#he's hyperbolically violent

[princesssarcastia]

alright its late, way past my bedtime, which means its fine if i release a bit of my top gun writing for the first time, right?  right. 

this is a snapshot from a sequel (that i haven’t written) to a story (i haven’t finished), because why should I follow time and behave in a linear fashion?

anyway.  thinking about Rooster attending Ice’s funeral as someone who’s not only estranged from the family, but was, up to this point, actively antagonizing and trying to drive away the person closest to him (i.e. Maverick).  thinking about Rooster as someone with a lot of anger and, on a normal day, nowhere to direct it but inward.  thinking about what being furious at the people you love most in the world for 20 years would do to you, as a person.

and also, as always, thinking about the Yearning™, even and perhaps especially from pov outsider.

(edit: now with an extended version on ao3)

...

No wife.  No kids.  No one to mourn you if you burn in.

Bradley knows it’s not true, even as he says it.  But they’ve all been living Uncle Mav and Uncle Ice’s lie for so long, it’s easier to spit out in anger than the truth.

That does nothing to relieve his impulse to choke himself out right now.  If he’d known Uncle Ice was sick again—

But he didn’t know.  No one knew.  Not even the rest of the Uncles, if he can still read their expressions right after years of distance and without the uncanny, graceless intuition of a child to help him.  Maverick…he can’t tell with Maverick.  The man could never be angry with Ice, not for anything, and he’d be no less devastated with forewarning than without.  His other uncles seem pissed as hell through the tears, though.

He feels like complete and utter shit for having said that to Maverick, because he might as well have been setting him down on an oil slick right before fate threw a match.  It’s not—he’s not unaware of the effect he has on Maverick.  Bradley knows what the distance between them does to his father; it’s just that normally he’s too angry with him to care.

Right now, he cares.  And it’s disgusting, grief clearing his eyes enough to show him what a bastard he’s been.  

If he’d known—

God, what he wouldn’t give for one last family dinner at the Kazansky house.  Uncle Ice and Aunt Sarah and Maverick, all his cousins, whichever of the Uncles were in town at the time…they filled out the dining room, filled it up with laughter and delight and love and it made the years after his mom died more than bearable; it made them worth living.  

[yurious-george]

Is that an F-14 on my IFF? Because I'd like to pet that kitty.

(Shitty pilot pickup line, This is incomprehensible to all but me-)

*several minutes of googling later*

hey girl are you a. sopwith camel?/ because you wont have. teeth. when i'm done with you

[elliot-honey]

The fact that the grown tumblr ceo posts like a 13 year old writing a callout post with bolded mic drop moments ever other line is certainly… interesting

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Sacrifical Bride.

Commissioned by the very lovely @yanmaresu.

Pairing: Yandere!Hades x Reader (Record of Ragnarök).

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Forced Marriage, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Emotional Manipulation, Rough Sex, Unprotected Sex, and Mentions of Kidnapping/Prolonged Captivity. Not Canon Complacent. I Have Never Met Canon But I Hear She's Very Nice.

The wedding was a solemn affair.

Not dull, because nothing that had your heart beating so violently could ever be considered ‘dull’, and not dreary, because despite the many, many things you could say about your kidnapper-turned-husband, he wasn’t one for bland affairs. No, your dress was of the finest and most vibrant silks, your veil lined with pearls and rubies and the gown’s train long enough to swell and ebb behind you as you walked down the seemingly never-ending aisle, unaccompanied by any escort. Wreaths of shining ivory lilies and blooming chrysanthemums encircled marble pillars, low-burning lanterns casting the chapel in long, wavering shadows. The pews were empty. The only guests were his ghastly servants, and they’d never once said a word to you.

There was no officiant. Hades waited for you at the brimstone altar alone, a gentle simper playing over his lips as he watched you drag your feet and fight the urge to bolt, to run, to do the very thing that’d left you trapped in his arm in the first place. It was tempting, albeit pointless. You’d always been swift footed, but there was nowhere to escape to in Helheim. At best, you’d spend a few days hiding and struggling to survive in the empty plains that surrounded his looming fortress of a home. At worst, you’d find yourself without direction and beyond the reach of his control, hopelessly lost and stumbling through fields of fading dead and gnarled beasts and things that would make the man in front of you look hospitable, in comparison. You tried to remind yourself of that as your body begged you to flee.

As you reached the altar, his smile grew into something that could’ve been convincingly genuine, had it been able to reach the pits of lifeless ice that were his eyes. Rather, the gesture only seemed to add to the coil of dread growing tighter in the pit of your stomach as you stepped beside him, clutching your bouquet to your chest in a white-knuckled grip. He’d let you pick that out yourself, at least, and you’d taken a truly irrational amount of joy in picking wildflowers and trimming roses and breaking every rule of decorum your mother had ever taught you. Now, though, the shadows of his hall seemed to dull your vision-searing colors, and it was difficult to take joy in such a simple pleasure knowing the man in front of you sought to ensure you’d never braid daisies or sleep beneath open skies again, when he was staring you down like yet another precious gem he planned to add to his ever-growing collection. It was a cruel comparison, but not quite as hyperbolic as you would’ve liked.

There was a shallow sigh, a hand brought to the edge of your veil. He toyed with the fabric for a long moment before taking the hem in both hands and pulling it away from your face. If he recognized the terror stitched into your expression, he only deemed it worth a slight shake of his head. “Oh, beloved.” His hand fell to your cheek. “You’re as radiant as the day we met.”

The day he plucked you from your mortal life and dragged you into the depths of the earth, the day he’d forced the awful seeds of that terrible fruit down your throat and promised you would never see another living soul again. You swallowed back your nerves. “Please, don’t draw this out.”

You were lucky you’d fallen into the hands of such a mild-tempered captor. He let out an airy chuckle, turning back to the altar. It was decorated sparsely; an overflowing cornucopia posed in one corner, a standing thurible slowly releasing nauseatingly sweet incense into the stagnant air sitting in the other. Between them was only a bottle of dark wine and two twin chalices, crafted of only the finest bronze and polished until they shined in the low lighting. He filled both to the brim before looking towards you, a glint in his remaining eye as he took a chalice in either hand.

You’d been wrong when you assumed they were identical. Where one had a line of aimless, curling thorns following the rim and plunging down the length of the handle, the other was embellished with roses, abstract and nearly shapeless, forming neat columns across the body of the cup. He extended the latter to you, its contents threatening to spill as you took it in your trembling hands. You’d managed to talk him out of the more elaborate ceremonies he’d suggested, but it was difficult to remember that this was a preferable alternative now that could feel the chill of his wine seeping into your palms.

You brought it to your lips, held it there for a moment, then pulled back at the hint of a more familiar scent than that of his dizzying incense. “Pomegranates?”

“I thought it would be a nice touch.” For him, maybe. He’d always struggled to see things from your perspective. “Forgive my sentimentality.”

You wouldn’t, but you were smart enough to keep that to yourself. When he raised his chalice, you did the same, mirroring him when your own will failed you. “To us, darling.”

You nodded. “To us.”

He took a long sip from his chalice, seeming to savor the rich wine, while you drained yours in a single breath. Try as you might to enjoy it, you could only seem to taste ash.

~

A few vows were exchanged, a kiss pressed into the back of your hand when you flinched away from his attempt to communicate his affection more directly. Finally, he took your arm and guided you back to your shared chambers, lingering in the doorway while you collapsed onto his bed – your marital bed, now, you supposed. You buried your face in the silken sheets, letting out a soft groan. There would be a celebration later on, a feast with all of his many gloating brothers and prying sisters in attendance, but the worst of it was over. You were bound to him, for better or for worse. All you could do was weather the consequences.

You’d hoped he would be kind enough to leave you alone while you consoled yourself, while you took all that you knew and all that you didn’t and recontextualized it with yourself as the mortal bride to the God of Death, but a hand on your shoulder dispelled that fleeting fantasy. With no small amount of reluctance, you pushed yourself upward and turned your attention back to Hades. This time, without the pretense of custom, he didn’t settle for your hand. His mouth found its way to the dip of your shoulder, then the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin as he pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses into his chosen targets.

When he started to move towards the curve of your throat, you moved on instinct – your hands finding their way to his hair as you dragged him away from you before he could do anything you wouldn’t be able to forget as soon as he left the room. “Please,” you said, not for the first time that day. “I… I’d rather be alone, right now. If it’s all the same to you.”

His smile didn’t waver. “You know that, if it were up to me, I would bend to your every whim,” he spaced the words out generously, as if worried your feeble human mind might not be able to understand. “But we aren’t done.”

Your expression fell. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I wore the dress, and—and I took your vows, and—”

“My love,” he cut you off swiftly, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek. “Our union will have to be consummated, eventually.”

You felt your throat begin to swell shut.

“I know that, but—” You laid your hand over his, trying to call upon whatever pale imitation of sympathy might’ve existed in his heart. “—does it have to be consummated now?”

You watched as his gaze softened, as his head lulled to the side in that endeared-yet-condescending manner he seemed so fond of. Slowly, with a painstaking gentleness, he brought you closer to him, ghosting over the top of your head and lingering there, even as he started to speak. “I think,” he started, his voice muffled by proximity. “that it would be in your best interest not to keep me waiting any longer.”

It wasn’t a threat, but it was posed like one, dredged up from somewhere deep in his chest and accompanied by his hand on your waist, nimble fingers slipping underneath the sash binding your gown together. When you jerked back, reflexively trying to escape his advances, he was quick to chase you, to let his softened smile spread into an amused grin as an arm wrapped around your midriff and dragged you, willingly or otherwise, into his lap. “I don’t want to hurt you.” And yet, your safety didn’t seem to cross his mind as his blunt nails bit into your waist, as he dragged you close enough to feel his chest press into yours, to become uncomfortably aware of the stiff outline against the loose fabric of his pants. “If I rely on my own self-restraint for another day—” Another kiss, this one to the tender patch of skin above your jugular vein. “I’m afraid I might end up doing something we both regret, when the time comes.”

“Less than a day,” you pleaded as he buried his face in your neck. There was a blur of movement, the ghost of his touch along the curve of your spine, and your bodice fell away in tatters, the ruined fabric collapsing to your waist. When you moved to cover yourself, Hades clicked his tongue and you froze, letting your arms fall back to your sides. Begging him to change his mind was one thing. Going against him so transparently would only make things more difficult. “Half a day. An hour. I just— Hades, I can’t do this right now—”

“My love.” Swift, blunt, merciless. You’d been a fool to ever think he was one of the kinder gods. “I think I’ve waited long enough to claim what belongs to me.”

Any protest you might’ve had died in your throat.

You’d been a fool to ever think he was anything less than the cruelest of his kin.

You wanted to scream. If you couldn’t run, then you would yell, raise your voice and tell him that he already had you, that he’d gotten everything he could’ve possibly wanted, but anything you might’ve said was torn away and ripped to shreds as his head dipped low, his teeth latching onto the vulnerable skin of you collar bone and sinking in. He didn’t draw blood, but he didn’t have to. A bolt of pure, stinging agony shot from your chest to your core, only dulling as he pulled away with a low groan. “Have I ever told you how much I adore the sound of my name on your tongue?” You felt his hand on your hip, then your thigh, the remains of your dress cut through and disposed of with little fanfare. He gave your bridal lingerie (pure white and so obnoxiously lacy, you’d had to wonder if this was all some sadistic joke as you slipped it on) more attention, his thumb running along the delicate trim before his fingers slipped underneath it, tracing the length of your slit before doing away with the barrier altogether.

Dread and panic dulled your reactions, but it would’ve been a lie to say the feeling of his mouth on your skin had left you completely unaffected. He chuckled as he gathered your slick on his fingertips, two of which were soon pressed into your clit with a brutal sort of precision. “And you tried to play coy.” He teased the sensitive bundle of nerves mercilessly, the patterns he traced into your clit too slow and too fleeting all at once. You wished he wouldn’t touch you at all, but if he was going to, it was the least he could’ve done not to draw it out. “That must’ve been why you seemed so rushed during our ceremony. If you’d asked me to make love to you on that altar, I happily would have.”

Hot, humiliated tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. You attempted to deny it, but a cracked moan slipped past your lips instead as two of his fingers were forced into your cunt and spread, splitting you apart. Your hands shot to his shoulders, trying to stabilize yourself, but he only saw your desperation as an invitation – bowing his head and pumping his fingers into you at the kind of languid pace that left you fighting not to rock against him, not to make up for the urgency immortal creatures so often lacked. “You’re a vice,” he muttered, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, his tone low and lecherous. You wondered, briefly, if words that fell from the lips of a god could be considered sinful. “To think my own wife would’ve had me neglect her so severely for so long.”

You shook your head. You were married to him, sure, bound to him. But you couldn’t afford to think of yourself as his wife. You couldn’t afford to think of yourself as something so limited, something so purely an extension of him. “I’m not—”

“Don’t try to spare my feelings. I can see that I underestimated just how much attention my little mortal would need.” His wrist quirked, another digit pushing past your entrance and stuffing your pussy full as his fingers curled and ground inside of you. Against your will, you felt a tight heat begin to twist and writhe in the pit of your stomach, pangs of burning pleasure coursing from your cunt to your core. Now, you cried unabashedly, embarrassment and shame burning in your cheeks and fueling the unsteady stream of tears that Hades was so agonizingly quick to coo over, to kiss away as your hips bucked unsteadily against his hand. “What a sensitive wife I have.” That word – that awful word – was enough to earn a ragged sob, but if he recognized the connection, he didn’t deem it worth his concern. “I promise, you’ll never feel so unloved in my care again.”

You would’ve given anything to be able to pull away from him, to be able to shove at his chest and swear to all the gods you’d once worshiped that there was no part of you that could ever feel loved with him, but in the end, he was the one to let you go, to throw you onto the center of his great bed and leave you whining involuntarily at the sudden loss of stimulation. He’d never been one to deprive you, though; in a moment, he was in between your open legs, one hand wrapped loosely around your thigh while the other pulled feverishly at his own clothes. His coat fell away first, then his shirt. You heard fabric shift and metal clink and, in a daze, saw him wrap his fist around something he could not have possibly planned to fit inside of you. Half out of terror and half out of instinct, your gaze flickered from his cock to his face – to the wide, fanged grin he’d been wearing for as long as you could remember.

He moved to kiss you, and you drove your heel into his stomach.

The blow would’ve been weak by human standards, but it caught him off-guard. Out of reflex, he reeled back, and you took the opportunity to scramble off his bed and towards the door, to any part of this forsaken place where Hades wasn’t. You made it a step, maybe two before something caught your shoulder, before your body buckled under a weight greater than your own. You were dragged onto your knees before you could so much as think to slip away from him, your cheek forced against the cool marble of the floor before you could hope to make your descent more dignified. You felt his broad chest press into your back, his snarling lips against the curve of your throat. You wondered if the insult would be great enough to warrant taking your life, but the thought was dismissed quickly.

Hades had never been the kind of god capable of showing such mercy.

“I would’ve made love to you like a queen,” he spat, his tone all manic venom and overdue obsession. “But, if you’d rather be fucked on the ground like a whore, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

You weren’t allowed the luxury of bracing yourself, this time. In one brutal movement, he thrust into you, splitting you open on his cock with the kind of harsh, unforgiving force better suited to a wild animal.  There was no time to adjust, no time to sob, only Hades groaning against your neck as he bucked against you, never daring to pull out completely. Whatever agony his fingers had sparked was now ten-fold. Your legs shook, your body threatening to collapse entirely, but Hades kept your ass raised and your thighs spread, his focus entirely on bucking into you as deeply and as roughly as he could.

It almost surprised you when one of his hands shot to your head, his fingers tangling themselves in your hair as he forced his mouth against yours. You tried not to cooperate, but two fingers pressed into your clit and your mouth fell open in a guttural cry, providing an opening he seemed content to take advantage of. It was a deep, lingering, messything – all tongue and teeth – but his cock ground against something soft and vulnerable and you failed to suppress the wave of pure heat that flooded through your battered body as you clenched around him, as you came undone around the cock of your kidnapper, your captor, your husband. Hades wasn’t far behind, his composure shattering no more than a second after the walls of your cunt clenched down around him. You could only choke on your misery-tinged pleasure as his hips pressed into your ass and he came inside of you – his awful warmth soon tainting every fiber of your being.

You tried to tell yourself that, at the very least, it was over - that he’d had his fill of you and now, you’d be free to console yourself elsewhere, but your hopes were once again dashed when Hades failed to release you, failed to pull out of you, failed to do anything but press himself into your back and trail his lips idly down to the nape of your neck. “Once is a pitiful amount for a king. Don’t you agree?”

You felt his hips move back, then rock against you just as quickly.

“You can forgive me when we’re done, love.”

[originalleftist]

There are really just two issues that matter this election:

One is climate- Biden put us on a path to halve carbon emissions in 6 years and reach net zero by 2050. Harris will continue that. Trump will actually increase use of fossil fuels while gutting regulations.

Every person on Earth will be harmed and endangered by that, regardless of your identity, location, or views.

The other issue is the peaceful transfer of power. Whatever problems you may have with Harris, she'll leave peaceably in 4 or 8 years. Trump will not. This is not fear mongering or hyperbole. He has said that if he wins we'll never need to vote again. He met his last electoral defeat by inciting and enabling a violent insurrection. Sure, he's an old man, but he's surrounded by young men who share the same contempt for democracy and the rule of law- like his Vice Presidential nominee, JD Vance, who will assume power if he dies in office.

We were lucky to get him out once, barely. His people are much more prepared for a coup now, he'll have broad legal immunity now thanks to SCOTUS, and he's openly vowed to become "a dictator on day one" and deploy troops on American streets.

Any issue with Harris is a temporary problem, and you can try again in 4 or 8 years. With Trump, you can't.

THE ONLY REASON TO ELECT TRUMP IS IF YOU ACTIVELY WANT THE WORLD TO BURN. And don't care how many actual people burn in the process. And if that is your position, then by your own choice you are an enemy of all humanity.

[mariacallous]

Terrorism doesn’t occur in a vacuum. It depends on the oxygen of rhetoric for sustenance and encouragement. Nearly two years after Hamas attacked Israel on October 7, 2023, the cumulative effect of calls to “Globalize the intifada” and “End Zionists” perhaps inevitably led to the horrific attack yesterday in Boulder, Colorado, where a man yelled “Free Palestine” as he threw an incendiary device at a Jewish gathering in support of the hostages.

Words matter. The protester at Columbia University in 2024 holding a sign labeling Jewish demonstrators who were waving Israeli flags as Al-Qasam’s next targets was dismissed as being hyperbolic. So were the By Any Means Necessary banners carried at demonstrations and the red inverted triangles, similar to those Hamas uses to mark Israeli targets, spray-painted on university buildings, a national monument, and even the apartment building of a museum director. When demonstrators wave the flags of terrorist organizations, wear headbands celebrating those same groups, and publicly commemorate the martyrdom of terrorist leaders such as Hamas’s Yahya Sinwar and Hezbollah’s Hassan Nasrallah, they’re not throwing the bomb, but their message can light the fuse.

In the past six weeks, that fuse has produced a succession of terrorist acts that have threatened the safety and security of America’s Jewish community. That two of the incidents also occurred on Jewish holidays—the arson attack on Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro’s official residence on the first night of Passover and yesterday’s incident in Boulder on the eve of Shavuot—show that Jews in America are not only in some danger, but even more likely to be targeted on specific dates marking religious ritual and observance.

And they won’t be just singled out, but subjected to especially heinous acts of violence. The attacker in Boulder used a homemade flamethrower and Molotov cocktails, resulting in eight people being hospitalized with burns and other injuries. Tragically, among the eight victims, who ranged in age from 52 to 88, the eldest was reportedly a Holocaust survivor.

Yet another example of an especially egregious act of violence was the shooting deaths last month of Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim on the street outside a Jewish museum in Washington, D.C. One bullet from a powerful 9-mm handgun is often sufficient to kill. But police found 21 shell casings scattered around the two bodies. The murderer allegedly stalked Milgrim as she attempted to crawl away, shooting her repeatedly. This was an execution.

For years, American Jews watched with horror the attacks on their European co-religionists. A young man kidnapped and tortured to death, an elderly lady beaten and thrown out the window of her home, and a teacher and three children murdered outside a Jewish day school are among a long list of violent anti-Semitic incidents in France alone—the country with the world’s third-largest population of Jews after Israel and the United States.

“What history had taught him was Amazement,” Lion Feuchtwanger writes of the conclusion reached by one of the characters in his deeply prescient 1933 novel about Nazi Germany, The Oppermanns. “A tremendous amazement that each time those in jeopardy had been so slow in thinking about their safety.” Despite the sharp increase in the number of anti-Semitic incidents in the U.S. recorded over the past decade by the Anti-Defamation League, American Jews also once believed that the violence against Jews in France, Britain, Germany, and other European countries couldn’t happen here. Many told themselves that this threat was unique to European Jewry, given the internal frictions within their own countries, which had absorbed large immigrant populations from former colonial possessions. But yesterday’s attack, coming on the heels of the firebombing of Shapiro’s residence and the D.C. murders, has proved otherwise. As Ian Fleming, the former spy and novelist who created James Bond, reportedly observed, “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”

Arguably the system was already blinking red after the 2018 mass shooting at Pittsburgh’s Tree of Life synagogue, where a gunman killed 11 people, and the near tragedy averted four years later, when an armed man took hostage the rabbi and worshippers at a Colleyville, Texas, synagogue. The October 7 attacks heightened that awareness and led Jews to emulate the security measures standard at synagogues, day schools, community centers, and senior residences in Europe. Private companies were hired to provide guards at the entrances to synagogues and schools. Volunteers were solicited, trained, and deployed by community-based security organizations. The positioning of at least one local police car and patrol officer in front of synagogues became commonplace.

But in today’s threat environment, the question for Jews everywhere is inevitably: How much security is enough?

Shapiro’s residence was not unprotected. Additional armed guards were deployed at the entrance to the Jewish museum for the event that Lischinsky and Milgrim attended. Jewish institutions, organizations, and agencies, moreover, are already burdened with rising security costs. A study of expenditures at Jewish day schools in four states found that the average cost for security had nearly doubled in 2024–25—to $339,000—compared with 2022–23. After the past six weeks, further increases can be expected. The same is true on university campuses across America, where Jewish- or Israeli-studies departments and centers, as well as similarly oriented student organizations and Jewish ministries, are themselves responsible for paying for the security now standard for all of their events.

And there will be challenges in what can be done to prevent such tragedies in the future. For instance, although security was increased at the entrance to and inside the D.C. Jewish museum, Lischinsky and Milgrim were gunned down outside, on a street corner. Will security measures now require that a secure perimeter be established, or even concentric circles of security in front of every venue and surrounding any event? Will a phalanx of local police or community volunteers be required to box in and protect participants at any and every Jewish event? After yesterday’s attack in Boulder, the answer, most likely, is yes.

Security provisions are often likened to the proverbial length of a ball of string. In the case of American Jewry, however long that once was, it now needs to be lengthened. Whatever upgrades and increases have been implemented in the past will necessitate reassessment, further modification, and enhancements. More resources will need to be dedicated to ensure the protection of Jewish places of worship, clerics, and congregations. The same is true for other Jewish and Israel-related activities at schools, community centers, offices, and senior homes. The same goes for marches, parades, demonstrations, vigils, and other inherently public events. Strengthened physical, personal, and digital security measures will likely follow—especially during religious holidays and festivals. Even greater cooperation, coordination, and information sharing between law enforcement and Jewish institutions than already exists will be needed.

Ultimately, however, physical security alone will not protect American Jewry. The prejudice and calumny directed against that community that have now become commonplace and have often been treated with indifference must change as well. And with this must come the recognition that violence threatens not just American Jews but all Americans. The Council on American-Islamic Relations cites record numbers of anti-Muslim and anti-Arab incidents; CatholicVote finds hundreds of instances of vandalism as well as more serious attacks on Catholic churches in the U.S. since 2020; and the Hindu American Foundation had to issue a “Temple Safety & Security Guide” to its worshippers.

Violence against all faiths is rising. To stop it, our society must take more seriously not just bomb throwing, but the messages that light the fuse.

[seriouslycromulent]

The Math Ain't Mathing

So I'm sure people are going to accuse me of being a conspiracy theorist, but the more I think about the results of this US election, the more it's clear that things aren't adding up.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm well aware of the US's long history of racism and misogyny, and it is totally possible -- in theory -- that more people voted for a moronic straight, white male who is an ajudicated grapist and convicted felon over a more-than-qualified, intelligent, results-driven woman of color for a position as leader of the wealthiest nation on earth.

I'm not saying that couldn't happen. But did it? Legitimately?

The more I think about Trump's campaign, the more fishy this result seems.

So here was a man with ...

virtually no policies (that he could talk about openly),

no ground game,

no door knocking apparatus to urge folks to get out the vote,

no phone banking,

he was constantly running out of money and had to shill products to raise more,

stole money from down ballot candidates, putting their marketing strategies at risk,

found liable for SA,

found guilty of millions of dollars in fraud,

constantly rambles and shows clear signs of being mentally unwell,

invokes violent and hateful language against specific communities as well as individuals,

bragged about being a dictator on Day 1,

had over 40 former cabinet members declare him unfit for office,

was called a fascist by his own former chief of staff,

was not endorsed by any reputable economists,

saw a flood of lifelong Republicans -- literally millions of them -- abandon their party to vote for his opponent,

has been impeached twice,

has seen sharply, dwindling crowd sizes at his rallies for the last 6 weeks,

... and somehow he won the popular vote by 5 million?

Even though he never won the popular vote in 2016? Or 2020?

Suddenly he "found" a bunch of votes from people who liked him?

Um, no.

Just no.

One of Trump's biggest failings is that he and his team tell lies like children. That is, they've never learned how to keep things believable. Like a misguided 10-year-old who is desperate to impress someone with his whopper of a tale, he always exaggerates to the point of hyperbole and insults our intelligence.

For example, he told us his rally at Wildwood, NJ, this past summer had 108,000 even though the town itself only has 80,000 residents and the venue he held the rally in only held 20,000 people.

Or how he kept insisting that American kids are going to school and somehow receiving gender reassignment surgery over a couple of days and without parental consent before being sent home.

Each lie is so over the top and grandiose it makes him look infantile while at the same time insults our knowledge of reality.

And that's exactly what this feels like.

There is no way this man won the majority of the votes and the popular vote after only winning due to the electoral college the first time and not at all the second time. More people vilify him now than they did in 2016 and 2020, and that's saying something.

There just aren't enough voters in the US to give him a clear path to victory here no matter how committed his sycophants are to white supremacy. MAGA voters are not the majority of the voting electorate.

Also the fact that the exit polling data is suspiciously similar to the same tall tales Trump's been selling for the past year about how he had a ton of support in the Latino and Black communities, despite there being no data to support it at all. He was polling damn near 0% in some majority black communities like Detroit and Atlanta.

Yeah ... no.

This math ain't mathing.

I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but I know when something isn't adding up. And nothing about these results add up at all.

On top of that, they ran their entire campaign like they didn't care about people getting out to vote. They kept insulting different segments of the electorate over and over again, as if they didn't need the votes of single people or people without children.

Plus, we saw record voter registration leading up to the election. More people voting early in state after state, and millions of people voting for the first time in their lives. But somehow there were fewer votes cast in this 2024 election than in the 2020 election?

Hell, Georgia alone tripled its early voter turnout. So how is this election getting fewer votes than 4 years ago?!

There were historically longer lines than ever before in parts of the country that never saw long lines, and yet there were millions fewer votes counted so far this year? Are we really to believe that all those long lines and so many new voters managed to only add up to 136M versus 158M who voted in 2020?

I call bullshit!

Also, a number of folks are commenting on how quickly the states were called. In all my years of voting, I've never seen a US election turning around so fast.

Yeah, the math ain't mathing.

Sure, he could've eeked out a win via the Electoral College without the popular vote like he did in 2016, but given her momentum and the majority of the polls either favoring her or having had them tied, none of these results pass the smell test.

Meanwhile, Harris had a multigenerational, multiracial, multiethnic, multigendered coalition of enthusiastic supporters who volunteered, phone banked, door knocked, and fundraised in every state plus D.C. Her media strategy was savvy, her interviews were sharp and intelligible, and her demeanor was inclusive and congenial. Again, not putting anything past good ole American racism and misogyny, but all the data showed that her supporters were clearly larger in number and more enthusiastic than his.

Long story short --

I do believe we are witnessing the American government being hijacked and a dictator installed right before our very eyes.

[blankie-greenie-anon]

More details about my Oubing High School AU

While Nezha is called a demon for being a violent loner delinquent, Ao Bing is put on a pedestal by his own schoolmates. Everything and anything he does is perfect and to be worshipped. Once, Ao Bing casually said he's just a person, and everyone looked at him with a blank smile, going "Huh?" like his words couldn't register. He never mentions this again.

At home, Ao Bing isn't on a pedestal; his personal tutor, Shen Gongbao, doesn't hesitate to note his flaws, and his father Ao Guang doesn't hyperbolize his achievements. However, Ao Bing does bear a lot of expectations. Pretty much everyone in his family is an alumnus of East Sea Academy. His older brothers did some amazing things in the academy's name, and now everyone's hoping for "the Third Prince" to succeed them. Ao Bing knows his family loves him unconditionally, but they aren't his peers, and he doesn't want to let them down. Before meeting Nezha, Ao Bing never realized how bored and lonely he was.

The brawl between Chentang and East Sea happened when Achou was walking Xiaomei home with his gang, the Demon Hunters (everyone is aged to up to be teenagers here, except Xiaomei who's only in elementary school), and they happened to cross paths with a rival gang—the East Sea Dragons (the personified versions of some of the supporting dragon characters). One mocking remark led to another, and that led to an impromptu jianzi match in a community basketball court, which then devolved into a brawl.

Ao Bing saw the brawl from Shen Gongbao's car; he was getting a ride home with Xiaobao. He asks to be let off there because he believed his schoolmates were above this brawl and as their student council president, he must interfere. Shen Gongbao allows him to go, and Xiaobao follows so he can watch Ao Bing fight.

At first, Ao Bing focused on deflecting and negating impact because he doesn't actually want to fight; he even says so. However, Achou can't accept that because if the Demon Hunters backed down, the Dragons would take it as a win since Ao Bing represents East Sea. The Demon Hunters continue to attack, and Ao Bing starts using more aggressive techniques, hoping the pain would make them reconsider. It nearly works; most of the Demon Hunters feel its hopeless to keep trying, except for Achou, who dares to limp back into the fight. Xiaomei is pleading for him to stop, but he insists he can't (because stupid male pride and all that).

Xiaomei leaves the court to go get help—Nezha. Some time in the past, Nezha had helped Xiaomei when she was in trouble, and he promised she could find him again at the local park playing jianzi alone. So she does, and she tells him her brother is being hurt, and Nezha agrees to follow her. He didn't know that Xiaomei's brother was the same guy that influenced the entire student body of Chentang High to ostracize him. When he finds out, and he's also seeing Ao Bing getting jumped by five people at once, Nezha had half the mind to just let Achou get beat up.

At this point, Ao Bing was done playing. He defeats each member of the Demon Hunters in a series of rapid-fire attacks and is prepared to knock Achou out cold so the Demon Hunters would just pick him up and leave. However, right as Ao Bing's fist was about to connect, Nezha smoothly slipped in, maneuvered Achou out of harm's way, and struck Ao Bing where he was open. Ao Bing was sent skidding across the court, but he stayed on his feet and had barely managed to block Nezha's hit. Achou angrily asks why he's here, and Nezha pushes him into the arms of the Demon Hunters, telling Achou to stop worrying his sister. Then he turns to Ao Bing, who's trying to discern what Nezha's intentions were. Ao Bing asks who Nezha is. The latter smirks and proceeds to recite a poem introducing himself while doing martial arts poses, ending on a proper fighting stance. Understanding, Ao Bing also goes into a fighting stance, and beckons Nezha to make the first move.

Their fight is on a completely different level than the brawl. Ao Bing had been holding back when fighting the Demon Hunters; with Nezha, though, he actually gets to use the full breadth of Shen Gongbao's training. Nezha, too, is amazed that the defensive and evasive techniques Taiyi taught him are effective. They spar until they're both breathless. Nezha laughs. Ao Bing asks if he finds this fun. Nezha says yes, and asks "Don't you?" To Ao Bing's own surprise, he doesn't disagree. He also notices how Nezha wasn't fighting him like the others had. Nezha wasn't trying to dominate or defeat him. Rather, it felt like they were communicating. With every blow and parry, they were learning something about each other, and Ao Bing wants to know more.

The police, led by Lutong, comes to arrest everyone involved in the brawl. Nezha got caught right after helping Xiaomei climb over a fence to safety, whereas Ao Bing gave himself up to give Xiaobao enough time to run away. The two of them and the other students are then hauled off to the police station, where they wait in cells for their parents to come pick them up. The rivalry between Chentang and East Sea is so infamous, the students are purposefully placed in different cells. Nezha tries to convince one of the officers, Hetong, into putting him together with Ao Bing, but no dice.

In the Chentang cell, Achou thanks Nezha for helping Xiaomei, and the other Demon Hunters express respect for his fighting ability. Nezha is still very wary of them because they were literally his bullies; the Demon Hunters have jumped Nezha before and pulled pranks on him, though he usually outmaneuvered or outsmarted them. But he's willing to talk with them more when they start telling him about Ao Bing.

When Ao Guang arrives at the station, he's arguing with the officers that Ao Bing doesn't deserve to be here and this must be a wrongful arrest. When Li Jing arrives, Nezha is cursing under his breath because he thought Yin would come get him. Of course, Li Jing chastises Nezha for getting into trouble, but then he sees he has some dried blood under his nostril, and he quickly takes out a handkerchief and asks if Nezha is okay. Nezha snatches the hankie out Li Jing's hand because he doesn't want Ao Bing to see his dad wipe his nose.

Ao Guang is the headmaster of East Sea Academy. He loves this school and wants to make sure all students get the education they deserve. Unfortunately, the board of directors want to cut the funding, and they've already done so multiple times, to the point that Ao Guang and several staff members deliberately reduced their own income to produce funds. This is part of why the students of East Sea are stereotyped to be overachievers; they have to keep the school's rating high to justify being funded at all.

Li Jing and Yin work as firefighters. Their station is in Chentang Town. They met in Chentang High and became the it couple of their grade. Jinzha and Muzha also studied in Chentang and graduated with honors. The Li Family is pretty legendary amongst the community, and everyone was expecting Nezha to uphold this (made-up) legacy, but he could not be bothered. His family is fine with that; they simply want him to apply himself and not let his potential go to waste.

After meeting Ao Bing, Nezha starts applying for clubs. He hears Ao Bing is the principal flutist of the East Sea orchestra; Nezha joins the drum section of the Chentang orchestra. Ao Bing is a member of the Chinese chess club and debate team; Nezha joins those same clubs in his own school, and even studies up on strategies which he then teaches to his teammates so they'd have a better chance of getting through the tournament and facing off East Sea. Ao Bing is part of the swim team; Nezha decides he'll just come watch during competitions.

Ao Bing was surprised to see Nezha cheering him on at his swim meet. He really thought (read: hoped) he'd see Nezha in the pool with him (in a speedo...). Later, Nezha manages to sneak into the men's locker room, and Ao Bing quickly drags him into one of the shower cubicles so they can talk. They've spoken to each other in the other tournaments where their schools were facing off, but those were very brief interactions because their respective schoolmates would get in the way with their stupid rivalry. Sometimes, Ao Guang or Shen Gongbao would quickly usher Ao Bing off. This moment in the shower cubicle was their first proper conversation. And Ao Bing was in a jacket and a speedo.

Nezha admits he had joined the jianzi team instead because he loves playing that. Since his reputation at Chentang has improved, he now had friends (kinda) to play with, but the one Nezha wanted to play jianzi with the most was Ao Bing. So in this cubicle, Nezha asks Ao Bing if he'd like to play a round with him some day. Ao Bing answers yes and gives Nezha his phone number. Then he tells him to get out of there before the rest of the East Sea swim team are finished showering.

One Sunday afternoon, Nezha plays jianzi by himself at the Chentang community park, and Ao Bing comes to join him. In the past, Ao Bing was taught how to play jianzi by his older brothers, who were currently too busy working to spend time with him; Nezha went through the same thing with Jinzha and Muzha. They play together until the sun began to set. After that, Ao Bing decides he wants to quit swimming. He's good at it, sure, but that doesn't mean he actually enjoys it; much like how he can walk well, but that doesn't mean he's crazy about it. He wanted to quit the swim team so he can join the East Sea jianzi club instead. This club had few members and wasn't seen as anything serious. Once Ao Bing joins, he's able to get more members and proper training so the club can enter tournaments.

Before he officially quitted the swim team, Ao Bing consulted Ao Run, asking what Ao Guang might think about his reason for quitting. Ao Run assured him, "Your father will support you no matter what. You know that, don't you?" And she was right. Ao Guang was a little surprised, but he was fine with Ao Bing pursuing what made him happy.

Whenever Chentang High and East Sea Academy come face-to-face in tournaments, the members are all hurling insults and making rude gestures at one another, while Nezha and Ao Bing are delighted to see each other. They don't even hide that they're friends, but everyone around them thinks they're actually enemies who are just being classy.

Before meeting Nezha, Ao Bing would spend his free time studying or training. Now, Nezha's taking Ao Bing to watch movies, check out interesting shops, and eat at tasty cafés. Nezha also starts inviting Ao Bing to study at his house. Li Jing and Yin were surprised to see him at first; after that, Ao Bing was basically family. There was a day when Nezha brought Ao Bing over while Jinzha and Muzha were around, and of course they just had to be annoying the whole time; they're chill with Nezha and Ao Bing being friends, though. Meanwhile, Ao Bing hasn't told Ao Guang or Shen Gongbao that he's been hanging out with Nezha. Still, they can tell he's happier these days, and they're glad for him.

Jiang Ziya is here, too. He's Nezha's uncle, and Xiaojiu is his niece whom he's currently taking care of as she moved out of her village to study in the city. Nezha likes to bring Ao Bing to Jiang Ziya's house to play videogames on Xiaojiu's PlayStation 5. Jiang Ziya would have just cleaned the house meticulously, and then Nezha comes knocking stuff over on his way in. Yunxiang, De San, Zhazha, and Bingbing are part of this story as well—as very, very distant relatives.

It was definitely Ao Bing who confessed first. Nezha himself knew he had feelings for Ao Bing, and he was trying to find the right words/time to confess. When Ao Bing beat him to it, Nezha was a bit of a mess, barely able to sputter out, "Yeah, me too!" They come out to their families, who are all very supportive. Then they make it official on social media, and the fact hits every one of their schoolmates like a gold brick.

By the way, the feud between Chentang and East Sea was started by Taiyi and Shen Gongbao when they were in high school. They've already made amends a long time ago and totally forgot about it.

[gremlingottoosilly]

you/your anons have got me hooked on cyberstalker!König so here are some rando headcanons:

-will go through your likes on twitter and grit his teeth if he saw you liked a man/celebrities selfie, god forbid their a male friend because he will spiral into convincing himself that this is like cheating (you two have spoken once) and he has to do something about it

-if he saw you simping for someone casually he would have to step away and let his anger out in the gym because otherwise he would start weighing the pros and cons of murdering Henry Cavill or something

-has a dragons horde of items you liked/expressed interest in because he has a whole plan when he kidnaps you he would offer it as a way to calm you down. this plan is flawless obviously

-you liked a picture of cat ears and a maid outfit ONCE and he has jerked off to that mental image at least 5 times a week

-will try to get into the things you tweet about just to start a conversation but gives up halfway since he doesn't have the best attention span, tells himself that you'll just tell him about it when your together because he could listen to you for hours <3

-that is not hyperbole btw you once posted a video giggling at something your cat was doing and he has put in on in the background as he gets through his day

-has printed your selfies to cum on stare at because he can get headaches if he stares at a phone screen for so long (hes OLD your honor)

-everytime he likes a song/movie you enjoy it fully fuels his delusions that you two are soulmates

-has found your pinterest boards and already has a downpayment on a house that matches your preferred aesthetic perfectly

-kisses the screen when he sees your selfies. nothing to add to that its just something he does

-LOVED when the 'big boy' song went viral and saw you posting about loving it, again, you two are clearly soulmates

i didn't realize how long this is I am so sorry

Omg!! It's literally so perfect, you crawled in my head like a little bug and now you are munching on my brain and I would let you because you are just chill like that. Konig is an old-fashioned stalker who doesn't have time to literally stalk you, he is a busy man with a busy life, so he catches up with your socials instead!! More under the cut

He googles every term he doesn't understand, and reads recaps of whatever show you were watching, just so he could save time on actually watching it. He writes everything in a diary, every little detail because he knows a bit about internet safety from Hutch and he just knows that this precious data is far more protected in the front pocket of his vest, in a tiny and scrawny notebook. He saves every picture and prints it, just to see every tiny detail. Your favorite color, your favorite decorations. You like pink sanrio fluffy style of decor? He doesn't understand it, and don't see a point in just adding to the clutter, but he will buy you as much Hello Kitty and My Melody stuff as possible. Something minimalistic, but expensive? He understands it a bit more, and he is happy to finally use his money for something nice and not just beer. He would be grinning like a cat with the cream if you like video games -- especially the ones he likes, the violent action ones. He can't let go of the war even at home, and having a perfect game when he doesn't actually have to worry about being in danger but putting as many enemies down as possible is nice, really. You would have to explain the point of Minecraft to him though. The celebrity crush one omg!! Konig is insecure because if you like more normal, traditionally attractive male celebrities, he just knows he can't compete. However, there has to be something wrong with you if you really like Konig, so he doesn't mind - after you stop liking those celebs of course. God save you if you have some porn in your twitter likes - he would try to implement it in your sex life. Bondage? He already knows how to make really good knots. Cnc? It's basically your whole sex story already. He would never let you forget about every embarrassing little picture you liked, and he enjoys thinking of you as a perverted thing that needs some good punishment. If you do cosplay...oh boy. Even the most normal costumes are a good jerk-off material for him. Even if you cosplay male characters, he'd find a way to sexualize you -- it's not really nice of him, but this old man finally got what cosplay means and he is not letting go of this knowledge.

His soldiers think you're his wife already because he keeps your photo, a fucking collage of your photos, on his desk and a polaroid of you in his vest pocket. Poor ol' you, having stalking problems and not even knowing about it because he is too busy to actually court you.

[ramshacklefey]

It's less than a week before the Murderbot show comes out, and I've finally got the words to say what I feel about it:

I fucking hate the show, and it fucking hates me.

See, Alexander Skarsgård hates Murderbot.

"But Fey, he's making the show! The whole reason he's making the show is because he loves the books and wanted to play the character! He loves Murderbot!" 

No. It doesn't. If he loved Murderbot, or the stories, he never would have taken the role. Skarsgård loves himself, and he loves the idea of himself in Murderbot's position. He loves the power that he thinks Murderbot has. He loves the violence and action and the fact that Murderbot is clever and snarky. He loves the image of an inhuman, violent being who can win and dominate and is also just so misunderstood by everyone. He loves the image of a Hero entirely palatable to his white cishet patriarchal world. 

Every single thing about Murderbot is a subversion of exactly that image. Every. Single. Thing. There's nothing about it that's actually palatable as a Hero in that worldview. It's aroace and agender. It's not strong on its own, even with The Magic of Friendship. Its victories are never its alone. It wins by trusting people. It wants to be a SecUnit, and being a SecUnit is utterly antithetical to being a Hero.

And that's why I love it. That's why I relate to it. When I look at this character, I see myself reflected back to me in the kindness it maintains so adamantly. In the anger it harbors at the world that has been so cruel to it. In its rejection of every single societal norm of sex, romance, and gender. In the ways that trust and learning to care and be cared for are what heals it. In the awareness that outside of the safe place you've made for yourself, the world hates you.

Skarsgård is turning Murderbot into everything that hates me and wishes I didn't exist. That's not hyperbole. He's wiping the character out and putting himself and his ideals in its place. And those ideals say I shouldn't exist. I don't exist. I can't exist. 

It doesn't matter that the show's using the right pronouns and (goddamn better be) keeping Murderbot aroace. They've turned those things into the wrapping around a character that fits their image.  

So, what do I actually feel about this show? Sickened horror at the ghoulish thing they're making. Fury at them for making it. Disrespected and disdained by the people who came up with the whole thing. And absolutely done letting myself think that I'm being immature or overdramatic for feeling this way. 

[weebsinstash]

I keep thinking about just, platonic yandere Batman who forces you to be his sidekick for whatever reason (you're a troublemaker and you need discipline, you're a metahuman and need training so you don't hurt someone, you just genuinely need a family or some shit and he Thinks This Will Be Good For You, maybe he's just straight up fucking selfish and is dragging you along for his emotional benefit alone) but you constantly just make it the utmost pain in the ass experience for him in rebellion

"Alright, let's go over this again: you're cornered in the alley. You have a gunman coming towards you. Your grappling hook is broken, you don't have a weapon, and he's in arm's reach of you. What do you do?"

"Suck him off?"

"YOU DISARM HIM, GOD, STOP"

WayneCorp is a leading manufacturer in blood pressure medicine because YOU are singlehandedly fueling more research and funding into the topic with how much shit you give this man (to the delight of your troublemaker 'siblings'.) Not maliciously or like violently or anything but enough to just absolutely drive him up the wall, total "I'm not mad *leaves the room to break something*" ass behavior

Bruce is over here trying to debrief everyone for a mission talking about like how Deathstroke the notorious killer mercenary has been seen in the area and you've got your feet up on the table biting the corner of your mask "but why is he so FINE though??? Like I'm not the only one who thinks he can get it, right?" and your dear old dad is ready to hang up the cowl for the night and take a good long rest to try and forget what you just said

"You can't make those kinds of comments about Poison Ivy, she's literally a terrorist"

"Girls can have a little bit of ecoterrorism as a treat. She can be my Captain Planet Dommy Mommy. She can kill oil CEOs and i can put my face in her titties and Harley can be our weed smoking girlfriend, it's a win-win for everyone"

"Please, just stop--"

"Do you think Joker's prostate honks like a bicycle horn? Like, do you know from personal experience?"

"OK, we're going into the Bat Hyperbolic Therapy Chamber to discuss why everything you just said was not ok"

[divorcedfiddleford]

You made a post saying “it has been zero days since our last alex hirsch hates ford so much bullshit” and i know it was mostly hyperbole, but you have some really good takes that I would love to be elaborated on in terms of how ford is written

it really wasn't hyperbolic. over the years he's just really shown a lot of hatred towards this one character.

content warning: discussion of abuse

i want to start with this clip from the commentary which i think of as a microcosm for how the writers and especially alex think about ford.

transcript:

rob renzetti: i mean he [mcgucket] should've basically knocked ford out, and... and destroyed the... you know, tied him up, and, destroyed... and... alex hirsch, speaking over him: yeah he should've beat ford with a wrench and taken this thing apart piece by piece! he's the one who understood how to built [sic] it, but...

... so that seems like a pretty violent course of action. shall we unpack that?

ford is a character who's pretty explicitly written as a victim of abuse, and who now has c-ptsd as a direct result of the abuse he experienced. alex hirsch believes that ford deserved everything bad that happened to him, that it's ford's own fault, and that he also deserved worse things to happen to him. this is why, given every narrative chance, alex hirsch has piled more suffering onto ford's plate. the biggest example of this i can think of is in the journal, when he wrote that fiddleford was actively erasing ford's memory (despite this being a massive timeline contradiction which i still refuse to accept). because god forbid ford even have one remotely healthy relationship with somebody. that would be too good for him. ford was manipulated and lied to by bill, but alex repeatedly compares him to icarus, a teenager whose demise was the result of his own ignorance. this comparison is still so fucking offensive to me. the sun did not lie to icarus, did not guarantee icarus all of the happiness and success and sense of belonging which he had been denied all his life, did not actively shut out the voices of those around him who would try to help him.

alex in general has a very strange relationship with abuse. he seems to get really upset when people read his characters as victims of abuse. the strongest instance of this is actually not with ford, it's with pacifica - especially in the nwmm episode commentary. the episode says "pacifica's parents have conditioned her to respond to a bell" and alex says people got "the wrong idea" about it. like. dude. what the fuck. you wrote abuse. even if you didn't mean to, that's what you wrote. you can't say people got "the wrong idea" just because you didn't think about the subtext of what you were writing. anyway, back to ford: i believe this extends to him as well. alex wanted to write a character who's a foil to stan and who was a selfish unlikable victim of his own arrogance. however that's not what he wrote. he somehow seemingly accidentally wrote a really compelling and relatable awesome autistic guy who had to fight for every good thing he he ever had in his life only for it to be taken from him every single time. but alex can't let go of seeing ford as just "the opposite of stan". when he talks about "how someone as smart as ford could fall for bill's tricks", he refuses to realize he wrote a situation in which a man was being psychologically manipulated and tortured.

it goes back further, too. people repeatedly theorized that filbrick was... not a very good father, to say the least. on top of the very explicit and canon fact that he threw one of his children out on the street (seriously, there is no defense for this), people pointed out that stan would flinch at filbrick, that ford seemed upset by things filbrick said but dared not talk back, that filbrick was mad at stan not for hurting his brother, but for "costing the family potential millions". but alex can't have people seeing ford as sympathetic. ford can't have it bad like stan did. ford had to have everything and he lost it all because he sucks so much. so he wrote the graphic novel story where ford is filbrick's favorite child and filbrick also is not even a bad parent you guys he's just stoic. ignore the whole thing in dreamscaperers where stan perpetuates the abuse that filbrick did to him. ignore the fact that ford was shouting at stan and then completely shut up as soon as filbrick entered the room and did not say another word for the rest of the night. ignore all that because i just made up this story where he cries at a present from stan. filbrick loved his boys for sure you guys!!!

i'm not even touching on how alex repeatedly villainizes traits commonly associated with mental illness and neurodivergence. ford's hypervigilance becomes arrogance. his passion for knowledge means he's a know-it-all. his difficulty socializing and making friends means he's a misanthrope. his lingering resentment for the way he was raised means he hates his brother and is the worst human being to ever have lived. i could go on, go even further into how the finale reaffirms this, but i feel weird talking about this too much.

[lighting-and-shadow]

So I have this idea (no one asked for) of Sylus and MC dynamic and reasons why they might not work.

Disclaimer:

I love MC! I don’t tolerate any hate towards her. I just gravitate more towards non-MC fics because I love angst, I love to suffer, I love to guess on whether it will be happy ending or not and I’m very solo Sylus main. Most of Sylus non-MC fics are usually very Sylus focused. Also I rarely relate to MC personality wise. I still find her incredibly badass and strong!

What I don’t like is “Sylus cheating on MC” plots. Because I think he is just not that kind of man. Unfortunately a lot of times it’s almost inevitable because MC is like his destined soulmate. So i thought of the solution! What if they (MC X Sylus) do try to be together, but it doesn’t work out.

HEAR ME OUT (spoilers for main story update)

MC and Sylus both grew up in a violent place like gladiator arena. However what sets them apart is that unlike Sylus, MC actually had years of peaceful life in Linkon. Even though we all collectively hate Josephine, she still gave MC years of peaceful and normal life, which MC really appreciates.

Sylus however was doing god knows what in space (robbing space lords, saving poor planets, serving time in time and space prison), then he decided to settle on earth. But he chose one of the most violent places on earth - N109 zone. He could have chosen Linkon? He could have pretended anyone else, like Raf who taught at MCs university. He could have become actual fruit vendor. But he didn’t. One might argue it’s because the lab was in n109 zone. But Dimitri kept the lab safe, Sylus wasn’t needed there 24/7. In my opinion it’s because he enjoys/is used to this kind of lifestyle, he feels the most free and comfortable in this kind of setting. N109 zone is also place full of forbidden desires, on which he feeds on and full of people who would not mind selling their soul.

So in the scenario where all is well, wanderers are gone, EVER is defeated, no enemies to fight, no danger to prevent.

I can actually see MC craving peace and stability (who can blame her, with such a traumatic life). Sylus is willing to give it to her.

MC and Sylus decide to settle together in Linkon. Everything is fine at first, but eventually Sylus gets bored. Even if intellectually he wants that peaceful life with MC, his soul craves chaos and danger. She would see that. She would see how unhappy this kind of life makes Sylus. That’s when they start clashing. Sylus would say they are the same, kindred spirits, twin flames etc, that deep down she is bored too. She is a fighter, just like him. To some extent he is right. She also has a hard time adjusting to this new lifestyle. But she is willing to change and adapt, because in her core she wants Linkon to be a peaceful place, she values this stability she fought for her whole life. She became a Hunter for a reason. So one day she admits to him she no longer likes this version of herself, the kind of person she becomes around him. That in her core she wants something different for herself. He encouraged a fighter in her, but she no longer needs to be one. Her goal is achieved. It breaks his heart but he understands her. They break up. Amicably, almost friendly, with deep respect for each other.

So now our underworld king is single, but absolutely not ready not mingle.

So this whole scenario in my head made me think - “what kind of person would be perfect for Sylus?”

At first I wanted to indulge myself and self insert.

So the girl would be calm, quiet with almost soothing presence. The kind of girl who can get him to sleep on her lap, so that he forgets whatever was on his mind. The one that alarmingly will make him let his guard down. The kind of girl who would make him stop and just breathe a little. Stable, nurturing, probably a healer. (It’s not exactly me, more like romanticized, hyperbolic, fictional version of me). Complete opposite of him.

I’m not sure it would work in reality? Who knows. Let the girl have her daydreams.

Or perhaps he needs someone who would be just a female version of him.

I honestly just wanna hear your version of Sylus’s perfect match and from your readers too. Since i noticed a lot of discourse in comments under your posts.

Also anyone can feel free to use this scenario in their non MC fics. If anything, I’m hoping someone would develop this idea.

Ok, so I have a lot of thoughts to unpack here:

First, I also love MC (as evidenced by Ikigai), but I just don't vibe with her sometimes. Sure, she's impulsive, but I have anxiety; I'm not brave, I'm not strong, and I'm not as flawlessly beautiful as her.

Second, I also hate the cheating stories. Because it's not in character for any of LADS men (maybe Caleb or Rafayel with the whole MC vs Not MC, but that's a story for another time), especially Sylus. I see myself in him: someone who's been betrayed by the world and wants to find someone he can fully trust and be himself with. He would never cheat.

Third, this whole scenario of them trying to be together and it not working is genius. And I can see it happening. Because, and this is part of why I write non MC for this man, MC of the current and the one he knows are practically different people.

Current MC is kind and bit naive (another reason I don't vibe with her; I'm a cynic to my absolute core and assume the worst all the time (fuck anxiety and trauma)). Current MC longs for peace. Current MC is lost and confused. Current MC simply isn't the same girl he survived the gladiator ring with.

Fourth, I see Sylus' ideal as a someone like him (much like my character from Ikigai), but with more softness. Like how you described: someone he can just lay his head down and let him forget his worries and struggles. Someone who's fiercely loyal and protective, but also kind.

I think someone who's a good balance of kind and realistic would suit him. Like they know the world is scary and painful and they could be hurt, but they choose not to spread it. They choose to be kind when they can.

But, he can also have fun with them. Laugh with them. Fight alongside with them.

Sylus' ideal is someone who loves him unconditonally. Someone who accepts all of him.

But that's just my thoughts on it. I'd love to hear more of what you think!

@mtcozylove

[contemplatingoutlander]

Apocalyptic rhetoric is just as dangerous as the violent kind

Paul Waldman is absolutely correct about how the Republican's "apocalyptic rhetoric" about the Democrats could ultimately lead to violence just as much as the violent rhetoric. The GOP frames Democrats now as deliberately wanting to "destroy" America. (Ironically, it is the GOP who have turned toward autocracy and seem determined on establishing one party rule at all costs. This suggests that once again, Republicans are projecting onto Democrats.)

“I cannot stand these people that are destroying our country,” said Rep. Matt Gaetz (R-Fla.) to a crowd of Donald Trump’s supporters at the Iowa State Fair this past weekend while the former president looked on approvingly. Gaetz then added: “Only through force do we make any change in a corrupt town like Washington, D.C.” The second part of that statement made headlines, as it’s not every day that a member of Congress advocates “force” to achieve political goals. But the first part ought to be just as troubling, because the two parts operate together. The idea that our opponents are purposely attempting to lay waste to America is often the justification for all kinds of radical action — violence very much included. Barely a day goes by without prominent Republicans repeating that claim. Trump regularly says his political opponents will “destroy the country,” or have already nearly destroyed it. It’s a staple of Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis’s rhetoric. “If woke ideology takes over, it will destroy this country,” DeSantis says. If President Biden is reelected, the governor insists, “the left is gonna absolutely destroy this country.” [...] Yes, liberals have made dire warnings about a second Trump presidency. But that’s unique to Trump, who actually tried to overturn a lawful election and retain power, and last year called for the “termination” of the Constitution. So the assertion that if he became president it could mean the end of democracy is at least not too far-fetched.* The talk of the United States ending its run some time in the next few years because Democrats passed some modest expansion of health coverage or kept pushing for a transition to green energy, on the other hand, is bonkers. Yet, unlike other kinds of rhetorical calls to extremism, we don’t police it at all. Journalists tend to be very attuned to hints of political violence. When a candidate says he wants to start “slitting throats” in the federal government, as DeSantis recently did, we condemn it and explore its troubling implications. We press Republican contenders to admit that Biden fairly won the 2020 election and to repudiate the violent insurrection of Jan. 6, 2021. In contrast, we treat partisan apocalyptic rhetoric as mere hyperbole. But it’s the premise that turns anger into action. If you actually believed your opponents were literally trying to destroy your country, what wouldn’t be justified? Threatening election officials? Storming the Capitol? Assassinations? You might protest that Republican politicians don’t really believe this talk. But clearly, many of their supporters do. Which is no surprise given how often they’re told that it’s true. [...] Any rational Republican knows the truth about the next election: If Biden wins, it will mean nothing more than four years of policies they don’t like. That will be deeply unpleasant for them. But it won’t mean the end of America, and they shouldn’t be allowed to say so without challenge. We ought to treat apocalyptic rhetoric just like we treat violent rhetoric: Take note of it, condemn it, challenge candidates to defend it, and explain the threat it poses. Why? Because many of the voters who are listening think the Republicans spinning out wild tales of America’s imminent destruction mean what they say. [emphasis added]

____________ *In my opinion it isn't just Trump, many on the left have legitimate concerns about extreme right-wing Republicans like DeSantis and white Christian nationalists who seem to want autocracy/ one-party rule because they have either said and/or shown that they do.

[radicalafterdark]

1. “Fixing RWBY Vol 6 Finale was PEAK”

This opening is already setting up for failure. “Peak”? Really? That overused Twitter buzzword doesn’t mean anything anymore when it’s tossed around for fan rewrites with zero critical evaluation. The post makes a huge claim—superior to canon—and then fails to back it up with anything deeper than surface-level praise and personal bias.

2. The Adam Worship is Embarrassingly One-Note

“Adam is/was my favorite character…”

We get it—you’re emotionally invested. But you confuse personal attachment with narrative merit. You cry about his death in canon being rushed and underwhelming, but your preferred version isn't any better. All you've done is trade one underdeveloped arc for another that's "edgy and loud" rather than "quiet and hollow." You don’t want depth—you want badass vibes. That’s not character development. That’s a fanservice hallucination.

“Adam felt threatening, unhinged and more like a force of nature…”

No, he felt like a melodramatic anime boss battle reject who listened to too much Linkin Park. Being “unhinged” and “angry” doesn’t make a villain compelling. You’re mistaking volume for substance, and fury for complexity. This rewrite didn’t fix Adam—it just cranked him up and said, “That’s enough.”

3. “Fuck you Schnee” is NOT a Mic Drop

This is one of the most laughable parts of the post. You actually present “Fuck you Schnee” as a superior, impactful line to “Oh.” Why? Because it’s louder? Angrier? Filled with teenage angst? The original line “Oh” was quiet, anticlimactic, and tragic—intentionally. It portrayed Adam as a hollow, spent man, which is the point. Giving him a Tarantino-style F-bomb just makes him sound like a bitter Reddit edgelord, not a complex antagonist.

4. Misunderstanding of Tragedy and Resolution

“Sometimes, despite being the hero…they have to put the unsavable ones down.”

You’re trying to justify murder with faux-deep vigilante logic, but it falls flat. Adam’s death in Fixing RWBY isn’t noble or symbolic—it’s just a messy, hyper-dramatized boss fight capped with a Tumblr-tier monologue. No exploration of what made him that way. No confrontation of their shared past. Just blood, screaming, and some weak “moral greyness” handwaving. You’re not witnessing tragedy—you’re cheering for a violent catharsis fantasy.

5. “No one celebrates, no one cheers…”

That’s not profound. That’s basic tone management. You don’t get a cookie for avoiding the original’s forehead touch moment when all you’ve done is overcorrect by swinging to pure doom-and-gloom nihilism. You replaced melodrama with melodrama wearing eyeliner and think it’s maturity.

6. Yang’s PTSD Moment

“Her PTSD still effecting her but she fights through it…”

Spoken like someone who doesn’t understand trauma at all. "Fighting through it" isn’t a cure, and using trauma as a grit-powered buff in a boss fight is tone-deaf at best and exploitative at worst. The canon handled her PTSD with uneven pacing, sure—but the rewrite just uses it as an emotional prop. There’s no subtlety here. Just “hurt girl hits harder now.”

7. Closing Line: “I am not even joking.”

You say this like it’s a surprise. You’ve just written a glorified YouTube comment section post disguised as a review. Of course you’re not joking. But maybe you should be—because the hyperbole, the emotional overreach, and the zero nuance make this read like satire. And not the clever kind.

Conclusion:

This post is a masterclass in emotional projection masquerading as critical praise. It's built on the idea that volume equals impact, edge equals depth, and redesigns equal redemption. But ultimately, it fails to interrogate the material it worships. It’s fanboy drivel disguised as thoughtful commentary.

Final Score: 1.5/10. Half a point for passion, one point for coherence, zero for actual insight

[frozenjokes]

The Reasonable Next Step (Cannibalism)

Cub did not understand. Never for a second did he think he was wrong, nor did he doubt himself now, but if he wasn’t wrong (which he wasn’t), then why did Mumbo say no?

It did not make sense. (and his feelings were a little bit hurt) It did not make sense.

Mumbo had always been a bit of an oddity, and Cub used to attribute this to the fact that he was just so.. normal? Mumbo was jumpy, yes, he’d always been on the edgier side, but other than that, he was just human, just doing his own thing, standing out only because of how painfully ordinary he was minus perhaps the height and the gaunt figure.

Cub wondered if Mumbo had looked more haggard lately, in the past few years maybe, or if that was just his mind playing tricks on him. Those eyebags, whew. Cub had truly never seen anyone get so little sleep.

But Mumbo was not normal. Mumbo was not even the slightest bit ordinary, however Cub had only started noticing in season eight.

Maybe that’s when Mumbo started losing his grip, Cub didn’t know, but two events over the course of those months stood out to him as particularly insane, those being the stealing of Grian’s soul and the sacrifice of Bdubs to ‘appease the moon,’ which was a perfectly on brand thing for Scar to do, but Mumbo? ‘Peace, love, and plants’ Mumbo?

That’s what had gotten Cub’s attention in the first place actually; Mumbo had always been famously uncomfortable around blood and gore, uninterested in murder on a good day, even as part of a game, but he had seemed particularly unwell then, not only because he was so damn skinny that a small gust of wind could’ve knocked him clean over, but the insistence on only eating certain foods, bordering on not eating at all; it had worried Cub, to be frank. He and Mumbo were never close, but he remembered stopping by once or twice to check in, and generally hanging around to make sure he was okay. Mumbo always insisted he was just fine. And then Cub heard he threw Grian into a meat grinder and was a tad more concerned.

Technically Mumbo had not been the one to put Grian into his killing machine, but he may as well have been, tricking Grian into signing a contract than leading him to his own gratuitously violent death- Now all of this Cub heard from Scar, so perhaps there was a bit of hyperbole going on, but Cub had checked out the machine, and even compared to Cub’s own violent history it looked.. intense.

Maybe not intense coming from some other hermits, but out of pocket from Mumbo.

Now, with the moon growing large and crashing into the server, it was safe to say everyone was a tiny bit off their rocker, but Mumbo didn’t sleep well on a normal day, so Cub wasn’t sure he believed the whole idea of the Boatem Mooners as they were called, making a pact not to sleep, which, inevitably, drove the whole lot of them off the deep end. But Mumbo lived like that normally; Cub couldn’t recall more than two times he’d actually seen Mumbo asleep over a period of years, and in his passive observation, it felt like something was off about Mumbo’s behavior in the Mooner cult. It felt.. like an excuse. And maybe that was just a hunch, it’s not like Cub had any real evidence, but participating in a ritual sacrifice seemed severely unlike Mumbo, even if he only hauled Bdubs up to the pyre in the first place and Scar was the one who set the flame.

Cub didn’t care of course. What Mumbo did with his time was his own business, and Cub certainly wasn’t judgemental but.. well, he was interested. It was like your reliable average joe experiences a short burst of pure unbridled mania, then goes back to normal the next day pretending none of it happened. Cub just had a feeling there was more there, more to him, and god if he didn’t want to know what it was.

He considered stalking to be a strong word. What he did was not stalking.

However, if Mumbo was around, or Cub caught a passing glance of him sneaking off by himself, he may have followed, never revealing his presence. And that- in the back half of season eight and the start of season nine. Cub had seen some things. He had certainly seen some things.

Now, Cub was no stranger to rituals. In general vex and their counterparts were ritualistic creatures, drawn to performance and sacrifice and dance. He was always drawn to violence, as was Scar, and they had shared more than a couple vile displays of lust and brutality. It was indulgence, it was a show, and in truth, the only reason the sacrifice of animals was not a more common occurrence is because Scar shied away from it, preferring to use their own flesh and blood. It did not bother Cub either way. If the treatment of animals was among his top concerns, he’d have quite a few issues with some of the other inhabitants of the server.

All of this preface to say that the things Cub witnessed Mumbo doing to animals was enough to make him think that pigs and chickens had orphaned him, stolen all his most precious possessions, burned down his childhood home, then ate all his children and cursed his bloodline, because seriously, what the hell?

Cub was not someone who was easily disturbed, but watching Mumbo set animals from various farms loose, chase and maim them for literal hours (sometimes whole nights) leave them with horrific injuries, then only when they couldn’t stand to run any longer, eat them alive- It was a deeply fascinating, deeply unnerving display, coupled by.. whatever the fuck Mumbo was. It sure as hell wasn’t human, something Cub was relieved to figure out quickly.

Mumbo was tall, but even then, he was too fast. There were moments when parts of him were too long, a leg or fingers, and sometimes too sharp- From a distance, Cub didn’t know how Mumbo was inflicting such brutal lacerations, and even with a spyglass, Cub couldn’t quite tell, but he had to be changing, his body had to be adapting to his physical needs. Mumbo was too strong as well; this was something Cub had witnessed in places other than remote locations thousands of blocks from spawn, but it was true! No one that skinny, bordering on emaciated, had enough muscle to sustain activities like this, much less break bones with a snap of a hand and restrain terrified animals twice his size.

All of this was inhuman, however, most of these things could also be explained away as tricks of the light, or misunderstandings of human anatomy. Unlikely, yes, but possible.

Cub really knew when he saw Mumbo eat for the first time.

And when he said the first time, he meant the first time; even when Mumbo had made eating potatoes his whole identity, Cub had never actually seen him eat anything. When he asked Scar before this whole ordeal, the thought had never occurred to Scar before, but when he asked Grian, he had only told Cub that Mumbo was private with his meals, too anxious to eat in front of others. Honestly, Cub had thought Mumbo had some kind of eating disorder. Given the state of him, it wasn’t a poor assumption, and Cub got the sense Grian felt similarly, though he wouldn’t give any more information other than ‘Mumbo is anxious,’ stubbornly close-lipped. Cub got the sense Grian knew a little more than he was letting on, and given how nosy he was, Cub found himself wondering if Grian had seen Mumbo eat before, really eat.

After pressing, majorly pissing Grian off in the process, Cub was a little more sure, though, Grian getting pissed off could just as easily be a symptom of Cub being an asshole and nothing more. Sometimes Cub didn’t know when to stop, but Scar had a pretty good system of letting him know. (“Cub, you’re being an asshole.” to which he would respond “Oh, okay.” For some reason people avoided telling Cub to shut the fuck up even when they really wanted to, but it would make his life a lot easier if they did.)

But yes, it was quite clear that Mumbo was not human when the hunt was over and he finally started to eat.

Mumbo didn’t.. Cub wasn’t exactly sure if he chewed, rather than just.. swallowing. A lot. Too much at a time. Mumbo’s body seemed to accommodate him more than a human body ever should- he had teeth, Cub knew he had teeth, but it seemed instead he preferred to eat as much as he could whole.

Snakes could unhinge their jaws, striking, then positioning their prey so they could eat it head first, killing it faster, reducing the chance they may get scratched or bit.

Mumbo did not do this. Perhaps he did unhinge his jaw, but a human mouth, even broken in every sense of the word, could not possible take as much as Mumbo did at once, his body distorting and bubbling in ways that couldn’t be anything less than painful, bones and muscles rearranging, skin stretching, it was horrible, but Mumbo didn’t even take his prey head first.

It made no sense. Why would he start at the back, where he could be kicked, scratched, where it was easier for whatever he was consuming to bend over and bite him, hurt him. Is that why he tired his prey out so completely? Waited until they were completely exhausted? But even then, they still fought. Nothing being eaten alive like this could simply let it happen, the will to live was too strong, regardless of the inevitable hopelessness.

Cub wondered if Mumbo wanted to be hurt. If Mumbo thought he should be hurt by kicking feet and flailing jaws, larger animals struggling so fiercely that they would snap his entire face out of shape, a sight so particularly horrific, Cub found himself flinching, though he never looked away. Mumbo seemed like the type of person that wanted to punish himself, not that Cub knew him particularly well, but he was so weird, so oddly puritan when it came to standards set for himself, it made sense.

Or maybe he just wanted them to struggle. He wanted them to live longer, draw out suffering, just as he’d been doing for hours prior. Mumbo never flinched, even when he’d been bit or scratched particularly badly. Cub never saw blood or injury. And he was looking for it. He was watching closely. That first night, he slept just as little as Mumbo did, though both of them seemed not to need it.

Cub didn’t think he’d sleep ever again. He had to know more.

But Cub was a busy man, he had his own projects to work on, and he didn’t make a habit of following Mumbo around, but he did keep tabs. He was curious, but that curiosity started shifting to concern, especially after the switch from season eight to season nine.

Mumbo was visibly deteriorating, those lonely acts of violence feeling a lot more like desperation than real cruelty. Maybe it had always been desperate. Or maybe Cub was mistaken. He was not the best at reading other people.

But you didn’t have to be good at reading people to know that Mumbo was losing his grip. Mumbo was jumpy on a good day, but after the first weeks of season nine, he didn’t react to anything at all. He hardly even looked up when Grian approached him, trying his best to cheer Mumbo up, which Cub knew because Grian told Scar, and Scar could never help himself but tell Cub, just as Cub could never help but keep anything from Scar.

Scar knew about Mumbo the morning after Cub witnessed the hunt on the first night, Cub not even sleeping before he shook Scar awake at 7:00 AM, relaying everything he’d seen. Bafflingly, Scar could not have given less of a fuck.

“I knew something was wrong with him,” he’d said, mildly amused, and then closed his eyes, settling down to go back to sleep. Cub did not understand. It just did not make any sense that Scar did not care because this was one of the wildest things Cub had ever witnessed. He had so many questions! How could Scar not have any questions? Why did Mumbo keep this a secret? What was the point of drawing out his hunts? What was Mumbo? He had teeth, why didn’t he use them?

“Cub.” Scar said stiffly, eyelids fighting against Cub’s claws as he tried to pry them back open and make Scar listen, “You’re being an asshole.”

Scar still had no interest in answering any of the questions that kept Cub awake at night, but he did humor Cub when he theorized for hours, trailing Scar while he worked on his base, landscaping, was stuck sick in bed- Cub was more anxious when Scar was sick, worried he was boring him with chatter he knew Scar cared little about, but Scar insisted otherwise, engaging far more than he ever did when he had something else to do. Alien. Alien. Mumbo’s an alien. Alien. He’s an alien. He’s from the void. He’s an alien. Scar’s theories were not often rooted in sense, but it was fun to listen to him regardless.

But Scar cared in season nine. He cared because anyone close to Mumbo could see how poorly he was doing, and Scar would do anything to ease that pain. Cub would have approached Mumbo himself, asked about his excursions directly, but Scar had insisted that was the wrong way to go about it, not when Mumbo was so frail and already so depressed. Mumbo would accept help easier from someone closer to him, and Scar knew how to be subtle.

Scar came back to their shared tree home later that day wearing a grimace and a hand stuck permanently running through his hair.

“It, uh.. I may not have handled that as well as I could have. He may be upset. I dunno.. I didn’t think it was that bad, but Grian really chewed me out when it was just the two of us.”

“What happened? What did you say?” Cub’s tone may have been too harsh, a bad habit he struggled to shake when he was so invested. “I’m sorry-“ he snuck the words through when Scar winced, speaking before he could, “I don’t think you’ve done anything, I just want to know what happened.”

“I know,” Scar said, and Cub knew he did, no one knew him as wholly as Scar did, but Cub knew him in the same way, and knew he was sensitive after plans turned sour. Regardless, Scar continued, “So I meet up with Mumbo and Grian, right? We were just hanging out, talking about blueprints, nothing too crazy, but I wanted us all to get together anyway, since Mumbo’s been so down. He’s always a little more relaxed when Grian’s around, I don’t know what it is about those two, they’re like each other’s emotional support cats.”

“That’s true,” Cub nodded, trying to engage but antsy in the fluff of Scar’s story.

“So I bring us all together, you know how it is, and I suggest we have a little party, the three of us! None of us really have any birthdays coming up, but in my mind we can’t really afford to wait, so I suggested we do one now! Grian was teasing me, saying something like ‘Is it really a party if there’s only three of us?’ But I think so, and I said I think we could all use a bit of a pick me up, and Mumbo agreed with me, he said he thought it was a good idea! So I went on, I said we needed to have a themed party, because unthemed parties are no good, just as joyless as an unthemed amusement park, not awful, better than nothing maybe, but come on! You have to have a theme!”

“You have to have a theme,” Cub agreed, solemnly serious.

“So I told them it should be cannibalism themed!” Scar threw up his arms grandly, just like he’d probably done for Mumbo and Grian, but here the gesture was more frustrated, “And I didn’t want to get shut down right away, so I just kept talking about the details; maybe we could hire another hermit to be our lamb, y’know? Or we could just take turns with each other, or even just drain some blood, y’know, throw it around- and this, I still think this is genius- we could put blood in water guns and shoot each other with it! Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

“Gruesome,” Cub said, not disagreeing, but more amused than anything.

“Maybe a little bit,” Scar snickered, good natured, but he straightened, looking awkward, “But uh.. Mumbo did not like that idea. I could see him not liking it, so I kind of panicked y’know? Anyone would! So I just kept talking, hoping I could convince him before Grian bit my head off, but Grian was trying really hard to do that, and I just kept interrupting him, kept talking, and I know Mumbo isn’t squeamish, he can’t be given everything you’ve told me, but you would have thought it, and in fairness, I may have gone a little too far..” Scar slowed down, shrinking in on himself in his guilt, “I just want him to feel better. He was so- so distressed. I just want him to feel better. He- he fell when he was trying to get away from me. I wasn’t keeping him anywhere, but he was just so upset he fell and.. I don’t know. He’s just so frail. I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get up again.” Scar rubbed the back of his neck. “He did. I mean, of course he did. He didn’t even have any trouble. He didn’t stumble. He just looks that way.”

Cub nodded slowly, sympathetic. A small silence lingered as Cub thought, opening his eyes when he was done. “I think a cannibalism party is a great idea. We should gather up a bunch of hermits and airdrop the lot of us in the woods with Ren on the full moon. He wins if he kills all of us by the morning.” Cub paused, “Well, maybe that’s not really a cannibalism party. Tangential cannibalism party.”

Scar snorted, mood ever so slightly lifting, “I think that’s fantastic. Better than my idea.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Scar shrugged, “I think your mind is beautiful.”

Cub wasn’t sure what to do with that, quietly flustered, but he must have made some kind of face because Scar laughed, wrapping Cub in a tight hug that made him squeak, shaking him in the same way a dog might shake a chew toy, though less violent given they were sitting down, just an expression of Scar’s restless energy. Cub was no good at comfort, they both knew this about him, but somehow Scar managed to find it anyway, wrestling it out of him when Cub couldn’t dig it up himself.

He did not think about Mumbo for a little while, resting instead with Scar, listening to him mumble rambled nonsense for the next thirty minutes until he fell asleep.

Cub did not interact much with Mumbo in the following weeks, not wanting to push when he was clearly so sensitive (and the two of them weren’t much more than strangers), but from what he heard from Scar, things weren’t getting any better. Grian was doing his damned best effort to cheer Mumbo up in his own way, Mumbo creating a vault for Grian to ‘break in to,’ and Cub heard from Scar that Mumbo sat out there for hours watching Grian (literally) bash his head against a wall, so at least Mumbo wasn’t alone.

And then Mumbo announced he was leaving. That he didn’t know for how long, or even where he was going, but that he just needed a break, he needed to go. Burnt out, was the reason he gave. He was burnt out. Anyone with eyes could see through the lie, and Cub wondered how many hermits were noticing for the first time just how bad of shape Mumbo was in. But no one said anything. No one stopped him. And if anyone had more in depth concerns, they weren’t brought up to the group as a whole, kept between whispers and close friends.

But Mumbo said he would be back. The words left him grimly, almost as if against his will, but he was firm, certain. A tone that said his return would not be a good thing, but it was inevitable, and he was resigned to the knowledge of that future.

So easily it could have been mistaken for apathy. For sadness that he was leaving behind friends, that it would be awhile before he saw everyone again. But Cub saw through. He wondered if Scar did too, Grian, maybe Iskall.

Cub thought Mumbo might have looked at him then, seconds before his departure. Their eyes met, and for a long moment Cub was sure Mumbo saw something in his; knowledge, intent. And then Mumbo looked away, and the moment passed. And then Mumbo was gone.

“You look like you’re seconds away from killing someone, you okay?” Tango elbowed him, and the gesture was playful, but all the same there was that underlying concern, the kind that told Cub plainly that Tango was telling the truth.

Whoops.

It was possible Mumbo was staring at him because Cub looked like he wanted him dead.

“I’m alright,” Cub shrugged, and he was, “Just sad to see him go. Don’t like losing anyone, you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Tango mused, shaking Cub’s shoulder in a gentle gesture of encouragement, “But he’ll be back. Honestly, I bet he won’t be more than a month, he just needs some space to get those creative juices back in action. Can’t imagine him functioning without Grian at his hip for much longer than that,” Tango laughed, and Cub joined him, though the chuckle was somewhat joyless.

Mumbo was gone for a hell of a lot longer than one month. Nine months actually, he was gone, to the point where most hermits were pretty worried, some wondering if he was really returning at all (thoughts never expressed when Grian was around).

But Mumbo did come back. And when he did, he looked great. Truly great, Cub couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Mumbo looking so genuinely healthy and happy; still skinny as a stick, but more filled out, less gaunt. He looked strong, and even his eye bags had lightened a little, though whatever he’d been doing, it clearly hadn’t fixed his insomnia; that being an observation Scar said to him in jest.

But it was good. It was good.

Honestly, Cub had expected his mild obsession with Mumbo to flare up again the second he stepped foot back on the server, but almost the opposite happened, where everything Cub had previously felt; the curiosity, the intrigue.. it all simmered down. Mumbo was healthy, he was high energy, and Cub found that he didn’t care all that much what was going on with him so long as he stayed that way. He’d had nine months to burn himself out on theorizing anyway, he’d moved on to other interests.

But Mumbo did not stay healthy.

Cub was too busy on the back end of season nine to notice, not keeping tabs on Mumbo hardly at all by then, but at the start of season ten, when everyone was together, Cub saw it right away.

The difference between the Mumbo returning home from his break and the Mumbo at the start of season ten was stark, at least to Cub, since no one else seemed to notice, or at least didn’t say so. It wasn’t like Mumbo was deteriorating as severely as he had been before traveling, but Cub was sure he had lost weight, and something was just wrong; maybe he was a little too neurotic, a little too snappy. It was almost nothing! Hardly noticeable, honestly, to the point Cub thought he might be going crazy, but really. What would happen if the problem escalated to the point of season nine, Mumbo so miserable that just the mere suggestion of violence was enough to do him in completely. Whatever Mumbo was doing now, it wasn’t sustainable!

Cub waited a couple months, partially to see what would happen, but admittedly, he wasn’t too thrilled about the idea of confronting him directly. He didn’t want to tell Scar this time, he wanted to do this himself, but working up the nerve was a beast within itself.

But it was fine. It was going to be fine, because Mumbo had literally no reason to say no. If Mumbo needed to eat, however convoluted the way he had to do it, he should just do it, and Cub became so convinced of this that he was certain Mumbo would see it too. So he approached him, not accusatory of course, not even questioning Mumbo’s thinly veiled humanity, but simply giving him an out. Scar would be more than thrilled to have Mumbo drag him around by his innards or whatever the fuck Mumbo would come up with. He would not say no.

(He said no.)

This was going to be a tough case. Cub really hadn’t anticipated this going wrong in any way, because put simply, it made no sense for Mumbo to refuse, but regardless, this was fine because Cub was not going to give up. He would not let this get as bad as it had before. He’d go for a more subtle approach instead, and not the Scar kind of subtle either, real subtle, not even mention eating people at all. Cub was going to make this work.

He was going to seduce Mumbo.