#the worst sin you can commit is to fail at that

[dayurno]

HELLO i just wanted to say that i love you so muuuch!! i recently finished reading playing for keeps and oh. my. god.

your kevin is the most adorable thing I've ever seen i want to eat him alive (sorry, I'm vegan actually but...)

tntg and pfk is the masterpieces i know what I'm talking about. perhaps you can give some advice for fic writers? i love you sm 😩🤚🏼

OH WOW nice to me thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!! and wanting to eat kevin alive is the average kevin day experience he is just chewable!!!! i guarantee

and aiya advice for fic writers huh. i dont know if my advice is worth much if anything at all but from the top of my head here are some things ive picked up over the years that will hopefully serve someone somewhere

presentation actually matters!!!! a properly formatted fic is not only delicious to read but also helps with keeping you in the story, i know this because i am a bad formatter (so sorry) and whenever i go through my fics and see a mistake i'm immediately taken out of it! just make sure it's easy to read and you have formatted it to the best of your abilities

brevity is the soul of wit. unfortunately. this is by no means i'm advocating for only short sentences (we all love tangents!) but i think it is good to vary on sentence length and save your longer lines for things that are important to note down! this image has been going around for years now but i still think its one of the most helpful pieces of writing advice ive ever seen

side characters are your best friends!!!!! i think as fanfic writers sometimes we want to get to the point and focus only on our mains, but it does add a lot of flavor and texture when you have small storylines happening along with your main plot, especially if you're doing an in-depth character study. life exists even when we're not seeing it!!!! give your side characters interesting stories and relationships!!!!

writing is about FUN and your questions regarding your storyline should never be "what is the most logical thing that could happen now?" but "what is the most interesting thing that could happen now?". this is a sin aftg fans commit the most when talking about aftg but i am here to tell you that no plot is too ambitious. nothing is so out there that you can't write about it! no concept is too wacky! interesting should come first; you worry about the logic in later edits. most readers are more willing to forgive an interesting plot with technical problems than they are willing to forgive a boring story that is perfect writing-wise

i think this is all i have! if anyone would like to add something theyre more than welcome to

[crayonverse]

i need to mkae. m y own gacha react video so i cant stop being so sick and evil abut ein because noone gets him right . ramble in tags ok ay byteee

[chaifootsteps]

You know, for someone so obsessed with male angst and sad boys in general, I'm surprised Viv didn't make Adam sympathetic.

I guess her disdain for Christianity was too strong to see what absolute angst fodder Biblical Adam's story is:

-The first human created, put in charge of caring for all of God's creation

-Is also supposed to look after Eve, the woman he loves, who was made specifically for him, *from* him

-Despite everything, Eve gives into temptation, and breaks the only rule God had set out of them

-Not only does Eve give into temptation, but Adam does too, thus failing to be the example he was supposed to be

-The two of them are cast out of the only home they've ever known, now with knowledge they were never supposed to have (which has got to be mentally overwhelming)

-They now have to work and struggle to survive, instead of living in the paradise they were supposed to have

-His eldest son kills his younger son, thus being the first murderer

So not only does Adam fail his father and creator, but he and his wife doom all of humanity to suffer. And on top of all that, his own son becomes the world's first murderer, which is one of the worst sins a person can commit. The angst potential is huge. Having so many expectations put on you, and failing every one. Then, not only losing a child, but having your other child be the one responsible. Like how do you experience all that and not snap? There's so much potential there for a complex villain. But this is Viv we're talking about. Villains aren't allowed to be complex. We're not allowed nuance. We're not even allowed consistency. *sigh*  

Damn it, Anon...now you've got me mourning an iteration of a character that never existed, a character I never thought I'd even like.

[cisthoughtcrime]

Lmao radfem tumblr can be so crazy sometimes. Why do we have to feel sorry for that Iranian scumbag? If she did that to me I would fo 10x worse than just be honest with her parents.

(in reference to this post)

Well first off, your racism and misogyny are palpable.

You're not going to read this, but I'm using your ask as an opportunity to say a few things.

Misogynistic violence is never justice.

I don't ever condone cheating, but her cheating couldn't ever merit his fully-aware weaponization of her misogynistic religious family against her.

Did you really expect me to say "yeah actually, women who cheat on their boyfriends deserve to be stripped of their freedom, their autonomy, their access to education, their independence, their friends, their home, their future, and possibly their lives"?

Her family isn't punishing her for cheating, they're punishing her for being a disobedient female whose choices about/for herself defy their control and fail to fulfill her "duty" of prioritizing her value to her family (her value in their eyes being her marriageable chastity, her fidelity, her modesty, her dutifulness, her submissiveness). The boyfriend (and anon apparently) didn't see any problem with throwing her back into a nigh-inescapable life in which she is treated as less than a full person, as property, on the basis of her sex... and saying she deserved it as "the consequences of her actions" (per the last line of the post).

I will never celebrate the use of misogyny to punish a woman even when I strongly condemn the woman's actions.

Cheating women, misogynistic women, violent women, even the absolute worst and most condemnable women ever — they deserve consequences for their transgressions, but those consequences should punish those transgressions rather than using the transgressions as an excuse to punish the sin of being female. Abortion-clinic-bombing women don't deserve forcible impregnation, sadistic homicidal women don't deserve FGM, violently bigoted women don't deserve rape, animal-torturing women don't deserve to be made into revenge porn. They unambiguously deserve to face justice and receive appropriate punishments for their crimes, but punishing them by weaponizing their female bodies and sexist cultures against them is simply condoning bigotry conditionally.

No woman, even an evil woman, deserves misogyny. No person of colour, even an evil person of colour, deserves racism. No gay person, even an evil gay person, deserves homophobia.

A cheating woman isn't in the right. I personally find cheating indefensible. I've been cheated on. It fucking sucks. I think cheaters of either sex deserve the social repercussions that come as the consequence of breaking others' trust, of betraying commitment, of knowingly hurting someone you supposedly care about. But misogyny isn't a form of karma.

[furiousgoldfish]

Abusive parents make it so easy to forget what normal is, and have you believe that your absolutely normal child behaviour is actually outrageous. They snap at you for annoying them, with the rage that would be justified if you just stabbed them, and all you actually did was be a child, make noise, ask for attention, ask for care.

It is not outrageous to be a child and to be loud, and noisy, and to ask for care and attention. We're genetically set up to do that, to rely on our caretakers, to ask them for attention and care, and to be loud, to make noise. That's how all children are.

It's also not outrageous to sometimes react emotionally, to get scared, worried, angry, confused, to not know something, to not get things right, to misunderstand, to make a mistake, to do damage while having good intentions. Abusive parents can react to all of these as if you're the worst demon and have committed a mortal sin of annoying them, taking their time and energy to deal with you when they 'have better things to do' and for being inconsiderate selfish brat who doesn't understand they're not a priority.

But you didn't do any of that. You were just a kid. If they didn't want to deal with a kid, they didn't need to have one. You didn't put yourself in front of them on purpose. You weren't outrageous for being normal. Their reaction was outrageous. Their rage, contempt, blame, shaming, telling you that you and your needs don't matter, that's outrageous. You were just a kid. You didn't need to be considerate. You didn't need to be told that your needs don't matter. You didn't need to be shamed or blamed for anything you wanted or needed back then. They were responsible for taking care of that and you came to them and they failed you. They should feel ashamed, not you. Nothing you did was worth hurting you for.

[marie-m-art]

There's a specific concept from Good Omens that I really like (amongst many others), that I was chuffed to also find in a Sandman and a Discworld story!

I love that in Good Omens (both book and TV), Heaven and Hell are presented as mostly redundant and ineffectual when it comes to human morality - and that Hell in particular find some of the things humans do to be pretty shocking, and/or instructive.

Opportunities for humour aside, this idea flies in the face of the common belief that the world's worst ills are the result of outside forces influencing people to do evil (ie the devil. Or ... lizard people etc? I digress). And it's unlike other stories out there that are like, "World War II was actually caused by xyz characters!" or similar. Good Omens doesn't rewrite history like that, or let us - humanity - off the hook when it comes to the big stuff, when it could so easily have done so in a universe where Heaven and Hell are literally real.

The story, of course, also credits human cleverness to humans, and celebrates the things we should be proud of, like art, music, delicious food, craftmanship, invention, etc. And it credits humans for having a propensity for compassion and goodness.

"[Crowley] did his best to make their short lives miserable, because that was his job, but nothing he could think up was half as bad as the stuff they thought up themselves. […] And just when you'd think they were more malignant than ever Hell could be, they could occasionally show more grace than Heaven ever dreamed of. Often the same individual was involved."

I love this concept because I see it as an uncoupling of religion and morality. They can both exist together, but the former isn't necessary for the latter. (This isn't the only possible interpretation; the more literal reading might be more about free will, but this is where I extrapolated it to).

From Sandman: Season of Mists Episode 2 (plot context stripped out to avoid spoilers, but skip ahead to black text if you want absolutely nothing spoiled if you want to read it).

Lucifer: "And the mortals! I ask you - why? […] Why do they blame me for all their little failings? They use my name as if I spend my entire day sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive. 'The devil made me do it.' I have never made one of them do anything. Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them."

And from Eric, a Discworld book (this one's related to Hell learning from humans, more than morality/free will... I won't spoil the funny by elaborating!):

"Earl Beezlemoth rubbed one of his three noses.

'And humans somewhere thought this up all by themselves?' he said. 'We didn't give them any, you know, hints?' […]

The earl stared into infinity. 'I thought we were supposed to be the ghastly ones,' he said, his voice filled with awe."

Another commonality between these two stories that isn't directly shared by Good Omens (yet...? still have another season coming …) but that I like enough to point out, is the idea that Hell is a place where people end up if they believe they deserve to go there. I like this because a lot of people are influenced to feel guilty about "sins" that are innocuous parts of normal human behaviour, so it's pretty brutal to fear going to Hell over them. There's comfort in this idea, to me. (granted, the following Sandman quote states this less explicitly but I take the same meaning from it … but lmk if I've done a reading incomprehension; I also haven't read all the books yet).

From Sandman:

Lucifer: "And then [the mortals] die, and they come here (having transgressed against what they believed to be right), and expect us to fulfill their desire for pain and retribution. I don't make them come here."

From Eric (partial footnote near the beginning):

"Interestingly enough, the gods of the Disc have never bothered much about judging the souls of the dead, and so people only go to hell if that's where they believe, in their deepest heart, that they deserve to go."

Eric also really leans into the idea of Hell being a bureaucratic, corporate, boring nightmare, also familiar to Good Omens fans, and the demons are so over it. The tone (you could probably guess) is very different from Sandman, and it's one of the earlier, less-serious Discworld books; it's a very fun, absurd ride of a read!

There are a few other Discworld books I'll talk about in a future post, that may also be of interest to certain Good Omens fans (I'm gearing these posts toward the fans who came to Good Omens from the TV show and haven't had the pleasure of discovering Neil's and Terry's other work yet); the ones I have in mind examine religious extremism, and the uncoupling of religion and morality too. A couple of them also have queer themes, if that is also your jam! (Less shipping opportunities but I assume some fans, like me, like the rest of the material in GO in addition to the love story).

I'll end this with a quote from a footnote from Eric that has nothing to do with anything in this post, but which took me by surprise and had me laughing days later whenever it came to mind. It's referring to books in a section of the library:

"Just erotic. Nothing kinky. It's the difference between using a feather and using a chicken."

And another bonus one that I found while looking for the first:

"Rincewind had been told that death was just like going into another room. The difference is, when you shout, 'Where's my clean socks?', no one answers."

I hope this made sense and is maybe interesting to someone ... I had fun talking about this at least!

[diazisms]

hi bia, I want to know your opinion re eddie cheating and latino culture/catholicism. I feel like in many ways a man cheating is something so normal in latin families (idk how this applies for latin people in the us but it's definitely a thing when living in latin america) and that's something that doesn't cause as much struggle with catholicism and "sin", as being queer does. I find it interesting how of course there's a loss that eddie thinks may happen if he cuts that last link to his religion connected to latino culture by coming out/coming to terms with his sexuality, that just doesn't seem to happen with other "sins"... idk if you've watched Brooklyn 99, but in there there's a Latina that comes out as bi to her parents and in the scene they basically tell her they'd rather she was dating someone married than admit that she was queer, and I feel like that's it, even tho I'm not sure eddie is aware of, he's falling into this (i believe) specific latino man stereotype where it's okay to do a lot of bad things, things maybe not accepted by the religion but unfortunately accepted by the culture, as long as you DON'T do the worst thing ever, which is being queer... idk if this makes sense lol, maybe it's not a thing lol, you dont have to post it I just dont have any other latino people i follow that may understand it, sorry

god, yeah, it's totally a thing. i grew up in texas but i was born and now live in latin america and this is so, so true. there are sins men are allowed to commit in latino communities because the sins are still "masculine". cheating on your girlfriend (they're not even married) is nothing. who cares. it still aligns with the misogyny that runs so rampant in latino culture. eddie sleeps with multiple women even though he has a girlfriend? oh, she wasn't enough him. she wasn't doing her job to keep him satisfied. it's a moral failing on her part, not his. and eddie's not that kind of guy, we know that, but this is all he learned growing up. it's very, very easy to fall back on the excuses you've heard a dozen times even when you know it's cruel. eddie dates two women at once and doesn't tell either of them? he's a firefighter, he's a single father, his life is stressful enough. let him have two women so when one gets high maintenance and irritating he can go to the other.

this is real! this is so real! it's so fucked up!

eddie breaks up with both marisol and not-shannon and gets with buck, though?

that'd be a problem. i have no doubt in mind eddie grew up hearing gay as an insult and faggot thrown around casually because homophobia is casual, not only in latino communities, but in the american south in general. he saw the way men who cheated would show up to mass with their wife against their side. her eyes were always so heartbroken, but that's something he's allowed. it's his right as a man. how can you fault his nature?

queerness is wrong, though. it's an abomination. you can't even confess to your sins because the church won't let you inside anymore. eddie can feel guilty for cheating on marisol all he wants, but guilt over something he's allowed is still better than bone deep shame over something he has not control over being.

and eddie's gonna hate himself for it! he's done so much to unlearn the worst parts of machismo, the parts that hurt him the most as a child, but god is it easy to fall back on when you need an excuse. his dad was absent most of his life growing up, but that's okay because he was providing. men don't sin for no reason. their wife isn't enough, they need to provide for their kids, their kids are a little too queer and need fixing. a heavy hand is better than an eternity in hell.

it's so complex. it's such a complicated relationship with himself, with religion, with being latino. god can judge him but how will he handle the judgment from his family. the church can hate him all they want but how is he supposed to handle the side eyes and whispers when he shows up to his high school friend's wedding and there's no plus one because it's either show up single or show up with a man.

men are allowed sin. men are allowed moral failing.

men are not allowed queerness.

and as much as eddie has been doing so much good work to unlearn that, the nasty, nails in your skin part of growing up latino are just as impossible to shed as the skin that covers your bones.

(also, yes, i did watch b99 and i remember that!)

[raguonmynieceandnephew]

I fucking love Shadowlands and I am tired of being silent

This is probably gonna be long. TL;DR at the end.

Look, Shadowlands is the second worst expansion this game has ever shipped, besides WoD. I know this is a WILD opening sentence for a defense argument, but I am a romantic, not fucking delusional. This is a fact. Point blank period. The content drought was absurd, the legendary system was completely fucked, the maw in general, the lore reduced Arthas and Garrosh quite literally to dust, The Jailer as the main villain and FUCKING THORGAST, the overall alt unfriendliness, borrowed power cranked to a million, and I have expressed how much of a fucking joke I think putting Pelagos as the new Arbriter was.

It was bad.

This has been stablished, not just by me, but by the entirety of the wow community.

But even though I agree, all these things made the game worse, I still enjoyed my experience, and I have a positive outlook on the expansion overall, which seems to be the greatest sin a World of Warcraft player can commit: I liked Shadowlands. I dare to say I liked it more than I did Dragonflight, if I think really hard about it.

You simply cannot say you liked Shadowlands in the any circle of the WoW community online, from what I have seen. I remember Kraken Latte put it in first place in a rank she made of all expansions and got shit on for days on twitter, with people failing to see what she saw in the game.

Now, I feel like I have pointlessly yapping till now, so without further ado, here are some of the Shadowlands features i like the most:

1 - THREADS OF FATE

I am a simple man, who likes to do 2 things in wow: Mythic+ and leveling. That is pretty much it. I don't PvP, I rarely raid and I occasionally indulge in RPing as a Tidesage on Moonguard. And let me tell you, this baby right here was lifechanging.

Threads of Fate is by far, the single best feature (before Warbands, lol) in my entire World of Warcraft experience. I loved it. I loved it dearly. I don't think I have ever had so much fun leveling 60-70 through Revendreth and Ardenweald with ToF. I still have the route I took memorized, it was SO good. So many bonus objectives back to back to back, world quests and that goddamn gorgeous blue forest had the FATTEST questing hubs in the game.

I was so excited to play this combined with Chromie Time, like IT WAS ON BETA, until it was ruthlessly taken away from me for no goddamn reason AT ALL. Like, what the actual fuck blizzard. Y'all don't understand how delightful it would have been to level like that in ardenweald in the mid thirty levels, right after clearing Loch Modan (or the Silverspine and Hillsbrad, for horde). I barely touched SL since it got removed.

BRING IT BACK BLIZZARD, I AM BEGGING YOU, JUST DO THIS ONE SOLID FOR ME.

2 - COVENANT CALLINGS

Speaking of features I thoroughly enjoyed that were pried from my hands, we have the best iteration of daily quests this game has ever had. They actually worked as good dailies that gave actual gold, was a good reliable source of reputation and was amazing for anima and cosmetics.

This + the recent nerfs to the Dragonracing WQs make me feel like blizzard doesn't like when players make their gold independently, like, jesus christ not all of us have time to be profession moguls.

3 - THE 4 ZONES

What inspired this post was the fact that SL raids are now on legacy loot (if you didn't know, now you do) and I had to go to Bastion to buy the weapons with the thingy that drops from Nathria and...look at this. Just look at this.

This place is one of the most beautiful things this game has to offer. Like, the entire zone is gorgeous byt seeing this for the first time since DF came out legit moved me bro, LOOK AT IT.

And while the covenants were kind of a shit show gameplay-wise, in EVERY SINGLE OTHER ASPECT, it was a 10/10 feature, argue with your mom. Aesthetics, themes, everything, simply gorgeous. Also, it got bonus points from me bcs i really do not like to use training dummies in current expansions because of the sheer amount of people blasting them at any given time, so each covenant having their own Dummy Room, was a ++++ for me.

4 - THE NECROLORDS OF MALDRAXXUS

The Necrolords were the best covenant, their campaign was the best and their characters were the best. Like, come on now.

Draka? Mother. Vashj? Mother. Emeni? Mother. Sin'dane? Mother Stradama? Grandmother. Like, are you kidding me? I know lore was one of the Weakest points of SL overall, but you are insane if you include anything involving these guys. Even the Korthia campaign was enjoyable when they had the spotlight. And I only listed the female characters lmao, don't forget The Primus, Krexus's meme death, the five houses, Morgraine, Grahmal, Marileth, like C'MON!

5 - THE DUNGEONS

Except for the Theater of Pain, and arguably the De Other Side (I personaly love it), Shadowlands has the best overall roster of dungeons in the entire game.

Sanguine Dephts is, in my opinion the second best dungeon in WoW, period, behind only Freehold, Tazavesh is the best Mega Dungeon they ever made. Mists is a banger, Plaguefall is a banger except for the tentacles, Halls of Atonement, Spires (controversial take, ik), Necrotic Wake is amazing, like, you can say whatever you want about SL, but you cannot talk shit about its dungeon design.

Except ToP.

Fuck ToP.

Now, it's getting late so imma speedrun the rest of the items:

6 - COSMETICS

SL changed the transmog game, and all cosmetics from it (all the mounts and sets from all sources) look phenomenal, and if you disagree you are simply lying to yourself.

7 - ZERETH MORTIS

The zone was good and had tons of stuff to do and collect, plus, the introduction to the Catalysts was a plus.

also, nothing will be funnier than Taelia fucking Fordragon being the talking quest bubble for WQs in THE REALM OF ULTRA DEATH

8 - RAIDS

CN: Vibes? Immaculate. SoD: Horrible systems, cool mechanics SoFO: Cool systems, mid mechanics overall a positive for me

9 - CHARACTERS

Already mentioned a lot of characters from Maldraxxus, here are my other faves: Lady Moonberry, the gay unicorm, Denathrius, Theothar, basically ever steward, The Accuser, Kael'thas, General Draven, Remornia and many more.

There are probably more reasons to list to justify my love for SL despite all the bad it has in it, but I simply do not have the mental fuel to keep going rn, i need sleep.

TL;DR: I like Shadowlands despite it being bad and would appreciate it if ppl didn't throw a fit everytime someone talks about it in any sort of positive light. I then listed Threads of Fate, Callings, the first 4 zones, dungeon design, the fuckton of collectibles, characters and the beginning of the shift in game philosophy as positive and valid reasons to be a SL enjoyer.

[delopsia]

You Problem | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 9,400   Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, Reader has the callsign ‘Weave.’ AFAB! Reader (who briefly wears a sundress for an outing), blowjobs, unprotected sex, food, grinding in public, "We can't keep our hands off of each other, so we'll see who breaks first, but oh would you look at that, we both broke!" trope. This is written as a stand-alone one-shot that just so happens to loosely continue the events of Better.

"Holy shit, your hands are cold!" 

But your wayward step backward, made in an effort to escape, only backfires because your shoulders hit the chest of your assailant. Those offending hands scurry up your belly, unwilling to let you wriggle too far from their vicious, icy attacks. All the while, the criminal himself chuckles into your ear, deep rumblings that ripple all the way down your sore spine. 

"Ts 'cause we were just outside, sweetie," Bob's teeth graze the shell of your ear, breath warming the cold-bitten skin there. Absently, your fist clenches the thin mattress in your bunk, anything to keep yourself from falling apart at the seams.

"No shit, Bobby," you'd debate on wriggling out of his grasp, but Bob's already made the decision for you. Forearms securing around your waist before you can bat an eye, anchoring you against him. The teeth tugging on your lobe rip any further words straight from your throat, such a simple thing that you've yet to grow used to.

Your heads snap up as heavy footsteps dance past the door, dangerously close. Not your crew; not a single pilot or flight officer on this ship has enough energy or reason to run like that. 

Safe, for now, and by God, that is more than enough reason for Bob to return to his earlier assault. Lips soft against your bruised neck as they work their way down, seeking your collarbone like a man starved. The fading marks that mottle your skin aren't from the crash alone; no, the worst of them come from Bob's devilish mouth and honey-sweet tongue. 

The mark at the base of your neck comes from a rendezvous in the showers, the poor skin used to muffle Bob's whimpered noises. You've been telling Natasha that this red mark on the side of your palm is from getting caught in the wreckage, but it's come from Bob's teeth. Bitten down on because you'd snuck up behind him and refused to quit jerking him off until he came all over your hand. There are fingerprints on your hips and a hickey on your thigh that you don't know how to explain yet. 

"We're gonna get caught one of these days," and as you say it, your ass bumps back against him, pressing against a hardness that you've become oh so familiar with as of late. 

He presses you forward, reducing the gap between you and the bunk you're so desperately clinging to, "what makes you think that?"

The argument formulated in your mouth is hindered by the wandering hand that's slipped beneath your bra, toying with an already hard nipple, sore from the unusual amount of attention it's received lately. "We haven't been able to keep our hands off each other since we got back!" 

Images flash before your eyes, memories you're not sure if you treasure or fear. 

Sex in a shack so old and decrepit that the medic ordered you both to get updates on your shots; you can't imagine what he'd say if he knew of the sins committed in there too. The discomfort of trudging through deep snow after you'd been dicked within an inch of your life, and the horror of realizing what was running down your leg while you were talking to Maverick following your rescue.

"I," kiss, "fail," kiss, "to see the problem here." Another kiss. 

Rolling your eyes, "That's because you're thinking with the wrong head." His hold is just loose enough for you to turn around, coming face to face with your beloved backseater. Even through the darkness that's blown up his pupils, those thin bands of baby blue still sparkle at the sight of you. "That pretty head of yours does remember what will happen if we get caught, right?"

Those expressive eyes falter as the thoughts flicker through his head, a sight you've seen a million times before, and yet, you will never grow tired of it. There's something warming in the way his eyelashes flutter and his nose wrinkles. 

He doesn't need to reiterate what will happen if you're busted; you'll never fly together again. Split up, never to be placed in the same unit again. Bad news, considering the latest push to keep your ragtag crew together following your recent string of unlikely success.

Licking your lips, you add to your statement, "We're gonna have to tell them sooner or later." 

"Let's give it a while," he breathes, voice nearly lost to the incessant hum of equipment overhead; aircraft carriers aren't exactly known for their peace and quiet. "Figure us out before we worry about any know-it-all Admirals."

Such a topic can't keep his hips from pressing forward, won't prevent his greedy hands from taking hold of you and drawing you impossibly close. Always needs you as near as possible, can never have enough. 

"I can work with that," understatement of the century; you can absolutely work with that "gives us some time to get 'hold of ourselves." 

Bob's eyebrows knit together. "Hm?"

"Don't give me that look," but your words only make it worse because now his head is cocking to the side, unruly hair flopping over, "you know what I mean."

There isn't a single thought behind those eyes. 

Reaching forward, you take his face into your hands, feeling the barely-there stubble scratch your hand as you squish his cheeks, "we can't even go twenty-four hours without jumping each-others bones, Bobby."

"Yes, we can?" His words come out distorted, unable to speak clearly, with you smooshing his cheeks. 

You're just wicked enough to lean up and steal a kiss from his unwittingly picked lips, "you'll crack and be begging to fuck me in an hour, sweet cheeks."

"You makin' bets now, baby?" Incredulous, his eyebrows rise up into his hairline. "Are you sure that's such a good idea?"

And just like that, you've gotten under his skin. "What? Scared you'll lose?"

That left eye twitches. "First one to crack loses?"

Nod. 

"You're on." And right as he says it, the door handle twists. 

If there is anything that can be worse than being shot out of the sky by a surface-to-air missile, it's being carted off to an emergency meeting the moment you're off the aircraft carrier. Because the Navy can't let you crash and be done with it the moment you're rescued. No, you absolutely must attend this safety meeting that goes over every bit of common sense knowledge that has ever existed.

The dread that's settled into your weary bones is so heavy that you can hardly drag yourself into this crowded auditorium. Body moving so slowly that even Bob manages to catch up to you, crutches and all. It'll be some time before he can go back to running laps around you, but his injured foot has already healed enough for him to bear some weight on it.

"Did they invite every aviator in the country?" You're saying it more to yourself than anything, Bob just happens to be within earshot. 

This auditorium is way too tiny for the number of people occupying it. Once perfectly organized fold-out chairs now lost to the sea of extra chairs, stashed anywhere they could possibly fit. Not a chair has been left unoccupied, even the ones reserved for the injured.

"Pretty sure they invited reserve on top of active duty," his crutch bumps into your heel as he speaks, but it's too gentle of a tap for it to be unintentional. 

Tilting your head, you catch him motioning toward an empty corner a few paces to your right, "care to stand with me?" 

 It wouldn't be too difficult for you to cross the room and join the others; you can clearly see Maverick and them gathered up by the emergency exit door, but you find yourself following Bob anyways. He settles into the corner itself, weight partially braced against the wall. As soon as he's settled, those crutches are coming out from under his arms, left to settle next to him. 

"Those still hurting you?" By the time you catch yourself, it's too late; your hand has already landed on his shoulder, rubbing affectionately. 

"A bit," but he doesn't address your offending hand; if anything, he seems to be leaning into it, "fortunately, I've found some distractions." There's a hint of pink on his cheeks as he smiles at you, growing even wider when you inevitably shake your head. This whole boyfriend thing is...something.

It's not long before you find yourself regretting following him into this spot because the next thing you know, another group floods in through the doors. All of whom cram themselves right into your little corner. So tall that even Bob can hardly see over them, practically caging you in. It's a wonder if they even saw you two wallflowers because one of them has no problem stepping backward, right onto your foot.

Bob's hand curls around your waist, drawing you away from the foot crusher, "c'mere, stand in front of me." 

Two steps to your right, and all of a sudden, your only problems are the warm chest that's pressed against your back and the warm breath fanning out against your neck. Better than getting your foot stepped on, but...

"Can you see anything?" You ask, leaning into him in order to be heard.

Lips ghost the shell of your ear, "Not a damn thing." 

So it seems you're doomed to listening only, with nothing but irritatingly broad shoulders to stare at for entertainment. Cyclone's voice drones on and on from the speakers, so dull and mundane that you find yourself fighting a yawn within the first ten minutes. Proper sleeping habits, fire exits, alerting the janitorial staff if you hear a smoke alarm indicate a low battery, blah blah blah. 

They couldn't have sent this presentation via email?

You could be doing better things with your time; everyone in this room could. There isn't a doubt in your mind that Cyclone has a Maverick that he could be chewing out right now. You could be getting dressed at the hotel and terrorizing Bob with your new sundress right now. Speaking of...

"Baby," his voice appears so suddenly that you nearly jump, "what are you doin'?"

Twitching your ass back again only earns a wayward hand on your hip, gripping tight but never quite making the move to stop you. He has no reason to; these guys all have their backs facing you. They don't even know you're here. Haven't the slightest clue that you're testing the waters, tentatively grinding your ass against your backseater.

"Whaddaya mean?" Relaxed as can be, you tilt your head to meet his eye. "I'm not doing anything."

His mouth opens. 

You press harder. 

The faintest hitch of breath slips through his defenses, ripped out of him so easily that you're tempted to see what else you can get. The hands-on your hips tighten, threatening to leave bruises in their wake, but they don't have the strength to stop you. It's almost easy, working him up until you can feel a familiar hardness against the curve of your ass. If you reach behind, you can probably map out the—

"Weave," one of his hands flies off your hip, clamping down on the small palm that's gliding against his clothed length, unintentionally squeezing himself. Teeth sink into his bottom lip, muffling the moan that's nearly escaped him. "Really tryin' to make me lose this, hm?"

In this position, there is absolutely no way he can retaliate. Can't reach beneath your shirt, can't attach his lips to your neck, hell, he can't even bury his face into your shoulder as you rub against him. The only thing he can do is tell you to stop, and yet that powerful little word never falls off his tongue. Hell, he doesn't even pry your hand from his cock, downright helpless as you trace him with a curious thumb. Following the curve of his plush head, then stroking down as far as you can comfortably reach. 

The breaths gracing your ear are becoming heavier, the only indication of how you're affecting him, "Sweetie..." daring teeth bite at the shell, "you're gettin' me, ah, all riled up for nothin'."

Not missing a beat, you lean your head forward, freeing yourself of those devilish nibbles, "that sounds like a you problem."

All at once, the room begins to move. Blurry faces shuffle out from their seats and hiding spaces, now free to congregate as they please. Meeting over. Your bodies part within an instant, back to putting up your usual fronts. 

Except, Bob's glasses have fogged up.

Giggling. "Can you even see?"

"Not a thing."

Truly, you doubt you would have agreed to this if Bob weren't involved. A big chunk of you longs for the comfort of your own bed, to relax in the serenity of your claw-foot bath, and not give a damn about anything during your break. If you had known getting shot down would reward you all with a three-week vacation, maybe you would have done it sooner. 

But Jake just had to suggest that you all stay until after Cyclone's official 'you finally got the position you've been chasing for half of your life' party. "Room for more group bonding," he'd said. None of you live even remotely close to Top Gun, which can only mean one thing. 

Staying in a hotel. 

Tacky carpet that's old enough to vote, impossibly fluffy pillows and sheets tucked so well that it's a struggle to get them out, a crisp view of the beach. You've got the full package; the only thing that could make this better is a certain blue-eyed fool. 

You wonder which of these sundresses would make his head spin the most.

There are only two options, but it's still such a hard choice. When you'd packed these, wooing your backseater hadn't been much of a priority, your only concern being comfortable during your special detachment. On one hand, you've got a tried-and-true favorite, lightweight with an open lace-up back. But the other dress is in your favorite color, and you've never gotten a chance to wear it. 

Hm. 

"Damn, Weave," you'd almost forgotten Natasha had snuck in, seeking your shower because hers isn't working, "who's the lucky fella who gave you those bruises?" 

Unruly, finger-shaped spots poke out from beneath your shorts. Shorts that you chose to wear exclusively to hide said bruises from view. 

"Some guy I met at the Hard Deck the other day," Your lie is fragile; you've only been off the aircraft carrier for three days, and these bruises are from last week. 

But she seems to buy it because she doesn't press any further. Instead, she's distracted by the garments lying on your bed. "You still having trouble?"

Humming, you place your hands on your hips. Those ornery bruises twinge beneath your touch, silently crying for attention that you refuse to give them.  "It's the dilemma of the century."

It takes some deliberating on her part, but ultimately, Natasha makes the decision for you, pointing toward her favorite of the two, "this one suits the restaurant better," she muses, toying with the hem, "casual but not too casual."

"All this thought, and half of the guys are going to be in graphic tees and khakis," your prime offender may or may not be your weapons systems officer. You're pretty sure that his biceps have outgrown most of those cheesy one-liner shirts. It's hard to tell if you're just happy the horrible shirts are gone or if you're selfishly thrilled that you've got something to drool over.

"It only serves to make us look better," her tone is nothing but positive, but the twitch in her eye tells you she's one pair of cut-off jeans away from homicide. "Roses amongst weeds."

In the hallway, you find that your unofficial crew has already gathered, leaning against the walls like a bunch of tacky decor. Ugh, you don't know what possessed Bob to wear that plain, tight-fitting black tee with his favorite blue jeans, but you hope this becomes a habitual outfit. His crutches are missing; it's difficult to tell if he's feeling better or just fed up with using them. 

As soon as his eyes lay upon you, those soft eyelashes start to flutter like the wings of a butterfly, "y'ready to go?"

And it almost distracts you from the catastrophe occurring around you, almost. It seems everyone else has raided Bradley's suitcase because they're wearing the tackiest Hawaiian shirts you've ever seen in your life. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.

Natasha's inevitable sigh is so loud that it echoes down the hallway, "Like I said, weeds."

If you paid attention, you're sure you'd be laughing at the inevitable confusion that comes from her open-ended words. If it's one thing Jake can't stand, it's not being privy to an inside joke. Once he starts asking questions, like a hive mind, the rest of them do. But you can't pay it the slightest bit of mind; no, you're too busy trying to avoid Robert Floyd's biceps.

Thick, unusually swollen from a recent workout, absolutely filling the thin material of those sleeves. To make matters worse, the veins in his forearms have decided to make a special appearance, the sight haunting you like a bad memory. You wonder what it would be like to trace them with your tongue—

"Earth to Weave."

You don't recall even stepping into the restaurant, but there's a plate of food sitting in front of you, completely untouched. "Huh?" 

Who was even trying to get your attention? The fashion catastrophe on your right is busy bickering about the football game playing on the television, and Natasha's too far away for you to have heard her in the first place. 

A hand squeezes your knee, "you still with me?"

An image flickers through the forefront of your mind, warm arms cuddling you into an equally cozy chest. The soft pitter-patter of a gradually slowing heartbeat beneath your ear as mindless fingertips draw shapes into your naked spine. Lips that tickle your scalp as they ask a simple, 'You still with me?'

"Sorry," blinking away the haze, you reach for your fork, "got a little lost in my thoughts there."

It's hard to figure out how you failed to notice Bob sitting right next to you, but there he is, expressionless as he watches you catch up to speed. He doesn't seem to be buying your excuse, but if he's got any staring accusations to make, he hasn't made them yet. "That's the first time I've heard you speak since the hotel," he says, but he doesn't phrase it like it's a bad thing. 

Knowing him, he probably hasn't spoken since then, either. 

"The appearance of the tacky Hawaiian flannels stunned me into silence," deadpanning. This time, it's your food that silences you, if only for a moment, "how is it that you're the only one not wearing one?"

Bob hums, idly chasing down a piece of ravioli that refuses to stay on his fork. "Dumb luck," eventually, he gives up and uses his index finger to scoot it onto the utensil. "Rooster was one shirt short, and I was the last to show up."

"You? Late?" Upping your dramatics, you place a hand across your heart, feigning shock. 

There's that eye roll you were hoping for, so annoyed that he can hardly roll them halfway before he gives up on it altogether, "t's ironic, comin' from you."

It takes a moment before you understand what he's referring to. Day one of schooling at the famous Top Gun; you'd gotten in by luck alone; one of the referrals they sent backed out, and you were runner-up for his slot. 

You still remember how cold your face felt when you stumbled into that classroom three minutes late and out of breath. How Fritz and Halo had exchanged looks when your instructor assigned you to a meek Robert Floyd, the only man in the room who couldn't find a pilot to partner up with. Even then, your first impression had been, 'He's cute.'

"I'll have you know," motioning toward him with the back end of your fork, "that I only ran to class because I heard there was a cute WSO in need of a pilot."

Mickey turns to glance over at you two. Your gaze rises to look at the television. Bob's drops to his plate. 

No funny business going on here.

The hand residing on your knee glides up, nudging beneath the hem of your dress. It's barely concealed by the table, but if anyone were to drop something and bend down to fetch it, they'll surely catch glimpse of that non-platonic wandering. Unsuspecting, Mickey's attention returns to his conversation; what about, you aren't sure.

Leaning over toward's Bob's ear, "What are you doing?" Voice barely a whisper, fearing that your voice may carry too far across the table. 

As if it has garnered a mind of its own, his hand rises even further, idly stroking the sensitive skin along your inner thighs. Up and down in slow, circular motions that have you fighting the urge to squirm. 

"'m not sure what you're talkin' 'bout," that upward pull of his lip tells you otherwise; he knows exactly what you're talking about. 

If he thinks you'll crack that easily, he's mistaken. 

But oh, your thighs have gotten so sensitive as of late. Bitten, marked, kissed, showered in so much affection that you fear they'll never be the same. Even the slightest of touches have your heart lurching, anticipating sensations that never come. The food you're shoveling into your mouth is a poor distraction, nothing can take your mind off the mouth-watering sensation of that hand stroking your inner thigh. 

Fingers nudge at the hem of your panties, not quite paying attention to the thin fabric, but close enough where he can easily slip beneath the hem at any time he pleases.

"So, Weave, after that near-death experience," at Jake's voice, you lift your head to look his way, "have you finally changed your mind on sharing the origins of your callsign?" 

The entire table seems to lean closer, anticipating your verdict. On their own, your eyes flicker over to Bob. He's already looking at you, chewing on his bottom lip. The whites of his eyes are so visible that you almost miss those soft blue irises.

"Not a chance," you find yourself saying after a moment whilst you reach for your drink, "you'll just have to make up your own origin story."

Just like that, the room deflates. Shoulders fall, disappointed sighs piercing the calm restaurant air. 

You've just wrapped your lips around the straw when you feel calloused fingertips delve into your panties. They're quick, wasting no time as an index finger strokes between your folds, seeking a certain little button that he knows better than the buttons in those fighter jets.

Gingerly placing your cup down, you lean over, "This is how you thank me for not embarrassing your ass?"

He finds it, and you jolt in your seat. 

Asshole.

Reaching between your legs, you take hold of his hand and pry it out from where it's been terrorizing you. You'll pretend that you don't see the glistening of something wet on his fingers. Before he can ask what you're doing, you stand and head for the restrooms. 

You'll give it maybe five minutes before he comes looking for you.

Only one side is open, as the other restroom door is marked with a simple 'Restroom Closed, please use the other one' sign. Fortunately, the open bathroom is the one you were heading for anyway. Inside are six unnervingly large stalls with the floor to ceiling doors that don't allow anyone to peek through the gaps. A sight that would usually be a pleasant surprise, but you're only here so that you can stare at yourself in the mirror. 

You'd thought for sure that your reflection would bear an indication of what you were just up to, but absolutely nothing looks out of place. Even as you twist and turn, you find not a single indicator of your crimes. Except for, say, your slightly displaced panties. 

"Leave it to Bob to be harboring a secret voyeurism kink," you grumble to yourself, reaching down to fix them. 

Heavy footsteps echo off the tiled walls, and as you lift your head, you meet eyes with the culprit himself.

"I-I'm sorry," he stutters, cheeks a shade of cheery pink as he toys with the hem of his jeans. "I shouldn't have done that in public—" 

He's still apologizing, but you can hardly hear it. There's a tent in his jeans, one that wasn't there before, and it's all you can look at. That cute mouth of his snaps shut the moment you step forward, grunting his surprise when you take him by the forearm and drag him toward the nearest stall. "W-Weave?"

"Before you ask," slamming the door shut behind you, "this game only applied to sex." You don't know what's come over you. All you know is that your knees are hitting the cold, hard ground, and your hands are busy popping that little silver button open.

Bob whines, pawing at your head, "What are you—here?"

You've barely even run your palm up against his boxers, and his head is hitting the wall with a painful thunk. A selfish part of you hopes he'll always be this sensitive, squirming from the barely-there contact as you reach inside, searching for him. 

"That wasn't a problem a few minutes ago," and it's still not a problem. The real problem lies in the fact that he's not in your damn mouth yet. 

His cock twitches the moment your palm wraps around him, heavy in your grasp as you draw him out of his confines. You've only had the chance to do this once before, unfamiliar with this position but eager to memorize it like you've memorized your fighter jets. Above you, Bob's frozen, completely still as you tentatively run your thumb beneath his flushed head.

"What?" Poking your tongue out, you flick your tongue along his slit. Oh, how he jumps at that. "Not so bold now, are ya?"

Weakly, Bob shakes his head no, "Weave."

"Stay quiet for me, pretty boy, or I might tell Hangman exactly how we got our callsigns," pausing after your threat, allowing yourself the pleasure of rolling your tongue around his cockhead, round and round, leaving him shimmering in the light. 

You remember it like it was yesterday. A surprise night of drinking at the Hard Deck that got a little out of hand, how Bob had stumbled toward you and affectionately deemed you the 'Bob to his Weave' before planting a big ol' kiss on your cheek. Cyclone had been the one to discover you, and despite his best efforts, not a soul could pry the whimpery, cuddle-starved Robert Floyd from your side.

All these years later, he whines the exact same way. Only this time, it's because you're wrapping your lips around his sensitive tip.

"You...you wouldn't" At his words, you come to a screeching halt, allowing your teeth gently remind him that they're there. A soft, featherlight sensation that only serves to make him nervous, mouth gaping like a fish. "okay... maybe you would."

That's better. 

It's too easy to fall back into what you were doing. Lapping at the underside of him as his hips writhe against the wall, you've got no choice but to suck on him just to keep his cock from popping out of your mouth completely.  

"Baby," he gasps, voice so small that you barely notice it, "Baby."

Breathing in through your nose, you sink further down, seeking your comfortable limit. Inch by squirming inch until he gently nudges at the back of your throat. There's already an ache in your jaw as you draw back, swiping your tongue back and forth along a rare vein, such a simple thing that has him twitching. 

Footsteps echo just outside the bathroom door. A stall door slams shut.

You're not stopping; instead, you only move quicker, eager to find a comfortable rhythm. Bob's hands fly up, audibly clamping over his mouth, and it's the only thing that can muffle that soft whimper of your name as you draw back to swirl your tongue around his tip. The slick sound seems so loud in this quiet little bathroom, bouncing off the walls, eager for someone to hear it, for someone to know what you're doing to your backseater.

Bob's cheeks have turned pink, the color spreading along his pale neck as you abuse this soft tip with your tongue. But it's not enough. You want, no, need to see his face turn bright fucking red. 

With a heavy breath through your nose, you push your head forward, relaxing your throat the best you can as you take him a little further than before. The soft back of your throat only manages to kiss him before you're drawing back, fighting your gag reflex as you listen to the sudden bursts of breath that puncture the air. Breaths that can barely conceal the keening high in his throat. 

Your voice is going to be wrecked by the end of this, but you need to hear that again. 

It's easier to drop your head back down and fight the unpleasant reflexes when you know you're going to hear that. Sharp puffs of breath that rattle through your skull with every motion of your head, the poorly muffled whines that you'll never hear enough of. 

You don't recall hearing a toilet flush or water running, but those feet carry themselves back out of the bathroom, disappearing into the restaurant from whence they came. 

"'m close," he rasps, an octave deeper than it was before, "sweetie, ah, what about the game?"

Drawing all the way back, his leaking tip resting on your swollen lips, you give yourself a half second to think. "Fuck the pact," your voice cracks midway, but you can hardly pay it any mind as you take him in once more. 

And then there are the footsteps again, flip flops smacking against the tile, but this time, your name echoes through the bathroom. "You in here?" 

Natasha.

All you can see are the whites of Bob's eyes when you make eye contact. Carefully, you draw back, taking over with your dominant hand, "yeah?" 

"Are you alright?" Her footsteps grow dangerously close to the door, but your hand just keeps working Bob's weeping cock, too amused by his squirming to stop. "You've been gone for longer than usual."

"Something made me sick," God, you hope she doesn't hear how hoarse your voice sounds right now, "I'll be out in a few."

Rolling your tongue out like a damn welcome mat, you place him against your tongue, peering up at your beloved systems officer from beneath hooded lashes. He's twitching under your hold, barely able to make eye contact with you before he has to squeeze his own eyes shut. 

The poor thing is the color of a fire truck.

"You wouldn't know where Bob went by any chance, would you?" She's right on the other side of the door. Maybe three feet away at best. 

"He might have stepped outside," humming like you're in thought, "We did get lunch together; if that's what's making me sick, then he might not be feeling too hot either."

Bob's hands come down just long enough for him to mouth one word, 'Close.'

Natasha hesitates for a moment, and then, "Gross. Alright, I'll see you when you come out then." 

Your hand pumps once, twice, and before you can get a third stroke in, Bob's head cracks against the wall. A thick rope of pearly white hits your tongue and cheek; you've barely managed to get your eyes shut before a second splashes against your left eye. Hot, salty as it pools on your ill-prepared tongue. 

"'m sorry," he pants, drawing away from your mouth, "hold on, you don't have to—"

But it's too late; you've already bitten the bullet and swallowed it down. You wish you could see his reaction because his surprised gasp is everything you could have ever hoped for. 

"Please just hurry up and get your cum off my face," you croak, throat suddenly sore from all of the abuse it's received, "before they send Jake to come looking for us too."

Huffing, Bob audibly fumbles with a toilet paper roll, "I don't know how I'm gonna explain this one away, darlin'."

"That sounds like a you problem."

"And here y'all thought my movie suggestion was bizarre."

You're trying to convince yourself that your shiver is from the chilly night air, but it's hard to perpetuate such a lie when that movie is still flashing through your mind. "In hindsight, a Western was absolutely a better choice." 

This dress was cute, but as you wrap your arms around yourself, you can't help but wish you'd chosen something warmer. You probably would have, too, if this addition to your outing hadn't been made the moment you left the restaurant.

"As opposed to...eels?" Bob's shoulder bumps into yours, a nudge that's not as subtle as he'd like it to be. You're not sure why he's asking you to turn left and head down the sidewalk, but you're in no mood to argue.

"In my defense," your jaw tremors as you speak, and you're not quite sure if it was the movie or if it's the cold that's causing it, "I was never informed of the eels."

"At least it wasn't a movie that has us checking to make sure nothing is following us?" At his own words, Bob tilts his head to peer over his shoulder, grinning pridefully when you giggle. 

There's nobody on this side of the theater parking lot, not even a car; you can see your hotel sign from here, maybe a couple of blocks down the street at most. It would be so easy to just keep walking and snuggle up in your bed, but you did make a promise to wait on everyone else.

...but how upset would they really be if you took your sleepy-eyed self and left anyway? Something about that theater has made your nose feel stuffy, invisible hands have filled your feet with lead, and you can already feel the distant twinges of a headache. 

"C'mere," Bob murmurs, opening up his arms for you, "'ts not like they're here to see us."

For a moment, it's the best thing that could have ever happened to you. He looks so warm, you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and yet... "We shouldn't," tightening your arms around yourself, "we've been pushing out luck as it is, Bobby."

"Sweetie, as respectfully as I can say it, you look rode hard and put up wet," and he says it so nicely that you can't tell what the hell he means by that, long-lost Texan drawl remerging, "At least let me warm you up." 

Curse him and that goddamn accent.

It's hard to tell who steps forward first, but the next thing you know, you're burying your cold nose into his shirt as warm arms come up to secure you to his carefully sculpted chest. It's not fair; why does he get to be such a furnace while you're left to shiver to high heaven?

"Such a cold little thing." The icy ridges of his glasses tickle your skin as he punctuates his words with kisses, pressed anywhere and everywhere he can get them. 

"Bobby—" lips against your own interfere with your argument, dizzying you with the artificial sweetness that he still carries on his breath. He always has been a sucker for movie theater candies, and you have to pry yourself away to keep from being sucked in, too, "what am I supposed to say if someone sees us, huh?"

For a second, you think he's considering it, but then. "That sounds like a you problem, darlin'."

You suppose it's your own damn fault for teaching him that. 

In theory, getting caught would be a problem for both of you, but it's so, so hard to argue when those big hands rise to cradle your cold cheeks. Such a simple touch, and yet, all of a sudden, you're back in that abandoned shack again. Tremoring as you huddle up in your hiding place, silently praying nobody comes across you as you resist the urge to lean in and...

You shouldn't.

But oh, how you want to.

Internally, you're telling yourself that just one kiss couldn't hurt, but then his soft lips are molding to fit with yours, and your resolve is melting like snow on a summer's day. Barely there, stubble scratches your palms as they curl around his cheeks, such a faint feeling that fills your head with cotton. 

It's barely been three weeks since the first time you felt these lips tangle with yours, and yet, kissing him feels familiar. The sensation of his delicate bottom lip between your teeth is something you've known for decades, fitting together so seamlessly that it feels like an art all of its own. This unspoken dance that has simultaneously been practiced for three weeks and three centuries.

On their own, your arms are sliding around his shoulders, one hand rising to tangle in short strands. It's the only thing that can keep you from floating away when he greedily leans into you; those sugary lips have become addicted, need to kiss every inch of you until he knows you better than he knows himself. 

The last thing you want to hear is doors squealing open, familiar voices shattering the fragile silence of the night. 

There's an ache that settles in your chest when you step away, the melancholy song of a heart that wants something it can't have. A heart that soars at the idea of telling the world who it belongs to but shatters into irreparable pieces when it remembers that not-so-perfect career you've worked so hard for. 

"And here I thought you two had gone off without us," and as Jake unknowingly stumbles onto the scene of the crime, you quietly come to accept your fate.

It's going to be a long time before you get to so much as hold Robert Floyd's hand in public.

Your phone is buzzing.

You're so, so close to sleep. Eyes shut, mere seconds away from being wrapped up in the bliss that is sweet, sweet unconsciousness. A little bit longer, and you'll be mindlessly buzzing through a dream, not a worry or care in the world.

But now that you've identified the vibration patterns, easily recognized for an incoming text message, your curiosity refuses to let you drift off. Eyes still closed, you reach out, patting along the empty side of the bed until your fingers find the cold screen of your phone. 

Fuck, why is your brightness setting all the way fucking up?

As your blurry vision focuses on the screen, the last name you expect to see staring back at you is Bobby's. Your sweet morning bird, with an inability to stay awake past midnight, texting you at one in the morning?

'Did you know...'

'That if you sleep next to someone at night...'

You have to reread the messages twice to even comprehend what he's trying to say here. A third message slides across your screen.

'The monsters can't get you?'

If you weren't on the brink of sleep, you'd roll your eyes. Instead, your thumbs dance across the screen, tapping lettered keys that you can hardly even see, to begin with. You hope your reply makes as much sense as it does in your head.

'Quit beating around the bush and come over already.'

It feels like you blink, and then there's a knock on the door, three soft taps that barely reach your ears. In hindsight, maybe you should have given Bob your spare key because dragging yourself out of bed is comparable to moving a mountain. Heavy feet padding across the thin carpet, you reach for the door handle and turn.

There he is.

Hair tussled, a shirt two sizes too big for him hanging low on his collarbones, a small, round stuffed animal clutched in his left hand. His smile is lopsided, barely there, and yet it still manages to make your heart flutter.

"Did you really carry your Squishmallow with you?" There's a roughness to your voice that kills your attempt at teasing him; it sounds like you've been gargling rocks all night.

"I'll have you know," he yawns, bringing the plush up to his chest, "his name is Stevon."

You will forever take pride in knowing that you were the one to surprise him with Stevon. You'd ignored all the perfect Stevons in favor of the one with a ripped ear because Bob's notorious for picking damaged items over unharmed ones. They've been best friends ever since you snuck the squish into his driver's seat.

It's hard to miss the bright-white bandages adorning Bob's ankle as he steps past you; he's minding it a little bit, not quite placing his full weight on it. 

"Were the monsters scaring you two?" You're already halfway back into your bed, practically falling into the mattress.

"If by monsters you mean Mickey Garcia, then yes," for a moment, Bob idles at the end of your bed, staring like he's unsure of what to do all of a sudden. You have to pat the empty side of the bed in order to get him moving again, "he fell asleep with another Marvel movie blarin' again."

Leave it to the light sleeper to share a wall with the one guy who can't seem to keep his television beneath max volume. 

The edge of the bed dips as he settles in, propping the spare pillow up against the headboard in favor of placing his head on Stevon. Getting him to admit it is like pulling teeth, but he only ever uses Stevon as a pillow when his neck is hurting him. Your hand feels unusually heavy as you reach out, curling around his nape. 

An arm snakes out, curling around your back and dragging you closer, seemingly without any effort at all. You'd complain if you weren't already considering squirming closer, noses mere inches apart, knees knocking together as you situate yourselves. 

"You're not worried that someone's going to come looking for you?" You're fighting a yawn, one that seems to bounce off you and right into Bob because he starts yawning too.

"I'll come up with somethin' to tell 'em," because his lie from earlier in the day definitely went over well. You're still figuring out how he managed to walk in through the front door after you'd just left him in the bathroom. "ain't none their business anyway."

There's that drawl again, gradually becoming thicker the more he speaks. Only ever seems to come about when he's sleepy, lacing around his words like an intoxicating spell. It's both a blessing and a curse that the accent faded during his late teens.

"You could pull another magic trick like you did earlier," the tip of his nose is cold as you press your lips to it, some chaste peck that you don't recall deciding to give him. 

And just because you've given him one, Bob's got to lean over and give your nose a kiss, too, "there ain't no backdoor that I can sneak out of," the corner of his lip quirks upward, "and I can't exactly hop out a third story window."

"To be fair, you've survived a plane crash," your hand rises up from his neck, smoothing over his now soft cheek, stubble once again carefully shaved away, "what's another little fall gonna hurt?"

"Alright," you already know what he's about to say, "but you'll have to carry me around when I inevitably break my legs."

"In your dreams, hot shot," and then you're rolling over before that dumb, sideways grin starts making you do things you shouldn't. 

The last thing you expect is to hear a heart-stopping gasp, the arm around your waist tightening, refusing to let you move any more than you already have. 

"Bobby?" 

Hot breath fans out against your neck, "hm?" Unusually strained. What is he...

oh.

You hadn't felt it until he twitched; your bodies crammed so close together that you unintentionally pressed your ass into his groin when you rolled over. Such a crime hadn't been on your mind until now.

However...

There's that inhale again, so sharp that it cuts through the air like a knife. "Sweetie." It's a warning, but it's also the weakest one you've ever heard. Had might as well be a suggestion because your wriggling doesn't stop. If anything, it only grows worse. Until his hand flies up and takes hold of your hip, gripping so tightly that you can hardly move. "Don't reckon you wanna start that again." 

Fighting his grip, you tilt your head back to look at him, "but maybe I do." By the time the last syllable comes out of your mouth, he's already let go of your hip, opting instead to nudge two of his fingers against your lips.

Interesting development, but you'll take it. 

As you welcome them into your mouth, eager tongue stroking up between them, he presses kisses into your neck. Soft, by the time you register one kiss, he's already moved, tickling your sensitive skin. His thigh wedges between yours, so close to where you want to feel him, but you can't quite grind on it in this position. 

"That's good, baby," he praises, pulling his hand away right as you find a comfortable rhythm. It disappears beneath the comforter once more, and the next thing you know, the waistband of your panties is tightening as his hand dives inside. 

Two wet fingers slip between your folds, intending to go elsewhere, but they take a detour at your clit. Gently rolling the little pearl between his fingertips, teasing it until it begins to swell, and then they're gone again, dipping even lower. 

"You're—hah!" It's only been a few days since the last time you felt his fingers in you, but damn, have you already forgotten what it's like to feel one of them delve inside without warning. "You're moving pretty fast, for once."

Teeth appear on the shell of your ear, ready to litter it with little marks once more, "says the one who's as wet as the Pacific." 

Even so, that first finger remains alone, testing the waters as it gently pumps in and out of you. Allows you that crucial time to adjust to the thick digit; his hands are so large that even one finger could be enough if he really tried. But you want more.

"More" is the best you can get out of your mouth. It draws out of you completely, "Bobby."

Then it's back, accompanied by a second, slowly working their way into your squirming cunt as he shushes you, "'ve got you, darlin', I promise."

They curl, stroking along your gummy walls with each gentle motion, searching lazily. 

You don't know what to do with your hands, searching for purchase that you can't seem to find. The comforter is too thin, sheets are too tightly bound to the bed for you to get a handful. His index strokes over a familiar little spot, and both of your hands are diving down, grabbing hold of his wrist. 

"There it is," he coos into your shoulderblade; he's smiling, and you can hear it, "is that the spot, baby?"

Rhetorical question. He knows that's the spot because he's fucking stroking it over and over and over. The side of his thumb presses against your clit, rhythmically rubbing against it in tune with his motions. You can hardly muffle yourself with the pillow, hips squirming, torn between leaning into it and wriggling away from his touch. 

"Bobby," mewling, "Bobby."

"Y'want more, sweetheart?" At his words, you nod, but then he hums, like he's not quite sure of your answer, "Use your words for me."

How the hell are you meant to use your words when the only thing floating through your mind is his name? A soft wet sound comes from between your legs, slick noises brought on by his devilishly talented fingers that sound so, so loud in this quiet little hotel room. 

"More," you don't recognize the voice that comes out of you, a few octaves higher than your normal tone, "please." 

His hand is gone.

The only indication that he hasn't evaporated into thin air is the gentle tug at your panties, urging them down your legs. You've only got enough energy to get one leg out, letting them pool around your other ankle. 

"Still got lube in your backpack?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. 

More words. God, what's the word you're looking for? "Yeah."

You'd much rather him hurry up and get in you already, but you can't bring yourself to be annoyed by the sentiment. He hasn't quite been the same ever since that time you snuck off into the fan room together; you hadn't been wet enough, but you'd both gotten so wrapped up in each other that you didn't notice until you suddenly yelped. 

A piece of his soul may still be in that fan room, actually. 

It takes him hardly any time at all, gone and back before you know it, the bed dipping as he audibly slicks himself up. On your own accord, you begin to roll over, but he's pushing you back into your former position.

"Stay like this for me, yeah?" Well, if he insists.

Forever passes before you feel the soft kiss of his cockhead between your legs, doing nothing more than push against you. You can feel yourself flutter against his tip, the pressure is there, but it's not enough to give you what you want. Not yet. 

Tilting your head back to look at him, "What are you—"

As soon as your eyes meet, his hips twitch forward, finally, finally, pushing inside. Something tells you he wanted to see your reaction, but you'll have to save your question for later because the delicious pressure between your legs is growing. Soft walls gradually split wide open as he eases into you, inch by dizzying inch.

"I don't know how," his voice is already strained, and he's still less than halfway, "you managed to convince me that holdin' out was a good idea."

Lungs burning, you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, silencing your mewls. You don't know how you even convinced yourself to go through with it. It feels like it's been forever since the last time you felt yourself flutter around his cock on that first inward push. A lifetime has passed since the last time he bottomed out and effectively punched the breath from your lungs.

"Move," you've barely had any time to adjust, but you don't care. God, you need more.

But he's taking hold of your leg, guiding it back until your knee is draped over his thigh. It feels strange, but as he slowly draws back, you can't say you hate it. Especially not when he pushes back in and grazes a certain little spot that sends you writhing.

Too quickly, he's finding his favorite rhythm, deep, short strokes that make you take every single inch of his cock. The underside of his length dragging deliciously against your quivering walls, angle altering on every inward stroke in search of a certain little something. 

"Bobby!" Different colors speckle across your vision as he finds it again. Once he knows where that sensitive little spot is, he's driving into it every time. 

"Fuck," he grunts, pulling your hips back to meet his next thrust, downright knocks your whimper right out of your mouth, "been missin' this lil' pussy of yours." 

The cheap mattress beneath you squeaks with the movement, quiet noises that you fear will reach the ears of whoever is sharing a wall with you. You need to slow Bob down before the both of you disturb whomever that is because you know it's one of your coworkers, but all you can do is brace yourself against the mattress and push back into him.

An odd little noise dances through the air, barely loud enough to be heard over the noises coming from your own mouth. 

"What are you laughing for?" You whine, trying and failing to look back at his sweaty face. Those thrusts are getting harder; if it weren't for the hand on your hip, you're sure he'd be pushing you across the mattress. 

"Just realized," his hand dips down between your legs, index finger seeking out your neglected clit once more, "this is the first time I've gotten to fuck you on an actual mattress." 

You'd reach back and smack him if it weren't for the sudden, short little spirals of his wicked finger. Rubbing you in tune with his thrusts, leaving you with no option but to bury your face into the pillow and take it. A shiver builds itself up in your muscles, too much all at once, but it's not enough. Still not fucking enough. 

"Is that good?" God, he and his dick are going to be the death of you, "hm?"

The best you can offer him is a soft 'uhuh' as you paw at his wrist, thighs tremoring as you spasm around his thick cock. You're crumbling like a house of cards, head spinning like a top. Goosebumps dance across your skin, a wildfire rushing through your veins. 

"Want me to cum in you again?" Bob just about growls as he speaks, and it's all you can do to reach up and cover your own mouth. You've never heard his voice drop so deep. "Pump your pussy nice 'n full until y'can't take another drop of me?" 

His cock is starting to twitch, sharp little spasms that only serve to make you writhe even more. Muscles winding tighter and tighter, cunt clenching down around him while the nerves between your legs spark with invisible flames. Fuck, fuck, fuck you're close. 

"Come on, Weave, cum on my cock for me." 

Your heart just about stops. 

You can hardly recognize the noise that's strangled out of you, cunt convulsing around his slowing cock. Shockwaves ripple up your spine, shaking down every bone in your body as your eyes roll back. There's a familiar heat filling you, Bob's fat cock throbbing as thick ropes of cum paint your pretty insides white. It's the only sensation that keeps you grounded, from floating out the window and disappearing into the stars above your heads. 

There's an ache in your hip as he slides out from behind you, simultaneously returning your leg to the mattress. As you pant to catch your breath, you've got a sneaking suspicion that you'll be waddling tomorrow. 

"Better?" Bob breathes, hand rising up to draw circles into your lower belly.

"Better," but there's a new problem between your legs, leaking out onto your thighs, threatening to get onto the only set of sheets you've got in this room. "But now I'm sort of...leaking."

You shouldn't have said that. He's going to say it, he's going to—

"That sounds like a you problem, sweetie." 

You've got just enough strength to seize one of the many pillows and thwack him in the face with it. "We wouldn't be in this situation if someone didn't cum so damn much!"

A laugh saunters through the air while a big pair of arms slide beneath you, one around your shoulders, the other under your knees, lifting you from the bed as if you weigh nothing. "Maybe it's a mutual problem, then." 

And it's definitely a mutual problem when you find yourself waddling out of the hotel cafeteria, chewing on a stale bagel as Reuben idly complains about the mice he heard squeaking at around one in the morning. But as Bob's smiling eyes meet with yours, you know that Reuben's going to be complaining about the alleged mice for many, many more nights.

[heartfulselkie]

selkie i saw wafaa rambling about you in the tags of this ask game a while ago so on her behalf i'm here to ask you: director's commentary on every word in citrus & lavender. 🙏🙏🙏 (pick your favorite scene if you must)

[Ask Game]

Every....every word??

That's...uh... that's a lot of words

I'm afraid I'll have to go with a single scene, otherwise we'll be here forever! So I'll choose one of the scenes that made me want to write this fic in the first place...

It was still snowing. He didn’t know the last time it had snowed this much in Paris. A single set of footprints, marked with a trail of blood, were quickly covered in fresh white as he continued onwards. He could barely walk anymore. Either the cold was too deep in his bones or the blood loss was too great. But he kept going. Dragging one heavy, stumbling step in front of the other. His breathing was harsh and laboured as his body struggled to support itself. But even as he endeavoured to keep himself upright, he didn’t dare drop what was in his arms. Who was in his arms. He held her close to his chest, offering what little warmth and protection he had left in him. Her spots were long gone, leaving an ordinary girl in his hold. He hadn’t looked though. Not once. He hid her not only from the world and any potential pursuer, but also himself. He wouldn’t take that from her. So he stared out in front of him as he continued forward into the dark. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other...

Citrus and Lavender, Ch. 33

This scene was something I had in my mind for a long time before even starting the fic. It went through many shifts and changes before resulting in the version that made it into the fic - one of the scrapped versions resulted in a half-reveal!

This is Adrien's lowest point in the story - and its a point he'll linger in for a while. He's just committed the gravest sin according to his upbringing by going against Gabriel's demands and trying to create his own path.

Adrien wanted to find an option that would help everyone, but unfortunately it results in helping no one. It's a bitter lesson, but it will take some more time for him to realise what the true lesson in it is - that no matter what he does, his parents can't be helped when they are set on their own destruction.

At this point though, Adrien can only see his own destruction and that damage he has caused (in his eyes). He's betrayed everyone - his mother because he fails to follow through on what he promised - his father because he can't play the dutiful son and follow Gabriel's lead - and Ladybug by not being the partner he was supposed to be.

Of course these things aren't actually Adrien's fault. The choices he made weren't really ever choices, but an act of survival while living in an abusive household. But he will still take the blame and punishment on behalf of everyone because that is what he has been taught is right. For him, loving someone means accepting their punishment (regardless if he's the one who is actually in the wrong).

So Adrien accepts the punishment Gabriel would have enacted on Ladybug. He loves her and so choses to save and protect her from that fate. He lets himself go further into that cold dark, holding her and carrying her so that she can have a chance to rise above it and escape that fate.

Because Adrien isn't the one who can change anything - he tried and it backfired in the worst way possible. Ladybug is the one who can bring about change - something he knows so well because he witnessed her himself as she went from that uncertain, clumsy girl on that first day, to the confident and resilient girl who took on the role thrust upon her to protect Paris.

So between the two of them, there's no question in Adrien's mind which one of them should end here. So he gives her what little he has left in him - his steps forward, his warmth, his endurance - because that is all he can give. Even though it is woefully lacking in value in his eyes, sacrificing his life is the only act of love he can finally make for her without it being taken back or warped beyond his control.

[zeep-xanflorp]

rambling about the rick-unity-wong talk bc i'm upset about it

r: look, it's clear you weren't lying when you said you could've taken over earth because your finger just took over america. i need you to help me fix that.

u: oh, it took that to make you believe me?

r: why should i believe you? you show up unannounced and hijack a state.

u: i called you! multiple times! you ghosted me.

so there are two ways i think you can read rick not believing unity. one is that he believed it was trying anything to stay in proximity to rick even though he was asserting boundaries, or two, he did actually believe it but wanted to deal with the situation on his own or just wanted it gone. either way, he didn't want to be around it.

then there's the part about rick ghosting it. like okay yes. unity tried giving rick a heads up but the fact is that it knew rick wasn't answering its calls. it Knew rick wouldn't know it was there unless it made a big deal about it being there and that's what it did. it literally showed up without permission and assimilated a whole state on rick's home planet, in rick's country. just to get his attention.

w: rick, is that true?

r: she dumped me. why would i answer her calls?

and now we get a blatant explanation for why rick was ignoring unity. i imagine it would've been clear enough anyway without this explanation but rick is still upset from being broken up with. so he decided to ghost it with no explanation, cutting it off entirely.

w: alright, i'm going to commit a cardinal sin in couples therapy here, but rick, i think you're wrong. [..] you had an outer-space lady who was worried for your life and your response was hostile enough to cause a huge problem.

u: thank you.

w: now you're asking her to both forgive you and solve it?

now, the mistake wong makes here is assuming she knows the full story. obviously she's smart and i think she gave her best analysis based on what she knows of the situation, but in her ignorance she fails to listen to rick, her patient.

the whole theme of this episode is rick asserting his boundaries. he doesn't want to see unity because last time he did it ended catastrophically for him. he's not ignoring it out of pettiness but as a defence mechanism. a coping strategy. and when it decided to follow through with its plan of coming to america anyway, destroying the boundaries rick had in place, it made him lash out.

rick also has a tendency to self sabotage when things are going well for him, whether he realises it or not. he abuses morty when they get too close. he made unity party with him instead of doing its duties. his actions push people away, keeping them at arms length.

i believe his boundaries are in place to prevent these episodes of self sabotage. so when they get ignored and discarded, he goes back into that mindset.

and wong, who would be aware of this at least vaguely, blames unity's actions on rick ignoring it which is not fair in the slightest imo.

w: unity, i think the reason rick brought me here is that he doesn't know how to indicate to you he's changed. because he's changing very slowly. but he is.

now this is something i had trouble understanding bc i am a shameful rick apologist at the best of times and couldn't remember what he actually did wrong. his crime in this instance was when he was distracting unity from its work, influencing it to drink and party all the time and avoid its responsibilities. this became too much for it, especially when it saw how rick used the same methods to detach himself from his family.

so it broke up with him, leaving him to spiral into the worst mental state we as the audience have personally seen him in in present day - his suicide attempt. unity doesn't know about that, and i'm guessing wong doesn't either, because all rick needed to say to wong was that their breakup ended horribly for him so being around it is difficult for him and maybe she would've understood more. but no that's too much vulnerability for old man sanchez.

rick has changed since then. i imagine he better understands why unity left him. i also think he knows that it wants the best for him but struggles with accepting that. that's what led to this mess of a situation.

he feels hurt from being abandoned. it feels hurt that rick couldn't understand why it left. and all of this culminated in a messy situation where unity acted drastically to get rick's attention, and rick in his stubbornness and pain refused to accept it.

and so. i think wong spoke too quickly. i think she definitely knows rick's patterns and is right to call him out but made an unfair judgement on only him because even she expects the worst from him. he is changing, but she is encouraging unity not to give him a second chance because he's not there yet. when really that decision should be up to unity.

even though it does take agency at the end. after unity releases america from its hold, we get this absolutely heartbreaking scene between it and rick.

r: i trust you now.

u: that's nice. but i don't trust you.

unity turns rick's lack of trust in it back at him, and it's telling the truth. it feels betrayed by rick's actions in this episode because it only wanted to make sure rick was alright. to it, rick seems to be punishing unity for caring about him.

anyway in conclusion. rick is mentally ill, wong was a little too harsh on him in this episode bc it's a complex situation, and unity will act drastically if it can't get rick's attention. it's unfair to blame it all on rick in this case (even though things are normally his fault) bc while he did act immaturely in response, he wasn't the only one that escalated the conflict so drastically.

this is not a refined analysis. i might fix it later but no promises.

[myclutteredbookshelf]

I've been inspired by @ofliterarynature to ask Bookblr for help with unhauling some of my TBRs. If you reblog this poll, feel free to explain your choice. I'd even be happy to hear your reasoning for why I shouldn't toss a certain book, as it might encourage me to get around to reading it.

I've copied the book blurbs below the cut for your consideration.

Ink by Alice Broadway

From the second you're born, every achievement, every failing, every significant moment are all immortalized on your skin. There are honorable marks that let people know you're trustworthy. And shameful tattoos that announce you as a traitor. After her father dies, Leora finds solace in the fact that his skin tells a wonderful story. That is, until she glimpses a mark on the back of his neck . . . the symbol of the worst crime a person can commit in Saintstone. Leora knows it has to be a mistake, but before she can do anything about it, the horrifying secret gets out, jeopardizing her father's legacy . . . and Leora's life.

We Set the Dark on Fire by Tehlor Kay Mejia

At the Medio School for Girls, distinguished young women are trained for one of two roles in their polarized society. Depending on her specialization, a graduate will one day run her husband's household or raise his children, but both wives are promised a life of comfort and luxury, far from the frequent political uprisings of the lower class. Daniela Vargas is the school's top student, but her bright future depends upon no one discovering her darkest secret—that her pedigree is a lie. Her parents sacrificed everything to obtain forged identification papers so Dani could rise above her station. Now that her marriage to an important politico's son is fast approaching, she must keep the truth hidden or be sent back to the fringes of society, where famine and poverty rule supreme. On her graduation night, Dani seems to be in the clear, despite the surprises that unfold. But nothing prepares her for all the difficult choices she must make, especially when she is asked to spy for a resistance group desperately fighting to bring equality to Medio. Will Dani give up everything she's strived for in pursuit of a free Medio—and a chance at forbidden love?

Bride of Clay by Markus Zusak

The breathtaking story of five brothers who bring each other up in a world run by their own rules. As the Dunbar boys love and fight and learn to reckon with the adult world, they discover the moving secret behind their father's disappearance. At the center of the Dunbar family is Clay, a boy who will build a bridge—for his family, for his past, for greatness, for his sins, for a miracle. The question is, how far is Clay willing to go? And how much can he overcome?

[peacerisendove]

Big Ethel Energy and S2 (Series Finale) Final Overall Thoughts On the Series (Thank God.)

It's obvious from the last three episode of Big Ethel Energy that this was a rush-job ending for a failing webcomic. However, despite being a potentially forced rush-job to conclude the series that doesn't excuse the multitude of sins the webcomic has committed in both writing and art.

First and foremost:

Big Ethel Energy is definitively the worst piece of fiction I have ever read in my life.

(I read it so you don't have to.)

My reasons as to why:

1.

Ethel in no way is a compelling, strong, or even a likeable main character that you are capable of rooting for. Now you might be thinking that main characters don't have to be likeable, and you are absolutely correct on thinking that. Unlikable and flawed characters are interesting because of their flaws, they feel real, and they make for complex and fully recognized characters. However, those flaws have to be consciously recognized and utilized by the author to make them effective and interesting.

The author of BEE does not do this and instead Ethel is consistently portrayed in the right or that her opinions are right, and that other are wrong or have wronged her, and that she is always the victim. Consistently her tone is woe-is-me.

The way she is portrayed and presented, along with the narrative, shows there is no self conscious attempt by the author to make her a purposefully flawed character.

She is consistently narcissistic and believes she is better than her high school peers and Riverdale as a whole (the small town she came from, in contrast to New York where she currently lives, which comes up multiple time and vaguely reeks of classism), she has a consistent victim-complex, constantly is portrayed in the right when the reader can see she is wrong, never takes responsibility, and more.

2.

The writing is sophomoric and shallow as it uses LGBT+ and serious topics to prop up its cis, white, privilege main character, and creates the illusion that she has personality and character (it's a weak attempt of making her seem good by helping the helpless lgbt+ people in this story. They have nothing to do with Ethel's story or her own character like being socially conscious it's just padding). (ex: Her helping Noelle, the one trans character in the story).

The writing and narration is also leading in a way that it does not allow for dissension in opinions. It tries to tell you what to think of Ethel and her character (that she's perfect and wonderful), and it also tries to reinforce her, her actions, and opinions as being in the right constantly. She comes off as a Mary-Sue character who can do no wrong. Additionally, the secondary character also serve the purpose of padding Ethel's character and propping her up on a pedestal at times by complimenting her character throughout the story or that she is the only one who could possible do the things that she does in the webcomic.

The fawning over her character by secondary characters is obnoxious and shows how weak the writing is overall. When your main character’s character can’t stand up on their own you know that they're even flimsier than cardboard.

3.

The art does not do the issues regarding body-image justice at all. Specifically the writing surrounding how Ethel is described as tall, being a plus-sized or a 'fat' woman, and overall implied to be an unattractive woman. Ethel despite being describes as essentially the ugly duckling who was made fun of for her weight and size in high school is inconsistently portrayed.

The writing is aphobic as it vilifies Jughead, an implied asexual/aromantic/aroace character by making him the primary source of conflict for Ethel and her character because he identifies as ace/aro/aroace and didn't know it when he had consensual sex with Ethel when they were eighteen and he never contacted her again after that. It literal vilifies his existence and makes his existence a conflict which is so SHITTY and offensive to aroace people. The comic also never explicitly labels his sexuality/romantic identity despite how it VERY STRONGLY implies he's ace/aro/aroace, which I argue is aphobic because there are other LGBT+ characters who are explicitly identify as LGBT+. There's also an attempt to retcon his Season 1 strongly implied ace/aro/acearo identity.

4. The ending

Lastly, the ending. The ending is flippant and soulless and even more immature and over-dramatic from how it displays Ethel's relationship with Moose to how it ended over it being long distance to her rushed reunion and suddenly entering into a relationship with Seth (which will also be long distance. Like how is that going to work if you couldn't get it to work in the past???). (Over-dramatic as in, WOW, Ethel and Seth spend a whole entire night together and watch the sun rise together.)

It continues to put Ethel upon a pedestal. She's so great at her job, she's so successful at dating, she's traveling all over the world~ WOWEE ZOWIE~ SHE'S SO GREAT AND SUCCESSFUL AND SHE SOMEHOW MEETS THE GUY SHE ACTUALLY LIKED WHLE SHE WAS DATING HER BOYFRIEND FOUR YEARS PRIOR???

I could vomit.

Honestly, this all feels like just the tip of the iceberg of everything wrong wrong with this webcomic, but I've given you the broad strokes.

It's a failure as a work of fiction and offensive to boot.

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

Heads Up Seven Up/Last Line Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @autumnalwalker and @buffythevampirelover! :D

I'm using this as an excuse to post the proposal scene from Houses Full of Deceit, complete with footnotes (and apologies to Shakespeare):

"Well," Leo stared up at a bird perched on the church's roof, "like I said, I like both. But I… there's a woman. Who I'm in love with. And who's out of my reach." If Phil listened very carefully she was sure she could have heard her heart break. Leo continued, "So I like Louis as a friend, but I don't love him." "Who is she?" Phil forced herself to sound almost casual. Leo had never mentioned another woman in any of his letters. But then, he'd never mentioned any men either. "An actress?" "No. No, she's… she's someone I wronged very badly years ago. I realised I loved her too late." Leo became very interested in the church's noticeboard. "I caused her a great deal of misery. I nearly got her arrested for a crime I committed, and I didn't speak up to save her." Phil listened in a mixture of bewilderment and growing hope. She tried her damnedest to keep the hope back. It would only hurt more when she was proved wrong. "Does she know about this?" Leo laughed, a nervous and almost strangled sound. "She does now." "Does she forgive you?" He looked up. Their eyes met. Phil saw her own fears and hopes reflected in his. "I don't know," he whispered. "And does she love you?" "How could she?" Leo turned almost angrily. He leant his back against the railings and glared at the undertaker's shop across the road. "She knows my worst sins now. What sane woman would love me?" Phil had scandalised some proper-minded ladies by reading the complete works of Shakespeare. She hadn't admitted why. Even to herself she had to admit it was a very good way of passing a few months, but a silly way to feel closer to the man she loved. It stood her in good stead now. "She has you, if she has you, at your worst. And she will have you, if she has you, better and better[2]." Silence stretched between them. Leo's eyebrows made a spirited attempt to disappear into his hairline. He made several attempts to speak. Phil had come this far. If she was going to make a fool of herself, she might as well do it thoroughly. "If I can love you for this, take me. If not, to say to thee I shall die is true, but not for your love. Yet I love you too[3]. And therefore tell me…" She hesitated, trying to work out whether she should adapt "most fair Katharine" as "most fair Leopold" or leave it out entirely. Leo took the decision out of her hands. "And therefore tell me, most fair," he reached out hesitantly and brushed a strand of hair back from her face, "will you have me?" His fingers skated down to her cheek, his touch so feather-light she could scarcely feel it. Phil's knowledge of Shakespeare failed her. "Yes," she said simply.

Footnotes (if you're wondering what happened to 1, it isn't included in this excerpt):

[2] Adapted from Henry V, Act V Scene 2: "...thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better…". (Henry means his physical appearance will improve with age; Phil misremembers it as referring to his morals improving.)

[3] Phil gets her speeches out of order here; "If I can love…" to "Yet I love you too" are adapted from the same scene in Henry V but are much earlier than the rest of the lines quoted. (The proper quotation is "If thou canst love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too.")

Tagging @eccaiia, @writingamongther0ses, @emelkae, @scarvenartist, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D

Adding HFOD's taglist: @lightgriffinsect, @oh-no-another-idea, @kittensartswriting, @akindofmagictoo, @cljordan-imperium (Let me know if you want to be added/removed!)

[neuromantis]

genuinely i do not get how people don't realize that ocd intrusive thoughts are just the worst things your brain can come up with, to make you scared and distressed and uncomfortable and vulnerable.

you do not "let your intrusive thoughts win" when they're about killing or rape or csa or incest or other stuff of that nature. it scares you shitless, actually. disgusts you. makes you want to die.

but that's how they work. they take the worst things that you will never do and BLAME YOU for ever even thinking that. that even if you know you will never "let it win", even if you know that they're only there because you're scared of them, they still make you feel like the worst person alive, like you've commited some crime, that you did a sin or whatever.

they make you think about you being capable of it. and they make you fear persecution even if you never act on them. that's how intrusive thoughts actually operate. they need you scared. they need you weak. they need you thinking about your moral failing and subsequent punishment for it.

it's the "your own brain hates you" disorder.

[katyspersonal]

3 for Aldrich, Aldia, Willem & Laurence

9 for Maria

11 for Micolash & Aldrich

24 for Laurence

(Asks from this ( x ) meme)

3) What first drew you to this character?

As for Aldrich, I vaguely recall finding out that he checks the traits I like the most? He was one of the characters I've learned about through fandom and not on my own, and I think this ancient meme about summarises it:

Also:

@val-of-the-north SHUDDUP you're basically so horny for Laurence/Logarius/Snatchers that you can't even picture them in your mind in any way but being naked!!!!!!! *casts the stone back at u*

With Laurence, like with Mico, it was the very first glance at the character in Youtube compilation with boss themes and concept art image. I did not know the lore yet, but the design and the music made me imagine Laurence as sort of aged, sagely librarian. I could not imagine back then that his boss fight would be him being a "helpless abhorrent little mewmew" as kids call it! Heck, I thought he'd have dialogue despite the monster form x) In a way, my first impression was not wrong, with the cut content of him actually talking even in a beast form, and implication of him being a son of Cainhurst cut content librarian NPC! I have intuition for cut content before having information, hahaha!

I have nothing to say about Willem. It might be a memory gap thing, but I swear at some point I feel I was turned off and then booted back up with liking this character already installed in my system x) As for Aldia.... ugh for fuck's sake... yeah, it was this legend:

I was absolutely floored by this stupid vid even without knowing any context, but I also instantly liked this character. I didn't even know his name yet, but the voice acting and long yapping about philosophy already pulled me in XD (Also unironically, this video is precisely how I give relationship advice fhfhdds)

9) Does this character remind you of anyone you know? Does that affect how you see them?

Yeah, I know this person. I know them very well. I know them more than anyone else. Someone who was misguided (by their destructive influence mentor figure, by their own foolishness and past history, or combination of both, who can tell anymore?) into committing awful things, then despaired over their sins and attempted redemption but also failed in some way? This person is me. At some point I've found myself in front of horrible truth about my past life and personality, and knew I was guilty and sullied forever. That it was over for me as a human being, but that didn't matter, and I could only keep people safe by locking myself away and trying to serve something better.

......annnnd it took a few years of more informed people to (metaphorically) shake me and slap my face into lucidity, explaining to me that I've fallen for the "BPD demonization" that was going far beyond than my individual failure as a friend, and we are always accused of abuse and causing irreversible harm when the worst we do is being emotionally overbearing. I kept losing trust to those friends, telling them that they were enablers who tried to gaslight me into thinking I was not 'that much of a monster', until it was other people with BPD who 'shook me and slapped my face into lucidity'. xd Nonetheless, even though now I know the truth about how society treats BPDs, I remember the feeling of being so monstrous and harmful that I was not even allowed to "touch" people with my dirty hands, how my reality used to be. So, I could write Maria going through this effortlessly, especially considering what she did was more plain and tangible!

In fact... thank you for asking me about this, because I kept wondering why I had such frequent dreams about being Maria, and why the Maria in my dreams acts like abused child that took back control against Gehrman despite my portrayal of the guy being so different. And now the puzzle is solved! That part of me still lives inside, it seems.

11) How did you “fall in love” with this character?

Already answered this for Micolash here: ( x )! As for Aldrich, it was through properly analysing the bigger picture and context of his actions. I've figured that his madness was, in fact, being informed on what was far too ahead of everyone else around him! He, like the rest of the cast, is trapped in the rotting, doomed world in which the only choices are 1) "die with dignity" or 2) commit something unthinkable from moral standpoint for a chance to escape. And will morality of the rotting world will matter in the new world anyways? Won't it all be left behind and be forgiven?

The guy also tried to take everyone else he could with him, like sort of a fucked up Noah's Arc! I can tell that they reused the concept with Rykard, at least, I am glad they know what works xD I'd say that the sadism he experienced upon eating people was either result of insanity (he understood a thing no one should understand), or still didn't exclude the bigger purpose (egotistically revelling in how holy he is helping everyone and doing what no one else dared, which would be like my Laurence). In any case, I have the strongest respect to the courage it takes to transcend the bonds of morality and compassion in order to to greater good. Being burdened with the knowledge of how the world really works, and choosing to push through instead of still being bound... This is why I also like Fauxsefka; learning how this world works, she chose to turn people into Kin so they can't ever become beasts. I am weak for this trope, you don't understand.

24) Do you ever dream about this character? If so, describe a dream you once had about them.

Laurence appears in my dreams only in two contexts: 1) Micolaurence or 2) dreams about finding secret files in Bloodborne that reveal his canonical appearance before beasthood! I can tell the latter comes from my everlasting unsatisfaction with my design for him, because I love it but it doesn't feel "fitting" and I can't identify why!

The former, I think, fandom rubbing onto me x) In two of these dreams, I was Laurence. In other two, I was Micolash. In one of Laurence dreams it was mutual, in the second one I was in love unrequited. In one of Micolash dreams, it was mutual, and in another it was not.. Basically, my dreams allows me to experience this ship from every possible angle. o_o Waiting for more I guess fhhdfsfd

______________

Thank you for asking! And.. without exaggeration, you've just done quite a psychological work on me by just asking the right thing. I need to think about that, hahaha