#as always: there's an ideal answer and there's a realistic answer

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

I don't know if someone discussed this before, but do we know if there were any gedds on earth during/by the end of the invasion? If there were, what do we think happened to them after the war?

Maaan, I wish we had more intel on the gedds. It's possible that Aftran and Edriss are correct in their perception that gedds lack higher-order brain functions and genuinely benefit from symbiosis with yeerks... and it's possible that this is the same flavor of lie as humans telling each other that insects don't feel pain.

I sorta prefer the idea that it really is symbiosis, because then Seerow interrupts a fully-functioning ecosystem by infecting the yeerks with Andalite-Style Imperialism. And that fits with the themes of the series better. Whereas "there's no non-harmful way for yeerks to inhabit hosts" feels less on-brand.

That said... where does that leave the gedds? Maybe as hosts for yeerks who want to remain yeerks, but also want to leave the pool at times? Maybe they return to the homeworld? Maybe in some kind of protected Earth space, like the hork-bajir and taxxons? (If so, and if they don't have their own Toby or Arbron, I shudder to think about the risk of exploitation.) I'm torn, because the question of their sapience and independence is so unanswered.

[red-dyed-sarumane]

always feel a little weird bc ik demi's used more as a modifier than as a solo label but the second half of the label is so non important to me trying to assign one never feels right. its either bi or pan functionally but it is what it is

[satorena]

: ̗̀➛ TRAPPED WITH U !?

featuring. g. satoru x fem!reader

warnings. explicit content, foul language, intern!reader, businessman!gojo, satoru’s a bit of a pervert in this one, and also really fucking annoying but he’s just in love fr, oral, slight breath play, unprotected sex, breeding. they fuck in an elevator, and i use a lot of italics here, oops!

rena’s note. he’s so fucking insufferable i want him so bad. also this 4.3k words. i’m so sorry.

oh but of course, since the odds were always against your favour, had you found yourself stuck in this incredulous predicament.

it’d been a long day of enduring misogynistic, narcissistic higher ups and pricks, and you wanted nothing more than to hop in your car and drive off home, hop in bed and sleep.

sounded like an ideal and realistic plan, until the sole purpose of your life’s oppression waltzed in seconds before the elevator’s doors shut, pearly white teeth flashing through a smug grin and icy blues shimmering through dark shades that rested atop his nose bridge.

you huffed, almost at your wit’s end as the elevator’s door automatically reopened at the unwanted presence detected in its sensory, and the tall frame steps in with slow strides and a stupid fucking smile on his lips, hands in the pockets of his slacks, striding as if he stepped out of vogue’s magazine.

“see somethin’ you like, wifey?” satoru chuckled, stepping side to side by your posed frame. why he chose to stand beside in this very unoccupied elevator, you’d never understand but you did know you weren’t going to entertain his bullshit today.

you bit back the insult that rested at the tip of your tongue, “floor?” your index finger hovered over the panel, waiting for him to tell you.

“same as yours,” gojo shrugged, to which you decided on closing the doors instead.

“what business you got on the 2nd floor?” you muttered, suspicions growing at the fact that he coincidentally had shit to do on the same floor as yours.

the boyish smirk he flashed you sent chills down your spine, “whatever business you got on that floor.”

you sighed exasperatedly, soon piecing together that gojo was certainly not going to the second floor to pack his belongings to head home, seeing as he was one of the higher ups that spent longer hours in the office when the interns’ shifts would end.

you pinch the bridge of your nose; “gojo.” you say his name, tone clipped and full of fatigue.

“y/n.” he answers back with your name, a flashy grin baring on thirty two teeth.

you breathe in deeply, reminding yourself to count to ten before you lost your shit. you step near the control panel and press on the main lobby floor, the first, where you decide to send him off. chances were he was heading down there to do his daily flirting with the new secretary hired anyway.

“did ya change your mind?” his voice spawns from right at your ear, and you still in shock at his proximity, noting he’s much closer to you than earlier. “we goin’ to the first floor instead?”

“we are not going anywhere.” you tilt your head to the side, glaring at him through your falsies. he shifts his own head, still fucking smiling, feigning ignorance. “you are going to the first floor, and i’m going to the fifth.”

his smile drops, finally, but at what cost? “why would i do that?” he has the nerve to genuinely sound confused, as if you were the one not making any sense out of this situation.

“why wouldn’t you?” you counter back, lifting an index finger to place atop his forehead, before pushing his head back, “don’t you got better shit to do? like harass a newbie and disguise it as flirting or somethin’?”

“is that not what i’m doing right now?” he jokes, grabbing the finger that pushed him back. you scowl, a bit upset at the fact you walked right into that one.

“besides,” he speaks up, directing your finger towards the control panel once more. “what if i had business on the… seventh floor?”

you furrow your brows, your own eyes watching as he uses your nail to press on the seventh floor button. you try to ignore how warm and soft his hands feel against your, in contrast to the coolness of his rings.

“orrrr,” he drags out, tightening the hold on your hand once more and raising your hand higher on the panel. “what if i had business on the thirteenth floor? maybe the ninth too?”

“gojo.” you warn him, clicking your tongue when realizing what game he’s starting to play at. you definitely don’t feel goosebumps form at your skin hearing his chuckle resonate right in your ear.

“that german intern’s a babe, ain’t she?” he hums pensively, his thumb rubbing circles at the center of your palm. “i might wanna see her too.” he brings your hand to the eight floor and applies enough pressure to see it illuminate.

“are you fucking kidding me?” you get annoyed, attempting to rip your hand away from his hold but fail, when you feel him creep even closer in your bubble, your ass undoubtedly pressing into his crotch.

your eyes widen, half shock half disbelief, a sudden appearance of what seems to be gojo junior stirring awake poking at your short skirt. oh fuck.

“or,” he whispers, minty breath sending jolts of electricity up your back. he drags your hand messily over the panel, about three fourths of the floors illuminating and you know you’re fucked. “maybe i wanna stay stuck in here with you…”

you blink back to reality, dismissing whatever possible emotion you were beginning to feel emerge in your core. with a sharp tug, you manage to free yourself from his grasp and turned on your heel to face the tall bastard.

“i’m gonna need you to back off and instantly—you fuckin’ creep.” you snarl, pointer finger pointing at him accusingly, hoping it sets an exemplary distance between you both.

gojo breaks into laughter, the kind that has his shoulders shaking and has him doubling over as if you’d just told him the world’s greatest joke. you watch him dumbfoundedly, your left eye twitching as he continued to ridicule you.

“fine, fine. sorry princess, i was just teasing.” he pushes his frames up to his hairline, messy strands of hair pushed out the way as he wipes a fake tear from the corner of his eyes.

you roll your eyes, pushing past him to make your way back to where you’d been prior to these stupid events. if you were gonna be stuck on this elevator ride longer than necessary because of the pit stops, you’d simply ignore him and hope he catches the hint.

you stare straight ahead at the elevator door, feeling the ride descend from the twentieth floor downwards. fuck that tall, stupid and rich bastard for dragging this elevator ride past its needed time limit.

from your peripheral, you make out his form leaning forward to catch your straight gaze. you were ignoring him and he knew, “you mad at me?”

you remain quiet, silently praying that at one of these next stops another worker would step in and ease the situation more.

gojo frowns, eyebrows pinched to the center his forehead, “c’mon, i was joking! honest! i really am sorry.”

the silence, safe for the elevator music, answered him everything he needed to know. you were always such difficult nut to crack, but what you failed to acknowledge was the more you pushed him away the more he grew attracted to you.

he sighs, before slinging his arm over your shoulders, dropping most of his body weight onto you. he watches as you nearly stumble from the sudden imbalance, before looking up to him with that adorable pout of yours that he wants to fuck out of you.

oops.

“what now, gojo?” you ask him with so much attitude, your expression bored. “can’t leave me alone for a single fucking elevator ride? you that obsessed with bothering me?”

“you got it all wrong,” gojo shakes his head, snow white tresses shaking with him and his shades falling right back to place on his nose. “i’m not obsessed with bothering you— i’m obsessed with you period. been obsessed since that time you chucked piping hot coffee on my givenchy button down.”

you frown deeply at that, reflecting at how long ago that had been. you knew what kind of guy he was. after all, who hadn’t heard of gojo satoru in this forsaken company? he dipped his dick in anything with a pulse and moved onto the next big thing whenever he got bored—

or so you’ve heard.

you stare at him for a minute, processing his words. he shamelessly stares back at you, now looping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side.

“see something you like, wifey?” he repeats himself, his favorite nickname for you making another appearance. you ignore how his hands stroke your bare arms.

you stifle a laugh, snorting incredulously at him before breaking into a full blown laughter. maybe you now understood why gojo had done the same just a little while ago, because the look of offence on his face had made the situation funnier than it was initially.

“what’s funny?! i’m here professing my feelings for you and you’re laughing?!” gojo complains like the manchild he is, dragging syllables and all, rosy lips falling into a pout.

“fuck— i’m sorry, did you think i was gonna believe that?” your laughter dies down, sighing deeply in attempts to catch your breath. “no, seriously, do you take me for an idiot?”

“believe it or not, it’s the truth,” he mumbles, leaning his chin at the top of your skull. “even ask nanamin. been treating him as my walking diary since suguru left.”

you don’t want to think about if that holds any truth or not. you tilt your head up, enforcing eye contact with him, “i think you’re confused. it’s definitely not love, or anything in between. you’re just horny and want to fuck me.”

“well,” he looks down, mouth salivating at the point of view presented of your breast, sitting up in all their glory in your blouse. “i won’t lie and say that isn’t true. but why is it so hard to believe i have feelings for you? i literally am obsessed with you, why else would i deliberately wast time and sit through all twenty floors here with you?”

speaking of, you look at the indicator and notice you’re only at the seventeenth floor. how slow was this damn ride? there’s absolutely no way you’d only been through less three floors this whole time? was time still in this elevator or what?

wait—

“oh shit.” you hear the man cuss. you fear that’s all the confirmation you needed, as your eyes pan towards the control panel and notice all the buttons are illuminating on and off.

silence fills the air, and you’re just realizing the elevator music had stopped playing. your luck bites, you decide, as you reevaluate all you wanted to do; grab your shit from the second floor and go the fuck home.

you try not to freak out, the fear of being trapped in an elevator period catching up to you mixed with anger rising in your blood at the blue eyed freak who’s the sole cause for this unfortunate situation.

“don’t freak out, but like,” he begins to speak, corner of his lips tugging into a sympathetic smile, “we’re definitely stuck here.”

he deserves the punch to the guts he gets.

“you sit your ass on that end of the room,” you push him to one extremity of the elevator. he’s doubled over, groaning in agony at the blow he received. “and i’ll be sitting here. do not, and i cannot stress this enough, talk to me.”

time flies really fucking slowly, you notice as you check your dying phone every five minutes, waiting for the damn maintenance of this place to do their job and get you out of this elevator.

gojo had complied to your demand and hasn’t said a word to you in about twenty minutes. his long legs sprawled across the floor, one leg raised as he rested his arm atop his knee.

you didn’t want to admit it, but you were getting bored. and hungry. very hungry, and uncomfortably hot. did the air conditioning in here cut off too? most likely, damn your life.

you sat as gracefully as you could in your tight skirt and heels, tucking your legs into chest in hopes your shins were covering your inner thighs. though, you weren’t certain if you were doing a good job, judging by the way you could feel gojo’s stare at you behind the shades and the way he shifted in his seat.

he tilts his head to the side, index finger swiping over his nose and he sniffs, “figures you’re the lace type.”

you feel all the fight flee your body, all but exhausted as you bite into whatever he chews. you needs entertainment, even if it came in form of a 6’3 imbecile with an outfit the cost of your rent.

“figures you’ve been staring at my panties this whole time, when else are you ever this quiet?” you clap back, making no motion to switch positions. besides, he was manspreading with his whole boner poking through his slacks and he remained shameless. why couldn’t you?

he smirks, lifting his hand and leaning his cheek in his palm, “i’ve spent the last twenty minutes thinking about the things i’d do to you if you’d let me.”

gojo was so fucking shameless, you hated how it turned you on at times. you must’ve been truly out of it, lack of food in your system or something, because your answer flies out of you almost too naturally, “show me your worst then.”

in the blink of an eye, you both find yourselves back on your feet, your back pressed against the wall of the elevator as your lips mold feverishly with his. gojo kisses you like he’s been wanting to do so for years, his strong arms wrapping around your middle and pushing your body tighter against him.

you’re no better, hands flying to the back of his neck and your nails tugging at messy locks. he moans against your lips at a particular tug, one hand slipping past your waist and slides up your thigh. he lifts your leg and wraps it around his hip, applying pressure into the middle of your legs.

“fuck,” you moan softly against pink lips, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. he hums, your bottom lip tucked in his teeth as he pushes up into you once more.

“feel good?” he mumbles against your lips, sneaking a few kisses while awaiting for your response. his hold on your thigh is firm, wanting to hold you in place to keep grinding into you and drawing these pretty sounds out of you.

you nod your head before throwing it back against the wall, to which his lips leave yours to attack at your neck. he’s kissing and licking and nipping at your sensitive skin, leaving dark love bites.

“you fuckin’ teenager,” you complain, knowing he was intentionally marking you in visible areas, so you’d be the next talk of the week. “just had to be there, didn’t it?”

“couldn’t help it,” you feel his smirk against your jugular, to which you roll your eyes. “you smell so fucking good here, shit, i could eat you up— actually…”

you snort as he pulls away from the crook of your neck, and you eye how dishevelled he looks. even with messy hair, saliva streaking his cheeks and swollen lips, he still looked fucking hot.

you don’t have much time to reflect on his beauty because he’s soon kneeling down in front of you, hands creeping up in your skirt and tugging down at your lace undergarment. it slides off your legs with ease, and is soon in his possession, to which he stuffs in his pockets.

“i will.” he finally completes his sentence, lifting your leg over his shoulder.

he holds a firm grip on your thigh as your skirt hikes up, and he feasts. his lips latch onto your lower ones and slurps up your juices. his tongue swipes at your wet folds, moaning at the taste, which drives you to mush.

you throw your head back, hands coming in contact with his tresses, expressing the delight you feel through the tugs at his hair. whenever you’d pull hard at his hair, he’d moan into your cunt, which would result in making you moan louder and pull harder, and the cycle repeats.

“f-fuck, hah—gojo,” you whine when you feel a single digit prod into your pussy. he multitasks with fucking you open with his finger while sucking at your clit and lapping up your juices.

“shit, mhm, keep going,” you push his head deeper into your legs, momentarily forgetting you’re cutting out his breathing circulation.

you then realize he truly doesn’t mind, as his eyes roll to the back of his skull and moans even more sinfully into your dripping pussy.

it didn’t take much more than a few extra fingers to drive you over the edge, and you spray your essence in his mouth as he happily swallows every single drop you offer to him. your thighs quake and you feel yourself lose balance but he makes sure to hold you still.

you ride your high on his face, breathing heavily as you come down from your orgasm. he pulls away from in between your legs, breathing heavily with a smitten smile on his lips. “bon appétit,” he jokes, using the back of his hand to wipe himself clean.

you snort at his childishness, “shut up and gimme a moment to return you the favour.”

and just like that, you find yourself now kneeling and gojo hovered over you. he stretched his arm to hold himself up against the wall while simultaneously watching you swallow his cock whole.

now, all cocky shit aside, gojo was nowhere near small sized. he packed a big one, and the fact that you were so confidently gobbling him up, head bobbing up and down on his length, hands twisting and jerking whatever you failed to reach.

“fuckfuckfuck—shiiit, dammit y/n, your mouth feels fuckin’ amazing,” gojo whines pathetically, leaning his forehead against the cool wall.

it unintentionally forces his tip deeper in your throat and you gag around him, throat constricting around his dick and fuck if his knees hadn’t buckled.

you knew gojo was a spontaneous man, so him suddenly reaching the back of your head and pushing you deeper on his dick shouldn’t have surprised you. you were now deepthroating him as he praised you endlessly, telling you how perfect you were taking him, how warm and tight your mouth felt, how he was going to cum if you kept playing with his balls.

when he does nut, your nose reaches his pubic hairs, curly white hairs ticking you as you inhale his musk in attempt to force yourself to suppress your gag. he cums a riverbank down your throat and naturally you swallow it all, pulling off him when he finishes and seeing a string of cum and saliva connect his blushing pink tip to your lips.

“fuck,” he chuckles breathlessly, hand laying atop of your head and patting your hair gently before sliding down to your jaw. his thumb strokes your skin, “come up here, wanna kiss you again.”

“sap.” you tease but lift yourself, knees wobbly but you manage.

you’re back to standing, and your hands quickly find themselves back to his nape, threading your fingers gently through his hair. he kisses you much less rushed but instead takes his time, savours the taste of him on your tongue as you taste yourself on his.

the kiss is sensual and sloppy, drool pooling at the corner of your lips as he kisses you like his lifeline depends on it. his hands slip at your ass, grabbing the mounds with handfuls.

he pulls away just slightly, wording against your lips “jump.”

you comply, jumping and he catches you gracefully, showing no signs of struggle. you wrap your legs around his waist and proceed to kiss him again, your back coming in contact with the wall. you feel him grind his hardening dick against your bare pussy, and if you had half your regular mind, you’d have been embarrassed by how badly you were dripping over him.

“‘m gonna fuck you now,” gojo mumbles against your lips, lips peppering kisses at the corner of your saliva coated mouth. “that good with you, princess?”

you give him a flat look, fingers still carding through his soft locks. “use your thinking skills and guess.”

he smiles at you, almost too sincere and raw, and you feel your eyes shy away from his gaze, focusing instead at the beauty mark marked at the base of his neck. “hey, consent is sexy, meanie.”

“the sexiest,” you feed into his bite, giggling when you feel him nuzzle his nose in the crook of your neck. his crown of hair tickles at your skin. “now hurry up.”

you surely don’t have to tell him twice as he pulls out of your neck and grabs the base of his dick, placing his tip at your pulsating hole and pushes inside.

the synchronization of both your moans blend into each others, as your gaze on one another never breaks. he watches you intently, blue eyes narrowing into your facial reactions, wanting to memorize every twitch of muscles in case this was ever his last opportunity to.

“mmhm—yes, baby,” you claw at his back, eyes droopy and hazy as he thrusts into you at a slow yet intense pace. if gojo noticed the term of endearment you slipped up, he made no show in pointing it out, and you were thankful.

the stretch of his cock at your pussy sent a fiery feeling spreading towards all of your limbs. the squelching of your pussy tightening and clenching at his dick filling the room. he soon picked up his pace, railing into you with every fibre in his body, loving the way your body bounced up in reaction to his thrusts.

he fucked you into that wall, dug so deep into your cunt you were sure you felt him in your stomach. well no wonder why women were obsessed with him, he was definitely a pleaser. a stinging bitter feeling momentarily crawled up your throat before dissipating when you caught his eyes staring at you with something you’d usually refer to as admiration.

“god, this pussy is heaven fucking sent—never had anythin’ like it—oh shit baby, gotta have more of this— gotta have more of you, please y/n—need this all the fuckin’ time,” he praised you like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

he was a verbal man, you knew, but it amplified during sexual activities. you shamefully moaned at every praise he threw at you, pussy clenching at his dick, warmth oddly settling in your chest. you scratched at his back, he bit into your shoulders, nipped at your lips and rammed your core.

in little to no time, you felt that tide of pleasure washing over you, your cervix unable to take anymore of his tip bullying into it.

“gojo, fuckkk, ‘m so fucking close!” you mewl brokenly, as tears stream down your cheeks from the overriding pleasure.

“satoru,” he breathes out, his name falling straight within earshot. his hips never give up, but his request is asked based off raw emotions, “call me satoru—please,”

your mind is running miles a minute, the tightening of your gut on the brink of snapping and spraying your dam yet again all over him.

he whimpers with his nose pressed at your jugular, his grip on your thighs so tight your bound to have bruises form soon, and your back begins to ache from repeatedly being pushed up against an uncomfortable surface.

but fuck, you were so fucking close.

“hnng—satoru!” you cry as your orgasm washes over you, rakes through your body from head to toe, muscles spasming in his hold.

you leak like a faucet, and he follows suit, moaning your name all brokenly, whimpering and whining in your ear as he pumps your pussy full of his cum. for a split second you feel your bodies merge into one, the orgasm so intense you almost forgot just who and where this was happening.

eventually, you both ride down from your highs, and satoru places you down to your feet, though never pulling out of you. his dick is snug in your warm walls, and he’s tempted to stay like this for longer, until you decide to speak.

“c’mon big guy, pull out.” you tap at his chest gently, pulling him out of his daydream. “we have no idea when maintenance’ll show up.”

he blinks slowly, nodding as he acknowledges your words. it’s almost a damn miracle they hadn’t shown up while satoru was fucking you, but now that the lust had faded away, you almost felt ashamed of yourself.

“yeah just— gimme a second.” he breathes to himself, silently wishing he’d been able to bask in the aftercare with you a little longer. he guesses he should’ve known better than to expect such in an elevator of all places.

you remain quiet and he hates it. did you regret it already? is he back to square one with you?

you bite your lip, “goj— satoru.”

he perks his head up and you swear you see his ears wiggle as if he were a dog. his eyes shimmer with hope and you don’t think he’s ever looked this pretty before, “what’s up?”

“i’m gonna need my panties back, you know.” you nod your head towards his pocket where your lace undergarments were stuffed. “they were my favorite.”

“what a shame, guess you’ll have to grab it another day.” he sighs dramatically, feigning despair. giggling, you feel his fingers drum at your bare waist, “say, maybe friday night around 7pm at your place?”

“guess i have no other choice, do i?” you sigh just as dramatically, pulling him closer by the collar of his wrinkly white button down. he grins so widely your cheeks hurt for him, or maybe they hurt for yourself as you reflected his grin.

“i don’t make the rules baby.”

this was definitely rushed but leave me alone 🖐🏾.

[luveline]

what abouttttt

zombie!steve and reader (at any point tho i feel like this would make sense after the college got attacked) are like scavenging in a pharmacy and steve wanting to make his girl laugh puts on the stupidest prescription glasses that he found near the front desk but then? reader comes over and hes like have you always had that mole? and he refuses to take them off even tho theyre far sighted which makes the trek back to camp slightly unsafe but he cant stop staring at readers face because hes never seen it so clear

thank you for your request<3

“I really need some chocolate,” you lament, pulling at his hand as you drift together down the aisle toward the snack section. “If they don’t have any, I’m going to kill myself.” 

“You better kill me first.” Steve pulls you back. “Seriously. Have the decency.” 

“Find me some candy and I won’t have to.” 

“Find yourself some candy, loser. I need some painkillers. I’m sick of dealing with you.” 

You push at his arm. He resists the urge to yank you in for a kiss, letting your hand drop to part ways at the top of the aisle. He makes for the back of the store where the in-store pharmacy signs hangs half off of the wall, green glass shattered like coarse sugar grains underfoot. Steve cringes, clearing a path to the desk with the side of his shoe. 

“You okay?” you call from a few feet away, unseen but close enough to be heard clearly. 

“Fine! Signs of candy?” 

“No,” you say dejectedly. He nearly misses it. 

Steve’ll find you some chocolate if it’s the last thing he does, but first, he needs painkillers. His knee aches like he’s been beaten, a funny burning string of pain lining the underside of his leg every other step. Ideally he’d like some codeine, but more realistically he wants advil. He doesn’t know where to start, never does, but if you come over he’ll pretend he understands what things go where. 

He’s lucky. He bends down and finds a bottle of motrin on the floor, looking up to find a shelf teeming with it. “Yes,” he says, ecstatic. Things rarely ever go so obviously his way. “Fucking yes.” 

He shoves as many bottles of tylenol in his various pockets as he can. Then he looks around for anything interesting. He’s sure there’s a ton of things you could benefit from. He’s been wondering about epi-pens and emergency precautions, because god forbid something happen to you he couldn’t correct. Love makes him worry. You’re worrisome, you’re so sad lately, he knows you’re a few days from another burnout. He can’t handle it —he’ll take care of you, but seeing you down for the count hurts every single time. 

He leans heavily on the counter and lets himself think. Absent-minded, he reaches out to spin the intact rungs of a glasses stand, prescription lenses shining against the glare of the sun seeping in from the store’s caved metal roof. “Plus two,” he says to himself, “plus three, what?” He grabs an obscene pair and shoves it up his nose, blinking in surprise at the way his vision blurs. 

He turns the display to the mirrored back and grins. 

“Hey, loser? You okay?” he calls. 

You don’t answer. 

“Babe?” he says sharply. 

“Oh, you’re talking to me?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You appear at the end of the aisle with an arm full of chips, less blurry the closer you get. “Sorry. Don’t call me loser then. Oh, gosh, what are you wearing?” 

“Gosh,” he mimics with a laugh. “I’ve no idea.” 

His poor attempt at a southern accent makes you laugh too. “Nice glasses, Harrington. I didn’t know you needed them.” Steve crossed his arms in front of him. You drop the chips beside his sleeve and station yourself as he had, a mirror, your smile charmed as you push the glasses up his nose. “You look ridiculous. Here,” —you take a nicer pair from the rack and open the legs— “swap them.” 

He would, but he’s looking at you, and he’s thinking, What?

You move your head away from him instinctively, but ultimately let him hold your face, his thumb on the hill of your chin, fingers curled over your cheek. He can see the little silver scars of a cruel hand around your mouth, and the cut on your cheek from a surprising wooden beam, but what he’s never noticed is the pigmentation under your mouth. The little wrinkles by your eyes. Hell, he’s never realised your eyelashes looked quite like that until now. 

“Hey–” he starts, though you’re already ducking your chin. “Wait–”

“Stop, you’re staring.” 

“Yeah, I’m staring. You always had that freckle?” 

“Long as I can remember.” 

“Wait,” he pleads, trying to grab your chin as you step away. 

“I need chocolate, Steve, I’m not kidding. You can do whatever you want to me if you help me find some.” 

“You will come to love that decision very soon.” 

You giggle like crazy. Steve swaps the less attractive glasses for the ones you’ve recommended and follows you down the aisle to help you look for your sugar fix. He nearly trips over a split can of condensed milk, and you might act like you don’t like him, but you catch him by the arm and allow him to hold on. 

He isn’t great at helping you look, but he finds a couple of bars of cooking chocolate in the baking essentials aisle and decides it’s good enough to head home with. You eat lines of it as you walk, your fingers pressed between Steve’s, a little dab of chocolate he wouldn’t have noticed otherwise in the corner of your lips. 

“You sure you don’t want some?” you ask between bites. 

He’s gonna watch you eat the whole thing. “No thanks. I’m saving room for Robin’s artichoke heart and refried bean combo.” 

“Would you take those off?” Your cheek twitches as you smile. Your eyes glow with affection. “You can barely walk.” 

“You don’t like them?” 

“They really, really suit you, actually. I love them,” you say, to his secret delight. 

“So what’s the problem?” 

He trips over his own feet and has to grab your arm to stop from falling. “That’s the problem,” you say, in love enough to smile even when the world has gone to shit for you a thousand times. Your eyes follow down his nose to his lips. 

Steve grins and ducks forward for a kiss. “Oh, sorry,” he says when the glasses bump your nose. 

You laugh and touch under his chin to help him out. You taste like chocolate still as he kisses against the seam of your lips, a quick but blissfully deep kiss, a handful of seconds where Steve feels like you’re one in the same before he pulls away, just enough to see both of your eyes. 

“What’re you looking at?” you ask. 

“You have chocolate on your nose,” he lies. “Want me to get it?” 

“Yes,” you say bashfully. 

He kisses the tip of your nose, then the corner of your lip. 

[thisismeracing]

Charlieverse | CL16

― Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!reader ― Word count: 2.1k ― Warnings: mentions of alcohol and Halloween costumes (clowns, werewolves, and others).  ― Summary: When Yn decided to go to a Halloween party with her best friend, Charles Leclerc, she did not consider that some of the fantasies would be so close to reality that they would terrify her. But one thing Yn had no idea about too, was Charles’ feelings for her. All Hallow’s Eve is not the most romantic scenario to confess your feelings, but it might be just the perfect one for them.

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There are many sayings about how sharing is caring, and how life feels bigger and better when you do so.

Charles knew this all too well.

He was used to sharing everything with you since he was a kid.

It all started after you forgot your snack at home. He was only five years old then, but he had two brothers so he knew exactly what to do. Little Charles offered to share his bag of colored goldfish and grapes with you. The next day you shared your coloring pencils with him. It started with simple things, and it grew as you both grew older. All through the school years, Charles and you were inseparable, even with his crazy racing schedule. You would take notes for him, he would bring you stories, and you would study together until late hours. You shared your fears, deepest feelings, and even the shame of being underdressed when invited to a party such as now.

“I had no idea people would go this hard,” you state, watching as the Taxi driver came to a halt in front of the big doors. Gathered in front of the mansion were people dressed as all kinds of gore Halloween beings, some of the makeup seeming too real to your liking.

“We can go back home and change if you want,” there’s Charles' tranquil voice. He is always the one to keep his patience even if the world is ending, and you love that about him.

You shake your head, “We would never find something else in time, plus, we’re together, so… here’s to another good story,” you point to your matching costumes, and Charles smiles.

You’re both wearing Spiderman costumes. Though it felt like the best choice, the easiest one, you should have guessed it was too easy and, therefore, not ideal.

Charles gives you one last wink before putting on his mask. You do the same just as he opens the door for you, and hand in hand you walk through the crowd into the house. You cling to your best friend’s arm trying to stay as far away as possible from some of the costumes.

“You sure you’re ok over there?” Charles asks when you’re halfway to the kitchen, and you tighten your grip on his hand.

You nod, “Yeah, just.. That werewolf costume seems too realistic.” And there’s no need for you to explain to him. He knows you like he knows the back of his hand, his favorite track, his most played song. Charles knows that someone planted a seed of fear about some creatures when you were little, and some of the stories have stayed with you even after you grew. It is a bit curious how despite your fears, you still love Halloween, at least the kind of parties you go to where people will dress in a way that clearly shows that they are human beings and meant no harm.

Were you supposed to guess that a certain crazy clown costume was a mere costume after seeing people being killed by those?

You wouldn’t stay to answer that question.

When you finally reach the kitchen, both of you take off the mask to your friends, hugging and making your rounds. Charles grabs you two a drink and you choose to stay there instead of mingling and risking bumping into scary figures.

“Can you get me another of these?” You mouth to Charles pointing at your empty cup. From across the kitchen, he nods, and a few seconds later he’s in front of you with a full cup.

“They were out of ice, is it ok if we share this one?” he asks over the music and you nod. You’re sitting on the counter, and when Charles turns to your friends he stands right between your legs. One of your hands goes to his shoulders, and you keep talking about your costume as if your heart weren’t hammering inside your ribcage, almost coming out from your throat the second his hand finds your knee, holding it so your anxious bounce can cease.

You gulp trying to keep your attention on whatever your friend is talking about because all your mind can focus on is your best friend’s hand on you, his body radiating warmth into yours. And not that it is unusual for Charles to touch it, quite the opposite, he loves to hug and kiss those he cares about, but it’s just lately your heart seemed to wish for a different kind of sharing.

It wants to share the secret touches. It wants to claim hungry kisses, tears of happiness, loud silences, and whispered mysteries. It is as if your heart created a reality where you had all of this with Charles.

Your own Charlie-verse.

The party keeps going in full swing, and Charles never leaves your side for over thirty minutes. He comes and goes always checking if you’re ok and if you want to go with him, but you choose the safety of the counter and your crowd of friends. The conversation is good, and so is the booze, from the kitchen you can see a bit of the living room and the pool area through the glass doors.

And it’s only when part of the girls decide to go dancing that you hop off the counter, and grab Charles’ hands following him in the direction of another crowd of friends. You’re tipsy enough to lace your fingers with his and to tighten your grip when you pass people dressed as clowns, werewolves, and with fake open wounds.

You end up in the pool area in front of Charles, he holds your body protectively against his, while his other hand has a cup you’re still sharing. The conversation is between the group, but every once in a while something will catch his attention and he’ll whisper about it in your ear, to which you’ll slightly turn your head, chuckle, and then answer him.

Though you felt a bit out of place at first with how everyone’s costumes seemed so extra compared to yours, you and Charles have had a lot of fun. So much so that you have given up going back home and decided to share a cab to his apartment.

Half of the ride a tipsy Charles is lecturing you with his “I told you so” about how he suggested you slept at his place and you denied it before the party. You just rest your head on his shoulder and pretend you are listening to his non-stop rant.

As it happens, the driver seems a bit uninterested in Charles’ rant because he turns the music on, and the last song that starts playing when he makes the curve into Charles’ street is Michael Jackson. You shriek and start jumping on the car seat.

“Chérie, it’s late,” your best friend tries to reason, but you just giggle.

“You have soundproof walls.”

“But not windows,” he tries again, and you playfully roll your eyes before getting out of the car wishing the driver a good night.

“Annie, are you okay?” you start to sing as you reach the elevators, and Charles just fakes a sigh, holding you close by the waist.

“So, Annie, are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?” you sing loudly until you reach the penthouse.

“Love, that’s not Smooth Criminal’s dance, that’s Thriller…” Charles holds back his laughter when you start a made-up choreography in his living room. “Oh mon dieu, you’re so precious.”

You giggle, smacking a loud kiss on his warm cheeks. While you make your track to the bathroom Charles goes to the kitchen.

“I’m using the guest bathroom! Go shower on the main one, you stinky!” you scream from the corridors and you hear his scoff, almost able to picture his eye roll.

You go through your shower on autopilot, brushing your teeth, and reaching for one of Charles’ shirts that are on the guest bedroom bed. Your visits have been so frequent you have everything you need there, but tonight you didn’t want one of your pajamas, you want to indulge in the daydream that your mind is harnessing.

When you reach your favorite Monegasque bedroom you can hear the shower still running, so you settle in the middle of his bed, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere in your head, there’s still music playing and your body seems to have kept a bit of the buzzing from the party. The distant noises coming from the open windows, along with the wind hitting the curtains lull you into a soft slumber, that only goes away when a door closes, you guess it's his closet, you smell his body wash and shampoo before he steps close to you.

There’s too much happening inside your head, so you choose to stay in silence while your best friend watches you attentively, eyes finding yours in a beat.

Charles, on the other hand, doesn’t have much in his head. He only has you. Your smell, your laugh, your voice, your body on his bed wearing his shirt.

“You’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen,” his mouth works faster than his brain does, and just like that you’re staring at him in confusion.

It’s like his brain is shortcircuited.

Charles gets up from the bed.

He walks to the door, then turns around and comes back to your side. There’s a crease between his brows and you have known him long enough to identify it as worry.

“Sharls, what’s going on?”

“I’m not drunk ok? Before you say anything, I’m not drunk, I’m just tipsy like you,” he starts and you nod from your spot on the bed. “I am so sorry, but I have to tell you this, and I’ll completely understand if you don’t feel the same, but I have to take this out of my chest, Yn.”

Sensing how serious the situation is you sit up, legs crossed one over the other, hands tucked under them.

“I- uhm… See- It’s like this, I-”

“Charles,” you call.

“I’m in love with you,” he spills in a single sentence, but then he keeps going. “I love you so fucking much it’s starting to hurt the fact that I’ve been keeping it from you. And I don’t even know when it started, but I’m so used to sharing everything with you, I just.. I wanted us to share more. I wanted to share my bed with you, and my clothes, and-” he points with his fingers before you could say something, “And I know we already share those things, but I want to do it differently. I want to share romantically. I want to share my heart with you, Chérie, all of it. But I’ll understand if you’re confused or overwhelmed by my outburst, in fact… shit… I should have waited in case you wanted to go home right? Please, tell me that if you don’t feel the same you’ll at least get the farthest guest bedroom, I promise I won’t bother you, we’ll pretend it didn’t happen in the morning and I-”

“No,” you interrupt.

“Pardon?”

“I said no, I won’t sleep in the farthest guest bedroom.”

“Oh- then let me drive you, just…– fuck I can’t I drank… uhm I’ll–”

“No, Charles, stop,” you get on your knees on the mattress and reach for his arm, bringing his body close to yours.

“No, I’m not sleeping in the guest bedroom because we’re sharing a bed tonight. No, I’m not mad about your admission, I’m sharing my heart with you too. Romantically,” you confess.

His shoulders drop in relief, and you giggle, threading your fingers on his soft strands. Charles mutters something you can’t understand because you’re too focused on how his face seems different from this angle, after all the confessed words. He’s still your Charles, but he’s also a new Charles, and this knowledge brings a new feeling to your heart and stomach.

When his lips find yours, soft and warm, a contrast with his cold hands on your jaw and waist, he presses your bodies closer and hums in pleasure. You smile, unable to contain your happiness. He kisses you like you’ve never been kissed before, and when the air has made itself scarce, you part the kiss, foreheads still touching.

“So, Charlie, are you okay? Are you okay, Charlie?”

Charles throws his head back and laughs.

He knows how insufferable you could get once a song gets stuck in your head.

“I was struck down. You’re such a smooth criminal, Chérie. Stealing hearts around so easily.”

It is your turn to laugh.

“That was cheesy, but I loved it,” you mumble before pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I love you.”

────── ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: Hi, lovelies! I hope you liked the piece, I wanted to add a huge shout-out to Delia (@struggling-with-delia on Tumblr) for proof and beta-reading this <3.  Let me know your thoughts on this piece *mwah*.  

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©thisismeracing ― do not copy, steal, or translate my work; do not repost on a different media platform.  

[ordowrites]

paparazzi

cw: D/s, B/D/S/M practices, maybe ooc?, modern day AU, minors dni, mdni, some choking, semi-public sex, Diluc is a brat tamer, some use of 'Sir', afab!reader, praise kink, breeding kink, breeding mention, semi realistic power exchange but not quite, oral (m.receiving), please let me know if i forgot to tag something, this is entirely self indulgent, established relationship, negotiated k!nk (off screen), not sfw, reader wears a dress, banter

ageless and blank blogs DNI. Do not post elsewhere.

word count: 2086

you two are a power couple, well loved by all - it is clear to the world diluc is enamored with you and you, him. most women desire him but oh, if only they knew what happens behind closed doors.

His arm is wrapped around your waist, hand at your hip and you look straight forward - hoping that the flashing of the lights won't blind you so much as the two of you slowly make your way down the red carpet. Paparazzi and news casters all clamor to ask questions, yelling out things in hopes of getting either your or your husband's attention. You sigh, this is the last place you want to be today but it's important to your husband to attend this party and you, the dutiful spouse, agreed to take some time from your own work to join him.

As a show for the paparazzi, your dearest husband gently grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him with those red eyes that always catch you off guard and entice you. Diluc is not one for such large displays of public affection but tonight, he seems to be in a very different mood. Perhaps it has something to do with your dress choice, low cut to give him a lovely glimpse of those breasts he loves to play with and a slit at the side of your leg, showing off a bit of a thigh garter you wear - it may look like a sexy fashion statement but its significance is not lost on either you nor Diluc.

When you had first put it on, he looked as if he was trying to not jump you before heading out. You had grinned and asked if he was alright, and how he had to catch himself and told you no. You love to tease him, after all, the more you tease, the more fun the night becomes. You’ve made it into a personal game to see how long you can tease him before he snaps and drags you off somewhere - he is, at heart, a wild and feral man. The bruises beneath your dress are a testament, how they flourish against your skin, how he always kisses each and everyone of those bruises afterwards. This man truly has your heart as much as you have his. 

He kisses you in no extra fashion, but it seems to get the crowd excited and shouting. Soon enough, Diluc is guiding you down the red carpet again. Your relationship is the envy of all, it is perfect on the outside. Every gossip magazine, every bit of celebrity following always brings the two of you up as the ideal couple. But oh, if they knew what happened behind closed doors, you wonder if the perception would be different.

"Mr. Ragnivindr, can you tell us about your latest invention?" Someone calls, and he stops walking again and looks at them. He inclines his head to you, a small frown on those plump lips of his and you think of better uses for his mouth than talking to someone.

"She's the brains behind it, she is, after all, the smart one." He answers. "I'm merely here to...indulge. In the future, please direct questions to her."

You blush and shake your head. "Oh, Diluc," you gently admonish with a soft giggle. "Don't be so humble."

"Is honesty being humble?" He returns as he kisses you again. All for show, and you realize that he brought you along just to show you off. "I am merely stating the truth, my beloved."

With that, he hurries the two of you inside - no longer wanting to interact with a crowd of faceless strangers. Inside is much quieter, with less flashing lights and people calling out. Everyone who are all big names are at this party, all wanting to social climb or make some sort of connection.

Socializing takes all of your battery with these folks, but you do it with ease and Diluc could not look prouder. Though on occasion, you do flirt with another guy or chat them up, laughing at horrible jokes. This is just a game the two of you play - you would never be unfaithful to Diluc, but you do like to rile him up. Get him to let go of that picture perfect image he tries to maintain.

You sip at the wine that is available and sigh. You stepped away from the crowds of people to get a breather - you're certain your face will break in half if you have to keep grinning. Man, how you long to be at home, curled up on the couch with a good book while some show plays in the background. (The other option is something you want to banish from your head, but your husband being in proximity does not help you in doing so.)

"This wine isn't very sweet," you murmur as you take another sip. "It's very disappointing."

"My apologies that what we have created does not meet your palate," Diluc says - you're uncertain if he's being sarcastic or not but you grin.

"You better be sorry. You know I never settle for anything less."

He scoffs and chuckles a little bit, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "I will be sure to only cater to your picky tastes in the future, my love." You snag some chocolate from a silver platter that's being carried around by some of the staff.

"Y'know," you say as you take a bite of the food. "Chocolate and wine make for an interesting aphrodisiac." He gives a soft hum in response as you hold up the remainder of the snack to him - your eyes widen when he accepts the food, but also takes your fingers into your mouth. You stifle a gasp as he sucks on your fingers and swirls his tongue around. Your cunt clenches, wishing his mouth were working somewhere else that's not your fingers.

To the outside, the two of you look like a cute couple doing something stupid and cute. More gossip for folks in the morning. Your heart pounds in your chest - you know exactly what message he is sending to you.

Especially when he releases your fingers from his mouth with a wet pop, but keeps a firm grip on your wrist as he presses a kiss to the palm of your hand. He trails kisses along your inner wrist, stopping short of your elbow. You struggle to recover from this.

"Perhaps we should try that out sometime, then." He murmurs. You step close to him.

"Oh, Diluc, you're hard." you return, your voice just as low. The hunger in his eyes is unmistakable.

"Hmm? Oh, well - perhaps then, too, you should stop being a tease." Diluc is a very patient man, up until a point. It's working then, you think. An idea pops into your head as you set the empty glass down. "Are you okay?"

You gently grab his hand and pull him along, weaving through the crowds of people, hellbent on the mission and getting what you want. You find an empty, private bathroom and close the door, locking it. Impeccably clean, at least.

“Are you alright?” Diuc asks again, concern etched on his pretty features. You nod as you pull him into a soft kiss, which he returns with extra fervor - your goal is to get him to lose control for just a little bit. You know, beneath this perfect image, is a very feral man waiting to be unleashed. Your body is canvas, a testament to your secrets. Fingers dexterously unzip his pants, undoing his belt and revealing his cock that still makes your eyes widen. “Oh.” You drop to your knees with ease, giving the head of his cock a soft kiss and he lets out a soft groan. “You are a very naughty girl.” The gasp is very delicious to you.

You hum as you take him further into your mouth until he reaches the back of your throat. You pull back for a moment, teasing the head of his cock for a few minutes and reaching to play a bit with his balls. His fingers perch in your hair. You continue your ministrations on him, making sure to push him further and further until he’s more of a mess than a man, looking down at you with hunger that makes you shiver.

“Quit teasing.” he hisses and you barely listen to him, loving the way his cock fills up your mouth, the way he twitches and trembles. The hands perched in your hair soon enough yank you off, leaving a trail of saliva and precum. You lick your lips and swallow. “You are a tease.” He hisses this as he yanks you to your feet, carefully steadying you before pushing you, face first, against the counter. He snaps the thigh garter and you gasp. “You’re lucky we’re not at home or this would be ending differently.”

His words send a thrill through you and make your cunt clench tighter.

“Well, hopefully, ‘m making this worth not being at home.” You say as he presses against you, his hand snaking up the skirt of your dress. Through the mirror, you watch as his eyes widen as his fingers reach your slit. “Worth your while, right?”

He presses a kiss at the crook of your neck. “You are…” Diluc bites your shoulder. “Something else.”

You let out a soft laugh and it turns into a soft moan as fingers slip inside of you - he teases you this time, pumping his fingers in and out while his thumb rubs your clit - he never presses too hard but he certainly pinches every so often. You come around his fingers with a shudder as he finger fucks you, his teeth digging into your neck again.

Diluc pulls away briefly, allowing you a moment of respite - his hungry red eyes gaze down into yours. He looks wild, feral almost.

There’s a momentary pause before he’s lifting you up and hoisting you onto the bathroom counter. Diluc forces your legs to remain open, exposing yourself to him and he licks his lips. He gives your cunt another firm strike before bending down and pressing a soft kiss to it.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“Beg.”

This is your penance for being a tease, you think. Your thoughts are cut off by another strike, this time a bit lighter and you whimper. The head of his cock teases you, and all you can think about is him filling you up, bouncing you on his dick, filling you up - you wish to be stretched and owned and bitten and loved.

“Please, please, please-” You whine.

“Please what?”

You swallow. “Please fuck me, sir.”

Diluc smiles. He is pleased and he kisses you on the lips briefly before shoving himself inside of you - to the hilt. At first, you tense up, moaning in desperation at such an action. At first, he is deceptively gentle - pulling out slowly and carefully thrusting back in. His pace picks up and all you’re able to do is wrap your arms around his shoulders as he fucks you mercilessly - his cock feels so good and you squeeze around him.

“Gonna - breed you -” he rasps against your ear. You clench tighter. “Make sure everyone knows when they see you round and plump with my child.”

He continues to bite and suck at your neck, public appearance be damned, and you’re sure you’re noisier than the music at this rich person’s party. Diluc groans against your skin as he cums inside, easily filling you up and you nearly tighten your legs to keep him in place.

Diluc slowly pulls out, some semen dripping out of your pussy and it’s obscene, even more so when he starts shoving some back inside of you.

“We should clean up.” You murmur after a moment. “Head back.”

“Mm.” He’s biting at your breasts now, clearly no longer interested in the party. “Let’s head home, actually.” The two of you do your best to clean yourselves up, before he’s guiding you out of the bathroom and away from the ballroom. “Family emergency.” Is all he tells people with inquisitive, inquiring gazes.

The cold air outside is welcome against your flushed skin but you don’t have long to relish in it before he’s shoving you into the back of the limo and rolling up the privacy divider as he climbs on top of you while the door behind him slams shut.

The dress of your skirt is hiked up and he is pulling down your top again, lips returning to the soft skin of your breasts, hands kneading the other one.

“I’m not done with you yet.” Diluc rumbles.

[linkspooky]

What ending would you have liked for the League villains in BNHA?

Well, there's two answers to this question. What would be my ideal ending to the League of Villains requires major story structure changes. To the point where it almost becomes an entirely different story,v venturing into fanfiction territory.

Basically keeping the story as it is until My Villain Academia, there's no longer a clear and distinct line between Hero and Villain. Shigaraki is now the real deuteragonist of the story, and the story is split between Deku's journey and Shigaraki's.

The league are no longer just an insane fringe element that doesn't deserve to be listened to or have their wrongs redressed. Since they now have the MLA they have public support behind them, they like become actual rebels against hero society with even public support. Either the War Arc doesn't happen, or the villains win and society is effectively destroyed so that the heroes no longer have their tight grasp.

A bunch of kids die in the war, because they weren't relevant and it's a consequence for UA raising child soldiers. The remaining relevant kids are forced to cope with two realities, number one they were violent enforcers of a broken system, number two the villains are right in some ways. A moment of the kids going "Are we the bad guys?" However, they can't agree with destroying everything so they have to fight to rebuild. The kids have lost faith in the adults, break off from them entirely so the adults no longer hog all the screentime and try to attempt to solve the problem on their own. Also, Enji dies in the war arc because Hori didn't do anything satisfying with his character beyond that part, and Dabi is hit with feelings of: oh no killing my father didn't fix my problem.

Then you'd basically have to have the narrative find a compromise between Shigaraki's complete radicalism but lack of any motivation to rebuild, and Deku's desire to save others but lack of self-awareness about the evils of his society and how the system can't be fixed as it is. Like a war between the opposite forces of preservation and destruction and Deku and Shgiaraki having to eventually work together to build their world. Maybe Deku even manages to convince Shigaraki there is a future, and save him from statements like "I don't care what happens next." The League of Villains and the reduced Class 1A are like two parallel groups in the manga running in tandem, and also Deku's bonds with his friends are closer now and actually shown in story they become a tight knit group so both sides are trying to protect the people they love too.

Here was my realistic ending I was expecting when the war started. The kids fight their respective villainous foils and then manage to talk them down and solve things with words instead of violence. Then the villains and heroes team up in order to save Shigaraki from AFO, which is the first step of redemption of the league, and also the kids realizing that the league love each other. At the end of the fight Deku tells Shigaraki what he's always wanted to hear when he was Tenko, "You can be a hero, too." bookending the story with the words All Might told him. The villains either get rehabilitated because they helped take down AFO, or they run off to become vigilantes.

What we got was everyone being sent to hell instead and that sure is something.

[xclowniex]

Ok I have a lot to say and no way to say it so first off hi, anyways I would like to say a few things. Firstly, I’m a Palestinian, currently in Lebanon but raised my whole life in Jordan. over 60% of Jordanians are Palestinian but Israel is at peace with Jordan. I mean I think Jordan and Israel’s relationship is a kind of window into what I think a Palestinian and Israeli relationship could look like if both governments were torn down. Now I ideally my wet dream is for the land to just be called the holy land and everyone to have equal rights and be treated equally. But I know that’s a delusional way of thinking. Secondly, I wanna say that as Muslims, as in the religion, we respect Jews and their religion. You are known as اهل الكتاب (people of the book) because Judaism is an abrahamic religion. This means that we must extend respect to you. It’s not always done (frankly it’s never done) but it’s the way things should be done and I am personally trying to improve myself because I grew up in a very secular and religious and intolerant household. And I think that if I am able to do it with the family I grew up with, a lot of people should be able to too especially non-Arabs, non-Muslims who have genuinely no connection to this conflict. It is still a work in progress because I do still feel like I have hate programmed into me but that’s why I like to start random conversations with people. I hope I’m not in anyway intruding or making you uncomfortable with this and honestly if I am you can just block me. But I do genuinely love having convos with people and it’s my own way of proving that even if we don’t agree on certain points peace can still be found and respect can still stand.Anyways I’m rambling at this point, have a good day.

Hi! Sorry this has been sitting in my inbox for a day or two. I've wanted to properly answer this but have been tired from work.

You are not bothering me at all!

We need more jewish/Palestinian solidarity.

I'm in a similar thought track to you. My ideal is a land for all, where there is one land where jews and Palestinians coexist and both have self determination. However realistically a two state solution needs to happen first and likely won't move to a land for all solution at least within my lifetime.

I too grew up in an intolerant household. The shit my father as said, is very bad. I usually don't talk about his internalized anti arab comments much as A) I would get blasted with asks about why I call myself an arab jew (not directed at you, but anyone else reading his and is curious, I have answered this question before, you can use the search function on my blog), B) antisemites use it as an excuse to say that all jews hate arabs, which yes, some do and it's bad that some do, but it's not like the majority of jews hate arabs, and vice versa. And lastly C) it's a lot to unpack as a lot of his internalized anti arab sentiment is due to being radicalized by antisemites. When he first moved to NZ, he was very left wing, then he was betrayed by the left here and ended up going far right, to finally settling on centre right.

Shit now I'm rambling lol

[mysterycitrus]

Bc I love your thoughts on fandom, how do you feel about fanon thinking that Tim Drake is the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. I personally despise it bc it does so much damage to so many characters imo, but I’m curious about your thoughts on it

short answer - it's dumb. because u mention fanon specifically, i think it's worth saying that the ceo thing is primarily used to demonise dick and damian in order to woobify tim. "woe is me, everyone abandoned me and now i have to pick up the slack," etc. there is no actual care about what the characters would think or feel in this situation.

in rr2009 (beloathed), tim was briefly ceo because it was a tactical decision - he was preventing tommy elliot from gaining access to bruce's fortune. lucius fox remained the actual ceo, and tim always deferred to lucius's experience. that's what annoys me so much about this interpretation of tim - it removes his autonomy and intelligence. tim drake is not a woe is me kinda guy. he has very realistic expectations of his own intelligence and capability, as a result of training with prodigies at the top of their field, like cass and dick and bruce. he does things for a reason. he isn't lying on a chaise lounge, despondent that his family has left him to hold the ship together. quite the opposite, because dick takes over as batman to keep gotham safe and tim has the freedom to do what he likes as a result. keeping him in this role is a disservice to his character.

i also think that tim isn't the sort of person who's interested in that kind of public facing role. ideally, imo, after bruce returns from the time stream dick would get him out of new jersey for a little bit so he can get some seperation from bruce. additionally, the ceo thing props up the idea that smart rich tim is the best possible choice to lead this company, unlike anyone else who isn't as clever as him (dick and damian). i don't think it's difficult to see a trend there.

[mindstriker]

I saw someone online recently discuss the reality of Wesker not killing Chris or Jill permanently in any of the RE games because

A) as per usual, long-running series hate to kill their darlings, even when it would occasionally be a believable or satisfying death (plot armor, because people would get mad and mald if their faves were killed by the Villain(tm) they're supposed to shoot dead)

and

B) "well REALISTICALLY it would be SO easy for wesker to kill them because of how strong/fast/etc. he is so point A is the only believable and acceptable answer because obviously they couldn't have killed Chris or Jill off"

and like no dude I get it totally you are right. I can't even argue that you're incorrect you 100% are. I could rightfully argue that realism doesn't matter when it's far more enjoyable to NOT have Chris or Jill dead, especially when their deaths would serve no real compelling narrative purpose except (:() HOWEVER

If you're willing to hear me out, there's an explanation for Wesker never entirely killing either of them for reasons that turn plot armor into something as simple as believable characterization.

Nostalgia. Literally. Just. Nostalgia.

He avoids killing them outright because once upon a time, these people meant something to him. He saw WORTH in them, valued them, possibly even to the extent of finding it difficult to try and sacrifice them initially (something I am going to go ON about in another long ass post soon enough). TLDR: He was attached.

Long ass post underneath if you want to hear me blather on about why I think this :)

After his initial failed attempt to have them all killed because Umbrella commanded it, I'm not surprised he simply settled for toying with them for the most part. He doesn't need to, and more importantly- doesn't want to. He can never have their allyship back, but he can still see them in action. He can best them, sure- but why would he kill them when he still savors those interactions, when they clash? Why would he destroy the last pieces of a past he's attached to to the point of bringing it up constantly up until his death?

I've always found it funny how many lines Wesker actually has referencing the past. You were my best man, your 'partner' (said snidely in reference to an era where they were in the same squad) is in danger, I should've killed you years ago, etc.

And just the line. The fucking line. From the Umbrella chronicles. I'm not even going to retype it I'm just putting it here.

I understand, by the way, that he's being sarcastic, but I do genuinely believe there's a grain of truth in this. I think he does in fact want to see them survive.

Side note: What with his appraisal of their skills and his direct use of Jill's own blood later to temper Uroboros to make it less fatal, I love to make the mental stretch here that somewhere in his little ape brain he was hoping if infected with uroboros both would be "quality" enough to become like him. I think his ideal future still has them kicking around in it, viable hosts for uroboros mutation so they could join him in his new Minecraft server for cool people.

ANYWAYS tangent aside back to the nostalgia argument, on an individual basis this time. We're starting with Jill, because even though Wesker isn't an obsessive freak over her like he is with Chris, I still firmly believe he's attached to her as well.

Why else would he do what he did to her, after her presumed death via falling-off-a-cliff? Sure, you could argue it was simply a calculated decision based on the fact that he knew her blood would be useful, but I like to think of it a bit differently.

You crash into the rocky water below a tall, tall bluff, battered beyond belief- but quickly repairing yourself- and the body of another (probably also fucked up by that impact, and not capable of immediately fixing that) next to you. I don't think even Wesker would be doing mental math in his head at that very moment, considering the precise reasons why Valentine might be valuable to him down the line. I think he just automatically assumes he needs to take her with him because it's her. She gets dragged out of the water and slapped into medical care as quickly as he can manage it simply because she's an important part of that past he refuses to move on from. A part of the team. Then, she's a useful source of antibodies to help with the transformation of uroboros- but she's also a brainwashed bodyguard, something of a sidekick. Why? He could hire someone. He could use anyone. If she was useful for samples alone, he could've kept her in a cell for years to intermittently steal a few ounces of blood. But of course he wouldn't, and he wouldn't kill her or dispose of her otherwise, either- because Jill Valentine was skilled and strong and a dedicated team member, and maybe- just maybe- it's nothing short of satisfying to have her fighting at his side again, even if it's a facsimile of their old team dynamic. Plus, you know: bonus points that it'd horrify Chris to see his best friend and beloved work partner of many years through thick and thin working for him, when they inevitably clash again.

And then, of course, there's Chris. He beats him senseless only to piss off over very mild retaliations, promising to meet him again. You've probably heard a lot about that before. I could go on about that. But what I'd rather go on about instead is the one time he clearly determines that killing Chris for good is necessary, and that's in RE5.

...And look at how he talks during that. He brings up the "should've killed you years ago" thing- and fails to explain why he didn't. It wasn't due to any failure on his part, truly. He's beat Chris in combat several times, he's had the chance before and refused to take it. He asks Chris why he can't *understand his plans*, as if somehow expecting that there'd be a chance that he WOULD understand- and then what? He wouldn't need to kill him? Could get him to be a part of this new world he has planned, even?

Going over the times he could've killed Chris and didn't is fun, but I don't think anything illustrates my point of unwilling attachment and nostalgia for the past more than his gambit of literally asking "why can't you understand this" to the man he's actively attempting to bludgeon upside the head with virus tentacles, because he'd much prefer it if he didn't feel compelled to do that.

...so yes. At the end of the day, it's plot armor that prevented Chris from getting snapped like a stick during one of their brawls, or from Jill being dead after her cliff stunt, probably. But it's always going to be more fun- to me at least- to see it as the product of Albert Wesker genuinely not knowing how to let go of those "lovely stars members" (a line I think about way more than I should).

[junhuiste]

experi-meant to be ⋆ park wonbin

pairing: wonbin x gn reader

tags/warnings: fluff, cursing, college au, laboratory environment, one mention of baking, 1600 words

a/n: i meant to publish this on valentine’s day since i had lab that day but i never finished it lol. there’s some microbio lab procedure jargon so like this is what streaking plates is if you want a visual lmfaoao. this is my first published work in like three years it feels weird haha + i might change my layout/header for fics but for now i’ll keep the same layout i've had for past fics

wonbin believes U are the uracil to his adenine—you should always be paired together.

| seunghan: dude 

| seunghan: lowkey i can’t come to lab bc my car won’t fucking start so i’ll have to make it up next week :\ but taehyun and his partner would probably be willing to help you out with calculations and clean up hopefully

Wonbin pants heading up the stairs into the classroom lab, cheeks immediately pink as he’s made a spectacle amongst everyone already sitting and tuned into the TA’s pre-lab lesson. Sighing as he processes Seunghan’s text, Wonbin turns to the drawing of bacterial growth curves on the whiteboard but is soon after preoccupied with the fact that there is no Taehyun on a stool. There’s just your backside entirely in front of him. 

Taehyun is one to set up all his materials before the TA even steps foot through the lab door so if he isn’t here now then that means—

“Guess you’re stuck with me for today.” 

Wonbin tries to swallow but it gets stuck halfway down his throat and is about to go into a choke type cough frenzy when he surprises himself and softly clears his throat instead. His thoughts are all just stuck there—in the middle of his esophagus, begging for them to travel back up to his brain so he has enough stamina to stick it through the four hour class. 

“No hate to him because Taehyunnie’s a tad faster at getting through the steps, so you know, we’re usually out thirty minutes early, but I can promise you I’m better at calculations. And I’m more precise with measurements,” you let out a small giggle before setting your backpack on the floor next to Wonbin’s.

The commotion of pipettes being thrown onto the surface, glass tubes clinking, and sneakers squeaking rushing to obtain their samples is right away drowned out in Wonbin’s ears by the sight of you perched atop the stool a mere few inches away from him. He tries to keep his chest from heaving at bay by taking his notebook out of his backpack and reviewing the method for today’s class. The solution is only short lived though, promptly taking notice of how you gather materials from the drawer while simultaneously reading through your own notebook. 

Every Tuesday and Thursday, Wonbin assumes his seat in the third to last row of his Virology lecture, close enough to the door that he can be among the first to leave as soon as “see you guys next time” leaves Professor Choi’s lips. He longs for the day (ideally it would be quite before the last week of classes but realistically that’s the best he has to offer for now) that he musters up just the slightest bit of courage to join you and Taehyun in the second row, where Seunghan also occasionally accompanies you two. It’s only the third week of this semester, but perhaps the sixth course of his over the past three years Wonbin’s seen you in. From Biochemistry to Rhetoric 2, he has never taken place at a desk next to yours. 

Wonbin’s always aching to know how you’d answer everything he could ever ask you, be it the attendance quiz question or your weekend plans—what time you usually roll out of bed, whether or not you stroll to the local farmer’s market near campus, if you’re spending Saturday with a special someone. He needs to hear you laugh at Taehyun’s cynicism about college. He needs to hear it up close, not having to strain his ear when he’s fifteen rows behind when you crack up at your friend during the five minute break Professor Choi gives the class. 

But Wonbin will take what he can get for now, and if that’s helping you fulfill your wish of completing the lab procedure as quickly as possible, he’ll do it. 

“I can do the calculations for us,” you begin, “would you mind getting our mutant strains at the front of the class and streak the Petri dishes?” 

Wonbin nods almost too enthusiastically and curses at himself for seeming embarrassingly desperate in front of you. Sure, he’d like to muster up the courage to ask you out, but today he’ll try to take it one step at a time.

When Wonbin returns with new plates to grow your bacteria on and two tubes filled with your bacterial strains, you scoot your chair closer to his to later show the finished calculations. He catches a whiff of your light perfume and almost falls out of his own chair. 

As he’s setting up the Bunsen burner for sterilization, you chuckle, “you know the real reason Taehyun’s not here today is because he left town last night to get a head start on the extravagant romantic weekend he has planned with Gaeul.”

“If there’s one way to use our one free unexcused absence, that’ll do it,” Wonbin replies. 

“Do you have any plans for Valentine’s Day, Wonbin? I mean if you did I just hope you wouldn’t leave me early like Taehyun did,” your eyes meet his for a brief second before flitting back to your notebook.

Wonbin’s grip on the matchstick to light the burner loosens. He just barely catches himself before the match could fall from his hand onto the lab bench. What he needed to get a grip on was his fucking sanity—he almost set the classroom on fire because his heart instead is aflame for yours. 

Taking a breath, Wonbin exhales when the flame turns to blue, finally lighting the Bunsen burner. 

“Nope, no plans,” he briefly turns to you. There’s a beat and he considers that asking you back would seem too forward, but he does it anyway. 

Upon seeing your grin before you open your mouth, he turns his attention right back to the tubes and plates in front of him. 

It’s so over. 

For a second Wonbin’s relieved, because he thinks he can actually get through the next two hours without overthinking his micro movements in front of you. Now that it’s over for him, maybe he can actually pay attention to the way the metal loop he’s holding makes contact with the jelly-like agar inside the plastic plate and not disappoint Seunghan with the results. However, it’s not realistic because even still, Wonbin takes note of all your beauty and remains completely bewitched.

“Honestly I wish...I mean Minjeong, Yunjin and I are gonna do a rom-com binge and bake desserts…but you know…not any plans with someone like that…” 

Your temporary lab partner tries to hide his smile and nods silently as he continues switching between spreading bacteria on the plate with the metal loop and then sterilizing the loop in the blue flame. 

The rest of lab goes smoothly as Wonbin tries to quell the embers within him for the time remaining. There’s forty minutes left but technically to you Wonbin knows time is dashing away and it should feel like there’s what but only ten minutes left to do everything. Your pair was a few steps ahead of the others, just like how it would be when Taehyun accompanied you every week. 

Wonbin has been psyching himself up the past two hours to finally ask you out but currently he’s stuck in his head and just can’t seem to get it out. Does he chase you after you’ve stepped foot out of the lab or should he leave you be? Or maybe he can try next week. He’ll keep telling himself that until there’s one day of instruction left and then he won’t see you for three months and then he’ll lament the entire summer to Seunghan that he didn’t say shit. 

He can do that…or just rip the bandage off at an agonizing speed. 

The last Petri dish that Wonbin holds is being wrapped in parafilm to prevent contamination. He’d been going through the motions of the procedure while simultaneously not paying attention to his surroundings, at his own self’s behest. You’ve already cleaned the entire lab bench and he doesn’t notice until he hears “see you in Virology,” and suddenly you’re slinging your backpack over your shoulder. 

It’s now or next week…or never—wait you know that Wonbin’s in your Virology class? What you said is ringing in his ears and it hits him all at once.

Petri dishes in hand and turning around, Wonbin freezes in his tracks.

“Um…”

Your eyebrows furrow.

“Do you want to hang out tomorrow?” his own mouth betrays him and suddenly it’s all coming out much too quickly for his liking. 

You’re about to answer but before you can even get a word in, “I-I don’t mean to interfere with your plans with your friends but uh, if you wanted to do something like that I’m down.”

Your lips press into a line and Wonbin is about to pass out from the threatening fluorescent classroom lights. 

“Park Wonbin…are you asking me out on a date?” He can practically feel his sweat melting the parafilm tape off and a vision of him dropping the Petri dishes in front of you, cracking open and shattering, exposing E.coli to everyone in the room flashes before him. He blinks once and calms his vice grip on the plates. 

“Yes. Yes I am asking you out on a date,” Wonbin looks down at your sneakers, not knowing where else to shift his gaze to. 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” you smirk, slinging the other strap of your backpack over your other shoulder and saluting.

Park Wonbin swears his heart is on fire and does a backflip off a fifty foot cliff. A curve forming on his lips, he smiles slightly waving with the plates still in his hand, “see ya…”

You halt your forward movement and turn back around, “Wonbin?” he perks up again, “you should sit next to me in lecture on Tuesday.”

[creatingblackcharacters]

I’d like to ask you about portraying interracial friendships in historical settings wherein racism was a lot more overt. Specifically, 1910s-1920s USA (with the characters living in a northern state). My Black character meets a white character who shares some of his specific ideals/goals to the same level of intensity, an intensity that other friends and family had tended to not connect with or find somewhat offputting. (The white character felt the same frustration of “nobody considers/”realises” this stuff is as important as I do” before they met). And it is on this basis that their friendship is forged and largely sustained, a sense of “someone else who understands this specific thing in the same kind of way, with the same intensity”.

From the POV of my white character, he considers his Black friend his equal and endeavours to treat him accordingly. However, there is still so much overwhelming racism embedded into the era - I do not want to come across as if I’m ignoring or overlooking it. I’m trying to keep historical accuracy and realism in mind. Even if my white character’s questioned and rejected the more overt racism that was taken for granted in the era’s white social spheres, it seems probable that he would still have some ways of thinking that wouldn’t fly by today’s standards.

For my Black character, I’m trying to fully figure out his POV about this friendship. Even though they see eye to eye on some matters… I’m wondering how close/comfortable he could really feel with a white friend – and how close I could/should portray them as being, at least from my Black character’s POV.

These questions are more for establishing background and figuring out certain details. My story/plot is not focused around race, but as racism is so prevalent in their setting I’m just trying to keep a realistic awareness of it in mind. I’ve researched and have been doing research on the era, of course. But I still wonder about some elements of the characters themselves in relation to that backdrop… e.g. how influenced by the era my white character “should” be when it comes to race, vs how much any barriers about race between the characters could/should have been overcome, and how much trust/closeness my Black character could/should feel, or whether I should instead emphasise that in some ways he is still quite guarded within the friendship and whether there'll always be some sense of "unbreachable distance" within their friendship. I would love to hear your thoughts on this. Thanks💕

Well, I can't answer how influenced by the time period you want your character to be. It depends on his background, and that means it depends on how much work you want to put in to write about his efforts. The society will certainly have an effect on his biases and beliefs. Essentially, if you want your white character in the 1910s to be believably anti-racist, he's going to either have to already be acting that way when we meet him and stay consistent, or he's going to have to visibly go through that learning and unlearning "on screen".

Okay so, my subjective opinion is that I probably wouldn't trust a white person to be my friend in the 1910s 😅 but! It's not impossible!

Because the thing about your Black character (the thing about being Black with white friends to this day, even) is that he would be extremely wary because at any point that white character could turn face. That white character has the privilege and power to decide he no longer wants to be in that Black character's corner, and in the 1910s?? That could very well mean a lynching just for perceived offense. "Northern state" be damned; they could be just as racist up north. The Great Migration began in the 1910s and there were PLENTY of northern whites angry about it (see the 1919 riots in Chicago).

My point is, there's no safety nor time to be playing games and taking chances, and that would linger in the back of his mind (and it would certainly come up with his other Black peers). There would already be a vast gap between them in social standing that they would have both been socialized into (make sure you research that). He would have to SEE that white character actively respecting his presence, making him feel safe to behave as the equal that he is. It would take deep trust.

You also don't want to toe into white savior territory; one way that *I* personally do this is to emphasize that the Black character can safely disagree with the white one. He can safely get upset, reveal his true emotions. If a Black person can safely disagree with and tell a white person about their racist behavior, or behavior they feel entitled to having- no matter what it is- and the conversation goes well? That's someone that is safer to keep around. Sure your white character will get defensive when he says that thing that is out of pocket, but if they're capable of working through that and he actively works on doing better? That shows trust and respect.

Did I answer all of your question? I feel like I got distracted.

[bonefall]

Looking for advice since you're great with stuff like this: I'm struggling with how to have a character fundamentally change. A character in my cat story loses his memory and ends up working with the main characters to stop his own plan he made to destroy the world (and after the plan is stopped, he regains his memories). I want his time in the Starless to change him, make him less obsessed with power, but I'm really starting to struggle with whether or not that makes sense and how to work that.

Hmm.. well, first bit of advice I always give is that characters are not people. They are writing tools. That doesn't mean they shouldn't be "realistic" or that connecting to the human traits in the audience isn't important.

It means that a character exists to tell a story.

By "tool" I mean "machine." Every trait is a piston, and ideally they work together to drive your story along. What are you saying with each trait? What is your beginning point for the story, and their end? What do you want to explore? What do you want the audience to take away?

So if you feel stuck on a character, find the larger message you want to impart with them. The job they're doing in your narrative.

What do you want to say about power?

What do you want to say about why Character X wanted to destroy the world? Why was he wrong? What feelings and information lead him to that conclusion?

What is his redemption arc doing for your themes?

Every writer answers those questions differently. For example, I feel strongly that power doesn't corrupt, it reveals. When you finally have the influence to make others do what you want, you make them do it. I don't see "power" as being like... a magic, abstract thing, it's influence over other people, and those people are ALSO individuals with their own reasons for following the leader.

Digressing; what I'm getting at is that, as a writer, I have a lot of thoughts on power itself. I got this way with a lot of reading and interest on the topic. You might find it insightful to experience more art, essays, and commentary on the subject, if you ever get stuck, and develop an opinion you feel strongly about.

Not just about power, as broad writing advice.

Anyway.

If I was writing the character, these are the things I'd be thinking about specifically and changes I'd be making on personal taste. I don't know your full story enough so, hopefully it's insightful;

First of all I'm always SUPER wary of the "correct but demonized radical" trope. Does my villain have a point?

Am i just giving them a Kick-a-Baby scene to make them wrong when they should be completely right otherwise

What are my themes and tone? This is VERY important. Steven Universe is about family and emotions with low stakes violence; the Diamonds are essentially abusive grandparents that Steven is coaching through intergenerational trauma. They fit the universe they're in. Jack Horner does not belong in SU.

So I'd look at Character X's purpose.

Knowing me, I'd actually take out full amnesia entirely. I have memory problems related to trauma so I'm a lot more familiar with major, important details blotting out RIGHT when I need them. Enough that I can put myself in the shoes of someone like BB!Fallenleaf who remembers a lot but the details are fuzzy.

So personally I think I could write this villan to be VERY funny lmao

"Hello. I am Gnagnathor the Destroyer."

"No you're not. He has three horns. You have two."

(DID I USED TO HAVE THREE HORNS?????)

I also just find it more resonant when a character still remembers what they did, why they did it, and is able to refute themselves with their own growth.

To me like... when a character remembers NOTHING to the point where they're not informed by their actions or history at all, how are they really still the same person?

in general though I find total amnesia uninteresting. I wish it was less popular.

What did Gnagnathor DO with his power? What did he WANT from it?

The simplest version of this I know is "Gnag was hurting and wanted everyone else to hurt too. Now that he has a happy place, he doesn't want that."

TO BE CLEAR THATS FINE. That's a REALLY common power fantasy and it's not automatically a bad story. It's popular for a reason.

Personally I feel strongly about the idea, though, that people with power don't change unless they lose it. There's no reason to.

People don't change until you break the environment that contributes to the behavior.

Especially with victims unfortunately-- the ugly truth is that a lot of problematic behaviors exist because they protected the victim from their abuser's actions. You need safety to really start to unpack that.

You can personally identify it and address it as much as you want, when your abuser starts to use That Tone you will still seize up. Just try to yank yourself back into your head when you're disassociating during a screaming session; your reward is raw distress.

That said, not all villains HAVE to have tragic motivators like that, or be ex-victims at all. Leveraging power to get what you want can be as ugly as just being taught the people you're hurting are subhuman.

Or making up justifications for why This Is a Good Thing Actually.

Some people will lash out violently when these justifications fall apart, because accepting it would mean they're Being Bad

Most people have an innate desire to Be Good. Like... the vast, vast majority of people. Some sense of morality is observable in all intelligent social animals; dolphins, chimps, elephants.

Tangentially, if you understand that people don't WANT to be bad and that the natural response to a scolding is defensiveness, you understand that convincing people of something is a LOT easier when you approach with kindness.

AND IN TURN: be wary of those who are flattering while trying to convince you of something. This is Manipulation 101.

So back to Gnagnathor

Do I want to talk about environment and how it changes him to be away from power? How traits that previously earned him wealth or influence are suddenly incredibly taboo, so he can't use them here?

On that-- HOW did he get his power in the first place? Re: I'm very wary of the "correct but demonized radical" trope.

Were his minions following him because they have serious issues and he exploited their desperation? .....are you centering the experience of the poor, sad abuser over his victims

Or are they ALL united over something important and legitimate? With the redemption of their villainous leader, how are you planning for that to frame all of their former followers?

(This is why redeeming minions is usually a lot more productive than doing it to the leader, imo. Redeeming Zuko means you can explore the familial legacy, the indoctrination of the Fire Nation's children, their justifications, the way systems make monsters out of people. Redeeming The Firelord would probably have caused Azula, one of his victims, to pick up his slack and now, suddenly, you have a VERY uncomfortable situation where Ozai is thrashing one of his abused children but Good This Time.)

(Not to mention that, again... why would he do this. He has power. He's doing what he wants and is used to this situation. It would be a numbskulled narrative choice.)

Aaaand that's about all I can say without essentially being a cowriter or editor. It's on you to figure out what you're trying to do and say here. I'm a good writer on this subject because I think about it a lot, which has lead to my strong opinions and point of view. Your art is a reflection of you.

[manynarrators]

So I'm reading Queen of the Damned for the first time, and the following bit stood out to be. Excerpt (pg. 139-141) under the cut because it's a bit long, but I want to talk about it!

This comes from the chapter about the Talamasca, and this particular passage is David Talbot (head of the organization) trying to prove to Jesse that vampires are real.

Imagine, there is so much of you on file as to be the example that vampires exist. You have been recreated in unsettling detail and kept in the archives. You and the painting both survive, but you are not the you in the painting.

Nor are you the most important part of this, you are a link to a story that isn't even yours. Your theatre isn't yours because the deed is in the name of Lestat de Lioncourt. There's a journal article with you smiling. You only maybe know about all of this.

Five-hundred years and you are a pretty thing on a shelf, still. That is what you will always be to them.

All of which is to say, that the show having just folders upon subfolders on Armand is both somehow more devastating reading the book, and also an accuracy! I want to read the files, what does the Talamasca know? How do they talk about Armand? How many people have seen this painting? Does Armand know about the extent of the archive, if so, how does he feel about that???

I'll take questions that will never be answered but that I desperately want to be for $500.

She saw an enormous painting against the far wall. She placed it at once as Renaissance, and probably Venetian. It was done in egg tempera on wood. And it had the marvelous sheen of such paintings, a gloss that no synthetic material can create. She read the Latin title along with the name of the artist, in small Roman-style letters painted in the lower right corner.

"The Temptation of Amadeo" by Marius

She stood back to study it.

A splendid choir of black-winged angels hovered around a single kneeling figure, that of a young auburn-haired boy. The cobalt sky behind them, seen through a series of arches, was splendidly done with masses of gilded clouds. And the marble floor before the figures had a photographic perfection to it. One could feel its coldness, see the veins in the stone.

But the figures were the true glory of the picture. The faces of the angels were exquisitely modeled, their pastel robes and black feathered wings extravagantly detailed. And the boy, the boy was very simply alive! His dark brown eyes veritably glistened as he stared forward out of the painting. His skin appeared moist. He was about to move or speak.

In fact, it was all too realistic to be Renaissance. The figures were particular rather than ideal. The angels wore expressions of faint amusement, almost bitterness. And the fabric of the boy's tunic and leggings, it was too exactly rendered. She could even see the mends in it, a tiny tear, the dust on his sleeve. There were other such details-- dried leaves here and there on the floor, and two paintbrushes lying to one side for no apparent reason.

"Who is this Marius?" she whispered. The name meant nothing. And never had she seen an Italian painting with so many disturbing elements. Black-winged angels…

David didn't answer. He pointed to the boy. "It's the boy I want you to observe," he said. "He's not the real subject of your investigation, merely a very important link."

Subject? Link... She was too engrossed in the picture. "And look, bones in the corner, human bones covered with dust, as if someone had merely swept them out of the way. But what on earth does it all mean?"

"Yes," David murmured. "When you see the word 'temptation,' usually there are devils surrounding a saint."

"Exactly," she answered. "And the craft is exceptional." The more she stared at the picture, the more disturbed she became. "Where did you get this?"

"The order acquired it centuries ago," David answered. "Our emissary in Venice retrieved it from a burnt-out villa on the Grand Canal. These vampires are endlessly associated with fires, by the way. It is the one weapon they can use effectively against one another. There are always fires. In Interview with the Vampire, there were several fires, if you recall. Louis set fire to a town house in New Orleans when he was trying to destroy his maker and mentor, Lestat. And later, Louis burned the Theater of the Vampires in Paris after Claudia's death." Claudia's death. It sent a shiver through Jesse, startling her slightly.

"But look at this boy carefully," David said. "It's the boy we're discussing now."

Amadeo. It meant "one who loves God." He was a handsome creature, all right. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, with a square, strongly proportioned face and a curiously imploring expression.

David had put something in her hand. Reluctantly she took her eyes off the painting. She found herself staring at a tintype, a late-nineteenth-century photograph. After a moment, she whispered: "This is the same boy!"

"Yes. And something of an experiment," David said. "It I was most likely taken just after sunset in impossible lighting conditions which might not have worked with another subject. Notice not much is really visible but his face." True, yet she could see the style of the hair was of the period. I "You might look at this as well," David said. And this time he gave her an old magazine, a nineteenth-century journal, the I kind with narrow columns of tiny print and ink illustrations. There was the same boy again alighting from a barouche-- a hasty sketch, though the boy was smiling.

"The article's about him, and about his Theater of the Vampires. Here's an English journal from 1789. That's a full eighty years earlier, I believe. But you will find another very thorough description of the establishment and the same young man."

"The Theater of the Vampires…" She stared up at the auburn-haired boy kneeling in the painting. "Why, this is Armand, the character in the novel!"

"Precisely. He seems to like that name. It may have been Amadeo when he was in Italy, but it became Armand by the eighteenth century and he's used Armand ever since."

"Slow down, please," Jesse said. "You're telling me that the Theater of the Vampires has been documented? By our people?"

"Thoroughly. The file's enormous. Countless memoirs describe the theater. We have the deeds to the property as well. And here we come to another link with our files and this little novel, Interview with the Vampire. The name of the owner of the theater was Lestat de Lioncourt, who purchased it in 1789. And the property in modern Paris is in the hands of a man by the same name even now."

"This is verified?" Jesse said.

"It's all in the file," David said, "photostats of the old records and the recent ones. You can study the signature of Lestat if you like. Lestat does everything in a big way, covers half the page with his magnificent lettering. We have photostats of several examples. We want you to take those photostats to New Orleans with you. There's a newspaper account of the fire which destroyed the theater exactly as Louis described it. The date is consistent with the facts of the story. You must go over everything, of course. And the novel, do read it again carefully."

[rontra]

My hand never seems to actually translate the ideas that are spinning up in my brain. how do you get it all out? any advice? just draw more? do i need to use more references? your art is just so beatiful you are one of my top inspos.

ah first of all thank you very much! i'm honored! 😳

(long post incoming lol)

to answer the question though, i don't think i sufficiently translate what's in my mind and i frequently let myself down! but it's important not to let that Stop you. i think overall it's sort of multifaceted and different for everyone--theres no single answer i can give you that will guaranteed work for you--but for me personally i think it mainly comes down to Derangement, DISCRETION!!, Discipline, & Diet

before i say anything more though it's important also to remember that making visual art (in our case drawings/comics) is training like 2 or 3 separate skills (depending on how you divide them). the HAND represents your current drawing ability & technique; what your drawing hand is physically able to produce when you set pen to paper. the BRAIN is the creative engine that cooks up your ideas and thinks of ways to assemble them. and the EYE represents your ability to recognize what art looks like and how it "should" look. when your brain is thinking of ideas and your hand can't capture them, that is not because you're "bad" at it: it means your eye skill is currently outpacing your hand skill. your ability to discern art, to see things like proportions and anatomy and composition and whatever else is going on, is currently stronger than your ability to draw them yourself. this is not a flaw. this is not a flaw. this is not a flaw!!!! but it does mean your hands' ability to capture what your brain has imagined will let your eyes down until your hands catch up. once they do--by studying, practicing your technique, using references, and gaining confidence--your eye skill will then begin to outpace it again. this cycle, the dance between the two skills, is why you might sometimes feel yourself suddenly "getting good" at art, then just as suddenly plateauing or "getting worse"; you are training different parts of what makes art happen. there is nothing wrong with this. you are improving even when it doesnt feel like it--even when it feels like THE LITERAL OPPOSITE is happening. because you're improving different skills!

(and of course as your eye skill develops you will look back at previous stages of development and go "HOW COULD I NOT SEE HOW BAD THIS LOOKS!"--and yeah. that's the thing; you probably, rather literally, couldn't see it! you only think it looks bad now because you've improved your "eye" skill. you should try to be proud of that feeling, even though it also likely sucks and is embarrassing to you at the same time. there's posts, even recent ones, that i go "i cant believe i thought that looked OK enough to post PUBLICLY" and it is embarrassing for me! but all it means is that i'm better at what i do now...so it doesn't get me down too badly. you gotta shrug that stuff off.)

with that out of the way, my four evil councilmen are as follows:

DERANGEMENT: find something you are not normal about. this can be anything (whether it's a topic that interests you, The Character, a medium, a damn color palette...anything!), as long as it captures your mind and motivates you to create. your brain should be spinning up ideas like crazy and your only choice is to draw them. because once you have Derangement the only thing that feels worse than Making Something Subpar is sitting around Not Making Anything At All. you should be interested in what you draw. you should ideally love it, even if you don't love your own art yet. once you know what motivates you, let that simmer until you have no choice but to draw even if you're scared it'll turn out bad. and hey--there will probably (unless you become some kind of Art God) always be parts you think should've turned out better in some way, however:

DISCRETION!!: realistically nobody NEEDS to know what parts of a piece you're unhappy with. it's valuable to have friends/art partners/mentors/whatever that you can comfortably check in with and go "i dont like [part], what do you think" and get feedback, but that's for YOU. for the audience at large, maybe people will notice, maybe they won't, but as an artist you are constantly growing and you will very likely be constantly looking back at past pieces (even just days or hours old sometimes) and going "what the hell was i thinking? how did i not see [error/s], or why didn't i go for [different idea/finish/color palette/etc]?". getting hung up on this will probably either light a fire under you or demotivate you completely depending on your particular brain soup. for me it can go either way depending on where i'm at in my current hand/eye development phase. but i try not to fixate on it. it's enough to observe it and take notes for next time. every drawing is part of your growth and you have to make wonky art in order to occasionally make something that satisfies your eyes. in the meantime, don't beat yourself up or put yourself down. you are gaining experience and technical know-how, and spotting things you'd like to work on for next time; especially if you're sharing this work and other people are telling you they like what you made, there's no need to undercut this by dwelling on the rough parts so much that you can't enjoy it. the important thing is that you made it.

DISCIPLINE: you made it, it's done, now make something new. do it again from the top! you're right: Drawing A Lot is absolutely the key to Drawing Better. it is also usually an evil curse that reveals How Bad You Drew 3 Months Ago. but you have no choice, if you want to hone your skills and improve the Brain Image -> Art Image translation. you have to do it even when it sucks. do it bored, do it scared, but you have to do it or you'll never get anywhere. when improving yourself, you have to draw a lot to see change, and this is the part that sucks, right? feeling like you're not really getting anywhere or like you'll never capture what's in your mind. you can do studies where you collect references and focus in on ironing out something that's bothering you (such as, like, specific objects, perspectives, clothing details, anatomy pieces, light and shadow, etc etc); this can help crack the malaise for sure... learning how to use references is good, as well as whatever tools are available to you (in your medium/software). How To Do This is sort of a different post, but it does help (and sometimes annoyingly so; there's been rare but very annoying moments in my career where i will be simply looking at a picture and idly make an observation that cracks a style/anatomy problem i've had for Years and im always like COME ON!!! hahaha--but yes looking at references and studying them "like an artist" definitely helps, even when it's not as miraculous as that). overall work smarter and nail down the stuff you're unsure about, then incorporate what you've learned into your art style until it looks a way you like. you will likely have to just grind it out sometimes, and often this grind will not feel particularly fun. but you can Dog Medication Salami Pocket yourself into it if you're drawing something you're sufficiently Deranged about. <- this is what diesel is always doing with those women (LOL)

also, Output. you do have to Be Making Stuff in order to finish stuff. for example for comic projects like adastra or failteacher au, if i can draw ~1 page a day, the update will be complete in no time. but i have to draw that 1 page every day to make it happen, even if i feel off or lack confidence about what i'm making. of course i'm not saying you shouldn't take breaks; you NEED to take breaks, set your goals to your own level, and listen to yourself (and don't get some kind of wrist problem like me please). but the point im trying to make is that if you can make yourself sit down and do it even though you're scared it'll turn out bad, (or, hell, even if this part of your project is Simply Boring), then you can do it anytime. this is important too. but you will probably still sometimes feel stuck if you try to work and grind all the time.

DIET: regularly, but especially when you're stuck in a rut, step away from your craft and enrich your diet. you have to play just as much as you have to work. for example, i am always ALWAYS reading comics. at any given time i probably have 1-4 (sometimes more) tabs open of different comics i am simultaneously reading!!!! i read webcomics, webtoons, manga, DC--any demographic or genre, i take random recs from people and just go read them. whatever medium you're in, you have to take in what other people are doing with it, you have to let them teach and inspire you. you have to branch out and look at genres and styles you usually don't. unwind and look at comics, at illustrations, at design, at animation, at video games. enjoy them as an audience, but look at them like an artist too. when you like something, pause and examine (as both an artist and audience) why you like it. (vice versa: if you don't like something, you can try to figure out why that is!) let other people's ideas and habits flow over you. you have to relax and enrich your mind, to refresh your creativity and motivation. this is crucial. when you come back, you'll feel refreshed and ready to go, and your big brain cauldron of tools + ideas + techniques will be all shiny and bubbling. it's just as important to experience art as it is to make it. i really can't stress that enough!!!!

i talk about comics specifically here because right now obviously i am making a lot of comics (adastra, failteachers). i often feel like i get stuck in boring page layouts and can't think of how to panel something. and honestly sometimes a basic layout that just Gets Through The Scene is simply sufficient (after all, not everything has to be a Groundbreaking New Masterpiece; we would all get fatigued by that!)--or otherwise a "boring layout" is just what i have to put down in order to put down anything at all. but in both cases, reading comics and taking in what people are doing with their layouts makes me feel refreshed and i can return to my own work all rested and bright-eyed. everything we read and watch and take in is added to our "mental library" for the brain to reference when it's time to create something. it is just as enriching and important to experience someone else's art and perspective, and to enjoy a diverse range of impressions. you are always learning and observing, so try to pay attention--it's feeding your brain... :j

(and now, hopefully, your enriched Diet has added fertilizer for your Derangement, and the entire council can take their turn again from the top of the order. HDFHBJFS)

hmm...

well, overall, like i said at the top, there's no One Solution or really Single Piece Of Advice i can offer you. but i hope maybe you got something out of it anyway. everyone's a bit different and everyone's ideal workflow and journey is different too. but don't give up, keep at it, and...GOOD LUCK!!! 🫡🫡🫡

& always remember: in the end, making something YOU like, that looks good to YOU and fulfills YOUR goals, is more important than making something "perfect" (if such a thing even exists). as long as YOU'RE enjoying making your art (yes, even when making the art is hell and sucks!), that's all that matters. 🤝

[sgiandubh]

Saw your comment: "We're not all thirsty mommies, nor 12, nor bitter bitches. I'd love to see and hear more about what is beneath that mask, not beneath that shirt." Sam has done that before. He wrote an entire book about his journey but the book is called bullshit and he a liar. He's written well-thought out articles and forewords to books. He speaks intelligently and passionately and knowledgably about his liquors and the process of getting to market, and is called a shill. His work with Prickly Thistle is expensive and taking peoples' money, even when it helped this woman-owned mill immensely. It goes on and on. Today he's been accused of hypocrisy for a plastic cup, thirst trapping to change a conversation and using his social media as a PR tool to fool gullible women. Some may want to see beneath the mask but when he's shown what he is willing to you get the above.

Dear Hypocrisy Anon,

Thank you for your thoughts. I have read your long comment very carefully and let's say I agree with about 85% of it. The itching point is, of course, the book: Waypoints is a good ghostwritten memoir I have commented at length, with a more benevolent view than most of those who found it took some substantial liberty with what they (and I, for that matter) think it's the current state of play in SC Land. Note I am not saying the truth: that's only for Them to know, not for us. So dismissing it and calling everything a lie is a bit of a stretch. It's just a memoir, to be followed by other projects, other books. And who knows, another memoir, later on, where he could correct the course again at his convenience. He's only 43. Give the man some credit.

Trouble is, the world is a vast and diverse place. It's not just this fractured fandom. If he wants to remain relevant beyond OL, he needs, in my humble opinion, two things: a) to score a big role in a big budget production, which would improve his notoriety and help him reach a different public and b) curate his personal image a bit more and get out of this midlife crisis fake character he's peddling around. The only people who find it interesting are the thirsty mommies in *urv's crowd and that's, uhm... a bit irrelevant, in the big scheme of things.

So, no more political blunders, please and thank you. Shut the hell up and play Switzerland on complicated and divisive society issues which can get one in boiled water for a comma. Carefully picked and curated CSR projects, he'd ideally be more actively involved in. And yes, maybe a bit more transparency on the so many great things he does, like that partnership with the Edinburgh's Youth Theatre he didn't even mention himself or include in his stories (no doubt, out of a very British and endearing sense of modesty). And always remember: when faced with something beautiful and fragile, like that story, people will try their best to smear it and break it. I am not bitter, just realistic.

Same goes for your conclusion: I am sure many would like to see more of what is beneath that mask. It's too bad that a bunch of bitter, nasty, clueless, but also very noisy women occupy a bigger part of the stage than they should.

But have faith, Anon. For the moment, all of this is nothing what a good PR, not the clowns he obviously hired, can't fix with relative ease. Trust me. I've seen way worse. And remember, always remember what dear Wilde (God, I love that soul!) said: 'every saint has a past and every sinner has a future'.

You just gave me an idea for a future post and for this, I thank you, Anon. But for now, I have to catch up on a thing or two, rather than determine the morality of a plastic glass. I hope this long answer helps somewhat. Thank you for dropping by: it was a pleasure reading your musings.