#not saying horses are coming because it’s still not proven

[many-but-one]

Recently saw a post about folks feeling upset about CDD systems saying they are endo-neutral yet also not wanting to see endo stuff on their dashboards. I’m not reblogging and adding to it because I feel like it would kind of be beating a dead horse because a mutual of mine said basically the same thing I’m about to say and I wanted to make my own post about it. I rarely make posts about syscourse for a variety of reasons but I do think this is something that is important.

I’ve been endo-neutral for a long time, a couple years at least. I’ve openly stated that I find endogenic plurality plausible and interesting. I’ve made a video on tiktok about this subject that got me a plethora of vague posts and made people despise me for having the take that I did. I’ve gotten both hate anons and positive anons on tumblr thanking me or hating me for taking the stance that I did. I’ve met endos who were lovely people and I’ve met endos who were really shitty people. And the same for anti-endos. I’ve been watching the syscourse battle rage on for years and the fact that the same stuff keeps coming up over and over with no “winner” (because it’s a discussion that doesn’t need to have a winner imo—endos can believe what they want and so can anti-endos) makes it feel like the two sides are constantly battling over a fictional no-man’s-land that has only ended in people being hurt, people being hurtful, and just so much fucking negativity.

However, as a CDD system, I don’t think it’s completely implausible to not want to see endo related stuff on my dashboard. I personally believe that the two groups *should* be separate. Because clearly the two groups trying to blend together is what *causes* this discourse to get so bad in the first place. Even if you believe you have a traumagenic system but identify as endo because you don’t think you’re disordered, then the resources and experiences talked about in the CDD tag won’t apply to you. Folks who have a CDD have childhood trauma and therefore their experiences are going to center around being traumatized. I shouldn’t have to want to see stuff from a non-disordered/endo system on my dash if our experiences don’t align at all. I shouldn’t have to preach my neutrality or support for endos day and night for me to be able to say that I am endo neutral or endo supportive.

The main reason I identify as endo neutral despite having a general support of endo systems existing is for a variety of reasons. The main ones being 1) I cannot police other people’s personal experiences 2) whether endogenic plurality is proven by science or not doesn’t matter to me because I’m not endogenic 3) I hate participating in syscourse and taking sides or disclosing sides openly is by nature partaking in it but Gods Forbid I don’t declare what side I’m on or I’m somehow betraying one side or the other 4) both sides can and have been incredibly toxic to each other and I don’t like that kind of negativity in my life, I’ve had enough of having to take sides who are both shit in my life 5) I think the fact that we are STILL fighting over this shit and have been for years with no leeway one way or another makes the fight pointless and should just Stop and 6) I do believe in a separation of the groups because I genuinely believe many if not most systems on either side will refuse to exist in harmony, not to mention the experiences of each side are completely different and non-comparable in exception to both sides having alters present—whether formed by trauma or other means.

I support the views of some endos. I support the views of some anti-endos. I understand why there is animosity on both sides. It is not possible for me to even take a side. However, because I’m a CDD system who has A Lot of trauma, my experiences are not comparable to that of endos and I don’t want to see their content on my dash. I don’t follow the plural tag, I don’t follow the syscourse tag, so I don’t often see endo stuff on my dash because those tend to be spaces in which both are present. And that’s fine because I can curate my own tumblr experiences. But when I see endo stuff in the DID tag or the dissociative disorder tags, that’s when I do get annoyed because endogenic plurality is not comparable to a CDD. And if you’re a traumagenic system who identifies as endo, I feel like that means you should make your own tags and stay out of the ones meant for one side or the other. Or stick to endo only tags. Mixed origins tags exist, don’t co-opt the traumagenic tags when you have distanced yourself from being traumagenic by identifying as endo. You know? Traumagenic tags, DID tags, dissociative disorder tags—all those are for disordered systems, systems who have a complex dissociative disorder. We HAVE made our own tags and our own spaces, they just semi-regularly get co-opted by endo users.

And the same goes for anti-endos. Stop freaking tagging your endo hate with endogenic tags. If you don’t want them in your spaces so badly, don’t invade their spaces either. Fucksakes.

[simbico]

If they are coming out with an entire expansion pack around horses (vs. a game pack and if horses truly are coming to TS4) I better be allowed to play the horse like I can play sims in the game.

Let me be a horse!🐴

[spacecowboyhotch]

The Dead Horse

summary: santi brings you back to reality.

pairing: fem!black!reader x santi garcia

contents: angst & fluff— happy ending, canon typical violence, blood, gore, ptsd, depression, feelings of hopelessness, friends to lovers, kissing

wc: 2,419

an: this has been sitting in my drafts for a while now bc of nerves, but always wanted to write Santi with a black love interest. planning to dip my toe into that pool more in the future 🥰

oscar issac characters masterlist

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting here like this. It could be minutes, hours, even days. In these four walls beneath the shower’s spray, there is nothing that matters. Not even you, not anymore. And while you’re usually the first to be cheery, to tell each of the guys that the work they do— the work you all do together— doesn’t compromise the goodness you see in their hearts, you’re having a hard time believing that right now.

Not with what you’d done. It was to survive, and while you’ve come to terms with how scary you could be in the past you thought it stayed there.

In the past.

Tonight had proven to you that you could always access that piece of you. That terrifying piece that was a killing machine. The emphasis doesn’t lie in efficiency, but in ruthlessness. You had shown no mercy, the switch for empathy and compassion turned off as soon as your hindbrain decided that it was fight or flight. Dormantly thirsty, lurking in the shadows waiting for its time, it chose to fight. But you had gone a step too far—like always— because of your lack of control.

You were messy, enjoying the cutting of thick flesh, the warmth of the blood as it sprayed you. The copper smell, so familiar and embarrassingly comforting, though you didn’t have the mind to think that now, not when you were exposing the pink underbelly of a corpse.

Santi’s been pacing the hallway since you all made it back to the safe house. He’d tried to chat you up on the way home with no success. You wouldn’t meet his eye, and when he drew nearer to catch your gaze it was empty. It chilled his blood. He wasn’t sure of what exactly happened in that room you’d gotten ambushed in but he’d seen the aftermath. Recalling the image of standing over one too many dead bodies, a gleam in your eye had made his stomach curl. He’d smoothed his hand over your knee and left it at that, trying his best to banish all the red and pink and white.

It’s been an hour since you’d stumbled into the bathroom. He can hear the shower still going when he puts his ear to the door and sighs, a mix of frustrated and concerned. He’s not sure what to do– he’s never had to take care of you before. He’s always been grateful for that given all the fondness he has for you bubbling just beneath. Any acknowledgement could jeopardize too much– missions, the dynamic of the team, and most importantly your friendship.

“You alright in there?” He calls softly through the door.

He’s met with silence. He rolls his neck, cursing beneath his breath as his mind goes back and forth, trying to decide what to do.

“Just go in there and check on her,” Frankie says from behind him, causing the other man to flinch. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Santi assures Frankie, leaning against the wall to face the man. He nods at the door. “She could be naked.”

Frankie snorts, shrugging. “She’s seen all of us at least half naked and well, Benny—“

Santi quickly cuts him off, trying to keep the sour jealousy out of his voice. He knows that there’s nothing going on between you and Benny, that Benny is as much of a flirt as he is but sillier and less concerned with his image. “But we haven’t seen her. I don’t— I’m a dog but I’m a respectful one.”

“If she’s gonna get help from anybody on this it’d be you. She trusts you man.”

Santi looks at him like he’s grown two heads but feels a little warm, “She trusts all of us, kind of a prerequisite of living and working with a group of men.”

“It's different with you. You should hear the way she talks about you when you’re not around.”

Santi almost lets himself think about it. Almost lets himself dream a little. Almost.

“Or see the way she looks at you when you’re not looking. Like a lost fucking puppy,” Benny pipes in, breezing down through the hallway between the two of them.

“Don’t sound so concerned, Benjamin,” Santi calls after the man, mouth quirking into a grin.

“Don’t look so smug, Santiago,” Frankie teases.

“I’m not smug,” He denies. He decides to go in, okay with being kicked out by you if it means that Frankie will be gone, done poking and prodding at what the man must know is his heart.

“Good luck.”

Santi murmurs a quiet thanks before slowly entering the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He stands, frozen in place for several moments as he digests the sight of you. It's heartbreaking. His chest goes tight, and he curses softly again. What could he do for you? He’d do anything, but he’s just not sure what. He feels helpless seeing you like this. He could burn this entire city, burn anyone who would look at you wrong. Hell, he’d burn the entire world if it meant some warmth would come back into your eyes.

You’re curled up, your arms resting atop your knees, head resting to stare forward. Your curly hair that usually frames your face is completely soaked like the rest of you, flat and sticking to your face in various places. He knows that your eyes are unseeing, that you’re so incredibly removed from yourself because you make no indication that he’s stepped into the room.

“I’m gonna come sit beside you, okay? That’s it. No words,” Despite his words he stays where he is for a handful of seconds, hoping to get some sort of answer from you. You don’t speak a word, don’t utter or sound or so much as look in his direction. But you do shift slowly, making more room for him underneath the water.

“Fuck, it’s freezing,” He grits out, drawing close enough to you that your shoulders rest flush against each other.

He gazes over at you, noticing the way the water glimmers on your brown skin. The way its collected on your dark eyelashes. If these were different circumstances maybe for just a handful of seconds he’d let himself get lost in your beauty. But then you acknowledge him– sort of. You hum softly and the leaning of your head on his shoulder. It's a good sign and he relaxes beside you.

“Do you want me to shut it off?” He asks gently, reaching out to take your hands into his. Your fingers are cold as ice, and he rubs at them in a futile attempt to generate some heat.

“No, please. No,” You beg hoarsely, suddenly springing to life. You grip at his hands desperately, eyes wide with panic as you finally meet his gaze.

“Alright, hush, cariño, I’ve got you. C’mere, baby,” He shushes you, pulling you into his arms and flush against him.

At little more present in the moment, you feel the chill registering. You curl up, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. There’s still some warmth in his skin and you press into it, letting the sound of his steady breath lull you back into a dissociative state.

Santi holds you for an undetermined amount of time. He runs his hands up your back, over the crown of your hair, feeling the difference of how your curls feel when wet. His hand drifts to your chin, and he leans away, tipping your head up.

“Honey, you’ve gotta talk to me,” He whispers.

Your dark eyes have a little more life to them, but that’s only amplified the sadness they hold. “Santi, I can’t. I can’t. Don’t make me, please.”

“I have to, you can’t stay like this. We’ve got to get it out in the open.”

“Like you do?” You challenge– your voice distinctly unkind, harder than he’s ever heard it before. His brow furrows and guilt blossoms inside of you. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. This just fucking sucks, Santiago. Its all wrong again.”

“Tell me what’s wrong and we’ll fix it.”

“There’s no way we can fix it. I’m just broken. I’ll always be haunted by her. She’ll always be here, waiting for an opportunity for that.”

“You preach that shit to me and the guys. Day in and day out. Every mission, and you don’t believe it?”

“I do— I did. I believe it for you. For them. You’re good people, Santi. Good men, all of you. You take care of me.”

“You take care of us, honey. Fish hangs on your every word. Will too. Benny is well— Benjamin.”

“And you?”

He shrugs, “You know I gave into this a long time ago. Before we even met. No other way for me to be.”

“Do you believe me?”

“I try to. I want to. There are parts of me too that I don’t like. I want them gone. I rip them up and bury them but they always come back to haunt me. I don’t think that means I’m not trying to be better, but it means I’ll never be the man I want to be.”

You frown at him, concerned, “Santi—“

“It’s okay. I accepted that after the first tour. Sometimes you gotta let the horse be dead.”

“Do you think my horse is dead?”

There’s no room for his ego, no room for hiding when he hears the blatant fear in your question.

He rests his head back against the wall, murmuring, “I think you’re the sweetest thing this earth has to offer.”

“You think so?”

“Bouncing around with your curls, and your sweet little smile. Kicking Benny’s ass with grace while you’ve got a cake in the oven. You should see yourself with Frankie’s little girl.”

“Seems like you watch me a lot,” You suggest softly.

“I watch you all the time,” He admits, but there’s no shame in his voice. In fact you can see resolve in his eyes, and possessiveness. A chill runs down your spine and it’s not from the water. Santi mistakes it for that anyway. “Let me turn this off for us?”

He’s still asking. Still checking in with you though there’s much more light in your eyes.

“Yeah, okay.”

Santi leans up and turns off the shower, letting out a sigh of relief. He runs his hands over your wet curls, pushing them away from your forehead. His thumbs swipe your cold cheeks, brushing away some of the water droplets.

Without that steady sound of the shower, sheets cascading down on you, you both are feeling a little more exposed.

“I came in here to make sure you were alright, not spill my fucking guts. I just had to take care of you,” He says, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

“You can always take it back,” You say teasingly, though most of you expect him to bite at your offer.

He’s said much more in these last few minutes than he ever has to you— Santi’s a sweet guy under all his charm, but he never lets you see below the surface. Not until now, when letting you in seemed like the only way to get you out.

It takes more effort than he expects to pull himself away from you. He leans back against the shower wall, nimble fingers lacing together in his lap. “And lose you?”

“You could never lose me, Santi,” You murmur, reaching out to grab one of his hands.

Your eyes roam him, a little in disbelief at what’s happening right now. But yes, it is Santiago Garcia sitting next to you. With his dark brown eyes, his sharp jaw dappled with stubble, his salt and pepper hair looking much darker and curlier than usual due to the water.

“Yeah?” Santi asks, eyes glued to where yours sits atop his. He traces slowly over the sight of you two linked together, admiring how soft and rich your skin looks even after sitting in a shower for so long.

He’s a goner isn’t he?

“Yeah.”

There are butterflies in his stomach. Butterflies, sweat slicking his palms despite the fact that he’s soaked through his clothes and down to the bone. He realizes in this moment that he’s not just a goner. No— he loves you. He knew that he was harboring some kind of feelings for you, but when your eyes meet his— earnest and tender— he can only think one thing: I love you.

His eyes hungrily drop to your full mouth, and another shiver runs down your spine. “Let me kiss you.”

You nod, squeezing his hand that’s still in yours.

“I need to hear you say it. You have to say it for me, so I can believe it.”

“I want you to kiss me, Santiago. Please.”

He’s on you then. All over you. His hands move quickly, guiding you back into his lap before one loops around your torso and holds you close. The other cups your jaw, angling it back so that he can press his mouth to yours. You’re breathless before the space between you is closed, chest heaving at how sure and firm his hands are. He kisses you. Kisses and kisses you, like his life depends on it. Like you’re lost and the only thing that will guide you home is his insistent tongue.

Your hands slip and slide against the fabric of his wet shirt before you give up, raising them to tentatively cup his face so that you can have leverage.

“That’s it honey, kiss me back. Take what you want to. Whatever you need,” He encourages between kisses.

Take you do. You squirm in his lap until he lets you shift and straddle him. It had started with him leading you, consuming you but now it’s your turn to surround him. Santi gives in, sighing into your mouth as your tongue goes on the hunt for his. You kiss him. Kiss him and kiss him until your mouth aches. When you pull away his is flushed pink, newly wet. You run your thumb over his lips before wiping your own mouth.

He looks up at you like hang the moon. His eyes are soft and hazy, pink mouth pulling up into a smirk. There’s the Santi you know. The Santi you love. But even now, he’s softer and sweeter, gathering you close again.

“What do you need now, sweetheart? What can I do to make it better?”

“You.”

“I’m yours.”

santi taglist: @jitterbugs927, @theconsultingdoctor10, @tanzthompson, @clairevoyanceee, @moonmalice, @tiffanypooh, @dearvirtualdiary-blog1, @marc-spectorr, @xbellaxcarolinax, @toracainz, @mccn-bcys, @missdictatorme, @whatthefishh

[goldenwoods]

I don't want to beat the dead horse of 'Harry Potter's depiction of enslaved house elves is disgusting' but...I simply can't help myself. It still leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and I made this account to rant, after all.

So, I knew that Harry Potter never solved systemic slavery, nor even condemned it as a system. Treating house elves badly was a big no, but enslaving them in general? Debatable to say the least, says the narrative. But a recent conversation with a friend made me remember some details about just how bad it was.

First of all, though the freeing of elves via socks is a repeated element, information regarding how house elves are enslaved (or indeed, how they are born) are never shown. It's some nebulous 'bound by magic' thing and George said they come with old manors (huh?). The narrative deliberately presents all of them in an already enslaved state. Enslavement is, in the Harry Potter universe, the natural state of elves while freedom on the other hand is something that requires an external 'act', something unnatural. Elves are not shown to naturally possess autonomy which is thereafter systematically deprived, rather, they are born as part of a wizard family's property. This is pretty disturbing and sets the foundation for the narrative's whole "slavery is okay because house elves like it!' thing.

The second problem is Harry Potter himself. Harry is infuriatingly passive in front of disgusting acts of slavery. And it's not because he's a shy or apathetic character. Harry will stand up for people, is quite rash about it in fact, and even at his calmest will issue an appropriately scathing remark. But when Winky, someone who's whole kind has been enslaved and abused for who knows how long, sprouts of stuff she's been conditioned to believe like 'we're not paid, and Dobby wanting to be is unbecoming', or 'we're not supposed to have fun' or 'we do what we're told', Harry doesn't tell her 'No? You are entitled to individual autonomy, enslaving you is wrong.' but he's just like 'eh.....Dobby's cool, let him live his life.' and when Hermione complained about their oppression, the book states, literally, "Harry shook his head and applied himself to his scrambled eggs." and "True, both [Harry and Ron] had paid two Sickles for a S.P.E.W. badge, but they had only done it to keep her quiet." and regarding a professor using house elves to test for poison, Harry simply thought 'welp, guess Hermione's gonna be pissed about that, better not mention it'. (???) What the hell is going on with the good guys here, Rowling? Is this the approved attitude towards slavery?

Thirdly, of course, is the whole 'house elves love being enslaved' thing. Which...silly me for thinking Rowling was trying to critique systemic oppression...and not trying to shove it under the rug after using one poor oppressed elf to characterise bad guy Lucius. I mean, Hagrid's reasoning as to why we shouldn't free elves is absurd, he explains that it's 'in their nature to look after humans, that's what they like', they'd be unhappy to have their work taken away, and they'd be insulted if they got paid. Which is, first of all, a demonstrably untrue statement, because Dobby loved being paid. ('in their nature' generalisations proven to be inaccurate? What a shock!) But even putting that aside, how does this translate to slavery? You could...I don't know, free them and let them voluntarily be cooks, cleaners, servants, whatever, instead of keeping them under a 'magical bound' that makes coerced self-harm possible. They can...take care of you and be your servants if they really want to without being your property. What the hell.

Last but not least is how the only time the narrative made Ron Weasley ('good guy' who's exasperated by Hermione's house elves movement) openly consider the well-beings of house elves is when they wanted to set up Ron and Hermione's big romantic kiss. There's something so gross about Rowling trying to finalise her haphazardly-written romance with her poorly-written slaves, a group that she had, in the last few books, already mercilessly exploited for "comedy" via Hermione's unsuccessful activism. And it's...not even that significant. Ron: 'Hey, don't you think we shouldn't trap enslaved elves in a sieged castle that's about to become a death pit?' Hermione, and the narrative by extension: 'You're amazing, Ron! For showing them basic decency!' *aggressive kissing ensues*

And then Rowling made a whole crowd of house elves (along with a bunch of other systemically oppressed races that she couldn't bother writing properly) rush into battle on Harry/Hogwarts' behalf because wow, isn't he benevolent towards the enslaved? They love him! Like...no, Rowling, you didn't earn the 'all races unite' moment, rather you screwed it over so badly that your feel-good climax presents a picture of slaves rushing to defend their masters, who, I might add, just kind of forgot about them and decided that establishing nuclear families with a bunch of kids and no evil baddie anymore means 'all is well', systemic issues be damned.

[hknightdai]

(REQUEST) Beating Bronze - House of the Dragon

Rhea Royce x Male Reader

Tags: Noncon, Oral, Face-fucking, Vaginal, Creampie, Anal, Public Sex

Request: Rhea Royce she keep acting cocky towards reader so one night reader drag her and fuck her in front people until she pass out

XXX

‘Daemon’s a lucky bastard,’ A common thought of yours these days.

Somehow, your brother managed to get his way and fuck off; leaving you to marry the so-called “Bronze Bitch” of the Vale. Admittedly, the first week wasn’t the worst. You fucked on your wedding night, left immediately afterward, then didn’t talk for the rest of the week. It’s not as if she’s unappealing, you simply didn’t know her nor had any wish to. Perhaps in the future, you’ll get to know her.

The future turned out to be a few days later.

You were returning to Runestone after riding your dragon, Velnias, when you ran into her. Or more accurately, her horse.

“So you’ve decided to stop hiding, Husband,” Rhea said, bringing her horse to a stop.

Stepping back so you don’t have to look up too much, you say blandly, “I wasn’t hiding, Dear Wife. I was merely getting used to my new surroundings.”

“Getting used to your new surroundings,” She said. “So that requires you to run from our bed once the deed is done, like a shy boy?”

She smirked down at you from atop her horse. It's fortunate you weren't your brother. Your hand twitches slightly, alongside your eye.

Flexing your jaw, you took a breath and replied.

But she quipped, “I see I’ve left the dragon silent. Maybe you ran because your “performance” was your best.”

The implication was clear enough and your face morphed into one of rage. Seeing so, Rhea laughed before riding off. That was when you found out more about your “Dear Wife.”

Those interactions would continue throughout the first week of your “marriage,” and into your second. She had certainly proven herself to be the bitch Daemon called her. The bronze part, however? No. You’d make sure her attitude went away, you just had to be rough

After some planning, you throw a feast. Certainly not what a person who wants revenge would go for, but you've got a plan.

On the day of the feast, the festivities begin early. The hall of Runestone is filled with the faces of lords and ladies you don’t know, all jolly and laughing with one another. Even your wife joins in. Good. With everyone chugging their drinks down, you mingle about, sipping from your tankard of water.

Hours pass into the late night and everyone’s drunk. Including Rhea.

Walking over to her, you grab her and say, “Come dear, you’re wasted and it’s time to sleep.”

And she very much was. Stumbling simply from your grip, she still has enough attitude to spit a response, “O-ooh look! My husband deigns to give me his presence. Even theee shy dragon has his moments.”

Lost in her drunken stupor, Rhea roars with laughter alongside those she was talking to.

Your face gives for a moment, sneering at her, and then you regain control. Smiling at the others, you tighten your grip and pull her back to your room. The trip to which, breaks you. Rhea stumbles so much that you practically drag her across the hall. You only make it a few more steps before bursting out in anger and pushing her against a nearby wall.

She lets out a shocked cry, “W-what the seven hells, Y/n!”

She goes to continue, but you wrap a hand around her throat.

You get in her face as you squeeze tightly, and hiss, “I’ve had enough of your shit, Rhea! It seems you’ve forgotten that I’m a Prince, not some minor lordling. As a Prince, I must rectify your attitude.”

Rhea grasps at your hand, weakly trying to pull it away but fail. Once her eyes start rolling back, you let go and she drops to her knees, gasping. Saliva already drips from her mouth as she coughs; screwing her eyes shut as she gulps down precious air. With her eyes closed, you drop your pants. Your cock stands stiff in the hallway.

Slightly kneeling, you grip her jaw and her hair and slam into her throat.

“KRRRGLHK! KRPHLK! KRPHLK!”

“Not so high and mighty anymore are you, Bronze Bitch?!” You hiss.

Left weak from her earlier drinks and lack of air, the proud Lady of Runestone is left grasping and clawing at the floor. Though she does try to bite down, your grip on her jaw is enough to stop any such movement. The attempt does however draw our ire.

Your fingers clench hard enough to leave bruises. The hand in her hair yanks her head back, slamming it into the wall.

“Grrglk!” She cries.

“I see I need to beat harder,” You snarl.

Her head hits against the stone with every snap of your hips. Glaring down at your “wife,” you can see how pathetic she now looks: Her eyes are screwed shut in pain with tears running down her face; spit spews from the corners of her mouth, dripping down onto her clothed breasts as they heave.

Grinning, you hilt inside her throat. Rhea’s convulsing throat brings you to the brink and you pull out. Rhea hurls and coughs as you jerk your cock until you cum on her face and tongue.

Breathing heavily, you grab her messy face with the same hand that just jerked you off, you say, “I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson, but still. Are tamed now, Dear Wife?”

Rhea glares up at you, her breaths coming as rasps. She sneers for a moment then tries to spit in your face. But you quickly raise the hand on her jaw to block it, getting even more spit on it. At that moment, she tries to stand but trips, her legs still wobbly from the alcohol and kneeling.

Your hand whips out and grabs the front of her shirt. Pulling her towards you, you smack her with the spit-covered one and let her fall on her stomach.

“Stupid bitch,” You say, though you expected it. “On to the next part then.”

Flipping her over, you enter a pitiful struggle as you rip her shirt open and she tries to stop you, hitting you with lackluster smacks and punches. When you get to her pants, she seems to regain some power. A kick scraps you while another nearly catches you in your exposed bits.

“RHEA!” You roar.

Your voice spooks her for a moment and you yank her pants and undergarments down as best you can. Despite your best effort, they catch on her knees before she resumes her struggle. But it’s enough for you. Grabbing her frantic legs, you squeeze them tight and bend her half.

“Yo-ou Bastard!” Rhea hisses, her breath being knocked from her with the force you used.

“It’s our child, Rhea. It’s not going to be a bastard.”

And with that, you spit on her lower lips and sink into her.

You let out a moan, not bothering to hide your pleasure as Rhea clenches her jaw, the sound of her sharp breathes is the only reaction she reluctantly gives. Pulling back, you slam into her. The smack of flesh rings out. Rhea claws the ground as you fuck into her.

“Are you enjoying my performance, dear Wife?” You taunt. “Or would you like more?”

Reach around her legs, you palm her breast, squeezing it. Rhea lets out a low whine as you pinch and pull on her nipple. By now, your cock practically slides in and out of her with how wet her cunt has become from your abuse.

“So you are liking my performance. It seems the Bronze Bitch is merely a whore with a hard shell,” You say, grinning.

Moving from her tits upward, you grab her throat, “Look at me, Rhea. Watch as your husband rapes you in your own home!”

Rhea’s face turns a shade of red before she finally opens her eyes. You take a sick pleasure from watching her mouth fall open as she gasps and drools while you fuck her. Clenching your jaw, you snap in and out of her cunt. Soon enough, your thrusts stutter and the sopping smacks die down as you hilt inside of her and fill her with your cum.

When your hand leaves her throat, you immediately have to catch yourself as you fall atop her in exhaustion.

“I…I take it that was enough for you, Rhea?” You say after a moment.

She doesn’t answer.

Looking at her, you catch a glimpse of her taking a deep breath. Then she strikes. A punch to the side of the head knocks you off of her and you go tumbling. Clenching the wound, you whip your head to see her hurriedly trying to get up as she scrambles away.

Furious, you have little trouble standing and stomping over to her.

Rhea’s barely got a foot fully on the ground before you grab the pants which are now around her ankles, and yank. She falls into the stone ground but barely manages to stop herself from faceplanting. She pushes herself up before you grip her brown mane and force her face into the ground.

She cries out as you hiss in her ear, “I was teaching you a fucking lesson, bitch! But it’s clear I need to stop holding back.”

“Beating a drunk enemy, you’re real tough, Bastard!” She barks, glaring at you in the corner of her eye.

Sneering, you spit in her face. As Rhea clenches her eye shut from the stinging pain. With both arms in one hand and her hair in the other, you yank her to her feet before marching her down the hall, back to the feast.

“You damn fool!” She yells, seeing where you’re taking her. “They’ll never stand for this. You’ll be dead before the sun rises.”

“I’m certain those fuckers are too drunk to even stumble towards me. And if not, well.” You shrug. “Velnias should be enough of an incentive to sit the fuck down.”

Once the hall is in sight, you have to struggle to keep your bitch from escaping your hold. Yanking her into the doorway, it takes a few moments before anyone notices but when they do there are mixed reactions. Some gawk at the sight of their friend/lady almost fully naked, her clothes being either around her ankles or torn apart, barely hanging onto her. While others, the more agreeable ones, laugh and howl in drunken amusement. Then there are the yelling ones.

“What’s wrong, my lords?” You shout in merriment. “Can’t the freshly married enjoy some fun with their friends?”

You clench Rhea’s arms and quietly hiss, “Go along with it, bitch. I die, Velnias goes wild.”

You can see her work her jaw side to side before purposefully slurring her words, “Enjooy yourselves. We cerinlly will!”

And the merry howl as the gawkers merely shrug and continue on, though some do still gawk. And the yellers, well they aren’t happy. Some leave, but many just laugh, so lost in the alcohol they won’t likely remember. But Rhea will.

Tuging her along to the head table, you slam into the side of it, giving everyone a great view of your cock rubbing between Rhea’s cheeks. Grabbing a tankard of wine, you drink some before spitting it onto her back and ass.

Rhea sharply inhales, “You fu-”

She almost gives the game away but stops herself.

Rhea trembles beneath your touch as you rub the alcohol against her asshole.

“How about next time you decide to mouth off, you remember this night, Rhea,” You mutter.

Pulling back, you slam into her wet cunt before pulling out and slamming into her tight hole. Rhea’s eyes go wide and she tries to muffle her scream. Veins pop out along her neck as her face goes red from the strain.

With your grip on her arms still in place, you use it as leverage as you pull back and slam back into her. Showing her no mercy, your cock stretches her ass open wide as you fuck her in front of everyone. Rhea tries to hide her face away against the table, but the raucous laughter is a constant reminder of the audience.

Your cock practically saws in and out of her, but despite how uncomfortable it is, her hot ass clings to you tighter than anything else. You can’t help slamming back into her.

For a few moments, there are no words between you two, just the labored breaths of you two.

Despite the pleasure, you grab the tankard of wine again. Tilting it over your wife, you drench her in it. From head to toe, wine drips from her shaking form as she whines from the pleasure and pain.

One of the men quips, “She must be thirsty!”

“You’re damn right!” You shout back.

Rhea’s breathing quickens as she quakes. The shame of this act combined with the fucking itself, leaves her in shock. Unable to hold back any longer, you feel her ass clench around you as she lets out a croaking moan and squirts onto the floor before falling unconscious on the table.

Caught unsuspecting, you let out a groan and fill her ass to the brim.

Once you've caught your breath, you look out to the room of merry men. You notice many groping their partners while other men lay unconscious themselves.

“It seems I’ve fucked the Bronze Bitch unconscious!” You bellow into laughter.

In the coming days, many don’t recall much of the night, which is good. But Rhea does. She remembers every instant of your punishment, which is good. You don’t think a second public performance is going to go as well as last time.

Oh well, at least the Bronze Bitch has learned her lesson.

[pearlescentpearl]

Political Pawn AU 2

You can find Post 1 here.

Findekáno does not go to bed

Turukáno finds him brooding on the lake shore, stone eyed and tense

“You’re rethinking things you ought not rethink,” Turukáno says, though he knows it is in vain

“I am trying not to,” Findekáno tells him, folding his arms tighter against the wind. “Whatever he did, it doesn’t change the outcome. Those who suffered still suffered. Those who died still died. I can think better of him for trying to speak on our behalf before the betrayal became irreversible, but not for helping kick it off by taking the ships at Araman, nor his foolishness in thinking the situation would be otherwise.”

And he does think a great deal better of Russandol, for trying. Fëanáro’s wrath had proven no small thing to risk. He failed to stop what he himself abetted, and in his failure rested the horror of trekking the Helcaraxë

But still, knowing someone tried to protest, knowing someone didn’t forget them, that Russandol didn’t forget him...

It’s something

“Father and Aunt are already embroiled in plans for how to use this,” Turukáno says dully, settling next to him on the grassy bank. “I left because I couldn’t stand listening them anymore.”

“What are they thinking?” Findekáno asks, half-fearing the answer. Too many have waited too long for the slightest crack in Fëanáro’s defensive stubbornness, and the feud the eldest sons of Finwë wage has always driven them to unreasonable heights. He doesn’t delude himself into thinking the next move won’t be stunningly vicious

“Father’s hoping to foment Fëanáro’s own people against him by suggesting Nelyafinwë is the only of their House deserving of the crown, seeing as he doesn’t agree with abandoning his people,” Turukáno says bitterly. “He’s hoping it will galvanize those who didn’t agree with their traitor king’s actions into... I don’t know, forcing Fëanáro to do something about them.”

Findekáno huffs a disbelieving laugh, voice cracking. “The man is being tortured in Angamando, and Father would make him king? What is he thinking? This is going to rend the Noldor worse than we already are!”

It wouldn’t just be the Fëanárian Faction tearing into itself over this, it would be their own people too. What cohesiveness they’d held onto all this time would dissolve as the question of Russandol’s actions and what they were worth became a Kindred-wide debate

In Valinor they could get away with that. On Angamando’s doorstep?

Death would come for them in their distraction

“You know how Father gets when Fëanáro’s involved,” Turukáno says, and they share such a look of deep commiseration

“I also know how you get about Nelyafinwë,” Turukáno continues, and Findekáno hunches his shoulders. “You’re just like Father, you know. Not an ounce of objectivity in either of you.”

“I am trying to be better,” Findekáno protests defensively. “I know I... I ruined so much acting out of love instead of wisdom.”

“You are not the only,” Turukáno says heavily, “who has made ruinous choices out of love.”

“I think, at some point, we two, it stopped being about love and more about pride,” Findekáno whispers. “It was love when I raised a sword at Alqualondë. It was pride when I helped them steal the ships; too much pride to stop and repent when I learned the truth.”

“I should hit you for being right,” Turukáno sighs, leaning back on his hands. “I can not separate the love from the pride since the Darkening. I only know we, none of us, acted with wisdom when we had the chance. And now we must live with it, and hope to be wiser in the tribulations to come.”

“Like this harebrained plan of Father’s. He’s not going to get reparations if he’s just going back to undermining Fëanáro. I want to tear the man down from his high horse as much as anyone, but I’m so sick of the feud, Turvo. Hasn’t it taken enough from us?”

“It will only stop taking when we all stop feeding it.”

“Might as well ask the both of them to starve themselves.”

“Hah!” Turukáno laughs. “That will be the day!” A pause to let the mist billow by. “Brother. You’re thinking about doing something.”

Findekáno doesn’t deny it. “Someone has to check Father’s worst impulses.”

“Whatever you do,” Turukáno says, “I beg you. Act from love. Not pride. I can forgive you for love. I am not sure how much more I can for pride. For anyone.”

“Even yourself?”

“Perhaps especially myself.”

Findekáno leans over to bump his forehead to his brother’s. “For love,” he agrees. Leaning back, he admires the sight of the unvarnished stars, Rána in its dark phase. “If anyone should ask, tell them I left early on patrol.”

“And if I should ask?”

“I will say only that I promise to return.”

“Heartening.”

In the morning, Turukáno indeed tells any who ask that his brother is on patrol, though he is sure to put up his most dour of expressions to dissuade any who might try to ask him. Easy enough, with the speech his Father starts the morning with

Itarillë, nearly full grown now, finds him halfway through and threads her fingers in his

Glancing down, he finds her pensive, brow furrowed in a mirror of his own expression

She was born during Fëanáro’s exile. Half her life has been spent on the Helcaraxë. She only knows her half-relations through stories, and glimpses during the march to Araman. They are as strangers to her. He wonders what she makes of this speech upholding a man she would only ever have heard cursed

He feels her mind brush against his, a wisp of winter wind carrying the scent of evergreens

The townsfolk are listening, she tells him

And do they agree? He asks

Her head turns to regard the mingled Lestorodrim and Fëanárian Loyalists. Some of them, maybe. The Lestorodrim have minds as girdled as their homes, but ultimately Noldor matters are Noldor matters to them. The Fëanárians are... split. I see much shame and regret in them

Not so much they’ll act on it of their own volition, Turukáno retorts. He recognizes the pride that refuses to humble itself in the face of wrongdoing as easily as he sees it in his mirror

He’s not blind. He sees the shame in their faces too

If they want forgiveness they’ll have to humble themselves first

Itarillë elbows him

Following her intent gaze he sees one of the Ambarussa in the crowd, face going pale and intent

“Which one is that one?” She murmurs

It’s difficult to gauge at this distance, what with the mist making everything perpetually damp, but he thinks that dark shade of red denotes Pityafinwë, the elder twin

“Well,” Turukáno murmurs back. “Your grandfather has garnered the attention he wanted.”

“But is it the attention the rest of us need?”

“That remains to be seen.”

As Finwë-Ñolofinwë wraps up his speech on Fëanáro’s flaws as a leader so far (many), Nelyafinwë’s virtues in comparison (anyone would come out smelling like roses compared to Fëanáro), and the obvious disregard of the people’s will displayed in Fëanáro’s refusal to repent, Amabarussa takes off to Barad Eithel

They would have Fëanáro’s response soon

It will be ugly. Turukáno doesn’t need foresight to predict that

“What do you think of all this, Father?” Itarillë asks, jarring him out of his dire thoughts

“I spent far too many times telling you as a child that it’s important that you tried, even when you failed,” Turukáno says after a moment. “Sometimes, especially when you failed. I am loathe to make a mockery of yet more of the virtues I tried to raise you with. Yet my heart is broken. Whatever healing or amending I may find in the future, it cannot make that fact not be.”

“I do not think you make a mockery of anything,” Itarillë says. “You raised me to believe in the importance of trying, even in the face of failure. You also raised me to contend with the consequences of failure. I expect no less maturity from my elders.”

Overhead, the sky is clouded

[staar5384]

Our Secret Moments

levi ackerman x reader

It was unusual for Captain Levi to end training early. Typically, he would push his cadets until they were almost too weak to stand. Today was different, however, as he approached his Scouts, telling them traning was done today, and then disappearing.

Armin stroked his chin, seemingly lost in thought. Everyone was trying to figure out what on earth possessed Captain Levi to end training so abruptly. That's when Armin had an idea.

Eren shook the blond gently, "Hey, Armin, you still in there?"

He nodded, looking at his group of friends. "I think the Captain ended training to go see Y/N."

Jean snorted and crossed his arms, "Sure he did. I'm pretty sure Levi hates them."

"Definitey not. Those two are practically attached at the hip," Eren interjected. It was safe to say if anyone knew how the two veterans interacted, it would be him.

"You've gotta be joking. There's no way that cold bastard would let someone like Y/N around him that much," Connie said in disbelief.

"Eren is the only one who sees how those two are. We gotta trust his judgment."

"Why is it any of our business anyway?" Christa looked at them. "I mean, if you were them, would you want people prying into your business?"

"Because this is the kinda shit we can us against the Captain!" Jean smirked. "He will never treat us like second-rate soldiers ever again!"

Connie and Sasha both nodded in agreement. Eren gave the idea some thought; on the one hand, Christa was right. Whatever was happening between Captain Levi and Y/N was none of their business. On the other though, Jean was also right. If they had some leverage against him, maybe he would start treating them a little better.

"You guys seriously can't be considering this," Christa gave them a small frown. "I know Captain Levi is strict, but we shouldn't invade his privacy like this!"

"I say we just go see what he could be up to," Eren shrugged. "What's the worst that can happen?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Armin's suspicions were proven right as they found Levi's horse out in the middle of an open field not far from the Scout's base. Across the field, Levi and Y/N were laying in the grass.

"Let's try to get closer and hear what they're saying," Jean whispered as he began to sneak closer to the two. The others quietly followed his lead until they were at the perfect spot to sit and listen.

"You've been overworking yourself Levi," You turned over on your side, tracing lines across Levi's arms. "Don't feel bad about cutting one training short."

Levi sighed, relaxing into your gentle touch, "I just know Erwin has a deadline for when he wants those brats trained, and this break could really hurt my chances of meeting it."

"Well, this was much needed. For both of us," You gave him a smile. "Besides, we don't get much alone time anymore. It's truly a tragedy," You exhaled dramatically.

Levi snickered and rolled his eyes. "You are really something else, aren't you?" He glanced at you, an unusual softness in his eyes.

The cadets watched from afar and were practically stunned to silence. This was nothing like the Levi they knew. He was being.. nice? He was laughing, smiling. It was an extremely strange sight to see.

"Tell you what," Your voice rang through the field, which brought the hidden Scouts back to their mission at hand. "Let's dance," You threw yourself up off the ground.

"Excuse me?" Levi said in disgust. "I am not dancing."

"Oh come on it'll be fun!"

"You know what else is fun?"

"Getting up and dancing with your best friend," You said smuggly.

"No. Laying here and doing nothing sounds way more fun."

You decided to completely ignore Levi's protest and dragged him up off the ground. You pulled Levi against your chest and wrapped your arms around his waist.

"You are absolutely insufferable," Levi scoffed, a blush forming on his face. "How are we going to dance to no music?"

You didn't reply, just started humming softly. He swayed gently as he waited for Levi to give in.

Against Levi's better wishes, he joined you in the gentle sway. Once you knew he was into it, you picked up your pace. Unknown to Levi, you were actually an incredible dancer.

Levi took a glance up at you, and your eyes were fixed on the raven-haired man you held tightly in your arms. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Levi was getting more and more flustered by the second.

You shrugged, tightening your grip on Levi's waist, "You're just nice to look at," You dipped him towards the ground, your hair falling into your eyes.

The two stayed like that for a moment, both unsure of what to do now that they seemed entirely entranced by each other. Levi's heart was pounding as you held him tightly. You felt the same way, taking a glance at Levi's lips every so often. It was an insatiable urge, wanting to kiss your best friend.

On the opposite side of the field, Eren and the gang were extremely invested in this moment. "They're totally gonna kiss," Connie said quietly.

"Oh definitely. I'd be surprised if they didn't," Jean replied, his eyes fixed on the scene in front of him.

Eren was entirely stunned. "I knew the two were close, but I never thought they were in love."

"I think it's so cute!" Sasha was barely able to contain her excitement, her hands flapping back and forth in an attempt to release some of that energy.

You leaned in closer, your lips just barely touching Levi's, "You make it so hard to resist you."

Levi gulped nervously, his body now aching for you to kiss him, "Then stop resisting."

That was all the approval you needed. You crashed your lips together, kissing Levi deeply. Levi returned the kiss, his hands finding their way around your neck.

You stood Levi upright as he carefully pulled away, "I've been waiting to do that for so damn long," You chuckled quietly.

Levi was breathless and his face was a bright shade of red. "I agree," He tried to compose himself.

"I knew it!" Connie yelled, immediately realizing his mistake after.

Levi spun his head toward the group, who was poorly hidden behind a few bushes, "What the hell are you guys doing here?" He started to move towards them.

"Shit, run!" Eren called out as the group scattered in different directions.

Levi growled in annoyance, getting ready to chas after them, but you stopped him, "It's not worth it. Let's leave them be right now, yeah?"

Levi hesitated, but agreed, "I hate those kids," He leaned his head on your chest, taking a deep breath.

You laughed and hugged Levi tightly. There was something so comforting about being able to hold him like this, even given the current circumstances. "Yeah, I hate them too."

[moodymisty]

Could you maybe do a GN!reader with Death (pre relationship) where reader calls him Deathy and the others are surprised he lets them get away with it?

Author's note: This plays into one of my favorite tropes; Gruff old man lets you get away with things no one else can.

Relationships: Death/Gn!Reader (platonic and/or pre-relationship)

Warnings: None

"It might be a bit more comfy on Ruin,"

Strife speaks up and catches you attention, pointing to the Red Rider's massive warsteed with a thumb. Holding onto the saddlehorn of Despair’s tack you look in Ruin’s direction, pondering while Fury watches this interaction with a small amount of amusement. It's better than staring at the trees, for sure.

War, realizing he's suddenly the center focus of three sets of eyes, looks up confused and glances around, but doesn't actually say anything.

"Ya know, with the bigger saddle and all."

Not as if Despair is a small horse by any means, but you wouldn't mind riding on Ruin, if only just for a bit of fun. But before you have the chance to even ask War if he'd let you join him, Death shoots the prospect down with a stern glare in all of your general directions.

Instead of heeding that very obvious warning however, Strife saunters right through it with the nonchalance of a Nephilim who’s done it a million times before.

"Then how 'bout you join me?"

Strife does a little jerk of his head and his shoulders push back just a bit to give him better posture, while he acts as if inviting you to the cool kids table at school. Death however, fed up with having his thinking interrupted as he stares out past the steep overlook and scouts their next move, turns and scowls at Strife with Despair's reins still tightly wound in his right hand.

"Will you stop?"

As if Strife would actually heed Death's warning, he looks over at you, while Fury and War rest on their own horses behind you both. You stay sitting on Despair simply because of the effort required to get on and off the giant horse, and Death considers you safe there. The horse is an extension of himself in a way, and he trusts the steed to keep you safe even if you’re only a meter away. It also helps that it limits your ability to wander off and get into trouble, as you've proven far too curious for your own good multiple times.

"Aww come on, you're really gonna listen to him?"

Death turns at you and give you one look in response to Strife's whine. You have no real desire to go against his wishes just to upset him, even though you know he'd let you ride with one of them anyways. Despair is more than fine, you have no real want to swap horses. You look towards the gunslinger and shake your head in refusal.

"Whatever Deathy wants." Your voice is singsongy and smile sickeningly, saccharine sweet, and you can't help but look down at Death the moment the words leave your mouth.

His glare isn't just sharp, It's hell fire; It would've boiled you alive if you were affected by it.

Instead of calling you out on it however he simply sighs, before looking away from the overlook.

"Let's go."

Death lets go of Despair's reins for a moment as he rounds the shoulder of the horse, but quickly gets stopped by Strife's guffaw. He extends out one arm, pointing at you with an armored finger.

"Woah woah woah; You're just gonna let that slide?" He moves his finger between the two of you, to further point out.

Strife is so clearly smirking behind the mask by the way his eyes and pushed upwards, leaning against Mayhem with arms crossed as if the horse is a wall. Upon hearing Strife call speak up Death bristles, knowing he'd been caught red handed giving you such blatant leniency.

He can even hear Fury snicker, which makes his lips purse tighter together behind his mask. Thank the Creator he wears the ugly thing, he thinks.

That was supposed to be reserved for when no one else is around, but of course he slips up at the worst possible moment.

"It was a momentary lapse in judgement-" Strife scoffs, and you try to snuff a laugh behind your palm. The Reaper turns and points upward at you.

"One more word out of you and I slap this horse's hindquarters and send you straight into whatever realm he wishes to visit."

When you roll your eyes Death grasps the front lip of the saddle, putting a boot in the stirrup and leaning the saddle to one side when he hefts himself up. Once he settles in the saddle behind you he doesn't say a single word, but you can feel his irritation from a league away.

He can feel your contentment as well, watching the scenery pass by as you sit unawares of just how much you'd pointed out his habitual favoritism.

[sarnai4]

The Underworld

I cannot even express how excited I was to listen to the Underworld Saga. It did not disappoint at all (of course, I wanted more songs, but the trio was amazing). Spoilers ahead for Epic the Musical.

"The Underworld" was an amazing setup for what we had coming. There are just so many tiny details! There are callbacks with "Full speed ahead," "Open Arms," and of course, we also have the "Ruthlessness" callbacks with the army. That would be so horrifying. He's surrounded by the 500+ soldiers who relied on him and trusted him to bring them back home. He even stated back in the Ocean saga how he didn't lose a single soul in the war. It's when they leave that everyone starts dying. Then, we have the heart-breaking Polites cameo, reminding Odysseus of how he cost his best friend his life. Now, the part that got me a little choked up was when his mom showed up. I have read even the story, so I know that she's gone, but it hurt so much to hear him realize he'd been at war so long that he never got to see her alive again. Him saying "Bye, Mom," just tears my heart strings right out. I love the contrast too of the quiet sadness in his voice with this line, then immediately yelling "All I hear are screams!" There's so much rage and pain as he's forced to confront everything that's kept him away from his family--including those he'll never be reunited with in life.

Then, we have "No Longer You." When I say the snippet did not do this song justice...(sighs dreamily). I still enjoyed the snippet, but this is probably my favorite of the bunch to listen to. The melody, the vocals, it's all just so beautiful. The tune just seems to float like you could do a ballroom dance with someone. That's not to say that the lines aren't great too. I love how this one plays on Odysseus's fears and how his increased time away from home has jaded him. The prophet basically says, "I see you with your wife, but you're messed up from your time away" and our Ithaca king is just pissed that he saw someone with his wife. Uh, buddy...well, I guess you'll find out soon enough. It's also so fun to know the story and get reminded of what Odysseus will be doing when he returns to Ithaca, fighting subjects who just assumed he had died and don't have respect for anyone in his family now. Even this entire concept to me in fascinating since it considers an underlying theme of the play: how people change due to their experiences. Odysseus will return, but it'll never be the same Odysseus who left in the first place.

And we end with "Monster" which is such an awesome ending to a first act. I wish this was live, so the audience could erupt in applause. (Small detail, but I love the music at the beginning. It's so unique when compared to the other songs and is pretty cool, gradually growing when more instruments are added). A bigger detail is that you have the instrumental intro matching the intro for "The Horse and the Infant." It just shows how far they've come and calls back to the very first time Odysseus was responsible for a lost life in the musical. My favorite line in this song is "I'm the only one whose line I haven't crossed." That's saying something too because this song is full of amazing lines. I just love the implication since we know Odysseus has often had lines he thought were too far. He didn't want to kill the baby, chose to spare Polyphemus, didn't kill Circe when he won in the fight, etc. Still, as he finally admits in this song, he did kill the baby. Despite that, he hasn't crossed his line. Why? I think it's because he keeps pushing it back each time he's confronted with something he doesn't want to do but feels he has to. It ties into the end of this song where he considers everyone he's lost, fully understanding the scope of it now that he's seen the spirits of his loved ones. Turning into someone he never wanted to be doesn't matter anymore. If he's a monster who still has a living family and hasn't proven the faith people had in him was foolish, then it's fine. He might have even been a monster before by not going against their enemies with everything he had. It's all a matter of perspective. Was he a monster for killing the baby, one for causing so many in his fleet to never return to their families, or one for both of those choices? The ending going back to "The Horse and the Infant" with him calling out for Penelope and Telemachus AND pairing that with the repeat of "Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves" is marvelous. It's almost like it's in the same sentence where he's explaining his actions to them, telling them that he has to become a monster because it'll make things alright for everyone they hold dear.

The only thing that made me mad about this is that I have no clue when the next saga is coming out or what it's even called. So, I'll just be playing the songs on repeat until I can add however many more to the playlist.

[dark-nimbus]

A Rant on Representation in Media (mostly comics)

CW: ableism, disability erasure, mentions of fat phobia, mentions of fetishization, lmk if there’s anything I missed

I can’t believe that here in 2023 we still have to say this, but fuck it this year has already been hell enough so why not add another thing

Representation, whether it be for disabilities or culture, race or religion, any marginalized group— ALWAYS MATTERS

I spent the majority of the other night dealing with people trying to downplay the impact of Barbara Gordon’s paralysis being retconned. Wanna see how that went?

“Oh, but it’s okay if Barbara Gordon still has some mobility because there’s paralyzed people that regain their ability to walk”

Her spinal cord was completely severed, she was left fully paralyzed from the waist down

“There’s a 60yo fighting in a Kevlar bat suit and shifting clay people, but Barbara getting her legs back again is a problem?”

Okay, can clay people restore a spinal injury? Can Batman punch a nervous system into fully functioning? What relation does that have?

Aside from the fact there’s zero connection between the two, paralysis actually fucking exists. Batman and clay shifters, believe it or not, don’t. Lemme know if you find an irl Batman or Clayface that needs representation. Go on, I’ll wait

“Barbara being able to walk again isn’t disability erasure, there’s other paralyzed characters”

The definition of disability erasure is literally terminating someone’s disability under the belief it makes a person less than. The fuck you mean it’s not?

And how many paralyzed comic characters can you name? I’m willing to bet it doesn’t come to 50. Every character belonging to an underrepresented group matters. Whether their representation is taken away completely with that one character’s erasure or not isn’t the fucking point. You’re still fueling the already negative stigma around disabilities and sweeping disabled people further under the rug

“Her disability erasure doesn’t matter, DC will just paralyze her again in later issues”

I’m sorry, are you completely paralyzed from the waist down? Do you embody each and every paralyzed person and their experiences? No? What makes you think that you get to determine whether the erasure of something you don’t even have matters?

As for DC re-paralyzing Barbara, it’s been retconned since 2011. Even if they do plan on undoing whatever whack job microchip magic they’ve got going, they sure as hell are taking their sweet-ass time

I can’t believe people were actually arguing in favor of Barbara’s disability erasure, but here we are. Representation has always mattered and always will, and yet media loves grossly misrepresenting everything. Barbara was such a strong character as Batgirl, and flourished in her character development even more as Oracle. Her struggles, overcoming them, and learning to love herself and value her abilities beyond the mantle made her a well-loved inspiration for many. To have all of that stripped away and undone with a microchip was just as insulting as it was a destroyed opportunity for character growth

And unfortunately that’s not the first conversation I’ve had regarding the representation of characters

Oh, you thought I was done? Ha! I wish. How about Spiderverse?

“Oh but Sun-Spider can’t be a superhero, she’s wheelchair-bound!”

Professor X. The Chief. Oracle.

And just to cover all my bases: Bucky Barnes, Daredevil, Hawkeye, Doctor Mid-Nite, Hornet, Jericho, Cyborg. And that’s not even going into characters with much more hidden disabilities. Disabilities never stopped anyone from being able to achieve anything, nor should it ever

“Fat spider-people? Really? That’s just unrealistic”

Yes, really. What’s the problem with that? Surely it’s not the webbing, which have been proven to be durable enough to support buildings. No way it’s how they’re shaped when there’s a car, a horse, and a whole ass T-Rex spider variant

Some people really forgot the whole concept behind the first Spiderverse movie. How Stan Lee made it clear that “anyone can wear the mask.” It doesn’t matter your body type, whatever disorders or disabilities you have, your ethnicity or your upbringing. Being a hero is so much more than that, and the diversity of each spider-variant only reinforces how Spider-Man represents everyone

But let’s go even further with voice acting

“So what if Sunspot is being voiced by a white person instead of an Afro-Brazilian voice actor? It’s animated”

Oh wow I wasn’t aware that representation stops at the sound machine. Yes, Sunspot’s newest voice actor is Brazilian, but with a character whose ethnicity plays an integral part in his story, you’d think Marvel would figure casting an Afro-Brazilian VA would be more authentic for the role than the fourth white dude in a row, but no. Of course not

And with each VA they cast, Marvel pushes Afro-Brazilian VAs out of this role they’d intimately understand and be passionate in representing. VAs that Sunspot fans would love to see knowing that their favorite character (or even themselves) would be understood, rather than being hollowly voiced with characteristics that don’t match the person

“If Sunspot should be voiced by an Afro-Brazilian voice actor does that mean Magneto should be voiced by exclusively German Jewish voice actors? It’s not a monolith”

And neither are Brazilians. Hell, neither is any religion or race. That’s why we want an Afro-Brazilian VA. There’s so many nuances that can only be breathed into the character by someone who understands because they themselves have lived that life. It may be small but those nuances are what make the character feel alive to their audience, and the closer a VA is to the experiences of their character, the more genuine the character feels

Portraying animated characters doesn’t fall completely on the writers and artists. Artists may take control visually, and writers may be responsible for plot and voice lines, but it’s the VAs that are in the spotlight. VAs are the ones that gives these characters character. And those characters can’t be fully and properly represented for viewers if it’s not all there

Representation always matters. Its significance doesn’t go away with erasure, and it definitely isn’t less important because other people who aren’t among that marginalized group refuse understand. Disabilities don’t define who someone can be, nor does body type, or culture, or religion or any other background. It doesn’t stop at the sound machine. Anyone who says otherwise are just adding to the ignorance most media uses to excuse the already shit representation of the entertainment industry

Every marginalized group is valid. Every minority deserves to be portrayed as they are and not feel like they’re being fetishized, infantilized, or inaccurately represented for the sake of plot

Little me, the queer adopted Asian kid with raging ADHD, severe anxiety, and shit communication skills deserved more than the fetishization from anime characters and shouldn’t have needed to wait until they discovered Cassandra Cain, the first character to show that superheroes could look like them too

And people that never struggled to find themselves represented in media sure as hell don’t have an excuse to encourage lacking representation and feign ignorance when common decency and basic human empathy is free

[allthefakepeople]

was the archer written about kit tanthalos? sources say "yes" (i am sources)

hi everyone

the first time i listened to the archer by taylor swift after i watched willow i blacked out and realized how it was literally written for Kit Tanthalos of Tir Asleen and after some coaxing from @spybrarian and @aro-of-artemis i have decided to share my thoughts with you all... warning: this will be long Combat, I'm ready for combat

(kit is always ready for a fight, whether that be physical or with words. she never feels like she can let her guard down)

I say I don't want that, but what if I do?

(she pretends she's not as combative as she is sometimes, but she just comes across as the opposite)

I've got a hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you

(she has so many things she wants to say to so many people. jade, airk, sorsha, and mostly madmartigan)

Easy they come, easy they go I jump from the train, I ride off alone

(just how she doesn't have many other connections besides jade and how that must've still been lonely sometimes. also in ep 2 when she wanted to keep moving to keep searching for airk but everyone else wanted to stop and look around for elora, including jade who i'm sure she was trusting to understand how important this is for her)

I never grew up, it's getting so old

("you've just proven to everyone in that room exactly what you are. a petulant child who needs to grow up" but also kit definitely gets tired of herself sometimes)

Help me hold onto you

(she just needs someone to hold on to, she hopes it's jade. she needs help remaining vulnerable)

I've been the archer I've been the prey Who could ever leave me, darling? But who could stay?

(just this whole chorus is so much of kit's internal conflict. like she's been the one causing the pain to others, while also being the one who has been hurt. she has this mentality that she's better than others, but is that just a shield to hide behind when she's actually incredibly vulnerable)

Dark side, I search for your dark side

(there are definitely times where she wonders 1. why jade sticks around for her and 2. hopes that the reason she does, is because she also has the anger inside her that kit does. she definitely sees parts of that fire in jade and it's probably one of the reasons she was drawn to her when she was a kid. she has to find that "dark side" to encourage herself that she's not actually a bad person deep down)

And I cut off my nose just to spite my face Then I hate my reflection for years and years

(she can't look at herself without seeing the reflection of her father and her mother... she's not sure which part she hates more)

I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost The room is on fire, invisible smoke

(i'm just obsessed with the way this describes anxiety, but also this reminds me of kit at the end of ep 6 when she's truly at her low point and she goes off on elora before falling through the crystal)

And all of my heroes die all alone

(i mean... kind of self-explanatory but still... just kit and her hero worship of madmartigan)

'Cause they see right through me They see right through me They see right through Can you see right through me? They see right through They see right through me I see right through me I see right through me

(just how no one sees kit for who she truly is, not even jade, until ep 7. like they all think she's out of her depth, no one is willing to get close enough to understand every little piece of her, jade has gotten the closest but even she falls short sometimes "can you see right through me?" and that tears kit apart sometimes. especially after ep 3 because she was so sure that she and jade had an understanding and it was all blown up by the truth)

All the king's horses, all the king's men Couldn't put me together again

(ep 6 kit core. again, just how she's pulled to pieces by everything up till this point and nothing could really bring her back to who she was before she left tir asleen, maybe even since her father left.)

'Cause all of my enemies started out friends

(having to fight her own twin brother, even if he's potentially "better" now, was incredibly taxing for kit)

Who could stay? You could stay

(by the end, jade and kit have come to a different understanding about each other and "where the princess goes, i go" has a new meaning. and jade will stay if kit only asks... would kit ask though?)

basically my conclusion is somehow taylor swift wrote a song specifically for Kit Tanthalos before she was even a concept so... if you have any other contributions about this or just want to scream (or whisper or talk) about me about willow/kit/tanthamore/anything else my askbox/dms are always open

[maple-writes]

My attempt to introduce Bristlecone:

Details subject to change without notice as I think of better ideas lol

Tagging @concealeddarkness13 since they said they were curious!

Text version under the cut:

Slide one: Bristlecone!

I am trying yet again to edit this story

Slide two: ... Bristlecone?

An older wip (finished last draft back in 2018)

Not sure if I’ll keep the title Bristlecone but I don’t have any better ideas either

I’m finally getting back to it (hopefully)

It’s editing/revising time now

Setting – fantasy with wild west inspiration (simply because I thought it would be neat)

Kind of a murder mystery, kind of a general mystery, kind of an adventure

Which means one of these characters could be the culprit… Or not… It’s a mystery…

Slide three: Viper (one of the POV characters)

That’s not her real name

Deputy of the Aristata and unofficially Winter’s girlfriend (They act as more than just working partners but neither has said anything to each other to acknowledge this)

Observant but tends to ignore her gut feelings

Loves horses, and is in charge of training them

Is unable to speak to people she doesn't know, and then can only manage a whisper

Has had a rough decade or so before joining the Aristata to say the least

Slide four: Honey Davis (the other POV character)

That’s not his real name

Was training to take Cecil’s place as a Mortician Mage until recent events stopped that

Newly recruited as a mercenary to the Aristata

He has some… Secrets (some of which he himself doesn’t even know)

Orphaned as a child when his parents were executed (for good reason)

Something off about him. Eyes shine at night like a cat.

Kind, gentle, and would have made a very good Mortician Mage

Slide five: Winter Balfouriana

This is her real name!

Leader and founder of the Aristata

Viper’s girlfriend

Last surviving member of fairly powerful/noble family of demon slayers

Prior to the “disaster” which killed her family, her mother had trained her in enchanted metalsmithing

Tenacious and strategic, and genuinely cares for her mercenaries

Respectful and fair

Slide six: Stark Jiang

Sees the best in people and tends to treat people as friends unless proven otherwise

Tbh to the point where it’s easy to forget he’s just as deadly as Viper

The first person to join Winter as a mercenary, before their little group even had a name

Pretty hard to rattle him and most of the time he’s just vibing

Very reliable and very trustworthy

Slide seven: Other people

Cecil Davis – Wayton’s Mortician Mage and the man   who took in Honey after he was orphaned 

Taiga – Cecil’s weird dog

Lady Alabaster – Countess of Vindale. She hired   the Aristata to settle a conflict with a   neighbouring Lord

Ren Alabaster – Lady Alabaster’s son (he’s gone   missing)

Annie and Theo – The other two members of the   Aristata

Slide eight: Stuff that's going on

Basically, Lady Alabaster’s son goes missing in the middle of the night

That same night Winter finds Honey alone in desert

 The Aristata agree to stay under Lady Alabaster’s employment to try and find her son

So what happened to Ren Alabaster?

Is he even still alive?

What’s the deal with this Honey kid?

Could it perhaps be an issue that Viper doesn’t like to accept what she knows to be true and instead deny to avoid recognizing uncomfortable truths?

Who knows, could be anything!

Slide nine: ~worldbuilding~

It’s fantasy loosely based on wild west aesthetic

There are demons, there are gods and there are fae (technically all three are the same thing but it’s complicated)

Most of the story comes out of a place called Vindale, governed by Lady Alabaster

[all-the-things-2020]

No Better Place - Chapter 17

Summary: Javi comes home for the weekend. Domestic fluff ensues.

Word count: 2100

Javi was exhausted, but in a good way. His first week at work was almost over and it had gone well. There had been far too many meetings for his taste, but that was to be expected when setting up a brand new department. His assistant, Monica, was amazing. A licensed psychologist, she had been working freelance with the police department for over a year, and was enthusiastic about creating programs to help the tweens and teens who would be the focus of their work.

“Rob wants to know if you want to come over for dinner this weekend,” Monica said, as she dropped another bulging file folder on his desk. Rob was her husband, a tax attorney who worked from home in order to keep an eye on their two kids.

“Can’t,” Javi said, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m driving home to Laredo right after work.”

Monica grinned. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, got to go see your girlfriend,” she said, drawing out the vowels in the last word like a middle schooler teasing a classmate. She sat on the corner of his desk. “I remember those days. When Rob and I were first dating, I couldn’t get enough of him. Now, who cares?”

Javi rolled his eyes. He’d met Rob and the kids at lunch on Wednesday and it was clear that even after seven years of marriage and two children, Monica and her husband were very much in love. “You care and you know it,” he said.

“Yeah, I do,” she admitted. She pushed off from the desk and stood up. “In case I don’t see you before you head out, have a great weekend.”

“You, too,” Javi said, already flipping open the folder to see what was inside.

At five, he shut off his computer and stacked the folders and papers neatly on his desk. His overnight bag was already in the car, so he didn’t need to stop at the apartment. After a quick detour to the men’s room, he hopped in the car and headed out.

Traffic heading out of town was heavy but once he’d cleared the city limits, the drive wasn’t bad. Still, it was well after seven by the time he turned off the road into Cassidy’s driveway. At this time of the year it was still light, but getting dusky. His headlights swept across the side of the barn as he pulled up next to the house. There was a light on in the barn and one in the kitchen. He decided to try the house first.

Linus was sitting on the kitchen counter as he walked in, which told Javi that Cassidy wasn’t in the house. “Hey, buddy,” he said to the cat. “You’d better get down before Cass sees you.” Linus just blinked at him.

Javi dropped his bag in the bedroom, used the bathroom, and headed out to the barn.

***********************************************

Cassidy knew Javi had arrived because Buster’s ear pricked up and the gelding started to snort. “Is your daddy home?,” she asked. She tried to rub Buster’s forehead but he tossed his head, trying to look over her at the open barn doors. Even though she wanted to run outside and throw herself into Javi’s arms, Cassidy made herself continue with her barn chores. She was almost done tucking everyone in for the night and if she finished up before she went to Javi, she could go with a clear conscience.

As she was double checking the latches on the stall doors (Baby Girl had proven extremely adept with her lips and had let herself and Mama out more than once), Buster let out a piercing whinny. “I missed you, too, buddy,” she heard Javi say.

She turned around and there he was, walking toward Buster’s stall, looking both utterly out of place in his suit and tie and utterly at home. He rubbed the gelding’s forehead and Buster pressed his head against Javi’s shirt, trying to return the favor.

“Someone missed his daddy,” Cassidy managed to say as she walked toward him.

Javi chuckled. He disentangled himself from the horse and stepped toward her, arms open wide. “I’ll bet you missed me, too,” he said, his voice low. “I know I missed you, hermosa.”

She fell into his arms, his embrace firm but tender. He smelled like cigarette smoke and laundry soap and some kind of woodsy cologne. She took a deep breath, letting his scent mingle with the warm perfume of horses and hay that permeated the barn. It smelled like home.

“I did miss you,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. Reluctantly, she pulled back to look at his face. “Are you hungry? I wasn’t sure what time you’d get here, so I didn’t start dinner. Your dad brought over some nice steaks, but if you’re starving, I can make you a sandwich or something.”

Javi smiled and stroked her hair. “I had some snacks in the car,” he said. “I’m good for now. And a steak sounds amazing.” He kissed her forehead and then turned to Buster. “I’ll see you in the morning, buddy. I promise.” The gelding snorted, his neck stretched out as far as it could over the stall door. He whinnied again as they left the barn, a pitiful sound that lingered on the air as Cassidy bolted the barn doors.

Javi took her hand as they walked toward the house, entwining his fingers with hers. It felt innocent, like they were kids on a first date, not lovers heading inside for dinner and a night of passion. Well, maybe not passion, she thought as she stole a glance at Javi’s face. He looked tired and more in need of a good night’s sleep than a tumble in the sheets.

“Long week?,” she asked.

He squeezed her hand. “Yeah,” he admitted. “A shit load of work and way too many meetings.” He sighed. “But we can talk about that later. Right now, let’s get those steaks going. The sooner we eat, the sooner we can get to bed.” He winked and she shook her head at him.

“You’re going to conk out before your head hits the pillow and you know it,” she said gently. She opened the back door and saw a grey streak as Linus leaped down from the counter and dashed out of the kitchen. “I saw that,” she threatened. “Damn cat thinks he owns the place.”

***********************************************

The steaks were delicious and after they’d eaten, Javi felt comfortably full and relaxed. He loosened his tie and stretched out on the couch while Cassidy took a shower. He’d told her she smelled just fine to him, but she insisted she was dusty and covered in horse slobber. By the time she came out, wearing a tank top and baggy sleep shorts, he was half asleep.

“Come to bed,” she said, tugging at his hand. He scrubbed at his face, embarrassed that he’d dozed off. “To sleep,” she clarified. “You’re worn out.”

He let her lead him into the bedroom, where he stripped off his clothes and fell into bed. She slipped in next to him and snuggled close. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I know you were probably hoping for something more exciting.”

“This is nice, too,” she said. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Me, too,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Me, too.”

When the alarm went off in the morning, he was momentarily confused. “Go back to sleep,” Cassidy said. “I’ve got to go feed but you don’t need to get up. I’ll be back.”

He meant to get up, he really did, but the bed was warm and comfortable. The next thing he knew, the smell of coffee and bacon was wafting through the air and Linus was standing on his chest, staring at him while purring loudly. He heard a noise and turned his head to see Cassidy leaning against the doorway, a cup of coffee in her hands. “Morning, sleepyhead,” she said.

Javi sat up, unceremoniously dumping the cat onto the bedspread. Linus gave an indignant meow and stalked away, the tip of his tail twitching. “What time is it?”

“Eight thirty,” Cassidy said. She handed him the coffee. “You looked so peaceful, I couldn’t bear to wake you. But I got hungry so I fixed breakfast. Bacon and eggs, if you’re interested.”

He was. He gulped down half the coffee, took a quick shower and got dressed, then joined her in the kitchen. “I thought we could take a ride this morning, if you want,” she said as he shoveled food into his mouth. “Buster could use the exercise.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “I think Dad wants us to go over for dinner and a movie tonight, if that’s okay.”

She nodded. Javi sipped at his second cup of coffee. It felt so … domestic, discussing their plans for the day over breakfast. Linus wound between their ankles, hoping for a bite of bacon. Through the window, he could see Buster dozing in the morning sun out in his pen, while Mama and Baby Girl groomed each other in the arena. Cricket was rolling at the other end of the arena, a plume of dust rising above her as she scratched her back against the dirt. I could get used to this, Javi mused. If only San Antonio wasn’t so far away …

*****************************************

Cassidy had been a little worried that things would be awkward between her and Javi, but the day was amazing. After breakfast, she’d packed a few sandwiches and they’d headed out for a long trail ride. Buster was thrilled to be reunited with Javi, and even more thrilled to get out of the arena. They rode for hours, stopping at a little spot where the creek spread out into a limpid pool ringed with trees. The horses stood in the water, cooling their hooves and drinking deeply, while she and Javi made out while reclining against the trunk of a particularly large willow.

The bark dug into her back through the thin fabric of her tank top, but she didn’t mind. Javi kissed her slowly and gently until his stomach growled and ended the romantic vibe. He laughed. “Guess it’s time for lunch.”

They ate their sandwiches and then swung back into the saddle. Cassidy was curious to try a new trail that she thought would loop back to her property, but she had prudently waited until she had company before trying it. It did lead to her property line, but via a rather steep gully and a stretch of uneven, rocky ground that was no problem for nimble little Cricket, but proved a little too much for Buster. By the time they got back to the barn, the gelding was breathing hard and dripping with sweat. Javi wasn’t much better.

“I think my ass is one big bruise,” he complained as he slid out of his saddle.

“Aww, poor baby,” Cassidy teased. “I can slap some liniment on it for you.” Javi just rolled his eyes.

They untacked the horses and gave them a bath. Buster shook like a dog after Javi had rinsed the soap off him, soaking Javi from head to toe. He just shrugged. “Well, at least I won’t need a shower tonight.”

They puttered around the barn until it was time to head over to Chucho’s for dinner. He’d made his speciality — chili con carne — and had rented a romantic comedy and an action film. “Wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for,” he explained, as they settled around the table.

“Anything’s fine with me,” Cassidy said. She was happy just to be sitting in Chucho’s kitchen, with a cold beer and a hot bowl of chili in front of her, and Javi beside her.

After dinner, they curled up on the couch to watch a Rambo-wannabe lead an assault on some Nazis or Communists or something; Cassidy wasn’t really sure what was going on, but Chucho and Javi seemed to be enjoying it. She relaxed against Javi’s chest and played with his fingers, content just to be there.

When the movie was over, they drove back to her house, checked on the horses, and retired to the bedroom. Unlike the frenzied, almost desperate sex of the weekend before, now they took their time, making love slowly and carefully before drifting off to sleep wrapped in each other’s arms. Her last conscious thought was, This is gonna work. We’re really going to make this work.

[hyperfixatedfandomer]

Pro-ship doesn't actually mean "actively writes problematic ships". It means they support people's rights to write what they want, no matter how dark or problematic. Someone can write the most wholesome, heart-warming fics where nothing bad ever happens and they can only ship the most non-problematic ships, and they can still be a pro-shipper if they think people should be allowed to write what they want to write and not be harassed by it. Just a heads up!

Someone CAN, but those hypothetical someones I’ve never met.

Excuse-moi, but that’s exaclty what it means. “Supporting the right to write whatever they want” is just rhetoric filled with softening words those ppl use to make themselves look like they’re on some sort of moral high horse. There wouldn’t be so much discourse and controversy around said group if it was at least half as vanilla as you described it to be.

I’m not going to be sitting here and, for the billionth time, explaining why thinking it’s cute or hot when kids and adults are in a romantic relationship (that is inevitably sexual) is fine because they’re not real people. They were written a certain way to portray ideas, and in case of this movie they were written very realistically too. Adults were written to be and act like adults, and kids were written to be kids. No amount of delulu will bypass that fact.

Weirdos can write what they want, they don’t need my or anyone’s support because the internet is an open platform and nor I, nor anyone else has the power to remove a person from it. All I’m saying is I want people like that AWAY from my blog because from my personal experience, and experiences of many other people across many communities, the content pro-shippers put out is disturbing and gross. It’s my opinion, I’m allowed to have it just as they are allowed to write whatever horrible power-dynamic gets them going.

No one puts “Pro-shippers DNI” in their profiles for no reason. Most ppl who do have had a really bad experience and put it there to keep other ppl of that group away from their account. They curate their internet experience, just as many pro-shippers whine that we should do.

If they want to write something, whatever. I’m not their mom, nor am I the police, but they are not welcome in this space and I will not be hearing “it’s fictional” bullshit coming from them for the billionth time, as if media and how we consume it doesn’t have direct effect on our real lives, as if it’s a discourse and not commonly known and proven fact.

[eliemo]

Reunion

A scene for my Medieval Royalty au because I've had non stop brain rot about it where Bruce and Dick reunite after almost a year of thinking the other is dead

Bruce followed Clark through the mud, the grass still damp with early morning dew, walking vigil at his side with a hand moving to over the hilt of his sword. 

Clark glanced at his movement, the corners of his mouth turning up into a small smile, but he didn't say anything about it. The King was far too relaxed for his own good, especially out here unprotected, preparing to meet with a stranger. 

“He’s not a stranger,” Clark had said, when Bruce had tried to persuade him to bring more men. “I had a perfectly nice conversation with him when he arrived last night. He just wants to meet for negotiations, I agreed to walk into town with him. He seems like a smart kid, I think he could be useful.”

Bruce had missed the traveler’s arrival last night, Clark granting him the day off when Tim had fallen ill, his fever spiking in the early morning. He was awake now, and he’d proven able to keep water down, so Bruce had left Jason in charge of the kids and insisted on accompanying Clark to meet with his new friend. 

“A mysterious stranger shows up in your kingdom and wants to meet privately with the King to discuss the possibility of work and housing,” Bruce said. “He’s offering information on Queen that he couldn’t share with an audience. It’s suspicious and convenient.” 

Someone familiar with Oliver’s kingdom also ran the risk of Bruce being recognized, another reason he wasn’t exactly eager to allow this stranger to stay inside the gates, let alone get anywhere near Clark. 

On top of that, Clark had said they’d been traveling with a companion from the House Allen. He’d trusted Barry during his reign, his family were good people, but he wasn’t entirely convinced one of them recognizing him or his children wouldn’t spark some sort of conflict. 

If they were at risk of capture they’d need to flee again, and none of them were in the place to be on the run right now. Not until Tim was fully recovered at the very least, and that could take weeks. 

He caught Clark staring with a shameless grin, and Bruce scowled. “That’s how I met you, B. Don’t be a hypocrite.” 

Bruce didn’t have an argument for that, scowl deepening as he followed Clark through the field, scanning the horizon for any signs of an ambush. 

Their company didn’t keep them waiting, and Bruce’s guard rose immediately when he caught sight of two figures walking towards them in the distance, still small specks against the gray sky, the orange glow of early sunlight just barely illuminating their approach as it peeked up over the hills. 

“Stay behind me,” Bruce instructed, coming to a halt as he waited for the travelers to approach. “We wait here.” 

Clark ignored his command, as the stubborn King of Krypton often did, but he at least stopped walking when his knight did, coming to a gentle stop at Bruce’s side, their shoulders brushing. 

“That’s him,” Clark said, raising his hand in greeting. “See? Everything’s fine.” 

Bruce hummed under his breath, unimpressed, watching him smile out of the corner of his eye. Clark still didn’t seem to understand how to be a king, how to harness that untouchability, the power and nobility that came with a crown. He was too friendly, too approachable, too vulnerable. If Bruce didn’t know better, he’d mistake his King for a commoner. He needed to learn, or his reign would end the same way Bruce’s had. 

Maybe, if the opportunity rose, Bruce would give him some pointers. 

It was an impossible thought, opening up about that part of his life with Clark, trusting him with that knowledge. It could never happen. 

It felt like a distant memory now, something far away and forever out of his reach. 

It had caused him nothing but grief, anyway. And he knew Clark felt the same about his own place. 

He could see the travelers better now, each of them guiding a horse by the reins, the animals trailing proudly behind them. 

Something twisted in his gut when he recognized freckled skin and a mop of wind blown red hair. He hadn’t expected noble blood. He’d met Wally West a handful of times, and only in passing at the occasional meeting with his uncle, but Bruce never let himself forget a face, and a handful of brief meetings still ran the risk of his voice being recognized the moment he opened his mouth. 

He squinted to make out the second man through the distance. He seemed to be about West’s age, taller, darker skin and black hair and…

Bruce’s heart dropped to his stomach. 

He was pulling off his helmet before he even fully registered the decision, unmasking himself in the crisp morning air. He felt Clark stiffen beside him when he dropped it to the ground, saw the two approaching travelers falter and stare, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. 

“Bruce?” 

Bruce ignored him and started forward, throat closing up tight until he couldn’t catch his breath, boots sinking into the mud as he dropped everything and ran, desperate, pushing to close the last of the distance in between them as fast as he possibly could. 

And he was doing the same, running towards Bruce like a string had been cut, months of heartbreak and pain and grief laid out plainly for them both to see. 

They met in the middle, skidding to a frantic stop in the mud, and Bruce pulled his son to his chest without another moment of hesitation. 

Dick went willingly, melting against his armor, scrambling to cling to his back and bury his face into his chest. It was far from comfortable with the armor they were both wearing, especially ankle deep in the muddy grass, but Bruce didn’t care. 

“Bruce?” Dick called, craning his neck and looking up at him with wide eyes, like there was still some doubt, like this was a trick or illusion. Bruce just held on tighter. “You’re…. you–” 

“Are you alright?” Bruce demanded, pulling back just enough to scan Dick for injuries. He looked… exhausted. And older- painfully older. But he didn’t appear to be hurt. “Are you alright?” 

“Am I alright?” Dick echoed, and Bruce couldn’t believe they were already arguing. He ignored it, reaching up to gently cup his missing child’s face. “I… Bruce you died, you all… I thought you–” 

“I’m okay,” Bruce said, brushing overgrown hair out of Dick’s face with a silver glove. “I’m okay, Dick. We’re all okay.” 

Dick froze, shiny brown eyes like saucers when he blinked up at him. Bruce had missed him more than he had words to express. “All of you?” 

“All of us,” Bruce said. “We’re okay. We got out, Chum. We’re okay.” 

He saw Dick’s face crumple, saw the weight of the world slide off his shoulders and was right there to catch him again when he slumped forward with a broken sob. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around Dick’s back again and pulling him close. “I’m here now, it’s okay. It’s all okay now.” 

He clutched at him like he was a child again, trembling in his hold, and Bruce was reminded with enough force to knock the wind right out of his chest that he still was. He’d barely been a man the last time Bruce had seen him, nearly a year ago now, and he didn’t even want to begin to imagine what this boy had been through these last months, alone and scared, with the weight of an entire family, an entire kingdom, ripped away from him the moment he’d had his back turned. 

Dick squeezed him and Bruce allowed it, resting his chin atop his hair like he’d done so many times before. “I thought… I- I thought–” 

“I know,” Bruce said. “We did too.” 

It was nothing short of a miracle that Dick had been able to evade capture this long, with what felt like the whole world looking for him. He’d never given up hope, never stopped telling himself that Dick was alright, that he was surviving, that he was out there somewhere trying to make his way home. But he’d long ago accepted the cold truth that he’d never see him again. 

And now here he was, back in Bruce’s arms. He supposed if anyone could manage it, it was Dick. Jason had been right, he was the best of them. 

He didn’t know how much time had passed before Dick pulled back, Bruce reaching up to cup his cheek again, still marveling at the fact that this was real, that he had his family back together, whole and unharmed. 

Dick’s gaze moved to something over Bruce’s shoulder, quickly stepping back out of his space, and Bruce was suddenly reminded that it wasn’t just the two of them, alone to reunite in the dawn. 

Wally had his eyes on the ground, hands folded behind his back, sparing Dick a small glance and a smile, before briefly meeting Bruce’s eyes. He recognized him, then. And was decidedly not making a scene. Good. 

He could feel Clark’s eyes on him, his confusion and questions bubbling to the surface, and Bruce stubbornly refused to look his way, itching to reach out and pull his son closer to his side. 

They had a lot of catching up to do, assuming Clark allowed Dick the same protection he’d given Bruce and they got that chance. 

He would. He had to. Nothing in the world could rip Bruce’s family away from him again. 

“Your Majesty,” Dick greeted with a bow in Clark’s direction and Bruce stared straight ahead, trying not to count the seconds his son was out of his reach again. “Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” Clark echoed, and Bruce could hear his insufferable smile. “I… see you’ve met, Bruce.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Dick said slowly. He turned to Bruce, silently searching for permission. “We–” 

“He’s my son,” Bruce said, for once allowing himself to speak without second guessing himself, facing Clark’s startled look head on. “My oldest.” 

There was a hand on his shoulder, the King’s eyes going wide, and Bruce felt like the morning was holding its breath. He’d told Clark what he could, as scarce as he could manage, and he knew the questions and suspicions this could raise. 

But right now it didn’t matter. Dick was alive, and he didn't have the energy to even try to hide that joy. They’d earned the right to celebrate their family being whole again, his heir coming back to him. 

“I thought you said…” Clark trailed off, and Bruce let his relief and fading grief surface, like a book open for the King to read. His gaze softened, his hand squeezing Bruce’s shoulder before turning back to his guests. “Well, then. In that case, Krypton is honored to have you.” 

Dick smiled, the tension in his shoulders dropping. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Come on,” Clark said, stepping back in the direction he came and motioning for the others to follow. “We’ll walk and talk. I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do.” 

“Yes,” Bruce agreed, falling back to walk alongside Dick as he led his horse through the mud, his smile the exact same as it had been when he was nine years old. Bruce had been terrified he’d never see it again. “We do.” 

[rebeccalouisaferguson]

Considering how the film opens, Ilsa faking her own death could make sense. Having been hiding out for days in the Arabian Desert, Ilsa finds herself ambushed by bounty hunters, and when Ethan arrives to help her, he finds his pal lying face down on the ground pretending to be dead. That last part is revealed in a flashback later on – before that, director Christopher McQuarrie lets us believe she really has bitten the dust for a little while. In the flashback, Ethan helps a wounded Ilsa onto a horse and shouts, "You're dead, stay dead." Hmm, foreshadowing, much?

It's entirely possible that Ferguson's schedule – she's been busy fronting Apple TV Plus series Silo and Denis Villeneuve's two-part Dune adaptation recently – just didn't allow her to have a bigger role in Dead Reckoning Part One. Not that that helps take the sting out.

....

Deciding on Ilsa's demise was "really tough," McQuarrie said in an interview with USA Today. But it was one we knew we had to make for the movie to have stakes and for the movie to remain Mission. Mission is primarily Ethan's journey (and) there is this continuum that the people closest to him, he tends to lose them. It was a really tricky conversation for us to have, and we knew that there would be some reactions to that, but we also knew this is the reality of the world that's been created over seven movies."

Talk about fridging! Was Ilsa the only character getting in the way of Ethan's journey? He's known Luther and Benji longer than he's known her, so if McQuarrie really wanted to up the stakes heading into the eighth chapter, wouldn't it have worked better to kill either of those two off? That said, how well you know someone doesn't really seem to matter when it comes to the IMF. 

....

Grace breaks down talking about Ilsa and says she's "the reason she's dead". Luther interjects with a firm no, and adds, "She's the reason you're alive." It's a subtle line, but it could mean that the team know more than they're letting on.

Grace then questions whether the IMF boys will protect her, which prompts Ethan to admit that they can't promise to because, as proven a few hours before, things can go terribly, terribly wrong. He does vow, however, that if she joins them, her "life will mean more to [him] than [his] own." 

"You don't even know me," Grace claps back, to which Ethan replies: "What difference does that make?"

On the surface, it's a sweet sentiment but read a little deeper into it, and it's a truly bizarre and sour note to hit following a main character's death. It inadvertently suggests that a stranger on the street is just as important to him as his nearest and dearest and, more crucially, that his years knowing Ilsa essentially counted for nothing in the end. My personal love of the character (and Ferguson) aside, I really hope Part Two sees her return to trick The Entity, kill some guys with her thighs, save the day, and prove that's not the case.