#will it take us a godawful amount of time? yes

[helssent]

guess who decided to start working on our own TMC Infection AU

[luulapants]

Stop Being Weird About Indians

Let’s talk about virtue signalling when talking about American Indians and how it’s doing more harm than good. I saw a take that writing about Kaia, an indigenous character in Supernatural, in fanfiction is a cancel-able offense because the way she’s depicted in the show is problematic. I’ve heard similar things about the skinwalkers in Teen Wolf - I’ve also heard that you shouldn’t even type the word “skinwalkers” because it’s offensive, which... I’m not gonna go into all the details, but that’s a gross misunderstanding of the belief around the word, and also the actual word the belief is about - you won’t believe this - isn’t an English word.

Anyway.

The topic of indigenous oppression in the US is complicated, but one of the fundamental issues, which actual indigenous activists (not just keyboard warriors) constantly talk about, is the way indigenous people are ignored and erased from the story. It’s called “The Terminal Narrative.” Text books talk about indigenous people like they’re a relic of the past, like they’re all dead and gone. (Do you know how weird it is for Indian children on reservations to read a US history book that implies they don’t exist?) Human rights abuses and social issues on reservations are left out of the conversation or skimmed over as if they’re too obscure to be fully understood, or like they impact so few people, it doesn’t really matter.

Policing wording is not activism. Sharing call-out posts isn’t activism. You are not doing anything to help anyone. You’re not funding, volunteering, calling politicians, or doing any actual work to better the lives of indigenous Americans. (Before anyone calls hypocrite, I do work with an indigenous rights group IRL.) When someone scolds another person online over using a word that isn’t PC, 99% of the time it’s clear they don’t actually care - they derive a sense of moral superiority from knowing the “correct” way to speak. And they don’t care about the chilling effect it has on speech overall. This naturally leads to one of the most toxic elements of liberal conversations about race: that you must have the conversation perfectly or not at all. And that’s the impact it has. People just stop talking about it for fear of being wrong.

Can you see how, in a society where indigenous oppression is actively facilitated by silence and erasure, making people afraid to speak about Indians is one of the worst things you could possibly do?

It’s become standard fare for Indian Studies books to start with a disclaimer explaining that “Indian” actually isn’t an offensive word and is the word that most indigenous people use for themselves. The disclaimer isn’t because it’s new or radical information. It’s because white Americans are so goddamn weird about virtual signaling about ~The Native Americans~ that they would condemn a much-needed book of scholarship on native issues just for using a word that they thought was offensive.

Native people aren’t a monolith. You’ll find Indians that insist you need to spell it NDN or that XYZ is offensive. Production companies can pay a native person to come tell them they’re allowed to write about something most people from their tribe would find offensive. Fact of the matter is, a lot of Indians are not experts on like... heritage culture. If they grew up on a rez, they can tell you about rez culture, but they’re not all Indian Studies scholars, the same way not all Irish people are experts on Celtic paganism. Not all Indians are experts on indigenous politics, the same way not all Americans are experts on American politics. And it goes without saying that a GODAWFUL amount of the people lecturing on acceptable ways to interact with indigenous characters are not only uninformed about indigenous issues (I saw one post where someone clearly linked the first thing that came up when they googled “Native American drug addiction”) but are also not indigenous themselves.

And, yes, the vast majority of depictions of Indians in American media are problematic in one way or another, but saying that the solution is to erase indigenous characters from fandom entirely (because they’re all problematic) is the absolute WORST conclusion to reach. Fix the characters if you care that much! Give the Teen Wolf skinwalkers names! And an iPad! Let Kaia be the master of her own destiny! Let her bitch Dean out for pointing that gun in her face! Let her live happily ever after with her girlfriend! What the hell is fandom for if not fixing the issues we see in canon? Why are we allowed to reclaim and rewrite problematic queer characters but not problematic native characters? Who is that serving? Because it sure as hell isn’t serving Indians.

Anyone that tells you it’s better to ignore Indians than say the wrong thing about them is, knowingly or not, actively promoting a terminal narrative and the continuation of indigenous genocide.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Re-reading The Fellowship of the Ring for the First Time in Fifteen Years

Hi, Hello, Welcome! The conceit of these posts is pretty self-explanatory. I read the Lord of the Rings for the first time at age 17, in the middle of my parent's divorce (it was messy, we're not going into any details). Needless to say, I remember pretty much nothing about that read, and I would like to give the books a fair shake of a re-read. That's what this is, and there will be spoilers throughout!

I usually do full-book reviews, but if ever I was going to do a chapter-by-chapter re-read, it would be for LotR. The rules are that I'm going in as blind as I possibly can (I have watched the movies and have absorbed like...a reasonable amount of lore from existing on the internet as a millennial) and I'm not doing any research beyond like, defining words for myself as I read. So here we go, and I hope you enjoy rereading with me! Let's talk "A Long-Expected Party."

The first chapter of ANY book has a lot of work to do. The first chapter of THIS book has...rather more to do than most. Which is why I was kind of floored by HOW MUCH of it was dedicated to establishing how godawful the Sackville-Bagginses are. Like, when Tolkien said,

He remained on visiting terms with his relatives (except, of course, the Sackville-Bagginses)

on literally page one of chapter one, I was over here going "relatable, my dude." I also taught The Hobbit for an Intro to Literature class when I was getting my PhD, so I also knew that they had overtaken Bag End and were on the verge of declaring Bilbo dead and taking over his life and estate. I also knew about Lobelia stealing the spoons. I was ON BOARD with the Sackville-Bagginses being the godawful relatives that not only we do not like but also we legally cut out of their inheritance. I was cool with that, it was fine. I got it.

THEN IT KEPT GOING. They get snobby about attending the birthday party. They only showed up because the invitation was inexcusably fancy. They got offended about Bilbo's speech. They talked shit about him on his birthday at his party. They bulled into Bag End to insist on seeing the will, and stole stiff while they were there. They insulted Frodo's parentage and the Brandybuck side of his family IN FRONT OF MERRY, the most famous Brandybuck of the fellowship. And then Lobelia has the sheer goddamn nerve to be offended when Frodo stops her from stealing his shit, calling her on her bullshit, and kicking her out of his house.

Did...did Tolkien have an aunt that he had a massive, lifelong beef with? Because IT SURE SEEMED LIKE IT. Although passively aggressively gifting her the remainder of the set of spoons was just A+ shitty relative management on Bilbo's part, and I deeply appreciated that he can do both sincere and pointed gifting.

So, when I watched Dom Noble's LiA on Fellowship, I was like, "I don't actually know if I agree that the hobbits would vote Republican, Dom." Let this be my public apology for doubting Dom, because HOLY TITS YES, YES THEY WOULD. It literally took a gaggle of hobbits two "Well I heard"s to get to "Primula pushed Drogo out of the boat and he pulled her in after him" like it's a murder gone wrong. And no matter what the Gaffer said, nobody would hear different after "murder" came up.

And speaking of the Gaffer...his name is Ham. Ham Gamgee. Ham and Sam Gamgee. What the Jolkien Rolkien Rolkien Tolkien was happening with this name, John Ronald??? I demand to know! And no, not even Bilbo calling him Master Hamfast makes "Ham Gamgee" any less ridiculous.

Now, let's talk Gandalf for a sec. I know there are plot reasons that Gandalf doesn't initially know that Bilbo's ring is THE ONE RING, but like...their first conversation weeks before the party tells us that Gandalf has concerns. And yet he still is cool with Bilbo HANDING THE RING OFF TO FRODO??? Even if it's just a weirdly powerful, not inherently evil ring, Frodo is basically an 18-year-old (33 in hobbit years) with no life experience and no sense of how to manage a magic ring. Gandy. Wizard, buddy, friend. This is not like...a great plan. Yes, you get Bilbo off the ring cocaine, but you've just exposed Frodo to it. And this is BEFORE you know it's holding a bit of Sauron's soul. If you taking it is a bad idea, there has to be a secret third option that isn't "Leave it with Frodo." That all said though, Gandalf was SUPER prepared to hand fireworks to LITERAL CHILDREN and hammered hobbits at Bilbo's birthday, so he's clearly not the guy you call for safety or babysitting.

That probably hits all the key things from me for this opening chapter, so other than calling out how cute Merry and Frodo are when Merry has Frodo's back as the Shire descends on Bag End to claim or just straight steal shit, I will sign off for now. Key takeaways were that the Sackville-Bagginses FUCKING SUCK, and Gandalf was super cool with exposing Frodo to basically magical cocaine.

[nyoomfruits]

if i’m being honest

pairing: max verstappen/charles leclerc word count: 2k+ a/n: written for the prompt ‘i don’t want them. i want you.” this was just going to be a short little thing and then it completely got away from me and now here we are haha

set during the summer break of the 2023 season. hope you enjoy!

It’s only the second day of summer break when there’s a knock on Max’s door. He frowns, glancing at the door like it’s going to tell him who’s on the other side, while slowly getting up from the couch, pausing the TV as he goes.

There’s another knock, more incessant this time. “Coming,” Max yells, wondering who on earth is showing up at ten in the morning during his summer break when he specifically told all of his friends and family he needed some alone time.

“All right, Jesus, what’s on fire,” Max says as he swings open the door halfway the third knock and nearly gets hit in the face by Charles Leclerc himself.

“Ah, good, you are awake,” Charles says, ridiculously chipper. “Pack your stuff, we’re going to the beach.” He cheerfully holds up his own bag as he says it.

Max blinks at him. Pauses for a second. Blinks again. Charles is wearing some sort of god awful Hawaiian shirt, Ferrari red swim trunks, and bright yellow flip flops. His sunglasses are pushed onto his forehead, and his hair is tied back with a bandana. Despite looking like the Teletubbies threw up on him, he still is unfairly pretty.

God, it’s way too early for this.

“Beach?” Max eventually manages to squeeze out when his brain decides to work again.

“Yeah,” Charles says, rolling his eyes, clearly impatient. “You know, the thing with the sand, and the water, and the sun.”

“Yes, I know what a beach is,” Max says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Seriously, which gods did he piss off to deserve this. “But why are we going to one.”

“You have been moping all season,” Charles says, frowning. “And now I hear from your friends you have shut yourself in, like some hermit.”

Max frowns, too. “Okay, first of all, I am not moping.” He absolutely is, but Charles doesn’t need to know that. “I am not a hermit, and I don’t want to go to the beach.”

--

Fifteen minutes later, Charles and Max are standing on the beach.

Despite being a Tuesday it’s pretty busy already, with parents looking for the perfect spot to settle down, while children run around building sandcastles and playing in the water.

Charles unfolds his towel and sits down on it, and starts ruffling through his bag. “Did you put on sunscreen?”

“No,” Max says, refusing to sit down because that means admitting Charles successfully managed to drag him to the beach.

Charles’s head appears from inside the bag. “What? Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be here,” he says, “and also you didn’t give me enough time.”

“Always so dramatic,” Charles says, rolling his eyes. “Come on, sit down, I will do your back.”

There’s a moment where Max realizes he could just walk away. He could just turn around, trudge back to his apartment, and continue doing what he was originally planning on doing today, which was watching a godawful amount of Netflix.

But it’s Charles. And Max finds he’s never really been able to say no to Charles. It’s the whole reason he was being a so called ‘hermit’ to begin with. Because somewhere during the past season, between fighting each other on track and talking with him after and watching him win podiums he’s realized that shit. He’s in love with Charles. Maybe even has been this whole time.

So he was going to use the summer break to finally get his shit together, finally get over Charles, because Charles is a fantasy that’s just never going to happen.

And now here he is. On the beach. With Charles.

Plan’s not going great.

“I swear if you draw a penis on there I’m never talking to you again,” he says, plopping down on the edge of Charles’s towel with his back towards the other man, taking of his shirt as he goes.

“I was going to go for a #2 actually,” Charles says gleefully, as he starts spreading sunscreen across Max’s shoulders.

Max hisses when the cold sunscreen makes contact with his warm back. “That’s worse, actually. You’re the worst.”

“Actually I am the best, seeing as I am number one,” Charles says, his hands swooping over Max’s back, making it hard to focus on anything else.

“Season isn’t over yet,” Max says, his eyes briefly falling close. Charles’s hands really do feel good.

“You’re right,” Charles says, patting Max’s back. “But I am still going to win. All right, you are done, do me now.”

Max turns around, and once again curses all the gods in existence that lead him to his point as he lets his hands sweep over the expanses of Charles’s back.

--

The rest of the morning is actually quite nice, Max thinks. They spend most of it lounging around, occasionally taking a swim and even attempt to build a sandcastle at some point. They don’t really talk about why Charles dragged him out of the house, or why Max refused to leave the house in the first place, or how this is a thing they don’t normally do.

Eventually it’s lunch time, and they make their way over to the closest beach club for something to eat. Charles puts his incredibly ugly Hawaiian shirt back on and Max has never both hated and loved an article of clothing more. He’s not sure how much more shirtless Charles Leclerc he can handle.

“So why have you been moping?” Charles asks, as they sit down at an empty table.

Max considers lying for a moment, but he knows Charles, knows how observant he is, and settles for telling a half truth. “I have feelings for someone who doesn’t like me back,” He says it with a shrug, like it doesn’t make his heart squeeze in his chest just thinking about it.

“Ah yes,” Charles says, almost a little sadly, “I know that feeling.”

Max doubts that. Who on earth wouldn’t like Charles?

“I do not think moping is going to help. I should know, I have tried,” Charles continues. Seriously, who is out there breaking Charles’s heart and would Max get in trouble for breaking their nose?

“Then what do you recommend?” Max asks, leaning back in his chair, pushing his sunglasses up on his head.

Charles taps his chin. “The classics, really. Getting shitfaced drunk. Finding a rebound.”

“Well, I’m definitely into that first one,” Max says, signaling a waiter and then ordering two beers. “Not sure about the second,” he adds, when the waiter leaves their table.

“No, no, this could be good for you,” Charles says, leaning forward across the table with a mischievous grin on his face. “I will help you find someone. What about her?” He gestures to a girl sitting only a few tables over, talking to her friends.

Max barely glances at her. “Not my type,” he says.

“Ah,” Charles says, thoughtfully, twirling his sunglasses between his fingers. “Too leggy?”

Fuck it. Max thinks. If Charles can’t accept him for who he is, then what’s the point? “A girl,” he says.

“Hm,” but he’s not looking at Max, staring at something over his shoulder, and it’s kind of unnerving. Charles can’t even make eye contact with him. Fuck. “What about him then?” He points to a dude on the beach, behind Max, who is playing volleyball with his friends.

Something in Max’s chest loosens and he twists around in his chair to look. “Too leggy,” he says, turning back with a grin on his face as Charles sends him an exasperated look.

“Please take this seriously, Max. Your hermit status is on the line,” Charles says, and then flips open his menu. “I am kind of feeling burgers. What about you?”

“Burgers sounds nice,” Max says, just as the waiter arrives with their beers.

--

As they eat Charles points out more guys at him, and Max shuts every single one of them down. Charles never really seem to be upset over it, instead becoming almost competitive about it, like finding Max the perfect boyfriend is now his only goal in life. If only Charles knew it was him.

Max gives vague descriptors of his ideal man, like ‘well build’ and ‘good personality’ that has Charles rolling his eyes and telling him that that’s not helpful.

“All right, I give up,” Charles says, falling back in his chair, burger long gone and halfway his second beer. “You are somehow the easiest yet the pickiest person I have ever met and you are making my job absolutely impossible.”

“I’m sorry?” Max says, wiping his hands on his napkin before taking another sip of his beer.

“You better be. Why do you not want any of these men? They are not ugly. One must jump out to you, no?” Charles puts his sunglasses back on as he says it and god, he truly is the most beautiful man Max has ever seen.

The sun is hitting him just right, making him look like he quite literally shines. His hair is all over the place, and the bandana is doing a terrible job of keeping it out of his face. The Hawaiian shirt is still the ugliest thing Max has ever seen, but it’s also hanging off his shoulders just so, and the first few buttons are undone to reveal just a little bit of chest that is making Max feel like he’s going insane.

It’s distracting, how beautiful Charles is. That’s the only reason he can think of why he blurts out what he blurts out next.

“I don’t want any of them, Charles. I want you.”

The moment Max says it, he knows he’s made a mistake. Charles eyes widen almost comically and he nearly drops the glass he’d just picked up. “You mean that?” He asks, softly, so softly Max almost doesn’t hear him and well.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Yeah, that’s why I’ve been. Moping, I guess. But it’s fine, I get it, you’re not into me, I can. I can get over that, I’m sorry I ever said anything,” Max’s heart is pounding and there’s a rushing in his ears that makes it hard to focus on anything and all he wants to do right now is go home and crawl in bed and not come out for the upcoming ten years.

“Right, yeah, we have to go,” Charles says, almost a little frantic, and Max tries so hard to pretend like he can’t physically feel his heart break in two. Charles pulls out his wallet, slaps a hundred dollar bill on the table, and gets up, gesturing to Max to follow as he stalks away.

And Max. Max follows, because he will follow Charles everywhere. Even though he’s not sure why, or where they are going.

Charles looks around, finds an abandoned alley between the beach club and a little souvenir shop, and grabs Max’s arm, dragging him forward until they come to a stop behind a collection of large garbage bins, completely hidden out of sight from the street.

“Charles, Jesus, if you’re going to kill me I’d rather you do it somewhere a little more comfortable,” Max jokes, even though his heart isn’t really in it.

“What?” Charles says, bewildered. “I am not going to kill you. I just needed some privacy to do this,” and then he takes Max’s face into his hands, and kisses him full on the mouth.

Max gasps, a little surprised, but then leans into it, kissing Charles like his life depends on it. His hands are on Charles’s waist, and it feels like a dream, being able to do this, being able to hold Charles like this and kiss him.

Charles seems equally enthusiastic about it and even though it should give Max whiplash, from going to think him Charles is going to kill him to this, it sooths something deep inside him. Charles likes him too. He isn’t alone in his feelings, he isn’t doomed to love someone that’s never going to love him back.

“You will really do anything to stop me from becoming a hermit, won’t you?” Max jokes, when he finally pulls away, and it startles a laugh out of Charles.

“I do not mind you becoming a hermit, not really,” Charles says, with a bashful little shrug. “As long as you are my hermit.”

Max, giddy and elated and deliriously happy, just leans forward and kisses him again.

[torto-isemusings]

Ah, Common Sense Media: One Million Moms on a budget.

Home of one of the worst, most ignorant reviews of our beloved Incredibox I've ever seen (below)

One star from an Adult. A tough crowd these ones.

Join me, dear Reader, as I Torto breakdown the points of this review one. By. One.

For your entertainment, of course ;)

1) "Nobody will like this lackluster 'game'"

*hysterical, borderline-demonic hyena laugh*

But seriously, given the amount of fanart, mods, YouTube videos, and blogs dedicated to this game it seems like the word "nobody" implies whole swaths of people in the definition. *Sparticus voice* I AM NOBODY!

2) "The same man is copy-pasted at least 6 times"

Most people who complain about this haven't done the bare minimum of research to discover that, yes, they are all one man. That is, of course, Paul "Incredible Polo" Malburet, who voiced them all. It's meant to showcase what *just one man* can do with his (aptly named) incredible voice. Love you, Polo❤️

3) "There's really nothing to do but click on the men to produce lackluster sounds"

Say that to his adorable face, I dare you!

Risk being the target of Gallic Rage!

4) "Sure, there are different costumes but they do nothing to enhance the game"

OP must be really fun at Halloween parties /s. Repeat after me: "Costumes enhance *everything*!" Also, now that you've taken a shot at Paul, you can't resist taking a shot at Romain as well, how thoughtful. Love you too, Bily❤️

6) "There are no puzzles [or] prize wheels"

Okay, I'll give them this one. Even though the bonuses are kind of like puzzles, no puzzle just gives you the answer by hovering over the icon. However, I think this is one of the things that makes Incredibox so special: It's not about puzzles. It isn't one of those instant gratification, constant rush of dopamine games(which, imo, are on par with the "brainrot" section of YouTube). Just like writing your own music, you have to stew on it for a while, see what works, and most of all enjoy it! Experimentation can be fun!

7) "There's no way to customize the look-alike men -they're all in boring black and white"

First, see my rebuttal to point #2. Second, this just tells me you didn't play past Little Miss(which is all but confirmed later). LM is only the second version. Each version gets better than the last as the guys hone their craft. Even your oh-so-despised costumes get better! In Jeevan alone you have practically all the colors of the goddamn rainbow! At the end of the day, even though Incredibox is more about the music than anything else, the costumes are a neat bonus that keep things visually interesting. Long story short, if you want customization The Sims is right there.

8) "The game is so boring I quit after 1 minute"

10) "The developer isn't even updating the game anymore...terribly outdated...stuck in 2019"

While I'm pretty sure 1 minute is an exaggeration, this does pretty much confirm OP didn't play past Little Miss. Geez, even a goldfish would know you need to pay attention for more a minute to accurately assess the quality of a game.

9)"It takes about 25 minutes to load the game"

This one's just a flat out lie.

Patience, Grasshopper. The latest bonus for Wekiddy was released only 9-10 months ago. That isn't forever. I'm sure all three guys are working their culs off to get the third one out in a timely manner. Especially Allan, who I haven't mentioned yet. Love you as well, Al❤️

Also define "stuck in 2019"? What does a game have to do in order to be worthy of the 2020s, include a Covid-themed version?

11) "Forget about Incredibox and just get My Singing Monsters instead"

...you're lucky TV Tropes lists us as Friendly Fandoms, or I would get mad at that. I however won't because I'm mad enough.

And there you have it, Reader, my full thoughts on this godawful review. Tell me your thoughts in the tags, and if there was anything I missed💜

[eliounora]

Do you mind me asking what subject you are studying rn? I recently graduated and have a really hard time picking what I'll study... Also YES!! LIFE WILL BE WONDERFUL! Just a bit and youll have made it!

I'm majoring in history, I'm just finishing my master's degree! if you're interested in studying history I really recommend it, though it should be noted that studying history in university is quite different from studying it in for example high school or an equivalent. in general education you focus more on events and phenomena in history and why they happened and what it led to, whereas in university the studying is more about how that scientific knowledge is acquired (and this goes for any field of study, not only history). instead of learning, for example, the events leading up to the french revolution, you study how the french revolution has been studied, different takes on it, what kind of primary sources you would use to study it, etc. the benefit of history is also that there's an endless amount of themes you can specialise in (I've studied primarily LGBT/queer history).

this might be clear for some but I wanted to mention it because I certainly did not know what studying was like in university before I went. it might help to choose your major when you sort of have an inkling what kind of stuff you want to become REALLY familiar with, hahah! I'm lucky I love history, because here in finland switching majors is really difficult. what I struggle with is my godawful cultural studies minor, the whole subject of which is incredibly badly organised in my university. but I'm so close to finishing it!

in choosing what to study, I would recommend checking the websites of the universities (or colleges? if you're american) that interest you and checking what kind of courses/classes they have and what you can study. NOW university websites are famously difficult to navigate, but generally what you want to look for is something like a course catalogue or programmes. let's say you want to go to the university of oxford, that actually has a pretty simple website, you find the courses by checking admissions -> undergraduate -> scroll down, and boom, courses! if you can't find what you're looking for in an university website, always try scrolling down first, those pages are LONG! you can also try googling something like "university of oxford courses".

the good thing with studying humanities is that besides your major you will have minor subjects to study as well, that you can probably choose freely. as far as I know if you go in for medicine or law or stuff like that you study only that, medicine or law.

OH and one final thing, I know I used oxford as an example, but really do not stress about getting into some fancy or elite schools. you can get great education and do quality research anywhere. chasing prestige alone will disappoint you!

[team-council-two]

So how is Spy a special case?

*is excited*

(for context, in a previous post, i added the tags " i could write an entire book on how unfamiliar french people in medias seem to actual french people, spy is an odd case; ask me about him")

aiight, you know what you signed up for, get ready for one hell of a presentation, ft terminal verbosis frenchosis ! this will be in three parts, of course, because three is a good number and the mere concept of having 3 parts should give you all a headache (look ray i didnt add a n this time)

wait shit im not even sure mistral is a spy, hold on,

aw fck thats for real ones

anyways femme fatale trope, next question

HA gotcha, you didnt think id let yall go with just one sentence huh ? so. our fella is french. our fella is a spy. our fella is a huge piece of shit. extremely common, alright ? outright overused archetype. eeeexcept that the combo's execution here REALLY stands out. how so ?

well, let me ask you a quick question. do you think the fact that he is french, and the fact that he is an evil bastard, and the fact that he is a spy are linked ?

well ill answer that for you. nope. valve treated these three traits remarkably separately. the way he speaks french in game is relatively polite, and the insults he throws around are, i checked, exclusively in english. he is surprisingly free of the usual way medias make "being evil" and "being french" be a hand in hand thing, and similarly free of the one that seems to indicate that Because you are french Of Course you are a spy. in other words, rather than being a walking glamour stereotype of sorts or an obnoxious asshole the likes of which we have seen hundreds of, this is a godawful guy that also happens to be a french snob, and that also happens to be a spy.

compare with, say, our lady mistral above who has a shitton of taunts in french, who embraces that whole sexy lady deal, deliberately plays on it and so on. difference is miles.

and now if you followed you did catch i said french snob rather than just french, there is a reason behind this, so allow me to get on part 2, which i promise will be WAY more verbose-

so

im not sure why but american medias love to have peppy rich french fashionistas in their shit. theyre cute, hyper, sheltered as fuck, and the entire deal is weird bc these people seem like aliens to actual french people who tend to care about fashion in pretty normal amounts and definitely do not have that many grands to bust into it. *yes* we pride ourselves in having a pretty neat fashion industry, but in a similar way as the american and the german boast about their cars. we are NOT obsessed with it okay. anyways, sometimes writers have the decency of making these characters cunts, but not always. but what doesnt vary is the trope seems to play out like ah yes, your average french- which is fucking baffling. and is the part taking us aback.

see, we HAVE the evil breed of those characters too in our shit. comedic shit, to be precise. a rundown of our humor is it often is situational humor - stupid outlandish situations with equally stupid archetypal characters, their personality equally pushed into the absurd, all of that more often than not thinly veiling some pretty heavy social commentary. in other words, you often laugh at the evil cop/rich factory/big restaurant owner/politician/etc getting karma'd in mind boggingly bizzare and hilarious ways, while clearly showing them as evil for mistreating subordinates (and often getting shit for it sooner or later) and as simpering cowards towards literally anyone who has any kind of superior position to them whatsoever.

in other words, context matters. where in american shit they are often allies or friends or comedic relief of sorts through being french/annoying or just villains, in french shit they more often than not are *targets* of some kind of events and shown to be ridiculous through other means than their obsession for fashion or whatever.

am i saying that valve did this ?

...yeah. thats a very bold statement, but yes. i mean, cmon,

see, i am overall basing this on the fact that ingame spy is so fucking similar to many, many, many of Louis de Funès' roles, and even his face, it outright had me searching around the wiki for some kind, any kind of claim of inspiration from valve-

he reads exactly as one of them ! rich cunt obsessed with money, constantly mocking people, constantly complaining about everything ever, fakely polite, not opposed to doing vile acts to have his way, extremely menacing face, *the same fucking laugh*, and the fact that characters played by this guy have remarkably often have what we call a couillon de fils, a dumbfuck of a loser ass son, if you will.

the only differences really are from comic spy, who reads far less like this. he's still well executed mind you, but he (especially @miss pauling) reads as far kinder than this dude's characters usually are, and he is a bit more... stretched, both physically and in behaviour, than the actor's goblin build and attitude, as game spy seems to be unable to stand straight whereas the comic one seems to have no difficulty with this, and the similar range of expressiveness that also ports 1:1 is game exclusive as well. and finally, comic spy also was not given the occasion to cuss people out, so.

anyways my point mostly amounts to, if you manage to make french people think of an emblematic actor beloved by many, rather than just make us go through the usual whiplash of "how is that a normal french person to american people ???", you are probably doing something right.

in addition to this wall of text, i am begging you all to watch this, it should help understand what i meant by our breed of humor, and what i mean by "spy could have been played by this dude no problem"

now, onto part 3,

well once you said he is a pathetic wet cat man you summed it up really.

for all the class he has, for all the money he has, for all the. everything ? he still is pathetic. he still is simply seen as a mean as fuck loser either trying to drown his failures as a father with expensive tastes, or simply amoral and unsympathetic because of his concerns being about money rather than about humans. he still is headcanoned as stinking by most of the fandom. nobody respects the fucken spy. he comes across as haughty and it only makes people want to shit on him some more.

really, it is pretty much everything I explained in the two points above. the patheticness helps with making it so he is not a stereotype, and it helps making it clear he is supposed to be representative of rich pretentious cunts rather than of french people.

so, he is a huge bitch, and ironically, this makes him a blorbo to us, bc who doesnt love a good ole flawed character ?

his whole french deal is not shown as eccentric or what makes him a loser but just a coincidence, in a sense. and you'd be surprised by how much of a breath of fresh air this is to french people. shitty in a realistic way rather than a made up clown, and in a way we can recognize in our own medias. it also is neat from the, err, fandom pov ? because you get to develop his frenchness and assholeness and spyness separately, since they are elements implemented for the sake of themselves rather than as a stereotypical whole. you get to have *fun* with him.

SO i think i ran out of things to blabber about. hope it makes sense tho. but i guess it really is about. not *quite* representation because we do not see ourselves in spy, of course, but way more about our culture not being bastardized and being turned into a joke about eccentrics at best, or hatred about seductive women and effeminate/homosexual men at worst, + having a fresh execution on tropes that else usually would get our eyes rolling.

alpha, over and out

[discipulusmaleficus]

Close call x 2

@scxrytxles - you should be dead 17 times over

"--which is an excellent way to absorb 'too much' power and reduce your physical form to a fine mist as what remains of you turns into something else, but, you know. I'm okay with that. I feel pretty good about it, actually. Except I think I hear my roommate saying something, and I'm stopping to wonder what the hell he's doing in here, an-nd. Then I'm waking up in my least favourite branch of the infirmary."

He's not sure why Lewis, of all people, is the one who's actually allowed to hear this saga. Because he actually won't give a shit, probably. What're they going to make weird? The man only knows him as a pathetic drunken asshole. A deeply dishonest one, at that.

"So, uh, I'm cuffed to the bed, they've jammed a high-grade restraining torc around my neck, I'm still mildly strung out on deity blood and shit and I already know they'll have exorcised my Affiliate real well. And I feel pretty goddamn pissed off about that." He tugs idly at the ring that’s currently around his neck. "But after, uh, an eternal and infinitesimal facet of time -- what's the word? A while -- I remember that screaming in tongues isn't going to get us to the Unravelling of All Things any faster, yes? This'll wind up smoother if I'm. Polite."

"And soon enough I'm talking to an Assistant Disciplinary Faciliator or something, and he's the bastard son of my great-uncle-in-law, and he's saying shit like I still have excellent prospects ahead of me and this sort of thing happens, and reminding me there have been far more catastrophic Student Incidents -- which is just insulting. And I tell him, ha, I tell him I'm just hoping this won't affect my goddamn exams, and he acts like that's a sane thing to fucking say."

"So, you know, I ditch the bed part soon enough, and if I can't turn the whole place into a pullulating extradimensional rift, I can at least take my frustrations out on everybody who got in my fucking way. I'm still on probation -- can't really use magic -- which makes things a little difficult. And, you know. I'm not unresourceful. Remind me to give you the scurrilous details."

"But that won't be good enough, and half my friends are cowards who don't even want to help me any more. I've been thinking a lot, and I've been behaving - not too much, not a suspicious amount - I've been sucking up, and the day before the exam period I apply for some supervised practice time and the instant the supervisor breaks the enchantment her spine cracks itself in three places and the Key throws itself into my hands. Basic shit, if their guard's down. Tossed her memory like a salad, left her under the table, and then, the~en we have at least a little space, yes?"

"Contrived to summon a number of choice entities in choice locations, just as people were starting their fucking alchemical history essays. Finally seeded that Improved Parasitoid Fungus in the Decomposition Chambers. Shoved a lot of interesting artefacts into my pockets, incinerated some dull ones -- asked my lovely co-founder to leave with me, she gave me an earful about telling partial truths, I tried to cut her ear off so I could take possession of her living corpse -- That doesn't work out. Let's just say."

"I can't really stick around to see what else works out, mind you, or they'll just catch me and try to give me career advice again. I'd thought about stealing one of the faculty jets. Probably lucky I didn't get the chance. Wouldn't have the first idea how to fly one. Or eject from it. Or turn it on."

"So I just. Step out a maintenance door. Fall, Arrest my Momentum, hit loose sand at, oh, twenty miles an hour. Heat's godawful. Got up, started walking, didn't stop for, uh. A while. You know what I didn't pack, by the way? Water."

"Sometime left of that, I'm probably at least halfway mummified and one of those blue assholes is digging me out of the sand, and, you know, I don't know how far I was from sinking beneath the dunes never to be discovered. Starts raising a fuss and trying to get me to drink and everything, and I'm kind of an ungrateful bastard about it, but I'm pretty sure whatever's keeping me animate is finally wearing thin, so, uh, I'm coming around to the prospect." He distinctly remembers worrying about poison, mind you.

"Don't know what they thought about the whole affair. Didn't speak a word of Arabic. Or -- Tamahaq, or whatever the hell. I was mostly, uh, cargo, really. Maybe they were keeping me as a good luck charm. Joke's on fucking them, yes?"

[there-must-be-a-lock]

For Us Sinners

Soulless Sam x Reader

Word Count: ~4130

Warnings: This is 100% pure smutty religion-themed filth. Sam is dressed as a priest. There’s sex in a confessional, severe perversion of the Hail Mary prayer, and a lot of blasphemy happening. Like. A lot. Orgasm denial. Squirting. Non-explicit mentions of Winchester threesomes, gun play, and knife play. 

A/N: For @stusbunker​‘s “Jam Basket” fic exchange! This is for the lovely @rockhoochie​. I managed to squeeze a decent amount of her jams in here. Sarah, my dear, I hope this makes you even a little bit as happy as your friendship makes me. 

Thanks to @cracksinthewalls​ @fangirlxwritesx67​ and @fookinghelljensensthighs​ for lore, encouragement, and inspiration! 

You’re frowning at the trunk arsenal, wondering if it’s possible to sharpen a machete too much, when movement catches your eye. Sam rounds the corner of the old warehouse, and you grab a knife and a whetstone just to have something to focus on that’s not him and his stupid smirky face or the way his shoulders look in that suit. 

The whole priest thing is a really good look on him. 

“Dean’s not back yet?” he asks, without preamble, sitting on the edge of the trunk next to you. You focus very intently on your knife. 

“Nice to see you too, Sam,” you snark, to cover the way you’re blushing. “Why yes, I did have a super fun afternoon of doing fucking nothing! Waiting around for you two is exactly how I wanted to spend the last three hours, thanks for asking.” 

He laughs. “Weren’t you just telling me that I should stop pretending to be normal polite Sam?” 

“Whatever,” you mutter. 

“Lemme see that,” he says abruptly, and plucks the knife from your grip before you can protest. He takes one look at it and laughs at you, twirling the blade in his fingers. “Working out some frustration, huh?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“What’s really going on? You’re only like this when you’re hungry or horny.” 

“Bullshit,” you snap, but he’s totally fucking right. He’s way too perceptive these days. 

You’ve been refusing to play poker with him ever since this whole soulless deal came to light. He’s like a walking polygraph test… a very attractive, muscled polygraph who’s really good in the sack. 

He’s analyzing your expression with his head cocked. “The knife thing?” 

“I don’t know what you’re — that’s not—”

He holds the tip of the blade to your throat, and you stop stammering immediately. You close your eyes and swallow hard. 

“That’s not new, though,” he says thoughtfully. 

When you open your eyes, ready to protest, he’s tucking the knife back in its sheath and twisting to set it in the trunk. 

“How’d you know about that?” you ask reluctantly. 

He just smirks, that godawful not-Sam not-smile, with his dimples popping and his eyes glittering. 

“One of these days you’re going to realize that I’ll never judge you,” he says, low and sly. “C’mon. Tell me.” He puts on a prim, sanctimonious face, pointing at the collar, and says, “Confess your sins and all will be forgiven.” 

He ruins the pious effect by licking his lips and aggressively eye-fucking you. 

You try to laugh, but it comes out all squeaky. You’ve never been good at poker, and if Sam’s smirk is anything to go by, he can see exactly what’s written all over your face. 

“Shut up,” you say preemptively. “Asshole.” 

“This is totally doing it for you, isn’t it?” Sam asks. 

“Shut up.” 

His smile is gleeful. “Oh my god, it is!” 

“That’s not — I’m not—” 

You grit your teeth and stand up abruptly, and it’s not like you can go anywhere but you need to move; it’s impossible to think straight when he’s right there and he smells so good. 

He gets up so quickly you barely have time to blink before he’s in your space. He backs you against the warm metal of the door, caging you in with one big hand planted on either side of your head, and you have to tilt your chin up to meet his wickedly sparkling eyes. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, soft and heated, lips curling up in a familiar dangerous smile. “Lying is a sin.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you huff, but you can’t stop staring at his mouth. 

“Besides, I can always tell. Admit it.” 

“You are so fucking—”

Without warning, he’s tugging at your zipper, yanking the button open, and shoving a hand roughly down the front of your jeans as he murmurs, “You are so fucking into this.” 

Before you can protest (not that you’d really want to) he’s got two fingers sliding into you, curling sweet and easy where you’re ridiculously, undeniably, outrageously into this. 

“Maybe a little bit,” you sigh. 

He’s just smiling, watching you squirm, playing with you like a cat might play with a mouse, and as much as you’d like to be angry about it, he knows exactly how to use those clever fingers. Then — 

“Dean’s back,” he says calmly, and before you can even process that, he’s sucking his fingers clean and walking around the car to greet his brother. 

You have about three seconds to button your pants, thank your lucky stars that you were on this side of the car, and generally get your shit together before it’s back to business. 

“It’s a goddamn garden statue,” Dean is saying. “Some crazy old bat donated it to the church and then just up and left town. First person disappeared the next day.” 

“So we wait til dark, take it down, break the curse.” Sam shrugs. “Easy enough.” 

“Like a chant ‘n’ smash,” you offer. Both the boys give you blank looks, and you try to pretend like your brain isn’t totally scrambled. “You know. Like a salt and burn. A good old-fashioned chant and smash… no? Okay, whatever.” 

Sam is barely containing his laughter. Asshole. 

“I could use a nap before we do that, I’m wiped,” Dean grumbles, taking off his clerical collar as he slides into the driver’s seat. Sam keeps his on. 

As you’re all getting buckled, he says, “Why don’t you just let us handle this one, Dean? You should take the night off.” 

“If you guys want some privacy to bone, you can just say so,” Dean grouches. “But get another motel room, don’t bring Baby into it.” 

“Yeah, we know. We will,” Sam reassures him. 

Dean does not seem reassured. He looks at Sam suspiciously. “So, what, you’re just being nice?”  

“Oh, absolutely not,” Sam says bluntly. “You look like shit and I don’t want you hunting with me when you’re this sleep-deprived.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, that I buy. Man, this whole soul-free honesty shit is gonna take some getting used to.” 

“You and me both,” you sigh, and Sam gives you a wink in the rearview mirror. 

 * * *

“That is the creepiest-looking angel I’ve ever seen,” Sam comments, striking a match. “And l’m including Zachariah in that. Okay, here we go.” 

He lights up the little bowl of herbs he’s concocted and says a few things in Latin, and then the smoke coming up from the bowl turns eerie green and seems to sink into the worn concrete. 

“Is that it?” you ask dubiously. “How do we smash it?” 

“That’s the fun part,” Sam says. He attaches a silencer and loads his gun, quick and practiced, and when you’re both out of shrapnel range he aims almost lazily while you try not to stare at his fingers. Bad enough that he’s still wearing the priest getup. Watching him shatter an angel with a few perfect shots shouldn’t be a turn-on, but…  

“Shouldn’t” is one of those words that lost most of its meaning when you and Sam started fucking. In the last two weeks, he’s managed to discover kinks you’ve never even admitted to yourself. 

Speaking of — 

“C’mon,” he says, and when the gun is deposited safely back in the arsenal, he grabs your hand without waiting for an answer, leading you around to a side door. The door isn’t even locked. Sam’s smile is gleeful in the moonlight. 

“What are we doing?” you ask, as he leads you inside. 

It’s almost completely dark, just a faint glow from the emergency exit signs to light the sanctum, until Sam takes out his matches and lights a few of the tall pillar candles that are arranged in nooks around the altar. The golden glow flickers and dances on the walls. 

Sam grabs you by the wrist, and you halfheartedly attempt to tug your hand away. He’s got that glint in his eye that can only mean trouble. 

“We really shouldn’t be here,” you hiss, as he pulls you over to the confessional. 

“What are they gonna do, condemn my soul to hell?” he says flatly, and you stifle a giggle. “We established a while ago that my immortal soul is fucked.” 

“Mine isn’t,” you mutter. 

He looks at you with another of those smirks and says, “That’s why you’re the one who needs to confess.” 

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” you sigh, but instead of answering, he crowds in close, pressing you up against the smooth dark wood of the confessional, and kisses you, all teeth and tongue and liquefying heat, until your lips feel bruised and your entire body is tingling. 

“Confess,” he whispers, and with one last grin, he points you toward one curtain and slips behind the other. 

If you’ve learned anything about Sam over the years, soul or no, it’s that there’s no point arguing when he’s made up his mind about something. 

Sam seems to have made up his mind. 

You pull the curtain closed behind you and sit on the little bench, and you have to breathe through some long-buried memories before the words come to your lips. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you whisper.  “It has been… a long time since my last confession.” 

The flickering candlelight cuts through small gaps around the curtain, casting dancing shadows through the cramped space. Your cheeks are burning. 

“Sam?” you ask tentatively. “This feels stupid.” 

He lets out a low, cocky chuckle, and his voice is all sorts of promising when he replies, “Trust me, I’ll make it worth your while. Play along for me.” 

Fine. 

“Where do I start?” you mumble. “I drink, frequently. I have been dishonest. I gamble, and I do not dress modestly, and — I don’t know. What else?” 

“Do you have impure thoughts?” You can hear the smile in Sam’s voice. 

“Yes.”

“About what?” 

You swallow hard, closing your eyes, thinking about the way he looks right now. No preacher has ever looked so good in that black suit. “About… about you.” 

“Go on.” 

“About the way you feel inside me. About the way you fuck me.” 

“What did you think about last time you touched yourself?” 

Your breath hitches. “I thought… I imagined that you —” 

“Lying is a sin.” 

Fuck. 

That’s the thing about Sam; he won’t let you get away with politeness, or with half-truths, or with telling him what most guys would want to hear. 

Fuck him and his creepy polygraph spidey senses. 

“I imagined that it was Dean,” you whisper, cheeks burning. 

“And how did that go, in your fantasy?” There’s no trace of surprise or hesitation in his voice. 

“I was — he bent me over the hood of the car.” 

“That’s not the first time you’ve thought about him, is it?” 

“Sam, I don’t — this is weird,” you say, squirming slightly. 

“Why?” he says, and you keep waiting for the jealousy or the disgust to color his words, but all you can hear is curiosity. “Do you think about him while I’m fucking you?” 

You let out a long, measured exhale. “Yes.” 

“Have you thought about him walking in? Listening to us?”

“Yes. Sam, I don’t—” 

“Were you thinking about him a couple days ago, in the middle of the night? When you couldn’t seem to keep quiet?”

You shudder, pressing your thighs together. “Yes.” 

“Tell me.” When you hesitate, he continues, “I wondered… felt the way you were squeezing around my cock every time it got too loud. You wanted him to hear.” 

“I wanted him to — to imagine. I hoped he was awake, and that he was turned on, and—” 

“You wanted him to join in,” Sam supplies, when you falter. His voice sounds husky, now. “You were imagining both of us, huh? What else?” 

“Sitting in your lap, in the backseat, while he watches in the rearview,” you mumble, and now that you’ve started talking, it’s hard to stop: “I think about getting on my knees for both of you. Letting him have my mouth while you fuck me, or… one of you holding me down.” 

“Have you imagined us handcuffing you? Taking turns with you?” he asks calmly. 

“Well now I’m imagining it,” you huff, and your nervous giggle breaks the tension for a moment. 

“I know you’re holding out on me,” Sam purrs, when the silence starts to stretch. “Leave my brother out of it, if you’re getting all hung up on that. What else?” 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. 

“Trust me. God isn’t judging you and neither am I. Tell me what you want me to do to you.” 

You can’t bring yourself to spit it out, even like this. “That’s it.” 

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice is silk and steel now. “Why don’t I take a guess?” 

“Fine.”  

“Knives,” he says bluntly, and your inhale is too sharp to be innocent. “You like the way a knife looks in my hands, the way it’d be dangerous if I didn’t know what I was doing.” 

“Yes.” 

“You want to know what it’d be like: cold metal on your skin. A knife at your throat, or... a gun to your temple.” 

You’re shaking. 

“How’d you know?” you whisper. 

“I pay attention,” he says simply, voice ragged, and then there’s a long pause before he asks, “Is that the end of your confession?” 

You’d almost forgotten where you are. You’re grateful the screen is still between you and Sam. 

“Yes,” you say, and because old habits die hard, you add, “I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past lives.” 

“As for penance…” You can hear the teasing note in it, and some of your self-consciousness dissipates. “You can begin by taking off your clothes.” 

“Here?” you laugh. “Sam…” 

“Here. Now.” 

You let out a tiny, nervous whine of protest, but you’re too turned on to care, not when you’ve already crossed so many lines tonight. 

Then you strip, taking off your clothes with shaking hands and setting them in a neat-ish pile in one corner of the tiny booth. It’s chilly, and you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling goosebumps run down your bare skin. 

“Okay,” you say softly. 

“Now... you can say ten Hail Marys,” Sam says, with that smirk in his voice again. 

“I — really?” you ask. 

Just as you’re thinking that’s all?, Sam is ducking through the curtain of the confessional, crowding you in and pushing on your shoulder until you sit back down on the narrow bench. Even in the barely-there flickers of light you can see the wicked smile on his face as he drops to his knees in front of you.  

“And you may not come until you’re finished,” he orders coolly. 

Then he’s hooking his arms under your knees, grabbing you by the hips and pulling you forward so that he can get that filthy smirking mouth on you. He licks a hot slick stripe up your center, swirling his tongue over your throbbing clit, and —

“Holy fucking shit,” you gasp, letting your head fall back against the wood with an echoing thunk, because whatever Sam’s doing with his lips is sending sweet fluttering waves of heat through your belly. “Oh my God, Sam, that’s—” 

“If you keep taking the Lord’s name in vain,” he growls, nipping at your inner thigh, “I’ll double it.” 

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” you start, and it’s been a while; Sam’s not the only reason you have to pause. “Fuck. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the — the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now—” Your voice breaks as you whimper, and you finish in one long rushed breath: “— and at the hour of our death, amen.”

“There you go,” Sam says, practically moaning the words against slick skin. You’re already having trouble thinking straight. 

You start all over again, trying to rush through it as quickly as possible, but you stutter as Sam fucks you shallowly with his tongue.  

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Sam says, curling two long fingers into you.

Except it’s bad. In the short time you’ve been doing this, Sam has learned your sweet spots like nobody’s ever learned them before, and he’s not touching them now. This is barely a tease, compared to what you know he can do to you. It’s bad, and it’s going to get so much worse. 

You start to stammer through the third prayer. You’re so wet — from the thrill of the setting, as much as what he’s doing with his tongue — you can hear the slick thrust of his fingers inside you, dirty and distracting. 

When you pause for breath between “Mary” and “mother of God,” Sam hums low against your cunt, and you know he enjoys this, you know he gets off on it, but he lets out these noises that never fail to make you feel feverish, and now is no exception. It doesn’t feel chilly any more. By “amen,” you’re burning up. 

“Three down,” Sam murmurs. 

On the fourth “grace,” he closes his lips around your clit and sucks gently, and you make a high, squeaky, mortifyingly desperate sound. Your voice keeps breaking as you stumble through the next lines, until you end on a long, relieved groan. 

“Good girl,” he croons. “Six more.” 

“I can’t,” you hiss. 

“You can. And you will.” 

On “full,” Sam twists his knuckles, and you gasp, arching your back, squirming. He fucks you in the same rhythm as your words, dragging friction across your g-spot with every syllable, and when you try to speed up, rushing through it, you can’t even get to “sinners” without breaking off in a moan. He stops completely as you pant for breath, and as you mumble through the last lines, painfully slow, you’re rolling your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, desperate for more. 

“That’s five,” Sam says. “I’ll give you a second to catch your breath.” 

With his free hand, he grabs one of your wrists, guiding your hand to the back of his head. His eyes flick up to you, watching hungrily, until you slide your fingers through the silky strands and tug lightly. 

You sigh. “You’re gonna kill me.” 

“Hope not,” he says, smirking against the crease of your thigh. “I’m into some weird shit, but I like ‘em warm and breathing.” 

“Ha fucking ha, Sam, that’s — fuck,” you choke, as he fits his mouth to your clit again, and this time he sucks lightly in time with the slow thrusts of his fingers.  You forget what you’re saying, somewhere around “God,” and stumble to the end in bits and incoherent pieces. 

“Six.” You realize you’ve got a death grip on his hair, all your muscles tensed-up and rigid with electricity that’s got nowhere else to go, but when you ease up, he pumps his fingers in deep and growls, “Harder.” 

He adds a third finger, and it’s so fucking good, so fucking much, filling you with fizzing pressure, and it takes most of your willpower to stop yourself from going under. 

You grit out, “HailMaryfullofgrace.” Lightning lances up your belly, and you squirm— “TheLordiswiththee.” — twist your fingers in Sam’s hair— “Blessedartthouamongwomen.” — muscles quaking, cunt clenching around perfectly curled fingers— “Blessedisthe. Fuck. Fruitofthywomb. Fuck — Jesus!” — tension surging and swelling  — “Holy Mary, mother of God, prayforussinnersnow, fuck, Sam!” — you’re almost there, almost, and he stops, refusing to give you what you want as you gasp out, “And —at the— the hour of our death, amen.” 

“Seven,” he says harshly, and you can feel him breathing hard, damp hot air teasing your slick swollen skin, and his mouth is so close to where you want it. He gives you a second and then: “Keep going.” 

You babble out a few words at a time, and your voice is ragged and broken, but it must sound close enough to what he wants; he’s winding you up again, fingers crooking expertly against that sweet spot. The heel of his other hand digs into your lower belly, right over that point of white heat, and it’s so intense, suddenly, that everything goes sparkly and distant.  

“Pray for us,” you groan, and he sucks, fast and hard. “Pray for us — us sinners —” 

There’s this pressure, right there, right where his fingers are stoking a fire, and it’s blazing, and —

“Sam, I can’t. I can’t, I’m gonna—” 

He’s not holding back, and you can’t either. You buck helplessly against the incredible suction of his mouth, holding him with both hands fisted in his hair as you bow up and cry out. All that pressure peaks, crashing down in wave after wave of relief, pulling you under like a rip tide as you come dripping-wet and messy. 

It blinds you, for a moment. You’re out of your body for who knows how long, lit-up and paralyzed by the high-voltage shock of it. 

When you come back to yourself, Sam is scooping you up and swapping places with you in one smooth movement, manhandling you so that you’re straddling him; he’s got his pants open just enough, can’t seem to wait any longer, and the breathless urgency is so unusual for him that your head spins. 

You’re still clenching through the lingering quakes of your orgasm, trembling, boneless like a rag doll, and it’s not you sinking down on his cock so much as him pulling you, filling you up inch by inch as you squeeze and quiver around the thick length of him. 

When he’s as deep as he can be, his arms wrapped around you and practically crushing you to his chest, you both pause and take a ragged gulp of air. 

“What even was that?” you slur, bracing yourself with a hand against the wall and trying to adjust. He lets out a rough groan through gritted teeth. 

“That is what I’ll be seeing every time I look at a confessional now,” he pants, starting to rock up into you. “Never gonna be able to walk into a church without getting hard.” 

He wraps an arm around your ribs, and the heat of his splayed hand on your shoulder feels like it spans half your back. Your naked skin seems even more obscene as it brushes the stiff cloth of his suit, and you can feel your own wetness soaking the fabric in places. You shiver, roll your hips, and you can feel the way he reacts, shuddering under you. 

“Seems like I’m not the only one who likes this a little too much,” you say, breathless. 

“Who said anything about too much? No such thing.” He barks out a laugh, bucking up in a way that makes you moan. “I’ve been to heaven, and trust me when I say, this right here—” He twists his hips viciously to emphasize the word. “— this is so much better.”

“God, this is so —” you whimper. He fists a hand in your hair and bites your neck, and you jerk helplessly against him. 

“God doesn’t care,” he growls. “God wasn’t listening to you just now.” 

“That’s not —” You’re pretty sure he’s missing the point, but with the way your cunt is throbbing at every perfect thrust, you can’t remember what that point is; you can’t remember anything. 

“God’s not going to answer those prayers,” he says hoarsely. “I’m the one who’s going to handcuff you and bend you over the hood of the car and fuck you until your legs give out.” 

“Holy shit, Sam.” Your brain is shorting out. 

“I’m going to make sure Dean sees you when you’re all strung-out and begging for it,” he promises. He jerks up with a vicious twist of his hips, and you grind down to meet him, every inch of your skin singing. “I’m going to hold a gun to your head while you ride me. I’m going to give you anything you want.” 

“Please.” Your moan sounds more like a sob, and you can’t see straight anymore; it’s all going distant, until the only thing that feels real is the aching, pulsing heat of him inside you. 

Sam claws at your back, dragging his open mouth up the side of your neck until he can snarl against your ear: “God doesn’t answer prayers, but I do.” 

He surges up to meet you one last time. Your vision flashes bright white as you come, one exquisite pulse after another rolling through you, and it feels like a purer sort of ecstasy than any religious experience you’ve had in a church.

This is worth a little hellfire. 

.

.

.

There is now a follow-up drabble here!

[thedevillionaire]

OOhh! YES UM hi hi can i please get🍲 ❤️ and ❔for Cerberus? THANK YOU

Of course, and thank YOU! 🍲 What’s their ‘get better’ strategy? Do they have one? Uh...well, not a good one. 😂 His first strategy, if it can be termed as such, is intense application of willpower for this just not to be happening, damn it. He does this every time, although to be entirely fair to him, he actually does manage to shake off milder colds regularly enough that he's not just totally delusional about this stuff. And he's not used to getting sick but he is used to being able to impose his will to achieve a desired outcome, so...he'll pretty much never just accept his fate in this regard. Once he's undeniably sick, though, and has begrudgingly accepted that no amount of willpower is going to do a damn thing about that, he'll look after himself reasonably well, in that he'll do his best to stay warm, and he will take meds (not without significant complaining about both having to do so and the inefficacy of the godawful stuff) and drink tea and eat soup and the whole deal, BUT. He's usually terrible at actually resting properly - unless told to do so, he probably won't - and he is also terrible at sticking to recommended doses of medication. And he's certainly not averse to the occasional glass of cognac or merlot getting included in the mix, too. This can have...entertaining results. ;P And again, and as ever, if Kia's around, he'll do much better. <3 ❤️ What’s your favorite thing (or some of your favorite things) they’ve ever said about illness/sneezing in reference to themself? Asked and answered already here, but since there's (several) more than one answer to this one, the other one that always comes to my mind is: “Bless you, hon.” Kia moves to him, places a gentle hand on his arm. “Should I even ask how your day’s been?”

“Argued with Aera, sneezed a lot. I’m fairly sure that covers it.” With a sharp, strong sniffle, he pushes newly disarrayed midnight from his face, manages a sardonic half-smile for his bonded. “You, darkling?”

(From Much Better) ❔If asked, “Are you okay?” while sick, how would they phrase their response? Does it depend on who’s asking? His most common answer, by a fair margin, is "I'm fine", delivered in whichever tone fits the circumstance. He's as likely to say this calmly and gently as he is to practically snarl it, and yes, it does depend very much on who's asking, and what else is going on. His other most likely answer, though, is "I'm alright," or - and this one is a tell, if you know him well - "I'll be alright." Both of these indicate he's probably not, actually, and particularly the second one. He'll also use "I've been better" - this, like "I'll be alright", definitely indicates that he is not, in fact, okay. If Cerberus is asked if he's okay and he just openly admits that he isn't, something is very wrong with him indeed. Kia is, as always, the exception here, but even then, he's often avoidant with this question as he never wants to worry her.

[consumeconstantly]

A Discowing at the Wayne Gala

Summary: Getting Jason to go to the Wayne Gala each year was more difficult than putting the Joker away in Arkham; he insisted the part was full of pretentious, rich social climbers who were horribly boring. As it turned out, all he really needed to persuade him was an upset, drunk girl rambling about how much she was going to deck her highschool enemies there to convince himself that he’d be in for a great show. (AKA the extremely chaotic and nonsensical salt/crack fic)

____________________________________________________

“I, Mar--” she hiccupped, “Marinette Dupain-Cheng solemnly swear to rip Lila a new one with Discowing’s godawful costume.”

“You say it girl!” called some random person from across the bar. 

“I will--” another hiccup “--use Batman’s Batmobile to run over Kim. And slam Red Hood’s ugly ass helmet onto Adrien’s stupid face.”

“Better yet,” Marinette pounded the table, “I will use their stupid utility belts to dismantle Gabriel’s empire. Somebody give me a yeah!”

“Yeah!”

All in all, the sight wasn’t that atypical for a bar in Gotham, if it weren’t for the fact that Marinette Dupain-Cheng was barely five feet, wore pigtails, and knocked five men on their asses when they tried to approach her. 

“Take that, Hawkass,” she hissed. “Think you can pull a fast one on me when I’m drunk, do you? Well I’ve got news for you!”

Her words slurred together, and she leaned on the bar for support. “When I get my way, you’re going to be tied up into a pretzel and dumped into a volcano, then the tundra and then we’ll see how you like your stupid little jewlery touched.”

“Dupain-Cheng,” her blonde companion hissed. “Get yourself together. We don’t need another one of your breakdowns now. You know we’re going to be busy tomorrow night, and I don’t want to deal with you completely hung over all throughout the gala.”

“Aww,” Marinette squished her cheek onto Chloe’s “You know you love me.”

“Yes, yes, but I’m not going to tolerate this bullshit. If you want to make good on your plans, you need to be in tip top shape.”

“Ughhhh, why are they even invited to the stupid gala? It’s not even like they’re rich! Oh wait, I guess they are…” Marinette pressed her face to the bar, which was undoubtedly dirty. She reveled in it’s coolness, brushing her bangs out of her face. “And why do you have to be right? I guess I have to stop drinking if I want to make any of my plans work.”

“Your plans will work, hungover or not. It’s just a question of how much you’ll be able to enjoy them. I don’t want you complaining for months after the fact that you don’t remember half of what happened.”

“I guess you’re right. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and I'm feeling a little too warm to ice them out.” Staggering, Marinette got to her feet. “Call an Uber?”

“It’s already here.”

#

“What made you change your mind?” Tim frowned at Jason, doubtful that he wasn’t going to cop out at the last second. He was sure that he was only putting on his suit as some sort of deliberate ploy to get out of the Gala. Truthfully, it wasn’t required that all of them attend the Gala, but it was one of the few events that brought together most of the Wayne family.

Jason ran a hand through his hair and smirked. “Let’s just say I’m expecting quite the show.”

#

Jason kept a hawkish gaze on the entrance, waiting for the appearance of one short, pigtailed girl, and a taller blonde. They arrived almost forty five minutes into the Gala, which was good timing; not late enough to be considered rude, but most people have already arrived and have made their rounds.

Marinette looked different out of the dim lighting of the bar, and even though she definitely looks like she’s nursing a light hangover, she still managed to look stunning. With a matte-black floor length dress that attracted all light in the vicinity towards it, it’s hard not to look her way; Tim, for one, stared at the outfits that Marinette and her companion are wearing with stars in his eyes. Any moment now, he’s going to approach them. Or he would if he weren’t on Jason-sitting duty.

“I’ll play nice,” Jason promised.

“You? Nice?” Tim sounded incredulous, and it’s not like he can fault him. Whenever Jason did successfully get roped into coming to the Gala, it’s a sure thing that he gets at least one fist fight started, if not an everyone for themselves sort of situation. 

“They’re the reason I decided to come. It’s not me you have to be worried about.”

Tim groaned. “Really? They’re trouble makers? But they’re wearing MDC!”

Jason chuckled, slipping a hand into his pants pocket. Tim was weirdly obsessed with the highly secretive French designer. Nobody ever saw them in person. “Wearing your fashion icon doesn’t mean they can’t kick ass.”

Tim rocked back on his heels, looking at the two girls calculatively. “That’s right. If anything, they’re more likely to kick ass, because that’s the kind of confidence that MDC inspires in their designs. Well, if you’re not going to fight them, I’m going to introduce myself.”

“And I can’t leave my little brother alone.” Jason said, watching the blonde girl point in the direction of, if he wasn’t mistaken, Gabriel Agreste’s son and his plus one.

Who knew that doing a preliminary reading of the guests would be so informative? He could only guess what kind of beef Marinette had with Agreste Jr.--Bruce had enough problems with Gabriel; even though Wayne Enterprises only dabbled in fashion, Gabriel was a ruthless man when it came to his competitors, and tried to edge them out of the market multiple times. Foolish on his part, not taking into consideration that both Bruce and Tim were very, very stubborn people who only get more difficult to face when dealing with a challenge.

Wayne Enterprise might primarily be considered with R&D and technology companies, but underestimating the amount of influence Tim could gather when someone pissed him off was just a bad idea.

“Hi, I’m Tim--”

“--and it’s lovely to meet you, but we’re on a mission right now,” finished the blonde girl, who Jason was now 98% sure is Chloe Bourgeois, daughter of Paris’ mayor and Style Queen Audrey Bourgeois. “Dupain-Cheng, it’s your time to shine.”

“God,” Marinette muttered underneath her breath, ducking her head. “I can’t believe you’re holding me to what I said while drunk last night.”

“It’s not just what you said drunk last night, it’s the most effective way of dealing with that liar. She’ll be so embarrassed she’ll hide away forever. Maybe get some plastic surgery and change her name. Daddy will make sure she can never step foot in Paris again.” 

“Chloe,” Marinette groaned. “We all know how that panned out last time. Do you want a repeat performance?”

“By that time Hawkmoth will already be taken down. No need to worry about evil butterflies.”

“Evil butterflies?” Tim frowned. 

“We can fill you in later, Marinette has a car to steal.”

“Chloe!” 

“Oh stuff it, Dupain-Cheng, you’re no goody two shoes, even though you pretend to be one.”

Marinette whispers into Chloe’s ear, eyeing Jason and Tim. “Do you have to discuss that with other people around?”

“Well,” Chloe crossed her arms. “You boys aren’t going to rat us out, are you? They’re part of the infamous Wayne family. They’ll definitely be in.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You know they already reached out-- I can’t risk--” Marinette kept cutting herself off. “Fine, but if you-know-what falls through, I’m putting it all on you.”

“Like they’re going to pass you up just because of what’s going to go down at this gala. If anything, they’ll be glad to know that you’re as vicious as you are creative,” Chloe checked her nails and touched her hair, making sure it was in place.

“Sorry, what? I’m a little bit lost.”

“Keep up, Drake. I’m beginning to doubt your title as child-genius.You have the unique opportunity to watch history in the making.”

#

“Wait,” Tim’s jaw almost dropped at the display in front of him. “How did you even--”

“Trade secret. Marinette doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“But that’s the Batmobile.”

“Yeah, and?”

Jason laughed. He stole the hubcaps off the Batmobile, Marinette stole the whole thing. What a sight.

#

Here’s how the rest of the night went: Chloe plied Marinette with copious amounts of water, trying to get rid of her headache. Marinette hopped into the driver’s seat of the Batmobile (to which Chloe cackled, “And she doesn’t even have a driver’s license yet,” and Tim paled to the shade of freshly fired ceramic plate.) They ran over Kim, who, somehow managed to get into the event as a server of sorts, at which point Tim swore that the background checks would have to be upped again. Marinette landed the Batmobile in the middle of the gala, barely managing to avoid several innocents who were in her path. She reached into the convenient storage compartment that Jason was previously unaware of and pulled out the Discowing outfit and his helmet-- seriously, how did she get those?-- and slammed the car door.

Security, of course, was waiting for them. How couldn’t they, with that big of a disturbance? Half of the guests were up in a tizzy-- mostly the ones who were experiencing their first Wayne Gala-- and the other half were looking on, amused. Tim waved the guards off as Marinette made her way to Lila and Adrien, like a vengeful Valkyrie.

“You,” Marinette grimaced. “Chloe, say the words, I forgot them.”

“We decided that words were useless, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Marinette said, before promptly slamming Red Hood’s helmet onto Adrien’s head hard enough for him to fall to the ground, likely concussed. Lila, who started screeching and running away made for a surprisingly difficult target. Well, difficult in the fact that she was using other people as shields, but once she came across a group of Experienced Wayne Gala Goers, she got pushed out of her comfort zone.

In eight inch heels and with her hair down, Marinette stalked towards her prey. 

“Lila Rossi,” Marinette intoned. “Your sins will be judged.”

“What are you going to do, Marinette? You have no power here. We’re in America now. No Ladybug to back you up. No public opinion in your favor.”

Marinette shuddered. “Ugh, your voice makes me want to vomit. In any case, I sentence you to life in Discowing’s costume.”

“You can’t make me wear anything!”

Famous last words, Lila.

#

“I’m still so confused. What just happened?”

“Don’t worry,” Chloe gave Tim a pat on the back. “You’ll get used to this kind of thing if you end up hanging around Marinette more often.”

“I think I’m in love,” said Jason.

“Get in the back of the line. The only thing Marinette has time for now are her plans to take down Hawkmoth.”

“I’m not opposed to joining you. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.” Jason paused. “By the way, has she already stolen the utility belts to take down Gabriel or does she need more? I’ve got contacts.”

 "Fair warning, everything in Paris is at least twenty times crazier than what you’ve seen here today.” Chloe swiped through a few notifications on her phone. “And please, do you think someone who hotwired the Batmobile needs your help getting her hands on a couple utility belts? If she really put her mind to it, she could get the Lasso of Truth from Wonder Woman.”

“Yeah, Jason, I’m definitely not going to join you on that trip.” Tim turned his attention towards Marinette, who was currently passed out on the hotel couch. “Anyways, You two are wearing MDC, right? I have a meeting with them tomorrow!”

Chloe looked at the poor boy with pity. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

@jasonette-july-2k20

________________________________________________

i’m really churning out these jasonette prompts like butter (god butter is so freaking good you ever eat butter straight? i do. heart attack city & the next paula dean) even tho i only thought about joining in right when july was ending but here we are 

[nicknellie]

Anonymous requested: willex and one of them confesses their feelings to the other while sleeping

So I wasn’t 100% sure if I’d understood this right and I had two directions I could go, either of which would have been good, so I did the Right Thing and included both versions of how I interpreted this. It’s a little short, but I love it. I got a random burst of inspiration for it in the middle of a maths exam yesterday so that was fun, and this is what came out of it. Thank you for the prompt!

No Going Back

If there was one thing Alex had become certain of in all the time he’d known Willie, it was that the guy didn’t get nearly enough sleep.

At first Willie’s constant state of being so exhausted that he was hyper had been endearing. Alex had looked forward to receiving that inevitable ‘are you awake?’ text in the darkest hours of every night, thrilled that he was on Willie’s mind, anxious to have a late-night deep conversation or for Willie to show up at his house and whisk him away on a midnight adventure. He had loved the spontaneity that Willie displayed, a by-product of his insomnia that rendered him incapable of figuring out when something was a bad idea – though Alex was still bitter about that time they’d nearly been arrested for breaking into a skatepark after dark, something Willie had sworn was perfectly legal.

He still loved all that about Willie, it wasn’t something he could ever stop loving. Willie was like that – once you loved him there was no going back. But over time Alex had started to worry, as he was wont to do, about how little sleep Willie was getting.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Alex asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Willie said, not looking up from what he was doing. “What makes you think I didn’t?”

“Nothing,” Alex replied, “just the fact that you’re still wearing the same clothes as last night and there’s a marble run spanning the length of your apartment that definitely wasn’t there yesterday.”

It was mid-morning and Alex was stood in the doorway of Willie’s apartment, peering in through the door at what could only be described as chaos. Willie was stood in the centre of the living room, fiddling with a section of the marble run, his tongue poking out in concentration. All around him, the marble run twisted through the apartment, an explosion of plastic in colours that clashed painfully alongside each other. By the looks of it, the run started atop a light fixture, wound its way through the kitchen (including going inside the fridge and back out again), tracked into Willie’s bedroom, linked back around into the living room, and ended in the perfect position to hit the TV remote’s power button.

It was very obvious to Alex that Willie had spent the whole night trying to find the most complicated way of turning his TV on – getting him to admit it would be the difficult thing.

Willie looked around the apartment, eyes wide as if he was only seeing the marble run for the first time now. He looked utterly bewildered, stumped by his own creative genius.

“Oh,” he said simply. “Yeah, well, I did sleep for a bit. And I also made this. A guy can do two things.”

Alex stepped cautiously into the apartment, shutting the door behind him, being careful not to tread on the marbles that littered the floor. Willie quickly got back to tinkering with his marble run, trying to secure two bits of track together. He was stood on a coffee table up on his tip-toes – Alex moved instinctively behind him to catch him in case he fell.

“Did you really sleep?” he pressed.

“Yes,” Willie insisted. “For, like, an hour maybe. I woke up at about half one.”

Alex checked his watch and felt his jaw go slack in shock. “You’ve been building a marble run for eight hours?”

Although he probably didn’t need to, Willie held onto Alex’s outstretched hands as he lowered himself slowly down from the coffee table. He didn’t let go once he was down, leaving one hand gently slipped into Alex’s. Alex felt his heart beat that little bit faster but ignored the feeling in favour of continuing to worry about Willie’s godawful sleeping habits.

“Not the full eight hours,” Willie told him dismissively. “Probably more like five? I built a domino chain first, and then I had to clear it all up.”

He pointed to a box in the corner of the room that was being used to prop up a good chunk of the marble run and appeared to be filled with an ungodly amount of dominoes. He was smiling triumphantly as if setting up dominoes all night was any different to setting up a marble run.

“You say that like it makes this better, but you’ve still only had one hour’s sleep,” Alex reminded him as Willie tried and failed to stifle a yawn. “I think it’d be a good idea if you got some rest now.”

Willie shook his head. “I’ll be fine, hotdog. One hour is more than enough sleep, I usually get less.”

“That’s not something to be proud of.”

Willie just shrugged, but he wasn’t fooling Alex. In recent weeks, Alex had noticed that Willie’s lack of sleep really seemed to be getting to him. He was sleeping less and less, running on energy drinks and sugar highs, spending his time doing nonsensical things like building colossal marble runs all night instead of at least lying in bed. And Willie was pretending that he was fine, carrying on like it was nothing, but there was something in his eyes that told Alex he was struggling with it more than he would let on.

But now, Willie’s face broke into an excited grin and he squeezed Alex’s hand. “Do you want to test it out?”

In his head, Alex knew he should have insisted that Willie just try and take a nap instead, but he would have been lying if he said he didn’t want to see the end result (after all, there were some loop-the-loops in there and he was quietly curious to see if they’d actually work). So he nodded reluctantly and let Willie pull him to the kitchen where he hoisted himself onto the counter and plonked a marble in the start of the tube.

They watched in awe as the little blue marble rolled its way through all the tubes, flipping around the loops, gathering speed in tight spirals. It was oddly mesmerising and Alex was so caught up in watching it that he forgot he was supposed to be a little annoyed that Willie had made it instead of getting some well-deserved rest.

It was going well, the marble run holding out sturdily, but Alex noticed Willie tense as the marble neared the section he’d been fiddling with when Alex walked in. As the marble ran over that bit of track, there was a catastrophic crash and the entire marble run collapsed around them, raining bits of rainbow-coloured plastic down around the apartment like an avalanche. Alex had covered his head and closed his eyes instinctively, but when he opened them he saw that every inch of the floor was carpeted in bits of marble run and crushed dreams.

The marble dropped to the floor with a pathetic clack, the icing on the cake.

Alex turned to Willie, who was still stood atop the kitchen counter, staring at the wreckage with a completely blank expression. He reached his hand up to hold Willie’s and got nothing in response.

“Willie?” he prompted softly.

“I hate everything,” Willie sighed.

He hopped down from the counter and began trying to pick up bits of the marble run to clear it away. Alex could hardly believe how much of it there was when it wasn’t all stacked together – he couldn’t help but admire Willie for putting it all together, but it was overshadowed by the pity he felt now that it had failed.

Gently, he placed a hand on Willie’s shoulder. Willie instantly broke, his shoulders sagging and his head hanging defeatedly. The bit of track he was holding clattered to the floor.

“You take a nap,” Alex said. He wasn’t asking anymore, he was telling, and truth be told Willie looked like he was ready to fall asleep on his feet. “I’ll pack this away.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Willie said, rubbing at his eyes exhaustedly.

“You’re not asking me, I’m offering. Go on, you need to rest.”

There was a short pause while Willie looked at Alex, something indescribable in his teary eyes. He broke it to say, in a tired voice not quite like his own, “Will you come and stay with me when you’re done?”

Alex smiled softly. “If you want me to then of course I will.”

Willie nodded, eyes already drooping closed, and made his way to his bedroom incredibly slowly as he tried to avoid stepping on any bits of the marble run. Alex began packing it away, and he could hear Willie’s soft snores within minutes.

He spent at least two hours tidying away all the pieces, mainly because for most of that time he was arranging them by size and colour and trying to get them all to fit perfectly in the large container Willie had labelled ���MARBLES :)’. Eventually though, when the apartment was clear, the final marble plonked into the box, Alex carefully pushed open the door to Willie’s bedroom.

Willie was tucked in underneath the covers, warm and snug, snoring soundly. It appeared he still hadn’t got changed out of yesterday’s clothes, but at least he was finally getting some rest. Alex crouched down by the side of his bed and placed his hand next to Willie’s where it was thrown out exhaustedly across the mattress.

People often thought Alex and Willie were dating, told them they were such a lovely couple, asked about how long they had been together. And every time they would laugh it off, correct whoever had said it, no harm done. But Alex wished that just once he could reply in a very different way, thank them for the compliment, tell them he and Willie had been together for six months or a year or five. Sometimes he suspected that Willie wanted it too – like when he held his hand, or giggled at Alex’s dumb jokes, or smiled in a way that seemed like it was just for him.

But he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

He thought about it now, how if he had been Willie’s boyfriend he could have held him as he slept, run his fingers through his hair, pressed kisses to his forehead until he dozed off. It was probably wishful thinking, but he wondered if he could have helped simply by being Willie’s boyfriend. (He knew the problem ran deeper than that, but he could hope.)

Willie shuffled a bit in his sleep and his hand came to rest atop Alex’s. He felt his breath stutter and hitch in his throat.

“I hope you can’t hear me,” Alex said quietly before he even knew he was going to say anything, “because all I want to tell you right now is that I love you. And I don’t know if that’s what you want to hear. But it’s true – I love you, Willie, and I’m always going to be right here when you need me.”

There was the briefest moment of silence in which neither of them moved and all Alex could hear was the thumping of his own heart. He couldn’t tell if Willie was fully asleep, and he wasn’t certain if he wanted that or not. He wanted Willie to know how he felt, he just didn’t want to tell him.

But after that moment, Willie’s hand clutched weakly at Alex’s, and he breathed, “I love you too.”

It was so quiet Alex thought he might have imagined it. He blinked, leaned a little closer as if Willie might say it again, but he was already back to sleep. Alex wanted to shake him awake, tell him again, make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

He didn’t though. That conversation could wait until Willie was awake. Instead, Alex sat himself down on the floor next to the bed, hand still in Willie’s, head resting against the mattress, and let Willie finally get the sleep he so deserved.

*

Taglist (if you want to be added or removed just let me know): @ace-bookworm @williexmercer @willex-owns-my-heart @itstiger720 @the-reckless-and-the-brave @that-one-newsie @bluedarkness @lookingthroughmirrors @teammightypen @salty-star @julieandthequeers @lmaohuh 

[alicemitch09writes]

lame

02.

everything has changed (whether we like it or not)

When did everything change?

That was an easy question to answer, really. But there was more to it.

Everything could go back to the time Bakugouu first discovered his quirk in kindergarten, he had just turned 5, during playtime, he playfully shoved you before you felt force, heat – an explosion, before faceplanting to the ground.

Little Izuku ran towards you, helping you off your feet. Meeting the panicked look in your best friend’s eyes, you turned back to the blond, staring at his palms in awe, at the little explosions emitting off his sweat.

Funny enough, whenever he sweats, it was always sweet-smelling, never foul or salty.

“Uwah, amazing quirk, Katsuk!” your teacher said, kneeling down to give your best friend an appraising look.

Carmine eyes looked up from his palm, tiny explosives going off excitedly.

“Cool! His quirk’s so cool!”

“It’s so radical, just like him!”

Beside you, Izuku’s eyes sparkled with excitement, happy for your best friend for finally manifesting his own quirk.

“Kacchan’s amazing!”

Discovering your quirk at such a young age, especially with an amazing quirk, should be exciting. However, the look in Katsuki’s carmine eyes was scaring you.

The more he was praised for his quirk, the more his explosions went off, the more the gleam in his eyes was scaring you.

Who is…? What is this?

“Ah, I see. I’m just awesome, and everyone else isn’t!”

Later that day, a small burnt mark was found at the back of your neck. A tell-tale reminder of what’s to come.

And then, Izuku found out that he was quirkless.

It was supposed to be a secret between the three of you, but somehow, everyone caught wind of it and began avoiding Izuku, lest they get caught with his ‘quirkless’ germs. Because you were with him a lot, not showing signs of quirk, kids easily assumed that the quirkless germs were true.

Was that when things changed?

After kindergarten, Katsuki found himself a new set of friends, those who weren’t quirkless like you and Izuku, friends who had cool quirks that could considerably pass up to his.

Since discovering his quirk, not only did it fuel his ego, but it also put a strain on your once impenetrable and inseparable friendship.

Now, he was more bent on being the best of the best, together with his amazing quirk that’ll surely bring him there no problem.

Everyone else were just beneath him, not worth his time, effort, or breath. Especially Deku – how you detested that nickname, so full of malice, disgust, and mockery – everything Izuku didn’t deserve, especially from his once best friend.

Since then, he’s deserted the two of you.

You didn’t care, you had Izuku.

Fuck Bakugou and his new quirk, ambition, and shittiness.

You didn’t need him anyway.

From: Izuku

To: (Name)

(Nickname)! I’m doing well. Just having lunch with my classmates right now!

[image.txt]

Tapping the photo, you could see Izuku smiling at the camera with a few friends in the shot – the brown-haired girl, Uraraka Ochako, the bespectacled boy, Iida Tenya, and the quiet boy, too busy eating his soba, Todoroki Shouto. It made you smile in return, having your own lunch as of texting. 

To: Izuku

From: (Name)

You better eat up, then. You hear me?

Also, stop being so reckless and take care, okay?

Right after the events at UA – the whole League of Villains intercepting the school, Izuku was, more than ever, always brought to the clinic. And you, being one of his immediate contacts (next to his mom), would rush over just to check on him, fighting a tooth and nail just to be with him. And time and time again, Izuku would give you an apologetic smile, matched with his unyielding assuring words, kind eyes, and warm hug.

The only thing you ever hated about Izuku is his recklessness, wrought by his strong sense of justice.

Having enough of everything he’s been through, it was only fair that he revealed something to you, something to explain a bit of him getting accepted at one of the most prestigious schools in Japan while bearing an almost enduring and testy quirk, a secret he knew he could only entrust to you because you were one of the few people Izuku trusted more than anything in the world – his quirk was not his, but it was passed down to him by All Might.

The revelation was shocking to you, especially because it was tied along with so many other factors you couldn’t begin to fathom. But with enough explanation, eventually, everything seemed to tie together and make better sense.

Although worried about his well-being, once again, Izuku was quick to assure you that he was working his best to make everyone – not just his idol, All Might – proud and safe. That was more than enough for you.

Still, it was such a big secret to bear. But, obviously, he trusted you, because you were his best friend.

Well, you and that other guy, for some reason.

"(Name)-san, you're going to snap that broom in half!" your co-worker called out.

Loosening your hold, you inspected the wood, glad to see that it was still intact. It was still three minutes past four, you realize, just a few minutes before dusk.

Sighing, you turned to your co-worker with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Otoha, just got something on my mind."

Izuku did tell Bakugouu his secret in a roundabout way, the blond would at least catch on to that, being a smart asshole. You just couldn’t wrap your head at the idea of having to entrust him Izuku’s big secret.

The younger girl tilts her head to the side, in thought, as she stares at you. "Are you sure? You seem to be out of it since this morning."

"Yeah, I am. Promise."

Right after revealing his secret, Izuku had planned to have you and the famed Symbol of Peace meet – to assure both parties. But you declined, knowing how busy hero work was.

(Also, to be in his presence would be something. You couldn’t deal with that. Izuku going a mile about how amazing he was made up for it.)

However, with the newfound information given to you, it was almost too much to bear. It was amazing to hear how Izuku was adjusting to his new life, working his hardest, granted that he earned it all. Guilt gnawed your insides, realizing that you were doing him a disservice at the same time, as you had your own secret you weren't telling your best friend.

Exhaling through your nose, you walked around back, to return the cleaning supplies, missing the group of people entering the cafe, hearing only the cheery greetings from Otoha and your other co-workers.

05:51 pm.

The café was in full bloom, packed with students from various schools filling all the seats. You’d spot some of your regular customers, most don’t stay long whilst stop just drop by for a coffee fix before they’re off.

From the far corner, a small group of students you could only guess were from UA, judging from their uniform, were making quite a ruckus.

Thankfully, there was enough staff that day.

Still, working was taxing!

Off to handle drinks, you kept the newbies by your side, promptly teaching them how to mix orders, which cups to use for which drinks, the amount of syrup, etcetera before they finished up for you and you were left to prepare another order. Like clockwork, they’d be back by your side for another order, and the process would start all over again.

Seeing as how well they were doing, you decided to leave them to make their own drinks as you worked on your own. Coming up to serve at the bar, readying your smile, your expression froze as you were met with the last person you wanted to see.

"The fuck-"

Not letting him finish, you forced the smile on back before practically shoving the drink into his hands, uncaring that it almost spilled over.

“Oi-“

"Enjoy your drinks, sir!"

Otoha, your young, sweet, co-worker, saw the whole thing, flinched at your gesture, warily watching you turn your back to help fix other orders without another bat towards the blond who just stared. Discreetly walking over, to fix her own order, she whispers, "(Name)-san, do you know him-"

"No."

"Are you sure-"

"Yes."

"But-"

"Otoha," turning to her with a pained smile, you reply. "I've never seen him before in my life. Okay?"

Feeling a shiver run down her spine, the younger girl slowly, nervously nodded. "O-Okay..."

…

“Bakugou my man, are you alright?”

“…”

“That girl looked really pissed at you, do you know her?”

"..."

“Is she an ex-girlfriend? Is that why she was so angry?”

"..."

“Yeah! And you’ve been wanting to head to this café for a while now.”

"..."

“I must admit, she’s kinda cute- “

“I will end you, dunce face.”

09:08 pm

Ever since she applied, you had taken Otoha under your wing and she all but admired you after your first meeting. You both lived in the same area, so you’d take it upon yourself to walk her home, not trusting a young teen like her to walk alone, especially when evil abounded. Also, she was quirkless.

That night, you were walking along the quiet streets, hands in your pockets as Otoha hummed under her breath. You stopped, ears picking up on footsteps – two, no three people were trailing after you. Gently taking the girl by the arm, you led her to another route, to a busier area, hoping to lose them.

Otoha was too gung-ho about her surroundings to understand your predicament, which was probably for the best. Still, you could feel them behind you.

Exiting the busy lane, the two of you crossed the street, turned a corner, into an empty square. Just as you walked in, so did they – three guys in godawful flashy clothes.

Scared, the younger girl hid behind you and you took a step forward, shielding her from their lecherous gaze.

“Can we help you?”

One of them laughed, some pansy in ridiculous SUPRA outfit waltzed towards you.

“Oh no, no, no, can we help you, young misses?”

You had to roll your eyes at that.

“Well, let’s see, it’s late at night,” he drawled, flashing gold in his teeth “two girls are out walking out,” his two companions chuckled “dangerous is it not?”

Your expression remained, betraying nothing. The pansy decided to talk some more, probably on some shit about chivalry.

“And well, we gentlemen thought it would be just right to walk you girls home!” And there it was. “It’s dangerous for little girls to be out so late.”

And he was right.

“Otoha,” you whispered, as he continued to babble. “take this alleyway,” to gesture with a quick tilt of your head, something the guys didn’t notice. “go straight then turn to your first left, you’ll be safe then.”

“E-Eh? How about you?”

Smiling, you met her gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

“…So, little girls, what’s it gonna be?”

Crossing your arms, you sighed. “Well, you guys do have a point…”

They smile amongst themselves, rather smugly.

“But” taking Otoha’s hand, you tugged her towards the alleyway, pushing her with all you have onto her shoulders. “I don’t trust fuckers who look like they belong to the world’s worst dance troupe that easily!”

The younger girl took this as her cue, albeit slightly confused, but fuelled by panic to run for it.

Loosening your bag, you allow it fall off your shoulders, before it hit the ground, and just as his goons were about to touch a hide of Otoha’s hair, you were before him, eyes ablaze with a ferocious, eerily calm expression on your face, before kicking him away from the young girl.

The force of the kick sends him rolling on the dirt before he’s out cold. One down, exhaling and you fell into a stance, eyes yellow like the moon above you.

Bracing yourself for the next assault, your ears picked up something clinking – a weapon? Ah, knuckle braces which circle his entire fists. Ah, his quirk.

Beside him, his other companion put on his glasses, his godawful flashy clothes engulfing him like an armored suit.

Always gotta be ballsy.

The lights flicker above you; you didn’t move from your spot nor did you deter from their sneers.

“You’ll wish you came willingly like a good girl!” screamed armored flashy guy. Fists hammered against each other and the two were dashing towards you.

Despite being outnumbered, adrenaline rushed through your veins, reeling with excitement as you messed with them, toying at every chance you got.

Dodging a fist thrown your way, eyes caught on the armored flashy guy you easily swung low, aiming for his legs, playing a dangerous tango against two. Sweeping low, you managed to just barely block the kick thrown your way, using the awkward push back, forcing the weight unto your back before swiftly kicking him back.

Once knocked out, you focused on fists, quick to press your body flat against the ground to dodge a measly kick, before lifting your body ever so slightly to deliver a kick to the back of his head, slamming painfully to the ground. Two down.

The light above burst, glass flying everywhere as the armored flashy guy smugly laughed to himself. “Now look what you did, little girl. It’s night out~ A dangerous time for little girls like you~” putting on his shades, which were actually night vision goggles, he walked towards the unsuspecting girl. “And I have to take good care of good girls like you~”

Without turning, you grabbed the hand that reached for your head.

“Eh?”

You could hear the thump of his heart, the hitch of his breath, his muscles moving – it was satisfying to know how much he underestimated you.

“What was it you said again,” came your voice, smooth and calm. “you’d take care of a little girl like me?”

Clenching your hand in his, you heard a crack, he screamed in pain, falling to his knees with one hand in the air.

Head turning, he flinched at the sight of you – eyes once were (e/c) gleamed a dangerous yellow, maybe not like the moon, but of a creature of the moon, a dangerous smirk playing on your lips.

“You’re right, it is dangerous to be out this late at night.”

Faster than the eye can see, you elbow him in the face, hearing a satisfying crack, before tossing him away from you.

Exhaling, you felt your nerves come to a calm. Yellow eyes took in your surroundings, ensuring that they didn’t have any more accomplices.

Three bodies, down and unconscious. You were good. With the help of your heightened senses, you found that Otoha had just fled to safety and that there was an unwanted presence behind you, smelling like burnt sugar and spicy cinnamon.

“Can I help you,” without looking his way, you turned to grab your bag from the ground “Bakugou Katsuki?”

Having seen the whole thing, he was rendered speechless, voice caught in his throat. “(N-Name)…” was all he managed to say, clearly shocked at the new discovery. "Oi, oi, oi, what the fuck? Y-You…you had a quirk all along?"

Exhaling through your nose, quite angrily, you nodded. "Yes."

Even without looking his way, you could tell his expression had changed – feel his heart thump slowly, hear the hitch in his throat – completely seething that he was lied to, kept in the dark.

You barely flinched when he grabbed you by the shoulder, rather forcingly. "Then why the fuck didn't you-"

"Tell you? Oh please, don't give me that bull that you wanted to know." Pushing him away, you didn't mind the pain in your abdomen, choosing to distance from him. "It was enough knowing that you thought having a quirk made you the king of the world and those who didn't were peasants. In layman's term, it wouldn't change a damn thing."

Carmine eyes remained on you, wide, heated, for once not filled with anger, but of confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." You sighed, tiredly this time, massaging the bridge of your nose.

"No, tell me."

"What good would it do you?"

"I just want to know."

Scoffing, you shook your head, running a hand through your hair. "Your chances were used up; you have no fucking right now."

And with that, you left.

Despite being quirkless, Izuku managed to make up what he lacked with the help of keen observation that was powered by his fascination with quirks. Thus, began his ‘Hero Analysis’ notebooks, in which he’d list down hero after hero, their amazing feats, quirks, abilities, possibilities, theories – basically, a Wikipedia page. In addition, Izuku was stronger than he looked, especially because he had a heart of gold and a strong sense of justice.

You, on the other hand, could care less about quirks. They were something to behold, true, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still human just with an added bonus, that’s it.

For the longest time, you withheld the one secret you could never have the heart to tell your best friend – you had a quirk of your own. It wasn't an impressive quirk, but it wasn't a bad one either.

Your quirk was called ‘The Night One’ - having heightened senses, agility, and strength but only at night. Most of your abilities were likened to those of nocturnal animals. When activated, your eyes would turn golden yellow. As the quirk made you active at night, obviously, and making you a bit of an insomniac, its drawback was that it made you restless during morning time.

The Yoruichi family came from a long line of martial artists, all of which mastered every martial art known to man. Before you were 10, you'd mastered it all.

Your family was more of an anti-hero, which is why they chose to lay low and pretend they were normal quirkless folks. It was easier to hide in plain sight, after all. The family had a reputation in the underground business, especially for stealth and espionage work.

Eraserhead was a family friend, he was basically your uncle growing up. He was also your idol.

Your quirk first appeared when you got your first period, which was normal for a female in your family. Not only was it terrifying experience, but you didn’t really care much for it, especially since you just wanted to live a normal life free from the expectations of society and the weight of it.

The thought of heroes and quirks made you skeptic, to say the least. And it was thanks to a certain blond.

However, your parents were more than understanding with your views – however jaded they were, assuring you that it wasn’t all bad.

“But since you’re doing this for Izuku’s sake, I don’t see why not.” Your father had said, patting your head gently.

“He’s my best friend,” 7-year old you were quick to say, cheeks puffing.

“Yes, yes, we know. We all know who you’re really setting your eyes for.” Your grandfather said teasingly, causing your cheeks to burn, sticking your tongue out to him.

Laughter left your parents’ lips, your grandfather included. Gently, your mother took you in her arms, smiling kindly at you. “But, (Name), what you’re doing is quite noble. You may not like what I’m about to say, but what you’re doing is a mark of a hero – putting others before yourself.”

“Still, we’re going to work you to the bone in the Yoruichi fashion!”

Both your parents turned sullenly to your grandfather, clearly displeased.

“Father, please.”

“You ruined the moment, old man.”

So, when did everything change?

Was it the time Izuku and you were paired more often during class? Katsuki had plenty of friends anyway. He didn’t seem to mind, stating that it was better than being exposed to quirkless germs.

Was it when Izuku and you would still tagalong to play? In the end, Katsuki would leave you in the middle of a game with his new friends.

Or was it the time Katsuki fell off that log?

You could remember it, clear as day, you and bunch of other kids tagged along to play in the forest, Katsuki leading the charge as always, you and Izuku in the last. The lot of you found yourselves with a log that connected the two cliffs together, but Katsuki just walked on, the rest followed. Halfway through, he slipped on the mossy part of the log before falling into the water.

“KATSUKI!/KACCHAN!” both you and Izuku screamed in unison, scurrying down to help him.

While the rest of your friends called out, watching, the two of you were waddling knee-deep into the water towards your best friend.

“Kacchan,” Izuku’s small voice called. “are you okay? Can you stand?”

Yes, you remember it well. The look in his eyes when Izuku offered his hand, offered him refuge and help. You were next to Izuku, unsure of the tense situation at that single moment.

And what did Katsuki do?

He slapped Izuku’s hand away, throwing away everything you three had in the process.

That’s when everything changed.

Friday, you were working the bar, lazily keeping the counter clean, when the door opened.

“Welcome!” you cried, smile in place, it widened when you were met with green curly locks. “Izuku!”

“Hi, (Nickname)! Uwah, so this is where you work, it’s rather cozy-looking!”

Smiling cheekily, you pressed your palms against the counter, watching as he approached. “Well, it is a café.” Noticing he wasn’t alone, you smiled at the company. “And who are these lovely people?”

“A-Ah, how rude of me! Everyone,” he turned to the small group, who had been watching your interaction quietly. “this is my childhood friend, (Name) Yoruichi.”

“Yo!” you gave a two-fingered salute in greeting.

“(Nickname), these are my friends-“

“I kinda know who they are, Izuku.” You teased, cutting him off, making you laugh. “But, by all means.”

“Greetings, I’m Tenya Iida!” the tall bespectacled boy says, waving his hands robotically, almost dangerously.

“Shouto Todoroki.” The dual-haired boy nods at you, eyeing the menu behind you in interest. Idly, you handed him a menu so he can have a clearer view, he mutters his thanks.

“And I’m Ochako Uraraka!” the lone brunette female says, cheerily, grabbing both your hands in hers. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Deku-kun talks about you a lot!”

“The pleasure is all mine, then. Thanks so much for taking care of my clumsy little broccoli.”

“(N-Nickname)!”

“Any case!” Iida chops a hand in, catching everyone’s attention. “We shouldn’t dilly dally! We must place our orders!”

“No worries,” you wave at him. “it’s pretty quiet this time of the week. But,” fixing your posture, standing a little straight, you put on your work persona. “anything you’d like to order?”

“I’ll have the chai latte,” says Todoroki, having made his decision. “cold, please.”

“Okay,” nodding, you turn to Iida, who orders a hot mocha, Uraraka orders a strawberry Frappuccino with cheesecake on the side. Uraraka turned to Iida and Todoroki, looking checking for available seats whilst waiting for Izuku – you liked them, they were a good bunch.

Turning to the green-haired boy, he was left eyeing the menu rather clinically, taking his time. Poking his forehead, he blinks at you. “Hot Matcha?”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know me too well, (Nickname).”

“That I do, Izuku, that I do.”

One thing that never changed though, the one thing you hoped never would, was the friendship you have with Izuku.

masterlist • three

[kitkatopinions]

The amount of biphobia in the RWBY fandom is frankly staggering.

Honestly, yeah. I don't go into the main RWBY tags anymore for a number of reasons, including the godawful takes, lots of ableism or just uncomfortable red flags, the intense amount of worship directed to the mains and towards MKEK, the amount of bee shippers when I don't vibe with the bees, and the oversexualization of literally any woman character. But on top of all that, there was a lot of biphobia. Not long into my time in the fandom, I heard both "Blake is a canon lesbian and if you ship her with a man, you're a homophobe," and "Bumbleby is a non-existent ship and fans are just reading into things and then attacking the writers for queerbaiting because they're not doing what they want.' I heard both "I can't believe the writers are pretending Blake isn't straight when we all saw her be attracted to Sun," and "I can't believe people are pretending Blake was ever attracted to Sun when Bumbleby is clearly superior." I saw both "If you read anything into Qrow and Clover or Qrow and James, you're an idiot," and also "Guys, stop talking about your 'straight' Qrow ships, the man is a bi icon."

Yes, I've literally seen people say Blake or Qrow are bi, and then condemn people for shipping them with someone of the opposite sex or even talking about their possible feelings towards people of the opposite sex.

And meanwhile, Yang and Weiss are widely regarded as lesbians and people who headcanon them as anything different are sometimes shamed, while both of them have expressed attraction towards the opposite sex. And meanwhile, many other characters are being assigned 'straight' just because they've flirted with the opposite sex. "James was established as hetero the moment he arrived on screen," for instance, or people acting like Qrow flirting with Winter in V3 means he was definitely straight, or people acting like Ren and Nora couldn't possibly ever date someone of the same sex as them despite breaking up because "why can't we have one straight ship?" (Btw, if I was writing this on my phone, I'd use the vomit emoji to show how I feel about that last one.) Also bi isn't the only other option either. Characters can be asexual or pansexual or aro or demisexual. Characters aren't confined to heterosexual or homosexual, but they're also not confined to heterosexual or homosexual or bisexual. Also, people acting like everyone is cisgendered except the Happy Huntresses just because we've never had it confirmed otherwise is also a thing. Like, there's a number of characters who I could see as trans, non-binary, or genderqueer.

Some people don't even realize that's how they're acting or that's how their wording comes across. And I get that how the story writers present these characters plays a big part in their perception. For example, the first three seasons are written with a heteronormative lens that seemed to portray everyone as straight, and that's the status quo in today's society anyway. It's much easier for people to see Yang as queer than it is for them to think of Nora that way, and it's easier to say Yang has always been a lesbian than it is to admit that the writers likely didn't actually plan the bees from the beginning and are lying about it... Idk, I'm trying to be understanding towards it, while at the same time acknowledging that I do feel like this exclusionary language and 'either straight or homosexual' mentality I've seen has been a bit upsetting. Especially when it's used against people who are just making headcanons, or just shipping something that makes them happy, or are just angry at being queerbaited, and expecting MKEK to follow through on the 'support' they claimed they were giving while they were selling pride merch with Team RWBY plastered on it.

Long post short, I think the mindset of 'if they express attraction towards one gender, they're canonly only attracted to that gender' needs to die. And in the RWBY community specifically, making passive aggressive posts or going into people's comments or ask boxes to tell them they're shipping wrong because they have a different headcanon or want a different ship that doesn't fit the sexuality other people assigned a character... That really needs to die, too.

[scientia-rex]

Reporting back on this whole "how is life as a new attending" thing: well, the good news is I have money and a lot more time. The bad news is I'm still me.

So we're buying a house--it's taking forever but it's also a really great house that's not like a mansion-mansion but is light-years beyond what anyone else I know my age who isn't a doctor or the child of rich people can afford--and I'm really, really excited about it. But I'm also still depressed, on an SNRI for it, getting godawful night sweats because of the SNRI for it, and prone to severe acid reflux and chronic nausea. Also, there's a random spot in my right lower quadrant that occasionally hurts like hell for no apparent reason and deep down I'm terrified that it's my appendix thinking about getting real infected and rupturing, or an ovarian cyst that starts to torse and then de-torse, or an endometriosis explant that's going to finally burrow all the way into my intestines one of these days and give me, I dunno, sepsis or a hemorrhage or something. Any one of those could spontaneously become a life-threatening surgical emergency with no warning. So yes, I still have anxiety.

I have started to resume something resembling a normal human sleep schedule. I only took a week (technically just under a week) off after graduating from residency. I'd already passed the boards so as soon as residency was officially over and my program director submitted the final things I was board-certified. Which is fucking bananas! I'm still me! I'm still just a weird chump with frizzy hair, two to three chins at any given time and slowly developing jowls, a mustache and over the last couple of years a beard I savagely beat into submission with my favorite tweezers every fucking day, the short-term memory of a goldfish, zero ability to remember anyone's face or name but a near-godlike recall for bit-part actors in television shows based on just a few seconds of hearing their voice, a long-term obsession with Sherlock Holmes since the 4th grade back in the early 90s long before Moffat put his greasy mitts all over them, and some weird kinks I literally never talk about because I don't want to. I am such a peculiar, obsessive, hoarding, strident freak! And now I'm a board-certified physician. Jesus Christ. The only thing worse than knowing that I'm a doctor is knowing that my classmates are doctors. Not the ones from residency, they're all cool, but the ones from my actual medical school. You know! The ones who accidentally boned the same woman on an away rotation they did sequentially and then made homophobic jokes about sloppy seconds! Those ones! The ones who wore shirts with boner jokes on them to class while being devout Mormons who thought women belonged in the kitchen! The one who said awful things about Tamir Rice and then said he couldn't be racist because his nephew was black! THOSE ASSHOLES! THEY'RE PROBABLY ALSO DOCTORS NOW! I don't know for sure because I'm not friends with any of them on Facebook because they're horrible assholes and I called them all homophobic and racist and sexist to their fucking faces, but DON'T TRUST DOCTORS UNTIL OR UNLESS THEY SHOW YOU A REASON TO.

Anyway, I've been finding some solace in obsessively looking at different things I might get for our house. We're closing soon, thank God, but the current owners wanted to stay until the end of August because they're building a new house and it won't be done until then (and do I believe it will actually be done then? No.) and we wanted to be very attractive buyers in this godforsaken housing market where you have to bring an elephant's weight in gold and several wine bottles of your own blood to even get a chance, so we said sure, so we're still a month and a half from moving in. UGH. It's worth it, but it's giving me all the anxiety. I feel paralyzed, because I can't do shit about most of the planning and decorating until I'm actually in the space. And somehow I can't do any of my other hobbies, either. I can't write. I can't bake. I've been getting stoned more often than usual, but I did that on Friday night and frankly it just annoyed me because I didn't enjoy losing the ability to string my thoughts together. Sometimes I'm really in the mood to get stoned and it feels lovely and freeing, and sometimes it's just an annoying hindrance.

And I can't drink because my acid reflux is so bad right now. I doubled up on the omeprazole, which I never tell patients to do, and it did help some, but I'm still always one acidic beverage away from feeling like I'm going to die. I threw up a couple of months ago and I honestly think it was from just having too much acid in my stomach for my body to cope with. So naturally I'm worried I've got one of those crazy tumors, starts with a Z, Zollingers? that tells your stomach to make acid. Do I? Almost certainly not! Will that stop me from worrying about it? Boy howdy, no!

However, I have had some really nice moments. Last week I had a patient who had a history of migratory polyarthralgias. He'd never been definitively diagnosed, though he'd been tentatively diagnosed with gout based on presentation and placed on allopurinol. He was sitting in my office with a huge, swollen, painful knee, and I thought, well fuck it he needs a knee aspiration. Have I done one of those before? No! But I've put enough corticosteroids and hyaluronic acid into knees that I figured I had a good shot at getting something out, and it wasn't pretty but I did it. I got a good sample of knee juice all by myself. It felt great. For me. The patient was in a substantial amount of pain. However, it did give us a definitive diagnosis--birefringent monodium urate crystals! That's gout, baby! Sure, it presented a little weird, but because I stuck a big-ass needle into his knee now we know for sure and I wrote him for colchicine, which somehow no one else had???? despite the diagnosis of gout on his chart???????

I haven't really felt completely at sea much at all these first couple weeks of being an attending. I have an MA who is a sweet ray of sunshine and she is very determined to do a good job, and we get along well. I'm slowly settling in. I feel more and more like a real doctor and less like some crazed impostor wearing a doctor suit every day.

There's bad stuff, plenty of it, but overall I'm feeling pretty lucky. Mostly. Except for how today I had a bunch of caffeine and dairy, so my stomach is telling me that this was a Mistake. But! In counterpoint, the Baskin-Robbins Flavor of the Month was really delicious, and I regret very little. Not nothing, but very little.

[impaladolan]

What if y/n tried to sneak out again and ends up opening a door and it’s literally a conference room and grays ins sitting head of the table and it’s filled w mafia men lmaooo and she’s just like oh sorry was looking for the bathroom which is an obvious lie cos girl has one in her room and she runs away and one of them catch her and take back to grays I mean does he punish her in front of the men girl that’s up to you but even if he doesn’t I feel like it’s like a lowkey funny concept like poor girl she just tryna escape hahaha

Anonymous said

i think it would be fun if y/n just constantly winds up him now in hopes he will get sick of her antics and just tell her everything hehe like maybe one day she steals his rolex, smashes all the plates lmaoo idk now that i type that out i feel like he won’t care and just spank her ass every time (which i highly doubt she’s gonna complain about lol)

Capture - Grayson Dolan [7/-]

summary: y/n has always been a curious women, but when she stumbles upon something she’s not supposed to.. things become too much to handle...

warnings: swearing & humiliation/degradation..

a/n: do y’all want to do tags @?? and also, thank you sweet anons for the prompts! love you all 💕

The events to which had pertained early this morning continuously played on a loop in your head. Rerun after rerun, and you never ran out of film. It really made you question your decision-making skills, or rather any of the skills and manners you have acquired in your short time of living. You couldn't help the "imbalance of homeostasis" moreover your impulsive, fluctuant feelings that would come over you like a rushing water at times. It really made everything a bit more difficult to understand. In shorter terms;

What the hell even happened?

You couldn't deny or even feel guilty for the wrongdoings of this morning, but nor could you exactly excuse them. Yes, it was a heat of the moment type of thing and you really should have expected him to come barging in like that, but it still had taken you off guard. Although, when you think back to what happened, you don't regret it.

You miss it.

You miss the way it felt, to be sat atop of him and needing for his scared touch. He was like a drug. An addictive, life sucking drug that wouldn't wash away from your mind. He was all you could think about.

He is all you can think about.

The wanting demand to know his name, the request to see his godawful handsome face, the aching of his touch. Everything about him was mysterious and daunting. He drew you in, like a magnet against steel. The burning desire you have for him doesn't make sense.

How could you be in love with someone you barely know? Someone who had taken you away from everything you've ever known. A man that knows the ins and outs of you, yet you couldn't even recognize his name?

It feels like a game. A stupid, twisted fucking game that you're bound to lose to.

Sighing to your intrusive thoughts, you blow a wavering piece of hair from your face. You were stuffed under the lengthy duvet and your eyes were directed at the spinning ceiling fan above. The industrial, artificial wind-making machine upwards reminded you of a similar one placed in your room at home. Of course, this one didn't have a squeak but it still made the pit of your stomach drop in an agony-filled remembrance of home. It feels like forever ago when you used to run every morning. The feel of the harsh wind against your cheeks and the subtle pumping of your heart was washed away with the same old gray walls that you were enclosed by every single waking moment.

The sudden thought of just that sparked energy within you.

You were pretty exhausted from prior events and you thought you’d be able to get a nap or two in. But your overthinking and legitimate thoughts clouded your head and you just couldn’t find a way to sleep properly. Although now, you were ready to explore.

Well, explore the kitchen.

The mere thought of a tall glass of iced water sounds satisfactory. Especially for your often dry throat. So, you hassled out of the flooding white covers and marched straight to the door, pulling down the only thing that covers you; a large white t-shirt— presumably his. The urge to soothe the parchedness that swirled within you only strengthened as you trekked past the door and into the ominous hallway. You werent for sure if he was home or not, but at this point it really didn't matter. You were thirsty and you were gonna do something about it, one way or another.

You retraced your steps from only a few days beforehand, when you had tried to escape, which had ended in complete failure. Thinking back to it, it surprises you that he actually knew you were in the walk-in pantry the entire time.

It seems like he knows just about everything.

Like you remembered, the hall opened up into a large, modern looking kitchen that could possibly sustain an expensive restaurant if it really had to. Before you could pause in absolute awe by just gaping at it, you get straight to work in finding a glass. You swung open most of the cabinet doors, opening to mainly spice racks and pots/pans that looked pricier than your own vehicle. You finally found something that could fit the desired contents and you went straight for the fridge. Just as quickly, you dip your cup in the little boxed formation and listen to the ice cubes soothingly fall. You didn't even worry about the deafening bangs of the cubes as they fell from the dispenser, or the crackling or the cool water slipping down and around their entirety.

God, it looks like heaven.

You bring the cylindrical shape up to your lips and let the freezing water slip down your tongue and throughout your body. It cured any and everything that seemed to be wrong, at least for the moment. You dont stop your drinking until the water is fully ingested and the ice begins to burn the tip of your nose. You place the glass carefully on the counter and deeply inhale, shutting your eyes for a brief moment to think.

You’re tired of staying in that room all damn day, and you need a change of scenery. You know there’s got to be way more in this house than just the couple rooms you’ve ventured in, and what’s the worst that could happen?

Aww, he spanks your ass again?

Like that would solve anything anyway. He should know by now that it affects you differently. He seems to know everything else about you. It’s actually really frustrating. For him to know all the details and you’re left in the weird gray area that’s clueless and dumb. It makes you so aggravated and angered, and you wanted to oh so bad, put your foot down in some way.

So, that’s what you’ll do.

A devilish grin comes across your face as you leave the kitchen, waltzing into the dining area with scouring eyes. What could you possibly do to make the “almighty capturer” upset? The first thing to come across your head was unorganization.

He seems like a perfectionist, someone who likes everything put in their exact places and to not be tampered with. You share that similar quality, but you aren’t an extremist like him.

You first lay your eyes on the dining room table, the centerpiece along with the runner looking a little too nice. With a sense of urgency, you decide sabotage. Firstly, you grab the extravagant-looking art sculpture and set it on the floor. After, you crumple the cloth underneath it. With an odd smirk, you pull out all the chairs in not so orderly fashion.

Wow, Y/N, you really did some damage..

Taking a couple steps back to look at the petty mess you've made, a chuckle erupts from your mouth and you sigh yet again. You shrug the simplicity away from your head and continue your walking. You come about a spiraling staircase and instantly begin to climb it, eager to see the upper floor’s decor. Your hand slides against the railing as you become steps closer to your desired destination, another chic and modern looking domain before your eyes. Unlike the downstairs, this room held a lot more art work and a certain professionality you couldn't begin to explain, but you continued to move forward. You approach another hallway, except this one withheld a deadend, large double doors that open outward. It somehow gained your attention and you couldn't help but want a quick look inside. Nothing was really stopping you and there are no signs of him around, so why not?

You didn’t really need an answer, you just went ahead and did what was on your mind. Exerting the small amount of force needed to push down the handles, you pull the doors open wide and focus your eyes on the room’s interior.

Men, sat all along a table that led all the way up to him.

Your eyes widen in immediate shock and your jaw drops open. All of their heads turn in the direction of a barely dressed girl standing in the doorway, disrupting the importance of a meeting with their leaders.

You.

Papers were strung all over the long piece of oak and there was bustling before you rudely interrupted their transactions and communicating, but you were too frozen to react or runaway.

“What the fuck are you doing up here, Y/N?” He said your name with such a deep and dark mannerism, it made your pussy throb unexpectedly. “I- Uhm, I.. Bathroom?” Words wouldn’t come out straight, no matter how hard you tried. You felt the stares of a million, but you could only focus your gaze on him.

And he looks furious.

What could you do to escape all of this? Well, running actually. You take off just as you see him get up from his seat. You speed back down the hallway you first walked down and curved through the different paths you had taken prior. The faint “go fucking get her” that spilled from his lips had made it to your ears and a certain fear ignited within you.

You could hear the footsteps behind you, but you didn’t stop. You were almost down the steps, until that menacing touch of someone grabbing you right before freedom— immersed around you. You knew it wasn’t his arms wrapped around you, but you didn’t dare look back to see whose it actually was. You wanted to cry, struggling to stay in his grasp as he lifted you back up and into the meeting room from whence you came.

“Let her down, Marc.” His wondrous voice filled your ears and you’ve never felt so secure yet troubled in your entire lifetime. The large arms unraveled from around you and you were softly placed on the ground. You didn’t dare to look up, but instead focus on the ground beneath you.

“Get your ass over here, slut.” His dark voice filled the quiet room, and your heart plummeted at the sound of such a slur. Sadly, you could only listen to him, so you walk carefully around the table, making your way to his perch. You weren’t even fully near him until his arm reached out and clutched your wrist, forcefully pulling you towards him. He roughly laid you over his lap, in front of everyone, and pulled up the bottom of your shirt, allowing every eye to see you lower half nakedness.

And just like the early morning prospects, an echoing slap to your ass filled the room’s silence. “This is what fucking happens, Y/N. When you disobey me.” You could tell his jaw was clenched and his face was red with anger by the way he was talking. Tears began to form in your eyes, but not from the pain, but from the embarrassment.

How’re you supposed to face all the people in this room, after getting an ass whooping for the second time today?

“Guess you don’t know how to fuckin’ listen well, do you Y/N?” He kept saying your name like it was some kind of extravaganza, which humiliated you all the more. You didn’t want everyone to know who you are, laid across a grown man’s lap and getting seriously aroused amidst people.

Out of the blue, he wraps his hand around the back of your neck to pull you back up to face him, a dark red spread across your cheeks. “Lucky I don’t make you suck my fuckin’ cock in front of all of ‘em. Then they’d know you aren’t such a bad little girl, wouldn’t they?” He whispers against your ear as he sets you on his knee, facing the direction of the stone cold men veering their eyes on everything but you— away from the awful scene.

You shake your head to his words, feeling his large hands linger under your shirt. “Don’t think so? Would that embarrass you, sweetheart? Cause I couldn’t give a less fuck about that right now.” His hands continue to travel upwards, wrapping around the both of your unclothed breasts, the thin shirt material not doing much justice.

“Please, no. I-I’ll do whatever you want, just please— not here.” With those words of plea, you cross your arms over his hands and train your eyes to the floor in humiliation.

“Get back to you room, and don’t leave it. You’re on thin fucking ice, princess.”

to be continued...

a/n: don’t ask me why, i really don’t know why he has such an affinity for spanking her 🤷‍♀️ and it’s also 1:00 am that I finally finished this.. procrastination at its finest..