#it feels wrong even writing it

[mistylacrimosa]

Jesus i've forgotten how hard they were gunning for the Seven x Chakotay ship the last few episodes of Voyager... first of all NO, JUST NO.

Second of all WHY?

[cyber-seaweed]

i feel like the wider internet should learn more about the kingdom hearts series bc going into it i expected sora to be wildly different to how he actually is. i expected like a boy madoka crossed with deku mha vibe. this is not sora. sora lands in a foreign world at 14 after having his destroyed with him on it and immediately starts a fight with cid. sora has to be held back by his disney dads multiple times because he wont stop taunting the organization because he wants to murder them more. sora is actively insane about his boy bestfriend and frankly if riku tried to run off anymore than he actually did i believe that little sora could have and would have resorted to kidnapping. like ya hes kind and empathetic but his friends are his power and if needed he will use said power to snap a bitch in half.

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[starssoblue]

“things were so hard with dad in recent years...how did he go from paparapluie to père? i wish i could face him and understand, but while he was still here i didn't dare try to tell him [any of my feelings] and now...it's too late.” * paparapluie is a pun on the words papa and parapluie (umbrella) since the plush is a frog. père is the french word for 'father.'

[lesbworth]

i feel like the tumblr perverts need to be aware of the forcefem novel written in 1901 by a trans woman patient of magnus hirschfeld, wherein:

a lesbian hypnotises her girly stepson into believing he is a woman

then she hypnotises his father her husband into shooting himself when he tries to stop her

then she proceeds to live as a man and convince her stepson that he is HER WIFE

AND THEN WHEN THE COUPLE WANT KIDS (AS SHE HYPNOTISED HIM TO) SHE HAS HIS CHILD AND CONVINCES HIM THAT HE GAVE BIRTH TO IT

AND DECIDES TO RAISE THE BABY AS A GIRL EVEN THOUGH IT WAS BORN MALE

AND THEN FINALLY ON HER DEATHBED CONFESSES EVERYTHING TO HER WIFE

WHO REFUSES TO BELIEVE ANY OF IT

the author's pen name is luz fraumann (yes she actually named herself "woman-man") and i wish i could tell her she's literally insane for this bestie and also how hard she would do numbers on tumblr dot com

(link to hirschfeld's profile of fraumann and extract from her novel, in german)

[evilminji]

With Talismans, what's the difference between a veil and a helmet with built in gasmask?

Not a damn thing!

Read a one shot, where Shang Qinghua had to wear a veil for plot reasons. And? My brain started to kick in. The world they live in? Is chock FULL of bullshit Aphrodisiacs. Powders and pollens that are fuck or die. Which? One: what happens if you get hit when NO ONE IS AROUND.

And TWO(‽‽‽): The VERY REAL and tragic reality? Is that NOT everyone who stumbles upon one of those poisons? Is gonna be a hot single in your area. TODDLERS like to wander off and pick up The Pretty Flower™ or Poke The Weird Animal™.

They are GOING to get poisoned. It is GOING it hit them harder and faster them an adult, because of their size. And they are GOING to die. There will be little to nothing you can do.

Hell, MOST children are basicly dead upon infection. Assuming it truely is a "Or Die" variety, instead of a "or suffer greatly". The fact that veils aren't STANDARD for prepubesant children? If only to improve their chances of survival? WILDLY irresponsible.

That Veil could be the only difference between a face full of deadly pollen and an inconvenient afternoon in the decontamination baths. With a side of ruined veil. And! Would you RATHER? Lose a pretty bit of fabric? Than, oh, YOUR LIFE!?

Irresponsible!!!

The Mortality and Morbidity rates must be STAGERING. For fucks sake! COVER UP! Nature is deadly! Trust NOTHING! Twenty layers and leave room for the chaperones! HOW ARE ANY OF YOU MOTHER FUCKER STILL ALI-!!!

Which! Brings me! To my New SI-OC~☆ 🎉🎉🎉

She spent her whole first life RUSHING. Go, go, GO! No time for hobbies. No time for frivolous social events. No time for proper rest. Nothing. She died exhausted. Hated it. Regretted it. Was she GOOD at it? Beside the point. (Yes.) She never wants to rush, rush, RUSH, again.

Naturally, she ends up in a family that wants to marry her off as a business arrangement. Lots of work in her future. Expected to be the THIRD wife. Ha ha... how about "NO."

See, her First Father? Always taught her? "They can't MAKE you don't anything. You ALWAYS have a choice. It's just a matter of if you're willing to pay the price for that choice." And? Yeah. Fuck these guys. They wanted Filial Piety? They should have given her someone WORTHY of such loyalty. A FAMILY to be loyal TOO.

Off she goes~ with her shit shoved in a bag she made literally right in front of them, while they weren't paying attention.

Wearing a veil. Not to "hide her identy" or anything. Or "protect her beautiful face" or whatever. But, because? It keeps dust and Suspect Powders out of her face. Coupled with a hat? And she's quite protected from the sun! Nice~

She gets to Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. "Climb the mountain" etc. "Dig a hole". Ppphff. Look at all these idiots and their No Gloves havin asses. Where's your water and support bandages, idiots? You even lift bro?? Did you even ASK workers on the way here about the best way to dig? Bet you didn't.

Work Smart, not hard. Ya Casuals.

(Never Fuckin Again.)

And because I LOVE the PIDM universe? And all the ways it could have gone of the rails with different Transmigrators? It is OG!Shang Qinghua who is standing there, bored and long suffering, when he... "oh~? Oh HO~?" *goes from ( -_-) to ( ◇.◇)* like? What's this~?

Snarky and silently judgemental? Smarter then she let's on? Clearly hiding great talent behind an unassuming appearance? (Projection? Whaaaat? Noooo....) It's like a mini-him.

.......that one. He wants THAT one.

And for once, he's willing to fight about it.

Everyone else chosen by An Ding is like "... oh. Okay, I guess." But SI-OC? *Violent Flashback to The War Her Days Of Endless Work* *squints suspiciously at the An Ding Lord* "mother fucker, you have five seconds to give me a good reason not to run for the hills and try my luck at a different Sect"

"One, I would catch you. I'm far faster. And Two... we have first dibs on all the good shit the Sect gets. Plus Talismans. You can study literally anything you damn well please, unlike the other Peaks."

Hmmmm, she DOES like the idea of Talismans.... *squints suspiciously* you're on thin ice, bribery man. Your convincing arguments will only get you so far, if the work conditions are shit.

And Shang Qinghua is like? "Aw. Is Baby. I bet it bites. You'd rob me blind in the night and run for the hills, wouldn't you~? Wouldn't you~☆? Oh my gods. Is THIS what my Shizun felt? No wonder he put up with me."

Unfortunately...the food is AMAZING. Great perks all around. Because no one respects them, they take the GOOD shit without remorse. Fuck those guys. The work? Lots of hurry up and wait. Plenty of time to study (when CERTAIN Peak Lords aren't TRASHING THEIR PEAKS).

And SI-OC? Finds that traditional meditation doesn't work at first. She's too used to the "YOU HAVE TO BE BUSY" mindset. But? A project? That works! And Talismans can be sown into clothes. It's slow work. Gotta get it just right. Lots of calculations. Lots of paints them on the cloth with specific inks, then sewing with specific threads. Sometimes washing, sometimes not. Occasionally there's beading.

Slow and steady.

From her veils to her inner robes, on out. Using An Ding connections to track down experienced master crafts men, just to trade them her work for some of theirs. Cultivator made Qiankun pouches in sleeves, protections from this and that. Expensive stuff, for an average man. But off course, only the best, for his daughter who is to be wed. And of COURSE, she would supply the materials for him to work with! She understands his time and talent is a valuable thing.

She also sends a wedding gift. Amazing how far being polite and thoughtful can get you. The jewelry is magnificent. Her arrays? Perfectly transcribed. She is a fancy looking TANK and she loves it.

And, yes, as a Disciple, she can only wear so much of her slowly growing hoard of "I AM The Danger apperal". But does that STOP her? Fuck no. Cause what are you gonna do? Police her underwear? Huh? Gonna tell her she can't wear that many underlayers? HUH?

She looks like a gauzy little fairy. Ribbons braided in her hair (they are talisman arrays, each and every one of them). Gauzy three layer veil fluttering delicately in the breeze (it is embroidered within an inch of its life. Hair thin, spider silk, talisman arrays on every millimeter available). Delicate underlayers peaking put at the neck and sleeves, like a flowers bloom (Arrays. It's all coated in arrays. Death to all who would dare, covered by a single over robe).

All topped with tinkling little jewelry.

(Focal anchors. Because some arrays are simply to strong for cloth)

As in with Nature... the brighter and More Lovely? The higher the chance it'll kill you. Especially in this world. And An Ding colors are bright indeed~☆. She's the Peak Lords lil Cabbage. When it all goes to shit? (As he always half assumes it will.) He's planning on picking her up like a sack of potatoes and booking it. Instead of his ORIGINAL plan... of just straight up booking it.

\( ^-^)/ yay! Family! Team "fuck them guys. We out!"

She teaches PIDM Binghe the valuable life lesson of "fuck this guy... I'm out". Cause like? Have you considered? NOT sitting there and taking it? He sucks. To you specifically. This is clearly toxic and not your responsibility to fix. Come to An Ding. Or literally ANY OTHER PEAK. Or a different Sect! You don't owe him SHIT.

And like? Fuck it. You look like that Su Xiyan lady. Maybe Hua Huang will take you in? She was a rock star there. (She says, as though she doesn't know)

Cue said sect Actively On Fire barely five years later when Creepy does as Creepy do. Cue Binghe prob hunting down and releasing Tianlang-jun. Cue "if it weren't for my Shemei, your mountain would be ash" letter sent to the sect leader.

And like? Cue Mobei-jun clearly waffling between "do I want to Kill this threat... or [REDACTED IN DEMONIC] him. He's not loyal to ME... but he's clearly capable. He has a daughter now. I thought he was inherently treacherous. Was going to kill him for that. But if he's just some weirdly Human flavor of Demonic Treacherous? That's... kinda hot. Look how LOYAL he is to his kid. I want that."

5d chess out here in the northern court. As this man tries to parent Qinghua's not-child and he desperately resists the urge to finally stab him.

Just? Everything's a mess and she will NEVER get the peace n quite she longed for. Cheated! Scammed! She should have head west til she hit ocean then boarded a BOAT! This is BULLSHIT D:<

@mayfay @legitimatesatanspawn @babbling-babull @spidori @hdgnj @leftnotright

[silverwhittlingknife]

So you're a go to source for all things Dick&Tim bros and you tend to write primarily from Dick's POV. So, odd question, but if you were to summarize their relationship from his POV in FIVE panels which panels would you pick? Keeping in mind that one specific aspect of their relationship that you love needs to be clearly represented by each panel (loyalty, trust etc). I hope this is a fun challenge and not an annoying question so if you don't want to answer that's cool! Have a wonderful day!

No more talk. The same thoughts run through two minds... (SotB 29) / You're my equal. My closest ally. (RR 1) / I can't stop thinking how much I rely on him. (GoG 3)

25 Feelings Dick Has About Tim

This was such a kind ask & a cool challenge which I totally failed; here are TWENTY-five panels of Dick's POV on Tim sdfdsfds Look, I got carried away! Marcia and Cindy! The boys!!

OKAY SO BEFORE I GET TO THE PANELS A FEW NOTES:

WARNING THAT THERE ARE SOME NEGATIVE EMOTIONS IN HERE because I love conflict but but but you gotta remember those are not the final word!! They are complicated people and sometimes they get mad at each other BUT ultimately their relationship is so hugely important in both their lives & they love each other and rely on each other so much -!!! <3

Also I have CONCLUDING THOUGHTS at the end about what Dick's POV leaves out (mostly: a lot of Dick defending & protecting & supporting Tim, which Dick does instinctively but isn't very self-aware about most of the time)

I have loosely organized my list into 5^5 format (5 categories with 5 examples each!), so if you want to skip to a relevant one, here are the categories!!

Below the cut:

I hate him and find him infuriating (#1-5)

On second thought, he's endearing & fun (#6-10)

Grief is complicated & he's all tangled up in mine (#11-15)

I love him & think highly of him (#16-20)

I rely on him & though it's hard for me, I trust him (#21-25)

I hate him and find him infuriating (#1 - 5)

1) He thinks he’s so smart and can psychoanalyze me and Bruce, but he doesn’t know me at all, he should get lost (New Titans 61)

2) He thinks he’s so smart and can psychoanalyze Bruce but he doesn’t know Bruce at all, he should get lost (Gotham Knights 26)

3) He is so nosy about stuff that is MY business (Robin 0)

4) He sounds like an insincere suck-up half the time... but okay, fine, if you push him he's got a sense of humor about it (New Titans 65)

5) I'm sure he's a better vigilante than me. It's my fault for being a failure, but I resent him anyway. (Nightwing 9 - Dick's having a nightmare)

On second thought, he's kinda endearing (#6-10)

6) He worries too much and gets anxious so easily, but it makes him fun to tease (Robin 67)

7) I'm not that competitive - okay, so maybe I'm a little competitive, I gotta make sure he doesn't get a swelled head (Prodigal)

8) I'm supposed to be his favorite! It is not cool for him to be fanboying over my not-girlfriend's not-boyfriend!! (Birds of Prey 19)

9) We have fun together. I can kick back and relax when it's just the two of us. Plus I get to boss him around a bit. (Prodigal)

10) He’s always trying to reassure me, and I guess it's a little comforting, but also he doesn’t really get it. Or me. He makes excuses that he shouldn't, because he doesn't understand that I suck. (Nightwing 64)

Grief is complicated and he's all tangled up in mine (#11 - 15)

11) He reminds me of everything I try not to think about. Sometimes the memories are so strong it hurts to look at him. (Batman 441)

12) WHY IS HE BEING IMPOSSIBLE ALL OF A SUDDEN??? THIS IS SO FRUSTRATING (Nightwing 139)

13) We're the same. He says all the things I don't let myself think about. It's like arguing with myself. (Nightwing 139)

14) He thinks he gets to tell me what to do but he doesn’t, fuck him (Battle for the Cowl)

15) Life sucks, so what. I sucked it up so he should too (RR 1)

I love him and think highly of him (#16 - 20)

16) He’s the closest thing to a brother I’ll ever have.  If someone hurts him I will hurt them harder. (Nightwing 6)

17) I can't handle the idea of losing him. (Nightwing 97)

17) He’s so good and I’m not. I'm afraid I’m bad for him. (Nightwing 110)

18) He’s better than me, and it’s kind of a relief because I know no matter what he’ll be okay. (Gates of Gotham 3)

19) In my head he’s the responsible one.  (Gotham Knights 10)

I rely on him, and though it's hard for me, I trust him (#20-25)

20) I know I have to trust him but I'm afraid he'll make the wrong choices and get hurt (Nightwing 139)

21) I'm sure I know what he should do because I see myself in him - not that I can take my own advice, but he should (Blackest Night 3)

22) I trust him.  When I’m losing my grip on things, he pulls me back. (Gotham Knights 10)

23) I want him to trust me (Red Robin 12)

24) He can tell when I'm lying. Sometimes he sees my weaknesses better than I wish he did. (Detective Comics 874)

25) He’s always there when I need him. (Teen Titans / Outsiders Secret Files)

Final rambling thoughts:

TIM: Uhh, okay, so I'm just skimming this list - do you really trust me? you're not just saying that? - but anyway, I'm confused because you left some stuff out? Like some stuff that's kinda important? DICK: No? I think I got everything? TIM (starts counting on his fingers): The time I was having a bad day but then I called you. The time I got captured by Two-Face but then you saved me. The time I fell off a train but then you saved me. The time I fell off a building but then you saved me. The time I fell off a different building - DICK: I feel like you're trying to make some kind of point but I'm not sure what it could be.

SO THE THING IS, I put 25 panels in here and not a single one has Dick catching Tim when he’s falling!!! But I think that's a central motif of their relationship from Tim’s POV, not Dick’s. I love Dick, but in some ways I think he is spectacularly un-self-aware.

And I think he especially has a lot of blind spots about Tim. He kinda intermittently gets that Tim admires him, and he enjoys it in a playful I-get-to-boss-you-around way. But Dick tends to consistently underestimate all of his own good qualities & skills, and he meets Tim at a point in his life when he's especially down on himself & his abilities. And so he's unable to see his own influence on Tim, & therefore unable to fully understand a lot of Tim's priorities and loyalties and motivations, because you can't actually understand Tim without understanding Dick's impact on him. There's a fascinating moment in Bruce Wayne: Murderer when Dick's completely blindsided & upset to discover that Tim doesn't entirely trust Bruce, even though this has been a definitive fact of Tim's whole thing ever since he showed up with his Batman needs Robin theory, and Barbara has to actively remind Dick of the obvious-to-everyone-except-Dick fact that a lot of Tim's loyalty is to Dick, and Tim loves Bruce but feels free to be more wary of him. (And to give Bruce credit: this is not something he ever begrudges.) But anyway Babs points this out, and Dick manages to sorta process it for about five seconds, but he cannot actually accept it into his worldview so instead he discards it at the speed of light and goes off and has an argument with Tim instead sdfsfdsf

All of Dick's virtues - Dick's kindness at the circus and Dick's determination to fight through grief and Dick's rigid sense of morals and Dick's vigilante skills and every time Dick has ever backed Tim up or listened to him or protected him or saved him from something or just been casually kind to a stranger in Tim's presence etc etc etc - all these things loom really large in Tim's mental story of Who Dick Is, and What Dick And Tim's Relationship Is. Tim meets Dick before he meets Bruce, trusts Dick more than Bruce, aspires to be Robin instead of Batman. And so in Tim's default version of the story, Dick is the super-special and admirable hero and Tim is... nobody in particular, a tagalong outsider who's barely managing to be a hero, not part of Dick and Bruce's family and not part of their story, who, if he's VERY LUCKY and tries REALLY HARD, might be able to fight his way to proving himself and offering something to Dick that Dick will value, if Dick doesn't get fed up with him first.

But that's not Dick's version of the story!!!

Dick's version of the story is almost the exact opposite, a story where Dick's an outcast failure black sheep who's screwing up everything he tries, and meanwhile Tim is The Sudden New Perfect Robin Who's Better Than Me And Probably Bruce Loves Him More And Probably They Gossip About What A Loser I Am, mixed with a complicated edge of Tim Thinks He's So Smart But He Doesn't Know Me/Us At All. Dick gets much more attached to Tim over time, and Tim gets unnervingly better at the know-it-all psychoanalysis so then Dick gets to have complicated feelings about him being right instead of just annoyance at him for being wrong, plus Dick's relationship with Bruce improves a lot, so Tim stops feeling so threatening. But Dick never fundamentally changes his basic theory of their relationship in which Tim is highly impressive and capable, and Dick is not so much.

And so asking Dick about Tim is kinda like if you asked George Bailey to tell you about Harry Bailey in It's A Wonderful Life; like, you'll be there for five hours while he tells you how great Harry is, and how accomplished Harry is, and how he doesn't really get how or why Harry does the things he does, and maybe George does feel a little resentful or jealous sometimes, but that pales in comparison to all his admiration and trust for Harry who he loves so much, who's better than him in so many ways, and he's not gonna openly gripe but secretly he can't help but feel sometimes like he's such a failure in comparison to Harry, a perfect person who emerged fully formed from Zeus's head with all the virtues and also all the accomplishments, etc. etc. etc. --

-- and he will not actually remember the part where he changed and saved Harry's whole entire life unless you literally send him to an alternate timeline in order to force him to remember it. <3

[orange-sora]

The thing is from SVSSS' perspective, the way the characters are and how it's all written, MXTX's choice to not have any revelation makes sense. However, I think, truth matters a lot. (In life too, atl to me).

In a story about liars, it's foolish to want truth. I recognise that. To scratch that itch, I have read many fics about Shen Yuan's identity reveal. MANY MANY FICS. I just really wanted Binghe to know.

Grief is such a heavy all-consuming emotion that it make everything else seem petty in comparison. Squabbles are normal in any relationship. Then, something big happens and it feels stupid. Your own hurt and anger feels small and immature in comparison. Nothing matters as much as death. It's too...final. Definitive.

Being thrown into the Abyss and betrayed by the one who promised time and time again to protect and care for you wasn't a tiff, though. It wasn't trivial, in any sense. Even system insisted again and again, the Abyss arc was significant. Unskippable. Indispensable.

So Binghe was justifiably angry. He wanted answers. The truth. And then Shen Qingqiu self detonated to "pay his debts". And from Binghe's pov, every wrong done against him lost its power over him. This particular ocean is too deep and dark. He'll surely drown. Anything but this. He'll accept it all as long as it doesn't end like this.

Then years of failing to bring Shizun back. There's no energy left to be angry. Anger almost always leads to weariness. It seeps into your soul. Throughout the rest of the novel, it becomes clear to him that yes, Shizun does care for Binghe. Yes, there is love. However, Shizun won't choose Binghe in the way he wants to be chosen. Shizun loves him but Shizun also hurts him. And he hurts Shizun too.

If Shizun doesn't explain himself, then Binghe can just come up with his own answers. Or he can disregard it all. It's not important. It's not.

But it is. System said so. Shen Qingqiu mourned him. A part of Binghe died. They all knew. Maigu Ridge happened because Abyss happened. Because there were no answers. Binghe's insecurity, even in post canon extras, made complete sense.

I truly admire Binghe. I know he's... well everything that he is. But he was able to do something that I personally don't have the power to do. And that's letting go without an explanation.

Does knowledge of love make the pain go away?

I have had people in my life who I know loved me. But, one too many tiny hurts, one too many thought less words, drip resentment that fills over time. It doesn't stay as lovely as it could have been. Maybe all relationships are complicated because love through actions, no matter how regularly conveyed doesn't erase the rest.

An apology, in itself, isn't enough. Words aren't enough. Actions, also aren't enough. Doesn't he deserve both? A closure to why it happened and a commitment to why it won't ever again? Don't we all?

There's a reason why people ask authors for explanation. Truth has the maximum power when it comes from the source. Considering how sensitive Binghe is, it'll stay with him. Binghe can come up with a thousand different theories or ignore it all, but nothing will soothe him quite as well as Shen Qingqiu's truth.

Unfortunately, he's doomed to never get it.

EDIT- Part 2

[jwnzlvr]

can you do hybrid/wolf toji letting us (bunny reader) ride his thigh??? pretty pretty please??? 😭🙏

i am actively running laps around my room and squealing PLEASEEEEEboj myogd sorry if this is messy or not exactly what was prompted i’m a little tired but i tried my best also i am a slut for mean toji !!

warnings : nsfw (mdni), hybrids

you knew you shouldn’t have talked back to toji like that. you knew he hated when you acted like a brat, yet here you were arguing with him. toji decided he had to teach you a lesson so that you’d never even think about talking back again.

he has his hands resting behind his head as he watches the slow drag of your pussy on his clothed thigh. he’s still fully clothed while you’re completely naked. the idea of it made your ears fall back a bit, your small tail giving a few wags.

“hmm… please touch me, toji…” you begged in a trembling voice. one of your hands was in his shoulder while the other was playing with your tits. you wished toji were the one tweaking your nipples, sucking and biting them. toji looked down at you with a evil smirk and shook his head.

he sighed before he spoke. “i don’t think so, bunny. if you’re gonna be a brat with me then this is all your getting. and be glad you’re getting something.” his tone was firm and almost disciplinary. you whined as you moved your hips a bit faster. you were trying to cum, get this over with and maybe from there convince him to let you do more.

your nose gave small twitches at the pleasure you were feeling. blush decorated your cheeks and your nose. it was just enough to make you almost cum but not enough to bring you over the edge. small whimpers slipped from between your lips, your hips picking up speed once again.

both your hands were now on toji’s shoulders. your clit constantly dragged against the fabric of his sweatpants and your pussy only got wetter. you were close, so close. you felt your pussy clench, just a bit more and—

you whined loudly at the lack of stimulation. you were so close and it was ripped away from you. you look at toji with teary eyes. he looked back at you with a grin and his hands holding your hips in place. “you thought you’d get to cum? after how you talked back to me?” he asked, faux sympathy dripping from his voice.

his ears were perked up and his tail was wagging. he was having fun. he enjoyed seeing you suffer just a little. his hand went up to pet your soft ears. his hand was slowly going over your ears. you tried moving your hips but his grip was just so strong. it made you all the more desperate.

“stop tryin’ to move… this is what you get for a being a bad bunny. let this be a lesson for you to not be bratty with me.”

only for you to not learn anything from this, leading you back into the same thing.

send more toji asks pleek

[clfixationstation]

ngl I cannot bring myself to agree with the "Catra's redemption was rushed" crowd, whether they like the show overall or not. Perhaps I have a different view of redemption than most. To me, a redemption arc begins when a character experiences guilt and remorse for their actions, which Catra expresses in early season 4 when she has a nightmare about how she threw Entrapta under the bus and activated the portal. Catra's nightmare shows her images of Entrapta and Adora questioning her, placing the onus for her actions on her: "What did you do to me?" "Why did you do it?"

Derailing: Why did she do it? Not because Adora made her. Catra can't use that excuse anymore. "Why did you do it?" Adora also asked Catra this as a child (s5ep3 Corridors) after she hit Lonnie. Back then, it was because Catra was terrified of losing Adora's friendship and thereby being "discarded" by Shadow Weaver. She was scared for her life. But now? Catra didn't activate the portal for safety; she did it to win. She did it to prove to the world she could be victorious, to Shadow Weaver, Hordak, Adora, to everyone who refused to believe in her. Yet after pulling that lever, Catra's true desires were revealed; she wanted to be relatively safe, surrounded by friends, allowed to love Adora, and recognized for her worth. She didn't need to dominate. When that false reality shattered, Catra's hope was shattered with it. She fell back on her sense of injustice, reduced to her own agony, inflicting it upon the world and herself. After the portal, Catra had to face that her goal of ascending through the Horde was hollow.

One could even argue Catra feels regret at the end of season 3 with this look she gives Adora of "ohhh I fucked up, I fucked up big time." Catra looks sickened, with herself and with how Adora now sees her.

From this point in the story, it was blatant to me that Catra was headed for redemption. Catra clearly knows that she went too far and may have completely burned every bridge and ruined all hope of redemption. But she can't yet confront that her ambitions will not fulfill her. So, she doubles down. In classic sunk-cost fallacy fashion, Catra seemingly strengthens her allegiance to the Horde, taking control and commanding operations. Despite herself, Catra's guilt creeps up on her, not only through the nightmare but also in her approach to Adora. Unlike in s1-3, throughout season 4 Catra avoids Adora almost entirely, only engaging from afar. Catra evades confronting the amount of pain she's caused Adora, the seemingly irreparable chasm she's clawed between them, focusing solely on strengthening the Horde. She still cares, but she denies herself that regular interaction.

This suppression poisons Catra's fragile friendship with Scorpia as well. Catra continually lashes out at Scorpia, projecting her own insecurities and frustrations onto her. Her behavior pushes Scorpia away and causes her to leave the Horde, to leave Catra. This is the first time someone left because of her. It almost feels like self-sabotage, Catra pushing Scorpia more and more, becoming crueler, creating reason for her to defect. Catra doesn't feel worthy of Scorpia's friendship, of anyone's. And so Scorpia's kindness enrages her, reminds her of how far she's fallen, and how much lower she will go. Catra also lashes out at her former comrades, Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle, further isolating herself from anyone who cares about her, pinning her entire existence on proving herself through Horde victory. She failed in the friendship department; the Horde is all she has left.

But Catra can't fool herself forever, and she certainly couldn't fool Double Trouble. After defeating Hordak, who does Catra have left to prove herself to? Horde Prime? Herself? Neither of those people care. For the first time, Catra is completely alone, and Double Trouble doesn't let Catra hide from how she got there. They read Catra to filth, summarizing what I wrote above: Catra pushed all her friends away in pursuit of a villainous role she didn't desire; her heart laid elsewhere. Now both goals are in ruins. Depleted, with nothing left to prove, Catra asks Glimmer to kill her. Catra's guilt permeated season 4, seeping into all her relationships and degrading her mental state. But guilt is meaningless without action. Which brings us to season 5.

I got soooo off track, so I'll try to wrap it up. So yes, Catra's redemption arc started in s3/4 when she first felt remorse for her actions - not in season 5. Even then, her change took time to develop. Initially, Catra still tried to align herself with Prime, but convinced him to spare Glimmer, indicating her shifting allegiance. The girls begin to empathize with each other and Catra sees how much Glimmer cares for Adora and the life Adora has built for herself. Fully expecting to die, Catra chooses to throw away the small amount of favor she earned with Prime and save Glimmer, therefore protecting Adora. Catra apologizes to Adora for everything. Her body is stolen from her and she dies as a consequence of her actions. She's revived and chooses to join the Rebellion. She slips up but genuinely tries to make amends, not for her own conscience but because it's right. She wants to do better. She accepts ire from the Princesses without retaliation. She defends Adora from Shadow Weaver. She gives Adora the strength to choose to live and allow herself to desire, and together they save the world.

This redemption is not immediate. It was given time, the foundation established across seasons. Catra does not have a sudden change of heart. It builds gradually, even within the final season. Nothing about Catra's arc was rushed and nothing about it was easy. Each day, she fought the harmful instincts cemented in her from years of abuse to become a better person, experiencing realistic regression and growth. Catra was tormented by others and herself for her entire life and all it did was make her worse. She deserves a soft universe, the new world she and Adora created together

[keferon]

*clasps your shoulders gently and looks you straight in the eye*

Keferon. Please read Ninth by Kyn on AO3. I think you would love it very much. It has a large chapter count, but don't be intimidated, it's very easy to get into. It is currently unfinished, but is being updated regularly.

You are the seventh person that recommended this fic to me so ahahahaha yeah

I’m doing great Help I hate some parts of it but I love the other parts I’m spinning in the blender

…..I made the moodboard….

[hitlikehammers]

This Is Your Life (¿ǝɟı˥ ɹno⅄ sıɥ⊥ sI)

Steve Harrington never thought he’d end up like his parents. He never thought he’d allow his life end up like this.

…but did it really?

He wants to grab for his wallet: he knows there’s gotta be pictures there, he always knew if he did become a dad he’d be that dad and maybe he can’t fucking grasp how he’s here, how it all went wrong, but he, it’s… He can’t have gotten it this wrong; he might have fucked up the love of his life, somehow—and he knows that’s what it was, the one, came out of nowhere and made him feel more than anything he’d ever known his chest could hold: he might have failed the soft brown curls he can feel against his cheek with his eyes closed, but he’s shaky on the smell of them, the scent of this person he knows that he loved, fuck, no, he knows that he still loves—but he can believe that part. He doesn’t want to believe it, really thought this was different, feels it in his chest that this was so different, and this time was forever—but Steve’s history speaks for itself. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to think it fell apart—again. But. That said: he swore he’d never be his own parents. He can’t have gone and failed this bad, with his own kids—

rating: t ♥️ tags: post S4, established relationship (?), drama, introspection, angst (?) with a happy ending (!), steve harrington and the inescapable reality of becoming your parents no matter how hard you try, (it IS inseparable, right?), creeper hitting on a sad divorcé at the bar, SINCERE APOLOGIES TO PEOPLE NAMED A NAME MALIGNED HEREIN SOLELY FOR PLOT PURPOSES

for @steddielovemonth Day Twelve—“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.”―The Sandman —

“You look like you shouldn’t be alone.”

Steve, actually, feels like he should definitely be alone. Certainly isn’t looking for company from this random, hair-slicked-back, not-even-being-subtle-about-the-sleaze stranger.

Who sees fit to put his hand on the back of the empty chair across from where Steve sits.

Alone.

“I meant,” and his voice is…soft, but like he wants something. Soft like he means to pull you in. Steve doesn’t fucking need this, not tonight. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Steve wants to laugh. Steve wants to throw his glass and watch it shatter, watch the other patrons of this fairly high-end restaurant gasp and clutch their pearls for it.

He wants to know how he ended up here. How his story unfolded to this. He knows there was a time when they were happy. When he was happy. Lots of memories of being unhappy, especially when he was a kid, but Steve knows in his bones there was happiness, there was lov—

“Hmm,” the stranger hasn’t figured out he’s unwelcome yet, apparently; Steve tries sipping his drink as a hint.

It has the opposite effect.

“Ah,” the man watches Steve’s hand, then points: “it’s been a while, but you still remember the weight, no?”

Steve makes the mistake of taking his eye off this nuisance of a human to follow the pointing: he grabbed for his drink from the left.

Yeah, he does still keep his presently-empty ring finger the slightest bit off the glass. Like a habit.

Motherfucker.

“Children?” the stranger who absolutely cannot take the goddamn hint presses on, too curious, too poised at innocence to be wholly genuine.

Steve doesn’t know what could have possibly given him away—he knows he looks run through the wringer, but kids, there wouldn’t be a tell for the kids in his wrinkled suit, his mussed-up hair from running his fingers through it, greasier than he ever allowed before, tie rumpled and half-undone, what—

His right thumb catches his eye, just out the corner: nail polish. He didn’t have the heart to take it off, and, well. There’s a little corner of Barbie pink on the inside of the tip, hanging on months later. Taunting him.

Must be pretty quality stuff.

“How old?”

And Steve’s lips part, he intends to answer actually because the drive in him to tell this asshole it’s none of his business and that he needs to fuck off was strangled in a second at the thought of the girls, his three girls, the six little nuggets he always dreamed of, plus one more besides as a bonus, a fucking gift, and maybe it’ll hurt less in the long run to say anything about them to a faceless person he’ll never see again, so he intends to answer, but…

Suddenly he can barely form a coherent thought about his kids, it all hurts too much—like the burning, the wetness caught on his lashes; like that’s flooding full-on in his own mind’s eye as much as his lungs all at once.

He wants to grab for his wallet: he knows there’s gotta be pictures there, he always knew if he did become a dad he’d be that dad and maybe he can’t fucking grasp how he’s here, how it all went wrong, but he, it’s…

He can’t have gotten it this wrong; he might have fucked up the love of his life, somehow—and he knows that’s what it was, the one, came out of nowhere and made him feel more than anything he’d ever known his chest could hold: he might have failed the soft brown curls he can feel against his cheek with his eyes closed, but he’s shaky on the smell of them, the scent of this person he knows that he loved, fuck, no, he knows that he still loves—but he can believe that part. He doesn’t want to believe it, really thought this was different, feels it in his chest that this was so different, and this time was forever—but Steve’s history speaks for itself. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to think it fell apart—again. But.

That said: he swore he’d never be his own parents. He can’t have gone and failed this bad, with his own kids—

“She took them?”

Steve turns—he hadn’t been looking at the pestering asshole, had kind of forgotten he was there. Steve stares at him a little open-mouthed; blinks. The fuck is he talking about—

But it makes sense. Steve got his picket fence and his gaggle of Harringtons, maybe only got a handful of their trips across the country under their belts before it went to shit, before Steve fucked it up like it was always in his blood to do: lost his marriage. Lost his kids.

“For Henry?”

Finally, the man turns away, automatic: so that’s his name. That’s the only reason anyone looks so quick.

Steve…doesn’t know any Henry, but he bristles to hear it anyway. Like a…a back-of-the-mind instinct that it’s a bad name for bad people.

Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s obviously had too much to drink, for now fuzzy him mind is proving; for how quick his eyes are to sting in public—for how much of a mess he is.

How much of a mess it all is—

“Let me grab that, but,” and the man, this Henry, he gestures to Steve’s glass of mostly-melted-ice; “what were you drinking?”

“Old Fashioned.”

Steve’s voice is metal on gravel. He licks his lips.

“I’ll bring you back another,” this Henry, he thinks he can touch Steve’s shoulder as he walks away.

Once he’s reached the bar and shoots Steve a…deeply discomforting smile as he waits on the second drink and—

Steve doesn’t remember what he had been drinking.

But he knows in his core, somehow, that it wasn’t an Old Fashioned.

“Shame they can’t just turn the music off,” Henry slides the drink Steve’s way before sliding back into the seat he was never invited to sit in in the first place; “not loud enough to really hear is it,” and where he’s started the out-of-fucking-left-field comment with more annoyance than Steve thinks it warranted, he hadn’t even noticed there was music playing until now; “but not strong enough to make an impression.”

Henry ends with more…satisfaction, and weirdly, kinda like self-satisfaction, and fuck but this guy’s weird as shit.

“Oh, unlike the drink,” Henry laughs, shifts the mood—or tries to—after a sip of whatever he’s got for himself and he laughs…too forced. Too much like a game, and unsettling for it when Steve doesn’t know the rules, let alone the playbook.

And honestly, Steve is more interested in the music, now, than his unsavory tablemate.

“You were talking about your children,” Henry leans close his arm extended like it wants to grab for Steve’s in something comforting, too presumptuous—Steve moves that closest arm to grab his glass, but not to lift it.

“I’d rather not,” he says as flippant as he can because he doesn’t want to go back to the hurting, to the lack of anything to hold to in remembering that’s still closer to the surface than the actual face of his kids, his kids—

“Don’t see them much,” Henry says, kinda…tuts, like he’s regretful on Steve’s account, and it’s less a question than an observation, but Steve’s face must do something without his permission at those words because to en Henry’s got this too-bright, too eager sympathy painted all over him before he starts damn-near cooing:

“Oh,” he says, breathy, sour at the back of Steve’s mouth somehow; “oh you poor thing, you’re not even in their lives? Barely remember them sometimes, no?” And the weird thing is…he sounds too invested, yeah, but not just like a creepy fucker looking to maybe take a sad sap to bed. It’s…

It’s different.

“Like they never existed.”

Steve doesn’t understand why of all the things this asshole says, it’s that that shakes him, that trips in his pulse in a way he can feel, and hard.

He stares, jaw clenched, at the unsampled drink still in his hand: whiskey.

Like your eyes, sweetheart, just like whiskey in the morning sun, magic and full of their own perpetual light—

“She took the house, I bet,” Henry sighs, shaking his head, while Steve shakes his own from the voice that had floated at the back of his mind through to the front, close, so close and so fucking clear; “your white picket fence. Your Winnebago.”

And he looks over Steve’s shoulder like he’s really aiming at sympathizing, but…

Something about those exact words seems too precise. Lights something up in Steve’s wobbly memories—but the light feels old. Like it’s a thing he did know, once; followed and looked to, but…changed course.

And how the fuck does this jackass know that Steve maybe wanted, ever, or thought he could have wanted but knew it was a past want, a no-longer-want—in the marrow of his bones he knows the way he’s remembers it, if he is remembering it, he knows the last time it left if lips he didn’t mean it anymore, he’d turned toward wanting something else, something somehow more—

His chest feels stretched for thinking all of it through and…something equally uncertain and shimmering, just out of reach: that part knows this.

And is very fucking suspicious of how this fucker sitting across from him knew about a fucking Winnebago he doesn’t even want anymore?

“Love,” Henry, fucking, yes, Steve is now 100% convinced that that’s a bad name, it’s a bad name that means a bad person, his brain might be fuzzy right now but he knows that part: “even if it werereal,” and he says is almost dreamily but more mocking, kinda, but he’s…he’s not sincere in it. At least not the hints at empathy.

Steve knows he’s being played, even without having the rule book. Even without knowing the game.

“It’s never quite enough, is it.”

It’s not a question. But still. Nonetheless.

Love isn’t enough?

Wrong.

That he knows deeper than any narrow. Closer to the soul of him than of the other things his brain has thought it’s known so far, he’s—

Wait.

Wait, why did Steve think that? Whose voice was that, in his head? A deep voice, smooth and sweet and beloved, Steve feels that undeniable in his chest—thinks it might have been the same voice as the one that talked about his eyes, and, he, it’s…

Is that what he lost, the ring not on his finger, the kids he’s apparently walked out on in every way that matters—if the voice is right, if love were enough then why is Steve, why is Steve here, now, and he’s—

It’s always enough..

It’s a man’s voice. Steve tried to think of any man in his life who would say such a thing in the first place—no family, and friends? He—

Maybe not enough to fix everything alone, but it’s the foundation, Stevie. If it really is love, then it’s more than enough to build anything out of, or back up from.

That’s a man’s voice. And it rolls through Steve’s veins like embers, like the light catching precious stones and sparkling prismatic.

Steve may not be able to place the where or the who just yet. But he knows that it’s there.

There was no ‘she’ to take anything from him, not anything that mattered, when it mattered.

It’s the weight of the memory between his lungs and his steady-pounding heart, gaining pace and punch with every breath—the first inklings of some knowing. It’s the face of kids he’d die for. It’s the knowledge in his bones they’re not the only people he’d die for, and that he’d feel his life more than well-served in doing it. More than.

Steve swirls his glass, watching the smoke from the bar haze through real crystal—thick where the cloud in his head is dissipating more every second. It’s a meta…metafort? It’s a thing that’s making a point about another thing. Illustrating it poetically, or whatever.

The smoke left in his head. The clearest thing shining through it is that voice. That voice telling him not just about love, but something crucial embedded inside: this man seated across from him.

That man is wrong.

“What did you say your name was?” Steve asks, because there’s power in redirecting someone’s attention. And Steve feels…electricity building in his body. Lightning in his limbs; familiar.

He’s on the brink of something, and if all of the losses this man is underscoring are the reflection of who Steve’s grown into, after all that he’d sworn not to become what he knew, what nearly ruined him growing up, fucked him up so bad it took another fucking dimension and its literal monsters to yank him back from the path to becoming like the monsters at his mother’s cocktail parties, his father’s business dinners—

If this man, sitting here, is still somehow who he’s become anyway?

If Steve feels on the brink of something, so fucking close—and maybe the thing he’s close to is total oblivion, to whole-on forgetting and decimating any chance of recovering the losses this fuckface across from him with his martini glass has lifted up to the light—if he’s this close?

Last time Steve can remember breaking through the disaster of his present self was swinging a bat, and swinging to crack fucking skulls.

He’s not sure what that means but he feels weirdly inclined to trust it. So…he figures: what’s the harm?

He’d very much like to break this sonofabitch’s skull in, so.

“Could have sworn you did,” Steve finally takes a sip of his refreshed drink—the single sip alone is sharp assault on his tongue, and he bites at his bottom as the taste shoot through the nerves in his limbs and the pathways in his ways and lights them all up at once, and he hears the music in the background make a bigger impact than the way his heartbeat starts picking up in his ears as he set the drink back down, and leans in on autopilot to meet the guys eyes and make sure the way every cell in his body’s waking up is real, is telling him the truth:

“Henry, right?”

The man barely blinks, just hides less a smirk now and more a grimace in the curve of his martini glass.

Fucking bingo.

The clouds are gone. The haze has fully lifted, or at least is on its way. Steve couldn’t have said how much his body felt like a wrong-sized suit before this very moment until this very moment, when it starts to feel like his own again, like this body and every scar it’s marked with belongs to him alone.

“I’m also in the mood for forgetting this evening,” Steve lowers his tone a bit, bats his lashes as subtly as he knows and then tips his chin down the look up through them, a move that’s never failed him once when he really tries:

“Could I persuade you to accompany me?”

Henry tries to play his wordless agreement cool, almost aloof, but now that Steve knows the truth of it all, now that his own mind is clear, it’s so obvious.

Motherfucker’s champing at the bit.

They make it just out the door into the half-packed parking lot before Steve pauses, looks up at the sky—notices the eerie starlessness, the shadowy-faltering veil over the ominous red of the clouds.

“It’s funny,” Steve tells the sky as his eye catches the impression of a bolt of lightning behind the shade; “what you said earlier.”

Henry hums, but it’s…it’s an impatient, or maybe unsettled, at the very least annoyed sort of sound. He wants to leave. He wants to take Steve farther from a neutral setting.

Or at least: neutral by comparison.

“About the music,” Steve tosses his head back toward the bar beyond the doorway. “Too low to really set the ambiance,” Steve agrees, because he knows the why; “but there enough to be,” Steve sucks his teeth, pretends to look for the right word: “distracting.”

Distraction.

Henry stills. Steve isn’t feel patient enough to drag this out any further, really, now that his gaze is clear.

“We knew it wouldn’t work this time, the music,” Steve taunts, feeling the adrenaline suddenly rise in his veins like an untamable force; “you’re not strong enough for it to matter, can’t even lift the tool you need for half your dirty work.”

Literally. Because Steve’s still cognizant. Steve can feel the bleed of the real world—even if he’s floating he’s not down for the count yet. And by rights, he damn well should be—based on all previous encounters.

And yet here, on top of everything, all the memory and clarity rushing back in one heartbeat, one breath—the choice of the cocktail, the song in the background wasn’t a song anyone would know, it was written for Steve and it was in the voice of its composer, probably sang at his side without any instrument to smooth it out to anything less than raw and real—

The last nail in the coffin were the eyes.

“Can barely hear at all, the state you’re in,” Steve kicks at the ankles of the man unraveling before him as the parking lot around them starts to fade into dead trees and shot-red skies; “the bats could have, if they’d made it.”

And there it is, even diminished, even rotting: Vecna’s eyes were always the same; unmistakable. Dead giveaway.

Still full of the same fucking unhinged, megalomaniacal hate.

“She took everything, didn’t she?”

Because Steve knew it didn’t sound right for him, when it was thrown at him beyond all of it being twisted and wrong—that part had felt different, and now he knows why: no woman was taking his house, was dismantling the life he was building with someone his heart belonged to, full stop.

But this sorry excuse for crawling corpse had a young woman whose buzz cut was growing back to her curls again; and she sure as shit took everything, and was poised now to come back for the stragglers and make it final. Make it done.

All this pathetic scrap of not even a man, not even a monster—this pathetic scrap of nothing really was?

Was lingering in the dead space, half-a-ghost on borrowed time.

So Steve thinks, given his role in this was always to be the bait, and to keep him preoccupied until that ill-borrowed time needed returning to its rightful owner, and what was left of Vecna had run out of it entirely—Steve thinks he’s more than entitled to kick this fucker when he’s down.

He doesn’t even feel bad when he trips the bastard up again, too uneven on his disintegrating legs to even try to fight; honesty feels kinda giddy, like he wants to laugh when the fucker let’s loose a fittingly inhuman scream when Steve jumps with both feet on what’s left of his knees, one by one.

“Never tell me my kids don’t exist,” Steve growls, enraged, half-feral at what this creature tried to sell him; “do not even suggest I don’t remember my fucking kids.”

Because Steve could never. Steve would never. He had the nuggets he used to dream of. Almost missed the gift of those shitheads, for too long, in clinging to a different version of it he’d just absorbed from what he thought was the way the world worked; hadn’t yet readjusted to knowing the world worked wholly fucking differently, and the things he heart really wanted of course would shift accordingly.

Had shifted. Goddamn perfectly.

“And it’s wild,” Steve takes a second, considers the writhing vermin on what’s given way entirely from the mirage of anything else than soggy ground, littered with dead leaves, blackened bark.

“I’m really not a whisky drinker,” Steve muses, circling the pathetic heap of this self-style god: some fucking god.

“Not yet, anyway. I’ve been told it’s a drink you have to grow into,” Steve hums consideringly, even as he catches a hand try to reach, try to grab, try to bring Steve down again and sap his energy, the lifeblood in him to steal a few more minutes, a few more gasps before the end.

Steve crushes the hand that darts out from what’s left of the wrist, unforgiving under his heel.

“But you ordered me that cocktail with bourbon,” Steve says, almost blasé, as the figure on the ground writhes and howls.

“I drank a lot, after our first round with you,” he had. Figuring out you might very well be falling in love with someone when that someone’s not guaranteed to make it through the night for too many nights in a row takes a goddamn fucking toll. “Only time I’ve ever touched bourbon,” and it’d been top-shelf shit, his dad didn’t keep anything less on hand:

“Only time I ever will.”

Maybe Steve could grow into enjoying another kind of whiskey in the future but…that taste was always going to be tied to the heart-pounding nightmares, the bitter fear of unmitigated loss.

“Really throws me out of the moment here and now, though, y’know?” Steve makes a point of crushing every individual finger on the hand he’s still got under one shoe with the other. For insurance. “Takes me back somewhere else.”

When the cretin slowly quiets his yelping to heavy panting—and Steve is not above admiring to himself that he does weight crushing his windpipe next because Steve’s not a vicious person, he’s not violent like that but this animal nearly cost them everything, nearly cost him everything.

Might still, if Steve can’t get back out of this half-mindfuck, half-hellscape.

He really, really thinks about it.

“You fucker,” he desires to hiss, to lean down little and catch those wrathful eyes; “you really thought you had me, didn’t you.”

And the second hand tried to shout up to take Steve by the neck, but Steve’s faster, not least because he’s not coming apart at whatever stands in for the cells of a reconstituted corpse multiple times over. He knocks that arm away hard enough to snap something clean enough to echo, and then takes his time repeating the through crushing of wrist, finger, finger, finger, finger, thumb.

And then, because the screaming isn’t load enough for Steve’s liking just now, not for this monster, he decides to see if there’s anything in the crotch area left of this wrinkled ballsack of a man. It never really looked like it, the few times Steve had seen him in full, in better days for his…already-rotting body…thing.

But the pitch of the agony that rings out when Steve grinds his heel down in that general anatomical…area must mean there’s still something.

It’s something like the middle of that scream that Steve catches under his shoe at what’s left of the neck he wanted to crush before but now…now it’s just pressure. Painful. Inconvenience, dialed up to Eleven.

“What’s wrong, Henry?” Steve taunts, meets those eyes with what he knows, means to be a crazed fucking grin:

“Never heard of a Piggyback?”

And those hate-filled go wide, go fearful.

Fucking excellent.

“El, take him!” Steve cries out and feels a seismic wave knock him far from where he was standing, but he’s still grinning wide when he lands far in a heap, knocked hard but…this was the plan.

Everything goes dark very fast after he crumples in the ground, hears mostly yelling—rage and pain, triumph and total decimation—and it’s the last thing he does hear, might be the e last thing he hears ever, save for a desperate cry of one word before it all fucking fades:

“Steve!”

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

…..tbc??😬🫠

SERIOUSLY: I have nothing against people named Henry! I promise! 🫠

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divider credit here and, oddly, also me!

[narsildur]

So because of the length of the new DW seasons, Ncuti has been doctor for I believe only 5 more episodes than Christopher Eccleston. Now I love 9 he is one of my favourite Doctors I think it’s an absolute crime he didn’t get more time and the situation around that is criminal too, but I’m gonna put that aside for a second.

A Doctor who has had 2 companions, the return of multiple major Classic Who characters, references to the MASSIVE lore changes during the previous era, as well as involvement in currently two specials has FIVE more episodes than one of the shortest incarnations of the Doctor.

Now I can’t find anything concrete that Ncuti’s run is ending after this season, only comments that he hasn’t been ‘axed’ but no dispelling of the rumours of regeneration (or show cancellation lets be real), but if he is leaving??? That feels so wrong.

The length of these seasons is appalling we don’t get enough time to develop ANYONE properly, almost every episode seems to be out competing the others, and the huge classic Who things the entire fandom is talking about have taken place over what is to be THREE episodes. Obviously they’ll likely continue into possibly further seasons but now? With Ncuti? With Varada? It’s three episodes.

Eight episodes will NEVER be enough to tell stories like these. Longer seasons allow for an episode or two that feel a little out of character because we have enough to come back around with whereas eight episodes doesn’t do that - Belinda’s immediate forgiveness and affection after seeing the Doctor torture someone is the best example so far, she literally Would Not Act Like That.

I hope this isn’t the end for Ncuti, him as the Doctor is what’s keeping me watching every week because I LOVE where he’s taking it. I just wish the plot and scripts allowed for more exploration of his version of the character and his wants and wishes (lol) and Ruby and Belinda’s character arcs (if you can even call them that).

I hope I eat my words I hope he gets more time I hope characters start to feel fully fleshed out. Mostly I hope we see the end of 8 episode seasons and go back to actual creative freedom and not a streaming set up show. I hope a lot of things.

[martianbugsbunny]

ngl one of Rick Riordan's weirdest choices was not having Blitz and Hearth be married. like Richard they're married, they have more chemistry and are more natural and at ease with each other than almost any other Riordanverse characters, they're not made for each other's environments but they both have ways to get around it when they need to and they're both more comfortable mentally in Midgard's middle ground anyway, they're outcasts in their societies, they see the strengths and beauties in each other that nobody else does

literally in every way they're the couple ever

[slysum]

... Does Maribug know Nathalie was Mayura?

Because if she does.. that would be insane. Ladybug saw with her own two eyes what happened to Sentibug. Mayura killed her. Mayura is murderer. And ladybug is letting her get away with murder. Ladybug is forgiving a murderer.

Ladybug is supposed to be the guardian.

Ladybug is supposed to be the "best Ladybug to this day."

Ladybug is supposed to be a hero.

The guardian, a hero, and the best Ladybug to this day is letting someone get away with murder.

[viserya-firstofhername]

I'm fine. It's fine. Everything is fine.