I think it's really funny that queen joined the riptide pirates because a strange fish man was moved to tears by her singing and was like "hey me and my friends going to a battle of the bands next month you should come" (failing to mention that "me and my friends" are the most wanted pirates in the world) and then they just. didn't do that.
like they were ambushed by the navy before they even fucking LEFT all-port; and then they got high and were attacked by a fucking minor deity of the undersea; and then the captain that invited queen is like slowly dying from exhaustion but that's not important right now; and then they're on and island for a little bit and that part was fine until they're ambushed by the navy AGAIN on their way back to all-port; and THEN they decide now is a good time to go into the hell ocean made of evil gunk and dead people that no one is allowed to go in, and queen almost dies SEVERAL TIMES and is forced to confront someone from their past that he doesn't quite remember but is HORRIFIED of. and her consolation prize is a crown which, admittedly, was lovingly made by his captains in an attempt to cheer them up, but like. jesus christ. I think they missed battle of the bands.
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now I’m not saying growing up on tumblr and deviantart and doing twitch made me have no shame and taught me very specific people skills but how did i just get a position of artistic director at an art house cinema it certainly wasn’t school lmao
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The "are superheroes cops" discourse annoys me because a lot of the discoursers show zero understanding of the difference between statist and non statist violence.
The state is the institution that has a monopoly on the legitimate use of violence in a given territory. State violence is so normalized it often ceases to be seen as violence, e.g if a civilian takes someone off the street by force, throws them in a car and holds them hostage in a secondary location that's kidnapping, if a cop does it it's arresting.
Cops are not simply "people who do violence" they are people who hold a monopoly on the legitimate use of it and commit statist violence to uphold the power of companies and the government. In contrast, vigilantism is non-state violence that challenges this monopoly, at least in theory, but in practice it depends on who vigilantes target and what methods they use.
If vigilantes work with cops, target only people who the state targets and send them to jail then they are functionally state operatives and are acting as a paramilitary wing for the police.
This is why so many heroes seem unaware of their status as criminals. They lecture their enemies of the evil of crime while committing the crime of vigilantism because while they might be law breakers on paper, they aren't in practice. They are implicitly authorised by the cops they work with.
If they instead target people not on the basis of whether or not the state likes them but based on their own independent morality and do not collaborate with the state at all then they are non-state, and if they actively defend people against state violence then they are anti-state.
Of course, most vigilantes don't fit 100% into one of these categories, like most things in life, this is a spectrum and where they're placed can change over time. This is more of a framework that you can use to figure out how much of a cop a vigilante is being at any given time.
I say this because too often I see people say that all vigilantes are cops and equivocate all violence as one in the same or draw the line based on whether or not the vigilante kills when it actually has no bearing on whether or not they're a cop. A cop who hasn't killed (yet) is still a cop and an anti-state anarchist doesn't become a cop if they kill one.
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cw: afab!reader [no pronouns used to refer to reader]; mild condescension/verbal humiliation; implied d/s dynamic; spit/gagging/facefucking with fingers [reader receiving]; vaginal fingering; a little bit dubcon
wc: 900
Sabo is patient with you, his insatiable darling, when you sulk and whine that you want him, that you need him, that you can’t have enough of him. You’re respectful of his space, of his needs, of his demanding life and limited time—but when he’s yours, you want him to be all yours, to have his heated hands and his loving mouth on you whenever you wish, to serve him and be his playtoy whenever he desires. Today is simply not one of those days when he can give you his undivided attention, however, despite your best efforts.
He watches you out of the corner of his eye while he writes, observes the way you shift in your chair, smirking at how you eye him like a weak little prey animal who believes they’re a predator, trying to lure him into the trap of your sweetness to no avail.
“Sabo, are you almost done?” you ask, trying to hide the need that lingers in your voice.
He’ll take care of you soon enough, spread you wide open over his lap and press your back to his still-clothed chest so you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart against your skin, feel how measured his breathing is in contrast with your pretty gasps and pants—he relishes any opportunity to remind you of your desperation, of how you lack the kind of control he has over himself. He’ll hook your legs over his and place a strong gloved hand over your mouth, pulling your head back to rest on his shoulder, nice and close so you can hear him perfectly when he tells you to stay still, stay quiet, breathe nice and deep for him as he slides his bare hand down the front of you and finger-fucks your drenched cunt until you’re shaking and spasming and pleading against soft leather, the muffled sounds of your begging like a symphony to him.
But you haven’t earned it yet, he thinks as turns to you and blinks slowly at his little mock-predator.
“The more you ask,” he says quietly, words drawn out as he speaks, “the longer you’ll wait, pretty baby.”
“But Sabo,” you pout, “you said you’d be done hours ago. I’m lonely.”
“And I’ll be done when I’m done. It’s always worth the wait, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want to wait—I want you now. Please?”
Ah, there it is. Now he has you where he wants you—that little bit of backtalk will never do. With a snap of his fingers and a sharp “Down,” you slide out of your chair and drop to your knees in front of him. He bends at the waist to bring his face close to yours, his blonde hair falling and brushing your skin, and he grasps your chin in one gloved hand and clucks his tongue.
“What to do with you?” he muses, embers burning in his gaze, a grin stretched across his lips that shows you just a hint of darkness beyond the smiling mask he wears. “So needy, aren’t you?”
“Please,” you ask with a flutter of your eyelids.
“Please?” He lets out a low chuckle. “My lover says ‘please,’ hm? Is that all it’s supposed to take?”
“Maybe.” Your voice trembles a little now, realizing your impatient longing has gotten you into trouble again.
Sabo knows just what to do with a mouthy little thing like you. He taps the side of your face, soft leather brushing your skin. “Open.” His breath hitches in his throat as you slowly drop your jaw and tilt your head up towards him. Before you can ask another thing, before you can utter another weakened “please,” he slides two gloved fingers in your mouth, groaning softly as you recoil a little at the taste.
“That’s it, let’s fill that feisty mouth of yours,” he coos as he moves them in deeper, pumping them in and out with a measured, insistent rhythm, feeling himself start to grow hard in his slacks at how you moan around them, how your tongue presses up and lavishes the firm leather the same way you do to his cock. He groans long and low and shoves his fingers in deep, to the knuckle, until his fist is pressed tight against your lips, just watch you gag around them, feel how your throat tightens and spit begins to trickle out of the corners of your mouth. You don’t even try to fight him, not so much as a grasp of his arm or a gentle slap to his hand—no, you’re already too blissfully fucked out and greedy, salivating around whatever he’ll allow you to have as your arms hang loosely in your lap.
“You look pretty like this, lover.” Sabo presses his forehead to yours and sighs, shushes you sweetly before he kisses away the tears that start to trail down your cheeks as you struggle, grins at the way you squeeze your thighs together and moan even more wantonly as he roughly fucks your sweet mouth with his hand, giving you just the slightest taste of what it is you really desire. “Cry a little more for me, okay? Just a little more. Show me how much you want it, and you can have me, I promise.”
And you will. He’ll give you everything for just a few more tears—he never, ever breaks his promises.
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