#tell them what it means to reclaim something

[renaultmograine]

AU where Balnazzar isn't stupid and instead of killing and impersonating Dathrohan during the Third War, he impersonates Calia Menethil

Calia is missing, either dead or intent on never showing her face again, making a prime candidate for impersonation

Being the princess of Lordaeron and the heir to the throne, the remnants of the Silver Hand would fight to the death for her, and with way more conviction than just for one of the first paladins

The amount of damage that could be done wielding the face of a powerful woman cannot be understated. I wholeheartedly believe that Calia-Balnazzar could make them whipped up into the Scarlet Crusade frenzy like. four months tops.

She's the princess. What are you going to do, argue with her? Tell her no?

None of the paladins likely know her that well, so Calia-Balnazzar could bullshit damn near anything she wanted to, while Dathrohan-Balnazzar would be constrained incredibly.

POV you're ill from a ~mysterious illness~ and the big tiddy priestess princess herself tends to you and comforts you and agrees that your dad really is shitty :( you should do something about that :)c

Realistically speaking, they would have to arrange a marriage for Calia-Balnazzar for when they reclaimed Lordaeron, and there's so many good options to pick from (for Calia-Balnazzar to have an easily manipulated husband). (Also no one knows real Calia is married with a child).

Taelan: sad man but he's well respected and the Lord of Hearthglen, where all their operations have been based out of. Too depressed about his dad to be any real hindrance to any schemes but that also means he might lack that driving force of pure insane zealotry.

Renault: younger, more emotionally unstable, clearly wanting someone to validate him. He's going to destroy whatever you point to with some hyping up, but he's definitely going to destroy himself at some point if he doesn't calm the down, and you're not going to want to be standing next to him when that happens

Darion: fairly younger, but that makes him more manipulable, and this whole 'recovering Lordaeron' nonsense is taking a while anyway. Sad about his dad so don't mention you encouraged Renault to kill him, but like. This is Darion we're talking about. Mister "I will interpret whatever you say into 'kill yourself for me' and then do it." He's going to be ride AND die if you don't fuck it up. You will need another man after he dies though. Well maybe not he's rather committed.

Decent chance Sally smites her. This crusade is NOT big enough for two bad bitches--there's a reason why Brigette Abbendis fucked off to Northrend--and it defintely isn't when Calia-Balnazzar is cozying up to Renault.

I want to say Sally/Calia-Balnazzar for the fun of it but I legitimately cannot imagine Sally doing anything more than tolerating her, even with the mind control shit.

Real Calia currently larping her tradlife with her unnamed husband and child finding out that the Princess has been found and that she's to be wed once the kingdom is returned and deciding she's not going to touch that with a thirty foot pole >>>> the FUNNIEST Before The Storm scenes imaginable if the crusade does manage to reclaim Lordaeron

[thefirstlioveyou]

some queer melvins are so interesting.

“fuck will’s sensitive little 🚬🚬🚬 ass. mike doesn’t want anything up his ass he isn’t gay loollll he’s better than that. i hope they kill his gay ass for liking that boy. i hope he dies of aids lol. lol why am i getting attacked for saying this? im queer??? i cant believe you guys are getting mad at a queer person for reclaiming a slur omg…”

[cock-holliday]

I’m trying not to be a huge dick about it but I got a “but what about us q-slurs who are traumatized by the bad words?” on my slur reclaimation post and so I’ve made a handy guide

1. You are being called the slur.

A. If it is with malice, I am sorry for this experience, however, this situation is not at all what I was talking about.

B. If it is with affection or as a joke from other LGBTs, and it makes you uncomfortable, ask them to stop. If they don’t, they’re a dick for not respecting your boundaries.

2. You are being “forced” to see other people use the word for a larger community

A. If it bothers you then you are probably not the “fag community” to which they are referring, then. In a post? Block. Blacklist words. Block tags. Walk away. Avert your eyes. You don’t vibe with “queer community” then refer to it as LGBT. You make it sound like a “someone saying Happy Holidays means I can’t say Merry Christmas anymore” situation. You don’t have to use any words you don’t vibe with. Hate to say Dyke March or Dykes on Bikes? Don’t go to the march. Avoid the bikes.

3. You are being “forced” to hear other people use the word for themselves

A. I mean this with love and respect…suck it up. If it is so deeply triggering, remove yourself. Leave the situation. Block. Blacklist words. Block tags.

In a conversation about reclaimation, I am sorry, but you only get to decide how people refer to you, no one else. If someone else’s use upsets you, YOU have to do something about it, not them. You do not, under ANY circumstances, get to ask someone not to use dyke or fag or queer or tranny for themselves. You don’t get to ask someone not to use it/its. You don’t get to tell someone to tuck or bind because it gives you second-hand dysphoria. You do not get to decide how someone else is queer.

If being around them is that debilitating, you need to take steps to insulate yourself.

On the curate your own experience website, you should know how to do just that. There are so many guides out there. And to the complaint that “now” Pride uses all these slurs which has made Pride hostile to you, I’d invite you to crack open a book, but perhaps what you find will be too upsetting

[campingwiththecharmings]

Thaw

AN: Yeah. I wrote a Miguel O'Hara fic lmao many thanks to all the enablers that helped make this possible 😘❤️

(Un-beta’d) (barely proofread, apologies for any grammatical mistakes)

Being a leader isn't easy, and sometimes even Spider-Man needs someone else to take the lead.

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?) Words: 1,028 Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader Warnings: p in v, kissing, cockwarming, mild biting, sub!Miguel, soft!Miguel (I have not read any of the comics so, apologies if this is at all ooc) AO3

——————

You can always tell when the pressure is starting to get to him, when the weight of being the leader has become almost too much for him to bear. His temper is short most of the time anyway these days, but when he starts blowing up at every little thing, you know it’s time for you to step in. 

So, you do. 

And he lets you. 

His grasp on your hand is tight as you lead him to your shared apartment, squeezing your hand as if you’ll slip away if he lets go for even a second. Once inside, you lead him over to the couch, pausing to turn and look at him. He’s on edge, seemingly every muscle tense as you study him. You frown a little before positioning him so that his back is facing the couch. He doesn’t fight you, instead just watches you intently with his dark, red eyes. You place a hand on his chest and gently push him toward the couch, wordlessly telling him to sit. He does, eyes locked on yours as you follow, climbing into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. 

His hands fall to your hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises as he tries to push your hips down onto his. You swallow a moan and lean in, your mouth hovering over his. 

“No, Miguel,” you tell him, voice soft.  

Understanding alights in his eyes after a moment and he sighs, his grip on your hips lessening as you lean in to kiss him. You start out soft and slow, your lips pressing lightly against his in gentle pecks. When you brush your tongue against the seam of his lips, he groans, the tension melting from his body as he parts them, allowing you to slip inside. You lick into his mouth, the points of his fangs catching against your tongue with every sweep, making you moan.  

You rut against his lap as you kiss, your movements unhurried. He’s completely pliant beneath you when you pull back, his eyes heavy-lidded when he opens them to look at you. 

“Take off your shirt,” you whisper, reaching for the hem of your own and pulling it over your head.  

You toss it and it hits the floor with a dull thud, Miguel’s shirt and your bra following shortly thereafter. He moans at the feel of your bare skin against his when you press into him again, reclaiming his lips in another soft kiss. You grind against him, enjoying the soft sighs and groans he lets slip with every brush of your clothed heat against his cock. His fingers lightly skim up and down your back and you shiver, your own delving into his hair.  

You take mercy on him when his groans begin to sound desperate and choked, your hips stilling as his hands clench and unclench against your back. You pull away, meeting his lust-blown eyes, and smile, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair. He leans into your touch, his sharp cheekbones brushing against the palm of your hand, and something inside your chest warms at the softness. You lean in, pressing your lips to his cheek, kissing your way back toward his ear where you tell him exactly what you have planned for him (“I’m gonna take you deep and ride you slow. Would you like that, baby?”). 

Once you’re both completely naked, you sink onto his length, his hands on your hips for support. You gasp against his lips as he bottoms out, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. He buries his face in your neck and groans as your body squeezes him.  

“That's it, good boy,” you soothe, smiling when his breath hitches. 

You moan when you start to move, your hips tilting, as you undulate slowly in his lap. He nips at your neck, his sharp bites sending jolts of pleasure throughout your body, disrupting your pace.  

“Touch me,” you breathe, bringing one of his hands to your breast. 

He sighs something in Spanish against your neck, his large hand squeezing your breast gently. His thumb teases your nipple as he pulls back, and you gasp, your cunt fluttering around his cock so hard he almost comes. The tension is back in neck again as he tries not to, his jaw clenching from the effort. You lean in to kiss him again, hips still rising and falling over him as your arms wrap around his neck.  

“It’s okay, baby, I want you to come,” you whisper, stroking the back of his head, your breath hitching as his cock hits that special spot inside you. “Want you to fill me up.” 

His groan is choked, almost broken, his hands clenching on your hips and you know he’s close. You pull back and cup his face in your hand, thumb swiping across his cheek. He looks at you with lust-glazed, pleading eyes, and you know he’s trying to hold out, that he wants you to come first. You smile softly at him, gently churning your hips. “Come for me.” 

He grunts, eyes rolling back, jaw slackening as he convulses beneath you, spending himself deep inside your warm cunt. You moan at the feeling, stilling your hips as he relaxes once more. He shivers a little as he comes down, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a sigh.  

“Need to feel you come around me, amor,” he murmurs, his voice slightly muffled as he mouths at your skin. “Please.” 

You bite your lip, heat already twisting in your gut again as you slip your hand down to your sex. You toy with your clit, rolling it between your fingertips, the delicious friction sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You come with a moan, shaking as your cunt squeezes his spent cock, dragging breathless groans from between his lips. You sag against him, burrowing into his chest as you come down, his strong arms holding you in place. 

“Better?” you slur, eyelids heavy as sleep threatens to take you. 

He presses a kiss to your head, humming as he tightens his arms around you. “Better.”

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟

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[aures-fantasy-nook]

Hobbit/LOTR characters when their s/o is upset with them

yes i'm reusing this trope and i dont care its easy-- also lmk if u want more characters and which onessss :3

requests are open (seriously please give me ideas)

Thorin

honestly

his reaction is so dependant on when you're upset with him

if its during the journey he will notice right away

he refuses to go to bed angry at each other

he makes time for you guys to talk every night

if its during his dragon sickness bit

yeah

no

he doesn't give a single shit

telling him that you're upset doesn't even do anything except make him mad

like you're wasting his time

AND

not looking for the stone so like

what the fuck are you doing

if we're talking like after the war

everybody lives au ofc

it probably takes him a little while to notice that you're upset if you don't flat out say anything

he's just slightly busy rebuilding a kingdom

honestly when he does notice or when you tell him

he feels bad

he decides it's time for a break

even if it's just for an hour or two

will take you through the halls just to talk through things

or he'll sit and have tea with you

honestly whatever you wanna do he's down

you are his only priority

if only for an hour

Fili

i would say that he's probably pretty in tune with your emotions

hes a sweet dwarf

will make you tea because he knows your upset

sometimes forgets that hes a little shit

like doesnt realise that things he does can make people upset

let alone you

right over his head

you will have to sit him down and talk with him

he will feel bad immediately

will apologize

offers to make it up to you in any way he can

I feel like if this happens after like the battle and the reclaiming of his future kingdom

he might be a bit busy

but he wants to sit and talk to you every night before bed

even if its just for a few minutes

so when you went to bed without him one night

oh he knows he messed up

theres no way to misinterpret that

will wake you up with kisses and apologies

even if he doesn't know what he is apologizing for

hes just a big sweetie

Kili

sweet boy

another kind of clueless one

id assume that you probably get upset at him sometime during the journey

while yes he is sweet

he can be kind of neglectful without meaning to be

he feels like he has to prove himself to his uncle because he is different from the other dwarves.

has a lot on his mind

i feel like he deffo neglects your relationship at times bc of it

which is why you pulled back

not pushing for affection as much as you did before

letting him get himself into bad situations

reminding him to eat/sharpen his sword

setting up his bedroll while he goes off to help with camp set up

it takes him a couple days to realize something is off

bc he totally doesnt realize how much you're actually looking out for him

it hits him one night after dinner that his bed roll isnt set up? and its not next to you? and you're already asleep?

wait when did he actually sit down and talk to you last?

doesn't sleep that night, just sits and watches you while thinking back on the past like week

as soon as you wake up he's by your side and asking if you guys could take a walk before the journey starts for that day

you agree

he immediately starts apologizing and explaining himself

i think the best way to deal with it is to like

have a nice sit down and talk it out

maybe not right at that moment but

eventually you guys have a long talk where you both talk about how you're feeling with the relationship and just emotionally and i think that solves a lot

like he lets u know just how insecure he is bc of how different he is

and you can talk about feeling neglected

at the end of it all he promises to put more effort but also wants you to know that you dont HAVE to do all those things for him to notice you/love you

very healthy tbh

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

you know what i think. i think women are starved for meaningful art and that’s why they get into witchcraft/wicca/tarot/etc. I stay as far away as possible from that stuff now, but I have to recognize that it is visually attractive. it has a history. it has a metaphysical meaning that tells a story. where else in our culture can we find that? we may see some in certain movies and video games, but those are inherently escapist; the art contained within them is not something we live out in our day-to-day.

I also think there is art in nature and our technological age is so cut off from nature, whereas witchcraft/wicca is very nature-based. it is the same sort of reaction to modernism the romanticists had, but much more nefarious. that’s why pre-Raphaelite art looks Like That. and it’s why the witch aesthetic borrows so heavily from pre-Raphaelite art. this is why Christianity must reclaim the arts and a high view of nature. in this essay i will —

[autisticsupervillain]

Autistic Avatars not realizing that they're Avatars because they're just "like that": a thread

The Eye

Special Interest in the supernatural = constant food for The Watcher

You know about Interest? TELL ME EVERYTHING

"Hey man listen to me infodump about this horrifying ghost story I read for twenty minutes, alright?"

I need to Know everything about something before I partake in it.

"How did I Know that? Eh, I probably hyperfixated on it at some point."

I cannot be misunderstood so I'll beam the facts into your brain.

The Web

I must plan everything 200 steps in advance before doing anything.

I have prepared for all possible outcomes, I can now have this one conversation.

If I set up all these variables long in advance, then I can do everything correctly and Win the social interaction.

I cannot do anything before The Plan says to.

"I practice my social skills by talking to my spider friends." -Martin "Autism" Blackwood

The Stranger

I cannot socialize without being Uncanny.

If my socialization seems like an act, that's because it is. I practice it in the mirror every day.

Theater Kid

How do you Normal Human?

The Anatomy Class.

Assuming fellow Stranger Avatars also just have the 'Tism. They're not trying to be creepy, honest.

Can't do faces. Doesn't notice when you get replaced.

Being subtly off is too subtle for me.

The Lonely

"I have failed the social interaction. Let the fog reclaim me."

Talking to people is draining my batteries even faster than ever. I need to be alone for approximately 384,400,000 years.

Nothing can overstimulate me in the cool, blinding fog.

Nothing unpredictable can happen in the fog.

The fog is your friend.

The known connection between autism and depression feeds the fog.

The Dark

Why is the sun so god damn bright? I'm going to blow it up I swear.

Night Owl.

Everything's decently quite at night and people leave you alone.

Same overstimulation preventatives as the Lonely tbh. Dark and fog are good concealers.

The dawn is your enemy.

The dread florescent lights shall never bother me again. They break upon my arrival.

Can and will infodump to the monster under my bed. Even now it feels like it listens.

The Spiral

Autism makes getting other mental illnesses recognized hard.

Autism dissociation from body and mind. When did it become 3 AM and why do I hurt? Why am I grumpy? What vital self care task did I forget?

Literal mind doesn't often match reality. Reality is specifically unspecific.

Spaced out and wandered off. Where the fuck am I?

I'm not a mental baby, please stop treating me like it.

I'm not inherently dangerous, please stop treating me like it.

Memory problems my beloathed. Did that happen? I dunno.

What Is Time?

What Is Me?

The Gender

Why do things only make sense to me? What does no one else make sense?

The Flesh

Autism Genderfuckery = Flesh fueled dysphoria.

Meat is the only texture that's palatable. Especially the Mystery Meat.

Will never try any other foods. Too picky.

Infodumps about the horrors of meat processing at dinner and ruins the meal for everyone. More steak for me.

Hates PETA.

Double the arms means double the stim. You weren't using them, right?

Working out is a great stim.

The Corruption

Practices social interaction with the bugs who live in my walls.

"Insects are disgusting. I love them!"

Will protect endangered insects by any means necessary.

According to all known laws of aviation-

Relationship boundaries struggles.

Difficulty noticing sickness symptoms.

Is that nausea or am I overstimulated? *Accidentally causes supernatural plague outbreak*

Difficulty getting diseases diagnosed because of both Autism and noticing too many symptoms so the doctors assume they're faking.

Forgot vital hygiene needs.

The Bugs Are My Friends! They keep me company when I'm sick!

The Buried

Weighted blankets are insufficient, I need the Earth to reclaim me.

Avoid social interaction by tunneling everywhere like a mole.

101 facts about worms.

Forgor hygiene again. Time to become dirt.

Digging a hole is good stimming.

That guy who had to be buried alive to sleep properly. What do you mean you don't want to be buried?

The End

Aradia Megido from Homestuck.Com

That's it, that's the list.

The Desolation

The Autism Temper.

Losing relationships and friendships to ableism and your own disability constantly.

The Fire is a wonderful stim board. Watch it crinkle.

Just watching candles melt for hours.

The fire and thrill gives my life passion again.

Jude Perry.png

The Vast

Accidentally terrifying people by infodumping about the horrors of nature.

The stimulus of falling.

Nature/Space/Weather Documentary on in background always.

Okay, but from how high did you fall? I want to calculate your velocity as you fell through the void.

Weirdly enough... power scaling?

Power scaling is just the art of determining how easily your favorite characters can destroy mankind so... yeah, I can see it.

Brain empty, only terminal velocity.

The Hunt

Cat Autism

The inherent hyperfocus of the hunt. The chase. Your prey.

Studying the habits of your latest hyperfixation/Hunt assigned prey for days at a time.

I've spent so much time hunting in the woods that I forgot about human society. The Missing Person's Bureau have written you off for dead.

Returning to society to sell your wears and realizing you aren't human anymore.

That's okay. Social interaction is random. The Hunt makes sense.

It's black and white. Predator and prey. Humans hunting monsters. It Makes Sense.

The Slaughter

The incredible human WW1 documentary.

"Did you know?" *Describes horrible historic warcrime*

Takes apart puts back together guns from their collection.

The list of known casualties from this war is incomplete. With my help, they can expand it. :)

The Extinction

The world is spiraling towards its end and only you seem to care.

It hurts to be this passionate about a lost cause.

You Will Make Them Care.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Gods and Humans react to Female Tengen Reader introducing her to her ‘Muscle Mice’ who end up bullying Ares, pranking Loki, carrying Buddha his snacks, playing with Zerofuku and showing off their muscles to Hercules 💪🐭

I both love Ares and I also want to bully him

-Ares heard several soft voices, as if they were whispering, slowly getting louder and louder, confusing him as he looked around, not seeing anyone in the area.

-He looked down and immediately froze, seeing several mice there, but these didn’t look like normal mice. They were walking on two feet, they looked to be wearing pants, but it was just their fur, while their torsos were hairless, and a jeweled headband, similar to your own, but the most striking feature, despite them chanting, “Muscle!” as they walked, they were ripped!

-Ares didn’t know what to make of these strange mice but chose to follow them, hoping there would be some clarification. He entered a room, finding you with Loki, Zero, Buddha, and Hercules, the five of you hanging out together.

-You beamed brightly, “Ares- nice to see you!” which did make him smile before you saw your mice and you grinned, squatting down, “Hey you guys! I was wondering where you were!”

-Your mice flexed, showing off their gains, “Muscle!” which made you grin brightly as all eyes were glued to you and these strange looking mice.

-You weren’t bothered as you offered a hand to your mice and they scurried up your arm to your shoulder, then down to the table so everyone could see them better.

-Zerofuku was sparkly eyed, squatting down next to the table to be at eye level with them, “Are these your friend Y/N?” you grinned, striking a pose, flexing your muscles, “They are! These are my beloved Muscle Mice!”

-As you introduced them your mice mimicked you, posing and flexing as well.

-Loki picked one up, holding it in the palm of his hand, looking intrigued, “So are they just regular mice that are muscular?” you nodded, “And they’re intelligent- they can speak, but they can only say ‘muscle’ but they will do things like deliveries and things like that.”

-To show them, you asked them to take Buddha his bowl of snacks and they were quick to react, flexing to you before going over to Buddha’s bowls of snacks, lifting it over their heads and carried it over to Buddha who was grinning, “They are amazing! I’ve never seen anything like this before!”

-You leaned back, enjoying their reactions, “They’re flashy like me so of course they’re amazing!!”

-Laughter filled the room as they showed off their various skills. One of them braided Zerofuku’s hair with ease, something the younger got thought was fun, but he enjoyed himself while another was ‘playing’ with Loki, and by playing you mean it stole the cookie Loki was going to eat, and kept dodging his grabs, moving quickly from one of his shoulders to the other to his head, making Loki dance around, trying to reclaim his cookie.

-The mice were enamored with Hercules, gazing up at him with adoration, flexing at him, wanting him to flex back, something you had to tell him but when Hercules stood, all eyes went to him as he lifted his arms and flexed, showing off his rippling muscles as stars surrounded your mice.

-Ares joined the little party, asking you questions about your fighting style, which you didn’t mind, but when it was time for him to leave, Ares stood and fell back over the chair, as his cape had been tied to the chair.

-He landed on the ground, unhurt, just dazed while Loki and Buddha were laughing loudly as Ares tried to untie his cape, scowling lightly about the mischievous mice.

-Zerofuku then pointed, “Oh the mice are leaving with your helmet.” Ares turned, seeing the mice holding up his helmet, running off with it and he was quick to rush after them, “Get back here! Y/N help me!!” You couldn’t help but laugh- your mice were flash and muscular, but they were still mischievous.

-You knew they would give him his helmet back, after they made him chase them around for a while, but Ares was already gone before you could tell him that. Oh well~

[dcxdpdabbles]

Have you seen the halfa cass post that's been floating around? I'd love to see your take on that

I'm going to assume you mean the au made by @phandomhyperfixationblog so I'll write about that but if I am wrong please let me know in another ask or message.

Cass was sent to Amity Park to investigate its residents' disappearance. Ghost towns in the USA were fairly common, often after they were abandoned, the earth would reclaim the land and would be left untouched for years to come until a lucky urban exploder discovered it again.

What wasn't uncommon was that everything was left behind when the town was abandoned. Cass walks down three more streets, eyes taking in everything around her. Although the lawns were vastly overgrown and the houses left to the elements, there weren't a lot of open spaces.

Empty cars were parked perfectly along the road or in a lot, chairs and tables on porches were left out, children's toys laid in driveways, and after squinting through a few windows, she could see fully furnished households- some even had a slight mess as if the owners hadn't gotten around to their household chores yet.

One house even had a dinner table set up. The meal was rotten and smelled, but she could tell it was a family dinner that was interrupted mid-way.

Yes, everything was covered in dust, as if years had gone by since someone was last here, but otherwise, it looked like a thriving community had been here only a few days ago.

Even the stores were fully stoked, aisled upon aisled of merchandise left untouched for who knows how long. Restuantants were similar, rotten food aside, everything was open and set up as like a normal bussniess hour.

Overall, it didn't seem like the residents willingly abandoned this place. They left literally everything behind. Nothing showed looting either, which indicated how uncommonly outsiders came here.

The fact Cass was investigating Amity Park at all was because she was doing a favor for Raven. The girls didn't talk much, but it was the least she could do as the magic-user had helped her with a fight in Hong Kong a few days ago.

Raven claimed that an abnormal energy pulse came from the town. It wasn't wrong; some places just had more natural energy to them, but she had always wondered what the cause was.

It is a low-level mystery that she put off exploring due to all other priorities, but about a week ago, Raven sensed another pulse-this one reeking of death- and had asked Cass to check it out while she went on a space mission with the rest of the Titans.

She was supposed to take picutes, do some scenes and get some readings. Cass was not expecting to find literally no one for miles.

Cass slowly made her way down streets, breaking into houses and stores, looking for clues. She found no signs of a struggle but that may be due to the time frame of when this happened.

It wasn't until she got to Fenton Works that she managed that she could figure out some parts of the puzzle. The building itself was a challenge to get into. It was rigged to the teeth with weapons and security measures.

Some were old and rusted, but a majority quickly powered up to shoot at her as she tried to get past. Ducking and weaving through the blast she felt all her muscles burn from the rapid dodge she was doing.

Through years of training, she turned a handstand into a run and then a leap to crash through the front window, and the weapons outside halted as soon as she rolled to a stop in what appeared to be a cozy living room.

Weary, she watched as the gun blasters slowly retreated back into the slight holes along the roof, the fake pathway, and the gnome. Once done the world fell silent again. It's now that Cass startles.

She hadn't noticed Amity Park's silence until it was broken. She hadn't heard birds or the wind blowing through the leaves as she walked. Something was terribly wrong in this place.

Maybe she can find out what it was in Fenton Works.

She began her search by examining the walls. They were lined with family photos- a family of father, mother, and what she assumes are the children of both based on facial features, one girl and one boy. There are art pieces every so often- primarily abstract. The furniture is nothing expensive- coming from a generic furniture store. The kitchen smells rotten food- like most houses- but there is a stack of books on the table.

Cass peers down at them, noticing that they all revolve around a psychology of some sort. An open book is lying next to a notebook filled with notes for teenage development. A pencil is even left over the last unfinished sentence.

Danny's need for acceptance may be due to living in my shadow. I should show him more support.

Cass moves upstairs after confirming there is nothing else of value. There, he finds three rooms- a master bedroom obviously belonging to the parents, a slightly larger room belonging to the girl, and the smallest bedroom belonging to the boy.

Cass can confirm that the girl was tidier than the boy but while her room seemed less personal than the boy's. While the boy has far more personal touches to his belongings, nothing seems to be in order or so driven.

The parents' room was covered with either machinery that could be weapons or images of their children. Whoever they are- or were they loved the two deeply.

In the master bathroom, Cass found that the couple habitually wrote sticky notes with their to-do lists taped on the bathroom mirror's corner. She could tell the differences in handwriting and word choice- the mother wrote explanations while the father did short annotations.

Clean the beakers in lab zone 2. They are releasing gasses, so they must be disposed of properly.

Jazzy-pants slam poetry night. Nov 19th. 6pm.

Danny's sleep study. Dec 10th. Teachers said he's been falling asleep in class too often. It might be Narcolospy!

Dinner Date with Maddie. Nov 22. Classical music reservation.

Cass taps her chin. This happened before December but what year and where did everyone go?

She looks down at the sticky notes again, noticing that many speak about a "lab" downstairs. Seeing as she did not find a lab on the ground level, that only left a lower one.

Leaving the bedroom, she makes her way down to the basement, where she does, in fact, find a large lab. There is a clutter of tools for the eye to see, all surrounding what looks like everyday household items and weapons.

Cass's lips thin as she takes in the strangely shaped guns, staffs, and blades. A weapon maifator? But why here? She tried the computers she scattered about, but none worked. She didn't think so, seeing as the electricity had been shut down across the city, but she had hoped.

Thankfully, this family seemed to believe in paper and pencils because she could find multiple writings throughout the lab. It's mathematical, primarily formulas, a half-baked thesis of "ecto-being" behavior, and notes on "ecto-beings." portal.

A portal that is sitting at the far right of the lab. Cass walks around the perimeter checking to see if it has any traps, but finds none. Then she walks over to the controllers testing the power on it.

She pressed the on button waits forty seconds to confirm that it was not active before she entered the portal. It resembles an early design of the zeta tubes. Maybe the family here were trying to develop teleporting technology-

"GET OUT OF THERE!" Someone shouts. Cass jumps a good foot in the air, swinging around with her fists raised for battle. She hadn't heard him! Hadn't sensed him at all!

It's been long since anyone has gotten the drop on her. She is just grateful she is wearing a mask- not her batgirl or Orphan gear but rather a borrowed ninja outfit Damian had granted her- since it means her identity is protected from the glowing man at the stairway's base.

Wait, glowing?

She opens her mouth to demand to know who he is when the portal powers on. She only had a moment to bite back a swear before her world exploded in pain.

Cass can hear herself scream, but it's too far away from the agony of electricity being poured into her body. She is being ripped apart by it, pushed and molded, and put back together again, only to start the process repeatedly.

It feels like ages before she can't handle it anymore- again, it's been years since that last happened- before the world fades away and she falls into blissful slumber

She has smoke-grey hair and glowing opal-white eyes when she wakes hours later.

The man is leaning over her with snow-white hair and glowing green eyes, looking worried as Cass finds that her body can no longer stay solid. It seemed that she had died and now had the body of a ghost.

She knows who makes this.

"Hello, Danny," She says, pushing through the pain of her death. Oh gods, how will Bruce react when he learns about her stupid error. She doesn't want to think about it, so she pushes it away to give the startled man an empty smile. She had to at least figure out the mystery so that her death can not be in vain."I have some questions about Amity Park."

[kneelingshadowsalome]

ma'am 😭 after those asks i need to be annoying to könig omggggg

imagine telling him you're only going to do something he asks if he asks nicely. he's like "but i did ask nicely...?" and you say that he has to add "please mommy" sskbdhdjjsjsjsjxjdhsjkdksksjsndjksns

i really hate mommy/daddy kink usually but it's so different with könig 🥲

More mommy kink with König (who does NOT have a mommy kink!!!):

I just know he's going to groan when you tell him he’s a naughty boy, cums all over his stomach like it's tortured out of him, this guy is seeing stars.

But if you try to entice him to call you mommy or make him beg, it’s not going to happen... Things are getting way too odd here now for his taste, this is not what he signed up for!

König is a bit clueless with kinks, doesn’t understand that he obviously has a thing for soft, gentle women who like to take care of him and that this could easily be translated to having a mommy kink. Doesn’t know he has it even if he refuses to say “that word” because, uh, hello? He’s always at your tits, lives on your praise, folds everytime you’re super soft and nurturing with him. Doesn’t get it that being called a big/good/naughty boy is part of this kink too, just thinks you’re being cute with him 🙄

And König doesn’t judge, it’s just that he’s not into this, Liebling, sorry. Anything else he will give you, but not this. Tries to put you back in your place, tries to reclaim his power, treats you like this adorable but misbehaving odd little creature and thinks he’s in control and that you’ve finally come to your senses when you stop asking for him to call you 'mommy'. But when you catch him sucking those tits a little too wildly again, it just slips, right?

“You’re such a mommy’s boy….” (Because he is, look at him, sucking on your nipples like he’s trying to force milk out of them)

And of course the big boy is shocked! and tells you this has to stop :(

“No tits for you then,” you declare, because you find the situation absolutely hilarious.

But König doesn’t.

He's not laughing: he just looks paler and paler.

No tits...? What does that even mean? How can you do this to him, how is he supposed to survive?!

[nateconnolly]

What Does the Lion Turtle Chant Mean?

A podcast episode about the spirituality of Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Transcript Preview:

Many people have told me they struggle to take Sozin’s Comet seriously because they would have killed the Fire Lord without hesitation. And, look, as far as I’m concerned — if you’re willing to kill a genocidal colonizer, good for you! Many blessings upon your journey! And the show isn’t trying to dissuade you. 

Aang is not the only voice of wisdom in Avatar. He’s not a puppet through which the text articulates its meaning. Avatar is about cultural exchange. When one character says what they think is true, that isn’t necessarily the moral of a story. That’s one voice, and the story is a conversation. So, I don’t think that Sozin’s Comet is using Aang to say “Hey, you, you, looking at the TV, you personally should never support violent revolution!” Water Tribe culture doesn’t seem to have any problem with killing on the battlefield. 

When Sokka lops off the Melon Lord’s head, there’s some very clear indications that we’re supposed to be troubled. The musical cue, Momo eating the melon, he lingering focus on Aang’s reaction … But I don’t think this scene is meant to communicate that Sokka is a bad guy. Or that soldiers are inherently bad people. I assume that Hakoda, Bato, and Tyro killed people. These figures are portrayed as admirable, and even as mentors. 

The scene in which Sokka kills the Melon Lord is there to illustrate the difference between Southern Water Tribe culture and Air Nomad culture. Sokka’s journey is about embracing and reclaiming all the parts of his culture that the Fire Nation tried to destroy. He wasn’t able to go ice dodging or to train as a wolf warrior, but he has found a way to become a strong, protective man anyways. And that does mean that he’s willing to kill or die for a cause he believes in. This scene doesn’t communicate that Sokka is a bad person. It communicates that Sokka is walking his own path, and that Aang is walking a different path. But the show doesn’t try to tell you one of them is wrong and the other is right. 

At the same time, I think we need to remember that Aang is saying something he believes. It’s not just an emotional problem for him. 

Aang gives multiple related, but different reasons not to kill the Fire Lord.

“I didn’t feel like myself.” 

The Fire Lord “is still a human being.”

Killing goes against “everything the monks taught me.”

“All life is sacred.”

In Southern Raiders, he also makes a more general claim that “violence is never the answer,” but I think that the writers had to use the word “violence” as a euphemism. In our normal usage of the word, punching somebody would be a “violent” act. Aang clearly has no problem whacking people over the head or shooting wind at them. I think this is a way of making the show more kid friendly, and that what Aang actually means is 

“[Killing] is never the answer.”

Some of these claims are about Aang as an individual. He’s saying he doesn’t feel like he, specifically, can kill someone. That it goes against the values of his culture. And some of these are universal claims. He’s saying no one should kill, not ever. 

But he also believes in a separate ethical mandate. As the Avatar, he has to protect the world. In this lifetime, that means preventing the Fire Lord from burning the Earth Kingdom. 

This is a story about moral standards, and they seem impossible to live up to. There’s no easy answer. If you believe that murder is wrong, and you believe in the duties of the Avatar, then you have a conflict of values, not just emotions. In order to understand the Buddhist themes of Sozin’s Comet, we have to understand Buddhist ideas of morality. 

This podcast episode

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Nate's short story about Buddhism

Transcript with Citations

[your-gay-grandma]

Butch/Femme history and culture introduction (written by a femme lesbian, deeply in love with being so)

💖Ideal for people immersing themselves in lesbian culture for the first time

🤍This post will contain brief summarising information about butch/femme culture and history as well as an introductory resource list for continuing your learning journey.

🧡It is by no means exhaustive and is intended as a very basic and simplified introduction that people can and should easily build on. Please try to keep this intention in mind before telling me i have neglected something!

⚠️ Disclaimer - this post is admittedly very centred on butch/femme history of the US and western culture in the 1900s. If there is a different culture or time that you’d be interested to learn more about, I would be overjoyed to research it so please let me know! Lesbianism has existed everywhere in every time and the cultural variation of this is beautiful and SO important. I do not want to neglect that but cannot fit it all in this brief introduction post.

“Whether reclaiming femininity from the male gaze or rejecting feminine gender norms by embracing butch, the subculture is intrinsically radical: it empowers lesbians to renounce patriarchal standards of beauty.” - Megan Christopher

What is butch/femme?

butch/femme is a lesbian subculture with a deep and rich history and culture. It goes far beyond masculine and feminine aesthetics and informs lesbian identity and dynamics. Butch/femme culture is a crucial part of LGBTQ+ history and culture as a whole.

It has existed for a very long time but it is very important to know that not all lesbians are butch/femme. In fact, most lesbians will not identify with either label and that is completely okay! You will see some lesbians describe themselves as butch4butch or femme4femme.

Traditionally, there is nothing in between butch/femme and to suggest otherwise negates the rich significance of the identities. Some people suggest it is a spectrum with “futch” in the middle. This is however not the case and the significance of this will become clear as we delve further into the importance of butch/femme identities to queer culture and history. Crucially too, straight women cannot be butch/femme

Aren’t butch/femme just replicating traditional heterosexual gender roles?

Absolutely not! In fact, they outwardly challenge them.

Gender and sex are constructs. A lot of lesbians find that butch/femme are gender identities in of themselves (myself included)

Instead, butch/femme are identities that encapsulate a particular “performance” of gender. The attributes of these may seem “masculine” or “feminine” but this is only because of the strict gender binary our society ascribes to gender performance.

Judith Butler, in their book Gender Trouble, notes that a lot of lesbians in general have a complex relationship to gender. This is because our binary perception of womanhood is constructed on the basis that “male” is default and “female” is the only sexed other. Because lesbianism is the only identity that totally de-centres men, a lot of lesbians (regardless of being butch, femme or neither) will not feel like they are conventionally “women”.

A lot of the time, butch/femme roles were and still are a source of safety and solace

Butch

Butch refers to masculinity in any number of ways

Butches typically and historically face high levels of discrimination and harassment for their gender non conformity.

A very important butch text is Stone Butch Blues, written by Leslie Feinberg

In the book, Feinberg discusses the importance of working-class identities to butchness.

Some butches are transmasculine. This doesn’t make them less of a lesbian, as long as they have ties to butchness and lesbianism.

Stone butches are lesbians who do not like to be touched (or “receive”) during sex

Femme

Femmes are lesbians who present more “femininely”.

Femmes do not necessarily conform to society’s perception of womanhood. Many will have complex relationships to gender identity or will present as hyper-feminine.

Hyper-femininity is an exaggerated performance of womanhood where aspects of dress, character and/or mannerisms of femininity may be heightened.

This is why a lot of the time lesbians can still “clock” (or recognise) femmes as being gay. Straight women tend to feel put off by the level of femininity common with hyper-feminine femmes.

History

In western culture, butch/femme culture existed underground or secret up until the mid 20th century. We can assume however that butch/femme dynamics have existed for a long time.

In the early 1900s, butch/femme dynamics were confined to underground gay bars.

In this case, femmes were often considered in a position of privilege as they were “straight passing” and could only be recognisably lesbian when accompanied by a butch.

Femmes will often assert sexuality through their femininity.

In the 1940s, butch/femme dynamics were extremely important and a thriving part of lesbian culture.

Women were allowed to enter bars without men.

In the US, butches would have to dress femininely in order to hold employment and avoid harassment and assault based on their preferred gender non-conformity.

Butches dressed in a way that was accepted by society, while still presenting as more masculine than the norm. Alix Genter writes that "butches wore long, pleated skirts with their man-tailored shirts, sometimes with a vest or coat on top"

In the 1950s, many butches refused to live these double lives. Their full-time masculine presentation made it difficult for them to work so they were often employed in factories or as taxi drivers. (hence the importance of working-class solidarity with butches)

Increased lesbian visibility and a strong anti-gay political stance at the time of McCarthyism led to increased attacks on queer women and resulted in a particularly defiant gay bar culture.

Butches are therefore extremely important in our fight for LGBTQ+ rights. It was butches and trans women who were known for fighting back for our rights and visibility.

In the 1970s, particular sentiments of lesbian separatist feminism declared masculinity and butchness was harmful to women. This led to the popularisation of more androgynous fashion amongst lesbians including boots, jeans and flannels. This movement weakened butch identifiers and is known for alienating lesbians of colour and working class lesbians.

Lesbian separatism is essentially the idea that lesbians should exist separate to men and heterosexual women. That is why some theorists believed performances of masculinity were harmful (while others did not believe this and it is obviously not true)

Introductory reading list (online articles that are short and accessible)

how butch/femme subcultures allow gay women to thrive by Megan Christopher for VICE: https://www.vice.com/en/article/wjwzqx/how-butch-femme-subcultures-allow-gay-women-to-thrive

A good introduction to the radical history and importance of butch/femme identities.

The Lesbians That Founded The Gay Village And The Mafia Alliance They Made For Protection by Diana Robertson: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/the-lesbians-that-founded-the-gay-village-and-the-mafia_b_5941d7a1e4b0d99b4c921126

Really helpful history!

No Matter What’s Gendertrending, the Butch is Here To Stay by Jack Halberstam

https://web.archive.org/web/20180907141513/https://www.afterellen.com/tv/443117-no-matter-whats-gendertrending-the-butch-is-here-to-stay

I don’t like the suggestion of the title but the article itself has good information. Jack Halberstam is an important queer theorist. I also recommend his writings on queer failure. This article has some generally good direction about butchness, especially in modern media. “Butch is always a misnomer; masculine but not male, female but not feminine, the term serves as a placeholder for the unassimilable, for that which remains indefinable or unspeakable within the many identifications that we make and that we claim.”

Key books for a deeper understanding (and their pros and cons)

The Persistent Desire: A Femme–Butch Reader by Joan Nestle

Gender Trouble by Judith Butler (one of my favourite books of all time. Really difficult to get through but very worthwhile and completely changed the way I understand sex and gender)

Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg (an incredibly important lesbian text. Can be very difficult to get through, especially emotionally. Please make sure to check triggers before reading)

Dagger: On Butch Women by Lily Burana

[yanderes-galore]

Could you please do a general Yandere concept for King Sombra?

I can try, yeah! This'll be similar to the one with a pegasus darling I think.

Yandere King Sombra Concept

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Possessive behavior, Mentions of slavery, Kidnapping, Isolation, Restraints, Sadism, Mentions of execution, Degrading behavior, Forced relationship/companionship.

King Sombra is known to be an arrogant and cruel unicorn king.

He wishes to do nothing more than enslave the Crystal Empire, then take over Equestria.

He is infamous for his reign and many ponies fear him.

He controls ponies via fear.

His obsession wouldn't start all that different.

He would see you as another pony to control, another pawn for his rule.

Maybe you're a Crystal Pony or a friend of The Mane Six?

I focused on you being a friend of the Mane Six in a previous concept for him... so how about you being a Crystal Pony this time around?

Imagine this, you are King Sombra's favorite little servant.

Maybe this takes place during King Sombra's first rule, meaning you saw his first take over.

You expected King Sombra to just put you to work.

However... instead he drags your chains to sit beside his throne.

He wishes for you to speak to him, to provide him company.

Along with endless entertainment as he taunts your position.

King Sombra's overall very possessive and controlling of his obsession.

He expects you to listen to every order he gives, he expects you to only listen to him.

He controls you by using your fear, even more so when he makes you see illusions of disaster.

He'd probably force you to rely on him by making you see fears of what could happen if you left him.

He cultivates your loyalty by fooling you, promising a life well lived if you listen to your king.

After all, look at all your fellow ponies.

Look at them down below in the streets... wandering helplessly in chains...

You don't want to join them, do you?

He earns your compliance and drains you of your magic, telling you he'll remove the chains when you prove yourself enough.

King Sombra treats you as his (forced) companion.

Maybe he sees you as just a "friend" to talk to, or maybe he plans to encourage you into something more.

While in your chains he drags you like you're something lesser than a pony.

But when he sees you compliant, he removes said chains and instead resorts to commands to make you listen.

Disobey and he'll either punish your efforts by using fear against you... or it's back in the chains.

Even better... maybe he'll put you in a pretty crystal cage.

King Sombra lives for your obedience.

Obedience makes you his pretty pet.

King Sombra likes to taunt you, he likes to see your reactions as he reminds you of how pitiful you are without him.

When he's not doing that he tries to engage in casual conversation.

Perhaps he even tries to coax you into some affection, after all, you're his companion... aren't you?

If any pony got out of line and tried to speak with you, Sombra may just ask for execution.

You plead with him for just punishing the poor soul, the cruel king isn't having it.

You're all alone... at his mercy.

You'd be stuck as Sombra's until the end of his reign.

You can't see or interact with any other pony.

Just him.

Only him.

He will be all you have.

Even when King Sombra's defeated and banished, even when The Crystal Empire vanishes... you aren't safe for long.

Once the Mane Six go to restore the Crystal Empire, you're a target again.

King Sombra will know when you appear once again...

Then he will return to reclaim not only his empire... but you, his most favorite pet.

[moondirti]

tender / and what’s left

Joel is a man of blunt lines and frayed edges, and though he seems especially bronze at this time of day, you know you can't touch him to feel the sun.

But you’re not looking for warmth.

pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader rating: explicit (mdni) word count: 4.3k summary: what gentle has come to mean warnings: smut, canon typical violence, angst, mild gore, mentions of death, very little plot, blowjobs, fingering, joel is not nice - not necessarily. tumblr please don't tag my shit notes: yeah... yeah. i don't know how i feel about this one. i tried something different with the style. that is, i cut down on the purple prose, so let me know what y'all think about that. also, can you tell i struggled with joel's characterisation? idk, it's a mess. but anyway - enjoy!

You’ll never get used to the smell. 

Granted, the contrary was a lie you told yourself once things had gone to shit. A painkiller – your harsh reality sliced into digestible portions and force fed through a dry gullet. Mother earth will reclaim what spoils – like putrid carnage buried behind a thick cover of dirt, perfuming crisp air. That nature, prosperous again, would wind itself around humanity’s faults and embellish your end with a lush green. 

And maybe it will, one day.

But it takes a while for bodies to burn. You’ve come to accept that’s all you have to look forward to in your lifetime. So, you focus on the scent of sulphur-doused charcoal and try to ignore how flesh sizzles when you throw another corpse into the flame. 

Once the weight is offloaded, you trek back over the beaten path to the truck, your fingers tense with the frigid wind. A storm had come screeching through last night, mewling its sombre song while spewing out a flurry of ice onto the decaying buildings of the QZ. The sterility had lasted all of about an hour before the powdery white turned sludge and jaundice-yellow stains popped back up along the streets. 

The only salvageable thing about winter, tainted with piss. 

Huffing to yourself, you curl your hands to dissuade the frost gnawing on your knuckles and square your shoulders for the next haul. A quick scan of the cargo hold tells you you’re nearly done. There must have been ten or so infected cadavers when the unit had been dropped off – piled atop one another, heads wrapped in bags and arms still bound behind their backs. Joel had divided the work between the two of you – sectioning the heavier builds off for himself – and you’d made quick work disposing of the majority before the stink of death could cling to your blouse. 

As for him–

He brushes up behind you, stunted to a slower pace, carrying a body twice his size. You tune in to his laboured breaths, the grunts he makes with each step, muffled behind the bandana he wears as a mask. In your peripheral, you think you spot it slipping – slicked with the sweat that shines down the curve of his nose. His hair is much the same; speckled grey, glistening with sebum and a gruelling day's work. 

(You recall what it feels like, clutched in your tight grip. You like pulling at it, borderline violently, whenever you can. Whenever he lets you–)

You stop yourself. The tangent has a viscous momentum you’re all too familiar with. Reeling it in, you tuck it near your gut before it can get away from you. Instead, you choose to single in on the way his back rolls when he throws the weight into the pit – the penultimate corpse. Then, back to the task at hand. The trailer stands empty now, save for the last; a smaller frame, curled in on itself, clad in embroidered jeans and a dirty, purple sweater. 

He kept the child for you. 

What’s left of one, anyway. 

Two seconds pass. You crouch to tie your shoelaces. 

(You got them for free – traded off a FEDRA agent with a dependance on oxy. You don’t think you’ll get as lucky with gloves. Winter clothes run like cigarettes here – the theft of your last pair indicative of that fact.)

When you stand back up, the body is still there. 

The chain to the trailer latch is tangled. You decide to undo it before you move.

It won’t disappear.

Just deal with it.

It might be the cold, or the sore patch on your palm, singed from hovering too close to the flame. Food poisoning, credit to poorly cooked rat jerky, or the flu. You tell yourself it’s anything apart from what it is. You know he’s staring – can feel the laden look, sparking the frayed nerves along your shoulder. Just deal with it; the sentiment swimming in dark eyes. Deal with it; his rough voice nails into you.  

It’s not a kid. Not anymore. Not since a network of fungal threads wiggled their way into the gummy recesses of its brain. 

(But its skin is soft. Not one scar on those delicate hands.)

You let your gaze slide across the courtyard. His presence tips the scales of your consciousness, crushing with its force, and you find his brow quicker than you can blink away the wariness in your expression. He’s leaned up against a wall, twisting a spare rag over his fingers. His dry study is indecipherable. 

Your jaw clicks. 

He steps the slightest bit forward. 

With a sharp tug on the body’s ankles, you deflect his intervention and position it so that you can easily heave it onto your bent arms. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be. That, or, it’s the rigour mortis, its joints stiffened to intractable peaks. 

Keep your back straight and use your knees. 

(Joel taught you how to lift anything. He said it’d come in handy, one day. You still can’t tell what he’s preparing you for.) 

When you flip the child into the fire, the bag flies off its head. Its hair is the same shade as yours.

He takes double your shift. 

You were a florist, before, operating right outside Boston. It’s easy to forget what it was like: cramped in that two hundred square foot shop, up to your elbows in thorns as humidified air pooled beneath your pits. There’s the vague picture of a book, fatter than your forearm, always propped open on the register counter. Floriography, a guide to the Victorian language, with watercolour illustrations and an empty page dedicated to your scrawled notes on customer orders. 

And, there is the memory that accompanies it. 

An infatuated friend – no, assignment partner – in your mycology requirement. He’d gifted it to you on your birthday and you’d given a complaisant smile back before going back to the video your professor put on. It didn’t interest you at the time. You were a botany student, desperately clinging to the last shred of your sanity before the end of term, and you did not care about the outdated science of some epidemiologist in 1968. 

Perhaps you should’ve.

But–

You remember the flowers.  

Post-grad. You’d bring them in from wholesalers in Columbia. Dahlias and daisies by the dozen – thriving boscages, nursed in minerals, tepid water. It was a blend of powdered femininity, a reification of the artificial scent you’d practically bathe in as a kid. Soil a pillow for nectar and dew, their roots still branched in the nourishing mix. And it was marginally obsessive, the way you’d drink all of it in. Like divine ambrosia, hung in a drunken stupor of all-natural proportions.

In the mornings, you’d separate their petals with a gentle hand. You felt as though you could sit forever in that quaintness. It did not feel like a job.

Joel takes double your shift, because you cannot wait to get away from shit-clogged sewers. 

He comes back disgruntled, just as the afternoon sinks below the horizon. 

The room soaks in an orange tint, a deluge of evening light spilling in from outside. Scotch whiskey burns a trail down your throat, irritatingly concentrated, and you wonder where he got it from. Not many drinks nowadays pool as deep in your belly, are warm enough to strike your inhibitions. You blink, tipsy – malt and smoke clustered on your tongue – and can’t help but smack your lips, the taste reminiscent of the musk you lick from in between his legs.

He comes up behind you, pulling the bottle from your cradle before you can take another swig. You’d set a dirty tumbler out for him too, lipstains smudged against the annealed glass. He pours two fingers worth, then sits back with a weary sigh. It rumbles from somewhere in his chest, hampered with the deep baritone of his own voice. 

You don’t speak. Neither does he. 

This is what life consists of. Busy work and silence. 

Anything is better than clicking. 

You observe him in your free time. 

It’s not often you’re granted the luxury of running your fingers down his face. You have, once, after coming home much too late to see him knocked out, practically blitzed on hydro. You’d discovered his skin – that it matched the way it looks; rough, sun-worn like old leather. It folds up along his forehead, between his brows, etched in a permanent look of exasperation. He’s marked in wrinkles you don’t think will ever go away. 

(You’d tried smoothing them out. It was a stupidly sentimental action, founded on the sudden spout of emotion that plagued you that night. You had just been beaten an inch from your life, and wanted to find comfort in the fact that – if anything – he was peacefully at rest. But he looked tired, even in his sleep.) 

His eyes are far away, too. His lips, pursed. The way his hair twists on his head suggests that it’d been curly, once upon a time – flipping like waves crashing towards an isolated island. Uncoordinated. Devastating. And his beard is all but an extension of that brutality – patchy and abrasive, particularly when it smooths along your thigh. He’s ruinously handsome; weathered and dry and dark and so, so goddamn handsome.

Joel is a man of blunt lines and frayed edges, and though he seems especially bronzed at this time of day, you can’t touch him to feel the sun. 

But you’re not looking for warmth. 

You slide off the chair, onto your knees. 

You’ve been around long enough for him to sense what’s coming. His shoulders slouch, slack posture buttressed against the back of his chair, and the movement allows his legs to spread, just so you can slot between two beefy thighs. They ripple with restrained strength when you run your hands along them, muscle apparent even under the cover of his jeans. 

“You’re tense.” You remark, slowly ironing closer to the bulge at his crotch. 

“Long day.” He responds with a torn exhale.

The unfurling of his zipper puts an end to the short conversation. You ruck his pants to his pelvis, then scoop his cock out from behind his boxers. It’s semi-hard, heavy in your clutch, pulsing as though it aches. You slip to the base – nested in a bush of wild, auburn hair – and tug it until he swells to become velvet-covered iron. He thickens, brims with arousal, head darkening to the colour of a day-old bruise. 

It’s when it’s like this– 

When you’re on your knees, or back, or stomach, his flesh smelting your insides like you’re metal over brimstone. Your lips wrap around him – stretching taut at cracked corners, your tongue rolling over his frenulum. You will yourself to sink further, to let him touch your tonsils and the enveloping heat there. Your breath hot, your mouth even hotter – sweltering, you suck him in, coating his length with a film of saliva, which aids you when you pull back up. Still, he’s too big for you to fully take, so you wrap what you can’t reach and twist it in tandem to your bobbing head. 

Spittle pools at your lip, globbing out to splatter on his boxers. You can’t control the gags his girth elicit. It doesn’t matter. His large hand cups your temple, guiding you lower. You hollow your cheeks to accommodate the bludgeoning rhythm of his cock, choking on the smell of sweat and denim. He’s heady, potent with brine.  Blurring heat corners your eyes, tears cropping at the sheer indulgence of it all. You don’t know whether he notices as they slip down your cheeks, whether he goes harder because of them. 

It’s in these perennial moments, pearlescent prespend seeping down his shaft – a beautiful compliment to his skin – where you’re simultaneously selfish and selfless in a world that is kind to neither. That he feels more alive than ever. Pumping, pounding, like the fibrous sinew of a still-beating heart.

He’s not gentle as he takes. You don’t discourage it. 

(You believe he’s forgotten how to be. There’s a certain severance you have to make to survive; a detachment from humanity. You don’t doubt he was a good man, once. You hear it in his cadence, that southern twinge that speaks to days of gentleman-like civility past. It’s excusable. You understand. You can’t complain of the strain he puts on your throat. You too have lost your touch. 

But it cannot reduce the red on your ledgers. Gore binds the very books together.)

Cum covers your palette when he spurts his end – a hot, febrile concoction; the ocean lapping up on a beached log, like sand in every crevice. He holds your head down until you swallow, knees spasming against hardwood floors.

You splutter for air when you finally draw away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Joel shifts forward, picking an unknown material off the table above your head. You can’t discern what it is – not until he brings it down to your chin. 

Your washcloth. Threadbare and thinning still. 

He doesn’t let you speak as he helps you clean the evidence of his sin.

Lilies for restored innocence. Carnations for pure love. 

You cycle through your mental index of funeral arrangements as carmine ichor spills from your front. 

The operation hadn’t gone according to plan. 

Joel said it’d be a quick pillage of a newly empty warehouse; an apparent treasure trove for supplies, left abandoned after a firefly attack drove FEDRA security off its perimeters. Lined wall to wall in crates of salvaged items; he’d heard wind of it through a contact in the agency – some son of a bitch by the name of Liam, trying to pay off a withstanding debt. Easy gains, he’d smiled, you can take your pick of the loot.

The knife lodged in your gut begs to differ. 

(You posit another smuggling ring got dealt the same deal. They had come in behind you. Jumped fast, fought dirty – took all the ammo and cigarettes they could carry and left you for dead. Naturally.)

Where the fuck is he?

Vignette shadows edge your vision, throwing everything off kilter. You can hardly process every aspect at once: the pulsing wound, the surge of blood. Nausea encroaches on the site, convulsing in around the jagged blade, cramming your intestines for space. It blazes a fiery path up to your lungs, where your breaths escape in short, shallow increments. Oxygen dwindles. You’d skipped breakfast. Still, you heave as fluorescent lights blink in and out of existence above you. 

The concrete floor is unforgiving. 

Gladioli, perhaps. For someone who’s proven their strength. Tears glue your lashes shut, and you imagine being buried out in a field of their long stems. Swathed in peach, pink, babydoll colours untainted by grime. You wonder if Joel knows a place. 

(You never asked for his favourite flower.) 

The stab festers, broiling over with an impassioned heat. It must be hell overturning your system, bubbling up in pus, swaying you from making your peace. All those lives you took. The thorns you’d clipped. Your head is lifted onto a twitching lap. It’s soaked in carnage and smells like him.

Thank god. Felt like it was gonna explode.

“B-Bout– nghn, time.” You cough. You’re able to discern his silhouette through the fog, cloudburst heavy on your lids. It’s sticky, disorienting.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me now. We’ll get t-this fixed. We’ll get this fixed, okay?” He chokes, wrestling with a roll of something. “I gotta take the knife out, baby. It’ll hurt. It–” 

“It–It’s okay.”

“No, no. Up, open your eyes, c’mon.” 

You were hired to supply a wedding with its finery, back when you first opened shop. It was the gig that promised to put you on the map, insisted upon by a childhood friend who had the money to blow on imports from Holland. You’d spent days fine tuning the arrangements – fussing with leaves, waxing petals, trimming roots. Your cuticles were red, raw by the end.

The next week, all the flowers had wilted. The paraffin you used was the wrong type.

Joel’s voice cracks like a spoiled floret. You burn at the knowledge that it’s your fault. 

He doesn’t give you the option to grieve it, twisting the blade out of your abdomen. You lurch forward, thrashing with a warbled scream. Borderline animalistic, the pain tears through you with harrowing intensity. 

His hand smooths your hair back in the meanwhile, brushing across your sweaty forehead, winding between the tresses. You shudder under a wave of hypoxia and come to a sobering revelation. 

It feels nice.

Something shifts. 

He was quiet before. A man of very few words; upon your first meeting – a partnered smuggle run, arranged via Tess – you recall tallying the hours until he spoke. It hit three, prior to your suggestion of something so bewilderingly stupid he just had to pitch in his discontent. You’d smirked it off. It hadn’t been personal. 

(Possibly the one insight that allowed you to continue working with him.) 

But since your close call, he’s funnelled down to occupy a fraction of his previous presence. You suspect it has everything to do with how you bled out in his arms.

He leaves and returns during your small bouts of restless sleep. You don’t hear from him, or see of him – aside from the rare occurrences when your days intersect; when he comes back, tarnished and tired, to crash on the couch before his next job. You would haul him to bed if you could, yet your gut throbs in barely-healed rage with every exertive move. So, you spend your limited time with him as you’ve grown used to doing – watching.

His nightmares have gotten worse. 

You used to experience them in pyretic transitions, suspended in a state of hypnagogia, your consciousness bleary and flickering like old film set ablaze. You’d feel his tremors, could hear his whispered pleads filter in on your own dreams. But they existed as secondary – something to be acknowledged in that post-apocalyptic, apathetic way. I get ‘em too, bud. He never mentioned them, so you wouldn’t ask. 

To see him unravel is another thing entirely. 

Like corduroy twill being picked apart at the seams. A material made to be durable, to tough out years of erosion. He quivers, forearms contracting over his chest, his brows creasing. Something about Sarah as his hands rub together, clawing at his palms. 

You wind your limbs around your middle. It’s frightening, you realise. You’ve come to know this man in the snarled face of adversity – he’s never so much as stuttered, carved in resilient rock. But it had to have come from somewhere, and if not vomit, if not viscera, if not fungi–

Whatever it is that torments him, you pour a glass of water and wait for him to wake. 

He doesn’t look at you when he does. You don’t blame him; you’re practically pellucid, yellowing undertones an effect of the lesion that marks your stomach. The only thing you’d gotten out of the warehouse were medical supplies in abundance. You credit only them with your continued survival. 

“I’m going back.” Joel says, tapping his index on the glass. You blink, nonplussed at the sudden noise. You recover in half the time, though, and open your mouth to protest. “We left some valuable shit behind.” He interrupts.

“You can’t go alone.” 

“You’re staying behind.” 

“I’m fine,” You start, then wince with the movement.

He stares at you, incredulous. The silence punctuates his point. 

“Tess has a few men holding it down. It should be simple.” And with how he grits it, the words hissed through clenched teeth, it’s evident he means it as an end to the discussion. But doubt maturates, wheezing in the way punctured lungs do, sore under the pierce of cracked ribs. Tension swells from the afflicted site. You can’t control the disillusion in your tone. 

“That’s what you said last time.” 

Nothing erupts. 

Not how you expected it to, anyway. It takes a moment for the blame to meet him, to find its honest meaning. In that time, it hangs between you, echoing, precariously balanced on seething eye contact. Then, his gaze flickers down to your abdomen. 

“I’m not the idiot who almost got herself killed.” 

It carries all the malice you wished for, and more. 

(Whatever tenderness he had left must have bled out with you on that floor.)

He doesn’t die. But then again, that wasn’t what you were concerned about. 

Joel makes his first appearance three days later. The return is sporadic, and divided upon many, each time with a small bag of supplies he stuffs underneath the floorboard. The sacking was successful, then– 

(He throws a bottle of antibiotics onto the kitchen counter, his jerking shoulder a rough indication that it’s meant for your injury. But when his face catches the light, you’re thrown with the inkling that he might need them more than you.)

–though, nothing is without its faults. 

Eggplant purple and violent red blend in a mottled contusion across his cheekbone, painted down to his neck – beyond his collar – hidden to your wandering gape. You’re no stranger to bruises; the world collapsed in on humanity a good twelve years ago, and burst capillaries have become a constant under the macerating weight. Yet it’s another layer stripped, a sheet of titanium snatched off the manifold complexity that is him. You’d never seen the evidence of his pain so clearly illustrated atop his skin. 

“Joel–”

“Leave it.” He snaps. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, pushing yourself up to sit by the sink. It’s futile to beckon him over, so you wait his pacing out by dousing a rag in leftover alcohol. 

“Was there anything even left?” You accuse. He unzips a duffel bag atop the dining room table, ruffling through a layer of bandaids. 

“Yes. The rations’ll last us two months, if we sell to the right people.” 

“Thrilling.” 

Your sarcasm lingers until he finally finds what he’s looking for, pulling out a jar of ground coffee from behind a box of detachable blades. When he walks over to fetch a mug, you grab him by the wrist and wrench him closer. 

(You wouldn’t have been able to, had he not let you. You know his strength trumps yours.) 

When you touch the makeshift wipe to his face, he doesn’t so much as flinch. 

“What did this?” The question stretches, losing its structural integrity under your elemental concern. This is all novel territory – you don’t make a habit of licking another’s wounds clean. But his desperate pleas hold possession over you; the restrained distress, the wavering timbre. Stay with me now. We’ll get this fixed. 

“Gun.” 

Your hand falters over his jaw. 

“Butt end.” He adds. “FEDRA was on the scene.” 

“Right. Do I even have to say it?” You whisper. ‘Told you so’ titters on the tip of your tongue.

“No.” He concedes.

The two of you sit like that for a long while after, locked in a begrudging dance that pulls you off your feet. Winter has nearly melted to its end, now; the howling gale tapering to a draft that crawls beneath window sills. Somehow still, it penetrates you, even colder than before. 

(Joel crackles like a fed furnace, biting at the firm coals of your desire. You unconsciously veer closer, wiggling your hips until your legs cage his. He holds you in place with one large hand, the other gliding beneath the hem of your jeans.) 

“You’re hurt–” 

“So are you.” He settles. His fingers press up against the plush of your cunt, finding that electric centre. It’s debilitating, overstimulating and likewise, not enough; a defibrillator to your core, one that cannot revive you. 

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, finding purchase in his broad build. It does nothing dampen the needy moan you make when he pushes your panties to the side, toying with your swollen folds. He spots you, clenching around nothing, soaking the calloused pads of his thumb. It takes place on your clit, then, index and middle inching towards your hole to plug you full.

“Needy fucking thing.” He groans, shoving his tongue down your maw. It’s not a kiss. Far from it. He doesn’t try to match the pace of your gaping surrendering, preferring to devour you instead. You pant up into his mouth, gyrating with the back and forth of his pumping digits. 

He claws out in you your tender-most spots. 

(But that’s just it, isn’t it?

He might not be gentle, in the worn definition of the word. The touch that peels petals, reverent, finding delicacy in the finest bits of creation; gold leaf and concentrated fragrance. What you spent so long holding onto – the beauty that’s become obsolete in a post-fungal land.  

But you cannot kid yourself. 

He’s raw, uninhibited. You’ve seen it – that supplantation of humanity, a measure to rise above the monsters that hunt you. A sore bundle of mortality and death, left unhealed, yet just as capable of flaring when you reach out towards it.  

Like stepping up when you buckle under the horror of your own reality. Wiping your chin of filth. Shaking with you, fading out on his lap, his best efforts centred in on your mutilated centre. The nightmares that plague him, seeking out whatever weakness lies dormant. 

If you had to choose, you’d say he favours sunflowers.)

“Joel,” You whine, sinking your face in his neck. 

“That’s it… C’mon, baby. Cum for me.” 

That night, he pulls something out of his bag, tucking it in your pocket as he joins you in bed.

“Hm?” Murmuring, you reach to wrap your hand around his. The fabric in his grasp is thick, knitted. 

Gloves.

“Noticed you’ve been cold.”

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[m-beloved]

we NEEEDD a part two of that kitana fic where kitana and y/n gets together (intros please)

The people have spoken. Eat up fuckers!!! Pt.1 here

Gn reader, implied past romance with Bi-Han, reader works as Liu Kang's assistant/secretary, current romance with Kitana, Kinda Ooc characters, reader is immortal/has an extended life

Kitana vs Bi-Han

Kitana: It seems that they've moved on from you. Bi-Han: I will make you pay!

Bi-Han: They were mine and will be after I rip your head off and gift it to them. KItana: A shame I'll slice yours clean off first then.

Kitana: I won't let you do more harm to them! Bi-Han: As if you could do anything to me.

Kitana: You may have been their first, but I will be their last. Bi-Han: A foolish dream that I will wake you up from.

Bi-Han: I will reclaim them from you. Kitana: They aren't yours to claim.

Bi-Han: You took them from me! Kitana: I saved them from you.

Kitana: You've given them nothing but pain and tears, I won't let you cause more! Bi-Han: They caused those pain and tears themself, I've given them chances to let me heal them.

Bi-Han: No matter what, I will always be their first. Kitana: Something that I will make sure they forget.

Johnny Cage vs Bi-Han

Johnny: How does it feel to have your ex move on? Bi-Han: They haven't moved on, this is nothing more than a brief distraction I will remove.

Johnny: How does it feel to have your ex move on? Bi-Han: They are not my ex, nor have they moved on!

Johnny: I don't blame Kitana, hell if she hadn't swept them away I would have. Bi-Han: I will freeze both your blood and break your bodies into pieces!

Johnny: I don't blame them, Kitana is one of a kind! Bi-Han: You can keep her.

Johnny: They- Bi-Han: Shut your mouth Cage! Johnny: I didn't even- Bi-Han: Shut it!

You vs Bi-Han

Bi-Han: Just a "good friend", huh? You: Bi-Han...I didn't mean for it to be like that. Things just...escalated.

Bi-Han: You said you "just have a lot in common". You: I never meant for it to happen, but I don't regret it.

You: Bi-Han, I've moved on. Bi-Han: I'll remind you of my presence and bring you back to me then.

Bi-Han: What does Kitana have that I don't? You: Bi-Han, please.

Bi-Han: This is why I don't trust you with anyone. You: This is why we didn't work out!

Bi-Han: Is it because she's softer? You: Bi-Han, we've talked about this!

You: Bi-Han, things change. I still love you, I'm just not in love with you. Bi-Han: I wish you still were.

Bi-Han: You could still rule the Lin Kuei by my side. You: I've already chosen Kitana's side.

You: I love you Bi-Han, but there's too much between us and I need to move on to heal. Bi-Han: We could have healed together.

Kitana vs you

Kitana: I am so happy to have you by my side. You: As am I, my princess.

Kitana: If Bi-Han tries anything with you, tell me. You: He won't be able to do anything, you need not worry Kitana.

You: I live to serve you, my princess. Kitana: *embarrassed chuckle* You don't have to do anything for me, my darling.

You: I hope Raiden isn't too hurt because of me... Kitana: He will heal and get over this.

Kitana: I can't believe you're finally mine. You: I can't believe you wanted me.

You: I've known you for decades, yet it's funny how we've only recently confessed. Kitana: I've loved you for decades, but I saw the way you looked at Bi-Han and loved your happiness more.

You: Mileena seems to be hostile towards me. Kitana: She's just overprotective, like all siblings are.

You: Did I mess up at dinner? Kitana: You did well, my love. Mother and Mileena have deemed you acceptable.

Kitana: The double date with Tanya and Mileena was interesting. I wouldn't mind going on another one. You: I'll arrange another one soon, my princess.

Johnny Cage vs you

Johnny: Well well well! Look who just scored a princess! You: Shush, you don't have to scream it to the whole world!

Johnny: Is dating Kitana as good as you thought it'd be? You: It's...perfect actually.

Johnny: Have you moved on from Bi-Han? You: ...It's tough. But I've got Kitana, and I couldn't ask for anyone better.

Johnny: I can't tell if I'm more jealous of you or Kitana. You: ...What?

Johnny: Bossy blue-ice seems to have gotten even worse after hearing about Outworld's latest couple. You: I...There's nothing I can do about it but hope he doesn't harm anyone.

You: Cage, tell your camera crew to stop following me and Kitana everywhere! Johnny: Oh damn, sorry about that!

Johnny: I could practically see the heartbreak in Raiden's eyes when he heard you two were a thing together! You: I hope he isn't too upset with me...

Mileena vs you

Mileena: If you ever hurt my sister, I will make sure you won't be able to hurt anyone ever again. You: I promise I will never do anything that would upset her.

You: I really like your sister. She's one of the best things that ever happened to me. Mileena: Than you better treat her like it.

Mileena: I heard that you and the Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei had something. You: It was in the past, and I'm happy with Kitana now.

You: If you like, me and Kitana could go somewhere with you and Tanya. I believe Earthrealmers call it a "Double date". Mileena: Sounds intriguing. I'll think about it.

You: Did I do well at dinner? I'm still learning about Outworld customs. Mileena: For someone who has rarely eaten in Outworld, I will admit you acted well.

Mileena: Keep Bi-Han away from Kitana, I don't trust him around her. You: I will protect her with my life.

Sindel vs you

Sindel: If you lay a finger on my daughter, I will not hesitate to break it. You: I would never dream of it m'am.

Sindel: Kitana thinks highly of you. Don't let her down. You: I won't, I promise.

You: Your highness, if me and Kitana were to get betrothed, what kind of ceramonies would take place? Sindel: It is too soon to let you know.

You: Apologies for my manners at dinner, I'm not the most accustomed to Outworld dinning customs and manners. Sindel: For someone still learning, you're more polite than some of the people who's lived in Outworld their entire lives.

Sindel: How long have you served Liu Kang for? You: Oh, I'm afraid I can't remember. But he's one of the best people I could ask to serve under.

Liu Kang vs you

Liu Kang: I've heard about you and Kitana, you have my blessing. You: Thank you lord Liu Kang. I hope this relationships works out better than my last.

You: May I ask for advice on dating Kitana's counterpart? Liu Kang: As I said, that is something you should find out on your own.

Liu Kang: Have you moved on? You: I'd like to think so. I adore Kitana, and she has been nothing but the best.

You: Bi-Han isn't taking the news well. Liu Kang: He does not decide your life.

You: I think I made a good impression on Mileena and Empress Sindel. Liu Kang: I told you those lessons on Outworld customs and manners would help.

Liu Kang: Kitana has liked you ever since she has laid eyes on you, similarly to Bi-Han. You: I...had no idea she pinned after me for that long.

Liu Kang: I assume this relationship will not affect your duties? You: Of course not my lord. I will still serve you the best I can.

A/n: Okay so this was kinda rushed so that's why it's a bit sloppy and badly written. For some reason Mk1 intros are easy to make up for me, but I still feel like I'm making the characters Ooc. Anyway if you want this series to continue then just give me an idea and if I like it I'll work off it.

[vyl3tpwny]

Music Genres

When I was kid, you would have probably heard me say something like “I don’t believe in genre labels”. To a degree, there is still something about that sentiment that I agree with; I don’t think you can really put music and styles of music in neat little boxes. But otherwise, I was pretty much wrong about everything else.

Let’s go over that.

pictured: Mala, one of the godfathers of roots Dubstep

—

To be blunt, “genre” isn’t just about approximating what a song sounds like. If you say “I love pop music”, that honestly doesn’t mean much. The more specific you get, the more you will approach something someone can imagine like “I like experimental progressive noise pop music”. Ok, I can start to imagine things that likely approach what you're talking about, but even then it will usually not help someone fully understand what something truly is. In categorizing and approximating music styles, genres only go so far. So what makes them important then?

Well, not to say that approximating a style when describing an artist to someone is a bad thing or that doing so isn’t meant to be valued, but it’s hardly the only reason these labels exist. Importantly, “genre” helps establish culture, history, and a musical identity. So when you're trying to tell someone you're listening to a "progressive rock” project, you’re not just imagining odd time-signatures and complex riffs, you’re also meant to understand and consider that whatever is being described as to you has some sort of relevance or importance with regards to the history behind progressive rock; the culture of college bands in the UK, the sound that the punk movement revolted against, the progression of musical storytelling in rock music since the late 60’s and early 70’s, stuff like that. There’s a distinct culture and history you can pinpoint and understand when you describe something as being progressive rock and you can’t just go around calling any complex electric guitar oriented music "progressive rock" unless it has those specific ties as well as understanding and iteration of the roots.

pictured: Genesis, because progressive rock mention

—

Genre labels help to clarify what kind of culture and histories a music project is being associated itself with and where a lot of its inspiration comes from. This is much more compelling reason for underlining the importance of genre labels and why they should be used correctly.

So, there is something I need to get off my chest then. There are a lot of misuses of genre labels all over the place, especially online. And I’m not talking about saying something is “Alternative Rock” when it’s clearly some kind of “Folk Rock” record instead. What I’m talking about is something like “Dubstep”.

Even as recent as a few years ago, I started personally reclaiming the term “Dubstep” as a genre label to describe any bass-adjacent music. At the time I did this, I thought it was cool, because the term Dubstep had been dubbed (pun intended) to be cringeworthy lexicon to some people. And while I feel that’s a noble reason to reclaim something like that, because some weirdos think it's cringe, in this case I actually think it’s wrong.

The term “Brostep” has been used to describe any non-roots bass-oriented music that originates from the proper roots Dubstep. It’s a term I didn’t like FOREVER, especially because the phrase was derived as a generalization of the kind of people who tend to listen to it. However, I actually think that Brostep is a title that people should be more comfortable and confident with labeling things as.

The original Dubstep came as a result of Jamaican immigrants bringing Dub music to the UK, which then fused with the remnants of 2-Step Garage which was prominent in the 90’s just years prior. Timbah.On.Toast made a great video called All My Homies Hate Skrillex and it is a really good breakdown of what separates roots Dubstep from the Americanized Brostep, which came after it. I think everyone knows by now that I have a deep, deep love for EDM based Broste and I am the biggest Skrillex fangirl alive. So being both a Brostep and Skrillex superfan, please understand that I think the video is one of the most important things you can watch as an EDM enjoyer.

Conflating the term Dubstep with things that aren’t actually Dubstep is honestly a slap in the face to all of the pioneers of Dub and Dubstep, which famously were both pretty much ENTIRELY invented by black people. I think it’s fair to say that incorrectly labeling music in this way has racist implications. It dishonours and twists the legacy of the music. You can find og Dubstep to listen to on the RYM Ultimate Box Set > Dubstep page. Check some of that out, then listen to some 2010, 2011 Skrillex and see how different things really went.

It confused me at first when I was a teenager, I didn't understand why so many people hated Skrillex back in the day. I came to realize so much of the hate wasn’t even really with regards music itself, but the total lack of understanding or care for the roots of the genre, which all of his work was founded upon and he then subsequently bastardized without caring at all. It was pure disrespect, it was practically cultural erasure and so many people will now only know of Dubstep as “that Skrillex transformer screech music”. Yeah. It actually fucking sucks.

But there is a LONG history of black music being erased from history and being undermined, whether entirely intentional or due to systemic unawareness.

I saw a post the other day talking about how it sucks that so much music is just lumped into being “video game music” when so much of this stuff has deep roots and cultural significance. The first example pointed how a lot of acid jazz music is just described as “Persona music” by the layperson now. Meanwhile, Acid Jazz as a genre is a huge development on things like roots jazz, disco, funk, and hip hop music. You know. All genres that were invented by black people. Fascinating, right?

Jungle music was also mentioned. And this one is very particular for me. Jungle music, when not being generalized as "PS1 Music", is often just called drum & bass or breakcore (also please Google the difference between breakbeat and breakcore, thanks) which are all fundamentally misunderstanding what Jungle music even is. Much of Jungle music, AS MANY THINGS DO, finds VERY prominent roots in Reggae, Dub, and sound system culture in Jamaica as well as countless other prominently black communities in the UK.

But it doesn’t stop there.

If you’re unfamiliar, there is a genre called “IDM”, otherwise known as Intelligent Dance Music. When I was a kid, and I first heard that word, I immediately was like “that is the most pretentious, stupid thing I’ve ever heard”. Eventually as I grew up, I just stopped thinking about that and started referring to more music as IDM. This style of music is generally characterized with “complexity” and being “not much danceable”. While I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the music that is called IDM, I do think there’s everything wrong with the term IDM, intelligent dance music.

When asked how he feels about being labeled as an IDM artist, Aphex Twin responded:

"I just think it's really funny to have terms like that. It's [basically] saying 'this is intelligent and everything else is STUPID.' It's really nasty to everyone else's music."

pictured: Aphex Twin, the funnyman himself

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I think most people would agree with this sentiment. It’s so strange to call one kind of music “intelligent”, out of the hundreds of thousands of genres out there. But let’s bring this back to Jungle music. The reality is that IDM started to become a term around the same time that Jungle music became prominent, in the 90's. Both styles of music are complex, introspective, skittery, and chaotic (but refined and often disciplined) genres. Except, of these two, Jungle music was the one pioneered primarily by black artists. IDM was a sort in competition with Jungle. To therefore call IDM “intelligent” in comparison to Jungle music ... well. I don’t feel like I really have to explain why that’s fucked up.

A lot of people have proposed different names for IDM. A quick look on reddit yields things like “Experimental Electronic” and “Brain Dance” (which was coined by Aphex Twin's label). Me personally, the term “Electro-Prog” comes to mind. Sounds cool.

Similar conversations are presently being had about the term “Riddim”. This brings us back to the dubstep side of this discussion again. Riddim, as an EDM genre, is an offshoot of Brostep music that focuses a lot on repetition over the downbeat, maintaining an insanely distorted sound design, a lot more than the average Brostep song. However, the term “riddim” originates — yet again — from the Jamaican Patois for “rhythm”. And Riddim as a musical style in Jamaica is actually more associated with things like dancehall and reggae, rather than the commercialized "Riddim" that is several hundred times removed from its own roots.

Last year, musician INFEKT proposed that what most EDM listeners call “riddim” should be referred to instead as “Trench” in an article on their website. This proposed name is derived from Getter’s use of the term on his 2014 record “Trenchlords Vol. 1”. I don’t personally know how much I resonate with the term, but whatever the consensus is, I don’t think we should be conflating a westernized, commercialized, and EDM-centric genre like this to Jamaican roots music. Over and over again, it seems that black music is constantly overwritten by developments like this, so I think more care needs to be taken in not allowing that to happen.

As a side note, a lot of people online seem very keen on appropriating Jamaican Patois quite often? There are so many examples of this. When the term “Bomboclaat” started making the rounds on Twitter a few years ago, so many white people were quick to either talk wildly about the term and trend or otherwise start saying it as well. There was a fucking article that sought to answer “The Bomboclaat >> Meme << Meaning Explained”, like they’re not dissecting an element of Jamaican slang lol. Then there was a period of time where people were constantly saying things like “On Jah?” as a stand-in for “On God?” even though this, again, is Jamaican Patois. And even now, you have tons and tons of non-black people going everywhere being like “what is blud waffling about?”, the phrase “blud” ONCE AGAIN also being Jamaican in origin.

I shouldn’t even have to explain what makes these kinds of appropriations weird and messed up. But black people lose jobs and are denied basic things in life over their hair styles, their expressions and slang, and so many other things that a white person can just appropriate and face zero consequences whatsoever for.

That aside, aside. Understanding and labeling genres correctly is such a big part of music history and highlighting and preserving cultures worldwide. When efforts are made to undermine the meaning of a genre label or otherwise use it incorrectly, so much damage is done to the communities and people groups that innovate and pioneer this art to begin with.

For these reasons, I will gladly use the term Brostep. I will happily call things Electro-Prog. And when you talk about genres like Jungle and Dubstep, say it with your whole chest. Be proud of the human race, show respect and love for the people who have forged the greatest parts of music with their bare hands. We will always stand on the shoulders of giants as musicians, so instead of pretending you yourself are the giant, build monuments and maintain the history of these people. You as an artist are nothing without them.

pictured: Augustus Pablo, one of the most important innovators of Dub. Without him, and without many of his contemporaries, I would reckon that half or more of all modern music would simply not exist.

CONTENT WARNING FOR THIS FINAL SECTION, THERE ARE LIKE LOTS OF STRANGE SLURS AND RACIST VIBES.

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One last thing I wanna mention, this is slightly tangential but I think it's relevant to this conversation. It's always weird how lots of websites categorize things like this:

From Big Fish Audio... "G**sy*? "World/Ethnic Loops & Samples"? What the fuck are you talking about. Seems like racism to me.

On Loopmasters they have a "World" section. Any Americanized genre gets its own category, but the entire continents of Africa and Asia as well as the country of India and region of the Middle East (which are part of Asia, hope this helps btw) and lastly South America are stuffed into the nebulous "World Label". Seems like racism to me. Are you telling me you weirdos can't figure out a better way to represent these things?

But then Psy Trance gets its whole entire own category? Aren't there only like five people who listen to Psy Trance? /hj . But like come on.

Shoutout to WA Productions for categorizing a universe of suspiciously mostly black music as """Urban"""". And this company is a dime a dozen, hundreds of corpos do this shit.

East fucking West, what is this dude. There is a racism happening, I just know it. Please give me a count of how many poc are on payroll at your company, I am so curious.

And while we're at it, East West, what is this. Tell me. Fucking tell me.

Thanks for reading.