#i refuse to tag a fandom i will be flayed

[leavesandbounds]

I'm not one to make unwanted comments on people's art or send them stupid asks about this shit but sometimes I really do see some amazing art in whatever technical sense and I'm like "Wow I'd love to engage with this if you actually drew the fat character fat"

[sixstepsaway]

I want to send a proper response to your reply to my continued writing related lamentations, because it deserves more than a 'thank you', but until I do, have these Izzy related thoughts.

I would never judge someone for their preferences in fictional characters and so on, but sometimes certain takes about characters like Izzy make me genuinely question someone's moral character? Or at least, their ability empathize with other points of view, and not be biased by their own distaste? Like it is genuinely makes me raise an eyebrow when someone describes episode 4, where Ed pays no mind to dead crew members, refuses to tell his first mate his plan, nearly gets everyone kills, and completely collapses as a leader as proof Izzy has no basis for his complaints. That people will call Izzy evil and homophobic for being rude and assigning chores while Black-forced-autocannibalism-beard has a man flayed with a snail fork? Idunno, if you can't view characters with some degree of objectivity, how can I trust you to judge real life situations or people? If I tell a story about how my boss kept me out of the loop and nearly fucked up or project, only to pull a wild scheme out of his last month minute and fix things at the eleventh hour, would they be like, "Well you should have had faith in your boss"? -dd anon

Thank you is always enough, for what it's worth, and you're welcome!

As for the thoughts:

I've said before and I will say again, if someone tells me that their top ship that they are ✨ obsessed with ✨ is an incest ship between a dad and his daughter, I'll go, "Sure, checks out, interesting dynamic, bet there's some fascinating fic and really cool slants to read!" and if that's not my ship it'll be, "Not my thing in this fandom, but you do you and I hope you have fun!" (and if it is it's "fic recs?" lmao)

and if someone says their favorite character is like some objectively terrible, war crimey son of a bitch like... idk actually, I don't watch a lot of things with Evil™ characters I'm very into shades of grey. Voldemort! Let's say Voldemort.

If someone says their favorite character is Voldemort or Tom Riddle, I'll be like, "Sure yeah, checks out, he's a fascinating character, especially in fanfic. I bet there's lots of cool things to think about him, and how he's treated by other characters in the book. Fun! Not my fave, but you do you!"

It does not mean anything about either of those people except that they have eclectic and interesting taste in characters.

but if someone sends me an ask saying, "Wait, you're okay with/ship that pairing in the first example? I hope you get [insert horrible thing happening here] and DIE!" then I am going to judge their moral character (see: anti-Izzy anon who told me they hoped I got shanked

(relatedly, you guys have made it Impossible™ to find those anons in my tagged/anonymous tag with all the wonderful things you've all been sending me over the last month. I appreciate that. Keep going ❤

i did find it though)

which, you know, is why i replied like this:

so yeah)

and I am also going to judge people who try to whitewash away the bad things one character does to make it seem "okay" to like them, and put all those bad things on another character or act like the lesser-bad things that other character does are the worst to make their own fave look better.

Taste in fictional characters, pairings, plots or tropes, will never be an indicator of moral character. Fiction is a safe place to explore all kinds of ideas and concepts, from the highly illegal and/or deeply taboo down to the whimsical and dreamy concepts like coffee shop AUs and such (which, despite being bland and fluffy, wouldn't be great in real life either).

But I think it's because people who will overlook the behavior of their faves and vilify others (instead of doing what we do, which is like, "I love Ed! Ed is my fave! He's also objectively terrible lmao" or "ed deserves some atrocities as a treat" which still acknowledges His Shit™) is just a big red flag for me, because they're likely to do that with people too. A good example being, again, the anon above, who thinks they are In The Right™ for sending me a message telling me they hope I get shanked, while I am worthy of nothing but death for liking Izzy.

That people will call Izzy evil and homophobic for being rude and assigning chores while Black-forced-autocannibalism-beard has a man flayed with a snail fork?

this made me laugh but also, yeah. We always forget the flayed with a snail fork and tossed into salt water thing don't we? We also just say it's fine because the guy was a racist, which is, again, a very black and white mentality, and also why people feel so comfortable saying, "Izzy is racist, so he deserved it!"

Objectively speaking, that guy did not deserve being flayed alive with a snail fork. I do not think anyone deserves that no matter what they did (but I'm also anti-prison, pro-rehabilitation, pro-letting and, in fact, encouraging people to change blah blah blah, so it isn't really a shock I'm not all for punitive justice in any case, since punitive justice doesn't really work). Should Ed have had him killed and dropped for the sharks? Sure, yeah, okay, I guess, especially considering the genre and context, in which there's no legal or social "this guy is a racist, can we do something about this like getting him fired from his navy job?" recourse.

But flayed alive with a snail fork implying it will take literally hours and hours if not longer? And making someone else do it for him? Seems excessive! It seems excessive!

(It also implies that either a) Fang willingly went and flayed a guy alive with a snail fork, which tells us A Lot Of Things about the darker side of Fang, or that b) Fang was coerced into it by Blackbeard telling him to do it, and that is awful)

Idunno, if you can't view characters with some degree of objectivity, how can I trust you to judge real life situations or people? If I tell a story about how my boss kept me out of the loop and nearly fucked up or project, only to pull a wild scheme out of his last month minute and fix things at the eleventh hour, would they be like, "Well you should have had faith in your boss"?

lmaaaaaaaaaao. No they'd say you deserve it because you're an Izzy fan.

But for real, I agree with you. Disliking a character is a-okay, as I've said a thousand times. If someone doesn't like Izzy or even hates him, that is fine. Not everyone likes every character. I'm sure some people watched OFMD and came out of it hating Stede and/or Ed. It happens. Everyone is different.

But being super anti-Izzy and then going on about how awful he is and how sadistic and sinister he is and how everything he does is bad and has bad undertones is just... wild to me, and it makes me think of people who see a celebrity did something marginally bad once and then instantly turn their backs 100% on that person and declare them Evil For All Eternity and start digging up even less bad things they've done in the past like, "This person replied to a 14 year old who had left a nice comment on their public Instagram and put "love you so much!! <3" in public so they're clearly evil."

It gets to the point where once they've decided someone is bad (or cringe, or just something they don't enjoy), they start finding new ways to "prove" their badness and "prove" that other people shouldn't like them.

And I don't trust those people.

No human on this god-forsaken Earth is a 100% fantastic person who has never done anything wrong in their lives, and they know that because they are the same. Everyone has fucked something up, everyone has hurt someone, everyone has done something that was, in their circle at the time, seen as 'fine' that is now seen as 'bad'. The amount of teenagers when I was growing up who would call everything that was boring or gross, "So gay :/" and half of them were bisexual or gay themselves. Everyone does stupid shit.

And the people who look at Izzy and the things he does completely divorce him of context. You can dislike the way he does things, you can think he was an asshole for bringing the English to Stede, but saying that he's awful and abusive for, as you put it so well:

being rude and assigning chores

is just fucked up. He's doing his job, and in context he was expected to do his job.

On top of that, as I've said before in posts I've reblogged about queer politics, I trust people who use the wrong words with the right feelings etc far more than I trust the people who use all the right words but are actually prejudicial.

"Your pronouns are they/them, right? Anyway, yeah, I just think that bisexuals and non-binary people should keep to their own lanes if they're being a bihet or a het in general, you know? It just seems better." no.

bad. go away.

"You're a dyke, right?? I just wanted to let you know that the woman down the street is really homophobic and she's being awful to all f*gs and dykes in the neighborhood. I've called the police about it but I don't think they're going to do anything, so I'm going to rally everyone in the neighborhood to try and get her to leave by herself. I think there's a transsexual down the street too, so we should protect him as well. Oh, sorry! Sorry, my bad, I get confused. Her. We need to protect her as well."

I trust that person 290283x more, despite the 'incorrect words' and the things they're 'not supposed to say'.

And it's the same basic thing. They flag Izzy as Racist and Homophobic and Abusive because they're the Right Buzzwords to make them look good, but at the end of the day they end up being racist (a good example being the person who decided it was great to say Izzy had Ed as a pet) or homophobic (literally half the shit they say about Izzy is homophobic itself) or abusive (*gestures at anons*).

Taste in characters or pairings or shows doesn't make me suspicious of someone's moral character. How they approach characters they don't like ("he deserves being fed his toe!") and do like ("Ed was totally justified in everything he did because Izzy is a dick") and people around them ("I genuinely hope you get shanked") is what is far, far more telling for me.

this got rambly nonnie i apologize

[ao3feed-spuffy]

Dawn the Vampire Slayer

by LJ94 (wastedperfume)

After Willow flays Warren, D'Hoffryn makes her an offer she can't refuse. Later, furious after hearing what Spike did to her sister, Dawn makes a wish that throws her into an alternate reality. Can she find her way back, can she figure out what to do about Spike, and where in the world(s) is Willow?

"Ugh! I wish I was the slayer so I could kill him myself!"

Words: 1091, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Categories: F/F, F/M

Characters: Dawn Summers, Willow Rosenberg, Buffy Summers, Spike (BtVS), Jenny Calendar, Rupert Giles, Tara Maclay

Relationships: Tara Maclay/Willow Rosenberg, Spike/Buffy Summers, Jenny Calendar/Rupert Giles, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Additional Tags: Action/Adventure, Wishverse, Dark Willow Rosenberg (BtVS), Willow is a vengeance demon, No gays die in this one, Dawn Summers-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussions of Canon SA, Series 6 finale re-write, Vampire Willow Rosenberg (BtVS), I promise Dawn and Spike reconcile in this, Ensemble Cast, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jenny Calendar Lives, (kind of), Discussions of Seeing Red

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/46130020

[potteresque-ire]

Here’s my response to @pussyibo, who tagged me on a post about Gg’s Li-Ning brand endorsement. 

First of all, I’d like everyone to please read @accio-victuuri‘s wonderfully written, detailedly researched post on the Li-Ning brand, the Xinjiang cotton support rally on Weibo, and the narrative the state has spun on the issue. I would’ve provided similar information in my response as well—although no way I could’ve laid it out as clearly, as to-the-point as @accio-victuuri did—because this background is critical in explaining my thoughts on this issue.

I haven’t reblogged the Li-Ning ads, but I must confess that the decision had little to do with politics. I’ve always leaned towards re-blogging art than real people.

That said, however, Gg’s Li-Ning ads have, of course, crossed my dash. And I’d be honest and say this as well: I haven’t really found them—or by extension, the idea that Gg was endorsing the brand—offensive, precisely for the reasons @accio-victuuri laid out. Li-Ning is a legend in China; a highly decorated olympic gymnast, he was the national pride chosen to be the final torch-bearer and torch-lighter for the 2008 Beijing Olympics. His company, established in 1990, was among the first Chinese brands with name-recognition overseas and has won high-profile international sponsorships—rare achievements among Chinese-owned enterprises, even to this day. 

Based on Li Ning’s identity and his company being a National Brand, I’d be more surprise if the Li-Ning brand doesn’t use homegrown, “patriotic” cotton, before even considering the practical reasons—Xinjiang cotton being a domestic product that eliminates the costs of shipping, tariffs etc; that it’s of such superior quality that international brands touted its use—a reversal of the usual downplaying of their products’ Chinese origin, due to the common associations of “Made in China”=“Bootleg”,“awful quality”; that makes up ~20% of worldwide cotton production—ie. most Chinese families are probably already using products with cotton from the region (blankets, for example). 

From that perspective, therefore, I’ve viewed the endorsement as little more than a case of a high-profile Chinese celebrity endorsing a high-profile Chinese brand, named after a national hero and targeted towards the local market. I breathed a little sigh of relief for Gg, admittedly—imagine if his new endorsement over those same few days had been for a brand under the Better Cotton Initiative; he would’ve been flayed alive, if the antis’ words were knives.

(And who said they aren’t?)

As such, I also haven’t considered the Li-Ning brand as “morally inferior” to Gg or Dd, or, the other way around, that Gg or Dd are “morally superior” to the Li-Ning brand. I haven’t considered drawing a moral ruler along this axis. I either believe they’re all doing what their sociopolitical environment has taught them, guided them, demanded them to do, or I don’t. Li Ning (the person and the brand), Gg, and Dd all have a celebrity status attached to them. They’ve all flourished in that one sociopolitical environment—that one they also call home.  

Ultimately, Gg and Dd belong to China. They’re the product of the country, its all powerful, all controlling regime. No one can be isolated from their backgrounds—my background colours every word I say here; likewise, there’s no place I can draw a line and separate Gg and Dd from the Communist Red behind them. I wouldn’t have posted about China’s sociopolitical environment, researched on it as a GgDd fan otherwise. 

I either walk away from them all, or I don’t. I either stay a fan, or I don’t. The latter is my choice. Every minute.

Have there been instances in which news about Gg and Dd make me especially uncomfortable? Yes. Photos of Gg in PLA (People’s Liberation Army; Chinese army) uniform for AT, or Dd in police uniform for BAH, for TTXS still give me stomach churns every time I see them. A violent squeeze of the heart.

Visceral reactions that come from, I suppose, the amyglada. More organic, primitive than thought. 

I’ve seen those uniforms in RL action—uniforms worn by those who’re truly responsible for the labor camps and mass surveillance, the torture, the unreported deaths, the disappearances; uniforms Gg and Dd have expressed support outside their drama, their host roles:

Translation: #I support Hong Kong Police too# (On red banner) “I support HK police. You can beat me up now.” What a shame for Hong Kong.

(Dd reblogged the same post originated from People’s Daily, the State-Controlled Newspaper).

I’m going to go on a quick detour and provide the backstory of this red little box, this piece of propaganda that is much more blatant than a clothing ad. I’ll explain why in a bit.

Here’s an article that explained the incident from which the quote was drawn, that occurred on 8/13/2019 during the Hong Kong Protest and the airing of The Untamed. Essentially, a Chinese state media reporter was suspected to be a spy among the protestors after taking photos, refusing to show his press pass (he was found to have one but not his own), and possessing a “I love HK Police” shirt; he was tied to the luggage cart and beaten up. The reporter said the quote in the red little box; he suffered mild injuries and was soon discharged by the hospital.  What was the background of this story, however? Why did the protestors beat up someone who could be from the press—who, regardless of their affiliation, protestors know should be protected? The protests began in June, 2019. Hong Kong had had another large scale protest in between September to November, 2014 (aka the “Umbrella Revolution”). Spies had always been an issue. Why didn’t a spy beating happen earlier?

Here’s an English-subbed documentary (warning: violence) that offers insight of the background—the fear and fury of the protestors. The subject is what is now known as 721 Yuen Long incident, or the evening Hong Kongers—even those who had not been involved, who had been unsure about the protests—lost their trust of the Hong Kong Police, once known as “Asia’s finest”.

That evening went like this. On 7/21/2019, the local mafia violently attacked the passengers of a late night train in Yuen Long station—passengers who weren‘t protestors (who wore black)—while the police ignored the multiple emergency calls from locals who’d spotted something suspicious, and didn’t show up on the scene while the beatings occurred. Evidences, which the documentary detailed, pointed to the Hong Kong Police, and the government that backed it, endorsing the beatings, therefore working with the local mafia to deal with the protests. 

By 8/13/2019, therefore, protestors were convinced that their opposition wasn’t beyond using very low blows to get their way. One could argue that they overreacted to the spy-reporter; the Western media, who had long trusted HKers to know what they were doing, expressed its disappointment, and the protestors soon apologised. The Chinese propaganda machine, of course, jumped at the chance of casting the protestors as bad people, and the online rally on Weibo ensued (It lasted for at least three days; Gg and Dd reblogged post about HK between 8/14/2019-8/16/2019).

That was, briefly, the story behind Gg and Dd’s Weibo reblog.

Why did I make a detour and write up this story? Because I’ve actually posted blatant propaganda on my blog—the Weibo post, with its red little box. However, does it still feel like propaganda with the story?

Therefore, I haven’t, and don’t plan on pressuring anyone to stop posting and re-blogging specific pieces of GgDd information—be it an ad as in this scenario, or propaganda material from films, series, government/state-controlled media announcements etc. That I believe everyone should set their own boundaries, be their own judge of what they’d like to share on their own blog aside, I think—and this is where my opinion may deviate from many—“canceling” falsehoods often isn’t the best way to deal with them. 

This opinion is likely, again, coloured by my background.

My observations have been this: “cancelling” is effective only if the cancelling force is, overall, significantly stronger than the force being cancelled. In the scenario that prompted this post, making Gg’s Li-Ning ads disappear from the dash is only possible if there are more fans who ignore the ads than those who post and reblog them. “Canceling” is therefore a competition of headcount, with tactics for sidekick—the side with more people, and people who are good at disseminating information, decides the outcome: whether the intended-to-be-cancelled material go viral within the fandom, or whether they die out.

I’d like to highlight this word: headcount.

This isn’t the most favourable kind of competition to participate in, therefore, if the potential opposition belongs to the populous country in the world, its members, people who may have participated in fan circles, which are essentially fan armies who’ve been used to organising, battling on social media for their idols. I’ve previously set up a hypothetical scenario, in which Dd’s supertopic members were encouraged by their government to scale the Great Firewall to Twitter, spread their support of Xinjiang cotton—a scenario that is not totally unrealistic, given that the Chinese government has previously mobilised fans for propaganda purpose. 

We’ll use this thought experiment again ~ please bear in mind, once more, that this is SJD; a figment of our imagination.

Since we’re talking about Li-Ning brand, let’s add Gg’s supertopic members to the mix. The total supertopics member count is 6.11 + 8.34 = 14.45 million, as of today (2021/04/04). 

Let’s say, only a tiny, tiny percent—0.01% of them are mobilised; that’s 1,400 people.

Is it possible to cancel the voices, the retweets of 1,400 in Gg and Dd’s i-fandom? Cut down another 90%, reduce the opposition headcount to 140. Is it possible?

There are also overseas Chinese who do not intend to spread propaganda, but believe in the story and have no qualms disseminating the information. There are also fans who wish to remove politics from fandom and pass all information along.

Here lies the frustration of those who’ve tried to raise their voice of concerns re: the policies and practices of the Chinese government on social media; and this is why I mentioned that my background informed my opinion. On social media, where headcount and whoever shouts the loudest, retweet etc the most wins the exposure game, it’s nearly impossible to win against the Chinese Communist Party (CCP)’s propaganda machine, if the party chooses to have the machine running. 

Their side has so many people.

One more RL example: here’s a scholarly article detailing how Diba (帝吧), an old, popular online forum in China with 20 million members, mobilised, collectively scaled the Firewall and engaged in a cyberattack of the Facebook page of Taiwanese President Tsai Ing-Wen on January 20, 2016 — the day of President Tsai Ing-wen’s first inauguration; they left a total of 26,000 comments against Taiwan independence, using Simplified Chinese (which China uses) for their font instead of Traditional Chinese (which Taiwan and Hong Kong uses)—ie, the commenters didn’t even pretend to be not from China. They were proud and open about their "Expedition”.

(China’s state-controlled tabloid Global Times—yes, the same one involved in the Hong Kong airport incident above—”concluded the campaign was a “fun normal incident” that showcased young people’s passion for politics”)

Is it possible to try to cancel something of that scale? Is it realistic?

Personally, therefore, I’ve always advocated for “immunisation”: rather than protecting a fact by wiping out its associated lies—the idea behind “cancelling” a message, not having it show up on the dash—I prefer to do so by allowing it to be visibly challenged, until observers are no longer easily swayed by falsehoods. I used Gg and Dd’s Weibo reblog re: Hong Kong police as an example—is the red little box propaganda, a challenge to the protests? Yes. Is it information that I deeply disagree with, something I wish I’ll never see again? Also yes. But by providing context to it, I’m hoping to turn it into a vaccine—something mimicking the virus, the potentially viral piece of information, but doesn’t function the same way anymore. 

Hopefully, this vaccine will also encourage stop-and-think moments that boost future immunity; hopefully, with a few more boosters, questions will come automatically with such red little boxes reappear— questions about the context, the purpose, the message. 

Questions like these, for this incident: why did the State media make this incident the “Gotcha” moment in the Hong Kong Protests, important enough for People’s Daily to make a rally-starting meme? Why was the reporter, Fu Guohao hailed as a hero, when he’d just got ... beaten up? 

What did People’s Daily, and the government behind it, want people to find when the red little box popped up everywhere on Weibo, including the Weibo of the fastest rising stars from the hit summer TV series? What belief could be expected to be instilled into the audience with this photo, published by China’s state TV station (CGTN), of the reporter tied up to a luggage cart and surrounded by black-cladded protestors?

Who looked like the strong, evil side? The meek, good side? Why, finally, was the tag about the Hong Kong Police, when the conflict was between the protestors and an alleged Chinese state media reporter?

By then, Hong Kongers were already suspicious that the Hong Kong Police had been infiltrated by China’s law enforcement arm, from hints from the different dialects the police used, how they handled the protestors etc. It was the start the final break down of Hong Kong’s autonomy. Their suspicions were not wrong. Now, with the National Security Law having taken effect since July 2020, Hong Kong’s transformation into a police state is well under way.

What does the tag #I support Hong Kong Police too# mean now?

[Please excuse my using many examples from HK because 1) I’m familiar with the details; and 2) it’s the only instance in recent history in which the outside world can see, with relative clarity, a large-scale protest against the Chinese government and its outcome.]

Here’s my humble wish: next time, when a government-sponsored memes like this get translated and posted, be it originally reblogged by Gg, Dd, or other c-ent stars, be it on Twitter or Tumblr, the vaccinated, immunised will pause and wonder: What’s the story? What’s being told inside the Great Firewall, and outside? 

If this happens, red little boxes on my blog, unpleasant as they are, are 100% worth it.

The Li-Ning ads are therefore worth it too, IMO, if they spark a conversation, a dissemination of facts and perspectives. To me, the latter is especially precious in this fandom, where significant language and cultural barriers exist.  Fans who move Gg and Dd’s news and candies from Weibo are the pillars of this fandom. Sieving through that website is hard, translations harder; it’s unfair and unrealistic to ask them to also be the background knowledge deliverers. 

I’ve tried to do a small part, but I’m ... slow. Very, very slow. However, even if the background isn’t available, I’ve found being careful, skeptical about the information is already a very good thing. At heart, this is no different from the lessons from media literacy here, except there are even more falsehoods and half-truths to wade through given the country of origin of Gg and Dd’s material, and trustworthy sources are not always available. Li-Ning brand is an example that things do not need to be blatant propaganda to carry a pro-CCP message. 

What can i-fans do then about the Xinjiang cotton situation, if competing against the Chinese government propaganda machine on social media appears to be a losing game?

My thoughts are these, at the moment. First, please consider not dwelling on the competition, especially within fandom. Remember: getting several fewer fans to buy Li-Ning brand isn’t going to change the big picture.

Instead, if this is an area of activism you choose to participate in—please consider channeling your effort to watching the companies in your country. Put pressure on sustainability & good practice certification companies like Better Cotton Initiative, make sure they don’t, can’t have it both ways. Xinjiang cotton is either certified or it isn’t. There’re suspicions of forced labor on its production or there aren’t. The answer should be a simple yes or no, not whether the office is in Geneva or in Shanghai.

This is an answer that we, as consumers, have the right to know. Transparency in China isn’t for us to demand; we can, however, demand transparency in our own country. Remember too: it makes a far, far greater difference for one international company to re-consider its cotton source, than for one fandom to do the same. 

Meanwhile, and again, this is my humble opinion—please do whatever you’re comfortable with, that is within your ability, to fortify your stance. Should you choose to speak out online, you’ll likely meet opposition. Responses on current events from the Chinese Foreign Ministry (you can also find the spokespeople on Twitter) can offer a glimpse of the counterarguments you may meet. How will you answer them? Here’s a clip of one of the spokespeople arguing that the US used to use black slavery to pick cotton in the past. If you’re American and this is presented to you—what would you say? (Does mistakes by one country in the past mean mistakes by another country in the present is automatically acceptable?) The opposition may also use vicious words, the most extreme of which is probably “racist”. If someone call you racist—if many Twitter users scream racist!!!!!!!! at you at the same time for your critique—can you stand firm? 

[The pro-CCP camp has been taking advantage of the West’s effort to move forward from its racist past to stop any criticism of the Chinese government. It already knows the easiest way to silence the criticisms is to call whoever makes them racist.]

[If everyone fears the racist allegation, allows the conflation of Chinese government and Chinese people to take root, will there be more or less anti-Asian sentiments in the long run?]

[I’ve been called racist by writing these metas.] 

The last thing I’d like to say is this: please be kind to your fellow fans who’ve kept mum, or been hesitant about making their stance known. Some may be closely connected to China, others may not be in a psychological / health space to deal with the politics. Also, and here’s my default way of looking at this: I disagree with the idea that anyone owes anyone else a declaration of their political beliefs. I can’t imagine this issue to be an easy thing to think about for many Gg and Dd fans, myself most definitely included ~ as a (former) Hong Konger, a uniformed Gg or Dd gives me an unpleasant visceral response, but at the same time, it also means I’m used to accepting, even genuinely liking people on the other side of this political ... Grand Canyon. I can imagine the conflict, the pain this issue may have caused some fans who’re not accustomed to the latter, as being a fan, IMO, is never purely logical ~ and I mean that in the best of ways. 

Passion is the magic ingredient that separates a fan and a consumer. It’s also what makes choices difficult, when conclusions from logic, political stance included, conflict with it. Some make the hard choices quickly; some, slowly. Some make them in one go; some, piece by piece. Some never make them, let time be the decision maker.

As Dd said so famously and wisely, about the conflict between passion and logic: 愛就是這樣，沒有辦法 Love is like that. Nothing can be done.

The only common denominator is this: we’re all made to love.

❤️.💛.💚.

[neonponders]

Thank you for tagging me, @lovebillyhargrove !! And for giving us a new head canon game ~~~

This got long, so I’ll put it below the cut, but I’ll tag you back 💋 🌹

1. Do they get together BEFORE MF possessing Billy or AFTER shit goes down? (Or maybe DURING😲)

I’m available for all of these scenarios haha but I’ve never seen a fic/let where they get together DURING Billy being flayed 😥. Goodness, Steve would really be his angel, then.

2. Who kisses who first?

Steve makes the moves. That boy has no chill. Plus he is miles ahead of Billy in terms of emotional awareness and maturity, so he’s wearing the pants in the relationship for a while lol

3. Where do they have their first sex? (Location) (HJs and BJs count)

As a former teenager with experience living in a small town *cough*. Their cars. You have to make your own private areas, and your parents’ houses are just. Not. It. lol You park your car in a field, a park, somewhere with a lot of trees or other parked cars, and hope to god that nobody gets curious lol

4. Who says 💖 I LOVE YOU 💖 first?

Billy. Steve’s been burned before, right? He’ll do literally everything else to display how much he cares, but he’ll wait for Billy to lay that card on the table first.

5. I believe this fandom is way past having hard feelings about it, so

Bottom!Steve or Bottom!Billy?

Yes to all. I think they have different needs at different times, and are capable of indulging each other / taking care of one another in both ways.

6. Do they give gifts to each other?

I’m always available for a lot of gift giving (sugar boo tropes, eat my ass out). Both of them are so emotionally stunted that I just want them both showered in affection and Stuff™

7. Where do they end up living? California, Chicago, Hawkins... Idk .. Alaska??)))) Any other location?

I see Billy being very attached to California, and both of them being very scarred by Hawkins, but I don’t necessarily think they’d end up in California. Maybe a new part of California, in between sunny southside for Billy, and the foresty north for Steve. I do always write about them living in Chicago/New York, though haha I think the city is a fun reset for both of them.

8. What are their future jobs?

Outside of a mobster lol, I tend to write Billy as a chiropractor / physical therapist. (I want to live vicariously through Steve as his husband cracks his bones like a stale pretzel). I’ve given Steve a lot of different jobs but art therapist for kids is my favorite.

9. Who's a better cook?

They both cook but make different things. The more fire involved, it’s Billy (grilling, southeast Asian cuisine). If it’s breakfast, it’s Steve. Literally any kind of breakfast, whether it’s bacon and eggs, to cheese and broccoli soufflés. Billy does the dangerous cooking and Steve does the tedious cooking.

10. Steve Hargrove or Billy Harrington?

Steven Hargrove or William Harrington. This breaks my brain.

11. What's Max's reaction when she hears they're together?

Depends on whether or not Neil’s in the picture. If he is, then she’s asking Will if he has any more narcotic syringes, because Steve survived Billy enough to be on his way to marrying him, but he won’t survive Neil Hargrove. Hopper will sooner clean up Max’s homicide than put her in prison, though.

If Neil isn’t an issue, she’s fully committed to her sisterly job of being disgusted yet supportive haha

12. Describe in ONE SENTENCE Hopper's reaction when he hears the names Hargrove and Harrington mentioned together? The Q is inspired by this genius post by @freyrapollo (their post is here).

*long, absorbing silence* And then, “Okay, nobody patrol the quarry after 9pm.”

13. Does Robin like Billy OR does Robin hate Billy?

Robin clocks Billy that first moment he walks through the parking lot ignoring literally every straight girl ogling him. I think she mostly feels sorry for him. It’s not easy being queer in Nowhere, Indiana. I think if they managed to interact on an open playing field, they’d get along fine. But in their canon universe, I don’t know. There’s a lot of baggage and layers around Billy; all of his interactions are kind of unfair.

14. What about Dustin?

Robin is fascinated by Dustin. He’s a smaller Steve who is uniquely smarter yet just as clueless lol It’s pretty clear that Dustin helps Steve just be Steve, so yeah: Robin likes him.

15. Fav Harringrove AU?

I’m an omegaverse creep. I’m a slut for mob au’s. Sugar boo au’s. I’m weak for soul mate tropes. s1 Steve and older Billy. I refuse to settle on one.

16. Billy+Camaro=...??? (Not strictly Harringrove, but I can't not to ..)

I want to see him in a Jeep Wrangler lol I think that’d be a good alternate car for him. He’d be one of those No Doors, rag top gone kind of Jeep drivers the moment it’s warm outside.

[honorbound-to-the-pen]

Fictober Day 3

Prompt number: 3

Fandom: AFK Arena (mobile game)

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings/Tags: Major character death, major character undeath, angst, hurt not comfort

Prompt: “I’ve waited for this.”

 The words echoed around the large stone chamber, deep beneath a long-forgotten, forsaken necropolis: “I’ve waited for this”. Baden sat firmly on Thane’s chest, straddling his torso and pinning his sword and arm to the frigid floor with his knee. Thane’s face was white, his teeth clenched and his jaw taut, vaguely shaking, though from anger or cold he was unsure. 

 Grinding his knee down onto Thane’s wrist and huffing at the grimace of pain that flashed across his face, Baden gazed down at his jagged spear, his head cocked slightly to the side. After several seconds of apparent deliberation, he tossed the spear into the dark of the cave, into the darkness. Both men heard it clink against a shadowed wall and roll to a stop; though, Thane couldn’t see it, pinned as he was, and Baden kept his dead-eyed green gaze fixed on Thane’s face.

 With one hand now free, Baden reached up and behind his head, his fingers briefly fiddling with a clasp, before removing his hand, his mask-muzzle coming away in his hand. Baden stared at it for a second, before meeting Thane’s eyes again, his expression making Thane’s blood run cold.

Using Baden’s face, the lich forced Baden’s lips into a cruel smirk. It looked unnatural and demented, coupled with Baden’s still emotionless eyes. If Thane concentrated on the air just behind Baden’s head out of the corner of his eye, Thane could almost make out the lich’s outline, sickly green and grey, looming behind Baden with the same awful smile affixed to his face. 

Focusing back on Baden’s face, Thane’s heart picked up; a sudden change from the slow, icy throbbing that had been present moments before. Baden’s face was filled with anguish, his brow furrowed and his mouth open, as if ready to speak. 

As if on cue, Baden’s mouth slammed shut, making Thane wince instinctively in sympathy. Baden’s face regained it’s horrible smile, this time spread even wider.

“He really likes you, this one. Yes, he spends all of his days pacing inside his head, trying to find his way out,” the lich ground out. Baden’s voice sounded strange, his tongue unused to such mockery and cruelty— especially at Thane’s expense. “Your poor boyfriend, still believing he will get back to you, someday, somehow. It’s sweet, really, how devoted he is to you. Did he ever tell you? How much he loves you, how he had planned to propose after you were both discharged? How, at night, in his tent, he would imagine you there, laid out next to him, just close enough to-”

“Shut up. Get out of him, leave him out of this. This has nothing to do with him.” Thane’s voice shook with anger, the life he and Baden could have had— still could have— flashing in front of his eyes. His heart ached in his chest, the weight of hope and pain and love so heavy a burden it hurt like something physical. 

“Oh, but it does, little soldier. Our lovely Baden tried to escape me, desperately tried to escape my hold on him, to find you and warn you of what I had planned.” The disgust was evident in the lich’s/Baden’s voice, his lip curling in distaste at the sentiment. “While this may not be how I had planned to get rid of you, the little thorn in my side that you are,” the lich said, accenting his words by pressing Baden’s hooked dagger, which had served as his hand since his death, into Thane’s neck. The lich/Baden applied just enough pressure to release a dribble of blood from just under Thane’s chin, but Thane met the lich’s/Baden’s eyes and held his gaze, refusing to tip his head back to escape from the point of the blade. 

“Oh yes, I’ve waited for this. With you gone, his spirit will finally be broken, and he will be mine to control, body and mind. He is remarkably resilient; no matter how many times I tortured him and flayed his skin from his bones until his eyes went dark, he still refused to submit. So committed to his mate. Endearing, really.” The lich used Baden’s hand to run his fingers across Thane’s cheek. This time, Thane did move away; Baden’s skin was cold and dry, and Thane’s skin tingled in mixed disgust and desire where Baden/the lich had touched him.

“I will give you a moment to say goodbye. Use it wisely, it will be the last you spend together while both of your minds are your own.” With that, Baden’s face became lax, the lich seemingly having withdrawn into a recess of Baden’s mind. 

Baden blinked his eyes several times, his mouth twitching minutely as he came back to himself. Shaking his head like a dog, he looked down at himself. At the sight of Thane, still pinned by Baden’s bodyweight, his eyes widened and he gasped. 

For a moment, the pair looked at each other, breathing heavily. Thane closed his eyes, breathing deeply, before opening them again and meeting Baden’s. Though they were still the same sickly green they had been minutes before, they now held such an air of kindness and sorrow, so much so that Thane felt tears prickling behind his eyes.

Baden shifted his leg to free Thane’s hand before reaching down with his own and grabbing Thane’s, interlocking their fingers and squeezing gently. Bringing their fingers to his lips, Baden pressed a cold kiss to Thane’s knuckles, gazing down at him in open adoration. Despite himself, Thane’s face began to color; Baden had died while they were still in the army, still in the service of the Rayne family. Such casual affection and intimacy had never been allowed between the two of them, both too dedicated to their duties.

“Hello, Thane. It’s been...so long. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bring him here, with us, I was trying to-”

“Don’t worry, I know what you meant to do. I’ve missed you, more than anything. But right now, we’ve got to think about how we’re going to get out of here; I haven’t the faintest idea how I got here, I wasn’t in my right mind while I was finding my way.”

“We’ll get out, don’t worry. I know the way, I’ll show you. Just give me a moment, it’s been so long since I’ve seen your face without...it’s been so long.” Baden’s smile faltered for a moment, his words becoming clipped and rough, before leaning down to rest his forehead against Thane’s, both of their eyes shining with unshed tears and their mouths forming into trembling, tentative smiles.

Leaning down, Baden came closer to Thane’s face, his lips pressed together and his hand gently squeezing Thane’s three times. Thane sighed softly, closing his eyes as Baden moved to kiss him. When the kiss didn’t come, Thane opened his eyes, brow creased in confusion and concern. 

Smiling back down at Thane was the lich, once again wearing Baden’s face. The smile was too wide and too cruel, eyes once again a dull olive color when, moments before, they had been wonderfully alive. The lich chuckled, raising their still interlocked hands off the ground and tilting his head.

“Such sentiment. So sweet. You didn’t really think I would let you both go, did you; I did tell you to say goodbye, after all,” the lich chuckled, face unchanged as Thane tried in vain to wrench his hand from the iron grip the lich/Baden had on his hand. “Ah ah ah, little swordsman, there is no getting away.”

“He really thought he was going to kiss you, didn’t he? I assure you, he had every intent of doing it, I just couldn’t let him be so tainted like that. The emotions he had as he leaned down, though...delicious.” The lich closed his eyes and hummed with satisfaction. “Though equally as delightful is his despair. I wish you could hear him, you know; he’s screaming your name, trying to break away from me and make his way back to you. The poor dear, he thinks he can do it. Ah well, no matter. Time to finish what I—we— came for.” 

The blade resting against Thane’s neck, warmed to the temperature of his skin and slightly sticky with his blood, rose several inches. Baden/the lich repositioned himself so his knees caged Thane’s stomach and ribs. Thane had given up trying to extricate his hand from Baden’s, though his arm was still tense, his muscles taut and ready to strike. 

“Goodbye, Thane Rayne. Perhaps I shall raise you, much the same as I did Baden; then you two can be together in undeath. Such a fitting end for the two lovebirds. Now, this will only-” In a flash, Baden’s spear arm came down and stabbed into Thane’s chest. Thane gasped, pain overwhelming all of his senses in the brief seconds before his eyes lost their light.     “NO,” screamed Baden, seeming to wrest control away from the lich for a moment. Tears sprang to his eyes, falling onto Thane’s chest and mingling with the blood already soaking through Thane’s jacket and armor. 

“Oh yes, little soldier, the little swordsman has breathed his last.” Wrenching his arm back, Baden/the lich withdrew his spear arm from Thane’s chest. The jagged edges of the spear hooked into Thane’s chest, lifting his body off the ground several inches before tearing and thumping back to the floor. Blood poured out of the wound, flowing over Baden’s knees and soaking his greaves and the cloth underneath them.

In Baden’s head, he was screaming, beating the walls of the cell he occupied in the times when the lich fully occupied his body and mind. His spear arm clashed and clanged off the stone walls, chipping and overshadowing his echoing crys. 

Outside of Baden’s mind, the lich used Baden’s mouth to smile down at Thane’s corpse. Getting to his feet, Baden/the lich brushed dust from his pauldrons, covering them in Thane’s blood. 

Stepping over Thane’s body until he stood at his head, Baden/the lich reached down and grabbed Thane’s cape, gathering the fabric in his fist. Straightening up, the lich took one last look around the chamber before turning and striding towards the darkened entrance of the room— where Baden’s spear lay, dragging Thane’s body behind him, the cape still clutched in his fist, heedless of the trail of blood that they left.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34271986

[maleficarfic]

Empress

Pairing: Female Lavellan/Solas

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: Mildly Dubious Consent

Summary: Fen'Harel sweeps across the nations like vengeance, and all that will stop him is Ellana Lavellan as his wife.

On AO3: Link

He had razed Halamshiral and built in its place a palace of crystal spires that speared the heavens with their glory. Sunlight glittering off balustrades and parapets and reflecting off towers and arches blinded the devout and the apathetic alike. It was a castle meant to inspire wonder and awe, and it did those things well. It also inspired fear. Bone-deep, icy fear that clawed at the spine and twisted the stomach, and as Ellana stepped from her carriage and regarded the magnificent work of his magic, she felt that fear.

That terror.

Magic had built this castle. The magic of the ancients, once lost and now resurrected. By the man she’d called Solas. The man who was Fen’Harel.

That one name was enough to bring out a host of feelings in her, and fear was the least of them. Her emotions roiled inside of her, a confusing mass of sensation that left her dizzy and weak, and she hated feeling weak. If only she had time to sort through her thoughts.

Time.

He tantalized her with promises of time, coming to her in dreams as he swept across Thedas with his armies. If she would just give in to him, if she would come to him, if she would love him once again, he would give her immortality. He held her in her dreams, possessed of a strength she hadn’t seen in him before, and he’d stroked her hips, her back, her breasts. “Come to me, vhenan’ara, give yourself to me, and I will give you immortality and freedom and a heritage of pride.”

She’d spat in his face. “Look what pride has wrought,” she had snarled, and that dream had dissolved.

But he was nothing if not persistent. Night after night, he had slipped into her dreams, sometimes to whisper promises, sometimes to tease her body to the point of madness, and sometimes to gloat over all he’d done. How Fen’Harel had brought nations to their knees, causing mighty Tevinter to crumble and proud Ferelden to fracture. Orlais, he promised, was next. Unless…

Unless.

Ellana lifted her chin, set her expression into one of stony indifference. She refused to be cowed by his glory, even if she had, at last, agreed to his terms. Her hand in return for peace. She was bartering her body and soul for all of Thedas.

And some dark, awful part of her delighted in it. Her body thrilled to the knowledge that he wanted her so desperately that he would stop his tireless march in exchange for her. The death would stop because she was giving herself over to him. A god desired her beyond all other things.

She took a shuddering breath, horrified at the ache between her legs. It was Fen’Harel who wanted her, the architect of her people’s destruction and, now, the vehicle for their salvation.

Closing her eyes, she took a minute to compose herself.

She was alone, without any of her companions to offer council. She hadn’t dared bring them when she finally gave into his summons. She knew what they thought of him. Half of them wanted to crush him and were still dedicated to resisting him at every turn. The other half simply despised him.

“God or no god,” Vivienne had said with fury lacing her tone, “I will not bow to him.”

A hand touched her elbow, reminding her that she wasn’t truly alone. She allowed herself a moment of fantasy, that the hand belonged to Cassandra. Cassandra would murmur a line from the Chant, tell her she was strong, tell her she was making the right choice. But it wasn’t Cassandra’s hand. The hand’s owner was the only person Ellana’s honor guard.

Once the Hero of Ferelden, now Fen’Harel’s general.

Exerting a subtle pressure, General Mahariel urged her forward. Opening her eyes, forward she went.

In their traveling together, the General hadn’t spoken a single word to her. There were stories that spoke of the Hero as a quiet soul, so Ellana hadn’t expected great amounts of conversations. Maybe a few traded pleasantries. Instead, she hadn’t even received a hello.

Mahariel guided her into the great palace. Its insides were as grand as its outsides, all glittering and glimmering and, quite frankly, breathtaking. Overwhelming. The vaulted ceilings were so high she half expected to see clouds gathered at their peaks. Instead, the ceilings were painted to look like the sky, and starlight glittered in their far reaches.

Magic crackled over her skin. Even a warrior like her could feel it. It pressed all around her, a static force. It tickled her naked arms, ghosted up her legs, curled against her thighs. She stopped walking abruptly, taking long, slow breaths to steady herself. The magic felt like his. She knew well what it felt like when he touched her with the Fade, when he bent the Veil around her to caress her and leave her gasping. How many times had he done that to her in dreams? How many times had he sat, just watching, as he brought her to quaking orgasms with nothing more than the force of his will.

She swallowed a whimper, and still Mahariel said nothing.

So she straightened her back. She took a deep breath, inhaling sharply through her nose and ignoring the spice of his magic on the air. Lacing her fingers before her – ostensibly to appear composed, but truthfully to hide their shaking – she strode forward to meet her destiny.

Destiny, it turned out, was even more breathtaking than she could have imagined. Some part of her expected his throne room to be gaudy to better show off his power. It was not. It was simple, understated, made of white marble threaded through with rich veins of emerald. Golden mosaics on the walls were inspired by those they’d seen in the Temple of Mythal but were clearly crafted by Orlesian hands. They depicted scenes of elven liberation and magic. They depicted him, in his glory. But nothing about the mosaics was tacky. Nothing about any of it was tacky.

All around the throne room, conversations died. The words simply dried up, turning to ash that floated away on a cold wind. Just like her freedom. But this was the duty of a Keeper, and Ellana had no illusions about who and what she was. She was no mage, but she was Thedas’s Keeper now, and Keepers stood between the Dread Wolf and their people. She stood between him and Thedas.

As her eyes swept over the people, her heart broke. There was Tevinter’s once might Archon, now a trembling, broken man. There were rings of scars all over his body, as though someone had tried to flay him. Across from him, the King and Queen of Ferelden. They watched her with hollow eyes. Accusing eyes. If you had done this sooner, they seemed to say, our people would not have suffered and died.

She had failed.

Worst of all was the sight of Celene. Because when Ellana saw Celene, she realized that Orlais was not the last bastion of a dying world. Orlais had fallen long ago, and Celene… Celene was a shell of herself. Gone was the mighty, assured Empress. In her place stood a woman who wore the trappings of royalty without any of the power.

Briala stood beside his throne in the position of a favored retainer, and Ellana had a moment of clarity. Briala had been the first.

Finally, Ellana’s gaze shifted to him. Once Solas, now Fen’Harel, and her breath caught in her throat. He had turned from a missive held in Briala’s hands, straightening slowly. His every motion was grace given physical form. Power dripped from him, distorting the air around him. Gone was the unassuming apostate. The man on the ironwood throne, wearing cloth of gold and a cloak of midnight, crowned with flame, was a god.

His expression didn’t change from one of mild interest as he rose.

All around her, the court went to its knees. Ellana’s eyes darted from face to face, finding rage and hatred on some and devout reverence on others.

“Welcome home, my queen,” he said, striding down the dais. He stopped when he stood an arm’s length from her and extended his hand.

For Thedas, she reminded herself, but she was unable to keep her face as blank as his. He regarded her with the same kind of curiosity one reserved for ants. She felt her expression twist into one of pain.

She hated him. She loved him. She craved him. She despised him.

For Thedas.

She put her hand in his.

His eyes softened with heat and longing, and he drew her close. With barely any space between them, his magic curled around her like a palpable force. It swept over her skin, caressing her cheeks, her throat, the daring neckline of her gown. He’d give her the dress. She’d worn it as a sign of her submission, but she detested it.

“Andaran atish’an, vhenan’ara,” Fen’Harel said to her in a voice so low it rumbled between them. His eyes raked over her, lingering on the swells of her breasts.

“You summoned me,” she returned, trying not to stiffen at his greeting. Trying not to melt.

His brows rose. “Ah. I see it is to be like this between us.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushing her knuckles across his lips. His tongue flicked against her skin and she ground her teeth together, ignoring the flood of wet heat between her legs. “It need not be, ma vhenan.”

“You made it this way,” she said tightly, “when you abandoned me only to come sweeping across Thedas, killing everyone who stood in your way.”

“An act of justice for our people.”

“Murder.” She whispered the word, sharing it with no one except him. “Murderer.”

A grin tipped up his lips, but it was not kind. “You see yourself as Thedas’s Keeper though you are not a mage. You view this as a failing. You did not fail, vhenan’ara, this was as inevitable as the changing of the tides.” His thumb brushed over her palm, drawing circles against her flesh, and she shuddered at the prickling heat he conjured beneath her skin.

“You crushing Thedas beneath your heel? Doing to the humans what they did to us?”

“No,” he said, nonplussed. He leaned forward, into her space. The magic that wreathed him curled around her breasts, stroking her nipples through the thin fabric, and she sucked in a sharp breath. She strangled a whimper in the back of her throat as the fingers of his freehand brushed over her cheek. “You coming to me.” He chuckled lightly, softly. “And, soon, for me. I have long dreamed of this day.”

Drawing away from her but not releasing her hand, leaving her trembling and all but panting, he turned to his court. “Let us celebrate,” he called. “Let us feast, for our empress has come at last.” And then, shifting close to her, he murmured, “Come, vhenan’ara.”

Fire washed through her, fierce and sudden, and his magic pressed between her legs. She would have stumbled if he hadn’t taken her arm. Gasping, she clung to him as an orgasm tore through her, sudden and impossible to hold out against.

She lifted her eyes to him, not sure if she should be starting at him with fury or lust, and she found him gazing back with barely concealed lust. “Come,” he said again, gently, and an echo of the pleasure rolled through her, making her legs tremble as he brought her to his throne.

Throughout the wedding, which was vaguely Dalish, and the feast, which was also vaguely Dalish, he toyed with her. He fed her from his own fingers, leaned close to whisper filthy promises in her ear, and used his magic to stroke and caress every inch of her body. She could barely lift her goblet of wine she shook so badly, and when he noticed, he plucked the glass from her hands.

“Allow me,” he murmured, and he lifted it to her lips.

She despised his proprietary behavior, as if he had the right to bring her food and drink. What made it worse was that, now, bound to him, he did have the right. It was his right and his right alone, and there wasn’t a single person in the throne room who would stop him.

“Why do you tremble so?” he asked her as he brushed his thumb over the corner of her lip. His long-fingered hand curled around the back of her neck. Slid between her shoulders. The gown he’d chosen had no back, so his caress fell on naked skin.

“Fuck you,” she breathed, arching away from his touch.

Something like a tongue licked her inner thigh. Fingers of magic caught the crotch of her smallclothes, pushing inside to stroke through the swollen, wet lips of her cunt.

“I plan to.” His voice was so steady. So assured. As if he wasn’t using his magic to wring pleasure from every inch of her body. In public. Where his defeated enemies watched. “Slowly, Ellana.” It was the first time he’d spoken her name. “So very slowly.” He brushed his lips over her ear. “Ellana.”

She went rigid, clenching her hands into fists in her lap. The tongue licking her thigh turned inward. Apparently cloth was no barrier for magic because the tongue swept through her folds without any hindrance, and she gasped softly, all her muscles tightening even more.

“Ellana.”

“Enough,” she spat. “I’m your wife, your empress, at least treat me with respect.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he drew away from her. His hand lingered on her back, but the magic pressing against her cunt withdrew. “You are right, Empress,” he murmured, and he lifted a fruit from her plate, offering it to her.

After a second’s hesitation, she closed her lips around his fingers. Tit for tat, she figured, tucking the fruit to one side of her mouth. Her tongue swept over the tips of his fingers. Her teeth grazed his skin. When she released his fingers to bite into the fruit, he was watching her with wolf-like intensity, his eyes hooded. “Do not tempt me,” he said softly.

The remainder of the feast passed slowly for her, dragging by in agonizingly slow measures. His hand never left her back, and instead of being a comfort it gave her a sense of dread. Soon enough, that hand would be on her hips, her breasts. Between her legs. Before he’d returned, before he’d left her, he’d teased her mercilessly in the Fade, touching her until she screamed for him. But never once had he done anything but kiss her in the physical world.

No one had done anything more than kiss her in the physical world.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to bed someone. In the Clan, there had never been time, and then once she became Inquisitor, it had always been him, and he had always been very strict about where they drew the line for physical intimacy. After him, she’d had Cullen and Blackwall both being incredibly solicitous, but she could never bring herself to do more than kiss either of them. It just seemed wrong.

And now he was leading her down a shimmering hallway into a room draped with fluttering strips of cloth, a room where the light came from the walls themselves. There were no windows, only gorgeous, vaulted arches, and though it the night was chill, warmth seeped from the very stones beneath their feet.

Neither of them, she realized with a start, were wearing shoes.

He led her to the massive bed in the center of the room. Circular, it had no head or foot, but was laden with sumptuous blankets, pillows made from silk and velvet with gilded fringe.

For Thedas, she reminded herself as he stopped beside the bed.

He released her, lifting his hands to her face. Tilting her head back, he gazed at her with a soul-shaking tenderness, his eyes soft and gentle. He was so much taller than she was, towering over her.

The wicked part of her mind whispered, For you, Ellana.

Beside him, she was so small, so vulnerable. She once thought she was physically stronger than him, but she doubted that was true. He had magical and physical strength, the wisdom of ages, and she had nothing.

“You are terrified,” he observed, and she was.

With him staring down at her, she already felt naked. Her limbs trembled, feeling weak in a way she’d never felt weak before. Even standing before Corypheus, she hadn’t felt like this. Like she was giving away part of herself. It was for the greater good, everything she did was for the greater good. Part of her would die in this room, in his arms, so that everyone else could live. So the fighting would end.

Life was a series of sacrifices. Either you sacrificed yourself or someone else, but in the end, someone had to go to the knife. All she could hope for was a quick death.

Withdrawing his hands, he stepped away from her. She watched him, swallowing hard, trembling as her stomach twisted and turned. All the food he’d fed her burned the back of her throat, but she forced it back down. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her throw up. Then she thought maybe she should. Maybe it would turn him off her.

But she didn’t want to turn him off her. She just wanted things to go back to how they were before all of this, back to the times when he slipped into her dreams. When he—

All the breath left her. He had dropped his midnight cloak and shrugged out of his golden tunic revealing a body that could only be described as perfect. Seeing him in the Fade was one thing. In the Fade, things could be manipulated. He could manipulate them. Reality was… She licked her lips.

How was she supposed to hate him when he was everything she wanted?

“Ask me questions, ma vhenan,” he said as he settled on a padded bench. He didn’t look at her, but she didn’t feel as though he were being dismissive. Rather, as he unwound the lacing around his ankles and calves, he was offering her privacy. Or keeping his. “Let us relearn one another.”

She bit back a waspish first question. Demanding to know why he razed half of Thedas wouldn’t do either of them any favors. Instead, she asked, “How much older than me are you, then?”

He paused, his fingers hovering over his calves. Then he straightened, turning to her with a look of dry amusement. “I make many mountain ranges look young.”

“Cradle robber,” she muttered.

The most miraculous thing happened. He threw back his head and he laughed, a full, rich sound that made colors ripple through the air. She tasted those colors on her tongue, bursts of bright citrus, and felt them like silk against her naked arms and chest. Heat unfurled in her belly, a warm rush of need and want that had her panting.

“Was there ever any doubt?” he asked her when his laughter subsided.

She was still too stunned to answer.

He rose from his chair, naked except for his trousers, and he passed her, moving toward one of the walls. A mural covered it. A living mural of a great forest that stretched for miles, so real she thought she might be able to step into it. He touched it, brushing his fingers over the wall, and the scent of pine filled the room.

“Another question, perhaps,” he said, and he turned back to her, padding slowly toward her. He moved… simply. Still elegant, but not predatory. It was a man’s walk, not a god’s. It set her at ease.

“Do I call you Solas or Fen’Harel?”

“Are you asking who I am or which I prefer?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Solas was a mask you wore to bear your shame,” she said softly.

“Just so,” he agreed.

The setting sun poured scarlet and violet light across the room, across him, painting him in fire and midnight. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to see if his skin burned or froze, but she was afraid to. Afraid of what she might feel if she did. She wanted him, desperately, but he was still the Dread Wolf. She was Thedas’s Keeper. By that logic, she really should just give in to him.

“Fen’Harel,” she breathed, testing the name.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her chin. This time, when their gazes met, his was full of hunger. Desire. Heat flared in her in response, and he inhaled sharply. “Let me show you that it will not be such a burden to be my wife,” he murmured, his fingers sliding over her jaw, along the length of her ear. She shivered, allowing him to draw closer. “My Empress.”

She licked her lips, a flick of her tongue over dry skin, and he groaned softly. It was a sound of need, of weakness, of helplessness, and it made more of that delicious, electric heat crackle through her. A god wanted her. She made a god weak.

“Allow me to taste you, vhenan’ara.”

He’d moved so close that his chest brushed the tips of her breasts, a tantalizing tease. “Yes,” she whispered, hating herself for giving in. A Keeper stood against the Dread Wolf, and here she was giving in to him in the most primal and elemental way.

His mouth brushed over hers. It was hardly a kiss at all, just a simple caress. A strangled sound escaped her. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and drag him against her. She’d never had the patience for these sorts of kisses, these light, teasing, ephemeral things. When she kissed someone, she liked fire and heat, passion and torment. She wanted his arms banded around her like iron, wanted him to crush her to his body as he pressed her to the bed, parted her legs, and—

Wrenching back, gasping, she pressed a hand to her chest, staring at him. Such a light touching of lips should not inspire such a conflagration. But more than that, the ferocious depths of her desire terrified her more than he did. She wanted him beyond reason, with all the strength of her spirit, and it made her shudder with uncertainty and fear.

“Ma vhenan, my Empress,” he said, so gently, so kindly.

“I…” She choked on the words. “You…” She’d faced dragons and darkspawn and terrors untold, and the simple act of going to bed with a man frightened her more than all of them.

Because he wasn’t just a man. He was a god, the one she had been taught to respect and fear more than any other. And he was the man – the god – that she loved. With everything she was, she loved him, and that should make this easier. That should make giving herself to him simple. But there was all the hurt, all the pain, and the deep, yawning stretch of the unknown.

“What frightens you so?” he asked softly. He hadn’t put his hands on her yet. Though he stood achingly close to her, if she stepped back, his arms wouldn’t cage her. His eyes searched her face, bright with wisdom, and then he let out a quiet sound of comprehension. Of wonder. “Virgin.” He uttered the word with no small measure of awe.

Balking, she turned away from him, even though she was acutely aware of how close they were. How every breath brushed her breasts against his chest. How their breath mingled in the space between their bodies. “It doesn’t mean anything. I wasn’t…” She choked on the words. She hadn’t been saving herself for him. Before he left, she had fully intended on him being her first, but after that she just hadn’t wanted anyone else. It hadn’t seemed right.

One of his hands cupped the back of her head, his fingers sliding into her hair. He turned her gaze back to his, and his eyes were full of banked heat. Of want. Of predatory desire. She began to tremble.

“No, no,” he murmured, settling one hand on her hip. In spite of all the lust in his gaze, his touch wasn’t heavy. It was possessive, but not caging. He would let her run if she so chose.

Of course, he would probably chase her. And like it. She knew better than to run from a predator, from a wolf, so she remained in his hold, still like a deer.

“I’m not who I have or haven’t slept with,” she finally said, her voice strangled. She fisted her hands in the gauzy fabric of her skirt, twisting it, wringing it.

His teeth flashed. A feral grin. Animalistic. Unnatural. So much more than elven. “You are mine,” he growled, and he bent his face to hers, brushing his lips against hers in another of those wispy, ephemeral kisses. His gazed fixed on her own eyes, and she released her skirts to brace her hands against his chest.

He felt like fire against her palms. Fire fierce and deadly, like the sun had taken up residence in his form.

“People don’t belong to people,” she whispered against his mouth, shocked that she was arguing with a god.

“My Empress,” he returned, his voice like gravel, rough-edged and jagged. He stepped closed, into her, and she felt the hard line of his cock against her body.

Suddenly, she was in a memory, in the Fade, with him wrapped around her, kissing her, whispering the sweetest things against the point of one ear. His heart, his love, the breath in his lungs, the light by which he saw. His hope, his joy, his relief, his succor. He rubbed against her in that memory, her legs around his waist, their clothes a flimsy barrier between them. And then she was back with him, truly with him, in his arms. His lips were hot on hers, tongue tracing the line of her mouth.

She opened for him, needing that kiss to quench the fire he stoked inside her. Her arms slid around his neck, drawing him to her, against her, and it was all too much and not enough. She thought she might sob with relief that she was holding him again. That he was holding her. That it was real.

The minute his tongue touched hers, he changed. He all but dragged her against him, wrapping one arm around the small of her back so she couldn’t escape. She felt the strength in his embrace, so much greater than any man’s had a right to be, and her body answered it with a flood of wet heat and burning need. He snarled softly into the kiss, the sound one of delight not violence, and he moved her, pushed her, crowded her until her legs hit his massive bed.

Together, wrapped around one another, they tumbled down. He twisted to take the brunt of the fall, landing on his back with her on his chest, and still he kissed her. He devoured her. His tongue swept into her mouth and consumed her with a passion that stole her breath. With him, she didn’t need to breathe. He was all the air she needed.

She was trembling when he finally drew away from the kiss, his hand still in her hair, and it wasn’t from fear or uncertainty. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her, because he looked at her like there was no one else alive in Thedas. Like it was just the two of them. Like there was no such thing as time or conflict or anything else.

“I need to see you,” he said, and though it was a god’s command it sounded like the plea of a desperate man.

It gave her strength. Not the kind of strength it took to swing a sword or lift a shield, but the strength that women held over men, a sexual power of mystery and allure. The power of pleasure promised by the hollows of her body.

Straddling him, she pushed herself up, freezing when the motion brought her into contact with his cock. There were still his trousers and her smalls between them, but that pressure, that rub, arrested her entirely. She gasped, palms flat on his chest, eyes fluttering shut. Slowly, carefully, she rocked against his cock, like she had in so many dreams, and a little moan escaped her.

“Later, ma vhenan,” he said roughly, grasping her hips and stilling her.

“Now,” she insisted, trying to move in spite of his hands and not succeeding in the slightest. He was too strong, too firm, too everything.

“Later,” he said again, rising, trapping her against his chest. “Your gown. Remove it.”

She shot him what she hoped was a venomous look as she started shrugging out of the dress. The sleeves were just caps on her arms, there was no back so there were no buttons. It was a gown for an elven queen, something he’d commissioned and sent to her. Truthfully, it seemed made for slipping into, and out of, easily.

“No.” He stilled her with gentle hands, but his expression was intense. Intent. “You have me in your power, my Empress.” He leaned close, tipping his head to the side and kissing her softly, lingering for a moment. “Kill me with it,” he breathed against her mouth.

She was panting when he drew back, a little dazed by his words. Then, slowly, she rolled her shoulder and drew one of the straps down her arm.

A quiet groan escaped him, and his eyes followed the path of the sleeve. Watched her arm pull free. Fixed on the place her scandalous décolletage started to gape and sag. His lips parted as though he were about to speak, but he didn’t. He simply turned his gaze to her other arm and waited.

There again was that feeling of power. Of control.

Emboldened by his rapt attention, she pushed lightly on his chest. “Down,” she said. He gave her an arch look, and though it pained her, she added, “Please.”

“As my Empress asks,” he murmured, and he stretched himself across the bed, still watching her fixedly. Hungrily.

Astride him still, she felt the hardness of his cock rubbing between her legs, and she had to steel herself against the faint, burgeoning pleasure of it.

Slowly, she stroked her hand over her shoulder, dragging the sleeve with it, her fingertips trailing along her skin. She gasped softly, back arching, surprised by how her own touch sent pleasure feathering through her. When she released the fabric, her bodice sagged, falling away from her breasts. They were firm and high but terribly small, and she’d always been self conscious about them.

He stared at her breasts like they were the humans’ Golden City, like they were the most beautiful things he’d ever beheld. So she lifted her arms above her head, struggling against shyness, and arched her back.

A string of Elvish she couldn’t understand flowed from his mouth, and then his mouth was on her, on her breast, sucking her deep. She cried out, stunned by the shock of pleasure that tore through her, by the sudden fire that burst in her veins. Her body curled toward his, her head bowing over his own, and she shuddered as he suckled her, as his teeth worried one hardened nub. He bit her, just hard enough to hurt, then soothed the pain with a stroke of his tongue, and she was panting, gasping, barely capable of breathing.

“Fen’Harel.” She whispered his name, and he groaned against her breast, turning to the other. His hands swept up her side, lifting her breasts for his teeth and tongue and kisses. His hips shifted under hers, and she couldn’t stop herself from grinding against him. Rubbing over him. The motions were instinctive, needy, and felt so damn good.

Reality exceeded everything he’d ever done to her in the Fade. Which, admittedly, hadn’t been much. Their clothes had never come off. He’d never seen her. Never touched her like this.

His arms came around her, and he bore her gently down to the bed. Then he rose over her, staring, taking her in. The shyness overcame her then, and she started to cross her arms over her breasts.

“No,” he said firmly, catching her wrists in his hands. “Don’t hide from me, ma vhenan, my Empress.” He paused, briefly, before adding, “If you do, I will bind you to my bed. Let me drink in your beauty. Let me feast on the sight of your body.”

Her body flushed with heat at the same time her mind suddenly screamed protests at her. This was Fen’Harel. This was the man who slaughtered his way to his throne. Who had betrayed her. Who loved her, the forgiving part of her whispered. “Who talks like that?” she said aloud, her voice embarrassingly breathless.

He arched a brow. “I do. Hmm.” He ran his palm over one of her breasts, and she arched into the touch mindlessly, already addicted to the reality of him. “Hands above your head, Empress.”

She hesitated for just a moment before obeying, lifting her arms and dropping them above her head as commanded. His eyes swept over her, over her breasts and the toned musculature of her stomach. His fingers followed his eyes, dipping into the valley between her breasts and then following those lines of muscle. “You were always magnificent,” he murmured. “You still are.”

His fingers dug into the fabric of her gown and he pulled it down her legs in a single motion, pulling her smalls with the dress, and he tossed both aside. Leaving her naked. She cried out in surprise, feeling suddenly, terribly vulnerable. But instead of leaning back to stare at her, he stretched over her, curling her against him, and he kissed her.

He kissed her for what felt like hours. The tension in her melted away, replaced by sweet fire. Her body pressed against his, molded itself to his form, and he laughed into her mouth. She whimpered in response. One of his hands curled over her naked hip, pulling her leg over his, spreading her, opening her, and it didn’t frighten her. Instead, she arched against him as he ran his tongue over her lips, into her mouth. She moved sinuously against his body, his cock trapped hard and hot between them, and she moaned softly, eagerly.

“Please,” she whispered into their kiss, the fire inside her becoming too much. Too strong.

“Ah, my sweet Empress, what need have we to rush?” he asked, but he urged her onto her back, settling between her legs. Open-mouthed kissed scalded her neck, her chest. He laved her nipples with a rough tongue, and she shivered against him, whimpering. His hands swept over her sides, curling around her hips, and he rubbed himself against her, the friction of his clothing almost unbearable against her sensitive cunt.

His tongue traced the lines of her muscles. His teeth bit the arch of her hipbone. Then he drew back. He looked at her, splayed and open before him, and there was nothing but desire in his eyes. Hot, hungry desire, and she was too fascinated by it to be ashamed of her nakedness, of her openness.

One of his knuckles brushed over the outside of her sex, stroking her, and the electric pleasure of it bowed her back. She cried out, feeling as though she’d come out of her skin, and anxiety, sharp and terrible, replaced pleasure. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist to stop him.

“Release me, ma vhenan,” he said so softly she nearly missed the words.

Her eyes flew to his, and she realized she was pushing him. She didn’t want to push him. Well, that was a lie. She wanted to shove back against him. Maybe grasp his cock and stroke it to repay him for that caress between her legs. She wanted more power. More control. With his every touch, he stripped control from her even as he gave her power. Power over him.

“I…” How could she tell him the intensity of this was overwhelming her? Subsuming her? She felt like she was drowning, and it was wonderful and terrible at the same time. “I can’t.”

“This is no different from the Fade,” he said, prying her hand off his wrist. He kissed the tip of each of her fingers and then set her hand aside.

“I wasn’t naked there,” she whispered breathlessly, staring at his face like he was a solid anchor.

He slipped off the bed, and she didn’t know whether to feel relieved or bereft. But then his hands were at the sash holding up his trousers, pulling the knot free. He tossed the red slash of fabric aside, and she stared as he began stepping out of his trousers. Then she turned away, but not before she saw his cock, hard between his legs.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to focus on breathing. But breathing was next to impossible. She wanted him but was afraid of him, she loved him but she detested what he’d done. No, no! She was giving herself to him to save Thedas, not because she cared. Not because she wanted. Not because she desired.

She certainly didn’t want to see him naked.

What a lie that was.

She felt him settle beside her, felt his naked skin on hers. “Now we’re both naked,” he murmured. “Does that help?”

“No.”

His mouth found her ear, and she shivered as he traced the shell of it with his tongue. He took the point of it into his mouth, sucking lightly, and she whimpered. At the same time, his hand settled on her belly, and her eyes flew open as it crept lower. But curiosity kept her silent.

“I dreamed of touching you,” he murmured as he released her ear, as he kissed the tip. “Of dipping my fingers between your legs and finding you wet with your need for me.” She trembled as his fingers curled over her mound, slipping between the swollen lips of her sex. “I have often wondered what I would do to find you—” He broke off with a growl. “Wet,” he hissed, and she moaned as his fingers stroked her, teased her.

“Wonder no more,” she said breathlessly as he began a ruthless perusal of her body.

“Indeed.” He kissed her cheek, the corner of her lips. “Look at me, my Empress. Let me see your face.”

Shaking, she obeyed him as his fingers stroked her, caressed her, traversed every inch of her. He was meticulous but not dispassionate. Every time he coaxed a quiet moan or whimper from her, a restless, needy sound broke from him. His brows drew together, his lips parting. She bit hers, not to hold sound in or for any logical reason. Just because. It made him growl.

Then he slipped one finger inside her. She cried out, grabbing his shoulders hard enough to bruise, her nails digging crescents into his skin, and he snarled, dragging her against his chest. His finger curled inside her, moving hard and fast against tender, sensitive flesh, and she cried out again, her head falling back as her eyes drifted shut. All she could feel was the pleasure, the burning intensity of it, of him.

He whispered to her in Elvish as he stroked her, caressed her, as he burned her with that single finger inside her. She didn’t know the words, but she didn’t need to. She understood his intent. Either he was complimenting her or speaking filth, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was how he was touching her. It was so much more than having her own fingers inside her, so different. So surprising. He did things she’d never tried, stirring her, pressing against her, curling that finger against one spot that made her scream.

“Fen’Harel!”

He snarled against her neck, slipping another finger into her. His fingers stretched her, and there was a shocking, obscene pleasure to that. She let out a keening wail that transformed into his name and then into senseless pleas for more.

She thought he’d bring her to a swift completion.

Wrong. She was so wrong.

He tormented her, thrusting into her and building the pressure but never letting it overwhelm her. She was drowning in it, swept up in it, suffocating in it, but it was wonderful. He was wonderful, and she’d never known. She hadn’t guessed she would find this in the Dread Wolf’s arms, this pleasure, this mindless, aching need.

As he worked her body over, as she arched and twisted and begged senselessly for him to give her completion, he pressed his mouth to her ear. “Beautiful,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Indescribably beautiful. You are perfection, vhenan’ara, my Empress, my wife, and you are mine.” He snarled the word. “No one else shall ever have you. No one else will touch you, taste you, fill you. You belong to me.”

“Yes, yes,” she chanted, beyond any sense of arguing with him.

“My name, Ellana.” He all but purred her name, dragging it out with sinfully rounded vowels. Her body rippled around him, and he laughed, the sound delighted. “My name, and I will give you everything.”

Arching into his hand, trying desperately to get him to touch some nameless place inside her, she whispered, “Fen’Harel.”

His thumb brushed over her clit, his fingers curled, and she came with a shattered, broken cry. Pleasure coursed through her, burned her, scalded her. It devoured her body and left her empty and formless, a piece of clay for him to remake.

Before her orgasm died, he was between her legs, spreading them wide with his hands and dipping his head. She tried to stop him, to tell him not to, but then his tongue touched her, and she was lost. Oh, she was lost to everything except him, except his touch, except the sheer agony of him.

He consumed. He devoured. His tongue ran over every part of her sex until she was shuddering and trembling beneath him, until she was barely sensible. Every thought of resisting him was gone, replaced by the singular need to have him. To be had by him.

She reached out blindly, her back bowed as she gasped his name, and he laced his fingers with hers, his thumb tracing the scar of the Anchor on her palm. She cried out, gasping, for that simple touch made her burn brighter, hotter. He laughed against her, and the sound resonated inside her, shattering her, breaking her into a thousand little pieces as she came undone for him again and again, until she lost all sense of anything but the endless pleasure.

It was dark when he slid up her body, still holding her hand. It was midnight when he finally eased into her. “Ar lath ma, vhenan’ara,” he whispered against her mouth, and she drank in the words, unable to repeat them for her murmurs of more. More of him, more of his pleasure, more of everything he could possibly give her.

There was no pain when he was finally inside her, no discomfort. Only glorious, impossible fullness. She rolled her hips against him to test the feeling, gasping with delight at the pleasure that sparked through her. Her revelation of ecstasy made him laugh again, and his laughter delighted her. She’d never seen him so pleased, so happy. But his eyes shone as he braced himself above her and thrust slowly into her, taking his time taking her.

He brought her hand to his cheek, nuzzling against her palm, and then he kissed the green slash of light. It flickered, crackled. Then he licked the mark, and she whimpered, staring at him.

Releasing her, he bent his head to her lips, teasing her with promises of kisses but making good on none of them. She chased him as he thrust into her, his pace even and steady, until the friction of his cock in her became too much to ignore. Then she wrapped herself around him and pleaded for more, for something, for some end to their dance.

“Do you want it to end?” he asked her, his lips brushing her ear again. “I could make love to you until the sun rose over the mountains and bathed us in its light. I could make love to you until days turned to weeks, my Empress.”

She gasped, straining beneath him. Sweat slicked their bodies, and they slid together so sweetly, so perfectly, but it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want…”

“What do you want?”

She wanted to come with his cock inside her, but he was denying her that, keeping her on the edge. She wanted him as mindless as she was.

So she did the only thing that seemed logical. She bit him, digging her teeth into the unyielding flesh of his shoulder, and he howled. Her name echoed through his room, and then he was moving against her, driving into her, his hands on her hips to hold her.

Elvish words spilled from his lips, and she understood some of them, more of them than she expected. He spoke of filling her, of completing her, of branding her with his essence. He snarled softly and dragged her mouth to his, murmuring more words into their kisses as one hand slid between them to find her clit.

He touched her, and with that touch, he ended her. Her world dissolved, and she drowned in the shattered pieces of it, crying out his name as her body clenched around him, rippled around him, grasped at him with greedy pulls to drag him deeper. And again he laughed, the god and the man jubilant and victorious.

“You are magnificent when you come,” he told her, still moving inside her, but now his thrusts were harried instead of measured. “Your sweet cunt squeezing me, your back arching, your gasps and moans.” A groan escaped him, then another. Then his hand closed hard on her hip and he jerked into her, his head falling back and his lips parting. He breathed her name as he came, as he spilled hot jets of his seed into her pliant, open body.

Her fingers curled over his shoulders, brushed over the base of his neck. “Yes, yes,” she whispered, awed by his face, by his pleasure, by the look of utter freedom and contentment he wore.

When he was finished, he dropped his forehead to hers, and for a time they stayed like that, still wrapped around each other. Their gazes locked, they simply breathed.

Then, softly, as if the words might break her if spoken to loud, he murmured, “I have waited ages for you, vhenan’ara. You are the heart that beats outside of my chest.”

She smiled at him tentatively, and because the world and its troubles seemed so far away, she said, simply, “You are everything.”

[incarnateirony]

Angry Old Gay: Spoken Word Collection

A collection of greatest hits of “shippers that think they’re LGBT activists by screaming queerbait or calling text subtext but are actually giant raging fucking homophobes or the trained monkeys of homophobes jumping through imaginary hoops to delete their own goddamn content while refusing to learn any history or how any of this shit works, but it sounded good when Karen said it”

(x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) 

Off the top of my head for ones to search for. And that’s not counting the giant rec list of queer media you can find under my LGBTQIA tag, though since I doubt anyone will watch all of it, seriously just watch The Celluloid Closet, fuck the rest, until then you’re banned from talking to me about “representation” or “queerbait.”

Most of these kids would have perished and screamed queerbait at deadass lgbt issue movies in 2010 much less the 90s.

And we wont even try to approach the 80s. They'd call it Bury Your Gays.

After, of course, arguing for 5-10 years if some biographical gay man was gay for us not seeing penetration while screaming that he's gay, covered in glitter. Or maybe during penetration. Because some other section would say he might be demi, even if he said he’s gay, or whatever the fuck, and then some other portion of fandom would say that in (party line of thought/country) it’s not gay if the moon is full and he could still identify straight when not orgasming so it doesn’t count or that some fuckball in (random area) doesn’t get it with their 20 friends so it’s all subtext.

I can not emphasize enough how infuriating this goddamn bullshit is that shipping fandom has crafted exploitatively into their dialogue, aided by extremized talking points that have zero connection to the conversation, in a conversation so swimming with HORRIBLY appropriated socially “woke” sounding dialogue from all sides being actively abused for whatever any given jackass wants to extort out of any given conversation on any given day, bounced around by victim posing while swiping at queer creators and content, oblivious to how the queer creators they flay struggle even when the creators plea straight to them, ears plugged to how these issues pan out in outerworld: other fandoms, gay or straight. How little faith I have in a single person involved in this completely manufactured hysteria having even attended a general local low key pride event, much less any sort of organized petition or motion. No, Change.org doesn’t accomplish shit but making you feel good.

I’ve had someone say, without irony, that Bobo Berens, the LGBT author that was writing about incrementalization of moderate queer content to gain liberal platform while half of this fandom was still learning how to read, who has a wide liberal activism record be it papertrails, or handcuff trails, or the shattered glass of pre-antifa resistance long before anybody thought it was cool to put on a black mask or banana suit -- of his body thrown between immigrants and ICE caught on candid camera -- that he, this LGBT middle aged man, writing in his own demographic, which barely has a voice in this fandom -- that “talk is cheap” according to self-admittedly ignorant random (maybe LGBT?) person who is not a man on tumblr, in regards to how he writes his own demo -- and walk is better -- while the person, in the same note-breath, admitted they didn’t know where any of this began or ended, and talked about their own feelings, and that they shouldn’t have to research these things. What vainglorious narcissistic garbage has been normalized in this fandom to vindicate this modern bullshit behavior, and over what? What?

Spare your answers justifying it on reblog until you’ve read all the posts linked. Because if you come back without reading a god damn thing I can and will just slap you with a screencap of whatever you refused to read or think about while claiming you’re here for a representation battle you won’t even invest an iota of effort into beyond bellowing online about what is, summarily, preferential explicit levels, rather than simple valid canon queer text written by queer activists for queer people under shitty circumstances, that you can simultaneously recognize while hoping for more, but I guess that sounds less righteous.

[swissmissficrecs]

Word count: 42,234 Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, OCs Additional Tags: Series 4 Fix-It, post-series 4, miscommunications, Angst, Drama, destination fic, POV: Sherlock, Romance, Virgin!Sherlock, Loss of Virginity, Misunderstandings, seemingly one-sided feelings, Case Fic, endless awkwardness Summary:

As locals on the Northeastern coast begin to report UFO sightings, life at Baker Street becomes significantly awkward as John brings up his desire for more than friendship and Sherlock refuses him. They embark on the investigation from the confines of the tiny cottage Mycroft has rented for them, attempting to navigate both the clues of the case as well as their own inability to communicate...

======

Rec: This fic pulls no punches whatsoever in expertly delivering an angst-ridden flaying open of all the wounds Sherlock and John have been carrying with them over the years, twisting the knife good and hard a few times, before getting down to the serious business of knocking some sense into them and pumping out those sweet, sweet Johnlock endorphins.

This really took me back to the core of what good Sherlock fan fiction is for me: a full-blown case investigation that highlights how well John and Sherlock work together while progressing their relationship. I really liked that rather than the tension stemming from misunderstandings as is so often the case in fics, this time it is rooted in too much understanding. That moment of confession, so often immediately followed by relief and intimacy, becomes the wedge that drives them further apart than ever. But it’s all to a purpose, and makes the eventual resolution that much more poignant and thrilling, with oodles of gentleness and fluff and soft tingly moments leading up to the exceptionally rewarding conclusion.

All round A-plus for every box, there is literally no way this fic could have been improved on.

[mister-tom-a-dildo-lover]

58 for Harry and 61 for a pre-Marauders Era Voldemort. 🙏

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Harrymort

Tags: Alternate Universe Altogether, Pre-Marauder’s Era, Jealous Voldemort, Misunderstandings, Gossip, Humor,

58: “I’d die for you. Of course I’d haunt you in the afterlife but really, it’s the thought that counts.”61: “I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.”

In his thirty-four years on this gods forsaken Earth, Tom Riddle, now called Lord Voldemort by his acquaintances and gathering followers, hadn’t ever been this angry.  And he’d witnessed the aftermath of London being bombed by muggles for years, had dealt with the hatred of a teacher all because he could speak to snakes, and was bullied during his first year at Hogwarts because of his filthy, muggle name.

All the anger he’d gathered during those times didn’t even compare to the present.

Abraxas Malfoy had just revealed that night at his family’s Yule Ball, that Hadrian Evans, a Halfblood who’d joined Slytherin a year after Tom did, was supposedly in a relationship with some other Halfblood who was sorted into Hufflepuff. A Hufflepuff for Merlin’s sake!

Evans had been a… comrade. Tom didn’t like using the word friend because friends were used as leverage in dangerous situations. Unfortunately, it was rather common knowledge that there was something extra between them as evidenced by Tom’s last year in school.

He’d never joined Tom’s acquaintances during their weekly meetings, and felt that his Knights were ridiculous, but he would study with Tom, and give him advice. He knew the ins and outs of the Magical world even if he denied it. He was a fascinating creature of habit with interesting, and conflicting opinions on everything.

They also may have become involved to a minor degree a few times and Abraxas had assumed they were exclusively seeing one another. That was not the case, not that Tom Riddle hadn’t wanted more. Not that he would ever say anything. Tom wasn’t one to speak first on his true emotions. He felt it a weakness ever since he’d once witnessed a little girl get verbally flayed for exposing her feelings. They were used against her and he learned to not do the same with others.

And eventually, with his leaving school and going to work in Diagon when he couldn’t acquire a job at Hogwarts, they grew apart. And eventually he went exploring in search of old magics and information to obtain levels of greatness no others had achieved and Hadrian stayed in England.

And now Tom was back and had finally gotten word of Hadrian’s movements recently. Only to find out that he was involved with another.

His possessive side demanded that he find this other person and eradicate their existence. The more mature side told him he should sway Hadrian’s heart his way instead. Less of a chance at earning Hadrian’s wrath that way, and Tom wasn’t so blind as to forget the boy had equaled him in Defence. The only person who had. He and Tom had also drawn in the Dueling Club meetings and neither ever lost to anyone else.

Hadrian worked at Hogwarts. As the new History of Magic professor. Binns was finally gone. And if he somehow managed to obtain a job there, they’d be around one another constantly. He needed the DADA job.

Harry blinked in shock at the man who sat in front of him. He hadn’t seen Tom in a long time and the man seemed to be doing well. He was still ridiculously attractive too.

“You want to work at Hogwarts?” he asked, a bit baffled. Surely Tom woudl prefer the Ministry?

“I was told I needed more experience. That was why I was not hired right out of school, Hadrian.”

Merlin, how he said Harry’s name shouldn’t be legal.

“Well, I am the Deputy Headmaster now. I was allowed to work here after graduation but Dumbledore is the Headmaster so I think that’s why. He won’t want you here and we both know it, so I can only give you a letter of recommendation to help you. You should contact your old professors for letters as well, and then we can bring your case to the Board of Governors. I know a lot of your friends have a hand in that and they would be able to overrule Dumbledore’s decision when he refuses to give you the Defence position.”

Dumbledore hated Tom. Sure he was a bit sketchy, but that was no reason to be so blatantly rude to him all the time. Harry by extension, wasn’t the biggest Dumbledore fan. Especially since in order to get back at Tom for whatever bad things he thought the boy was doing, he’d show ridiculous favouritism to the Gryffindors and it was aggravating.

“You are brilliant.”

He flushed, enjoying the man’s praise. His infatuation hadn’t died off it seemed. Wasn’t that lovely?

“I’m a Slytherin too, you know.”

According to Witch Weekly, Hadrian was seeming some man named Gerald Renaldi. Tom’s glare managed to burn a hole right through the magazine and he ended up tossing it in the rubbish. The photo on the cover had been too cheerful and comfortable to be anything but romantic.

“Woah, are you okay, Tom?”

He fixed a charming smile onto his face and greeted his old… flame as he joined him at the table. “I am well, thank you for being concerned. How are you on this day, dear Hadrian?”

The man flushed and smiled. “I’m doing pretty great.”

He hummed, thinking back to the article. “Planning the wedding?” He’d only asked out of pettiness. He hadn’t expected the answer he received.

“Yes and it is so much work!”

The fact that he was able to keep his temper in check so Hadrian never found out about his anger, meant he was unparalleled in self control. He deserved an Order of Merlin for such masterful faking.

“I have to say that planning a wedding is so difficult and I didn’t want any part in it but mum told me I absolutely had to help. But thank Circe it’s almost over. Saturday is the day.”

Voldemort was assaulted by visions of himself wringing a dragon’s obscenely long neck in frustration while Hadrian walked down the aisle. The mounting anger made his magic react in an unpleasant manner that was difficult to hide. It fizzled beneath the skin demandingly.

All these dinners recently and he’d had to listen to Hadrian complaining about wedding invitations and cake flavours and clours. He had a lot to say and was exhausted all the time because of his hand in it all. 

And he just couldn’t control himself anymore! He was jealous. He was bitter. He didn’t feel comfortable seeing Hadrian in photographs with strange men! He wanted to be the one making him smile so widely. He wanted to be the cause of it all.

Reaching out, Voldemort took hold of one of Hadrian’s clenched hands, getting a wide-eyed look in response. He’d never done this before and decided to treat it like removing a muggle plaster from a wound. Just get it over with all at once. “I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.”

There was a moment of staring between them, where he felt like taking a stroll through the Forbidden Forest and allowing the growing Acromantula Colony to have its way with him. But only for a moment.

Hadrian snorted then, and Voldemort couldn’t mask his offended expression.

“Oh Merlin, Tom!” the other man gasped, looking like he’d just been told the most hilarious joke. “I can’t believe you!”

“I honestly do not see the humour in this situation,” the growing Dark Lord confessed, put out by the response to his confession. It took a lot to admit his true feelings after all.

Hadrian’s bright green eyes glittered. “I’m not marrying anyone yet, Tom. My sister Lily however, has been having me help plan her wedding for months.”

Voldemort was gaping and he didn’t care. “But all the photos of you and Gerald Renaldi in the papers. Everyone literally says he is courting you.”

“Well he isn’t. I’m the most attractive teacher of Hogwarts currently, Tom. I’m more popular than Lily is. And they use photos of him and I while only using my surname to gain publicity. You’re such a goof.”

“How exactly, am I a ‘goof’?” he demanded, feeling offended and turned around.

“Because, Tom, I’d die for you. Of course I’d haunt you in the afterlife but really, it’s the thought that counts.”

Hadrian squeezed his hand back, having not moved during Voldemort’s minor conniption. “You sat here listening to me complain about a wedding for weeks, no doubt getting huffy and puffy over it, and didn’t decide to speak up until a week before the wedding you thought was mine. You are a bit of a twat, Tom. Could have saved us both the trouble.”

He was not a twat.

“At least I can now ask you to accompany me to the wedding.”

A/N: This was fun! ^-^

[werefallen]

GET TO KNOW ME TAG!

Thank you to @paperchimes for tagging me! This is pretty cool.

Rules: Answer 30 questions then tag 20 blogs you would like to know better

1. Nickname: Pris, but i do prefer Fallen or any other strange nickname really

2. Gender: Female

3. Star Sign: Two attached fish, also known as Pices

4. Height: Pretty damn short (*whispers* 160cm)

5. Time: Midnight, i refuse to sleep

6. Birthday: This year

7. Favorite Band(s): Not many favorite bands but if i had to choose, Panic! At the Disco, and that’s mostly the only band i listen to

8. Favorite Solo Artist(s): I listen to tons of EDM so Tristam, Rameses B, OVERWERK, Illenium, Fat Rat, Mario M, Flux Pavillion, Seven Lions, Noisestorm, Renegade, Mt Eden, Arkasia, Arkana are just a few to name. I do love Zella Day, K. Flay and Jon Bellion too with a dash of movie and video game soundtracks! (Portal 2 and Bastion anyone?)

9. Song Stuck In My Head: THE MAC AND CHEESE SONG FROM BARNEY THE PURPLE DINOSAUR WHY

10. Last Movie Watched: *SCREAMS* BLACK PANTHEEERR

11. Last Show I watched: Huh, im actually not suure... I dont watch alotta TV shows, maybe... an episode of black mirror? Its been a while.

12. When Did I Create My Blog: Approximately 7 years ago but ive only started posting like a week ago! Before posting art, i used this site to consume fandom content.

13. What Do You Post: My own art, which consists of either stupid things, actually good art, other people’s more amazing art and some concept design i do once in a while. I have a very high tendency to fall to shitposting and meme-ing my art so watch out

14. Last Thing I Googled: “Bodhi tree” That tree that Buddha sat under and gained enlightenment. Why? UHhh, comission... stuff.

15. Do You Have Any Other Blogs: Kindaaaa, i co-admin a phan group chat blog but im not very active in it. Hey, if theres anyone from the Phandom and from Asia! Check the gc out, youll get to connect!

16. Do you get asks: Nah, i just started, so asks are 0 to rare

17. Why Did You Choose Your URL: Okay this is gonna sound a little weird and some people have already figured it out, blast it. My pseudonym is Fallen, and i chose it for the sake of my love for eagles, birds and my past experiences in general. But of course, the username “Fallen” is almost always taken and “FallenEagle” sounded too edgy for me. So i thought about it, i wanted a mystical aspect to my name so i chose Were-  in front and there you have it! Hopefully my username isnt as weird as i think it is.

18. Following: 114 blogs, dear god (is that alot?)

19. Followers: 19! Still gaining momentum but im so happy for every follower ive gained! Its still mind-numbing to me that people are liking my art.

20. Favourite Colour(s): Purple, Black and Prussian blue! 

21. Average Hours Of Sleep: Im basically just riding it out at home so i can go between 8-12 and then fluctuate to 3. Im not the world’s healthiest person.

22. Lucky Number: 2! Or 3, actually.

23. Instruments: Wellll... I used to play the piano, but i got really lazy. Now the only instrument i play is making pat-pat noises on my dogs.

24. What Am I Wearing: Human skin

25. How Many Blankets Do I Sleep With: One, but i sleep with a jacket, yknow why? Because i turn my air conditioner down till im growing icicles and i love it that way.

26. Dream Job: Concept artist! Especially if i get a chance in movies or games or comics.

27. Dream Trip: Transported to a mystical world where every mythical animal exists and everything is fantasy-like and i get to ride a dragon somewhere in there. Oh, and get a giant eagle as a pet of course.

28. Favorite Food: If im hungry enough, i’ll eat the table while you watch.

29. Nationality: Malaysian! Please dont tell me im the only one here. Hello fellow Malaysians where are you??

30. Favourite Song Now: Ohhh tough one. But...I gotta give it to Sonder- Departure because its wonderfully relaxing and gives you a warm feeling in your chest.

Whats up @jamaxeriz, @adjournment, and @twogaysinapod! Have a go at it! And for anyone who sees this, feel free to do it yourself!

[mysnarkyself]

FicRec Meme

List 10 of your favourite fics that you would rec to other people. Each fic has to be from a different fandom. Then tag 10 people.

I was tagged by @moonstalker24

1. Snarry (Harry Potter/Severus Snape)

A Summer Inheritance by  Heather68 (M | 71463 words | Completed)

Harry thought his life would go back to normal once Voldemort was defeated, but on his 17th birthday he discovers a secret that will change his future. 

2. Klaine (Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson)

Little Numbers by heartwolf/iknowitainteasy (PG13 | 38688 words | Completed)

Blaine sends a text message to a wrong number by accident. Things progress from there.

3. Kurtbastian (Kurt Hummel/Sebastian Smith)

A Change in the Weather by cacophonylights (E | over 100k words | WIP)

The summer before college Kurt is shocked when Sebastian comes to him with a timely offer he can’t refuse.  He’ll get something he needs to realize his dreams, but in return he has to play the role of Sebastian’s boyfriend for the summer.  Neither of them know just how much their worlds are about to change. For a GKM prompt.

4. Nagron (Nasir/Agron)

The Gods Favor Me  by o_rcrist (M | 24010 words | Completed)

Agron returns to Nasir after the burning of the arena, and they both provide comfort and love to each other, while trying to keep the rebellion alive.

5. Andreil (Andrew Minyard/Neil Josten)

Lessons in Cartography by crazy_like_a (E | 121706 words | Completed)

Nora mentioned in her extra content that Neil slowly maps out Andrew's body and then this fic happened. Starts after The King's Men.

6. Sterek (Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale)

Three Marks by sanam (M | 113736 words | Completed)

"And then there was pain again, but this time it was in only three places—his arm, below his clavicle, and next to his heart, all on the left side. It felt like the skin was being sliced apart, ripped open, flayed off— And suddenly it was done. Derek looked across the room and saw the boy on the floor, looking about as bad as Derek felt."

Derek and Stiles learn that bonding is probably best done with ridiculous amounts of video games and maybe a little bit of time.

7. The Killing (Stephen Holder/Sarah Linden)

No Light by lipservice (thescariestadverbs) (G | 16075 words | Completed)

Holder and Linden stumble into a relationship while working on another case - set one year after season 3

8. Captive Prince (Damen/Laurent)

Kings Reign by idratherhaveyou (M | 191070 words | Completed)

Directly following the events of Kings Rising. Damen is on bed rest and Laurent is taking care of him. What follows is their story and the story of two kingdoms becoming one.

9. London Spy (Danny Holt/Alex Turner)

Spies and lovers, lies and covers by inthepapers3times (M | 40223 words | Completed)

Alex has been missing for a few days when Danny is mysteriously guided to his apartment. There, he makes a shocking discovery, and together with Alex is forced to run for his life. On the run, another discovery will flip his life upside down forever: Alex is a spy. Together, they need to figure out what's going on, who's after them, and most importantly, if they can still trust each other. Danny, as it turns out, has some secrets of his own...

10. CrissColfer (Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson)

I've Got A Fever (And the Cure is More Darren Criss), or, In Sickness and in Schmoop by Thentheyhadsex (E | 47000 words | Completed)

Chris is sick. Chris is totally, unequivocally, completely sick. It’s a good thing that he’s got four days off from filming, and apparently, Darren volunteering to be his personal nursemaid. He’s too sick to put up much protest, and suddenly Darren is staying at his apartment 24/7. And Chris… Chris is starting to realize he doesn’t mind this one bit.