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comradekatara · 2 months

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i feel like the reason aang isn’t as adored and beloved as he should be is because he’s the protagonist but he’s also not an archetypal western classical hero. i don’t agree with the entirety of that “avatar aang: feminist icon” essay because i think the role of patriarchy and gender in atla is more complex than what that essay posits, but he definitely complicates the masculine ideal of heroism and generally does not conform to patriarchal notions of masculinity. which is very deliberate, especially as contrasted with sokka and zuko’s explicit struggles with the imperialist/colonial standards of an aggressive, militaristic, and chauvinistic masculinity. aang is subversive because he represents an absence of war in a world ravaged by it. through his link to a (somewhat more) peaceful and harmonious past, he represents a better possible future. as katara would say, he brings people hope.

but people don’t like that he’s not visibly edgy or tormented like zuko is (even though he’s a far more tragic character than zuko is, just fyi), that he isn’t “cool” (even though he’s literally the coolest kid ever, just fyi), that he “gets the girl” (even though if anything, she gets him) despite being twelve and bald and nice (the horror!). katara is the more classical hero of the narrative, as its narrator and its catalyst, the adventurous revolutionary who gradually learns to control and use her powers and eventually becoming a force to be reckoned with. zuko is the classical anti-hero of the narrative, his “redemption arc” constantly hailed as one of the greatest character arcs in television. so people expect katara and zuko, as very obvious narrative foils who parallel each other every step of the way, to be the obvious couple, because based on every romance narrative we’ve been inundated with throughout our lives, within our patriarchal society, they “just make sense together.”

but as much as katara is a protagonist in her own right, aang is the show. the title quite literally represents the central thematic tension of the entire narrative, the colon illustrating the implicit divide between his duties to this brave new world in desperate need of justice and balance, or his duties to his extirpated culture as the last true voice among them. aang is the central figure because this tension represents the crucial ideological battle happening across the entire show. aang is the avatar because he is the only person in the entire world whose values have not been shaped by war.

people constantly laud zuko, in particular, for being the most interesting, complex character in avatar. but i personally don’t even think that’s true. which isn’t to say that zuko isn’t fascinating in his own right, of course, but rather that he’s certainly not the only complex character this show has to offer. he just happens to monologue about his anguish constantly. but aang wasn’t raised as an imperial prince, and so he approaches the world, and his own pain, in a very different manner. the reason he immediately goes to ride giant koi on kyoshi island, mailchutes in omashu, and otherwise goofs around after learning of the shocking ramifications of his people’s genocide is because that’s how he copes with his pain. unlike zuko, who never stops talking about his aches and yearnings, aang represses his trauma and hides his tears behind a mask of upbeat cheerful goofy twelve year old antics.

until he can’t anymore. until he snaps. both katara and zuko wear their hearts on their sleeves, and that includes their rage. but aang’s rage is dangerous specifically because it represents that he has been pushed past his limits, that the conditions of this world in which he is a perpetual stranger, temporally displaced and dispossessed, are intolerable. that peaceful reconciliation is impossible. and the fact that he persists beyond that breaking point, over and over again, to firmly and resoundingly establish his ideals even as they conflict with everything he has learned about this world, a world that is not his own even as he can never return to the world he once knew, is what makes him so unique, so powerful, so beautiful.

i know that aang isn’t the typical hero, neither narratively nor aesthetically, but really, that’s the entire point. the world, our world, needs something other than what we have now. we need someone who will not succumb to the ideals of domination and victory through violence to assert themselves. we need someone who stands firm in refusing to kill the firelord, even as everyone he knows tells him otherwise. we need someone who knows that darkness cannot be vanquished through more darkness, but can only truly yield to purifying light.

and sure, aang is a child, and often acts childishly. sure, he’s not conventionally handsome and alluring. but one thing i will never understand is how that somehow negates his appeal to the masses. because even if you don’t appreciate how crucial he is to the themes of this narrative you all seem to love so much, how can you not love his adorable little face? his precious little laugh, his zest for life, the infinite well of love and kindness he holds in his heart? people who hate aang are crazy to me. because you are, quite literally, hating the world’s most precious baby boy.

#aang #katara #zuko #analysis #hot takes #sorry this one is kind of all over the place #very stream of consciousness bc it’s loving aang hours #and he’s not only meaningful narratively #but he’s also just SOOOOO CUTE #I would literally pay money to babysit him #which I think defeats the point of babysitting but whatever #he’s just. so precious 😭😭😭#also fwiw I don’t really fw kataang either but like. it does make more narrative sense than the alternative #and if it had been executed better . well. who can say

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waitineedaname · 1 year

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my inner monologue is just always thinking about ritsu way too hard

#mp100 #ritsu kageyama #I wrote this as a stream of consciousness in the ms paint text box and then it literally. wouldn't fit.#and I couldn't make the text any smaller #so i had to switch to GOOGLE DRAWINGS to make this #I know this is hard to read but that adds to the humor to me lsdkjflkjdf #I'm just. ouuuughhghhg every time I think about him too hard I want to explode #I was also going to make a companion piece talking about his autism in comparison to mob's #but it's late. you guys can get the autism essay later if you want #I am going to become the number one ritsu poster through sheer mental illness alone #ritsu brain syndrome. instead of a brain there is ritsu #spinning him in my mind like that one bit from the season one opening

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sucharide · 1 year

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Headshot (1,861 words, explicit)

Copia sexy. Must give Copia blowjob while he games. That's it. That's all this is. It started as a horny paragraph and things got out of hand. Completely unedited. Have fun.

Copia is absolutely fixated on the screen.

It's some battle royale shooter game he's been playing lately during his downtime, and he's completely involved. You're fairly sure you could strip off next to him, and he wouldn't even offer you a glance — and you try not to take it to heart since he is Papa now, and his downtime is rare, so he should be able to catch up on his hobbies... but you do wish he focused a little more on you, and a little less on shooting people on the TV.

The way he looks right now, headset on, swapping tactics with his teammates, he probably wouldn't even pay attention to you if you had his damn dick down your throat. You laugh dryly at the thought, but once it's in your head, you can't help but wonder at it.

Why not?

And so you find yourself slipping from the couch to kneel before him, and he's not really paying attention to you when you push his legs open to shuffle close to him, settling between his thighs. He's too busy talking to his friends and waving the controller around.

"Headshot, stronzo!" he shouts, totally engaged with the game as you rest your hands on his thighs, looking up at him with doe eyes. You rub up his thighs, feeling the firm muscles under his sweat pants, your own anticipation pooling in your core.

He glances down at you — only for a moment, he can't take his eyes off his game, of course —and his eyes widen. Just a touch. There are two games going on now, and his sweatpants do nothing to hide his recognition of that. He's focused on the screen again, but he leans back in the couch now, and lets his legs hang open a little further for you.

Hands trail further up his thighs, and ghost over that growing hardness, and his mouth falls open, and nearly makes a sound — but he mustn't, he mustn't, he's still on the line with his teammates. He's not watching you, but you are watching him so carefully. He is playing the game, but you? You are playing him.

So, so, almost painfully slowly you tug the elastic of his sweatpants down, and you watch him bite his lip, catching some soft whimper before it tumbles out. The game has barely even started, but Copia has always been so vocal.

You idly wonder if he could just mute his mic, but there's no fun in that.

So when you have him revealed, half hard and growing, you almost feel sorry for him when you don't even start with your hands. He would have expected your hand, and these games are all about catching your opponent unawares aren't they? So when you dip your head down to his tip, and with one languid stroke of your tongue clean the drop of precum, it takes him by surprise.

"Cazzo," he gasps. And then, and you are watching him so closely, all his wonderful little reactions, his eyes widen, embarrassed, realising he's just made a very suggestive sound on the line to his friends.

"I mean, eh, I'm out of ammo, can —" you take him into your mouth, and feel the way his cock strains to full hardness in your warmth, "c-can someone, cazzo, can someone drop some at the cache?"

His mismatched eyes meet yours in a pointed glare, but you only sink further down his length, and hum appreciatively around his lovely cock. His hips shudder, but he's trying not to get too carried away.

You want him to get carried away.

You want him to fuck your mouth, your throat, while he's gaming, for all his friends to hear. You want them to know how lucky Papa is, what lovely benefits there are to his station. Sometimes being Papa is about pomp and ritual and fine wine and leading mass and sharing the Dark Lord's message of Sin... sometimes being Papa is about having the afternoon off and relaxing into some gaming while his favourite sister of sin drinks him down. He works hard. He's earned this, you think while you start to make a steady pace bobbing on his length.

With every stroke you glance up at him, and with every stroke you see his composure breaking a little more, but he's staying on task, thumbs dancing over the controller buttons. His brow is furrowed, a testament to his efforts. He can't throw the game now, you're sure — they must be more than half way done, and he's terribly competitive.

You hum around him again, a deeper sound, guttural almost, and sink further down his cock than before, and let him press against the back of your throat. You hold him there for a moment, and breathe through the urge to gag around him — suddenly a hand is in your hair, and his hips are pressing up to meet you, and you can't exactly smile with his dick buried up to the hilt in your skull, but there's a deep sense of satisfaction that blossoms in your chest.

He's rutting up against you, his tip driving against the back of your throat again and again, and your gag reflex is too strong to fight off with him assaulting you like that. You're drooling, and you adjust your angle just a little, and suddenly the pressure eases and he presses into your spasming throat and your nose is pressed against his pelvis — but he does not keep you there for more than a second before he pulls your hair back and gives you sweet release.

He's panting, you're vaguely aware of that, but you're too busy catching your breath as you hover, gasping, with your bottom lip just grazing his tip.

"Ah, sí, m-mi dispiace, I am paying attention! An ambush, sí?" he says suddenly, to his mic. His hand disappears from your hair, and he's back on the game — there must be some plan, some strategy he's required to participate in. He wouldn't want to lose the game, certainly not.

You feel him bring his arms around you, sort of, and the controller comes to rest behind your neck. It's almost like an embrace, and it floods you with a warm feeling. He wants to do both, you can tell that much. He wants to make you feel wanted, feel an affectionate touch, while you work him with your mouth. Or, perhaps, it's just a convenient spot to rest his controller now that his lap is occupied.

You press his tip past your lips again, and take him in long, slow strokes once more. His hips rock up with each motion, and you find your rhythm together once more, and you look up at him through wet lashes each time you nearly withdraw from him. He glances down once or twice, pupils utterly blown out, his lips parted in silent moans. You feel varying degrees of pressure on the controller he holds against your neck, probably indicative of how tense the moment is in the game, but possibly a manifestation of his efforts to restrain himself again.

"Go around to the left, I'll—ah, eh— I'll take the right. We just need four more kills," he manages, faltering when you take him particularly deep.

You pick up your pace, the game must nearly be finished — and the way his hips are shuddering, your game must be nearly finished too.

Shifting your angle once more to that delicious one, the one that lets him slide down your throat, you take him all the way, and his hips buck up as he lets out a strangled gasp.

"Head-headshot!" he chokes out, masking his pleasured sounds with the rush of a kill.

You take him, again and again down your quivering throat, all the way to the base so that his neatly groomed salt and pepper curls tickle your nose, and then you release him, almost to the tip, and then back again. He's still playing, but the controller is pressing decidedly firmly against the back of your head, pulling you towards him with every stroke that he ruts into with shuddering hips.

"Cazzo, cazzo," he whispers harshly under his breath. He'd definitely close, and you're not sure how much he has left of his game, but you can't imagine he's focusing all that much on the screen when he's so deep down your throat — suspicions that you confirm when you suck him to the tip and find his eyes trained on you and only you. When you meet his eyes you feel the controller fall away and clatter on the floor, and suddenly you are at his base again, his fist in your hair.

He's just about chanting for you now, a string of Italian curses falling from his lips as freely as his moans as he frantically fucks your throat. You try to keep up, gasping around him for air as you are allowed it, as he relentlessly drives his cock into you, and there are tears flooding your vision as you gag around him. There is a growing urgency to every thrust, and then, quickly, he whips you backwards by the hair, off of him.

You are dazed for a moment as you stare at his cock, and realise with his free hand he has begun to pump himself.

"Look at me, dolce," he growls, tilting your head back to see him, staring back at you with intense, hungry eyes. His headset is no longer on his head, but whether he had the sense to remove it or whether it fell off in his exuberance is lost to you — but you don't have time to wonder how much his friends heard of his appreciative sound, because his eyes are locked on yours and his chest is heaving, and his hand is working furiously, chasing his pleasure desperately.

He gives one last grunt, tightening his grip in your hair, and then he breaks, releasing his seed over you. Thick ropes of cum burst onto your face, over your cheeks, nose, lips, and he continues to pump himself through his climax as if to work out every drop so that you might be adequately coated in his essence.

When he finally finishes, he leans back in his seat, dropping his head backwards for a moment, chest heaving in the aftermath of his pleasure. His hand in your hair relaxes.

"Dolce..." he sighs appreciatively, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Yes, Copia?" you ask, sweetly, still kneeling before him and covered in his cum.

He smiles, and opens his eyes to gaze at you warmly. A gloved hand traces from your hair down your jaw, and to your lips. He gathers some of his spunk on his gloved fingers, and presses between your lips. You gratefully suck down on his fingers, cleaning every last drop of his seed from his gloves.

"Our team lost," he says, softly, but he doesn't sound too disappointed. He pulls his fingers out and you release them with a pop.

"I'm sorry," you breathe. You aren't.

"Don't be. I got the best headshot of the round."

#roach writes #this is dumb HAHAHA #headshot #copia x reader #papa iv x reader #that's all the tags I can be fucked with this is not going on ao3 or anything HAHAHA this is just a silly stream of consciousness #literally wrote this in tumblr #can't believe i broke my writers block for this #HAHAHA #I'll reblog this again in at like 12 hours for timezones lol #fic: headshot

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cosmicrhetoric · 2 years

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can i ask what the deal is with monstrous regiment?

like the deal as in. the whole deal? its is probably my favorite book full stop (not even fave fantasy, fave pratchett, whatever like full stop) so its hard to condense my thoughts lmao. ok monstrous regiment is based on the english folk song sweet polly oliver. the basic plot is that our main character polly dresses as a boy and joins the army (under the name oliver) to look for her brother, who has been missing in action. if you've heard of the book b/c of the online presence you probably have heard about the gender stuff. there is a Lot of it to be fair (canon gay characters, at least one canon trans character, whatever tf was happening with maladict), but it's shares screentime with the other two main themes, war and organized religion gone bad. it's discworld so its funny and satire and heart but it's a horror show. i genuinely think the book lapses into gothic tradition at times however i cannot in good conscious reveal more of the plot cause i swear reading this book feels like tripping down the stairs at times.

where i think the book succeeds where a lot of 'girl cuts her hair and goes to war' stories doesnt is that is like. it doesnt feel like a Girl Power book. i have nothing against Girl Power books (i was in middle school in 2009) but in monstrous regiment the point isn't "a girl can be as strong as boys!" the point is that when you are stuck under a serious model of oppression and your country is lying to you and your god seems to hate you and everyone you know is either at war, starving, or both. how are you going to survive?

also would like to mention that someone did upload the entire audiobook to spotify so. stephen briggs does a really good igor voice.....get it while its hot

edit: not on spotify anymore haha but the way audiobook uploaders are on there if u keep searching for it it'll show up eventually

#if ive missed something obvious sorry i just deleted 600 words of stream of consciousness malposting #monstrous regiment #i could literally talk abt polly or jackrum for fifteen hours so im not gonna #it was my intro to vimes.#i read it really early in my discworld career it was my first book with de worde too #asks #discworld

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astrobei · 1 year

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Something’s wrong.

It’s a quiet afternoon in Will’s room. Mike is here, and this simple fact should be taking precedence over all else. It would be, on any other day — a day where it wasn’t off-puttingly quiet outside. On any other day, it would be all he could focus on.

Not that it’s not important. Mike is here, sprawled haphazardly across him, limbs akimbo like he couldn’t even be bothered to right himself before the need to bodily press every square inch of himself up against Will’s torso suddenly overtook him. It’s endearing, is what it is, even though Mike’s feet are dangling off the side of Will’s bed — they’re getting too tall to be able to lie down like this, side by side and taking up all the room they could possibly want. He’s got his cheek pressed up against Will’s sternum, arms wrapped so tight around Will’s stomach and lower back that it’s bordering on uncomfortable.

Endearing. It’s endearing, the need for proximity. The need for closeness, for touch, for reassurance. Mike wasn’t like this before. Not to this degree, at least. Will pretended to be annoyed by it at first, but the façade hadn’t even lasted a day before he cracked. He needs it too, and they both know it — the rhythmic push and pull of Mike’s breathing. Feeling Mike’s heart beat steadily against his own, separated by a meager few inches of blood and muscle and bone. The kinesthetic weight of a body against his own, grounding him on his off days — days where his pulse is perpetually panicked and off-kilter, threatening to fly away entirely, rendered unsuccessful only by the shape of Mike’s shoulder blades under his palm. The cotton of his flannel button-down, worn soft with use.

Grounding things. Real things. Safe things.

It’s a quiet afternoon. Mike’s foot twitches, suddenly and gently against where it’s pressed up against the line of Will’s calf.

It’s a quiet afternoon, and Will feels off, down to his bones.

Mike might be falling asleep.

Will smiles, hides it in the soft curtain of Mike’s hair where it’s brushing over his neck. Cups a hand around the back of his head and wraps his other arm around his shoulder — tighter, tighter, like Mike might just get up and walk away if he doesn’t. For all his pretending, Will is like this too, now: desperate, a little needy, selfish in small, ordinary ways. Too quick to worry when a call goes unanswered. Too quick to fuss over cuts and scrapes and bruises. He hugs too tight and he kisses too hard and he gets unsettled by quiet, calm afternoons.

He wasn’t ever like that before.

Mike twitches again — so delicately that it’s almost like an afterthought — then his arms tighten around Will’s midriff.

That feels intentional. Even if it hadn’t been. Things with Mike feel intentional. Purposeful.

Even if he is — you know. Asleep, a little.

Will’s room is comfortably warm; the late summer sun has been hiding lately, and the sky isn’t blue, exactly but at least it’s not red anymore — dark and rolling and angry. It’s still, and it’s quiet, and it’s peaceful for the first time in a long time — a long time—

—and still, something’s wrong.

“Will?”

Mike shifts, just slightly, just enough to lean his head against Will’s collarbone and look up at him. He catches the edge of Mike’s expression like it’s a secret, a glimpse of wide eyes, a little confused.

Will peers down at him. “Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t,” Mike says, even as he blinks heavily. He rolls out his ankle, bumps it against Will’s and keeps it there, stretches long and languid, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Will says. If Mike stays like this, if he doesn’t look up any farther, maybe he can get away with it.

Mike doesn’t sound convinced. “You sure?” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with one hand and pushing himself up, just enough to be able to look at Will better. “You seemed…”

He trails off. Will tucks a stray strand of hair back behind Mike’s ear, from where it had been falling loose and down into his eyes. “I’m sure,” he murmurs. “Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep!”

“You were,” Will laughs. “You were twitching. Like a cat.”

“I don’t twitch,” Mike insists, then pauses. “Do I?”

“Sometimes,” Will admits, then presses a kiss to the top of Mike’s head. “When you’re really tired. I think it’s cute.”

“Stop,” Mike mumbles, but he lowers his head back to Will’s chest. “So mean to me.”

“I called you cute!”

“Mean,” Mike says, sounding like he’s halfway back to sleep already as he snakes an arm back around Will’s chest, hand resting lightly on the side of his throat, just over his jaw. He tangles their legs together, the sheets going wrinkled and bunched up under them. “So mean.”

Will smiles. “Sorry,” he whispers. He glances down at the mess of black hair in front of his face, runs a careful hand through it. Again, and again, and again. Mike makes a small noise, content and pleased, and presses in closer, like he’s trying to vanquish whatever minute semblance of space might have been left between them. “I won’t be mean again.”

It’s a joke, obviously. Still, Will traces apologetic circles into Mike’s back, into the gentle dip between his shoulders. He maps out the planes there, tries to commit them to memory by touch alone, the way he can feel Mike breathe in — slow, hesitant — and then out again — faster, like he’s collapsing back into Will’s body.

The circles give way to shapes, any that Will can think of. Then lines, curved and looping around his shoulder blades, his upper arms. He trails fingers up the back of Mike’s neck, where the cotton of his shirt gives way to a more organic warmth, and scrapes his fingernails lightly against the skin there. Drops another delicate kiss to the sliver of Mike’s forehead where his hair is parted as it falls around his face.

Mike lets out another pleased noise, half-coherent and probably involuntary, and his hand twitches lightly on Will’s jaw. Will bites back a smile, and stares straight up at the ceiling.

Will was never good at this before either — taking the things he wants. Letting himself have things he wants. Something is turning over in his gut, warm and viscous and slow, with each moment of touch he lets himself have, in this newfound, selfish way — through Mike’s hair, down his arms and back up again. Over his back, his shoulders, trailing fingers up his cheeks. He rubs circles into Mike’s temples, watches his brows unfurrow — for once in his life — and his expression go slack with contentment. He wants to touch the corners of Mike’s mouth too, where they’ve turned downwards, vulnerable, half-pressed into Will’s shirt.

He does. He can.

It’s a novel thing, for him, having someone be this close. Having someone be this close just because they want to be, because they trust you.

Will doesn’t know what to make of that. He’s never felt this before, the urge to hold someone so close that all the bad things go away. The urge to touch, the urge to lie here until entropy takes them.

There are no bad things anymore, though. It’s a quiet afternoon, and it’s calm, and it’s peaceful, and—

Will stops.

His hand stills on Mike’s back.

Oh, he thinks, still looking up at the ceiling. Oh.

“Will?” Mike stirs again, and he’d definitely been right on the precipice of sleep this time, judging by the way his voice is dragging on the single syllable. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Will whispers, a little incredulously, as realization dawns upon him. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry too, a little bit. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m great.”

Mike taps a slow finger against Will’s cheek and peers carefully up at him. “What is it?

“I,” Will starts, then stops. He’ll sound ridiculous if he says it. Ridiculous and pathetic and— “Nothing,” he says anyway, despite every molecule of better judgment in his body. “I’m just— I’m happy.”

Mike pauses. “Oh,” he says simply, cheek still pressed to Will’s chest. He sounds a little caught off-guard, in a good way. “I— that’s good. That you’re happy.”

The weird feeling in Will’s gut bubbles up, up, and over. “Yeah,” he says quietly, trying to keep his voice even. “I am. You make me happy.”

At this, Mike looks up. His expression is a bit startled, like a deer in headlights. “What?”

Oh, god. Will swallows. He looks back up. “I just,” he says, “I’ve never— I’m happy. And I don’t know when— I don’t know if I’ve ever. Been this happy before, I mean. Before everything. Before—”

You, he thinks. He doesn’t say it, but it goes implied.

Mike is silent.

The weird feeling starts settling back into Will’s stomach, slow and steady like molasses. Shit. That was, objectively, probably a weird thing to say. It was, right?

Oh, god.

Will blinks, once, twice, thrice in quick succession, and keeps his stare fixed on the ceiling.

“Will,” Mike says at last, from somewhere below him. He lifts his head off of Will’s chest, tufts of black hair swimming into view. “Can you— can you look at me, please?”

Oh, god.

Will looks down. “Yeah?”

Mike looks— wondrous, maybe, which is a bit dramatic, but it’s true. “Really?” he asks, and he doesn’t sound freaked out or anything, which is a good sign, but— “I do?”

“Yeah,” Will whispers. “You do. Like, really happy.”

Happy seems a bit diminutive, if Will’s being honest. Whatever this feeling is runs much deeper than that — past contentment and comfort and satisfaction. Ease, maybe. Safety would be closer.

He doesn’t say any of that.

Mike’s cheeks flush a brilliant pink. He splays his palm across Will’s cheek and asks, in mild disbelief, “Is that what was bothering you?”

“It wasn’t bothering me,” Will says quietly, tugging at Mike’s wrist and sitting up, just slightly, leaning back against one elbow. “I’m fine.”

“You weren’t,” Mike says simply, and lets himself be moved. “I could tell. I just— I thought it was something, you know. Worse.”

“What?” Will laughs, and Mike’s expression softens in relief. “Like what?”

“I don’t know!” Mike exclaims, but he’s smiling too. “I just— I could tell, and I didn’t— I don’t know. Never mind.”

Will pushes a strand of hair behind Mike’s ear again, the same one that had been falling back out the entire time they’d been lying together. “I’m sorry if you worried,” he says quietly. “I just— I didn’t know what it was. I’ve never been this happy before.”

“Will,” Mike starts, expression earnest and searching. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Sorry,” Will adds, for good measure. Maybe Mike is, like, totally freaked out. “No pressure, or anything.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mike says immediately, frowning. “Never apologize. I just— I’m happy too. You make me happy. Really happy.”

“Well that’s good,” Will jokes, but it comes out halfhearted. “I should hope I’m not making you sad.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Will.”

“Sorry,” he says on instinct, then immediately bites down on his lower lip. “I mean. Yes. Yeah.”

Mike gives him a look, exasperated and a little fond. “I mean,” he says, then leans forward, all the way back into Will’s space, “you make me happy too. I don’t know when I’ve been— me too, I mean. Me too.”

“Oh,” Will breathes out, in awe, a little bit, of a lot of things — the deepening flush across Mike’s cheek, the ease with which the admission comes tumbling out of his mouth. The simple reciprocity of it bowls him over, like maybe Mike thinks about this, when Will doesn’t know — just how happy Will makes him. “Okay.”

Mike eyes dart between his own. “That all you have to say?” he teases. “Okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?” Will asks, teasing back, a little, but also asking a little truthfully. He’s not the greatest with words, but he’s also not stupid — he understands the implications, here, of what it means to feel so happy around someone that it feels like you’re admitting to something bigger by just saying it. He knows what he’s implying, and he knows Mike is picking up on it, but he doesn’t know how to put that into words — the way his soul feels like it’s stilled inside of him, somewhere, no longer restless or jittery or perpetually keyed up.

He wonders if Mike feels like that too.

The thought, suddenly, is too much.

“Nothing,” Mike says, after a moment. He pauses, then presses a fleeting kiss to Will’s cheek. “Nothing.”

“Mike,” Will says, suddenly, then grabs a hold of Mike’s wrist again. “I— you know that I—”

He feels overwhelmed, a little frantic. He’s sure it’s coming through in his voice. The rest of the sentence hangs there, suspended in midair between the two of them.

Love you, Will thinks. I love you. I love you.

He needs Mike to know.

Mike can’t ever know.

He looks away again, like maybe Mike will be able to tell exactly what he’s thinking just by looking at him.

“Yeah,” Mike is saying. “It’s okay, Will. I know. Me too. Obviously.”

Will relaxes. Thank god for plausible deniability. “Okay,” he says instead, feeling a smile split wide and exhilarated across his face. He feels like he just ran a marathon, and it isn’t until he lies back down that he feels it. The adrenaline, sweet and thick and palpable in his veins. “Okay. Cool.”

“Cool,” Mike echoes, then settles back down on top of him. “Yeah. Cool.”

Will tucks his chin over the top of Mike’s head, running a soothing hand over Mike’s hair. His heart is beating so fast that he’s sure Mike is able to tell. “Go back to sleep,” he says quietly. Mike lets out a noise that might be a laugh, and tucks his face into Will’s neck.

It’s a quiet afternoon. Everything feels perfectly right.

#i don’t know what this is #i’ve just had a Week #and i am so tired and my head hurts and i think i’m falling sick again and basically i need someone to lie on top of me and crush me #w their body weight like a weighted blanket #bc my weighted blanket is not cutting it rn i need More #anyways. i hope u enjoy this stream of consciousness #i am so touch starved and i’m being so fr someone better do something about that bc #my ex is coming back to town in 3 weeks and if i don’t get a hug before then i will literally text him #jk i won’t but. u know #LOL #n e ways #will byers #mike wheeler #byler #fun sized fics #fic #etc #ok back to studying Bye

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ahappyphjl · 4 months

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hey…dan gave phil an eyebrow slit live on stream…live…on stream…phil…slit…live???

#literally just stream of consciousness but like???????#i don’t think im built to process all of this lol #jenna rambles #dan and phil

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factorialsotherfandoms · 9 months

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So um yesterday's tazercraft stream happened and I caught up mostly with other people's notes and now... have this I guess. I hesitate to call it a fic, but its definitely fictional prose imagining the night after Pac's return with the two of them in Chume Labs.

Usual disclaimer of I only speak English with any fluency and so characterisation is likely to be abysmal. I just... also love these two guys and I'm doing my best to make them happy. But it doesn't seem very realistic, so I'll make Mike cry instead.

Pac will not wake up screaming, he never does. Mike had when Pac was taken from him - when Walter Bob was taken too, and each and every time he remembers the cells they have been held in. Pac, though, Pac was the strong one, the one who could handle it, who could just manage whatever situation was thrown at them - who acted like everything was okay so he could look after Mike.

No more.

Now Mike is the one sat at Pac's bedside, holding his hand even as he sleeps. Pac seems frozen in time, perfectly still even with the tension running through him. His muscles are so tight that even his back shakes with the tension, clearly stuck in a nightmare despite how quiet he is.

And Mike... Mike does not know what to do.

He thought he was a protector, but he has failed to protect in every way that matters. It had always been the two of them - Mike would shield Pac as they fought the world, and Pac would be there to patch up his wounds. But then they were taken, and then their friend was taken, and then Pac was taken leaving Mike alone and now-

If there was something to destroy it would be easier, Mike thinks.

Destroying the Federation will not be easy, and whatever he has seen in his time, alone in their grasp, Pac does not even think it possible any more; something in Pac has been broken, or perhaps stolen, and Mike can only hope that it is something that, despite his clumsy attempts to soothe, will heal.

Impossible is not a word that should be found in Pac's vocabulary, and yet...

There it is.

Mike has never been good at picking up the pieces, not when building, and certainly not of a person. But, but if Pac has broken, has slipped beneath the water, then Mike will not give in until either he is dead, or until he has Pac in his arms, fully this time around. If Pac has learnt the word impossible then Mike will forget it, and bludgeon head first into a world trying to destroy them, tearing it piece by piece until they are all safe once again.

Pac is his friend, and Mike is Pac's friend, and they mean everything to one another.

So, when he catches Pac's eyes, half-lidded, barely open, Mike will reach slowly out, and brush the hair from his eyes. He will tell him he is safe, that Mike will protect him, that nothing will be allowed to touch him again. Perhaps Mike will fail, but he will get back up and scream and try again, and do everything Pac can't until his wounds have healed and they move together again.

He will be scared when Pac does not respond beyond a slow blink, hesitate only a little before squeezing his hands. He will help Pac sit up, fold his hands around a water glass, and keep those hands steady as his friend drinks.

He will ask Pac if he is okay, and receive only a slight bowing of his head in return.

Fear will grip him tighter - it has not left yet, it had never gone - but he will pull Pac against his chest, hold him close, clutch him closer as he tries to outsqueeze the fear.

Pac will turn his face into Mike's chest, and wrap his fingers in his shirt, and say nothing as Mike makes promises of them being together, of them being home, of having trapped the area around the beds to hell and high heaven and that, even if something can make it past, it will not be quiet enough to escape Mike's notice.

Mike will hold him and comfort him and, when the words run out with Pac still silent but now trembling against him, he will let himself sob, and he will cry for the both of them.

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horatiocomehome · 24 days

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bad touch

he pushed you away. . .

There's nothing you can do, not while you're trapped here, to get him to love you. You aren't the person he fell in love with anymore, are you?

You may pretend sometimes, but you can barely remember before. You've lived this how many days?

How many times has he stopped himself from loving you? No matter what you do...

It's not like you deserve this. Not anymore.

#in other words. guess who just got an achievement #man......#isat #isat spoilers #starry time #my writing #literally just stream of consciousness ficcing #the narration style is burned into my head...

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fallenlightsif · 11 months

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Florian’s Patreon exclusive POV of the packing kiss scene is going to be uploaded later tonight y’all 🤭

#his stream of consciousness is literally just how hot mc is #and how he’s suffering because of it lmfao

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vivid-vices · 2 months

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fave things about mori?

hmm that's hard 🤔

i like that while he prioritizes logic and reason, he's still forgiving towards his subordinates, saying that effort is more important than results. and his words to chuuya about the leader of an organization being its slave really endeared him to me.

i guess that mostly i like that he's very contradictory. this cold, clinical man who drops everything to appease a bratty little girl who doesn't even actually exist. his fond exasperation when dealing with 15!dazai, even after recognizing him as a threat. a mafia boss whose main priority is genuinely the protection, the balance of light and dark, of the city as a whole. the fact that even as smart as he is, he's still capable of making misjudgements.

also i have a lot of appreciation for how he manipulates. it's very subtle, and almost always leaves himself free of any potential direct blame. he thinks like a doctor, a soldier, and a leader at the same time and it shows (and works well).

plus he's just a silly little guy. pathetic wet cat of a man. elise probably makes him cry every single day. i mean, we've seen him go to an executive meeting in pigtails just to make her happy. there is so much potential for her making him do the most ridiculous shit and him just going with it.

anyway. i kind of love him a lot, if you couldn't tell :)

#this is literally just me stream of consciousness rambling about him so sorry if it's incoherent or repetitive #bsd #bsd mori #bsd meta #ellie.answers

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reticent-hush · 1 year

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I think I saw it mentioned that Sukuna’s shadow puppets are the inverse of Megumi’s and…

Nue…

Divine dogs…

Even holding up different fists for Mahoraga…

Furthermore, it’s strange how half-assed they are, especially considering Sukuna has all of Megumi’s memories/muscle-memory. Like, he does not want to extend those fingers at all. I wonder if this is another way to show how superior he is to Megumi when it comes to jujutsu.

Like, I’ve always been curious about this dialogue here. We understand that Megumi is talking about his domain expansion, but it really seems like it extends to his entire technique. The Ten Shadows has always seemed incredibly rigid to me, you get ten shikigami by performing ten(~8 without dogs) rituals and that's it. Except…

It's really not? Being able to walk and store things within shadows, WHATEVER the hell is up with the shadow clones, even (not pictured) creating duplicates of his shikigami. Like, all we know about his domain expansion is that it powers up his techniques, which really means anything we've seen him do within it is something he can do outside of it. Megumi's chronically bad at thinking outside the box, and Sukuna is NOT.

He's got the skill, the power, and the imagination to use Megumi's own technique better than he ever could, as much as it pisses me off. We're literally watching him breeze past imaginary barriers Megumi set up for himself. Why hasn't Nue's size changed? Why hasn't he summoned multiple of the black divine dog? If this is just based on cursed energy, there's no reason for Nue to still be the same size after ~200 chapters at what is basically the end of the series. Megumi just doesn't have the imagination to see how his technique can grow, and so he restricts himself to what he THINKS works.

I think you can see this all in the shadow puppetry tbh. Megumi's form is perfect, there's no reason for us to believe he is doing it wrong when he's our primary example. Meanwhile, Sukuna's is sloppy (Nue's wings are folded, Divine dog has no jaw, Mahoraga doesn't even look like he's holding his arms up) and yet it still works. It really brings into question how necessary they even are, whether Megumi is putting too much emphasis on things that don't matter and may actually hinder his growth.

All this to say, Megumi's been handicapping himself for a while and he needs to get his shit together if he's gonna stand any chance at holding back the King of Curses from murdering his sister. Plus, there's one thing Megumi can do that no one else in his situation has been able to, and that's perform a domain expansion. We know Sukuna could drag Yuuji into his innate domain, so I'm hoping Megumi can finally do something unprecedented, perfect his domain, and contest Sukuna's control of his body. I heavily doubt he could win, but perhaps he can stalemate Sukuna long enough for someone to land a killing blow.

#jujutsu kaisen spoilers #jjk spoilers #ryoumen sukuna #fushiguro megumi #meta #I guess #long post #unexpectedly #I just think it would be horrifically cruel to end the series without ever showing us Megumi's perfected domain expansion #Sukuna is already doing all the things we(I) wanted to see Megumi accomplish with his technique #especially Mahoraga that's a kick in the teeth #but if I'm not mistaken Sukuna literally can't do Megumi's domain for him since it's a soul thing #so please Gege give us this one last thing #or more like I'd also appreciate if we got Megumi back......#anyway sorry for subjecting you all to my stream of consciousness meta lol

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tiredstressedemotionalmess · 11 months

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dude i’m down a rabbithole of abandoned places in southern california for danger days purposes and i found this one prison that held a lot of radicals and later, queer people when police were cracking down on bars and stuff and idk i just think it would be interesting for some killjoys to revere that place and some revile it

they're drawn to it and they dont know why. maybe its simply because its a prison and they're the next generation of outlaws. maybe it runs deeper than that. either way they just know they have to go in they have to stay there they have to fill it with lights and color and music and they make it a home, a safehouse maybe for everyone who's stuck running from the company. some joys say the place is haunted, but dont worry! the ghosts are friendly, and if you ask nicely, they tell you about a time when things were different. not necessarily better than they are now but. different. and if you tell them a story in return they'll Say they're proud that we're still fighting, they're proud that we never gave up

#asks #danger days #dont ask me what this respose was bc i have no idea 💀 literally just. welcome to my immediate stream of consciousness after reading this

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overtake · 4 months

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content for a very small audience but i was experiencing major deja vu when daniel posted this

#i need my laptop back so badly i am going crazy without it #apple needs to get it back to me FAST #i could be gifing but instead i’m comparing ashton irwin and his brother to daniel and his nephew #something about the photos was just SO SIMILAR #but seriously i will die without my laptop #i use it for everything it is my best friend #i use it for tumblr and discord and twitter and reddit and obviously i am literally just always working on some kinda gifset or project #i have 80 million tabs open #i watch all my youtube and tv on my laptop #i miss her so much #i had to write a full essay on my ipad today #do u know how annoying it is to do mcgill guide footnotes on ipad microsoft word #my cat will suffer for what she did (be given endless love appreciation and kisses and experience zero consequeces)#i’m also very sick rn so i’m really just stream of consciousness-ing here #my grip on reality is quite loose #i need to eat some soup and go to bed

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bumblingbabooshka · 1 year

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What if you met someone who was so similar to you in so many ways but the divergence was too great to bridge the gap? What if you didn't speak to your mother for ten years and then met a man who had her eyes, her sure and steady hands, the same reverence to his tone when he spoke about logic and every so often your brain stumbled and replaced the word with 'honor'?

What if you recognized yourself in other ways? You both dropped out of Starfleet, didn't you? You both laid awake at one point, hearts pounding, wishing with everything that you weren't born the way you were - then everything would be better, then everything would be alright. Then you could be in love, then your father would love you. What if you were both sent away - to a monastery, to a temple, to become upstanding members of your societies. Your mother giving you a firm hug, squeezing you too tightly as you tried to squirm away (with a desperation that spoke to more than simple adolescent embarrassment, a shame that had already hardened into hatred) and his father leaving without a word or parting touch, the banished don't need to be bid farewell. Something took hold in him. Nothing did for you. (failure) It might have, but you ran away. You're always running B'Elanna. Afraid you might learn something? (failure) Afraid you might be wrong? You can't be human - what if you can't even be Klingon? What if the very thing you've hated and rejected all your life doesn't even want you? What if you stop and look back and see that nothing's chasing you - that you're not even worth it? B'Elanna hears that Tuvok's program was messed with, pranked by Tom and Harry. She feels bad (but there's something else isn't there? A vicious satisfaction. You're watching the worm be put into the sandwich with a keen eye, aren't you?) but doesn't say much. Later, she goes into a holodeck to fetch Tuvok for something necessary and notices that he's fixing his temple program. "You don't need to do that, you know." Tuvok doesn't respond, raising his eyebrow. B'Elanna looks away from him, at the half-edited program. She commits the lines of code to memory, her heart pounding. She feels irritated for some reason. She laughs very lightly. "I mean...we're thousands of lightyears away from Vulcan." Whoever you're praying to can't hear you. (B'Elanna crying herself to sleep: When I wake up please give me a smooth forehead, when I wake up please bring daddy back home, when I wake up please make me human - please.) (B'Elanna watching her mother out of the corner of her eye, hating her every movement, every breath, every line of prayer she shouts out - never for a moment doubting. Never for a moment wavering.) How stupid can you be? "Thank you, Lieutenant Torres." Tuvok says and B'Elanna can swear she hears him lean on her rank more than he needs to - can swear she sees his gaze flit up to her cranial ridges. It's a clear dismissal, not an acknowledgement of what she said. She turns. "Do you only perform rituals under pressure, Lieutenant?" B'Elanna attempting to go limp as her mother drags her up the road towards a circle of chanting Klingons. "I don't want to! Why do you always make me go with you?" Her mother's grip, unwavering. Her eyes locked on their target. They never look away like B'Elanna's do, they're never aimed downward. "Because if I didn't you'd never come."

B'Elanna turns, startled by the direct acknowledgement. She grips her PADD tighter. Tuvok stares at her and his eyes are so familiar it makes her heart race a little, blood rushing to her face. He's laughing at her. He's judging her. He's staring and he knows exactly what he sees. The only times her mother looked down were to catch B'Elanna's eye as she laid on the floor - knocked there or collapsed into a heap. You don't understand anything. How stupid can you be? "I don't believe in rituals." B'Elanna tells Tuvok. Tuvok's gaze travels - not out of necessity but to make a point. His brow raises and he purses his lips slightly. 'Hm,' his expression seems to say. 'How strange.' "What?" B'Elanna snaps. Tuvok looks at her again, eyes widening slightly as if confused by her shapened tone. Then the expression is gone and he is perfect again. "In my experience, Klingons tend-" "I guess I'm not like other Klingons." B'Elanna cuts him off. She's half human isn't she? Why doesn't anyone ever call her that? "...You're upset." "No, I'm not." B'Elanna lies, turning again. "That's all I needed from you, bye." Tuvok doesn't say anything, his customary stance, so B'Elanna walks across the room to leave but before she does she sneaks another glance at him. He's gone back to correcting the errors in his program and the look of concentration again reminds her of her mother - but also her. She's seen that face in the mirror as she tried a hundred different styles in an attempt to hide her ridges, felt it from the tension in her brow as she laughed and flippantly said she didn't know a word of Klingon: "It's just a bunch of noise to me, really." - as she tried to erase her connection to that side of herself however she could. There, across from her, Tuvok (with the same desperation) is trying to hold onto it. What is a shackle to one is a lifeline to another. She remembers when Tuvok attempted to teach her to meditate before they both quietly ended the sessions and Chakotay stopped asking about them. She remembers how Tuvok's room was so full of Vulcan things: Candles, tapestries, jewelry boxes full of little trinkets and wall ornaments etched with Vulcan script. He must have replicated it all. How long did it take him to fill his entire quarters like that? B'Elanna's room is utterly devoid of anything Klingon. The one time Tom suggested it she suggested they put up an old Hollywood poster instead. She stared at the leading lady's forehead and pointedly didn't touch her own. No, anything Klingon would suffocate her - kill her. A little taste of home was poisonous. How was Tuvok fine? How isn't he suffocating? How is this logical? "Sorry about your temple...thing." B'Elanna says. "It wasn't very...you know." "Why are you apologizing?" Tuvok asks, not pausing his work to look at her. B'Elanna shifts her weight, crossing her arms. "I don't know." "I have no feelings to hurt." Tuvok informs her. She thinks about how she would have turned out if she had stayed still in that monastery. Would she have something to hold onto? Would it be better than the freedom to float? Would she be happier? Would she be able to look straight ahead and not care about people calling her turtlehead or putting worms in her sandwich or forcing her monks to recite ferengi limericks or leaving her, always leaving her? Would she able to stand on her own and say it didn't hurt? "Right." B'Elanna says, one foot out the door. "Of course."

#B'Elanna Torres #Tuvok #st voyager #I hope this makes sense I literally just did stream of consciousness writing to secure the vibe in my mind #What if your co-worker who you were on a ship with ostensibly for the rest of your life reminded you of #your mother - your bullies - and yourself all at once?

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