yours to draw — but you draw it anyway.

You throw yourself into the performance like you’re trying to make Smoke bleed for it. Like if you flirt loud enough, laugh long enough, touch bold enough — he’ll crack.

But he doesn’t blink when that stranger leans in close enough to kiss you. Don’t even flinch when you you tip your head back and laugh like you don’t mind it.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That you don’t want him to stop it.

But God, you do. 

You want him to snap. To drag you off this floor with that look in his eyes that pins your spine to the wall. To act like you’re his — even if he won’t say the damn words.

So your hand trails lower. Fingertips skimming over the stranger’s chest like you’re carving your name there. Like you’re offering something that ain’t his to take. Like you’re daring Smoke to feel it. To bleed for it.

And he does.

But you don’t know what you’re asking for. Don’t know what it costs him to hold himself back. 

Because if he let himself — if he claimed you the way you deserve to be claimed — ain’t nothing in this place would be left standing.

It’s only when the man gets bold — hand sliding low, fingers dragging over the swell of your ass, mouth dipping too close to your throat like he’s earned the right — that the pressure finally cracks.

And not in you.

Smoke sees red.

He’s across the room before the breath’s even left your lungs. No hesitation. No warning. Just raw intent wrapped in a suit jacket and a storm behind his eyes.

You might not’ve looked at him all night, but you sure as hell about to now.

You don’t see him move.

One moment you’re dancing, the next, tthe stranger’s ripped away from you — shoved back so hard his heels skid across the wooden floorboards.

Smoke.

You feel the heat coming off him in waves — raw, white heat of fury. 

The man stumbles back, confused, opens his mouth—

And Smoke hits him.

Hard.

It’s not a brawl. It’s not a scuffle. It’s a statement.

One punch. Brutal. Precise.

The crack of bone-on-bone rings louder than the music and the man goes down in a heap — moaning, blood already bubbling at his nose.

Everyone stops. Even the band.

Someone mutters, “Damn.”

All eyes swing to Smoke, but none of them stay long. They look, then look away, because they know better.

Smoke doesn’t even glance around.

He steps over the man like he ain’t worth remembering, eyes locked on you the whole time. Still breathing hard. Jaw clenched. Shoulders coiled like a man trying real hard not to break more things.

His voice is low when it comes. Dangerous. Rough.

“You lettin’ men put hands on you now?”

Not a question. A wound.

He’s right in front of you now. Heat rolling off him like summer thunder.

"You lettin' them touch you?" he growls again, closer this time — and there's blood on his knuckles. 

Your throat is dry. Your pulse skitters in your ears like a trapped bird.

“You done playin’?” he asks, breath hot at your jaw, voice rough enough to scrape your spine raw.

And you know right then — this man ain’t just jealous.

He’s furious.

Possessive.

Wounded.

But he’s still yours. Still Smoke.

And he came for you.

The music picks back up, but it sounds far away.

Smoke’s pulling you through the crowd, past the bar, past the watching eyes and the pulse of the juke. His hand tight on your wrist — not rough, but firm — like he’s afraid if he doesn’t hold on, you’ll disappear for good.

The back room breathes different than the rest of the place. 

No music here. Just the hum of cicadas through the wood slats, and the bassline of a blues song trembling through the floorboards like a heartbeat. The air is heavy — steeped in old sweat, older smoke, and secrets that never made it back out. 

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing you inside.

There’s a single lamp on a crate in the corner. Its glow is dim and golden and flickering — casting long, haunted shadows across Smoke’s face. And God, he looks furious.

But not the kind of fury that throws things. Not loud or wild. No — Smoke’s anger burns low, smoldering behind his eyes, set deep in the square of his jaw, simmering in the tight set of his shoulders and the way he won’t quite look at you straight. He doesn’t have to.

You feel it coming off of him in waves. 

His coat’s gone again. Tie undone. Collar loose. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show that sliver of skin you once pressed your lips to in the dark — right above his heart, when he let his guard down just long enough to say your name like a vow.

And for one unbearable second, you hate how much you miss him, even now. Even angry.

His breathing is even, but his chest rises just a little too fast. Like every inhale is laced with restraint — like he’s keeping something inside that might break the walls if he lets it go.

He lets your wrist go — slow, like he’s releasing something alive and dangerous. Your pulse still thrums where he touched you.

He says nothing. But his eyes are on you now. Not soft. Not uncertain.

Claiming.

You cross your arms, trying to protect what’s left of your pride, but it’s already bleeding out between your ribs.

“What the hell was that?” you hiss, your voice sharper than you mean for it to be — brittle around the edges. Your body still hums from the heat of his touch.

Smoke tilts his head a fraction. Breath slow. Measured. Like he’s counting to ten behind his teeth.

“You tell me. You puttin’ on a show, or just tryin’ to get yourself hurt?”

His voice is a slow-drawled threat. Velvet-lined steel. The kind of calm that comes right before something explodes.

“That man didn’t do anything I didn’t let him do.”

You cross your arms, chin lifting. “You don’t own me.”

That lands. He drags a hand down the stubble of his jaw, breath hitching just once. His eyes snap to yours then — and something in them flares. Possessive. Primal. Wounded.

“I do,” he says, like it costs him something. “When did I ever say I didn't?”

Your heart stutters. The admission landing deep in your gut — warm and aching. You want to hate him for it. For saying it now, after everything. But God, it’s the first real thing you’ve heard all night.

“You never said anything, Smoke.”

His jaw flexes. Like he’s biting down on the truth. Like it’s been sitting behind his teeth all this time and now it’s tearing its way out.

“I showed you,” he says, voice rough. “Every goddamn night.”

You laugh — bitter, sharp — but your eyes sting.

“That ain’t the same and you know it.”

You exhale hard. Fists clenched. Voice rising in spite of yourself.

“I’ve been hangin’ on, hopin’ maybe one day you'd give me somethin’ real — a word, a promise, hell, just a look that said I mattered.  But all I get is your silence and a few stolen nights. And then I see you out there with Annie—”

You choke on the words.

“Lookin’ like the man I thought you only were with me.” 

His face changes.

Just a flicker — but it’s enough. Enough to tell you that it landed.

“That what you think?” he says low. “That I give myself to just anyone?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not with the lump rising in your throat.

He moves closer — slow, deliberate — and this time you feel the heat rolling off him. Not anger at you. At himself. At the mess he’s made out of wantin’ you but not knowin’ how to keep you.

“You think I give a damn about Annie?” he says. “She don’t know how I take my coffee. Don’t know how I like my eggs. Don’t know I can’t sleep unless I hear that little hitch in your breath when you settle in beside me.”

Your stomach flips. Heat licks at the back of your neck.

“You think I don’t want this? You think it don’t kill me not to stake my claim in front of every man in that room?” he growls, stepping closer. “You think I don’t feel like ripping throats out every time someone looks at you like they could touch you?”

You don’t back down. “Then say something. Do something, Smoke.”

His name comes out like a curse and a prayer.

He exhales hard, like the words are too big for his chest. His eyes darken — not just with anger, but with something older. Something heavier.

“You think I ain’t wanted to?”

Your breath catches.

“You think I don’t lie awake damn near every night wantin’ to call you mine out loud? Wantin’ to shout it so loud the walls remember?”

His voice is rising now — not loud, but fraying at the edges. Unsteady. Like it’s cracking open something he’s kept nailed shut.

“But every time I get close to somethin’ good, I fuck it up. I ruin it. And you...”

He swallows hard.

“You ain’t somethin’ I ever wanted to ruin.”

You blink. Your body still wired with fight, but your chest — your chest’s gone soft. Sore.

“Elijah…” you whisper, and the way his name slips past your lips — not Smoke, but him — makes him still completely.

He flinches like it hurts. But he doesn’t stop you.

“I can’t keep sleepin’ beside you like I mean somethin’ and wakin’ up like I don’t,”  you tell him, your voice hoarse, raw with all the things you’ve held back. 

His eyes flick to yours, and for once, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t retreat.

“I ain’t good at this,” he says. “Ain’t never had the words. But that don’t mean I haven’t felt ‘em.”

He steps back a fraction, like he’s about to retreat — but he catches himself, fists flexing at his sides like he’s holding in more than just words.

“I don’t talk ‘cause if I do, it’s all gonna come out,” he confesses. “Every last damn thing. And I don’t know how to say it without breakin’ somethin’.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched, and suddenly he looks tired. Not weak — just worn. Like he’s been carrying the weight of this for too long.

“I’m still learnin’ how to hold somethin’ like you without breakin’ it,” he says. “But I swear to God, I’m tryin’.”

And then he’s moving — slow, like he’s giving you the chance to stop him — but you don’t. You won’t.

His forehead finds yours, and the breath between you is hot, shaky, shared.

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s softer. Sweeter. Carved from something tender.

He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb — and it’s not heat this time. It’s reverence. His touch aches with care, with memory, with the kind of want that goes beyond hunger.

His hand lingers there, trembling just slightly against your skin.

He doesn’t try to hide it. Doesn’t flinch away.

He just holds you like the shaking doesn’t matter. Like you’re the only thing in this world steady enough to anchor him.

“I didn’t touch her,” he says, quieter now, his voice unraveling. “But I thought about what you’d think when you saw it. Thought maybe if you got mad enough… you’d leave before I could ruin you like I ruin everything else.”

Your throat tightens. You feel the burn behind your eyes again, but you don’t look away.

“You did,” you whisper. “You hurt me.”

His breath shakes. “I know.”

Your voice drops, quieter than before — not angry now, just aching.

“I thought you were movin’ on,” you say, your voice a whisper meant for no one else but him. “Thought you were already done with me.”

His hand shifts — from your cheek to your jaw. Holding you like you’re something sacred.

“Ain’t nothin’ could make me done with you.”

Then he kisses you.

Not gentle. Not sweet.

Possessive.

All jaw and breath and heat, like he’s trying to burn a promise into your mouth.

He kisses you like he’s crossing every line he swore he wouldn’t. Like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin and stay there, ruin or not.

Your hands fist in his shirt, anchoring yourself to the moment, to him, even as everything inside you threatens to break open. He groans into your mouth — low and wrecked — like he’s been starving for this.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your face — everywhere — like he’s trying to memorize you, carve you into the lines of his palms.

“Mine,” he breathes into your mouth, voice rough and shaking. “You hear me?”

You do.

You feel it.

Every part of you burns with it.

You whisper it against his mouth.

“I’m yours.”

The words land soft — but they strike like thunder. He freezes.

Breath stutters between you. His lips hover just shy of yours, like he’s afraid to move, afraid to break the moment — or worse, that it isn’t real.

His hand is still on your jaw. Thumb trembling now.

“You don’t—” he starts, but his voice breaks, raw and low like gravel kicked up on a backroad. He swallows hard. “Don’t say that unless you mean it. Not just ‘cause I came here swingin’.”

Your hand finds his shirt, fingers fisting in the thin cotton like it’s the only thing keeping you from slipping under.

“I mean it.”

Silence folds in around the two of you. Thick. Breathless.

Smoke lets out a shudder of air like he’s been holding it for years.

Then his hands are on you again — not rough, but firm, like he’s anchoring himself to the ground through you. One hand cups the side of your neck; the other presses against the small of your back, pulling you into him like he can finally have you.

His voice scrapes out between clenched teeth.

“Say it again.”

You hesitate, eyes searching his face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a world gone sideways.

You don’t look away. “I’m yours, Elijah.”

There it is again. That name.

His jaw tenses. A slow, helpless shiver ripples through him — like the sound of it hits some place deep and buried. And then he lowers his forehead to yours, breath hot and uneven.

“No one else,” he rasps. “Ain’t never been nobody else. Not even when I tried.”

Your lips part. Your chest aches.

“You don’t have to try anymore.”

Another beat. And then he kisses you again — slower this time. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s sorry for every night he left you wondering. He kisses you like the world stopped turning when you weren’t with him and just now started spinning again.

Your fingers slide inside the fabric of his shirt. Not to undress him — not yet — but just to touch. To feel the warmth of his skin. To believe this is real.

Because it is.

Because he is.

Smoke’s hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting all night. He pulls you gently toward him until your body molds into the lines of his — chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. There’s nothing frantic here. Just the steady unraveling of two people who’ve spent too long pretending they didn’t want more.

Your fingers climb further up his body, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath your palm, the smooth heat of his skin under the cotton. He murmurs your name like a prayer wrapped in a promise.

The rhythm of his breath is slow and uneven, like he’s trying to breathe through something heavy. The kind of want that don’t burn fast — the kind that smolders, deep and steady, like embers buried under ash. 

Outside, the cicadas sing louder, droning like the pulse in your ears. The air hums with heat and unsaid things, and your skin prickles with every inch of him pressed to you — all lean muscle and quiet desperation. 

Smoke’s lips trace a line along your jaw, then down the column of your throat. Each kiss is slow — patient, reverent — like he’s mapping you all over again. Not with the hunger of a man who wants to own, but with the ache of someone who thought they’d lost this. Lost you.

When his mouth finds the hollow at the base of your throat, he lingers. Just breath and lips and that low, gravel-thick hum you’ve come to recognize as the sound of him trying to hold back. 

“Been dreamin’ ‘bout this,” he mutters, voice half-melted into your skin. “ ‘Bout you. ‘Bout your hands on me. ‘Bout how soft you get when I touch you right.”

You whimper, just barely — the sound swallowed between the weight of his words and the press of his body. Your hands slide across his shoulders, fingers brushing warm skin. Familiar. Sacred. 

His hand drifts higher along your thigh, fingers grazing the soft flesh just beneath the hem of your dress — slow, sure, like he’s savoring every inch he gets to rediscover. 

“You still with me, baby?” he murmurs against your skin.

You nod — a breath, a gasp, a tremble. “Yeah. ‘M here.”

“Good.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “ ‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ you go this time.”

The promise in his voice settles in your chest like a brand — slow and permanent.

When his hand slips fully beneath the fabric of your dress skirt, he pauses — just a breath of space between you, giving you that last second to pull away. 

But you don’t.

You lean into him instead, hips tilting forward, your body answering for you. And that’s all he needs. His fingers find your heat, and his breath stutters — a sound halfway between reverence and disbelief.

“Shit,” he whispers, thick and hoarse. “You’re already soaked.” 

Your cheeks flush, not with shame, but with want. With knowing what you do to him. How undone he is under your touch. How gone he sounds when his fingers slip lower and you gasp — soft and open — against the shell of his neck.

He kisses you again, deeper now, tasting the way your breath shivers when he presses just right — rubbing circles with the pad of his thumb that have your knees nearly buckling.

“You feel like heaven,” he groans against your lips, voice heavy with awe and lust. “Ain’t never felt nothin’ like this.”

And you believe him. Because every move he makes is deliberate. Earnest. Like he’s not just trying to make you come apart — but trying to prove something with every stroke, every kiss, every low whisper against your skin. 

That you’re his. That he’s yours. That this… means something. 

And as his fingers keep working you toward that edge — slow and sure, coaxing and praising — you realize he’s not just touching your body.

He’s finally touching your heart. 

Your body is trembling now — not with fear, but with the exquisite ache of being wanted like this. Like a prayer being answered. Like he’s been starving for you and finally let himself taste. 

Smoke’s mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is different — deeper, hungrier. His hand is still working slow, deliberate circles over that tender spot between your thighs, but there’s a tension in him now, rising like a storm behind the horizon. 

He breaks the kiss just enough to speak, voice ragged and low against your lips. 

“Let go for me,” he says. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

Your forehead presses against his, and you can’t think — can’t breathe — can only feel the pressure building in you, tight and relentless. 

“Please,” you whisper. You don’t even know what you’re asking for. Just him. Just this. 

That does it. His fingers press a little deeper, a little faster — perfect and unyielding. You cry out, soft and desperate, as the wave crests and crashes inside of you. 

You come apart in his arms, body pulsing, thighs shaking. Your hips stutter against his hand as you ride the aftershocks, clutching at his shoulders like you might fall through the floor if you let go. 

But you don’t fall. Because he’s there. 

He holds you through it, breath huffing hard against your temple, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your hair. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl. So fuckin’ perfect.” 

You bury your face in the warm skin of his neck, panting tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the way it feels to finally be seen. To be wanted with that kind of certainty. 

His hand leaves you only when your body shudders with sensitivity, and even then, he’s gentle. Reverent. Fingers ghosting over your thigh like he’s reluctant to let go. 

He eases you back against the old wall of the room, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your jaw. His eyes are on you — not just looking, memorizing.

Your body is still humming from the way he touched you, but it’s your heart that’s trembling now — cracked wide open in the aftermath. Because it wasn’t just his fingers that undid you. It was him. The way he looked at you. The way he held you through it, like you were breakable and precious and his.

And he feels it too. You can see it in the way his jaw keeps flexing, like he’s fighting emotion with every breath. His chest is still bare, rising and falling in uneven waves, the glow of the lamplight catching in the hollow of his throat — the place where your name lingers like a ghost.

His eyes flick up to yours, and they’re clear now. No smoke, no shadow. Just Elijah, stripped of all the armor.

You watch him — his chest still rising too fast, jaw slack with everything he’s just given you. Not rage now. Not heat. Just him, stripped bare and not hiding behind his silence for once.

And you… you don’t feel triumphant, or vindicated.

You just feel full. Brimming with the weight of everything he didn’t know how to say until now.

Your hand slides up the curve of his chest, resting lightly over his heart. It’s pounding hard beneath your palm — wild and real and his. You don’t say anything, just hold it there like maybe you can calm it with your touch.

You lean your forehead to his, eyes closed. The moment hangs like warm mist around you, thick with heat and hush. And in the silence, there’s no more guessing. No more ache.

Just his breath mingling with yours.

Just the feel of his fingers gently tracing the small of your back like he’s learning the shape of what he nearly lost.Just the soft thud of his heart, steady and strong beneath your palm — finally yours.

If you want to be a part of my tag list, please submit an ask specifying series, fandom, or all and I will happily add you (If you don’t specify, I’ll just assume you want to be on the general list)!

[former-incel]

If you're socially awkward, conventionally unattractive, or otherwise struggle to find romance, sex, or other forms of intimacy with people who you find attractive, you can learn a lot from gay men and lesbian women.

Gay men and lesbian women are, by definition, not conventionally attractive. If a gay man or lesbian woman were to find someone who they're attracted to and who's attracted to them, there's a 100% chance that that person will have standards of attraction that deviate from society's expected standards. Gay men and lesbian women have a much smaller dating pool than heterosexual people. For everything you struggle with in your pursuit of intimacy, every single gay man and lesbian woman experiences it also. But they make it work. They're aware that fewer people finding them attractive does not mean zero people finding them attractive.

Gay men and lesbian women experience rejection on a regular basis, much more often than heterosexual people. They also experience bullying on a regular basis. In order to be successful in their pursuit of connections with other people, they have to be able to tell the difference between rejection and bullying.

In a perfect world in which injustices didn't exist, gay men and lesbian women would still experience rejection at a much greater rate than heterosexual people. They'd still have a much smaller pool of potential partners. They'd still regularly be attracted to people who will never feel the same way about them, and they'd have to accept that. But many things would be different.

Those who are not attracted to the same gender would only personally reject them. They wouldn't expect their buddies to also not be attracted to the same gender. They wouldn't expect people who are attracted to the same gender to be less welcome in public places.

If they pursue someone who's not attracted to them while following an equitable social contract, they'd risk only rejection. Not violence. Not public humiliation.

Those who find them attractive would not have to hide.

If you feel like you're "forever alone" because of traits that cause fewer people to find you attractive, follow the example of gay men and lesbian women.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

Repetition Doesn’t Need to be Boring

One of the first things John learns about Sherlock is that he finds repetition utterly dull and boring.

“I hate repeating myself.”

That is the detective’s most valued statement. At least one of the top ten.

He uses it on everybody – the incompetent Yarders (Sherlock’s words, not John’s), on witnesses (more than one has been brought to tears over it), on Mrs Hudson (who just rolls her eyes in response), on his brother (this does not happen frequently because of the elder Holmes brother’s extensive vocabulary – or so John assumes), and finally, on John himself (astoundingly the tone Sherlock uses then is more on the affectionate end of the scale than the cruel opposite).

It is unavoidable to hear those four words on a regular basis. John is an idiot according to Sherlock, which really isn’t saying much since he considers everybody to be one. At one point, John is tempted to tease Sherlock a bit about it – “you know that you are repeating yourself constantly, reusing the same words every time, yes?” – but he just can’t. He knows Sherlock will be hurt by it, and if there’s one thing John’s determined to forego it’s seeing agony in the man’s face.

John also learns that Sherlock does not hate being praised by the same words repeatedly – amazing, extraordinary, brilliant – oh no; in fact, he adores it. The second John realises that, he never looks back. It’s no hardship obviously since Sherlock is all those things. And more. John doesn’t even have to think through what comes out of his mouth when Sherlock deduces a crime scene, a villain, or patrons at Angelo’s – the words just spill at their own will.

“You know you are saying that out loud?”

That’s Sherlock’s response when John utters the words at their first crime scene. John feels embarrassed, but Sherlock says it’s fine, and John can tell it’s the first time someone has everpraised him like that; impulsively, genuinely, emphatically.

So, when they finally get their shit together – Greg’s words – John isn’t sure what to expect. Of course, being romantically involved with Sherlock will never be boring; nothing about Sherlock is, but John is unprepared for the tenderness, how attentive the detective is as a lover, and more importantly – how much he repeats himself.  

John loses count after fifteen I love you a day. (Sherlock most definitely keeps count, of that John is certain.) 

At first, John feels obligated to say the words back, which Sherlock quickly dismisses.

“The fact that I need to say the words, doesn’t mean I require you to vocalise them every time, John.”

John’s heart breaks a little when he understands it’s a necessity for Sherlock to tell him how he feels about him. The most astonishing part of it is how sincere he always utters the love declarations. To John, it feels like the first time over and over again. 

Sometimes, Sherlock experiments with other words – I adore you, I cherish you, I treasure you, but he always comes back to the original, and they’re both relieved when he does.

When John finally asks why Sherlock feels the need to tell him how he feels repeatedly, the detective doesn’t hesitate at all.

“I can’t say it enough, John. There have been too many days I couldn’t say them, because of who we were back then – you; not gay, I; married to my work – so I am making up for lost time.”

This brings John to the brink of tears, and he hides his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent greedily.

“I love you so much, Sherlock. More than I can ever tell you,” he murmurs into his beloved’s skin.

“You tell me every day, John, and not only with words, but how you know exactly how to brew my tea, always ensuring my favourite marmalade is available, how you shield me in the line of danger, the way you rearrange my scarf when some of my skin is bare to the cold wind, how you look at me when you think I don’t see, the way you kiss me…I could go on forever, but I think you get the gist of it,” Sherlock says softly against John’s temple. “I love you too. So much I am about to burst from it. Hence my constant…announcements.”

John claims his perfect lips then, which is also a thing the world’s only consulting detective finds worthy of repeating quite regularly.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at @meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @jolieblack @peanitbear @phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @a-victorian-girl @221beloved @ninasnakie @shy-bi-letsfuckingdie @7-percent @lhrinchelsea @missdeliadilisblog @salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch @acumberlockedgirl @willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee @ilovegayangels @elizabethhoodstyles @xmengal03 @riversong912 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson @binx72 @macgyvershe @dragoonthegreatest @kholkate @fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle @twoandahalfdimes @desi-yearning @johnlock-and-tea @llcsecret @jobooksncoffee @original-welovethebeekeeper @readingwithgwen @gomielka @rosemelodyshah @221biandconfused

[alex51324]

Except that back when debit cards/ATMs first became common, the banks that owned the cards/machines--and therefore would be dealing with fraud complaints from the customers--thought of this, and put in safeguards, such as limiting the amount that can be withdrawn at a time, and putting security cameras where they will catch both the face of the user and that of anyone standing behind them with a gun.

As a result, the cost-benefit analysis on robbing someone by either taking their ATM card and hitting them until they give you the code, or marching them to the ATM with a gun shoved in their ribs works out to "high chance of being caught on camera committing a violent felony" against "two hundred dollars."

Hence, this type of crime is not particularly common.

With a crypto wallet, on the other hand, the criminal can do most of the key steps of the crime in a location of their choosing, and they can take as much as the victim has.

But that's a fair tradeoff, because using Crypto instead of regular money protects you from other totally real dangers like...what, exactly?

I mean, I guess it protects you against MasterCard suddenly deciding that you aren't allowed to buy the thing you wanted to buy, but since that only started happening after crypto was a thing, it does kinda raise the question of who's wagging the dog.

Or, of course, the cryptobro can protect himself from this type of attack by turning his home into a fortress, driving an armored car, and owning more guns than God, thus spending tens of thousands of dollars in order to achieve a similar level of safety from someone beating you with a wrench and emptying your financial accounts, that the rest of us achieve by living in a society like a bunch of fucking normies.

Word for today: wrench attack

Within the crypto community, to physically threaten or attack someone to force them to grant you access to digital assets; name inspired by xkcd #538

[beneathitall-thesame]

mo guan shan character analysis: trapped behind the glass tank (part 1)*

*very tentative Part 1, but since I'm definitely Very Normal™ about Mo, I will probably post more of them at some point lmao (about other characters too!)

Have you ever found yourself staring blankly at your homework or work screen, questioning the purpose of it all? What difference could finishing this task possibly make? Meanwhile, others seem completely absorbed—chasing a promotion, or studying hard for the Zhongkao or Gaokao to secure their spot on an academic path.

Is there happiness waiting at the finish line? Maybe. Maybe not. It could be about making your parents proud, taking steps toward your dream career, or just staying afloat, moving through life with some sense of financial stability.

What if all of that feels so abstract it doesn't even register as something meant for you?

(chapters 154 and 305)

In Chapter 361, we learn that Mo has lost his job due to repeated tardiness. He looks... devastated at the news.

This hit comes right after Mo arguably gets to experience teenage life with friends for the first time ever:

Trying and hilariously failing to form a band; running away together from Qiu, to who knows where; Mo opening up about his traumas -no, someone (He Tian and arguably Jian Yi, too) actively telling Mo that it's okay for him to depend on others to lighten his burden. Fun picnics with traumatic moments (i.e. the mudslide) that bring the boys closer together. Going to concerts. Getting to participate in the school festival. Mo huffing and puffing all the way about being "dragged around", but actually having a good time and taking his mind off all the shit in his life.

(chapter 318)

And that's just it, isn't it? While He Tian can be pushy and overbearing, Mo is capable of expressing (rather colourfully, although not assertively at all) when something is actually crossing over his boundaries. Sure, he may have been roped into joining the boys in their adventures. However, it's Mo who ultimately allows himself to be a teen for once. For once, having a regular life doesn't feel so out of reach.

And it all comes crashing down with a single call.

Why act as if it's the end of the world, if it's just a part-time job that barely pays peanuts? Well, not a lot of people are willing to hire a young student and work conditions are usually quite precarious. The only times Mo has gotten paid fairly for labour was because of He Tian finding Mo gigs, like that one time he got to work at a photo studio moving stuff.

Needless to say, there's also the earlier chapters, where He Tian pays Mo for housekeeping. It's shown He Tian actually pays well, and even pays Mo for stupid stuff like accepting a videocall.

Still, Mo states multiple times he does not want to owe anyone anything and least of all be seen as a charity case. To be indebted is to be subjected to the other person; it becomes a cage, like the one She Li tried to keep him in to be used at whim.

(chapter 319)

Mo -as much as he would never say it out loud- wants to be seen as his own person, because he's carried his own father's sentence from a very young age, which twisted his peers' perception of him, as well as his own sense of worth. And that ostracization made Mo even more vulnerable to fall into She Li's clutches because he doesn't have any support network. Hell, She Li himself participates in it, despite, in his own words, them two "being the same".

(chapters 242, and 368)

The biggest tragedy is that Mo is still kind of an upstanding kid even when he falls into the "school bully" persona. He cares, a lot, for what he allows himself to care for: his mum, and their safety.

He'll take as many shitty jobs as it takes to help his mum pay for his dad's debt. He'll work himself to the bone and forgo his dreams if that'll ease the weight she's carrying. He doesn't speak out about his situation, doesn't lean into self-pity. He doesn't fight it either, instead choosing to close himself off because he's pretty much checked out of social life and future prospects.

He'll take being beaten up by some adult gang over them laying a finger on his mum.

In a way, even when it hurts, Mo has built a very precarious balance between i-keep-away-from-you /you-keep-away-from-me that protects him just enough. He'll just tough it out until he inevitably drops out.

Then He Tian, Jian Yi, and Zhan Zhengxi show up in his life. Rather, Mo crashes into theirs, in the worst way possible. Either way, that distance he's relied on starts to break down. The lines he's drawn stop holding like they used to.

And it hurts (literally, at times), at first. It's annoying, it's inconvenient, and some of the wacky shit they get him into is headache-worthy. And yet, these idiots end up worming into his heart.

(chapters 240 and 315)

After so much time spent being shunned and friendless, he's drawn out of that shell of loneliness. He experiences the struggles of being perceived by others, of others actually wanting to understand him. And, perhaps, him wanting to know them back.

Obviously, Mo's developing relationship with He Tian is the highlight here, given he's the character he gets to know in a deeper level and for whom he develops feelings for.

There are so many things to be said, but since I'm trying to focus on Guan Shan's character here, so I'll summarise my thoughts as much as I can:

At the start of their relationship, He Tian and Mo Guan Shan’s dynamic is marked by a clear imbalance of power. He Tian moves through the world with control, secrecy, and unhealed trauma that he doesn’t fully understand, often expressing interest through intimidation rather than connection. His behavior toward Mo walks a thin line between teasing and threatening, making their early interactions feel more coercive than romantic.

But in Chapter 297, He Tian lets his guard down and admits he chose Mo because he admires his honesty and steadiness; all qualities He Tian feels he lacks. Unlike Mo, He Tian is deeply afraid of his own darkness, shaped by a violent family legacy he despises and wants to distance himself from. Mo, in turn, isn’t naive; he knows He Tian is manipulative, but he’s also seen glimpses of real vulnerability behind the facade.

They’re both isolated, scared kids wearing masks they hate — a rich kid and a bully, neither of which tell the full story. As they see the cracks in each other’s armor, their relationship begins to shift, if only slightly. These moments of honesty don’t excuse the harm, but they push for genuine growth. It’s in those small glimpses of shared fear and loneliness that a more honest bond might start to take shape.

(chapters 259 and 319)

The culmination of Mo’s struggle with agency and the absence of a real support system comes in chapters 344 and 346, when He Tian gives him a guitar, along with a photo and a message that Mo has probably been waiting his whole life to hear.

(a message so important Mo keeps the picture into his adult years.... yeah)

Can you see how, after opening himself up to all these experiences, Mo might have been lulled into a false sense of security — even though, in many ways, he was more protected during this time than he’s ever been?

Mo's life has never been that of an ordinary teenager.

The pretense of a life where he gets to spend his time hanging out with friends and no consequences is just that. A pretense, a lapse of judgement in Mo's part, whose livelihood just came crashing around when he missed his part-time job during the culture festival.

The next thing he does if to cut all of his friends off, recognising that hanging with these "privileged " kids has distracted from his initial goal, his true reason to keep on going is: to help his mother pay off their debt.

His not contributing to that has actual, real repercussions, and Mo resigns himself to never lose sight of that again.

So then, he goes home. He sees his mum sleeping. She must be tired from how many shifts she has to take; maybe she has to wake up to an ungodly hour to be on time for the first of her various part-time jobs.

(chapter 360)

Mo is probably feeling guilty for putting his ma in an even tougher situation, now that for the foreseeable future he won't be able to help out.

Reluctantly he walks to his bedroom and sits down in front of some open textbooks. He stares at them; looks conflicted. One can wonder what's going on in that frazzled mind of his.

I, for one, think that he's questioning if this really is what his life is suppossed to be, and the point of it all.

~

If you made it here, thank you so much! <3

See ya guys in Part 2 (WIP)! ദ്ദി •⩊• )

[ink-the-artist]

Hi for your current commissions slots with the slightly abstracted colourful animals, would you be open to doing one inspired my dog if I send you reference pictures? In your style of course, im not looking for realism or anything. I love how your style captures motion and kind of wormy writhing?? (like in your borzoi art); my dog does a lot of wormy writhing in a way that i think your art style specifically could capture the essence of really joyfully.

Also would you ship the original, or is it scan only? I am in western Canada for reference, and would be willing to pay more for shipping

not sure if youre the one who commissioned the german shepherd a few min ago but if not these have sold out now sorry! to answer anyway since ill do more of these in the future, that would be totally fine and in general im pretty flexible and if the request is something that seems above the price range i can simplify the drawing of it to match the price. especially for something like this where I have more creative control over the outcome than with my regular one-on-one comms. if theres an issue I can message you over kofi and if needed i can just refund you and sell the slot to someone else its no prob.

for shipping, these would not be shipped since they will be digital, drawn to look traditional, like the latest bed creature drawing

I do ship the art for regular comms if the client requests it (just pls do it at the start so i can draw it on a seperate paper lol)

[oceanicfem]

Trans people aren’t trying to make restrooms unsafe, we’re just trying to use them like everyone else.

I acknowledge that plenty of trans people may have that goal, but in that case, why can’t they just use the bathroom assigned to their sex?

Safety concerns should be addressed without framing an entire group as a threat, especially when that threat is unsubstantiated.

Nowhere in this post does anyone say that every single trans identified man is a threat. And, if you agree that safety concerns regarding sex and bathrooms should be addressed, what exactly are those concerns? How can they be addressed in a way that satisfies trans activists?

People don’t need to “identify” as anything to hurt someone in a restroom. Predators don’t wait for permission or a label, they just break the rules. Targeting and blaming trans people for this doesn’t make anyone safer.

Yes, regular men can in fact just waltz into the women’s restroom, but historically, this has not been normal. A woman in a female bathroom looking at a man knows that he is not supposed to be there, and will probably question him. More importantly, she will feel comfortable questioning him; If he’s in there for a normal reason (trying to change his baby’s diaper and the men’s restroom doesn’t have a changing station) he won’t be offended by her confusion because everyone knows that him being there is irregular.

This is not the case under a self-ID system that allows people to use whichever restroom they want.

Bathrooms are sex-segregated primarily for privacy and safety, not because of chromosomes or to police gender identity.

You cannot simultaneously believe that bathrooms are sex-segregated for privacy and safety and also believe that this segregation has nothing to do with chromosomes. How does segregating bathrooms based on sex relate to privacy and safety, if not because of chromosomes? How does sex-segregation, as a concept, exist without bringing up chromosomes? For the vast majority of people, XX is female and XY is male.

Trans people use the restroom that matches their lived experience because it’s where they are safest and most appropriate.

Before I answer this, I need to know: Do you support Self-ID? That is, do you support anyone who claims to “identify” as a woman being allowed to use female facilities, such as bathrooms, prisons, and rape crisis shelters?

Because if you do, then there is literally nothing stopping a creepy man from saying he “identifies” as a woman to access these things. I don’t care if you don’t believe it ever happens, precautions need to exist.

And if you don’t, then that means that you believe in a certain qualification for someone to be trans enough. If so, what are those qualifications? Is it based on “passing” enough? Who determines that?

Why do you care that they’re in there if they’re not doing anything to you? Get an actual life.

You simultaneously argue that sex-segregation exists for privacy and safety and that sex-segregation doesn’t actually matter. Which is it? Do you believe bathrooms should be segregated or not?

Saying “I don’t care about your gender identity” ignores the fact that trans people still need to pee.

What exactly is stopping them from using the bathroom of their assigned sex? If it’s not that important, surely it goes both ways?

It’s not about affirmation — it’s about using a public facility without being harassed or endangered.

As pink already said, it is not women’s job to stop men from harming other men. At-risk men do not automatically get a free pass into female spaces.

Why don’t trans-identified men work harder on stopping other men from harassing and endangering people? Why is it always women who have to help?

And anyway - What about women being harassed or endangered? Why does it only matter when it’s men?

Predators don’t care about signage.

The people around them do, and if those people stop caring, it’s no longer an obstacle to them.

Trans people do, we’re hyperaware because we’re the ones most likely to be policed, questioned, or attacked no matter which door we choose.

I don’t even mean this in a rude way - 99% of trans people I’ve met are instantly identifiable as their birth sex. I’m not looking out for “signs” or anything; Humans have sex recognition. I guarantee that if most (keyword: most) trans-identified women, for example, went into the women’s restroom, no one would question them.

This isn’t about feelings —

It very much is.

it’s about safety,

If trans-identified men are less safe in the men’s restroom, then it is a male issue. An important one, but a male issue nonetheless.

practicality,

It is already perfectly practical for trans-identified people to use the restroom that corresponds to their birth sex.

and dignity for everyone

Except women, it would seem.

Tell me: If restrooms shouldn’t be segregated based on sex: Why should they be segregated at all? Because if you just started the post advocating for abolition of sex-segregated restrooms, I would respect you significantly more.

But you seem to want to argue for both sides; Segregated restrooms exist for “privacy and safety”, but also, anyone who wants to use the opposite restroom should be able to. What exactly is the point?

And, like I said before: If sex-segregated spaces like restrooms exist for good reasons, why? Why does segregating restrooms based on sex guarantee “privacy and safety”? Why does that somehow still apply when they are sex-segregated only in name?

no. i don’t care if female restrooms are safe spaces for trans women. it’s not women’s job to protect men from men. maybe men should start teaching each other to stop assaulting people.

[specialfanboying]

the irony is like. imo all of the "he just wants to be soft and happy and loved" posting would fit yugamu a lot better than it would eito? eito's base world is untenable and the happiest endings he has with takumi either kill him, have him as Not Himself, or are rebellion, where. it's not impossible to have moments of domesticity with takumi there's just a lot else going on

yugamu? not only does he vocally hate the life he's been forced into and want to retire, but there is an ending where he realizes the emptiness in killing and gets a happy ending living on the satellite in a polycule. like i do think if you want sweet domestic yaoi with someone who very much didn't start that way that's an easier sell? i can believe yugamu would love a life with no killing where he gets to cook for his loved ones and also blow takumi's back out on the regular but like that part goes without saying

like it's like. idk the difference there i'd say was highlighted in killing game? yugamu kills by thinking of it as just mundane work he's detached from. because he doesn't have any other greater meaning to killing them. he's groomed into this and if he had a choice, he wouldn't. eito kills out of hate and determination. everything he does is for one ultimate goal. he does have a choice and he chooses to further that goal at every turn. one of them would probably enjoy sweet domesticity, the other one only would if their life goal were fulfilled/being furthered imo.

[tinyshyteacup]

Sugar, Spice

& A Little Bit of Vice

H A P P Y x R E A D E R

When the leather clad regulars roll into your small bakery, you can't help but feel sorry for the quiet one they call "Happy." What kind of cruel joke is it to give such a name to someone who never seems to smile? Determined to brighten his day, you leave a little treat at Teller-Morrow, hoping to coax even the smallest grin from the serious biker.

You think you can handle knowing what he does for SAMCRO. You've been told outright, seen it when he showed up during a robbery at your bakery, you've seen the respect and fear in people's eyes when they look at him. The Tacoma Killer. It doesn't matter—not until the day you witness it firsthand.

Now the man who once made you feel safer than you'd ever been has become a stranger, and you can't unsee what you saw. Happy has always been patient, but winning back your trust will be his greatest challenge yet.

Sometimes the sweetest treats come with the most bitter truths.

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

Part seven 🖤

Part eight 🥰

Part nine

Part ten

Part eleven

Part twelve

Part thirteen - coming soon

[butterscotchlollipops]

Merlin S1

Thoughts, opinions, and incoherent rambles

(I’ve seen the first 2 seasons before a few years ago, so this was a rewatch [yes, in 2025, over a decade after the show ended]. I also know how the show ends, yet I’m committed to watching the whole series and getting my heart torn in two.)

Colin Morgan’s and Bradley James’s acting impresses me in nearly every scene they’re in

The way Richard Wilson (Gaius) says “sorcery” tickles my brain

The relationship between Merlin and Gaius is so sweet

Arthur’s floor-length coat🫦

And Merlin’s stupid (affectionate) neckerchief too

Knowing how the series ends, my heart breaks for Arthur’s AND Morgana’s fates

Hearing Colin Morgan’s and Katie McGrath’s real accents slip out at times is endearing to me

Morgana deserves a better fate, she was hardly evil in S1, and I don’t believe that she’d turn evil if the circumstances were different

Also, I love Morgana’s wardrobe, I’d gladly gallivant around in those dresses, acting like it’s the year 900

Kilgharrah, a straight-up Uther hater (he’s so justified for that)

At the same time, I can’t help but dislike Kilgharrah for leading Merlin down a path of solitude and a destiny filled with burying friends

The show does a great job of showing how complicated Arthur and Uther’s relationship is

The person who made the soundtrack did such a good job

The CGI, while quite obvious, is pretty impressive for a 2008 TV show

The writers referring to the show’s antagonists as “Witchypoo” - I’m cackling (from the audio commentaries)

Katie McGrath shipping Merthur as much as a regular fan 😆 (also from the audio commentaries)

I think if Arthur found out that Merlin had magic in S1, Arthur would be conflicted about it, but he would tell Uther, and Merlin would’ve been executed

I’ve seen multiple people of the opinion that Arthur’s characterization is inconsistent throughout the show, and that makes me bummed because he’s got some really great moments and arcs in S1

1x13 Arthur: “I think there’s someone watching over me. Keeping me from harm.”

Uther: “You’ll need a guardian angel.”

Merlin: 😇

Merlin’s goodbye to Arthur in 1x13💔💔

Gaius’s letter to Merlin😭😭😭

[kulis-cup-of-tea]

Demon Idol

Being an idol isn't easy. That is the simple fact. Being a demon is much harder, especially with the voices that haunt and mock and diminish one's being. Though, it doesn't stop a certain soloist as they take center stage.

Content : Original Character, Canon Divergence, OC x Canon, Enby Character (They/Them), Author fucking around with headcanons for the kpdh universe Warnings: Misgendering, Manipulation, Blackmailing, and slight Torture (nothing too graphic but it's present and Gwi-Ma is a bitch)

A/N: Here's Chapter two! I fear for my life with this one because the Saja Boys are blatantly antagonistic here, but this is important for 'character development' so sticking with my very much loaded guns here. Also, what names should I give the boys? Feel free to suggest!

Chapter Two

If looks could kill, Jee's furious eyes could easily snuff out Gwi-Ma if their glare wasn't directed at the pretty boys at this moment. All of them chugging down hot sauce. In front of a live audience. Wearing baby fucking bibs. "Wow, Aido's looking real competitive right now! The Saja Boys may be her hoobaes but that doesn't mean she'll go down without a fight!" They’re gonna kill the Saja Boys.

To recap, Ki had properly explained that someone suddenly put Jee up for the show, mostly to help support a new boy band, the Saja Boys. The very demons they just bumped into. After all that mess, Jee immediately runs back to Huntr/X, who were hidden within the crowd. Before Jee can be relieved, The Saja Boys are unfortunately blessed with perfect timing as right then and there, they make their debut.

Their debut song is catchy and their dance is good. That's all you need to know. Doesn't excuse the horrendous stage names. You'd think they would've thought of something more creative, but noooo, they'd rather be lazy. Kinda sad that fans are eating it up so easily.

Back to show and chugging on the hot sauce. Jee hears it. One by one, the host announces who is going down. First generic pretty boy, then muscle man, then bangs, then, satisfyingly, pink mullet. Though, as much as they would love to beat the Sou Hiyori wanna-be to make it 5 for 5, Jee goes down alongside the co host, coughing violently and hunched over the chair. They feel everything burning and cold from sweat at the same time.

As more things happened in the background, they felt a bottle pressed on their head which caused the soloist to look up. "Here, to help with spice." Pink mullet is handing them a bottle of pear juice with his charming smile. They stand up, take the bottle and nod in gratitude. "Thanks." They quickly open the bottle and start chugging, earning a chuckle from him.

"Look how sweet he is!" "Such a gentleman." "Man, I'm jealous." "Aido is living my dream!" These are a few things they can make out from the crowd. Before Jee could strangle the man, everyone's attention is directed at the three girls suspiciously on top of the back wall and looking so good in leather and dark makeup. Yup, they are ready to kill. Not this though.

The girls attempt to get out of the situation with everyone's eyes on them, while Jee does exactly that, as they silently walk away. They already provided their niceties and 'support' for them at the beginning of the show so there's no point in staying and the show is pretty much over. Generic pretty boy is just trying to drag it out.

Ki is immediately walking by Jee's side in the backstage, giving them regular clothes as they both ignore the distant screeching of leather and plastic and the even farther distant 'MAKE IT STOP!!'. "Soooo, impressions on the Saja Boys?" Jee takes another long sip before throwing it away to the nearest trash can.

"They're fine. They're like... the bare fucking minimum. The only thing elevating them is their looks and that damn catchy song." Ki raises a brow as they watch Jee maneuver their way into wearing the casual clothes given without being indecent as they walk. "I'm surprised with your bluntness, and is that a bit of hostility I'm hearing? This is the first time you've been like this with a new artist or idol group."

Right, most people don't know about demons existing, let alone Huntr/x being hunters who kill them, so it'll be hard to explain a lot of stuff to her. Jee just sighs softly at all this. "Just have been having an exhausting day. Things happened too fast and it's a lot to keep up with." They hear Ki fidgeting with the papers on the clipboard, sensing her guilt. "Makes sense. I did drag you out here from your break all of a sudden."

"It's fine, you're just doing your job." Jee, now in the casual clothes with the performance clothes hung over their arm, leans against Ki, their head on hers. "Now, is it more wise to start working now so I catch up with things or catch up with my dear beloved?" Ki sighs before chuckling, very much amused. "The bed will have to wait." Jee slumps over with a groan, earning a playful but definitely forceful push from Ki from the added weight, as the pair step out of the studio through the back. "Okay, fine. What's up for next week?"

"Well, mostly interviews and filming of ads and promos. Apparently, Jubibis are all the rage right now, and they're wanting a collaboration. Then there's the new song for the idol awards." Jee winces at that last bit, knowing that they're nowhere near finishing that song, barely going past the first verse. "Oh, and the Saja Boys would like to make another appearance with you. Preferably in your sleepover streams." Ki almost heard Jee's neck crack from how fast they turned their head. "What?"

"It doesn't have to be this week, but they–" Jee cuts her off as they grab their manager's shoulders. "What the hell are they bribing you with? Are you being threatened?" Ki looks very much confused. "N-no? They're fine, they just look up to you so much." "You don't normally accept these things! Most especially with people we know nothing about."

"Well, I–" Ki stops herself, before thinking a bit. "Why... Why did I agree to it?" Jee's eyes narrow thoughtfully before patting her head. "I think you need a break too." Ki perks up. "Wah? There's no need, I can cancel–" Jee gently bonks her head. "Go home. I'll take care of things from here."

Ki plans to protest but yields with a sigh. "You're probably right, I need a long sleep. I'll probably contact Bobby to help you when he's not too busy." "And not to gossip for 30 minutes?" A smirk forms on Jee's face, which is reflected by Ki. "Please, you know it's gonna take me longer than that. An hour tops." The two share a laugh then a hug before Ki moves ahead. "I'll see you, Jiji!" "Be sure to sleep!!" Jee shouts back with a wave.

And then there was one. Jee sighs softly as they head to the direction of their home, which is luckily close by the studio. Though it would have to take a while as they feel the familiar pull from their patterns. "You gotta be joking."

Soon enough, they get pulled under, feel themselves falling until hitting the ground with a thud. "Ow." Jee sits up, rubbing their arm that got hit by the impact, before looking up to see Generic boy and, of course, Demon King themselves.

"My little soda pop." Gwi-Ma hums, earning a side eye from the two humanoids, one more obvious and blatantly judgey. "It's catchy." Jee rolls their eyes and decides to drown out their conversation as they look at the crowd instead. Most especially the rest of the Saja Boys, who are in their demon forms, slouching and definitely looking like they got run over by trucks then a plane. They even saw the eye twitch from the pink mullet. They chuckled at this, enjoying the sight. “Idol work isn't all that fun, huh?” They say to no one in particular, but it did earn an irritated glance from the boys below.

"One of the Hunters bears my mark." Their body froze as they heard that. One of the girls? That shouldn't be possible. They should've felt it during their first meeting. Demons tend to sense each other when close by. "But I have no control over her." That does not ease them in the slightest. Well, it did. Whoever she is, is safe from his control, but it doesn't change the fact that this went under their radar. Not unless... no way.

"That's good." Generic boy smiles at this. He fucking knows who?! Jee finally stands up, glaring daggers at him as goes on with his plan. Of course, the fire is pleased by this. "I taught you well Jinu." So he has a name? Nah, generic boy sounds better. "I would suggest having Jee help you with your mission." The glare transfers to Gwi-Ma. "But I fear that their... attachment to the Hunters, in more ways than one, has made them unwilling to cooperate."

Jee growls at him. "Then why bother calling me here?" Gwi-Ma glows more menacingly. "Because I noticed that throughout your time in the human realm, you have been holding yourself back." They cross their arms and their eyes narrow. "I give you souls." "Only barely. I'm aware of your own masses of people. Of souls for me to feast." His only response is more glaring from the soloist.

"But I'm willing to forgive you for your effort. If it weren't for your idol life, the Saja Boys wouldn't have existed. Thanks to you, the boys have an inspiration, a model to look up to." Their body tenses visibly all this praise, their nails digging into their bicep. Though they maintain eye contact. Curse him. Curse him and his way with words.

"Which is why I'm willing to give you... the proper motivation. Anything you desire, I shall give, in exchange of aiding the Saja Boys." His voice is as deceptively kind as it was back then. The only difference is... "Fuck you and your reward bullshit. I already know how you work. I won't fall for it again."

This earned them the sensation of thousands of needles, punctured into their body, and moving independently. Their scream almost echoes through the realm as they fall to their knees, the sensation worsening with every movement. "It's funny that you say that, since we both know how far you fell for my gift back then." The demon king taunts. "But since you would rather be stubborn, how does a slow and torturous death sound?"

"That's far too kind for them." Jinu speaks up as he steps in front of their writhing body. "Might we suggest something that will definitely get them to listen?" Gwi-Ma stops the pain, the recipient panting heavily as they shakily try to get up. "Go on."

"The Hunters would've been a good choice seeing their closeness with them.” Jee jumps in surprise as they hear the new, soft but deadpan and monotone voice, turning to see the rest of the Saja Boys. When did they get here? “Though that feels like an impossible task, since… you know.” Muscle man says next defeatedly, leaning on Bangs’ shoulder. “Luckily we have a better and quite simpler solution to this.” Sou Hiyori wanna-be says next as looks at Jee with a smug face.

Then Jee senses Pink mullet walks up to their hunched form, getting down on one knee and leans in close as he says, looking directly at Jee’s eyes with a proud malice. “Their manager. To be exact, her soul is for the taking." He barely dodged their rage and their claws as they swung their arm at him. "D-don't you fucking dare." Jee growls out weakly but fiercely. "I won't let you touch her." Pink mullet barks out a laugh. “Too late for that, don't you think?” Jee's vision becomes a vibrant red, about to jump at him to tear him to shreds, only to get that horrible sensation back. “AGH! FUCK YOU!!”

"Don't worry, we didn't do anything to her. Just some light soul manipulation.” Jinu ‘assures’ them. It fucking didn't. “We won't hurt her. If you help us of course. Help us, and no harm will come to her." Jinu reaches out a helping hand to them with a smile. A smile that screams 'you have no power here, so don't even try'. They want to rip his smug face into fucking pieces.

Seconds felt like hours as Jee tries and fails to find a way out of this, trying to ignore the pain as much as possible. They could plead, but it would go to deaf ears. They could annoy the fire enough to want to kill them, but they know it won't go past the want. They could try to kill themselves, but the sad thing about being a demon is that your existence is permanent unless Gwi-Ma decides it isn't. "We don't have all day, Pan." The man reminds casually, but the hostility doesn't go unnoticed.

With all the eyes on them, it is a great humiliation for Jee as they shakily and defeatedly took his hand, sealing each other's fate to this collaboration. They can almost feel the grin on Gwi-Ma's fiery form as Jinu helps them up on their feet. "Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."

The demons look at each other, expressions firm. Though, the group's eyes do hold a bit of guilt. Like they wished that things were different. That it wouldn't come to this. But that doesn't matter. Jee just wants all their heads on a pike. And ever more so, they want to make their lives a living hell.

Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two

Taglist: @lemon-bars1, @foureyes13

[atopvisenyashill]

What do you think about the relationship of Dany with her dragons?

Certainly interesting! Let's dig in a bit.

VISERION

I guess let's start with the negative - Viserion. There's a whole lot that hints that Viserion is going to bond with someone who is not aligned with Dany, whether through a dragon binder horn or a regular bond, and might even potentially be responsible for Rhaegal's death, or die in a fight against Rhaegal.

Rhaegal and Viserion were fighting over a scrap of meat, buffeting each other with their wings as smoke hissed from their nostrils. My furious children, she thought. They must not come to harm.

Viserion's scales were the color of fresh cream, his horns, wing bones, and spinal crest a dark gold that flashed bright as metal in the sun. Rhaegal was made of the green of summer and the bronze of fall. They soared above the ships in wide circles, higher and higher, each trying to climb above the other.

"Well, how long does a dragon live?" She looked up as Viserion swooped low over the ship, his wings beating slowly and stirring the limp sails.

"The warlocks in Qarth told you that you would be betrayed three times," the exile knight reminded her, as Viserion and Rhaegal began to snap and claw at each other. "Once for blood and once for gold and once for love." Dany was not like to forget. "Mirri Maz Duur was the first." "Which means two traitors yet remain . . . and now these two appear. I find that troubling, yes. Never forget, Robert offered a lordship to the man who slays you." Dany leaned forward and yanked Viserion's tail, to pull him off his green brother.

"There was no sign of Viserion, but when she went to the parapet and scanned the horizon she saw pale wings in the far distance, sweeping above the river. He is hunting. They grow bolder every day. Yet it still made her anxious when they flew too far away. One day one of them may not return, she thought.

Dany had commanded that the top be removed, so her three dragons might be chained to the platform. Irri and Jhiqui rode with them, to try and keep them calm. Yet Viserion's tail lashed back and forth, and smoke rose angry from his nostrils. Rhaegal could sense something wrong as well. Thrice he tried to take wing, only to be pulled down by the heavy chain in Jhiqui's hand. Drogon coiled into a ball, wings and tail tucked tight. Only his eyes remained to tell that he was not asleep.

Her captains bowed and left her with her handmaids and her dragons. But as Brown Ben was leaving, Viserion spread his pale white wings and flapped lazily at his head. One of the wings buffeted the sellsword in his face. The white dragon landed awkwardly with one foot on the man's head and one on his shoulder, shrieked, and flew off again. "He likes you, Ben," said Dany.

The dragons craned their necks around, gazing at them with burning eyes. Viserion had shattered one chain and melted the others. He clung to the roof of the pit like some huge white bat, his claws dug deep into the burnt and crumbling bricks. Rhaegal, still chained, was gnawing on the carcass of a bull. The bones on the floor of the pit were deeper than the last time she had been down here, and the walls and floors were black and grey, more ash than brick. They would not hold much longer … but behind them was only earth and stone. Can dragons tunnel through rock, like the firewyrms of old Valyria? She hoped not.

There's a lot of "gold means treachery" stuff within her chapters too, as well as Missandei having similar colored eyes - which is all to say I think Viserion's fate looks bleak no matter what happens. I go back and forth on whether Viserion will be bound using a dragon horn by Euron or someone will actually ride him. I know people think it's going to be Tyrion who rides him, certainly I can't discount all the Viserys-Tyrion connections. But I think it's very notable here that Tyrion's connections are to Viserys II and not Viserys the First. Viserys II was a) not a King for long but rather the power "behind the throne" b) did not have a hatched cradle egg c) never rode a dragon. Very different from the two other Viserii kings - Viserys the First was "betrayed" by the Hightowers and Viserys the Third was also "betrayed" by Khal Drogo. Visenya and Vhagar, as well as Meraxes are also a bit important here - the line of Targaryen Kings does not descend from Visenya, Vhagar dies in a fight against another dragon, and Meraxes (who is similarly colored) is killed by a scorpion bolt.

I think this combination - two Viserii and a Vhagar who are "betrayed", one in the Reach, one in a dragon battle, and one in a foreign land by a "barbarian" king points us to Viserion's fate. Not that Tyrion will ride him (because Viserys II rides no dragon and has no hatchling) but that Viserion will "betray" Dany by having a rider that is not aligned with her, likely Euron, and die fighting against one of his brothers.

RHAEGAL

In many ways, I find Rhaegal to be trickier to figure out than Viserion. Similar to Viserion, there's some curious stuff here and some of it is negative-

Across the tent, Rhaegal unfolded green wings to flap and flutter a half foot before thumping to the carpet. When he landed, his tail lashed back and forth in fury, and he raised his head and screamed.

Rhaegal hissed and dug sharp black claws into her bare shoulder as Dany stretched out a hand for the wine. Wincing, she shifted him to her other shoulder, where he could claw her gown instead of her skin.

She stroked Rhaegal. The green dragon closed his teeth around the meat of her hand and nipped hard...As Dany lifted her goblet to drink, Rhaegal sniffed at the wine and drew his head back, hissing. "Your dragon has a good nose." Xaro wiped his lips. "The wine is ordinary. It is said that across the Jade Sea they make a golden vintage so fine that one sip makes all other wines taste like vinegar. Let us take my pleasure barge and go in search of it, you and I."

Viserion's scales were the color of fresh cream, his horns, wing bones, and spinal crest a dark gold that flashed bright as metal in the sun. Rhaegal was made of the green of summer and the bronze of fall. They soared above the ships in wide circles, higher and higher, each trying to climb above the other.

She took a chunk of salt pork out of the bowl in her lap and held it up for her dragons to see. All three of them eyed it hungrily. Rhaegal spread green wings and stirred the air, and Viserion's neck swayed back and forth like a long pale snake's as he followed the movement of her hand. "Drogon," Dany said softly, "dracarys." And she tossed the pork in the air. Drogon moved quicker than a striking cobra. Flame roared from his mouth, orange and scarlet and black, searing the meat before it began to fall. As his sharp black teeth snapped shut around it, Rhaegal's head darted close, as if to steal the prize from his brother's jaws, but Drogon swallowed and screamed, and the smaller green dragon could only hiss in frustration. "Stop that, Rhaegal," Dany said in annoyance, giving his head a swat. "You had the last one. I'll have no greedy dragons."

"The warlocks in Qarth told you that you would be betrayed three times," the exile knight reminded her, as Viserion and Rhaegal began to snap and claw at each other. "Once for blood and once for gold and once for love." Dany was not like to forget. "Mirri Maz Duur was the first."

They had chained [Viserion] whilst he slept. Rhaegal had been harder. Perhaps he could hear his brother raging in the pit, despite the walls of brick and stone between them. In the end, they had to cover him with a net of heavy iron chain as he basked on her terrace, and he fought so fiercely that it had taken three days to carry him down the servants' steps, twisting and snapping. Six men had been burned in the struggle.

Interesting to me that Rhaegal is grumpier, wilder, more untrained as an animal than Viserion, starting fights with Viserion just as often as Viserion starts fights with Rhaegal. Despite that, these two do seem closer to each other than to Drogon - it could be a sign that their riders are aligned, it could just be a way to differentiate them from Drogon. The reference to "the green of summer" reminds me too much of the "green children" theme that comes up - the green knights of summer of the Reach, the green Vale knights, the green girls of Margaery's court, etc. There's a lot of Reacher imagery there associated with "the green of summer" which obviously points to Hightowers, to the Greens....and to betrayal.

So similar to Viserion, I think Rhaegal is being set up here for a dragon fight. Rhaegal being particularly aggressive makes me wonder if he wins, or perhaps he/his rider is the one who starts the fight. Perhaps it's a hot head thing, a "green boy" sort of thing - Rhaegal's rider rushes off to battle against Viserion, puts up a good fight, but ultimately both dragons/Rhaegal and his rider die. I think the focus on Viserion being "missing" in some scenes means he will die first, but it could mean that he literally leaves first, and dies second, while Rhaegal is first - I don't know that I could say concretely which one.

Then we get into the names & Conquerer dragons - Rhaegar, Rhaenys, and probably the other Rhae- names like Rhaegel, Rhaella, Rhaena, Rhae, Rhaelle, and Rhaenyra. Here is a great meta from the lovely @transdimensional-void about the Rhae- prefix and the themes there. I think it's interesting Rhaegar & the Rhaegæls are so tied to women's names, to women who were usurped, and to women who struggled with fertility. Again, I don't know that I would say definitively what all of this means and who will ride Rhaegal and how he will die. But I think all of this does mean he's going to die - I think it's more likely Rhaegal survives the dragon fight and gets shot by a scorpion but I think it's honestly just as likely that Viserion is the one that dies and Rhaegal, like Meraxes, is the one who gets shot by the scorpion. As for a rider, I think both Aegon and Jon are clearly in the conversation, more clearly than Tyrion for me, and all of this green imagery makes me think it's going to be Aegon that attempts to ride him rather than Jon but it could be both?

DROGON

Drogon is by far the hardest to predict.

"A gift of news. Dragonmother, Stormborn, I tell you true, Robert Baratheon is dead." Outside her walls, dusk was settling over Qarth, but a sun had risen in Dany's heart. "Dead?" she repeated. In her lap, black Drogon hissed, and pale smoke rose before her face like a veil. "You are certain? The Usurper is dead?"

"This changes everything." Dany rose abruptly. Screeching, her dragons uncoiled and spread their wings. Drogon flapped and clawed up to the lintel over the archway. The others skittered across the floor, wingtips scrabbling on the marble.

She understood now why Xaro Xhoan Daxos called it the Palace of Dust. Even Drogon seemed disquieted by the sight of it. The black dragon hissed, smoke seeping out between his sharp teeth.

The long hall went on and on and on, with endless doors to her left and only torches to her right. She ran past more doors than she could count, closed doors and open ones, doors of wood and doors of iron, carved doors and plain ones, doors with pulls and doors with locks and doors with knockers. Drogon lashed against her back, urging her on, and Dany ran until she could run no more.

Upon a towering barbed throne sat an old man in rich robes, an old man with dark eyes and long silver-grey hair. "Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat," he said to a man below him. "Let him be the king of ashes." Drogon shrieked, his claws digging through silk and skin, but the king on his throne never heard, and Dany moved on.

Ten thousand slaves lifted bloodstained hands as she raced by on her silver, riding like the wind. "Mother!" they cried. "Mother, mother!" They were reaching for her, touching her, tugging at her cloak, the hem of her skirt, her foot, her leg, her breast. They wanted her, needed her, the fire, the life, and Dany gasped and opened her arms to give herself to them . . . But then black wings buffeted her round the head, and a scream of fury cut the indigo air, and suddenly the visions were gone, ripped away, and Dany's gasp turned to horror. The Undying were all around her, blue and cold, whispering as they reached for her, pulling, stroking, tugging at her clothes, touching her with their dry cold hands, twining their fingers through her hair. All the strength had left her limbs. She could not move. Even her heart had ceased to beat. She felt a hand on her bare breast, twisting her nipple. Teeth found the soft skin of her throat. A mouth descended on one eye, licking, sucking, biting . . . Then indigo turned to orange, and whispers turned to screams. Her heart was pounding, racing, the hands and mouths were gone, heat washed over her skin, and Dany blinked at a sudden glare. Perched above her, the dragon spread his wings and tore at the terrible dark heart, ripping the rotten flesh to ribbons, and when his head snapped forward, fire flew from his open jaws, bright and hot. She could hear the shrieks of the Undying as they burned, their high thin papery voices crying out in tongues long dead. Their flesh was crumbling parchment, their bones dry wood soaked in tallow. They danced as the flames consumed them; they staggered and writhed and spun and raised blazing hands on high, their fingers bright as torches. Dany pushed herself to her feet and bulled through them. They were light as air, no more than husks, and they fell at a touch. The whole room was ablaze by the time she reached the door. "Drogon," she called, and he flew to her through the fire.

"He was not born wealthy. In the world as I have seen it, no man grows rich by kindness. The warlocks said the second treason would be for gold. What does Illyrio Mopatis love more than gold?" "His skin." Across the cabin Drogon stirred restlessly, steam rising from his snout. "Mirri Maz Duur betrayed me. I burned her for it."

Dany knew her face was flushed, but in the darkness Irri surely could not tell. Wordless, the handmaid put a hand on her breast, then bent to take a nipple in her mouth. Her other hand drifted down across the soft curve of belly, through the mound of fine silvery-gold hair, and went to work between Dany's thighs. It was no more than a few moments until her legs twisted and her breasts heaved and her whole body shuddered. She screamed then. Or perhaps that was Drogon. Irri never said a thing, only curled back up and went back to sleep the instant the thing was done.

"No, Khaleesi. Drogon breathed his fire, but in the empty air. The slaver men feared to come near him." She kissed Irri's hand where Drogon had bitten it. "I'm sorry he hurt you. Dragons are not meant to be locked up in a small ship's cabin."

"He will not come," Kraznys said. "There is a reason. A dragon is no slave." And Dany swept the lash down as hard as she could across the slaver's face. Kraznys screamed and staggered back, the blood running red down his cheeks into his perfumed beard. The harpy's fingers had torn his features half to pieces with one slash, but she did not pause to contemplate the ruin. "Drogon," she sang out loudly, sweetly, all her fear forgotten. "Dracarys." The black dragon spread his wings and roared.

Drogon and Rhaegal were asleep atop some cushions, curled about each other, but Viserion perched on the edge of her empty bath.

"You must be my children," she told the dragons, "my three fierce children. Arstan says dragons live longer than men, so you will go on after I am dead." Drogon looped his neck around to nip at her hand. His teeth were very sharp, but he never broke her skin when they played like this. Dany laughed, and rolled him back and forth until he roared, his tail lashing like a whip. It is longer than it was, she saw, and tomorrow it will be longer still. They grow quickly now, and when they are grown I shall have my wings. Mounted on a dragon, she could lead her own men into battle, as she had in Astapor, but as yet they were still too small to bear her weight.

Alone again, Dany went all the way around the pyramid in hopes of finding Quaithe, past the burned trees and scorched earth where her men had tried to capture Drogon. But the only sound was the wind in the fruit trees, and the only creatures in the gardens were a few pale moths.

And Drogon … The winged shadow, the grieving father called him. He was the largest of her three, the fiercest, the wildest, with scales as black as night and eyes like pits of fire. Mother of dragons, Daenerys thought. Mother of monsters. What have I unleashed upon the world? A queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. Without dragons, how could she hope to hold Meereen, much less win back Westeros? I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I.

In the smoldering red pits of Drogon's eyes, Dany saw her own reflection. How small she looked, how weak and frail and scared. I cannot let him see my fear. She scrabbled in the sand, pushing against the pitmaster's corpse, and her fingers brushed against the handle of his whip. Touching it made her feel braver.

The lash was still in her hand. She flicked it against Drogon's neck and cried, "Higher!" Her other hand clutched at his scales, her fingers scrabbling for purchase. Drogon's wide black wings beat the air. Dany could feel the heat of him between her thighs. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. Yes, she thought, yes, now, now, do it, do it, take me, take me, FLY!

She would sooner have returned to Meereen on dragon's wings, to be sure. But that was a desire Drogon did not seem to share.

Because this is her most intimate relationship with a dragon, there's a lot here for her, for drogon, for their story. Firstly, Drogon is a lot more calm than the other dragons and this is repeated - there's a lot of "even drogon was upset" sort of talk, for example. At the same time, he is also the one who does the most damage - to the warlocks, to Hazzea, to Irri, to the peasant farmers and freedmen of Meereen. Secondly, he is very attuned to her feelings even before she mounts him - he feels her anger, her arousal, her happiness, and reacts with her frequently. He feels her restlessness in Meereen and soars where she cannot, then is drawn by the stench of blood and death, gorges himself, and takes her away, then refuses to take her back. What's most important here is the emotional bond they have - very reminiscent of Aegon & Sunfyre, Drogon keys in on the fears of his rider and follows them to places he should not go.

I think what really sticks with me is how restless Drogon can be - he leads her through the House of the Undying, and he never wants to stay in the same place for long. Always, always, he's guiding her, pulling her away from what it is that is taking up her time, to what he feels is more important - and what he feels is more important are Dany's desires. I'm always saying that Dany waits too long to invade, she is too late to ever be successful at this point, and it's like Drogon knows this and is trying to pull her to Westeros - like, hello mother, we have conquering to do. He does not care for Meereen, and in fact he is actively hostile to all Meereenese, freedman and Great Masters alike.

What I can concretely say is that I think it's obvious Drogon will outlive Dany. I think it's obvious she is going to start using him offensively, burning the Khals in Vaes Dothrak, and likely sacking several cities on her way back to Meereen. I also personally think it's very obvious that Drogon is going to be involved in the burning of King's Landing - when he burns the warlocks, reacts to Aerys, and reacts to Robert's death, that all just feels pointed combined with everything else regarding Dany being involved in burning King's Landing.

I've wondered a lot if Drogon will harm Dany in some way and I do still worry about it but I think it's interesting Drogon has no real betrayer imagery attached to him. Balerion dies peacefully, but notably is involved in kinslaying when he is Maegor's dragon. Drogo "betrays" Viserys in a way which could speak to Dany coming up against Viserion's rider - note that Drogon and Rhaegal are mentioned to be curled up together while Viserion roams.

THE DRAGON MUST HAVE THREE HEADS

So all together. What I think is most likely-

Viserion is stolen somehow, and kills or graciously wounds Rhaegal -> most likely by Euron using a binding horn, but I can’t rule out Aegon or Jon or even Missandei being the one to do this either (Euron feels most likely to me)

Rhaegal’s death will involve rushing off into a battle, an unknown area, because he is too “green” or his rider is too green. Maybe it’s at Viserion’s hands, maybe it’s a scorpion bolt.

Drogon will be involved in burning KL, and will outlive Dany, and probably never turn against her.

One thing I’ve thought of a lot is that the three betrayals will come from her dragons. There’s already a lot of traitor stuff surrounding Viserion, and the gender/fertility/usurpation stuff feels very relevant when you think about Rhaegar and the Jon of it all.

Rhaegal -> treason for blood -> bonds with another who has valyrian blood who Dany is not aligned with

Viserion -> treason for gold -> is forcibly bound away from Dany

Drogon -> treason for love -> destroys KL in defense of Dany

I'm still very much married to the "Dany commits treason on a technicality against Rhaego, Viserys, and Jon" but I think there is something here when you think about the namesakes of her dragons and the potential treasons. It's the betrayal that would hurt her the most, it's the betrayal she would never see coming, and it's betrayals the dragons aren't even culpable for - they can't stop themselves being bound to another because that is their nature. To quote Hugh Hammer, Dany very much believes as the people of Westeros have that her dragons are gods. They're not. They're just meat.

[transformers-spike]

thank you for completely understanding me

adding someone into the mix who is aware of their trauma but hasn't experienced it themselves is bound to help - they can take a step back and watch everything through a (hopefully) objective lense

dude i'm 100% convinced Blackarachnia's organic half sure does change things up from regular plug n play. So they're doubly overstimulated while their human is just in for the ride of their life

now i need the reader getting fragged by all three at the same time

By the end, all of their holes are full of transfluid, and one of them has eggs

Legit still feral over a Blackarachnia x Reader x Sentinel x Optimus foursome

Three very traumatized ex friends trying to rekindle their friendship (with mixed results) and that one organic who accidentally brought them all together

If fragging each other gets too awkward, they can always triple team the human

[kindlythevoid]

Oranges - Clyde Lawrence // pazoo-underscore // Ao3 tag - social_mockingbird // Orange Juice - Noah Kanan // onlinehorseproblems // Oppenheimer dir. Christopher Nolan // amateurdigitaldesign // The Orange - Wendy Cope

Edit: So I finally got permission to add in the beautiful artwork of Big Bird and Snuffleupagus sharing oranges. It was in my original draft for it, but I got impatient and posted it minus Sesame Street. However, much thanks to @onlinehorseproblems for the art and the words!! I think it works as a nice segue into friendship, don't you?

[notbecauseofvictories]

it's wild to watch the original Stepford Wives (1975), and realize that their depraved vision of hypersexualized domestic slavery was just...Betty Crocker. June Cleaver. A modestly made-up woman in gingham or pearls; a husband looking for some afternoon delight. Not that these aren't very narrow and terrible boxes to be stuffed into, or that the control inherent in the fantasy is any different ("Why? Because we can," Dale tells Joanna) but compared to Stepford Wives (2004) you could almost admire the reasonableness, the relative affection.

But then, on the flip side….doesn't this make the ending even more tragic? In Stepford 2004, it's never quite clear why Joanna and Walter are married. They simply are, by necessity of the plot; while they do talk about why they like each other, it has the ring of a "we're moving in different directions" speech, or even a performance review, rather than genuine affection.

In Stepford 1975, it's very clear why Joanna and Walter are married. It might not always be the best of marriages (the women's lib discussion, where Charmaine admits that her husband married her for how she looks; the scientist who scribbles "I'm not happy either" on the notepad) but Walter makes sure Joanna has a drink, somewhere to sit; he watches the kids when she's in the dark room, or travels to New York; he eats breakfast with her, fights with her, sits in the dark weeping after he discovers what Stepford will make of her.

Which makes his defection to the Men's Association even crueler, more selfish. It might not always have been the best of marriages, but it was something resembling a partnership. And if Joanna ever thought that was a choice, a choice both of them were making together day after day…well, she knows better now. There was only ever one person entitled to make choices in their marriage. It wasn't her.