#and other non Irish people...

[goofy-gang-in-the-wacky-chat]

LOCAL 12FT TALL DEER DANCES WITH HIS LITTLE FOX GF 30 DEAD

[wearethekingdom]

A little thing I really like about Gaeilge is that hello is 'Dia duit' which directly translates to 'God be with you' and the response to 'Dia duit' is 'Dia is Muire duit' meaning 'God and Mary be with you'

I like this so much because while I spent summers in the Gaelteacht there was also competitions in the bars and the schools to see how many saints we could name going back and forth. It was weirdly a great way to connect with people and a nice way to share the language even if it was only a few words.

If you didn't know many saints though you were pretty unlucky. However, I knew little to none my first year there and once my stay was over I knew so many and I've only learnt more since.

[voidimp]

i wish i had a good explanation for why jules doesnt have an irish name despite being from like 1600s ireland (or whatever the equivalent is in lor) but the reality is his name came first bc he was originally my bloodborne character & all the backstory stuff came later but i also didnt want to change it bc i like how it sounds

i guess the easiest explanation would be that after several hundred years he got tired of having to tell people how to spell/pronounce his name bc the language wasnt as common as it used to be so he just started using a different one... or maybe he just wanted something that didnt stand out so much for the sake of avoiding unwanted attention... but idk if ill stick with either of those

[see-arcane]

There is so much to love about Sinners, but one of my favorite parts was the running theme of flipping the table on static storytelling tropes. And my favorite out of that pile?

Christianity is not the Magical Universal Good That Keeps the Monsters at Bay, and Hoodoo—or, nodding to cinema history, [INSERT ANY NON-CHRISTIAN FAITH HERE]—is not the Weird and Wicked Supernatural Scary Evil, Only Here for Curses and Pearl-Clutching Taboos.

In Sinners, Christianity isn’t held up as an evil in itself, but it is held up as itself, specifically as it actually came to be when it was introduced (forced) onto those people who never asked for it, didn’t want it, and had gods and cultures of their own which were largely crushed underfoot by colonialism and doctrines that generations were forced to choke down to the point that modern descendants now follow and spout a religion their ancestors had to have slaughtered or beaten into them. Remmick, an Irish vampire revealed as being old enough to have been a young man in an era before Ireland had been overtaken by Christianity, at the cusp of having it forced on them while their land and rights were stolen, can recite the Lord’s Prayer verbatim. Those words not only do nothing against his vampiric nature, but he admits the words give him comfort, even as he still hates the men who forced those words upon him and his father.

That scene coupled with Sammie’s interaction with his own father in the church was so beautifully and insidiously vindicating. Because Remmick and Sammie’s father are both leading congregations. They both have these groups of people following along, reciting what they want those groups to recite—even as they both come from groups that this religion was forcibly grafted into, they stand in places of power and command, and therefore it has become good! They both want Sammie to use his musical gift for their purposes, not his own wishes. They both disregard his fear and pain as they lay hands on him before staring crowds who wait to see him bow to their will.

Vampirism is the greater existential terror, especially as it is under Remmick’s rule. A potentially eternal undeath that traps the spirit and has one single controlling mind puppeteering their body and will. But Christianity as it’s framed in the reality of Sammie’s life is shown explicitly not to be the savior of the story, having so many of the same bones as the nightmare he barely escaped with his life.

Give up your gift and your desires and your free will to the Church, son, it’s the only way! Be a lesson for my followers and then we can acknowledge your torn face and the blood on your clothes and the absence of your cousins! Drop the guitar and give yourself to worship and leave behind all the evil sin that is joy not taken from sitting and reciting the Bible! Drop the guitar, son!

Then we turn to the Hoodoo and to Sammie’s musical conjuring. Annie’s magic and expertise is the only reason anyone survived the night as long as they did, and the only reason anybody was lucky enough to die as a human being. Her mojo bag saved Smoke’s neck from Stack twice, whereas everyone who went outside and got jumped by Remmick—or, in Grace’s case, rushed out in a literal blaze of glory to stake her turned husband—who might have worn a cross or been some manner of churchgoer, all got taken out by the vampires. Sammie’s power is not part of a Christian magic, but as the film points out, it is sacred. Those strings and his song pulled reveling spirits from the past and the future to dance with the present. That passion, that talent, that joy, that humanity, was so magnetic that it cast a spell...

…and it did so in what his father and many aghast others would deem a den of sin.

Sinful because of dance. Because of games at a table. Because of sex had for the sake of pleasuring each other—notably, each time with a miserably married woman, both getting to experience lovers who actually wanted them to enjoy themselves (sorry about that climax, Stack), rather than rote marital rutting for its own joyless sake. Because of nocturnal jubilation, separating oneself from the labors of life and the constriction of ‘polite and upstanding’ society.

Raucous joy is sin.

Faiths other and older than Christianity are sin.

Refusing to let yourself be absorbed into a coercive collective, no matter how well it sings or friendly its smile, is sin.       

Sin, sin, sin. The movie sins in this way, and so many glorious others, if only because these things which are not evil are painted with the label of ‘sin.’ Things that ‘are not done’ in a civilization choked by white supremacy and an increasingly puritanical Christian lens that leans deeper and deeper into disdain for empathy while championing strict control and obedience to patriarchy, bastardizing itself even as its original messages of love and goodwill are stretched so far and thin as to be nonexistent.

It’s sad to know how timely this story is. Here we are in the 21st century, strangled by conservative overreach on so many monstrous levels. But the story of Sinners does exist and it is being played like a loud and joyous song. A thousand thanks to Ryan Coogler for doing this all so artfully and so powerfully. I honestly can’t recall the last time I’ve seen such a thing on screen, if I’ve seen it at all. Here’s to more of it.

[bingbopboombam]

I love how Ryan Coogler honors the almost forgotten American trope that vampires are often associated with the Confederacy/plantation slave owners/those that fought to keep Black people enslaved in the deep South. Also see my post that mentions how White American slave owners actually had cannibal cookbooks because they ate the very Black people they treated like farm animals hence why vampire is the synonym in US folklore.

Its why the Klansmen and Remmick are seen as two sides of the same coin wanting to exploit Smoke, Stack, Sammie and the others at the juke joint for personal gains. Hogwood got paid by the twins, but it wasn't enough, he planned on slaughtering everybody at the juke joint because why not - they aren't White they're Black or affiliated with Black people (the Chows and Mary)

Remmick believes that just because he experienced colonization that he can relate to Sammie. What the Irish and Black people went through is similar, but it is not the same. Remmick has the privilege to walk among his oppressors' most likely descendants being the Klan couple and convince them to hear him out and help him. A Black person could never have that opportunity or that grace given to him by Klansmen in the way that Remmick got. Doesn't matter that Remmick played the Klan couple for fools with slick words. If Sammie or anyone else Black would've went to that house, the Klans couple would shoot them dead no questions asked.

And even though Remmick doesn't claim to be racist, he still used racism to his advantage by lying and perpetuating harmful stereotypes on the Choctaw. A common falsehood White American racists use against other non-White people is to claim how violent Black people or "insert anyone else who's other like the Choctaw" are which have caused White mobs to lynch. These normalized racist claims and beliefs is how people like Delta Slim's friend get lynched in the train station with his manhood cut off.

[mollygrass]

Pretty Little Thing

Remmick x Black Female Reader

Reuploaded, edited and proofread

Tags and Warnings: Chicago 1930s Au, Mafia Au, Remmick is in an Irish mafia, Remmick is still a vampire, Reader is 22 years old, everyone is up North from the South, Age gaps, slow burn, eventual smut, dub-con, (maybe—non-con), lengthy fanfic

Summary: At the twins new night club in Chicago, you give an opening performance and among the crowd of onlookers a certain Irish man from the other side of the Southside eyes linger a little too long on you.

A/N: ⚠️ Hi, everyone!! Before diving deeper to read this story, I ask that you throughly read the tags and know what you’re about to read. This contains dub-con and maybe non-con. Please be aware of those factors if you’re uncomfortable with that. If not please proceed and enjoy! ⚠️

I put this extra warning because someone on ao3 felt it had non-con in it in later chapters, i apologize profusely for that because it wasn’t what I thought I was writing and I don’t want anyone else to have to same experience as that person, so please tread carefully and be warned!!

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧

“Well, little lady, you ready to show off that voice of yours?” A raspy, dried out voice croaks.

In the mirror’s reflection your eyes catch a glimpse of an old tall man peeking his head through the crack of the dressing room door. Still applying makeup, you give him a silent nod, heart racing wildly.

Profusely you begged your older twin cousins from down south to let you sing at their new night club in Chicago. Persistently without an ounce of sympathy they denied you, specifically the more firm, mean one—Smoke.

The only reason you’re set to put on a show tonight is because little ole Sammy from down south came all the way up north to escape the hot fields of crop sharing and is putting on a show himself. He’ll perform right after you, singing the blues whilst playing his fancy little guitar.

You two are the same age—twenty-two and you made sure to bring it up to make your case against Smoke. Stack took your side and convinced his brother and that’s how you ended up in their club’s dressroom.

“Okay, well make the dolling up quick, Smoke says you're on in five minutes, little lady.” His southern accent drips from his words, old and raw. He too came up north to support the twins' new night club.

“I’ll be out soon, Slim.”

With that said, Slim leaves and the door clicks shut softly. You continue finishing your last step of putting on the makeup–lipstick. Careful and docile, you apply a dark cherry red lipstick before twirling in the mirror. The pale purple flapper dress dances in the air, shining from the light's reflection. You always wanted to wear this type of dress, but never had the money to afford one. Stack has taste since he’s the one who brought you the dress for tonight.

You join Slim on the main stage excited but nervous. From his piano he looks up and smiles. “My, my, little lady, you are breathtaking tonight.”

You blow the old man a kiss. “Why thank you!” You giggle, eyes bright.

People pool into the establishment, wearing all sorts of expensive attire for tonight’s event. The sight of so many people nearly makes you want to dash off stage to the dressing room and stay there the entire night. But you refuse to back out. Not after all that convincing you did. Nope, no going back now.

Sammy strolls on the stage, guitar in hand as usual. “Good luck out there.” He smiles ear to ear.

“Same to you!” You chirp, as Slim begins to play the piano and other musicians on stage join him.

Soon the night club is buzzing with folks from all around Chicago’s southside. Brown faces of all shades fill the room leaving no space for any lighter tones. Though the city wasn’t legally segregated, it’s still separated by redlining. The closest you’ve been to white people are the ones also residing in the southside as well but in different neighborhoods–Irish white folk.

Lately there’s been rumors of tensions growing between the Black and Irish gangs for territories and things you really didn’t know about. It’s also rumored tonight an irish gang will join tonight's grand opening, settling tensions or come to some sort of compromise.

Whatever, it doesn’t concern you so you don’t mind it. On the main level where the dance floor is Smoke and Stack stand side by side welcoming their guests. Stack displays a bubbly face and his brother, an intimidating frown, stoic as always.

Stack takes a drag of a thick cigar. “Welcome, good folk of chicago! How y’all doing tonight?” His voice booms, southern drawl rich.

The crowd hoots and whistles among multiple claps.

“Tonight our little cousin, raised and born here in the sweet ole windy city will be our opening performance.” Smoke chucks a thumb over his shoulder to the stage facing his backside and takes his turn with the cigar.

The crowd cheers louder this time as the showlights shine brightly on your frame at the center of the stage. It nearly blinds you, but you remain stiff, not daring to move an inch.

“She got the voice of an angel y’all, but let’s get this shit started!” Stack hypes the people up once more before blending into the sea of tables with his older brother trailing behind.

The lights everywhere else in the large club fade to a dimmer glow, and only the bright light on the stage shines. You feel like you could throw up at any given second with so many eyes glued on you. At the side of the stage Delta Slim begins playing the piano and other musicians on stage follow suit.

Deep among the multiple faces of strangers, Sammy gives you a reassuring smile and mouths, “you got this!” He flicks up a thumb.

You gulp, giving moisture to your gritty, dry throat and start singing. Slowly your body loosens up, that stiffness melting off. As the song goes on your body moves with the flow dancing around the stage and the crowd springs to life. People cheer for you and others groove to the rhythm themselves.

As you’re distracted, absorbed in the world of music, you miss the glowing red eyes far off at a table with Smoke and Stack. The eyes latch onto your body, watching your every move on stage.

Curiosity turns to interest.

Interest to fascination.

Fascination to lust and desire.

“Hey, Irish man, eyes on me,” Smoke demands, eyes grave as his palm rests on the gun buried in his hip holster. “Not on my baby cousin on stage.”

Stack joins in, a cocky smirk pulls at his full lips. “I know, she a diamond ain’t she? But you ain’t come here for that. So, you best keep those wanderin’ eyes on us.”

The Irish man grins himself, eyes slick. “Can’t help admiring pretty things,” he drifts off, eyes daring to sneak a peek at you once more. “And I’m the type of man that loves pretty things.”

His words tick the twins off. Between the both of them it enrages Smoke the most. It takes every ounce in his body to stop the itch in his hand not to aim the gun at the cheeky Irish man.

“You better watch that filthy fuckin’ mouth of yours, motherfucker,” Smoke growls.

The Irish man’s goons around him grow tense at his offensive words. Ready to start a bloodbath, hands ghosting over their guns too but their boss’ voices freezes them.

“Be calm, this ain’t nothing.” And as if it’s a command their muscles relax. “Right, me and my men are gathered here for business. So let’s talk business, fellars.”

On stage you huff, panting, light sweat pooling at your temples. The crowd goes wild, clapping and cheering your name.

“You did amazing,” Slim says and takes a swig from a flask.

You shoot him a smile too tired to use your voice. When the cheers die down you gain the club’s attention. “Cousin Smoke and Stack, cheers to a wonderful night tonight!” Your hands point to them and then at Sammy. “And everyone give it up for little ole Sammy from the deep south!”

Like before, cheers shake the club as you leave the stage. Behind stage Sammy squeezes you in a tight hug. He applauds your performance before rushing to the stage to sing his blues. Before he completely disappears to the stage he halts, head peering over his shoulder.

“Oh also, Smoke said to stay in the back rooms cause you ain’t allowed up front.” He sharply inhales, eyes glinting with guilt. “Sorry about that!”

You blink. His words take a minute to sink and soak in your brain and before they register he’s already bolted on stage. The booming sounds from the crowds tell it all as it practically shakes the walls. You want to ask him why, but seeing it’s too late you just listen.

Salty and disappointed, you walk through the short dimly lit hall. Fingers trailing along the blood red walls as you pass by. The backroom is empty of people. Fancy expensive couch chairs surrounding a polished wooden table with a candle on top centers the room.

Mirroring the halls outside, the walls inside here are red with painted portraits of long black figures dancing and playing the blues. Left to the wooden table is a brick built in fireplace and to the right is a small bar with pricey booze bottles.

Illegal booze.

Plopping down on a tall stool, back slouched, you snatch a liquor bottle.

How ironic, blues music whispers in the backroom as you’re feeling quite blue.

After tonight you’ll make sure to give Smoke and even Stack a piece of your furious mind. This sudden unpromised treatment is petty and unfair. After your performance you expected to be out on the dance floor dancing and mingling. Not locked away back here for no one to see.

You slide a nearby shot glass to you and pop the bottle open. The top goes clacking on the cocktail table. Filling the small glass to the brim, you take a swig of the bitter poison. It burns, slipping down your throat. You repeat the process once more.

You sigh and bury your face in your palms, both elbows propped on the table. “Fuck you Smoke…and fuck you Stack.”

Your vision blurs as you sniffle.

As if they planned it, the twins burst through the door and you jolt upright on the tool. Behind them a pale white man follows after. His eyes are quick to find you and a sly smirk carves on his face. The twins however fail to notice you until they're on the cushion red couches. Smoke's face is quick, flashing anger and irritation while Stack is dumbfounded.

Stack stands. “What the fuck are you doin’ back here?”

Your eyes widen, appalled at his words. “Why am I back here,” you pause. A glare pulls your brows together. “You two jerks sent me back here, that’s what I’m doing back here!”

Your little feisty attitude makes the Irish man lean forward. Elbows resting on his legs, callused hands entwined as his face ghosts above them. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. His mind races, ideas of how he’d have fun breaking you in. He never did like the obedient type of women.

Smoke remains seated, legs crossed. “Watch your damn mouth in front of company, girl.”

The word girl makes you flinch as the three men watch you. Smoke rarely speaks to you in such a tone let alone call you girl. It makes you wonder who spit in his drink tonight.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just a bit moody,” Stack says lightly, but you still don’t buy it.

You shift on the stool, feeling a bit shaky at your older cousin’s brutal demeanor. “Whatever,” you mumble, but no one but your ears hear it.

“But really, why’re you back here, Sammy didn’t tell you to come here.”

Confusion flickers upon your features. “With all due respect, yes he did.”

A long exhale falls from Smoke’s mouth. “Damn boy, can’t even listen right.”

The Irish man sitting between both twins is silent and patient as he watches the scene unravel. His eyes sparkle with greed and mischief as his eyes linger longer over at the bar.

“Well, gone on home. Find Sammy and Slim so they can take you.”

“Wait.”

All of your eyes fall on the Irish man. You stand on your feet, hand idly resting on the bar table.

He tilts his head towards the bar and you swear you can see steam seething from Smoke.

“Don’t,” Smoke grits out. His eyes glint doused in bloodlust as he leans forward on the couch.

The Irish man keeps going, regardless of Smoke’s threatening tone.

“Is that my open booze over there by the pretty little thing?” His eyes remain on the twins.

Smoke and Stack heads whip to the bar. The younger twin eyes grow wide and his brother’s face twists in rage. Smoke curses under his breath, lost for words.

“Remmick, you leave her out of this. She had no idea it was yours,” Stack says, brows furrowed.

You stand frozen, mind dizzy, stomach sinking. Did you do something wrong? Yes, and you know it, but you just don’t know what exactly it is. You do figure it’s got something to do with the open booze bottle on the cocktail table.

It might be the wrong decision to say something right now, but you speak anyway.

“Okay, Smoke. Stack. I’m gonna head home now.”

“Don’t move.”

Remmick’s voice freezes your body in place.

“I think you owe me, darlin.” He smirks, eyes growing wide.

“How much money for the bottle?” Smoke jumps from the couch.

“I’m not talking to you,” Remmick says, voice stale and dry. His deep brown irises burn holes through you. “What was it again?” His fingers caress his chin, licking at his sharp canines that resemble more that of fangs than regular human teeth.

Finally, he says your name as if he’s won the lottery, snapping his fingers. He turns to you and sighs, still smiling like a maniac.

“How are you gonna pay me back for drinking my booze, pretty little thing?”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧

[wheelie-sick]

I wanted to make a very blunt post about hearing people using sign languages for speech loss episodes because I think a lot of people really need to hear this.

..... I really do not know what you guys are expecting to get out of sign language as an alternative to speech

let's start with some facts:

sign languages are their own distinct and separate languages from spoken language. ASL is not English with your hands, ISL is not Irish with your hands, and so on and so forth.

sign languages have their own unique vocabularies, grammar, and syntax

learning a sign language is exactly as hard as learning a spoken language. the idea that learning a sign language is easier is a myth. it is a second language and will be as difficult to learn as every other second language

sign languages rely on a complex system of facial expressions for grammatical reasons. facial expressions are not optional. [PT: facial expressions are not optional.] you will not be understood without facial expressions

from my understanding the majority of people who experience speech loss episodes lose their ability to speak because they are overwhelmed, overstimulated, upset, tired, or otherwise in a state that's upsetting or overwhelming. from my understanding, the majority of people who experience speech loss episodes are losing their ability to use language, they are not losing their ability to use their mouth.

if you are not losing speech in a way that exclusively affects your mouth then a sign language will not help you. full stop.

[PT: if you are not losing speech in a way that exclusively affects your mouth then a sign language will not help you. full stop.]

as I mentioned above a sign language is a second language for you* unless you have grown up signing you will be stuck translating your thoughts into a second language. if you're struggling to use language you will only struggle more to use a second language. it's like if you were monolingual English speaker and you lost speech and decided the solution would be to try speaking Spanish instead.

*okay, there are hearing people who learned sign as a first language**, but that is not the majority of you

**baby sign is not sign as a first language

I also feel like a lot of people seem to forget the experiences of Deaf autistic people when they're trying to figure out using sign language as an alternative to speech during speech loss episodes. Deaf people lose speech too. [PT: Deaf people lose speech too.] as it turns out the complexities of sign language can become too overwhelming and difficult when we are overwhelmed too, and sign language is often our native and/or primary language. if you are not someone using a sign language as your native and/or primary language then what makes you think you'll be able to communicate with it during a speech loss episode better than us?

you are going to find it very difficult to communicate in a second language when you're losing speech.

now for those of you whose speech loss episodes exclusively affect their mouth:

you are treading in dangerous waters. let's start with: sign languages are not AAC. Deaf people, who ultimately control the sign languages and were the people to create them, do not have a communication disorder. we are speakers of a non-dominant language. sign languages are more than just a communication tool for us, they are also endangered languages and cultural languages. they should be treated with respect in regards to those facts. if you treat sign languages as AAC (which therefore treats them as tools for your use as a hearing person) or outright call them AAC you are disrespecting the language and its cultural significance. if you would not call English "AAC for Americans" do not call sign languages AAC.

if you decide to use sign language to assist you during speech loss you should also be using your knowledge of sign language to protect and preserve this language. hearing people can be part of the Deaf world if they sign. you shouldn't shy away from communicating with Deaf people.

If you decide to use sign language to assist you during speech loss you have to [PT: have to] understand the culture behind the language and treat the language with respect to that culture. Deaf culture is a closed, minority culture. it is not free to take from and use as you please. us allowing you to use sign language is a gift, it is not something to take for granted. if you view sign languages as a tool for your use as a hearing person you are stealing.

but back to practicality, I'd encourage you to use AAC over a sign language. you don't tread the same dangerous waters by using AAC and it will also allow you to be understood by more people. most people do not know any sign language, and most people who do know sign language are unwilling to use it.

if you want to commit to learning a second language in its entirety and want to commit to doing so with respect I will not stop you but you should consider whether your motivations are yourself or whether your motivations align with and protect the Deaf community. your motivations should not be selfish.

[ID 1: a userbox saying "this user is deaf"

ID 2: a userbox saying "this user has autism"

ID 3: a userbox saying "this user communicates via sign language]

[lainalit]

What Acotar taught me (I wrote this than I was delirious & on painkillers):

Totalitarian dictatorship from war criminals is bae

Irish folks are EVIL INCESTIOUS GOBLINS

Albaniens (Ilyrians) are misogynistic savages who love to slutshame

Black folks are either the mammy stereotype for the women or the hyper sexualized black men (the non binaries don't exist & just vanish)

Apartheid states are slay

Segregation is cute

where can only be one good person per evil city

Toxic abusive men love their women even when they sexually & physically assault, degrade, harass & stalk them because they have big schlongs

also if your ex locked you up, you should break up and date the man that sexually assaulted you for 3 months (nothing says I love you more if he can't keep his hands to himself am I right?)

women who say that they are sexually aussaulted are lying

women who don't want to be opressed under the patriachy just need to learn how to fight like men

misogynstic traditions can only change for their female leaders and not for some uneducated peasant women

evil people aren't evil if they just say that it was all a mask

if you follow your leaders direction but is later revealed that is was just a farce your loyal ass will be indeed executed (Imagine not being a mind reader)

villainesses who want power also love to sexually assault men

Suicidal/depressed people deserve nothing but punishment (can't they not be so dramatic and just stand up)

Collective punishment is always the best and right option (fuck those broke bitches can't they just be not poor and dependent on their leader)

Stealing from other countries is always a good idea (the British would be proud)

Bisexuals are always promiscuous lying whores

Mothers shouldn't have names since they are only here for their sons sad backstory

Also the pregnant body of a woman is property of the husband

C-sections & abortions are just concepts of an idea

The patriarchy isn't a social construct but a magically destiny system created by god (mormon approved™)

Oldest sisters who aren't parentified need to beg men for forgiveness

Addicts are prisoners and need to be treated as such (American prison system in the sky when?)

Rehab supervisors should just sleep with their rehab patients nothing can cure addiction better than sex

Intervention should always be conducted with people who hate the person who the intervention is for

PTSD triggers are just like Schrödingers cat

Trauma can be fixed with just going to the gym (therapist never heard of them)

The Troubled teen industry works

Slave owners and slaves are equally bad

Oppressed people who kill their oppressor are crazy VILLAINS who should be prosecuted and ideally executed

who needs teachers if you can just write a hundreds times how hot someone is and be a literatury mastermind

pussy needs to be smelt 500 kilometers away

Pregnant bellies glow like a care bear

Winged people cream in their pants after every wind blow

aroace people are mythical creatures who don't exist

[heebiegeebee]

I just don't understand why:

-the Irish president felt the ideal time to talk about Gaza was at the Holocaust Remembrance Day ceremony, especially after the local population of jews begged him not to attend in the first place.

-when someone talks about Elon's seig heil and how diaspora jews have been sounding the alarm for over a year now, some self-important fingerwagger has to kool-aid man themselves into the convo to talk about "thousands of dead palestinians" then doubles, no, TRIPLES DOWN that actually YOU brought up I/P even though in reality neither you nor anyone else did (amazing how they slink away in shame without ever truly learning anything, but we remember... oh, we remember.)

-when I see that once again, pro-pali protestors decide protesting anything remotely jewish/jew-adjacent ("adjewcent", as I sometimes say) is vastly more impactful than, say, oh, I dunno, protesting the white house? I mean, I think for "media complicity in genocide", you'd go to Twitter's HQ, or FOX, or MSNBC, or literally any other place than a fucking film festival in Utah -- and then I read an article where Trump says some shit about "clearing out Gaza", and it's like the warning bulb that had been illuminated this whole time knowing this was always around the corner, now started flashing -- oh no, that means when Trump inevitably attempts to enact this ethnic cleansing of Palestinians, non-jews in the US are NOT going to protest him; they're going to go after the easy targets like they have been for the last year and a half: RANDOM DIASPORA JEWS.

Foolishly, I attempted to share this thought process with husband, who IMMEDIATELY pivoted to talking instead about how Trump will harm so, so many Gazans, and I just fucking lost it.

For over a year now, every single attempt to talk about anything that specifically is impactful to the jewish people, no matter how much it is prefaced with care and concern for the palestinian population, is automatically dismissed as unimportant and insulting compared what the poor palestinians are going through... so you would think...

YOU WOULD THINK.

...SPECIFICALLY DISCUSSING HOW THE AMERICAN JEWISH DISAPORA WILL BE HARMED BY CHRISTOFASCIST RHETORIC AND LEFTIST APATHY AND VITRIOL WOULD WARRANT MR. BUND TO FINALLY GIVE A FUCKING SHIT! But no! It got to a point where I had to ask him, as he kept saying "I understand you're scared", "husband, if you're jewish too, why aren't you scared?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I feel like I'm losing my mind. We're always at arms length, always kept from even approaching the table.

WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO MOURN

WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO SEE THE SIGNS AND CALL THEM OUT

WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO BE SCARED

WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO DEFINE OUR OWN OPPRESSION

WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO DEFINE OR KEEP SACRED OUR OWN WORDS

WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO KVETCH TO OUR OWN KIND

WE ARE UNIVERSALISED AND HOLLOWED OUT

which means

we. are. not. people. to. these. people.

This all feels like some kind of sick form of "stop hitting yourself!" except it's repeatedly traumatizing a group of people and then blaming them or being offended for their being so traumatized.

[doberbutts]

I am privileged to have health insurance- compared to someone who does not. I am also disadvantaged in that I must pay part of my paycheck to obtain insurance and after receiving care compared to someone on government-supplied healthcare. Additionally, due to the way healthcare is supplied via income, I am also privileged in other ways compared to someone who is on government healthcare. My income is higher- and thus the thing which disqualifies me from state healthcare also opens other doors to me in regards to food, housing, and especially luxury items.

But none of these things make me an oppressor of those without health insurance, or those with less income. I can be- but oppression is action, not existence. The way I vote, the way I speak and act, the people and causes and organizations I support- those are actions, and those can certainly further oppression. I become an oppressor by voting for politicians who gut healthcare protections and benefits. But the act of using my insurance card when I check in for my annual exam is less an act of oppression than it is a- non-consensual- participation in an oppressive system by which every resident within my country is caged.

A system of oppression affects everyone who lives under it- and as a result it is a shared burden to labor to break free of its chains. It is not enough to recognize one's participation- however coerced- in the system. If we truly want to be rid of it, such a task requires all of us who recognize its harm and our roles within the system to actively choose to enact changes which dismantle said system at its root. Even at the cost of our relative positions of privilege- pushing for a single-payer universal healthcare system means I will no longer be privileged over those without insurance. But it will eliminate both the large portions of my income devoted to medical expenses, as well as those who have gone without to finally be able to access the medicine and doctors they have been unable to afford.

To many, the concept of privilege is one that implies things are better for those who are privileged, and worse for those who are disadvantaged. The idea of losing privilege then becomes one in which things become worse for you if this occurs. But in the example of access to affordable healthcare, losing my privilege is a net gain, not a loss. I am no longer at a position of advantage- at least, not in that way- over those who do not have insurance. But- that is because we all have insurance, and better yet my position has actually improved along with the disadvantaged, as neither us us now faces the looming medical debt a single injury or illness may incur. In losing my privilege, the world has improved for everyone under the system.

But what happens when things are not so clear cut? After all- there are only so many variables to determine someone's insured status, and this is a conversation that has been building for as long as health insurance companies have existed. What happens when there's more nuance- what happens when this privilege is more transient, more changeable, less solidly defined? What happens when the question of privilege does not have a simple answer of "have" or "have not"?

I am mixed race- black, indigenous, and Irish. I've received a multitude of guesses within my everyday life, guesses containing many different ethnicities, races, and origins with varying levels of correctness. The only common thread seems to be "not white". Well, the Irish are considered white in this era, and I'm Irish. But the tone of my skin is clearly "of color", so it's difficult to say that I would experience any white privilege. Being mixed race, I'm usually recognized as black, but I am also lighter skinned than many within the black diaspora, but neither am I white-passing as most of these guesses do not assume that I have a white parent. To add onto that, I am not usually recognized as indigenous in my everyday life, unless I am interacting directly with other indigenous people.

I am, of course, more than willing to say I have light-skinned privilege, though that is distinctly separate from white privilege. But who is privileged in a comparison of two severely oppressed demographics? Does America's Native population have systemic privilege over America's black diaspora? Or is it the other way around? What happens when we recognize that both demographics can- and have- contributed to each other's oppression? Or that both demographics have also lifted each other up out of the mire that is racial discrimination? How do we address the participation- however forced- in the system of white supremacy while also dismantling said system to the betterment of all? And how do we prevent ourselves from acting like starving dogs, fighting over scraps while those who created the system eat like kings?

Similarly- what are we meaning by saying the word "privilege"? In the example of healthcare, the ability to pay for an expensive doctor visit is a clear privilege compared to someone who will quickly become bankrupt in the face of a medical emergency. When we discuss this as a matter of race, we see preferential treatment in medical and employment situations. We see more political and social weight. We see protections in education and finance. We see differences in policing and hate crimes. How do we measure who has it "better" when comparing two populations with centuries of deep racial trauma? How can we say who has it worse when both races are historically- and even into the present day- treated as a subhuman plague only good for slave labor and exotic trophy brides?

I am light-skinned, and- while usually recognizably black- somewhat ambiguously "of color". In this, there are ways in which my life differs from my relatives who are darker skinned, more unambiguously black or Native. I am still oppressed, I still am forced to operate under the system of white supremacy. I may still utilize my position under this system in a way that furthers the oppression of those very same relatives. And, if I want things to get better in a meaningful way, I must be willing to give up my relative privilege and recognize that position I hold in order to bring about change by dismantling the system at its root.

At what point does it stop mattering who has it "better" or "worse"- and matter more instead the recognition of one's place within these systems, and how one may be equipped to bring about a change that improves the lives of many? What matters more- determining who the most oppressed person in the room is? Or recognizing one's own complacency in a system that hurts them, and finding a way to break the pattern? If we can level the playing field- such as with the healthcare example- would that not be better for all of us?

[trulycertain]

On Dragon Age & Accents

(My unhelpful tuppence, as an English player.)

One small thing I wish had come up in Veilguard from previous games: the accent worldbuilding. It wasn't always consistent - DA:O only seemed to care about country or race, anyone non-human being generically North American and anyone human being mostly RP English unless they were Antivan; for regional accents, they seemed to purely use them for effect or go with VAs' natural ones. (There are about two bandit NPCs who seem to have badly-done Midlands English accents purely because they're not meant to be very bright; thanks, love Canadians reinforcing that stereotype. Anders being Lancashire seems to be pure coincidence because of his voice actor - you rarely ever hear the accent in any consistent way in other NPCs, and it's completely ignored in his very Southern DA2 recast.)

But by DA2, there seemed to be definite trends: Free Marches could be RP English or North American depending where you came from; dwarves tended to sound North American but there were exceptions for some people raised on the surface; elves tended to be either Welsh or Irish, which matches the "very old culture with a linguistically completely different root from Trade/English". Starkhaven is most definitely Scots.

And then DAI! DAI, my love.

DAI kept DA2's trends, while finally giving us more complexity and regional accents, albeit limitedly (and still with some inconsistencies). Finally, we have a (vaguely Germanic) Nevarran accent! And Miranda Raison did such careful work constructing it! The Avvar, Ferelden's mountain folk, sound Northern English. I'd hazard a guess that several sound Yorkshire, actually - this matches the whole "the Orlesians got up there less" lore in real terms; Northern England and Scotland, particularly Yorkshire, was under Viking rule longer than the South, which became Norman-conquered earlier, and there are subtle dialectal differences to this day. (Similar thing happened with the Celts and Romans, and the Avvar are blatantly Celtic and Pictish). There's a reason that RP ("neutral posh") English is Southern, from the seats of power. Cullen's from Honnleath, somewhere smaller and less Orlesianified, and while it's softened by the character's travel and the VA's own posher bents, there are moments the Northern English accent gets leaned into, a little similarity with the Avvar. It's a coincidence but it works so well, lore-wise. Sera's VA sounds... Derbyshire? I think? which is Midlands/Northern border and sounds more than Northern enough to keep a consistent Fereldan sound. And in terms of NPCs? A lot of Fereldan NPCs suddenly start turning up Northern, albeit less broad in their accents! Have a listen round the Crossroads. I remember Gaider mentioning Dorian wasn't originally meant to be Indian, they sealed it for sure when they cast Ramon Tikaram, at which point everyone went, "Yup, let's run with it", cast his dad accordingly, and Gaider figured that Dorian was either part of a pretty big migrant population (which, other than the Dorian Gray reference, the fact his name roughly means "from across the sea" also makes sense), or quite a lot of Tevene folk natively were. Considering Tevinter started as essentially "mage Rome" and morphed into, even according to the writers themselves, "mage Byzantium" and it's very close to Seheron, which I feel is North Africa/Middle East influenced - Tevene folk being akin to folk of Turkish, Middle Eastern, Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Sri Lankan and Bengali backgrounds makes a ton of sense.

It is... exceedingly rare to hear working-class British accents in fantasy series at all (unless Brits make them, and then we're still often peasants or generic NPC #2, a la Origins). It is even rarer to have a fantasy series bother to keep immigrant accents and show the moulding of them through the generations. And I can only think of one other video game that has consciously cast British Asian actors, that's how rare it is even in games that supposedly care about representation - despite the fact that Asian folk make up something like 30% of our population.

Now: would I like some more background on why some accents in the Marches sound British and some don't? Yup! Would I have liked to have more regions in the elves' Irish accents and the dwarves' NA? Yup! But do those really matter? Nope! They would have been lovely icing on the cake, but the underlying cake was great. The plot didn't need it. It didn't have to be perfect, and the filtering of British culture through Canadians, and strategic anachronism? Those are things I love about Dragon Age. I loved how much they seemed to be trying and how much they were thinking about the lore. And I loved hearing a "British accent" that finally made sense to me, not played into the long attempts by toffs to stamp out everything North of London or outside England.

And then Veilguard sort of... forgot about it most of it? Adored that we could play as a Geordie! I really, really love them continuing pointed casting of folk with British Asian ancestry for several Tevinters (*waves lovingly at elek and neve*). But then... uh... look! Working-class Tevene people with generic Mancunian accents! To show they're working-class! That's fantastic progress... for Origins. But lore-wise, by DATV we've already shown that Manchester and Northern English accents live... *points at Ferelden* somewhere over there. We're back to "Tevinters mostly sound like generically evil English folk", as in DAO and bits of 2, which, sure, Dorian doesn't contradict - but then why not have everyone sound Southern, like him? Or add a different tint to it? And no, I am not saying everyone should put on bad "ethnic" accents, and I do appreciate the number of American, English and Mediterranean accents in Tevinter showing a very Roman "you're a citizen of the Imperium but you might have been born in one of its several countries" - but…

Gideon Emery's slight Afrikaans tint made a ton of sense with Fenris and what part of Tevinter he was meant to be from, even if it was unintentional; Jennifer Hale's take on Krem was going for English but came out more Aussie to my ear. Something like those could have been really interesting. But that also means that, including Fenris, we've now had several slaves with an accent that reads... quite posh, to English ears. Same with Neve, who is supposedly proudly from the shithole part of Minrathous, but she and several others have very RP "posh" accents (while others like Tarquin and Elek are Mancunian). Now, not everyone picks up their local accent! I am one of those people! I ended up cursedly plummy for a long time! But... we had hints through the series that Tevinter class markers would be very different from Fereldans', but they're now the same, for some reason?

Add that to the fact that they didn't want to make even one VA suffer through doing the Nevarran accent... See, it makes total sense for Emmrich, who's a posh professor who's done a lot of international study and would probably have learned Common as a second language with a very generic, "neutral" accent; he also was very concerned about appearances with his class background and trained himself not to give much away. And I'm sure the Mourn Watch has international students. But no Nevarran NPCs sound pointedly Nevarran? Not a one? Kal Sharok has hints of something interesting going on but it's rare, and the Anderfels is just... full of sad English and American-sounding people. Rivain is supposedly Caribbean and there are a bunch of actors of Caribbean descent they could've cast, but we only have one NPC sound even slightly so? That's when it stops being "Trade is taught with a neutral accent and there are a lot of Fereldan immigrants and slaves in Tevinter" and starts feeling handwavey.

Basically: I wouldn't mind if we'd gone with most fantasy games' "Eh, we cast broadly based on sound, stereotype or none of the above"; I'm very happy to just go with it. However, DAI told me to pay vague attention because the accents meant something. Then DATV has heel-turned and is telling me "Nah, go with it" the way Origins did. My ears are... confused, to say the least. And we're back to "'working-class' has one accent, and characters with something to say who aren't cast as stereotypically plucky underdogs are all Southern and posh", which just... makes me really sad. I don't hear people who sound like me, my family, or my friends growing up, in Dragon Age anymore. I did hear they had a different voice director in DATV, so maybe it's that?

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Faerie question! What do you think about the relation between their realm and our geography? Your 'white American fae stories' mention reminded me that I was thinking about this a while ago - if someone is interacting with ~fairyland~ from a regular ass non-European continent, is it (Watsonianly!) weird that they are interacting with Welsh-culture faeries? Or is that place decoupled from our land? Conversely, if the supernatural world you access depends on your human world location, does that imply that different cultures' supernatural entities have a similar geographic relationship with each other to human lands? or does it imply that the shape of the fae is downstream of human culture a la Small Gods?

Oh this is FUN and I am going to RAMBLE

So the thing that sort of answers and sort of complicates both of your questions is that Welsh faerie lore and mythology, while having some Venn diagram overlaps, is nonetheless Very Much Different from Irish or Scottish (or indeed English) stuff. It's an interesting one, because while I have increasingly strong Views on the way Welsh faerie lore is used by white American authors who want to write about elves with wings who fuck and think this is the solution, actually a huge chunk of what those authors use - and what Americans in particular more broadly know about faeries - isn't Welsh at all, it's Scottish. Seelie and Unseelie courts, season-based courts, never thanking a faerie to avoid offending them, selkies, the list goes on. None of that is Welsh.

I, as you know, have been writing werewolf erotica, for fun and sport. Set in Wales, of course. I haven't directly included faeries yet, but they've been mentioned, and I know how I'm going to be building that part of my world. And to me, faeries come in different species with a different geographic distribution - if my characters were to approach the Fae in Wales, it would mean entering Annwfn. They would meet very Welsh types of faerie. Welsh rules would apply.

If they were to go to Scotland, they'd be dealing with different types entirely. Seelie and Unseelie would now apply, and not thanking and all that jazz. To speak like an ecologist for a moment lol, it's a question of biogeography.

Soooo, yeah, I find it weird when American fantasy lit describes Celtic fae creatures in America, because to me... surely there's native shit there. Like what is this? Did the Fae colonise with the humans? Has the American Otherworld been invaded and settled? What am I looking at, here? Why is the author ignoring this question? How are there gwyllion in those mountains and what did they displace? Did they follow the people and just naturalise, or are they invasive? Are there gwragedd Annwfn in Lake Superior? How is that working? These are questions I have, but alas, no answers.

(I can allow arguments for Appalachia, given, you know. <same-mountains.jpeg>)

That said, the rules are fuzzy for time/space distortion with entering Annwfn. This is a (relatively) new addition to faerie lore, because once upon a time Annwfn was a place you could just... walk to. It had a geographical location, like Rhyl. You could find it on a map, and that map would tell you it was Somerset, pretty much. But over the centuries, human population density grew; Somerset stops being a place of mystery and starts being the place your flighty cousin ran away to and now grows a cider orchard. The magical realms hidden in thickest forest are demonstrably not there when you cut the forest down and just find a bunch of exposed bears. So the lines, as it were, get redrawn - we know it's there somewhere, but part of the magic hides it; so maybe what we were pointing to on that map wasn't Annwfn, but the doorway...?

By the 1700s at least, the concept of the faerie ring being a doorway between worlds was fixed. The 1800s gave us the Victorian concept of the veil between worlds, two worlds overlaid on one another, which mapped beautifully on and basically reconciles the issue perfectly in the minds of believers (faerie belief in Wales persisted into the early 1900s). Enter that cave and you'll enter Annwfn; not because it's in the cave, don't be silly, it's because the door is in the cave. Step in that mushroom circle and see another world; not because Annwfn is a patch of land three feet across in Mam-gu's garden, don't be daft, it's because that's the way through. Welsh faerie myth was already enamoured of the time distortion element, but this is where spatial distortion kicks in as well.

So understanding all of that means you can exploit those rules to explain a lot. Watsonianly speaking, does a doorway lead to Annwfn if it's in Wales, but Tír na nÓg if it's in Ireland? Or could a doorway for either turn up anywhere, given that spatial distortion? What is it about Wales that ties Annwfn here specifically? Does the land generate the specific type of magic needed to fuel it? Or could it feasibly go anywhere now, as that separation between worlds has evolved - initially they lived in this world, but they evolved to straddle here and another, and then to draw a veil between the two, and now they run parallel and so can send the tunnels between the two wherever they like. It depends on the story you're telling, I guess. As I say, I know how I'm doing it lol! But there are options available

[yua0ra]

𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐲

WARNINGS: theatrelover!theo x cinemalover!fem!reader, sex, porn with plot, semi-public sex, p in v, raw, cursing, hot, fingering, NSFW, english is not my first language. not proofread | minors please dni. smut 🂡

SUMMARY: In the cool of the evening, when everything is getting kind of groovy, you call me up and ask me: would I like to go with you and see a movie? First I say "No, Ive got some plans for tonight." But then I stop and say "All right".

WC: 6.3K AN: HAHAHAH finally, after what it seemed like a fucking eternity, I bring you... Theodore SMUT. Everyone say thank you! JK, enjoy it, you whore. <3

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

Theodore Nott had an insufferable, borderline pretentious love for contemporary theatre. He would wax poetic about the brilliance of Jez Butterworth, the raw grit of Simon Stephens, and the immersive absurdity of Caryl Churchill. You, on the other hand, were a cinephile at heart—Tarantino’s razor-sharp dialogue, Scorsese’s masterful character studies, Nolan’s intricate narratives. You could analyze Pulp Fiction’s non-linear structure just as easily as you could tear apart The Wolf of Wall Street’s moral ambiguity.

Despite your differences, you both had an undeniable appreciation for storytelling—whether on stage or on screen. And naturally, that appreciation often turned into petty arguments.

"You can’t tell me The Ferryman isn’t one of the best pieces of theatre in the last decade," Theo scoffed one day, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please. Jez is just doing modern-day Greek tragedy with a sprinkle of Irish drama. It’s compelling, sure, but it’s not reinventing the wheel."

Theo narrowed his eyes. "And what, you think Tarantino’s constant foot fetish and non-linear storytelling is revolutionary?"

"At least Tarantino has mastered the art of tension," you shot back. "The Sicilian scene in True Romance? The diner scene in Reservoir Dogs? You don’t need an elaborate set change or monologues drenched in metaphor—you just need two people in a room and a damn good script."

"That’s rich coming from someone who praises Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller—two of the most dialogue-heavy playwrights in existence."

Your friends groaned. They were used to this. You and Theo could argue for hours over narrative devices, symbolism, and whether theatre or cinema was the superior storytelling medium.

But one afternoon, during an extracurricular drama lesson, the argument escalated to a level that left everyone in the room speechless.

The class was discussing adaptations—how literature, theatre, and film intertwined.

Theo, ever the theatrical purist, argued, “Plays allow for the rawest human emotion. There are no camera tricks, no fancy editing—just an actor on stage, exposed. That’s why theatre will always have a deeper emotional impact than cinema.”

You weren’t about to let that slide. “That’s a wildly limited way of thinking. Film is just as much a visual art as it is a narrative one. Sure, theatre relies on the performer’s ability to hold an audience, but film can show a character’s internal struggle without a single word of dialogue. A glance, a shift in lighting—those subtle details can hit just as hard as a monologue.”

Theo tilted his head, amused. “Alright, then. A Streetcar Named Desire—would you rather see it on stage or in Elia Kazan’s adaptation?”

You smirked. “Kazan’s adaptation is brilliant, but you’re proving my point. The film version utilizes Marlon Brando’s raw, visceral performance while also using close-ups, sound design, and visual metaphors to enhance it. Theatre is powerful, but it’s limited by its medium. Film has more tools.”

The tension in the room thickened as you both volleyed back and forth—citing everything from Angels in America to Taxi Driver, from Arthur Miller’s The Crucible to Nolan’s Memento.

By the time you both stopped to take a breath, the rest of the class was staring at you like they had just witnessed an academic duel to the death.

Blaise, looking mildly concerned, muttered, “I think you two just argued in a language no one else speaks.” Pansy blinked and slowly nodded her head, “did you just name-drop fifteen different playwrights and directors in the span of five minutes?”

Draco, unimpressed, simply said, “I came here to watch people pretend to be trees, not to witness whatever that was.”

You and Theo exchanged a look. And, despite everything, a slow grin spread across both your faces. Because for all the arguing, all the differences, and all the passionate debates—you loved every second of it.

- ★、

The weekend had finally arrived, and with it, your much-anticipated cinema trip. It wasn’t every day you got to slip away from the castle, apparate to London, and immerse yourself in the warm glow of a dimly lit theatre, the smell of buttered popcorn thick in the air. Tonight’s screening? A Tarantino classic—Inglourious Basterds. You were practically buzzing with excitement as you stepped into the theatre, savoring the moment before the film began.

And then you saw him.

Theodore. Bloody. Nott.

Leaning against the concession stand, hands in his pockets, looking as if he belonged in some noir film with his perfectly tailored coat and unimpressed expression. His sharp gaze flicked over to you, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well, well,” he drawled, stepping closer. “Didn’t peg you for the type to sneak off to London alone for a late-night film screening. How rebellious.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t strike me as the type to appreciate Tarantino. What are you doing here, Theo?”

He raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “What, am I not allowed to expand my horizons? Maybe I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Oh, please. You’ve spent weeks slandering film in favor of theatre, and now you suddenly show up to a Tarantino movie of all things?”

Theo hummed thoughtfully, stepping closer, so close that the scent of his cologne—expensive and frustratingly good—filled your senses. “Maybe,” he mused, “I just enjoy riling you up.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was betraying you with its traitorous thump against your ribs. “Right. So you apparated to London, found this exact cinema, and happened to pick the same showing as me? Coincidence?”

His smirk deepened. “Perhaps.”

Before you could interrogate him further, the theatre doors opened, and people started filing inside. You exhaled, shaking your head. “You know what? I don’t care why you’re here. Just—don’t ruin the film for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, trailing after you.

You found your seat, sinking into the plush velvet, determined to ignore the fact that Theodore Nott had somehow ended up in the seat directly beside you. He stretched out, looking infuriatingly at ease, as if this hadn’t been some grand invasion of your sacred cinema time.

And then, as the lights dimmed and the first scene flickered onto the screen, Theo leaned in—just enough for his breath to ghost against your ear.

“If this film doesn’t impress me,” he whispered, “you owe me a ticket to the next play I pick.”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze, and smirked. “Fine. But when you inevitably love it, you’re admitting I was right.”

Theodore just chuckled, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. “We’ll see.”

As the film unfolded on the screen, you found yourself hyperaware of Theodore’s presence beside you. It was ridiculous, really—how could one person occupy so much space without actually moving? 

His elbow rested dangerously close to yours on the armrest, his long legs stretched out in that careless way he always sat, as if the entire world was his to lounge in. 

You tried to focus on the movie, on the tense exchange between Landa and Perrier LaPadite, but Theo shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours, and suddenly, every bit of dialogue seemed to drown beneath the sound of your own heartbeat.

You weren’t sure when it happened—when the push and pull of your debates, the sharp edge of your banter, had morphed into something more charged, something that left a static hum in the air between you. 

Maybe it had always been there, simmering beneath every eye roll, every challenge, every smirk that lasted a second too long. And now, sitting here in the dim glow of the theatre, with flickering light casting shadows across his annoyingly perfect features, it was impossible to ignore.

Halfway through the film, Theo leaned in again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Alright, I’ll admit it. The dialogue is brilliant.”

You smirked, keeping your eyes trained on the screen. “Told you.”

His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, a steady, maddening rhythm. “Still doesn’t mean it’s better than theatre.”

You turned your head slightly, lips curving in amusement. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Theo tilted his face toward you, his voice dropping lower, smoother. “Because film lets you hide. Close-ups, cuts, music—it manipulates how you feel. Theatre? It’s raw. No second takes. No distractions.” His eyes flickered over your face, lingering just a moment too long on your lips. “You can’t escape it.”

A shiver ran down your spine, though whether it was from his words or the way his voice curled around them, you weren’t entirely sure. You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus. “You call it hiding. I call it perspective. The camera lets you see things no audience member ever could—something intimate, something only you get to witness.”

Theo hummed, considering that. The tension between you had shifted into something heavier, something that pressed into the space between breaths. He was still close, close enough that you could catch the faintest scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from where his arm rested near yours. It would be so easy to lean in just a little more, to close that final inch between you.

And then, just as you were about to force yourself to sit back, to pretend none of this was affecting you, he moved.

Slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed against the back of your hand, the touch featherlight, testing. Your breath hitched, your pulse hammering against your ribs, but you didn’t pull away. Theo, ever perceptive, took that as permission, his fingers shifting, tracing the delicate curve of your wrist.

“You’re… mad, Theo. You’re out of your mind,” you murmured, barely aware you had spoken the words aloud.

His lips quirked, but there was something darker in his gaze now, something that sent heat curling low in your stomach. “That’s right…,” he murmured, his fingers sliding between yours, “but you’re too, you haven’t moved.”

You knew you should say something—should tease him, should act unaffected—but all logic had abandoned you the moment his hand fully curled around yours. The room around you had disappeared, the film reduced to a distant hum in the background.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Theo lifted your intertwined hands, brushing his lips against the inside of your wrist. It was barely a kiss—more of a ghost of one—but it sent a shiver straight down your spine, igniting something electric in your veins.

Your breath hitched. “Theo—”

“I know,” he murmured, voice impossibly low, as if he was reading every thought racing through your mind. His thumb traced slow, teasing circles over your palm, his lips still hovering dangerously close to your skin. “Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your head slightly toward him, meeting his gaze through the dim flicker of the screen. “What if I don’t want to?”

His smirk deepened, but there was something softer there, something almost unreadable. For a moment, he just looked at you, as if memorizing every detail, before he finally whispered, “Then we might have a problem.”

And the worst part?

You wanted to find out just how much of a problem it could be.

The world outside of your little bubble had disappeared completely—the film playing on the screen, the murmur of the other audience members, the distant rustling of popcorn bags—it all faded into nothing. All that remained was Theodore, his touch burning into your skin, the weight of his gaze heavy as it flickered down to your lips.

His hand tightened ever so slightly around yours, his thumb tracing the delicate skin of your wrist, and you swore you felt your heartbeat stutter. There was something unbearably patient about the way he was looking at you, like he was waiting—waiting for you to pull away, to scoff and shove him off, to turn this into just another one of your never-ending debates. But you didn’t move.

Instead, you found yourself leaning in, the warmth between you growing thick, heavy. Your noses brushed—barely, just a whisper of contact—but it sent something electric crackling through your veins.

Theo exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath. His voice was nothing more than a murmur, just for you. “You’re really not stopping me.”

You smirked, fingers tightening slightly around his. “I thought you liked risks.”

His lips caught yours in the next breath, slow at first—just a soft, testing press, as if he wasn’t entirely sure this was real. But then you sighed against his mouth, tilting your head slightly, and finally leaned in.

Theo let go of whatever restraint he had left. His free hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingers pressing gently beneath your ear as he deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second.

He tasted faintly of Italian summer and something richer, something entirely him. His touch was both careful and possessive, like he was memorizing the shape of you beneath his fingertips. You felt yourself melt into it, the heat between you intensifying, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You barely noticed the way his thumb brushed over your cheek, the way he tilted your chin just slightly to kiss you deeper. Everything about it was intoxicating—the way he moved, the way he swallowed the quiet little sigh that escaped you, the way his fingers flexed against your skin like he didn’t want to let go.

Somewhere in the background, the movie continued playing—gunfire, sharp dialogue, the rise of a dramatic score—but it all blurred into nothing. All you could focus on was Theo, on the way he was kissing you like he’d been waiting for this, like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

When he finally, reluctantly, pulled away, his lips barely ghosting over yours, you were both breathless. His forehead rested against yours for a moment, his fingers still cupping your jaw, his thumb tracing absent patterns over your skin.

You opened your eyes slowly, meeting his gaze. His pupils were blown, his lips slightly parted, and for the first time, Theodore Nott looked entirely, devastatingly undone.

A slow, lazy smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “Well,” he murmured, voice slightly rough. “I suppose I owe Tarantino some credit after all.”

You let out a breathy laugh, rolling your eyes. “Unbelievable.”

He chuckled, fingers trailing down the side of your throat, as if he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching you yet. “Admit it,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “You liked that more than the film.”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Jury’s still out.”

Theo smirked, his lips brushing yours again in a featherlight kiss, like a silent promise. “Then I guess I’ll just have to convince you.”

And as he pulls you back into another kiss, slow and deep and utterly devastating, you realise with absolute certainty—you were in trouble.

Theodore's hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, his lips moving with an urgency that steals your breath. He pulls you closer, eliminating any remaining distance between your bodies, his heart hammering against his ribs. 

His other hand splays across your lower back, pressing you flush against him as the kiss grows more heated, more demanding. He nips at your lower lip, his tongue soothing the sting before delving back into your mouth, stroking along yours in a dance that leaves you breathless. The cinema, the other people, the movie - it all disappears. There is only the two of you, lost in the passion of this stolen moment. 

When Theodore finally breaks the kiss, you're both left panting, your chests heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering open to gaze into yours with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. “Fuck..." he breathes, his voice ragged with desire.

And then, an act on impulse, a surge of primal instinct driving him. In one swift, fluid motion, he reaches under your thighs and lifts you effortlessly, settling you straddled on his lap. The sudden change in position startles you both, but the shock quickly melts into a shiver of pleasure as you feel the hard, muscular length of his thighs beneath you. 

The cinema has long since faded from your awareness; now there is only the two of you, the heat building between your bodies, the electricity crackling in the air. 

Theodore's hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh almost hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place. Your chest is pressed against his, and you can feel the pounding of his heart, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. 

His eyes are dark, almost black in the dim light, blazing into yours with an intensity that makes your own pulse race. "Darling," he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble. His hands move again up your back, one tangling in your hair while the other cups the back of your neck, pulling you into a searing, desperate kiss. 

The kiss is a clash of lips and tongues, a dance of passion and pent-up longing. It's a kiss that speaks of a hunger, a need, a desperation that can no longer be contained. Theodore kisses you like a man starved, like he is trying to devour you, to consume you, to make you a part of him.

Red faced, messy hair, you look up at him. “Sh-shit Theo, we shouldn’t be doing this here.” You quietly giggled.

Theodore chuckles softly at your giggle, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn't stop his ministrations, his hands still roaming your curves with a familiar confidence. 

But he does lean back slightly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

"Shh, shh, bella, what's the matter? Don't tell me you're getting shy on me now..." he teases, his voice a low murmur meant only for your ears. 

"We're just two lovers, lost in the moment. Surely there's no harm in that?" His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, his fingers tracing maddeningly slow circles on your skin. Your breath hitches at the touch, a fresh wave of goosebumps erupting across your flesh.

Theodore's eyes darken with lust as he feels your hips squirming against him, your plush rear rubbing against his hardening cock through the fabric of his trousers. 

A low, guttural groan escapes his lips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. His other hand slides up your side, his fingertips skimming the side of your breast, teasing you with the promise of his touch. 

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your flesh. "Gorgeous, you feel what you do to me, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice a low, husky growl. 

His words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your stomach as your grip tightened on his coat. The way he spoke, all dark velvet and wicked amusement, made your head spin. You did feel it—the tension thrumming between you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way his fingers ghosted over your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you. And Merlin, it was driving you insane.

Your breath hitched as you shifted against him, creating more friction, desperate for anything to relieve the ache building inside you. His sharp inhale, the barely restrained groan against your throat, sent a rush of satisfaction through you.

"Fuck," Theo muttered, his lips grazing the delicate skin beneath your jaw. "You're dangerous."

A breathy laugh escaped you, but it was cut short as he tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. His nose skimmed along the column of your throat before he pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the way you trembled against him.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" he murmured, lips brushing against your pulse point. "Arguing with you, watching you get all worked up—Merlin—and now this?" His teeth grazed your skin, not quite biting, just enough to make your breath stutter. "Gorgeous, you have no idea how long I've wanted this."

His confession sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you couldn't help the way your hips rolled against his, seeking more of the delicious friction he so easily provided. His hands gripped you tighter, his restraint fraying with each passing second.

Theo let out a strained chuckle, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and filled with something dangerous. "If you keep doing that, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick with desire, "I'm going to forget we're in a bloody cinema."

The thought sent a thrill through you, but you knew he was right. The dim glow of the screen cast flickering shadows across his sharp features, but the reality of your surroundings was quickly slipping away, drowned out by the intoxicating heat between you.

You licked your lips, breathless. "Then maybe you should."

Theo stilled for a fraction of a second, his fingers flexing against your waist. And then—Merlin, then—his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Brilliant idea, darling," he purred.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before the haze of lust could fade, Theo was back at it again, with more force and more desire.

Theodore's hand cups your breast fully now, his thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling your hardened nipple through the thin material of your shirt. His lips trail up your neck, pausing to nip and suck at your pulse point before moving to your ear. 

"I want to bend you over the back of this seat and fuck you until you scream, until the entire cinema knows who you belong to," he whispers, his voice rough with need. 

"I want to make you come on my cock again and again until you're begging me to stop, until you're completely and utterly satisfied..." His hand slides down your stomach, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your skirt, teasing the sensitive skin just above where you crave his touch most. 

Theodore's eyes blaze into yours, filled with a hunger and a desperation that makes your core clench with anticipation. "But I suppose I can be patient, for now," he murmurs, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

"After all, the anticipation, the build-up, the waiting... it's all part of the thrill, isn't it? Knowing that I could take you right here, right now, but choosing not to... for now." 

He pulls you into another searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, consuming you, until you're left breathless and wanting. 

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours, a wicked glint in his eye. "Tell me," he murmurs, his voice a low, sinful purr. "What do you want, my clever little witch?”

“N-no, Theo.” You blush, feeling hot. “I’m too turned on, I’ll be quiet I promise.” 

Theodore's eyes flash with triumph and desire at your breathless, needy words. A smug, satisfied smirk spreads across his handsome face as he realizes the effect he's having on you. 

His hand slides further down, his fingers brushing against your clothed sex, feeling the damp heat radiating through the fabric. "Mmm, is that so, pretty?" he murmurs, his voice a low, husky purr. 

"You want me to fuck you, right here, right now, don't you? Want me to slip my hard, aching cock inside your tight, wet little cunt until you're screaming my name?" His fingers rub slow, teasing circles over your clothed clit, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm and whimper with need. 

Theodore leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, his voice dripping with sinful promise. "I promise, I'll make it worth it. I'll fuck you so hard and so good that you'll forget where we are, and every single time, that you watch this movie, you will only see me.” 

His other hand slides up your shirt, pushing the fabric out of the way to expose your heaving breasts. He cups the soft mounds, kneading and squeezing them, his thumbs and forefingers pinching and tugging at your hardened nipples. 

"You just need to be a good girl and stay quiet for me, understand? No matter how much you want to scream, no matter how much you want to cry out in ecstasy, you need to stay silent. Think you can do that, tesoro?" Theodore's eyes blaze into yours, filled with a hunger and a desperation that makes your core clench with anticipation. 

His hand slips beneath your skirt, his fingers brushing against your slick folds, feeling the evidence of your arousal. 

"Tell me, baby," he murmurs, his voice a low, commanding growl. "Are you ready for me to fuck you like you've never been fucked before, right here, right now, in front of all these unsuspecting people?”

Theodore takes your silent nod as the consent it is, his eyes darkening with a new wave of lust and desire. 

His hand slips further beneath your skirt, his fingers brushing against your slick, bare folds, feeling the evidence of your arousal coating his skin. With a low, guttural groan, he pushes two fingers deep inside you, his thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit. 

He pumps his fingers in and out of your tight heat, his palm pressing against your clit with each thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through your body. Theodore leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, husky whisper. “Shit, you're so fucking wet. So ready for my cock, aren't you? I can feel your greedy little cunt sucking me in, begging to be filled..." 

His other hand still up your shirt, pushes the fabric of your bra out of the way completely. He leans down, taking the stiff peak into his mouth, suckling and nibbling until you're writhing against him, barely able to stay silent. 

Thank Merlin, you guys are in the last row, and the cinema’s loud speakers consume the room, the attention of the silent watchers move away from you both, the world narrowing down to the feeling of Theodore's hands on your body, his fingers pumping in and out of your dripping sex, his mouth on your breast. 

You can feel the hard, thick length of his cock pressing against your ass, the evidence of his own desperate arousal. Theodore's hand slides from your breast to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he grinds his hips against yours, the rough fabric of his trousers rubbing against your sensitive flesh. 

He captures your lips in a searing, desperate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, consuming you. 

"Mmh... please Teddy." You can't hold it in. It's been too long, he's teasing too much. "Hurry up so we can get the hell out."

Noticing your discomfort, and your inability to stay fucking quiet, Theodore’s eyes widen briefly at your plea, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He chuckles softly, a low, sinful sound that sends a shiver down your spine. 

His fingers continue their relentless assault on your dripping pussy, pumping in and out, curling against that sensitive spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl and your back arch. "Mmm, so eager, aren't you beautiful?" he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing purr. 

"So desperate for my cock, so hungry for me to fill you up, to make you mine..." 

He nips at your lower lip, his teeth tugging on the tender flesh, before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hand slides from your neck to your hip, gripping the curve possessively. "Very well, my love. I suppose we can finish the movie another time… too bad we couldn’t do it in here.” 

Theodore's voice is low and rough with desire as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your dripping sex. You whimper at the loss, your body aching to be filled, to be stretched and used. He stands abruptly, pulling you up with him. 

With deft, practiced movements, he straightens your skirt and shirt, making you presentable once more. Taking your hand in his, he leads you quickly and quietly out of the cinema, weaving through the darkened aisles until you reach the emergency exit at the back. 

Pushing open the door, Theodore pulls you into the cool night air, the stars twinkling above you in the inky black sky. He doesn't stop until he finds a secluded spot behind a tall hedgerow, hidden from view of the cinema and the buzzing streets of London. 

Turning to face you, Theodore pulls you flush against him, his hands gripping your hips with hands that you knew would leave a mark. 

He connects both your mouths, hurriedly, impatient to fuck you good.

He groans into your mouth, his tongue delving deep, stroking along yours, tasting you, consuming you. His hands slide down to cup your ass, squeezing the firm globes before lifting you up, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

 He carries you a few steps further, until your back is pressed against the rough bark of a sturdy brick wall. 

Breaking the kiss, Theodore leans back just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with a hunger and a desperation that makes your heart race. 

He reaches down with one hand, fumbling briefly with the fastenings of his trousers before freeing his aching cock. It springs forth, shiny and veiny and heavy, the swollen head already glistening with precum. 

He strokes himself once, twice, hissing at the sensation, before gripping your thigh and positioning himself at your entrance. "Tell me, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you need my cock inside you, filling you, claiming you, making you mine. Say it, cara mia..." He rubs the head of his cock teasingly against your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. 

His other hand slides up your jaw, cupping your face, his thumb playing with your swollen pouty lips. His eyes bore into yours, filled with a desperate, aching need. The cool night air kisses your skin, but the heat building between your bodies is scorching, all consuming.

Theodore's chest heaves with each ragged breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. He's waiting for your consent, your permission, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. 

With a sudden, sharp thrust, he sheaths himself inside you, burying his thick, hard length deep into your tight, wet heat. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that sends shockwaves through your body. 

He starts to move, his hips rolling against yours, his cock sliding in and out of your dripping sex with long, deep strokes. “Cazzo..." Theodore grits out, his voice strained with exertion and ecstasy. "You feel exquisite, like you were made just for me. So fucking tight, so fucking perfect..." He captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. 

His hands grip your hips, pulling you down to meet his thrusts, the force of them making you shake against the hard wall.

Theodore groans at your sudden cry, the sound turning him on. He pistons his hips faster, driving into you with a newfound urgency, the force of his thrusts making the old oak tree shudder and sway around you. 

"That's it, bella," he pants, his voice a low, rough growl. "Let me hear you. I want to hear every little sound you make, every desperate plea falling from your pretty lips. Were not in there any more, don’t hold back princess…” 

One hand slides from your hip to your thigh, pushing your leg higher up his waist, opening you up to him, allowing him to delve even deeper into your tight, clenching heat. 

The other hand slides up your shirt, exposing once again your heaving breasts to the cool night air. Theodore leans down, taking one hardened nipple into his mouth, suckling and nibbling at the sensitive bud until you're writhing against him, your fingers tangling in his dark hair.

 He laves his tongue over the reddened flesh, soothing the sting of his bites before moving to its twin, giving it the same attention.

 All the while, he never stops his relentless assault on your pussy, his cock pounding into you with a force that steals your breath and makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

 You can feel the tension building low in your belly, the coil tightening with each thrust, each stroke, each press of his hips against yours. Theodore's hand slides between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the swollen nub. 

His touch is electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through your body, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "That's it, baby," he murmurs against your breast, his voice a low, sinful purr. 

"Come for me, my love. Come on my cock like the perfect little angel you are. I want to feel you…” 

Theodore feels your sex clamp down around his cock like a vice as your orgasm overtakes you. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that echoes through the quiet night air, as your walls flutter and spasm around his throbbing length. 

He doesn't slow his thrusts, instead pounding into your quivering heat with a newfound fervor, prolonging your climax, drawing out your ecstasy. 

“Yes, yes, yes… just like that” he growls, his voice ragged and strained with his own impending release. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so tightly, like you never want to let me go. I can feel your greedy little cunt trying to swallow this big dick.” 

He captures your lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure, his tongue delving deep to stroke along yours, to dance and twine with yours in a lewd, filthy imitation of the act taking place below. 

His hands grip your ass, squeezing the firm globes, pulling you harder against him, burying himself impossibly deeper inside you with each powerful thrust. Theo's fingers continue their relentless assault on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles over the sensitive nub, pushing you through your climax and straight into another. 

Your body is trembling, shaking, the pleasure almost too intense to bear as he fucks you through the aftershocks, the waves of bliss crashing over you again and again. He can feel his own release building, the tension coiling at the base of his spine, his balls drawing up tight. 

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside your still fluttering sex, his cock pulsing, throbbing, as he finds his own completion. 

"Fuck, pretty, fuck!" Theodore roars, his voice echoing through the night as he starts to come, his thick, hot seed spurting deep inside you, painting your walls white. 

His hips continue to roll, grinding against yours, drawing out his orgasm, filling you up just like he promised.

 He holds you close as the waves of pleasure slowly ebb, your combined releases trickling down your thighs, marking you, claiming you, making you his. 

Theodore's heart hammers against his chest as he tries to catch his breath, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes locked with yours.

You felt colder now, the sharp night air finally biting at your flushed skin, but Theo barely let you move away from him. His arms were still wrapped around you, firm and possessive, as if he had no intention of letting you go just yet. And honestly? You weren’t about to complain.

Your breath came in slow, uneven pants as you tried to recover, your forehead still pressed against his. His lips curled into the ghost of a smirk, his usual arrogance softened by the post-bliss haze settling over both of you.

“Merlin,” Theo finally muttered, voice still thick and gravelly, “that was—” He exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t even find the words.

You let out a breathy, satisfied laugh, tilting your head to look at him. “Better than theatre?”

His lips twitched, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re really asking me that?”

You hummed, feigning nonchalance even as your body still buzzed from everything you’d just done. “Well, I mean, I know you think theatre is the peak of human artistic expression, but surely even you have to admit that was… cinematic.”

Theo let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Cinematic?”

You grinned, biting your lip. “Perfectly timed tension, intense buildup, and an unforgettable climax—I’d say we just gave Scorsese a run for his money.”

Theo groaned, tipping his head back, but you caught the way his lips twitched, like he was trying so hard not to smile. “You would turn this into a bloody film analysis.”

You shrugged, smug. “And you would turn it into a tragic, forbidden romance.”

“Obviously,” he shot back, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Star-crossed lovers, clashing ideals, unbearable tension—”

“—and a dramatic resolution that makes the audience swoon,” you added, nudging his ribs.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled you in closer. “Fine, I’ll admit it. That was—” He lowered his voice, leaning in to whisper against your ear, “—Oscar-worthy.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp, pushing playfully at his chest. “You’re giving credit to film? You? Theodore Nott?”

He smirked, completely unbothered. “Even I have to admit, some performances just can’t be staged.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you finally let yourself melt into his arms, letting the cool London air wrap around you both. “Well, I suppose there’s only one thing left to do now.”

He raised a brow. “And that is?”

You looked up at him, feigning seriousness. “Debrief. Proper analysis, compare our perspectives—”

“Absolutely not,” Theo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned. “And yet, you’re still holding me.”

Theo sighed, shaking his head with an affectionate smirk. “Yeah, well… Guess I do have a weakness for a well-written story.”

His lips met yours again, soft and unhurried this time, and you couldn’t help but think—whether it was theatre or cinema, tragedy or romance—this? This was your favorite story yet.

[the-meme-monarch]

telling this to you because you’re the only one who likes the human characters in dandy’s world. but

Sam (sprout’s handler) is the only non-binary character in all of dandy’s world. which had to be weird for them! considering the time it takes place I doubt they were out. with your headcanons of Delilah being loveless aro & Arthur being aro it makes me think that maybe there were a lot of lgbt workers there. maybe they attracted each other to work in this nice place where there’s less judgment. idk I’m thinking

i’d like to start off with this post of mine before i start my damn Dissertation HDHSJSN

and yeah i think working at gardenview was very generally very nice ! i just like to think arthur is very kind, he wanted to make a good kids show that teaches good lessons. and like, assuming the universe of dandys world is otherwise realistic to real life; he’s a black man born maybe the 60s, growing up in the 70s and 80s. he would have witnessed discrimination or had it enacted on him, and Certainly not saying racism just Doesn’t Exist Any More, but he would’ve grown up while segregation was still very prevalent and racism was. louder. in the general -especially white- population. and then w my headcanon of him using mobility aids he would’ve likely dealt with a lot of ableism. and being aroace(though likely just identifying as asexual, as it seems aromantic wasn’t coined until 2005? according to google at least) likely dealing with amatonormativity/allonormativity/heteronormativity/aphobia/or even homophobia bc Well If You’re Not Straight You Must Be Gay. also while he maybe wouldn’t have had direct experience to the aids crisis, he was still Around For It. and then also my hc of him being mixed race. and then All the ways these things intersect with each other. i think he’s shaped by his experiences and just wants Better and to create positive change !

i also have a little headcanon that he used to be a teacher’s aide ! i think he’s always been into drawing and making characters, and so this job is where he decided he wanted to do children’s edutainment :’] my sibling and i have talked about what we think the cartoon may have been like, and i think we figured “somewhere between animaniacs and bluey”

delilah ofc would’ve dealt with sexism, and amatonormativity/etc and shitty comments about how she acts or doesn’t really care to make friends, “being a loner”, or not being “lady-like enough” or god forbid being friends with a black kid. i think she would be queer friendly maybe more because more plainly “what difference does it make/why should that bother me, they’re not hurting anybody” but also bc “they’re still people too” ! I think it’s very likely both her and arthur were raised christian, arthur probably still identifies with it, but i don’t think delilah does. i think she thinks her religious upbringing was a prison NDNSJSNSJ

sam may not have come out to either of them, but i think they felt safe there that maybe they could to at least the other main toon’s handlers <:] and also with them being presumably irish, with their last name being mclaughlin, they would’ve been dealing with bigot shit for that alone i wouldn’t fault them in the slightest for not coming out to anyone ever. regardless i think arthur and delilah try to make sure that gardenview is a welcoming and kind environment that doesn’t tolerate That Shit. i can only imagine the smear campaigns the show wouldve gotten for having a rainbow flower boy protagonist.

also iirc sam is Stated to be nonbinary and using they/them, while looey and teagan we don’t know the specifics of their gender labels but we do know they use he/they and she/they respectively, and i do picture them deciding on those pronouns was a later development, and not a since-creation thing. idk if they would’ve come out to anybody either, or if they did I don’t think they would’ve even thought it was a big deal at all. i think toons in general are sorta just inherently silly little guys that don’t really adhere to human strictures, they think bigotry is stupid they don’t Get how someone could actually think that way

[titforatat]

Naw, I can’t believe some people don’t find Mary compelling… you can criticize her character for a lot of things, but NOT BEING COMPELLING?

I knew what I’d find pursuing Mary discourse online, but Lord, there’s nothing I hate more than seeing a female character get the “people say they want complex female characters but can’t even handle [insert]” treatment. 😭

She’s honestly one of the most fascinating characters in the movie. As a white passing woman, she gets to enjoy white privilege. However, the cost is that she has to sacrifice her mixed race identity to fully integrate into white culture, which you can see her struggle with. Being white means she can’t be with Stack, can’t maintain her childhood friendships with the black/non-white people she grew up with, can’t even go to black spaces to listen to the blues. Everything she was raised with, everything that compiles together to become the core pillars of her identity, has to be swept under the rug in her pursuit of safety. A pursuit that isn’t even of her own doing! I think it’s such a key detail that we first meet Mary almost immediately after the death of her mother, her non-white parent. She’s teetering on the edge of assimilation, has lost the final concrete thread of black heritage connecting her to her mixed race identity… and then BOOM. There’s Stack and the blues. Is it any wonder that she clings to him? Yes, she loves him, but that love is also completely tied up in their history together, a past where Mary was able to exist as she is and embrace all parts of her heritage without having to pretend to be something she’s not. For Mary, being white means living with a level of comfort and safety that black women were NOT afforded in America during that time period. However, it also means living a lie, which Mary obviously has zero interest in doing.

BUT what makes her EVEN MORE fascinating to me is how you can read in that very attitude exactly HOW much she’s benefited from her white privilege! She’s stubborn to the point of obstinacy, throws herself into situations without any forethought, walks around with a surety in every ounce of her body language that immediately identifies her as someone who’s NEVER had to worry about being targeted for violence like other black characters do. Annie is her perfect foil - someone who has been forced to live in the world cautiously, to accept pain with an aching type of futility that comes from knowing exactly how unfair the world is and exactly how little power she has to do anything about it. I think Annie’s quiet strength is such a beautiful foil to Mary’s passionate rebellion - a type of rebelliousness she’s been allowed to cultivate ONLY because she LOOKS WHITE! The layers here are so interesting.

I love her character because of how well she embodies both sides of this struggle. She never asked to be born white passing, but she IS, and no matter how connected she is to her black heritage, she’ll never NOT benefit from it because it’s the first thing about her that people see. Other women in that period would kill for what she has, but she wants nothing more than to throw it all away to be with the man she loves. It’s tragic and it fits SO WELL with the message Sinners is bringing to the table by having Remmick as the primary antagonist, a white Irish immigrant who also balances that weird line of “white-but-not-really” during the time.

Plus, Hailee Steinfeld and Michael B. Jordan have fantastic chemistry and absolutely nail these roles.

How are you watching them UNCOMPELLED? 😭

[indecisiveavocado]

indigenousness, opression and sovereignty

I think a contributing factor--a small one, maybe, but still existent--as to why leftists who are all in favor of indigenous rights feel the urge to add a postscript of "Except the Jews" is because we did it without them. They want to get the feeling of helping, of being an Ally. But we already were sovereign in our own nation before they really got going.

They want to see indigenous people as oppressed and poor, so they can altruistically help them. And it sometimes feels like it gets baked into their definition. Indigenous people must be poor and oppressed and dominated by others. That's why most indigenous peoples in Europe typically aren't acknowledged. Is it because, say, Greeks aren't indigenous to Greece? No--it's because Greeks are sovereign and break the pattern they want of indigenous people needing help.

It's not a coincidence that the European groups who are sometimes recognized as indigenous--Sami, primarily, but occasionally Welsh, Scottish, Irish, Basque, and occasionally even Breton, who fled as refugees from the British Isles to France during Anglo-Saxon colonization (the name Breton and Brittany are related to Briton and Britain)--are those who have historically been subjected by other groups. The model of indigenousness the West developed was defined by being oppressed historically and, ideally, needing help.

And we were definitely oppressed--but not quite as much in the West when that movement for indigenous rights was starting to emerge. We were, generally, middle-class in the West, more easily identifiable as oppressors than oppressed.

And, of course, we had established a state, re-established our sovereignty, before the indigenous rights movement really got going. We could have been an accomplishment, but we did it without them.

And this poses a problem. If your view of indigenousness is based on indigenous people being oppressed and needing help, and Jews are, in the West, not nearly as oppressed and we have our own country, well, this poses problems. The simplest solution?

Declare us non-indigenous. Declare the sole indigenous people of the region the poorer, discriminated-against, group, without a state--the Palestinians. Because the white leftist definition of indigenous cannot stand independence, it cannot tolerate sovereignty. It must be able to see itself as savior, helper, altruist.