#and is sometimes discomfiting

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Random headcanons post

Would [character] ever get a pet?

1) Maedhros

When he comes back from the Halls he befriends one of Oromë’s hounds. It’s been following Edrahil around looking very friendly and apologetic, and Edrahil is giving it raised-eyebrow suspicious looks. Maedhros gives it pats and, privately, some advice on giving people their space.

Everyone feels rather unsettled and finally someone asks “Maedhros, are you sure that’s a dog?” Maedhros replies “It is just as much a dog as I am an elf” and everyone looks uncomfortably at each other and decides to drop the subject.

[pamplemoose]

I AM ALWAYS SAYING THIS

reading nabokov is maddening because his writing is so playful and evocative and effortless and english isn't even his first language. he's doing things in a second language most people could spend their lives trying and failing to replicate in their first language. makes me feel like this

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Private-sector Trumpism

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in CHICAGO with PETER SAGAL on WEDNESDAY (Apr 2), and in BLOOMINGTON on FRIDAY (Apr 4). More tour dates here.

Trumpism is a mixture of grievance, surveillance, and pettiness: "I will never forgive your mockery, I have records of you doing it, and I will punish you and everyone who associates with you for it." Think of how he's going after the (cowardly) BigLaw firms:

https://abovethelaw.com/2025/03/skadden-makes-100-million-settlement-with-trump-in-pro-bono-payola/

Trump is the realization of decades of warning about ubiquitous private and public surveillance – that someday, all of this surveillance would be turned to the systematic dismantling of human rights and punishing of dissent.

23 years ago, I was staying in London with some friends, scouting for a flat to live in. After at day in town, I came back and we ordered a curry and had a nice chat. I mentioned how discomfited I'd been by all the CCTV cameras that had sprouted at the front of every private building, to say nothing of all the public cameras installed by local councils and the police. My friend dismissed this as a kind of American, hyper-individualistic privacy purism, explaining that these cameras were there for public safety – to catch flytippers, vandals, muggers, boy racers tearing unsafely through the streets. My fear about having my face captured by all these cameras was little more than superstitious dread. It's not like they were capturing my soul.

Now, I knew that my friend had recently marched in one of the massive demonstrations against Bush and Blair's illegal invasion plans for Iraq. "Look," I said, "you marched in the street to stand up and be counted. But even so, how would you have felt if – as a condition of protesting – you were forced to first record your identity in a government record-book?" My friend had signed petitions, he'd marched in the street, but even so, he had to admit that there would be some kind of chilling effect if your identity had to be captured as a condition of participating in public political events.

Trump has divided the country into two groups of people: "citizens" (who are sometimes only semi-citizens) and immigrants (who have no rights):

https://crookedtimber.org/2025/03/29/trumps-war-on-immigrants-is-the-cancellation-of-free-society/#fn-53926-1

Trump has asserted that he can arrest and deport immigrants (and some semi-citizens) for saying things he doesn't like, or even liking social media posts he disapproves of. He's argued that he can condemn people to life in an offshore slave-labor camp if he doesn't like their tattoos. It is tyranny, built on ubiquitous surveillance, fueled by spite and grievance.

One of Trumpism's most important tenets is that private institutions should have the legal right to discriminate against minorities that he doesn't like. For example, he's trying to end the CFPB's enforcement action against Townstone, a mortgage broker that practiced rampant racial discrimination:

https://prospect.org/justice/2025-03-28-trump-scrambles-pardon-corporate-criminals-townstone-boeing-cfpb/

By contrast, Trump abhors the idea that private institutions should be allowed to discriminate against the people he likes, hence his holy war against "DEI":

https://www.cnbc.com/2025/03/29/trump-administration-warns-european-companies-to-comply-with-anti-dei-order.html

This is the crux of Wilhoit's Law, an important and true definition of "conservativism":

Conservatism consists of exactly one proposition, to wit: There must be in-groups whom the law protectes but does not bind, alongside out-groups whom the law binds but does not protect.

https://crookedtimber.org/2018/03/21/liberals-against-progressives/#comment-729288

Wilhoit's definition is an important way of framing how conservatives view the role of the state. But there's another definition I like, one that's more about how we relate to one-another, which I heard from Steven Brust: "Ask, 'What's more important: human rights or property rights?' Anyone who answers 'property rights are human rights' is a conservative."

Thus the idea that a mortgage broker or an employer or a banker or a landlord should be able to discriminate against you because of the color of your skin, your sexual orientation, your gender, or your beliefs. If "property rights are human rights," then the human right not to rent to a same-sex couple is co-equal with the couple's human right to shelter.

The property rights/human rights distinction isn't just a way to cleave right from left – it's also a way to distinguish the left from liberals. Liberals will tell you that 'it's not censorship if it's done privately' – on the grounds that private property owners have the absolute right to decide which speech they will or won't permit. Charitably, we can say that some of these people are simply drawing a false equivalence between "violating the First Amendment" and "censorship":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/04/yes-its-censorship/

But while private censorship is often less consequential than state censorship, that isn't always true, and even when it is, that doesn't mean that private censorship poses no danger to free expression.

Consider a thought experiment in which a restaurant chain called "No Politics At the Dinner Table Cafe" buys up every eatery in town, and then maintains its monopoly by sewing up exclusive deals with local food producers, and then expands into babershops, taxis and workplace cafeterias, enforcing a rule in all these spaces that bans discussions of politics:

https://locusmag.com/2020/01/cory-doctorow-inaction-is-a-form-of-action/

Here we see how monopoly, combined with property rights, creates a system of censorship that is every bit as consequential as a government rule. And if all of those facilities were to add AI-backed cameras and mics that automatically monitored all our conversations for forbidden political speech, then surveillance would complete the package, yielding private censorship that is effectively indistinguishable from government censorship – with the main difference being that the First Amendment permits the former and prohibits the latter.

The fear that private wealth could lead to a system of private rule has been in America since its founding, when Thomas Jefferson tried (unsuccessfully) to put a ban on monopolies into the US Constitution. A century later, Senator John Sherman wrote the Sherman Act, the first antitrust bill, defending it on the Senate floor by saying:

If we would not submit to an emperor we should not submit to an autocrat of trade.

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/20/we-should-not-endure-a-king/

40 years ago, neoliberal economists ended America's century-long war on monopolies, declaring monopolies to be "efficient" and convincing Carter, then Reagan, then all their successors (except Biden) to encourage monopolies to form. The US government all but totally suspended enforcement of its antitrust laws, permitting anticompetitive mergers, predatory pricing, and illegal price discrimination. In so doing, they transformed America into a monopolist's playground, where versions of the No Politics At the Dinner Table Cafe have conquered every sector of our economy:

https://www.openmarketsinstitute.org/learn/monopoly-by-the-numbers

This is especially true of our speech forums – the vast online platforms that have become the primary means by which we engage in politics, civics, family life, and more. These platforms are able to decide who may speak, what they may say, and what we may hear:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

These platforms are optimized for mass surveillance, and, when coupled with private sector facial recognition databases, it is now possible to realize the nightmare scenario I mooted in London 23 years ago. As you move through both the virtual and physical world, you can be identified, your political speech can be attributed to you, and it can be used as a basis for discrimination against you:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/20/steal-your-face/#hoan-ton-that

This is how things work at the US border, of course, where border guards are turning away academics for having anti-Trump views:

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/03/20/world/europe/us-france-scientist-entry-trump-messages.html

It's not just borders, though. Large, private enterprises own large swathes of our world. They have the unlimited property right to exclude people from their properties. And they can spy on us as much as they want, because it's not just antitrust law that withered over the past four decades, it's also privacy law. The last consumer privacy law Congress bestirred itself to pass was 1988's "Video Privacy Protection Act," which bans video-store clerks from disclosing your VHS rentals. The failure to act on privacy – like the failure to act on monopoly – has created a vacuum that has been filled up with private power. Today, it's normal for your every action – every utterance, every movement, every purchase – to be captured, stored, combined, analyzed, and, of course sold.

With vast property holdings, total property rights, and no privacy law, companies have become the autocrats of trade, able to regulate our speech and association in ways that can no longer be readily distinguished state conduct that is at least theoretically prohibited by the First Amendment.

Take Madison Square Garden, a corporate octopus that owns theaters, venues and sport stadiums and teams around the country. The company is notoriously vindictive, thanks to a spate of incidents in which the company used facial recognition cameras to bar anyone who worked at a law-firm that was suing the company from entering any of its premises:

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/12/22/nyregion/madison-square-garden-facial-recognition.html

This practice was upheld by the courts, on the grounds that the property rights of MSG trumped the human rights of random low-level personnel at giant law firms where one lawyer out of thousands happened to be suing the company:

https://www.nbcnewyork.com/news/local/madison-square-gardens-ban-on-lawyers-suing-them-can-remain-in-place-court-rules/4194985/

Take your kid's Girl Scout troop on an outing to Radio City Music Hall? Sure, just quit your job and go work for another firm.

But that was just for starters. Now, MSG has started combing social media to identify random individuals who have criticized the company, and has added their faces to the database of people who can't enter their premises. For example, a New Yorker named Frank Miller has been banned for life from all MSG properties because, 20 years ago, he designed a t-shirt making fun of MSG CEO James Dolan:

https://www.theverge.com/news/637228/madison-square-garden-james-dolan-facial-recognition-fan-ban

This is private-sector Trumpism, and it's just getting started.

Take hotels: the entire hotel industry has collapsed into two gigachains: Marriott and Hilton. Both companies are notoriously bad employers and at constant war with their unions (and with nonunion employees hoping to unionize in the face of flagrant, illegal union-busting). If you post criticism online of both hotel chains for hiring scabs, say, and they add you to a facial recognition blocklist, will you be able to get a hotel room?

After more than a decade of Uber and Lyft's illegal predatory pricing, many cities have lost their private taxi fleets and massively disinvested in their public transit. If Uber and Lyft start compiling dossiers of online critics, could you lose the ability to get from anywhere to anywhere, in dozens of cities?

Private equity has rolled up pet groomers, funeral parlors, and dialysis centers. What happens if the PE barons running those massive conglomerates decide to exclude their critics from any business in their portfolio? How would it feel to be shut out of your mother's funeral because you shit-talked the CEO of Foundation Partners Group?

https://kffhealthnews.org/news/article/funeral-homes-private-equity-death-care/

More to the point: once this stuff starts happening, who will dare to criticize corporate criminals online, where their speech can be captured and used against them, by private-sector Trumps armed with facial recognition and the absurd notion that property rights aren't just human rights – they're the ultimate human rights?

The old fears of Thomas Jefferson and John Sherman have come to pass. We live among autocrats of trade, and don't even pretend the Constitution controls what these private sector governments can do to us.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/31/madison-square-garden/#autocrats-of-trade

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[ocelotted]

when the sun comes up (i)

Try as you might, you still can’t quite put your finger on what Hoshibami Taiga is to you. A soulmate is not always a lover, after all, and even so — a lover is not always right. There are no correct answers with someone like Taiga; none that come easily, anyways.  It doesn’t stop you from looking. (Alternatively: Things change between you and Taiga in the darkness of a rogue anomaly’s pocket dimension. You're left to think about a lot of things in the aftermath.)

relationships — hoshibami taiga/fem! reader; shinjo ritsu/fem! reader

contains — soulmate au (only seeing colour once you touch your soulmate) + forced proximity. use of 'kitty-cat'. mild claustrophobia warning. soft ritsu, taiga being bewitching and bemusing. more angst than i anticipated. fic is more taiga focused than ritsu focused but in the overall ‘universe’ (should i expand on this) they are equal i promise. dividers are by @/enchanthings

wc — 2.9k

read on ao3

You think, sometimes, that the universe has made it its personal mission to ensure that you become as well acquainted with misfortune as possible before you die.

It's melodramatic, perhaps, but by no means unfounded. You'd been haunted by a faint sense of unease ever since Hyde handed you the case file the other week. He'd done so with his trademark knowing grin, the one that made you want to choose violence without fail (though perhaps he was just getting you in the mood for your infamously irascible companions) and some part of you had known that you'd remember the horrors to come with remarkable vividness. As had long become routine, you'd swallowed down the lump in your throat, ignored how the crimson mark over your pulse point flared with heat, and thanked whatever deity presided over your life that Ritsu was there.

That gratitude has long served its time. Now, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Hoshibami Taiga in the ridiculously cramped void of an anomaly's pocket dimension, you're left with begrudging resignation at best.

"You don't gotta look so torn up about it, kitty-cat," the ghoul in question drawls. "Told you to make yourself comfortable, didn't I?"

Comfortable. You let your head loll back, hitting an invisible boundary with a muted thump. "I hope you're mocking me."

He lets out a noise that's part-laugh, part-scoff, and you resist the urge to sag against the wall. You're sure your soulmark is warm to the touch; you can feel the heat of it radiating up to your jaw from where it sits atop your carotid artery. It's a painfully intimate placement. You thought it to be romantic when you were younger. Now, you feel like it's a touch too on the nose. Taiga certainly holds no more affection towards it than you do either way, if the fleeting irritation that mars his face whenever your markings burn in conjunction is any indicator.

"I didn't take ya to be set off by a tight squeeze." The lighting is just good enough for you to catch a faint inconsistency in the line of his mouth, the one that tells you a part of him is someplace else.

"I'm not," you respond, somewhat tersely. "I'm just... worried."

Worried, plagued, unsure. Any word is as good as the rest. The suddenness with which you were thrust from fighting for your life on an abandoned cargo ship to finding yourself trapped in here was discomfiting, to say the least, and adrenaline is still humming in your blood. At certain points, you can still hear Romeo's acronymic commands-slash-insults echoing around you, feel the warmth of Ritsu's ungloved hand in your own as he calls out his incantation. He'd given your palm a slight squeeze before you'd left to confront the anomaly, accompanied by that firm, allaying smile that said he was here for you. It had ached, just a little, but you'd returned it as best you could.

Almost unconsciously, you murmur: "I hope the others are okay."

Taiga hums unaffectionately. "You hope Shinjo's okay."

Electricity jets down your spine. You can't help the way your eyes snap to him, as if you could confirm what you'd just heard through sight alone, and find that he's already looking at you — viridescent hues dispassionate, glinting in the low light with something a braver person might call a challenge.

You swallow down the tremor threatening to spill into your voice and raise a brow. "Where did that come from?"

There's something acidulous brimming beneath your tongue. Morbid amusement, you figure, with a spoonful of incredulity.

He returns your expression. "What, did I get it wrong? It sure as hell isn't Lulu you're stuck on."

You frown. "Firstly, you're making it sound like I don't care about Romeo at all. Secondly, I'm not 'stuck on' Ritsu—"

"Coulda fooled me."

"I'm not looking to."

Taiga rolls his eyes. "Come on, kitty-cat. You practically start droolin' whenever the kid starts goin' on about legal crap."

"You—!" Your mouth falls slightly ajar at the coarseness of the statement, and the acid brewing in your throat morphs into something hot and feverish that sets off sparks behind your teeth. With what poise you have remaining, you gather them up and force them back down. "I do not."

You do not. You couldn't — not really, anyways, not while there's a half-eaten star on your neck that has seared itself into your skin a thousand times over. Not while you know him like you do, like only a soulmate does (like only a soulmate can), and certainly not while the cosmos screams that he keeps you turning on your axis, if only to be burned by his light. It infuriates you. It drags you to the ground with a strength a demon would envy.

You are cold when your racing pulse finally falls away, and in the back of your mind there are snapshots of hazy mornings and storm-tossed sheets as your breath mingles with Taiga’s in the air. 

You feel distinctly ill.

(You think, sometimes, that there is a flower in your chest. It blooms luminous and gnarled, in all the colours of the world, and it follows the path of Taiga's eyes like its own, strange version of heliotropism. It is your curse and everything but. It keeps your heart beating. It feeds on the blood in your veins.

It's the very same one etched into his skin just shy of the cut of his jaw, settled and surging like a grudge.)

"Why are you even saying this?" You ask. Why do you even remember this, simmers soft and low beneath the words. Somewhere deep within the lattice of your voice there is a small, crouching thing, like a locked treasure chest or a music-box bird, so fragile and lovely and earnest that a part of you can't believe you're baring it to Taiga, of all people.

"'Cause it's annoying as shit," he grumbles. It's crass, but at least it's expected. "If you're gonna shack up with each other, just do it already. Lulu complains about it a shit ton, and it pisses me off."

The muzzle of his revolver glints harshly when he raises it to scratch at his temple. You're reminded of the sun and how it devours itself, uncaring and unceasing; how it gives itself to the risk. You feel his warmth against your skin and are suddenly, inexplicably seized by a surge of heat, like the ghost of a solar flare.

"I don't know if that's all there is to it, Taiga," you say quietly. 

Perhaps it's a gamble. If so, it's one infinitely more perilous than anything you'd find in Sinostra. It's one you're willing to take anyways because the knowledge binding you two together is too heavy for the space to bear, spectres of a faraway life superimposed over the black spots dancing at the edges of your vision, and your mark is pulsing like an incessant, unforgiving reminder that the love you once dreamed of will always leave someone in pain.

Taiga's gaze is sharp when it cuts across to you. His fingers flex around his gun.

"You really wanna do this now?"

In another time, you would be marvelling at the words. This. This as in all the choices you never made. This as in the ease with which you fit into each other's space, so natural it borders on devastating, predetermined in the same way that a tragic play's ending is penned before the actors even step foot onstage. This as in the strangeness of having someone who is both your peace and your strife, and most of all the strangeness of having someone who is meant to be your love.

(This as in the strangeness of having someone, anyone at all.) 

"Why not?" Your voice comes out steadier than you anticipated. "It's just us here."

And neither of us can run away goes unsaid. Neither of us can fight it and win.

Taiga scoffs. "No one's forcin' you to talk about it, kitty-cat." 

"Does someone have to?" Your agitation is bubbling up again, like snapping jaws beneath still waters. Every time. It goes like this every time. "I'm not any happier about this than you are, Taiga. But at least I've got the nerve to face it."

"'Nerve'?" You can see his teeth flash above the curl of his tongue. "Gimme a break. I'm not the one actin' like this is some lifechanging shit."

"Maybe it isn't, to you." Your shoulders slump. "But it is to me."

It is because your ribcage closes in on your heart a little bit more every time you see the colour red, and it is because every time Ritsu looks at you in the library's honeyed glow you know he might never know what that feels like. To see the world in its entirety; to feel its embrace like the pitiless arms of a clock that never stops ticking, ticking, ticking.

Even if Taiga never cares, you think, Ritsu deserves an explanation — a sliver of clarity to tuck away, before you both fall any faster.

"There's not a lot to it, y'know." Taiga says. It could be your imagination, but something's shifted in the grain of his voice. It's not softer in the slightest; rather, a touch exposed, a layer stripped back harshly to reveal the raw and beating underneath. “I don’t give a crap about this soulmate shit. If you wanna make off with the Shinjo kid, then go ahead. But if I ever love ya, it’s gonna be ‘cause I want to.”

Time stops — just for a second.

In all the time you've known Taiga, you've seen quite a lot of him. You've weathered his fury, and you've been singed by his brilliance, and in some twisted, churning way, you've revelled in the look in his eyes when he plays a royal flush and takes from someone what they're worth. But you've never quite seen this part of him: artless and painfully real, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit aching.

If I ever love ya, it's gonna be 'cause I want to. You replay it one more time.

"Huh." You tip your chin up towards stars you cannot see. You are sure they're beautiful, anyhow. "That's oddly sweet."

(You think, sometimes, that underneath it all, you and Taiga are not so different. You love and hate fortune, in all the ways it has wronged you but more so in all the ways that it has served you, and you despise the idea of being bound. You were made to run wild. To choke the world.

Perhaps that is why it is so unfortunate, that you were made for each other as well.)

Taiga snorts. "Don't get that pretty head of yours mixed up. I still don't give a shit."

"You don't need to worry. I'm very much aware of that."

He shrugs. "Long as we've got it straight."

You let out a soft puff of air that is half-amusement, half-acquiescence, and resume gazing into the void. Taiga lingers at the edge of your sight. It comes to mind that you never quite know what you're looking for, with him. He is inscrutable in that way — wound like a predator on the hunt, indifferent like a creature that has laid the rush of being chased to the wind.

At times like this, though, there's something clearer about him: where he's less of a force, more of a person. You decide that you like it.

Suddenly, he perks up. You tilt your head curiously.

"Might wanna brace yourself, kitty-cat." Bemusement twists in your gut, but you curl in on yourself a little on instinct. "Should be right about... now."

As if on cue, the invisible walls entombing you fold back into space. Air rushes in the hollow they leave behind. You pitch forwards with an soundless, unceremonious yelp, one hand shooting out to seize Taiga's arm in a death grip.

You land ungracefully, limbs knocking against scuffed steel with a harshness that makes you hiss.

"See?"

Blinking rapidly, you look to the side. Taiga has one knee up and a shit-eating grin on his face that doesn't betray your discussion in the slightest.

"Kitty-cat," he repeats, revolver spinning in hand.

Your pointed glare (he never lets you off the hook, although you suppose the same could be said for you) is, for better or for worse, cut into by your names being called.

When your head swivels again, you're met with an uncharacteristically dishevelled Ritsu making his way over from the other side of the deck, Romeo striding out on his heels.

"Are you injured?" The former asks, brows furrowed. He stops just shy of your sprawled limbs and you scramble to pull yourself together. It feels faintly unreal, the spill of light into your eyes, the wash of space around you. Your heart is hammering.

(Your soulmark is pulsing red, red, red.)

You shake your head and look around. There are bits of nonhuman viscera scattered around the place, and Romeo's rifle is still smoking. "You got rid of the anomaly, I presume."

The vice-captain clicks his tongue. "Obviously, you BB. It wasn't difficult."

"Nice to see you too, Fico." 

"Hey, Lulu." Taiga grins beside you. "Had a good go at it, didn't ya?”

Romeo’s eye twitches.

“Don’t even get me started on you, you BTH! What the hell were you doing? Were you trying to get the both of you killed?!” He fumes. 

“Aw, you do care,” you remark, lips curving at the (only mildly homicidal) way his eyes flash. 

Taiga waves a hand. “Relax, Lulu. We’re outta there now, yeah?”

Romeo does not seem remotely allayed. “Take this seriously for once! You are the most infuriating—“

The two of them slip into the back-and-forth you've long grown fond of, and a grin rises to your lips. Ritsu is still lingering near you, warm in a way that tears your attention away from the humming at your neck, teal eyes patient and searching.

"I'm glad you're okay," you murmur, under the sound of Romeo's exasperated reckonings. He offers you a small, hesitant smile.

"The feeling is mutual. It was quite a shock when you and the captain vanished so suddenly." He replies. "I'm sorry we were unable to capture the anomaly."

Hearing him say it sends a stab of disappointment through your gut that you'd been trying to repress, but you shake your head. "Don't be. At least we're all in one piece."

Ritsu smiles again in placid agreement, but his eyes are elsewhere. You follow his gaze and realise your hand is still wrapped around Taiga's bare wrist. You'd reached for him on instinct, you remember; you'd held onto him by nature. At some point after the initial fall, your vice-like grip had given way to something softer, looser (and as you soon discover, much more difficult to pull away from.)

You manage anyways. Cold pierces your limbs when you flex your fingers into the empty air; you disregard it resolutely, swivelling to face Ritsu in full.

"So," you say, voice ever so strained, "an anomaly with spatial manipulation powers, huh? Those can't be too common."

Ritsu looks on the verge of saying something neither of you know how to voice. He studies you cautiously, for a brief moment filled only by the silent request to leave it for another day simmering in your eyes.

Your heart almost caves in when he nods.

"I don't believe they are," he acquiesces. "We will be performing an in-depth evaluation of the anomaly's capabilities during the mission write-up. You and the captain were absent for approximately forty-six percent of the active conflict, but an account of your experiences in its domain would be highly valuable nevertheless."

"I'm looking forward to it." You smile, and you mean it. You remind yourself that this is what you know. You are secure with Ritsu, with how his voice flows over you like water, with the soundness of his care. You fit neatly into the palm of his hand and he keeps you there like a promise for his eyes alone, and in another world, perhaps that could ring true.

You blink the thought away. Right now, it doesn't matter. Romeo barks out a, the floor is filthy — what are you still doing down there? and you take the hand Ritsu offers you, focusing all you are onto his touch. Right now, you are alive, and you are here. You can stifle a laugh when Taiga sets Romeo off with another heedless remark and chat with Ritsu about the potential applications of an anomalous pocket dimension to life at Darkwick and pretend that the sand at the top of your hourglass isn't steadily running out, that you aren't just another tragedy on two feet.

"Let's go." Romeo taps his foot impatiently. He turns on his heel without waiting, muttering about how the poor air quality will dry out his skin. Taiga stretches up, green eyes flickering over to you in something wordless and fleeting before he sets off in suit. Ritsu looks at you again, the ghost of his touch clinging softly to your skin.

"Let's go," you echo. Your hands fall limp at your sides, and a warm ache hums to life in your chest at how well his steps match your own when you follow through. The sunset is beautiful, you think, but the truth of wonder is stored in that which it illuminates.

Soulmates and tricky feelings aside, you'll be glad to have these memories when you go.

thank you for reading!

if you made it this far tysm for sticking through to the end! i think the first thing i should say is sorry for the probably ooc behaviour; i'm only up to ep 8 so have mercy on my sinostra loving soul (i'm ready to fight case 59 in the pit). unfortunately i would have imploded if i didn't get this fic out of my system so here it is i guess...

this is my first non-drabble fic (!!!) so it is quite special to me. i have a lot of thoughts about this universe but for better or for worse whether they will actually be written out remains to be seen.

final notes... have a great day!

[onlydylanobrien]

Dylan O’Brien Talks His Queer Indie Twinless: “The Most Naked Thing I’ve Ever Had to Do”

The Teen Wolf and Maze Runner star goes deep on his biggest career swing yet, portraying identical twins in James Sweeney’s trippy, moving tale of grief and friendship.

When James Sweeney first considered casting Dylan O’Brien in his new film, Twinless, he came in with some preconceived notions about the actor. This was five years ago, before the Teen Wolf alum had started his run in acclaimed indies like Not Okay and Ponyboi. “He was a studio actor—the projects that he had upcoming were these big budget movies,” Sweeney recalls thinking. Beside him on Zoom now, O’Brien shakes his head at the memory: “Even on the first Zoom with James, those movies that came up had me going like, ‘Oh my God, that’s not all you think of me, is it?’”

Then James came across two relatively obscure entries in O’Brien’s filmography that showcased his versatility—and willingness to get weird. The first was the pilot episode of YouTube’s Weird City, in which two straight guys (O’Brien and Ed O’Neill) fall in love and get married. The second was O’Brien’s outrageously committed recreation of a key scene from The Social Network with Sarah Ramos, which went viral the same year Sweeney and O’Brien first met. “I used to work in casting as my day job, and sometimes people have a very myopic view of what an actor can do,” Sweeney says. “To me, it’s exciting to cast them in something that I haven’t seen them do.”

You might guess what that thing is based on this strange, biting film’s title. In Twinless, we first meet O’Brien’s Roman grieving the sudden loss of his identical twin, Rocky (also O’Brien). The character is mournful, quiet, and gentle, only enlivened once he meets and starts to bond with a guy named Dennis (Sweeney) in a local twin bereavement support group. In flashbacks, we then meet Rocky—tartly witty, boisterous, and proudly queer—at which point the scope of O’Brien’s impressive, emotional performance comes into full view.

“Dylan really took ownership over the character and an understanding of my voice in a way that was really affirming,” James says. O’Brien felt a kinship with his director: “I felt like I spoke a very similar emotional language.”

Sweeney grew up fascinated by twins, including as an avid consumer of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen content. Some years ago, he dated an identical twin. Right after they broke up, Sweeney began writing Twinless. Clearly, all that was inspiration worth drawing from: After making its world premiere in Park City to strong reactions, we’ve already got a breakout from this year’s Sundance Film Festival.

Sweeney both directs and stars in Twinless, as he did on his debut feature, the sharp comedy Straight Up. “I wasn’t gung ho to do the masochist ball again,” he says with a laugh. “Even the idea of me opposite Dylan O’Brien, who’s famous while I’m literally nobody—that’s not good business! That’s the producer side of my brain.” Yet the film’s actual producer, Oscar nominee David Permut (Hacksaw Ridge), gave Sweeney the confidence to go for it.

From there, he and O’Brien worked to find a deep, off-kilter intimacy. “On day two, we were doing an intimate conversation scene, and I’m like, ‘The crew’s away, we’ve got to go,’ and Dylan was like, ‘No, we can take time and rehearse this with us and everyone else can wait,’” Sweeney says. “Even that moment of calm and having it just between us, it really set the tone…. Dylan really advocated for that.”

Sweeney and Dylan share most of their scenes in the film, which goes to some delightfully surprising, discomfiting, and absurdist places. There’s pain to Twinless, but it’s laced with dark, cuttingly honest comedy. “That loss of the ground underneath you walking around this world is so tragic,” O’Brien says. “It just broke my heart in such a profound way when I first read it.”

His most emotional scene in the movie pushed him to look inward. “I honored it verbatim on the day, which might be the only time in my career that’s happened,” O’Brien says with a laugh. “It’s the most naked thing I’ve ever had to do on a set. Even at 32 years old—I’ve been doing this for going on 15 years now. It’s so beautiful that you can still have a moment that is such an impactful evolution for yourself.”

“After he did that scene, it was so fucking good. And then I had to do my [big] scene the next day,” Sweeney adds. “I was like, Fuck. If I don’t get this, I’m going to ruin the movie. That terrified me.”

Another thing that got Sweeney’s anxiety going: Shooting a vivid, graphic sex scene. “It was the most revealing, mature scene that I had done in my directing career so far,” he says. Yet Twinless finds its funky heart in its most romantic, explicit aspects, building on the nuanced and textured approach to queerness that Sweeney first demonstrated in Straight Up. “It’s just one of those things you throw yourself into,” O’Brien says. “The crew was really tight-knit, and it was a cool vibe. Everyone got what we were doing.” So much so that Sweeney and O’Brien didn’t need as much assistance as expected.

“We decided to have an intimacy coordinator on set—but I don’t think we needed one, and I don’t think the intimacy coordinator thought we needed one,” Sweeney says. O’Brien booms with laughter at the memory. “He was hilarious,” O’Brien says. “He ducked out early. He’s like, ‘Oh, you’re good.’”

Source: vanityfair.com

[seaemberthesecond]

declan csa parallels haven't left me since I made the connection

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk about this, because honestly same.

This is one of those things that I won't even say is a headcanon because it's not. It's a reading of the text, plain and simple. The evidence is all there.

Violation of autonomy, familial harm, and secrets are all big themes in tdt. The central problematic of the Lynch family is that the secrets in the underbelly tear them apart and prevent the brothers from connecting to each other in real and meaningful ways. They're deliberately denied the language and vocabulary to articulate their experiences out of fear of the family's secrets being exposed, leaving them unable to communicate with each other.

And in the middle of all of this, we have Declan.

Declan who, unbeknownst to his brothers, is experiencing a radically different childhood riddled with danger and violence and is forced to keep it a secret by his parents for the 'good of the family.' Declan who resents Ronan and Matthew for getting the idyllic childhood he's been deprived of, thus creating rifts in their relationship. Rifts that are further exacerbated because of the secrets he's forced to keep – he can't talk to them about what's actually happening in his life, he can't share anything real with them, so he constructs a fake persona to hide behind, even at home. But his brothers pick up on his artifice and withdraw from him, leaving him even more isolated.

This is…such a painfully obvious allegory for sexual abuse that I'm kind of dumbfounded by the fact that more people don't talk about it.

Both Ronan and Matthew recognize that Declan is treated differently by their parents, but they deliberately don't examine this too deeply because doing so would require that they acknowledge that something sinister lurked in the margins of their childhood and that's just not something they want to face. Declan's grief isn't as clear-cut as Ronan and Matthew's, because he's grappling with the very real harm his parents did to him, but he's demonized for his "sceptical and imperfect love" for Niall and Aurora. His attempts at getting Ronan to see that their parents weren't who he thought they were are met with hostility and scorn (and in Matthew's case, hesitant incredulity). Because again, Ronan doesn't want to hear it. He's actively standing there with his hands over his ears chanting lalalalalala. I mean in CDTH, we can see how very discomfited he gets when faced with Declan at the fairy market because it forces him to re-evaluate his own childhood in light of all this new information about his brother's secret life that was taking place right under his nose. And he does not want to do that.

I mean does that not drive you insane?? The subtext is THERE. Everything about how the Lynch Brothers' dynamic is set up allows for the reading that Declan has suffered some kind of sexual abuse at the hands of one/both of their parents.

And this is purely at a thematic level. It gets crazier when you consider Declan displays many of the characteristics and behaviours of sexual assault survivors.

His issues with intimacy

"It wasn’t that he hadn’t gone on dates or hooked up, that unlovely euphemism for what was sometimes a perfectly nice time. It was that he didn’t get too close. Intimacy was allowed as long as it revealed nothing truthful." (ch 69, cdth)

His 'hypersexuality'

“So he’s a man-whore. It’s not your problem,” Gansey said. (ch 4, trb)

His troubled relationship with physical touch

(He never initiates anything physical with Jordan, it's always her making the first move; his discomfort with Aurora's hug in the Dauntless Declan scene; his discomfort with Feniall's hug in CDTH; he avoids touching his brothers even and is surprised whenever Matthew reaches out to him.)

His disassociation from his own emotions

Declan Lynch had a complicated relationship with his family. It wasn’t that he hated them. Hate was such a slick, neat, simple emotion. Declan envied people who felt proper hate. (ch 10, MI)

So even if you choose to believe Declan wasn't assaulted by Niall or Aurora, there is still enough evidence in the text itself to suggest he's suffered from some kind of sexual violence during his childhood. Fairy Markets aren't exactly child-friendly places (the woman getting strangled in one of the rooms in CDTH anyone?) and it's not really a stretch to assume Declan had to put up with some fucky shit as a uhh* checks notes* 10-year-old in the uhhhh *checks notes again* black market for the rich and powerful.

And then there's the declan-adam-hennessy and the declan-adam-mor triangles which exist independent of whether you consider Declan a victim of sexual violence but certainly get reinforced if you subscribe to it. But I won't get into that.

All this to say, CSA survivor Declan you will always be real to me.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

just a girl 3

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible cheating, low self-esteem, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you move in with your sister when your luck turns for the worst.

Characters: Walter Marshall, possible Andy Barber

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

Another day, another disappointment. 

You don't know what you’re doing wrong. You have experience, you just lack a few good references. As much as you tell yourself it isn't your fault your past job ended the way it did, you're doubting even that. 

You try to keep out of the way since your last run-in with your brother-in-law. It might be better to consider him your landlord. You go outside as much as you can when he’s home. Sometimes just to walk and forget, but that’s getting harder to do. 

That day, you need to talk to Andy. It’s intimidating like when you used to ask your father to do anything. With Rhiannon, it was one smile and she got her way, but who can ever say no to her? With you, it was always an interrogation. Why do you want to do that? Who with? As if you were lying or up to no good. 

Your trip to the bank helps you sort your nerves, at least a little bit. You have it all rehearsed in your head. And he can’t be unhappy when you’re doing exactly what he told you too. 

A sigh escapes you as you enter the suburban sprawl. Each flawless facade, each primped and preppy housewife, each giggling child reminds you of your displacement. You tuck your hands into your jean pockets, further discomfited by the blazing sun as your Queens of the Stone Age shirt absorbs the heat. 

You have your wired earbuds in, blasting the new album you’ve been anticipating for a year. You pre-ordered when you still had a full-time income. Another reminder of how low you’ve fallen. Money you would gladly take back as you’re not feeling the electric pop flow. 

As you turn a corner, you flinch and dodge out of the way as a black speck approaches from the other side of the street. You assume it’s some kid chasing an errant soccer ball. To your surprise, it’s someone much bigger than any rambunctious fifth grader. 

It’s him. That man with the curly hair. Like you, he’s in jeans. This heat is unforgiving to denim. He wears a dark shirt on top, a hint of chest hair poking out. You look around and turn to continue on your path. He must be running after someone else. 

He calls your name. You only recall his as he falls into step with you. Walter. Your catch your ear buds as they fall out. 

“Hey, you weren’t at the Crayton barbecue,” he comments, “I was lonely.” 

You look at him from the corner of your eye, hands firmly back in your pockets as you push your shoulders up. 

“I’m not much into those things either but my girl is friends with their girl,” he explains, “was thinking you might be into something more lowkey.” 

“Um,” you squint, mourning your lack of sunglasses, “I don’t think so. I’m working on moving out soon...” 

“Yeah, sure, but not tonight,” he insists. “Chicken burgers only, promise.” 

You glance over at him. He’s taunting you. 

“I didn’t... I wasn’t... my sister told me to--” 

“Oh, so should I ask her if you should come over for a beer?” He challenges. 

“What?” You frown, “beer, I don’t drink.” 

“Got it, I have near beers you can have. Or I’ll have a beer and you can have ginger ale,” he suggests as he puts a hand up, “whatever you like.” 

You mull his invitation. You gnaw on your lip as you near the corner by your sister’s house. He doesn’t let up, in lockstep with you until you reach the gate. You stop with your hand on the white picket. He stands beside you. 

“Sorry but... why?” 

He scoffs, “I like your style. We have similar music taste. I don’t know. Like I said, I’m bored. Not a lot of people around here are into grunge. Even dudes my age prefer Seger to Cobain.” 

You were never a Nirvana cultist. You appreciate them but you prefer Grohl in his second era. You tap your fingertips on the wooden slat and face him. 

“I don’t know,” you utter and peek back at the house. It might be good to get out but this man is a stranger. Still, look at this place. This is the very picture of affluence. Not like he’s asking you back to some dingy alleyway. “I’d hate to trouble you.” 

“Hah,” he puts his hands on his hips, “I’m the one asking. You think I would if it was trouble? Besides, I see through the monochrome, you’re anything but trouble.” 

You can’t help the slant in your lips. Yep. That’s you. Boring. Dull. Like wallpaper. 

“Marshall,” a rocky growl greets from the front porch. You glance over as Andy emerges, in a yellow short-sleeved button up and khakis.  

“Barber,” Walter answers in a flat tone. 

“Need something?” Andy strides down the paved walkway, between the tulips and daisies your sister fawns over. 

“Not from you,” Walter retorts with a smirk, “talking to her.” 

“And why’s that?” 

You sense the tension. You glance between the men as they stare each other down. You shrink between them, trapped at the gate. 

“Her business, not yours,” Walter scoffs, “no client privilege here, bud, now we’re having a chat.” 

“Outside my house?” Andy sneers 

The other man shakes his head and ignores him, turning his back to the fence, “anyway, six-thirty? I’ll come by to get you for that beer.” 

You can’t find your voice to disagree as you’re choked by thick air, the heat turning stolid in their obvious spite for each other. Walter glances over his shoulder nods at Andy before he turns to stride off. You cough and watch him go. 

The gate jolts out of your grasp as Andy pulls it open from the other side. You let go and falter before you step through. You shy away as he stands, a hand on one hip, the other on the gate door. He swings it shut with a snap. 

“You’re hanging out with Marshall?” He asks. 

“He... asked,” you face him, bouncing indecisively on the walk, “er, Andy, actually, I wanted to talk--” 

“You should tell him to fuck off,” Andy interrupts. 

“Oh?” 

“Trust me. I work with the jackass.” 

“You do?” You wonder. 

“Sometimes. At the precinct,” he sniffs and turns to you, “stubborn asshole.” 

“Right, well, I didn’t... I don’t...” 

“Guess I shouldn’t complain if it gets you out of my hair,” he snorts. 

“Andy, er,” you grab your satchel and unzip the top, “I got my unemployment so... here.” You hold out the envelope of bills. It’s all you have left after paying for your most basic expenses, “for groceries and whatever.” 

“And whatever?” He takes the envelope with a skeptical look, “sure.” 

You stand in silence. You thought he’d have a different reaction. Maybe not elated but maybe a thanks? You don’t know. He hates you, just like everyone else. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I... I don’t want to be in the way.” 

“You should’ve told her no. Rhiannon... she’s too nice for her own good. Even to her family and you all just walk all over her.” 

You furrow your brow, “I don’t... I wouldn’t--” 

“Save it,” he rolls his eyes and slips the envelope into his pocket, “that’ll do for one month, but you’ve been here two.” 

“Uh, yeah,” you quaver, breathless. Not good enough. Never good enough. 

“You know, acting pathetic, it’s not endearing. Maybe to Rhi, but not me.” 

“I’m sorry--” 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he taunts, “alright, noted. Have fun with Marshall.” He snickers, “bit of advice, don’t put out after one beer, try to make him work for it. Hell, maybe if he does, you could learn a lesson or two about work.” 

Your eyes sting and you swallow tightly. You turn to step past him and he blocks you with his arm. You back up and look him in the face. Unlike Rhiannon, you can do that. She always looks ridiculous next to him. 

“Or maybe, if you can get some money out of it...” he looks you up and down and you hug yourself defensively. “Ah, nah,” his eyes drift past you, towards the street, “I know that bastard. He’s just tryna get to me.” He laughs darkly and shakes his head, “too bad I don’t give a shit.” He turns his glare back on you, “do me a favour, stay a bit later. I’d like some privacy with my wife.” 

You drop your eyes meekly and nod, “yeah, I’ll try. Sorry, again.” 

He inhales and lets it out heavy. He slowly moves out of your way, “it’s weird,” he says as you move past him, “sometimes, you actually do look like her sister,” he comments as your pace picks up, “like her but not pretty.” 

You continue inside without a response. You don’t know why he has to take it there. Why he can’t just take his win and be happy? Or at least content.

You remember before the wedding, when he found you, told you to stay in the back for photos. You apologised then too, even if he was being mean. It doesn’t matter, you’re always wrong. 

[ihavethegrimoire]

Ok idk if I'm gonna make a fic about this but here's an okkoitafushi ramble.

The thing is that canon okkoitafushi would actually start with yuu^2 because megumi has SO much shit to work through before he can even start to articulate things. But despite them both being such gorgeous sunshine characters yuu^2 doesn't exactly start happy. It starts just after yuuta "kills" him. Yuuta hears yuuji mumbling, screaming, and sometimes crying in the night. Yuuta doesn't know it but it's yuuji's lowest low. He gives yuuji space though. He knows most sorcerers prefer to deal with their emotions in solitude and he leaves it, but he asks yuuji how he slept every morning.

One night, yuuji can't take it anymore. He's used to being alone, orphaned in his grandpa's empty home. He's used to megumi being just beyond a wall, close but inaccessible. But he just can't do it anymore. He's scared. He comes to Yuuta's door half-crazed with lack of sleep.

"Since Gojo's gone, you're the strongest, right?" he asks.

"I guess I am," Yuuta answers bashfully.

"That's good. I-Can I sleep here tonight?"

Yuuta looks around the room spotting some spare blankets and a pillow. There's an empty spot beside his western-style bed. "Yeah, I don't see why not," he answers with a smile.

As he gets settled in bed and Yuuji's putting his blankets down on the floor, yuuta tries to be comforting. "Really, Yuuji you don't have to worry. If anyone comes for you, Rika and I will protect you."

He's discomfited by yuuji's nonresponse, but after a few moments Yuuji speaks up. "You know, it's not about that. I don't care if I'm safe anymore. I don't want to die but maybe it would be right. I hurt so many people. It was my body that slaughtered them. If i lose control again, you're strong enough to stop me, right? Like Gojo would have? I know Gojo wouldn't have held back, you won't hold back, right?"

Yuuta lets his hand down from underneath the cover to hold yuuji's. "No. I'm strong enough. And in the meantime, you won't be alone."

And that's how their romance starts.

[chaos-monkeyy]

New original short fiction! I suspect it's more Weird (Monsterfuckery) Erotica than actual smut, but I gave it an E rating to be safe. Anyway, I'm really pleased with it!

FYI if the link doesn't work, I finally did decide to lock my original work to registered accounts only. (get an AO3 account if you don't have one yet! they're great!)

-

The Forest (on AO3)

~teaser excerpt~

-

Basian had always felt the call of the forest.

No one else seemed to, though surely they had to have felt… something. Perhaps it was that very call which unsettled them all so, without knowing why.

Ancient, vast, the forest had no name. Unless maybe it was, quite simply, the Forest. Basian liked that notion. He would sit sometimes, and simply watch, and wonder. How had the Forest endured, when all around it was built up and cultivated and… and infested, with humanity and all that came with them? 

He was glad it had endured, whatever the reason. He didn’t need to know why to value the result. But still, he thought it strange how nobody else ever seemed to question why no one encroached on the forest edges. Why the densely-packed buildings and houses and invariably-fenced-in yards all ended, uniformly, a safe several meters away from the too-dense trees and underbrush that effectively walled the forest off from the city that was the rest of this world.

Basian had learned quite young not to ask questions about the Forest. People grew… discomfited when forced to remember that it was, in fact, there. Nobody wanted to acknowledge it, much less talk about it. Nobody went into it, ever. There were no pathways. There were certainly no roads or transport lines; nobody went into the Forest because nobody wanted to go in there.

Nobody, of course, except for Basian.

-

[ikeromantic]

Happy new year! I'm new to this blog but I saw your ask box was open so can I ask for some mitsunari fluff? Building a snow man leading to a snow ball fight if it's okay! It'll be so cute! Thank you!

Thanks for the ask, nonny! Here's some snowman fluff with Mitsunari! Approx 800 words.

Mitsunari gave the construction site a quick once over. It did not look very promising. He glanced at Mai. "So . . . you want to roll the snow into three balls of decreasing size. And then . . . stack those balls atop each other?"

"Yep." She grinned widely. "I have a daikon for his nose and some pretty river stones for his eyes." 

He didn't respond. This was because he didn't hear her. His mind was already off, calculating the maximum size for each snowball given the availability of snow within a reasonable area for rolling a said ball of snow, considering the flatness of the terrain and the various obstacles within.

The volume would be relative to size, but due to compaction, smaller than expected. Mitsunari wished for a moment that he had something to write on, but the math wasn't too difficult. The base was the most important part, and would need to have a flattened bottom. A quick survey of the space gave him the exact position that would be most advantageous, considering wind and sun factors as well as the -

"Mitsunari. Mitsunari! Hellooooo?" Mai waved a hand in front of his face. "Stay with me, huh?"

He laughed, feeling a little embarrassed. It was so easy to get lost in his thoughts, even when he wanted to be present and here with his best friend and lover. "Sorry. I was just planning it out."

She grinned. "I figured." Her mitten bumped his as she struggled to hold his hand through the thick fabric. "Come on. Let's do it."

Mitsunari grasped her hand and smiled back. He loved the way she smiled in moments like these. So bright and cheerful and full of life. His heart felt too full with love for her and all of the sudden, this moment seemed so much more important than just afternoon fun. He pulled her close and kissed her, savoring the contrasting warmth of her against the icy chill of the day. 

"What was that for," she asked when their lips parted. 

"You were too beautiful to resist."

Her cheeks heated and her smile grew. With an impish glint in her eye, she kissed him breathless.

His body thrilled at her touch. A heat beyond that of two bodies pressed close. "If this continues, I don't think there will be any snowman built."

She laughed and took a step back. "Can't have that, now can we?"

Mitsunari privately considered that it wouldn't be the worst thing. But sometimes delaying satisfaction made it all the sweeter. He shook his head. "We will not fail."

It took the two of them more than a few hours to roll the snow into 3 huge, packed balls. When Mitsunari wrestled them into place, they had a larger than life snow sculpture. To his eyes, there was nothing human-like about the rounded stack of snow. At least, not until Mai added the stones for his eyes and the daikon nose, with branches for arms. She finished him off with a jaunty straw hat, ridiculous for this time of year but perfect too.

"What do you think?" She stood next to the snowman, eyeing him.

"I was unsure at first," he admitted, "but with your clever details he looks very human."

Mai nodded, satisfied. "I think he's cute." She draped an arm around the middle snowball and leaned into the snowman. "Ahhh I wish I still had my phone. This would make an adorable selfie. He looks so cute!" 

Mitsunari felt an odd tension in his chest. Just the slightest tinge of jealousy. He'd gotten used to her calling him beautiful, cute, adorable. Hearing her say that about the snowman while leaning into his embrace was . . . discomfiting. "He isn't that cute."

"Are you . . . pouting?" Mai tilted her head. "Mitsunari! Are you jealous of the snowman?"

"No." He tried very hard not to be. It was silly. Ridiculous even. But the feeling was still there. "A little," he admitted a breath later. 

She tried not to smile but couldn't help herself. "You are too much. You know I love you more than anything, right?" Mai stepped away from the snowman and closed the distance between them. 

"I know," he agreed. And he did know. "But . . . could you . . . show me?"

Mai's eyes widened and then she did smile. "I can." She snuggled close and kissed his cheek. "No snowman is cuter than you." She kissed his jaw. "Not as adorable either." She kissed his lips, and that kiss was sweet and hot and deep, and left Mitsunari feeling light-headed and off balance. "I love you."

"I love you too." He smiled and hugged her tighter. "Let's go inside so I can warm you up." 

"I'd like that," she replied. And she did.

[cavka]

buddie + drawing patterns onto their partner’s body 💖

prompts are open! this is set in a random "eddie and buck got together shortly after the lightning strike" universe

Buck had forgotten how nice it was to just lay skin to skin with someone. Or maybe, now that he thought about it, he never really had a chance to experience it before. There had been some naked cuddles with Abby, but those were usually post-sex and they either fell asleep or got up not too long after. He can't really remember if there was every anything like this with Ali. Taylor definitely wasn't the naked snuggles type.

With Eddie, it's like they can't get enough of each other. Not even in a sexy way. (Though there is a lot of that too.) It's like they both love to just bask in the feeling of holding someone close, and that feeling is only amplified when they can touch skin. They're constantly touching arms, the backs of each other's necks, slipping fingers under the hems of the other's shirt to feel just a sliver of soft skin and body heat. Sometimes, they just strip down to their boxers and lay in bed together. Buck's often reading something on his phone or thinking or something. Eddie seems to like hovering in that state where he's not quite dozing but not fully awake, so long as he can press the length of his body to Buck's.

That's where they ended up after shift today: in bed, stripped down to their underwear, Buck on his back and Eddie curled up against his side, resting his head on Buck's chest. Neither of them needed to catch up on sleep (it had been a slow shift) so Buck had read an article or two he'd previously bookmarked for when he had a free moment. Eddie read over his shoulder for a bit before getting distracted with his thoughts. His hand that had started out resting on Buck's right side slowly moved across his chest as Eddie drew mindless patterns on his skin.

At least, Buck thought they were mindless. Maybe they were at first. He hadn't really been paying attention. But now... now they were tracing familiar paths, up and down his left side, briefly to his shoulder, up his neck, diagonally across his pectorals.

"I didn't think anyone got a good look at the scars before they faded," Buck says quietly.

Eddie's hand stops. Presses flat to his chest. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, then sighs quietly. "I took that picture of them after you were stable enough. Knew you'd probably want to see them if you didn't wake up before they faded."

Even with the seriousness of the moment and Eddie's flat tone of voice, Buck feels a rush of warmth go through him. He had wanted to see the Lichtenberg figures. They hadn't completely disappeared by the time he woke up from his come, but they were close to fading completely. As they disappeared from his skin and Buck was left with no real physical sign that he'd been struck by lightning--that he'd up and died on that ladder--he'd been... discomfited. Having the picture, that proof, helped.

He puts down his phone and covers Eddie's hand on his chest with his own. "Thank you," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of Eddie's head.

Eddie laces their fingers together. Drops a kiss of his own on Buck's bare shoulder. "Of course," he says. I know you, Buck hears, I love you.

[lookingfts]

Yay! Great to hear you’re slowly but surely getting there.

I’m curious about if you have writer’s block does it happen due to life events or can it also happen on plot points and if it’s plot points is there one that recurs more often than others? I always love whenn you share your writing process.

My prompt is - meet me in the garden.

Good question! Writer's block usually is just when my brain is tired. I write professionally so if work is really busy, sometimes I just feel fried in that particular area. It's tough to have your job and your hobby be the same thing haha.

It does happen sometimes when I'm stuck on a plot. There's nothing specific, just sometimes I know where I want something to end up but I can't quite figure out how to get there. There are some fics where I just never find my way. I don't ever connect to it and so it all feels kind of perfunctory. But fortunately those are rare. I wrote a post a while ago about how I break though writer's block.

Meet me in the garden

Kate could still feel the gooseflesh from his whisper in her ear. The power this man had over her was truly discomfiting.

She made sure that she was drawing no attention before slipping out of the ball. Her feet were moving far too quickly, her body aching to be close to his again.

An arm wrapped around her waist, and she toppled against a solid chest. Kate laughed, her soul warmed by Anthony's smile. She had never seen him so happy. Her betrothed, though the Ton did not know it yet.

"Careful," he said in a low voice, fingers digging into her waist. "It is dark. Someone could compromise you."

Kate hummed, rubbing her thumb against his jaw. "I was rather hoping they would."

I'm sure the Bridgertons will accept Kate in Waiting. As reputation obsessed as Violet is the rest of the family isn't so I don't see you dwelling on too much. I'm curious about the Sharma side of it though? This is a much more delicate age gap than Sugar with Kate only barely legal. Does Mary accept it? Or will it take time?

My prompt: It wasn't supposed to be you

Totally. I think Violet really just wants Anthony to find love. She's a romantic and she would never stand in the way if he truly found that person. Plus I think Waiting Anthony isn't as concerned with the opinions of his family.

But yes, I think Mary would be very concerned about it. Like, you babysat for his kid? And he's telling you he wants a future with you? You can't trust that. Plus maybe she thinks Anthony is just one of those guys who likes younger women, rather than Kate being special. So Mary would just plead with Kate not to make any rash decisions (like, idk, dropping out of school or having his kid). I think seeing Anthony be so devoted to Kate would soften her family under any circumstances. And then after they're together like a year and Kate is still happy, I think Mary would start to trust it more.

It wasn't supposed to be you

She'd built a life for herself. The life she had always imagined: a governess, independent, making her own way in the world. Caring for children that she adored in a town that felt like home.

Or had felt like home, until Edwina had visited with her husband. Until Anthony came back into her life and shattered every fragile illusion about her own happiness that Kate had worked so hard to build. Until they spent a frantic, passionate night locked together while Edwina slept at the other end of the house.

And now he was looking at her so tenderly, as if she was his wife, and Kate did not know how she would survive when he left her again.

"It wasn't supposed to be you," she whispered, and Anthony only nodded. Understanding her, as he always did.

"I know."

For Passed Around/Tied Down, do Daphne and Sophie know? Or are Ben and Simon still single in this universe?

Ben and Simon are still single so far! I have wondered what it might look like with their wives involved. I could see Sophie joining in on the fun (which Kate would be okay with...there's plenty to go around lol). Daphne maybe less so since her brothers are involved? Idk everyone in that universe is a total freak so maybe she and Simon would like to watch. 😂

[sulky-valkyrie]

Happy Friday!!

For DADWC, can I have "A glass too many" for fenders? 😘🍷

happy Friday, my darling 💜🖤💜 have an evening that doesn't go as planned for @dadrunkwriting

"Justice doesn't let me get drunk anymore. I kind of miss it." Anders eyed the pitcher of beer on the table wistfully as he sank into a chair in Varric’s suite.

"He doesn't let you drink?" Hawke asked.

Fenris frowned. It was another example of the spirit's hold on him, and deeply discomfitting to consider. If he didn't have the choice to do something even a slave could do, did he any free will at all?

He shook his head. "It's not like that. He had a bad experience with an old drinking buddy and, let's just say that the memory left a mark. Corpses can't actually digest anything, you know. No matter what powers them."

Varric put his cards down. "I smell a story."

"It's really not. You know how easily a rag will go up in flames if it's been soaked in brandy?" Anders shrugged. "Dead bodies do too. It was almost funny once we put him out, but now…" he swallowed. "Now I remember it differently. Now even the smell of it turns our stomach. So I suppose it's not really Justice’s doing at all, just… bad memories. "

Hawke leaned his chair back to balance it on two legs and drained his tankard. "Smell of what? Beer? Whiskey? Rum?"

"All of it," he sighed, then took a sip of tea. "It's a Warden tradition to keep a flask or bottle on hand and dump whatever we find into it. Like a forever stew, but with alcohol." He made a face. "Just as chewy sometimes too."

"Even wine?" Fenris heard himself ask.

Anders tilted his head like he was listening to something. Something no one else could hear. Fenris glanced away, regreting the impulsive question now that it was out in the open. He didn't want to know more about the abomination, much less his companion, and far less hear either of their opinions on anything. Their animosity had cooled over the years, but almost too much, leaving them with the frosty indifference forced to lived together and both ignoring the other.

"You know, I don't think I've had wine in at least fifteen years," he finally said. "Commander kept a carafe of it at the dinner table, but most all of us stuck with ale or whatever else was on hand. I used to joke that the color was too much like darkspawn blood. So I suppose… maybe not?"

Hawke plucked Fenris' bottle from his hand, grabbed a cup at random off the table, then poured a measure of wine in before handing it over to Anders. "Guess it's time to find out, yeah?"

Anders eyed the proffered drink like it might bite him, or possibly explode, but accepted it. He sniffed at it gingerly, frowned, took a cautious sip, then made a face. "That is… vile."

He wasn't wrong. The Hanged Man's 'wine' was the worst of the worst, the dreck of the dreck, and often distinguishable from vinegar only by color. That color was the only reason Fenris stubbornly ordered it every time; there was no way to piss in it and still pass it off as drinkable, unlike the wretched sour beers that smelled like flatulence and tasted of grass.

Fenris reached out to take it back. "No one is making you drink it." Then he added, defensively, "I have much better at home."

He arched a disbelieving not-quite-hostile eyebrow. "Are you offering me a tour of your wine cellar? Sample the wares?"

That hadn't been the plan at all, but Anders always made him feel off balance, and it tricked his mouth into saying things it shouldn't. He didn't want Anders in the mansion, but, now that he'd been called out so directly, it would refusal would turn him into the asshole.

But it took two to [tango], and he'd learned passive aggression from magisters. "If that is what you wish, we can go right now."

Anders blinked a few times, but, just like Fenris, was unwilling to back down. He pushed himself out of the chair and held out his hand, a picture of gallant chivalry. "Shall we, then?"

Kaffas. He grabbed Anders' wrist and ignored the strange tingle across the lyrium as he was hauled up, faster and with more ease than he thought possible. Hawke moved to join them, but Anders pushed him back down into his chair with that hidden strength. "You weren't invited, Hawke." He winked. "This is my wine tasting."

Was it better or worse to be doing this alone? More importantly, what even was 'this' at all? Fenris pulled his hand free and headed for the stairs, feeling Anders walking too damn closely behind him.

Once they were outside, they immediately parted, then turned to face each other.

"That was fun for the look on Hawke's face, but we —"

"You don't really —"

They both stopped. They both glared. They both heaved resigned sighs.

"I'm not saying you can't —"

"I mean, if you meant it, I won't —"

Fenris pinched his brow. At this point, all he wanted was a proper glass of wine, and drinking alone was never a wise choice. He should know, as he'd practiced it far too often. "Come on, mage."

"Really?"

He started climbing the stairs back up to Hightown. "I dislike repeating myself. Join me if you want."

A few seconds later, he heard the telltale rustle and jingle of Anders' coat as he jogged to catch up to him. "What kinds do you have?"

"Three bottles of Nevarran Ourzo, four casks of Orlesian white, a case of what was once a dozen bottles of Antivan Chianti, and an entire rack of Aggregio Parvali." He shrugged. "There's more, but I haven't bothered to catalog it." How could he, when he couldn't read or write?

Anders whistled. "Sounds worth a fortune."

"Perhaps," Fenris said. "But it's nothing to Danarius. He never cared for any of it, except that it was proof of his power and status. Proof he could have anything he wanted."

Mentioning his former master had the desired effect; it shut Anders up. Speaking of a single man's crimes instead of the dangers of mages as a whole seemed to take the air out every argument he'd ever prepared on the subject. It was strange, but it made sense. For all his recklessness, all his foolishness, Anders wasn't cruel. Nasty and petty upon occasion, but not cruel. He'd bite the hand that feeds every day, but he'd never kick a man laying in the gutter unless he'd put him there himself.

Fenris shook his head as he pushed the door open. Trying to understand Anders was lesson in futility, even if he wanted to. Which he didn't. The mage puzzled him, but it wasn't important, and certainly not worth the energy and time he should be putting into preparing for Danarius' return. Without further preamble, he grabbed a bottle of wine from the table just inside the entranceway, daring Anders to question what it was doing there. "This is the Chianti." He pulled the stopper out and handed it over.

Anders took a curious sniff, then glanced up at Fenris. "Smells like fruit."

What kind of observation was that? "I should hope so."

"That's normal then?" he asked, then took a long swig. Their fingers brushed as he passed the bottle back and licked his lips. "Reminds me in a way of… some really tart cheeses?"

Something about him seemed different now. Less defensive? Less wary? Whatever it was, Fenris liked it, which further added to the strangeness of the evening. He'd invited a mage into his home and offered him a drink. It was unheard of, yet it was happening, and, most bizarre of all, he found himself wanting to keep him there. Not by force, but with treat, just as Anders did with the alley cats behind the Hanged Man. "They do go well with cheese," he suggested. "I have some in the larder."

As he lead the way to the kitchen, Fenris sipped the wine out of simple habit. It was stronger than the Hanged Man's slop, and made his skin buzz pleasantly, though only on one side. Odd. The hearth was cold and dark, but not too dark for him to see. Anders was another matter, and he banged face first into a pan hanging from the rack.

"Kaffas, sit down before you trip on anything important." Fenris tugged him to the table and handed the bottle back. "Have some more."

"I thought we were touring you wine cellar," Anders complained even as he sat.

Fenris rolled his eyes. "You're Fereldan and you're passing up cheese? I thought that was all you dog lords lived for. Besides, you hate caves and tunnels, and the cellar is both. I can bring the wine to you." He fled through the side door before either of them could consider the wider implications of such an offer. He was a fugitive from Tevinter, and waiting on a mage of his own free will? Why? Why did he care?

The larder was half a floor down and one room over, but he kept going. I should've asked him what he thought of the Chianti. Too late now, but wasn't that the point of a wine tasting? To taste a variety? A sweeter red, and one of the sparkling dry whites. He couldn't read the labels, but the bottles were distinctive in color and shape. Maybe a sweet blush too. Was that too much? Was it not enough? Warden strength and stamina was legendary, after all.

What is wrong with me? He won't possibly want to stay that long. And even if he does, I can get more.

In the end, his arms were wrapped precariously around three reds, two whites, and a blush as he climbed up to the larder, grabbed a brick of hard cheese, and backed his way through the kitchen door. "This should be pl—"

Disappointment and relief warred in his chest, but softly, like his lungs were full of goose down. Anders, the abomination, the renegade Warden, the Darktown healer, was snoring with his head pillowed on his arm and the obviously empty bottle of wine laying on its side on the table.

Fenris put the bottles down as quietly as he could, then poked the mage gently. He snored. He smiled to himself as he scooped him up to carry him to the couch to sleep it off. A glass too many without ever using one. Warden stamina indeed.

[horizon-verizon]

This is about the show, not the book characters.

I've already expressed indifference towards this particular ship both bc Laenyra was right there AND bc I didn't feel it had the longevity I prefer in my ships. Well, something else troubles me for the integrity for this ship. Namely, Mysaria's intentions & Rhaenyra's habits (once again, this is all coming from how the show decided to write these characters!!!).

After reading this Variety article where Emma describes Mysaria and Rhaenyra's relationship thus far, it occurred to me that Rhaenyra has already done something like this before whenever Daemon has seemingly abandoned her:

First it was Criston Cole, who she slept with after Daemon left her at the brothel.

Then it is Harwin--she expressly says that Daemon abandoned her, and she's still talking about the brothel mess. It's also when he abandons her at her wedding after their whole "take me to Dragonstone to be your wife" challenege that could have been semi genuiune. Harwin was obviously a much better and longer lasting relationship than the non-one with Cole, but it is very clear that it began as a necessity, developed from proximity, she would have preferred Daemon, and the wound was still visibly sore when she met up with him again in epi7. There was still yearning on her part. Harwin, though she loved him and cared for him, was absolutely second place here.

Now Daemon has gone off to Harrenhal after the S2 epi2 argument that made no sense and Rhaenyra has no idea what Daemon has planned or if he will at all support her. She's feeling lost, unworthy, that she has lost him, and too helpless. Esp with her council and son all saying she should stay put to avoid losing the war altogether with her own death. Mysaria is also Daemon's ex...she and Mysaria both face struggles from being in a world catered towards and over-empowering men PLUS having been with Daemon. I saw another clip that included Rhaenyra saying she wanted to be a man period AND to be a man like Daemon. After Mysaria relates her story and why she thinks she can stay to support Rhaenyra--respecting her as an equal--Rhaenyra immediately reaches in for the hug, Mysaria seems to caress her neck, she kisses Mysaria. She kisses Mysaria right after she says she wants to be Daemon...is she trying to reach Daemon through Mysaria, or is she trying to "occupy" Daemon's space b/t them to borrow some of that "masculine" power? Both? IDK, I'm not sapphic or wlw.

Point is when she's feeling vulnerable, she seeks out comfort, as is her right...but it's also a pattern that the show somehow always centers around a lack of Daemon. And all her vulnerabilities and fears stem from her insecurities about her being a good ruler in the eyes of those who support her, which was men up until this point. With Mysaria, she sees someone who has faith in her being able to be a good, worthy queen, competence--what Emma has said was:

Mysaria really affects Rhaenyra’s politics. She has a powerful impact on Rhaenyra’s ability to see how a kingdom and its citizens are affected in the case of civil war. That was slightly abstract to Rhaenyra — until Mysaria somehow makes that more concrete. And I think speaks to different forms of power that, again, maybe Rhaenyra, in her eagerness for a masculine conflict-based power, sometimes overlooks. Gaining the will, and the belief of the people — I don’t know how much that was part of her political consciousness prior to Mysaria.

and Mysaria has demonstrated a sort of support she feels show!Daemon not only didn't but refused to provide. What Mysaria tells her to do, has all thus far worked.

Check, check, check, check...

Mysaria has always tried to be on the side of power. First it was Daemon, then it was Otto; though w/Daemon she hoped for it indirectly, with Daemon's protection with use of her body and with Otto she wanted to stand as more of an equal or as close as she can get to that by providing information instead. The last few episodes, however, we saw her decide to leave it all behind and preserve her life and sanity after some green burned down her home and ruined her life. We are meant to judge that Mysaria stays despite her previous plans bc she sees Rhaenyra as worthy enough to serve or bc she feels the most "equal" she has ever felt. But I wonder is what Mysaria if Mysaria still feels like she has to cater towards another "patron" not necessarily for/with sex and she is more concerned with getting an angle than a relationship. But then again, perhaps this is only a real issue for those who prefer longevity in ships? IDK.

Also, show!Rhaenyra is resembling Cersei too much with all this wishing-to-be-a-man shit. No, these were not the same "type" of women! this is what happens when you totally rewrite and dilute an original female character's pride for an audience who you think shouldn't be discomfited by a "bitchy" woman demanding her birthright because she claims it.

[netherfeildren]

Hey Vic 🖤

Do you have any erotic literature recommendations?

hey hello! i got this question twice today so i will answer briefly here for something for u guy to read tonight if you want and then i’ll compile a more in depth list tomorrow!

the crossfire series by sylvia day : one of my most favorite series of all time but heavy heavy trigger warnings that you should look up before reading. i’ll say tho it’s not only such a gorgeously sexy story but so meaningful too despite the crazy dramatics of the plot

everything elsie silvers writes is super fun/ sexy / easy to read

in the same vein look at all of melanie harlow’s stuff also fun sexy good time reads

gianna darling : all her stuff is good

THE MADE SERIES BY DANIELLE LORI holy shit christian allister (book 2) is my end all be all — i think the authors a weirdo tho so like … pirate it or something but omg definitely read this, it’s actually my number one rec if anyone needs an epub site dm me :3

and if you want something more “highbrow” less romance bookish all of anaïs nin’s erotica is very beautiful but not always necessarily “sexy” if that’s what you’re looking for. definitely veers more in the vein of grotesque or discomfiting more than it’s usually romantic. but you know… sometimes that’s what you’re looking for

[isagrimorie]

I like listening to All Access Trek podcast and I wondered what happened to AAT’s sister podcast, Shuttlecraft podcast. I realized as I went back the catalog, that it preceded All Access Trek podcast.

The hosts have finally announced that they are on indefinite leave, and listening to their reasoning it kind of is sad how much they lost joy for the franchise.

I kind of agree with some of their reasoning and I think they haven’t really been enthused with the current era of Trek and they didn’t want to include their voices in the negativity. It’s a good choice and that’s how they feel about it.

This Trek era isn’t just their Trek. It happens, just like how not all Doctors can be your Doctors.

The Section 31 movie also really did not help. It wasn’t the best entry in Trek, but it’s not the worst, most terrible thing. It was just a full season of TV crammed down in a short movie.

It didn’t have the time to have the nuance and decided to go with hijinx adventure. (I still maintain the tone of Section 31 should have been more Rogue One than Guardians of the Galaxy/Suicide Squad).

This also makes me come to grips again with only just two Treks on the horizon now that Lower Decks is gone and Prodigy doesn’t seem to be returning, and my beloved Star Trek Legacy isn’t growing more and more distant. Strange New Worlds isn’t just for me, the things that make it interesting are not the things it’s leaning into. And TOS has never been my Trek. the DS9-Voyager post VOY is my Trek.

I feel my interest in Treks have kind of flipped too from being meh about the Academy to being more interested in it since the writing room also included Tawny Newsome. Plus having Tatiana Maslany is always a big plus for me.

Far flung Trek timeline might not be my jam but the new writer’s room might be a good boost.

Also, unfortunately, it really doesn’t feel like Alex Kurtzman is a good ideas guy, and I’m not a fan of Akiva Goldsman as a storyteller either. All the changes SNW did with the Vulcan and the Gorn doesn’t sit right with me. If they wanted an alien threat akin to the Xenomorph, they could have just created a new one.

(I am also just lukewarm to Pike. I know he’s a fan favorite but post-Discovery, he isn’t just that interesting. I’m also finding all the stanning over him from all corners of fandom discomfiting. It’s just not my rodeo at the end of the day.)

I’m debating if I will watch Strange New Worlds or let a full season go and then just binge it eventually.

On the other hand, fiction podcast has picked up the slack of space opera with derring do. And, for me, that’s Midnight Burger/Welcome to Horizon.

Time travel, space hopping, dimension shifting diner out there to save people while serving delicious food. And a small town that’s suddenly become a center of the bizarre and the strange after a god had a meltdown and reset the universe.

And now they’re doing an epic crossover!

I just love how Midnight Burger is a ragtag diner crew who inevitably find themselves fighting intergalactic empire and gods while both having whimsy and still having great emotional stakes.

I guess this post was just me figuring out what I really feel about Trek now that Paramount kicked the ones I liked out in the curb and puzzling out if I want to keep watching SNW. It’s the only Trek game in town now and while it’s there, it’s not really scratching my Trek itch. I love some characters: Una Chin-Riley, and Uhura. Pelia’s a gas sometimes when she’s around.

On the other hand, it’s not very compelling Trek to me and the show just keeps putting M’Benga through the ringer. And the show doesn’t really go to Strange New Worlds a lot for a show with the name. Honestly, the more I think about how season 2 ended, the more I dislike it.

I don’t know, maybe I’ll feel it out. Storytelling wise I’m just not into Akiva Goldsman’s storytelling sensibilities.