"Killing curse green eyes" is a description that should be reserved for a Harry that is an alarmingly few amount of steps away from using said curse.
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reblogs off bc i dont want to start Conversations based on other peoples posts but re the whole "who is in control you or the character" question, i find it SO interesting because it's by letting myself discovery write that I (for me personally disclaimer) found the perfect balance between intuition and intention. which to preface "intution" is the easiest way to describe how the inside of my writers brain feels bc often i just get vivid characters/stories/images/scenes with little control at first and i have to figure out what they mean. anyway discovery writing is what works for my brain to make intentional decisions because i need to be amidst a draft to get the Story Cogs working, whenever i try to outline before a draft it's always been just throwing things at a wall bc it feels too far away, but because im also using the discovery element to do that it's like. that's where i think the whole i feel like my characters reveal themselves to me comes from. because im always discovering small bits about them even if i've written them for years just but because discovery writing is also what prompts me to be intentional about writing as i write something it's like both are happening at the same time. so the whole "who's in control" it's like...i don't think control is the right word for me at all because its not Me or the Character it's me trying to understand the character to understand + then write my intentions. like neither me or the character are in the drivers seat because there's no car we are in the middle of the story forest and at first i won't know what it means at all except that it is a Story. and my character will start going one way and sometimes i'll follow and pay attention to where they're taking me to figure out if this is the right path/where to go next. and sometimes i'll figure out how to read the compass first and realise i need to drag their ass in another direction
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i have something very personal and ugly and probably incoherent that i need to get off my chest about israel. to preface im not a zionist, i am jewish and disgusted by israel on a daily basis, and this is me mostly speaking from that. i am sorry and if anyone who follows me doesn't want to read this from me/hates it i ask that you just scroll on by and forget it. and if you do read it and respond im happy to talk but just please take it in good faith. in reponse to this post
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It baffles me sometimes how Yakuza 0 is about the weight of taking a life and how death and killing is a big deal and then the rest of the series it's like lol no.
Female character? Kill her off with little fanfare and development. Helpful side character? Dies for the protag. Antagonist? Have them off themselves.
Characters whose deaths could've and probably should've carried more weight but we don't get enough focus or development on their character. Potential is often squandered. And yes, there is something hard hitting about losing a character before they truly had the chance to flourish, but when it keeps happening? We can't build on character bonds, that'd mean cutting down on substories!! What do you mean we've done this one before it's different now!!!
Not to mention when the franchise decides that completely fatal wounds Are Fine Actually They're Alive And Well All Along. And, y'know. The Heat Actions. Akiyama has kicked many men to death and you won't convince me otherwise.
Idk I like the franchise but I feel there's a bit of lack of tonal cohesion here and there. Notably.
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I tripped when I got off the bus this morning and fucked up both my knees im going to cry
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I think it’s great that terms related to mental health/abuse are being talked about, but I almost feel like it’s gotten to the point where the original meaning has been lost.
Today in class a girl said “It’s like [narrator] is gaslighting himself.”
She used the word as a synonym for “convince.” He was trying to convince himself of something.
Can we please stop throwing around these words? There’s power behind them, and that power should be respected. Yes, use it when appropriate, but don’t use it for the sake of using it.
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@frozenambiguity asked: ¥
Looks: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
Personality: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
Attraction: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
Would they date them: yes | no | ?????
Favorite thing about them:
" Sir Kaeya is certainly a man of both great intelligence and company. I feel that we can talk throughout the evening about many things. It is rare to find a person that I would spend much time with willingly. I am usually not that prone to speaking so much with someone, but it feels quite natural to do so with him. Though, I suppose I should not always approach him with such deep topics and a more friendly conversation amongst ourselves would be just as well too. Perhaps it is best to simply say that Sir Kaeya is an interesting and charming individual with whom I regard with a level of respect and platonic fondness. "
Least favorite thing about them:
" ... Do you ever feel that you are looking into a body of water and the bottom looks much closer than it actually is ? That is my predicament with him. The water's surface looks calm but the current underneath might be more chaotic than what you can see with the naked eye. To his credit, Sir Kaeya certainly knows how to keep both his cards and secrets close to his chest that even someone like me has difficulty getting to them. It is understandable, though. A person's deepest thoughts, pains and fears can be worth concealing from everyone, and even though I am curious, even I know that there are certain boundaries that should not be crossed forcefully. "
" Still, I suppose that would make me a hypocrite to feel slighted by someone not showing me a bit of who they are underneath. In that case, however, I fear that we might not be able to become anything more than what we are now if neither of us gives a little more. "
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I LOVE Dungeon Meshi's Realistic Fantasy Races
Ok, I had to stop for a moment to gush about the fantasy races of Dunmeshi, and all the consideration that's been put into them, because they actually follow a degree of natural/evolutionary logic not found in most fantasy stories!
Half-Foots (halflings/hobbits):
So we all know these fellows have excellent hearing and smell, but have you considered WHY? It's an adaptation to counteract their size. Humans (called tallmen in this setting) rely so much on eyesight because we're really tall compared to most animals, giving us a fantastic vantage of our environment. Half-Foots don't have this advantage, and therefore rely on their other senses. It's also much more important for them to be able to detect unseen threats and move quickly, because their size makes them ill-equipped for direct conflict.
Dwarves:
So Dwarves are depicted as MUCH stronger than tallmen despite their size, right? This is because strength is determined not by size, but by mass, and dwarven bodies are very dense! Yet this comes with the downside of their bodies burning more energy and overheating much faster, which is why dwarves are also shown to be heat-resistant, and why they tend to wear lighter clothing that exposes more skin! Their night-vision is also better than humans' due to their semi-underground lifestyle, while their hearing remains about the same since sound naturally carries in caves. Their hairiness is also likely a direct adaptation to counteract magic, as it's been shown to form a natural buffer when left unwashed.
Gnomes:
Gnomes are supposed to be evolutionary cousins to dwarves, and it shows! They share a similar height, but are less muscular and have peculiarly-shaped ears, almost mirroring the difference between human and elven ears. Their affinity with nature and spirits also makes sense, because physically they're in an awkward spot compared to the other short races, lacking both the hefty strength of dwarves and the light nimbleness of half-foots. Being less equipped both for fight and flight, it makes sense they'd instead adapt the instinctive ability to read their environments and mitigate its threats through cohabitation.
Elves:
Like gnomes, elves are in a physically awkward place, however it's even more extreme. Their relatively light and weak bodies make them ill-equipped for direct conflict, and while likely able to move faster than tallmen due to weight, they lack the half-foot's danger-detection senses. This makes them seemingly helpless, however interestingly it actually explains why they're so advanced compared to other races! They were basically forced to coordinate problem-solve, and control their environments out of necessity, which is reflected in their more controlling and direct relationship with magic and nature compared to gnomes.
This actually mirrors the real-world difference between humans and neanderthals. Anthropologists believe neanderthals weren't actually dumber than humans, but that their superior strength and durability meant they weren't forced to problem-solve or control their environments like humans, meaning they seemed less advanced.
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Katara's Story Is A Tragedy and It's Not An Accident
I was a teenaged girl when Avatar: The Last Airbender aired on Nickelodeon—the group that the show’s creators unintentionally hit while they were aiming for the younger, maler demographic. Nevermind that we’re the reason the show’s popularity caught fire and has endured for two decades; we weren’t the audience Mike and Bryan wanted. And by golly, were they going to make sure we knew it. They’ve been making sure we know it with every snide comment and addendum they’ve made to the story for the last twenty years.
For many of us girls who were raised in the nineties and aughts, Katara was a breath of fresh air—a rare opportunity in a media market saturated with boys having grand adventures to see a young woman having her own adventure and expressing the same fears and frustrations we were often made to feel.
We were told that we could be anything we wanted to be. That we were strong and smart and brimming with potential. That we were just as capable as the boys. That we were our brothers’ equals. But we were also told to wash dishes and fold laundry and tidy around the house while our brothers played outside. We were ignored when our male classmates picked teams for kickball and told to go play with the girls on the swings—the same girls we were taught to deride if we wanted to be taken seriously. We were lectured for the same immaturity that was expected of boys our age and older, and we were told to do better while also being told, “Boys will be boys.” Despite all the platitudes about equality and power, we saw our mothers straining under the weight of carrying both full-time careers and unequally divided family responsibilities. We sensed that we were being groomed for the same future.
And we saw ourselves in Katara.
Katara begins as a parentified teenaged girl: forced to take on responsibility for the daily care of people around her—including male figures who are capable of looking after themselves but are allowed to be immature enough to foist such labor onto her. She does thankless work for people who take her contributions for granted. She’s belittled by people who love her, but don’t understand her. She’s isolated from the world and denied opportunities to improve her talents. She's told what emotions she's allowed to feel and when to feel them. In essence, she was living our real-world fear: being trapped in someone else’s narrow, stultifying definition of femininity and motherhood.
Then we watched Katara go through an incredible journey of self-determination and empowerment. Katara goes from being a powerless, fearful victim to being a protector, healer, advocate, and liberator to others who can’t do those things for themselves (a much truer and more fulfilling definition of nurturing and motherhood). It’s necessary in Katara’s growth cycle that she does this for others first because that is the realm she knows. She is given increasingly significant opportunities to speak up and fight on behalf of others, and that allows her to build those advocacy muscles gradually. But she still holds back her own emotional pain because everyone that she attempts to express such things to proves they either don't want to deal with it or they only want to manipulate her feelings for their own purposes.
Katara continues to do much of the work we think of as traditionally maternal on behalf of her friends and family over the course of the story, but we do see that scale gradually shift. Sokka takes on more responsibility for managing the group’s supplies, and everyone helps around camp, but Katara continues to be the manager of everyone else’s emotions while simultaneously punching down her own. The scales finally seem to tip when Zuko joins the group. With Zuko, we see someone working alongside Katara doing the same tasks she is doing around camp for the first time. Zuko is also the only person who never expects anything of her and whose emotions she never has to manage because he’s actually more emotionally stable and mature than she is by that point. And then, Katara’s arc culminates in her finally getting the chance to fully seize her power, rewrite the story of the traumatic event that cast her into the role of parentified child, be her own protector, and freely express everything she’s kept locked away for the sake of letting everyone else feel comfortable around her. Then she fights alongside an equal partner she knows she can trust and depend on through the story's climax. And for the first time since her mother’s death, the girl who gives and gives and gives while getting nothing back watches someone sacrifice everything for her. But this time, she’s able to change the ending because her power is fully realized. The cycle was officially broken.
Katara’s character arc was catharsis at every step. If Katara could break the mold and recreate the ideas of womanhood and motherhood in her own image, so could we. We could be powerful. We could care for ourselves AND others when they need us—instead of caring for everyone all the time at our own expense. We could have balanced partnerships with give and take going both ways (“Tui and La, push and pull”), rather than the, “I give, they take,” model we were conditioned to expect. We could fight for and determine our own destiny—after all, wasn’t destiny a core theme of the story?
Yes. Destiny was the theme. But the lesson was that Katara didn’t get to determine hers.
After Katara achieves her victory and completes her arc, the narrative steps in and smacks her back down to where she started. For reasons that are never explained or justified, Katara rewards the hero by giving into his romantic advances even though he has invalidated her emotions, violated her boundaries, lashed out at her for slights against him she never committed, idealized a false idol of her then browbeat her when she deviated from his narrative, and forced her to carry his emotions and put herself in danger when he willingly fails to control himself—even though he never apologizes, never learns his lesson, and never shows any inclination to do better.
And do better he does not.
The more we dared to voice our own opinions on a character that was clearly meant to represent us, the more Mike and Bryan punished Katara for it.
Throughout the comics, Katara makes herself smaller and smaller and forfeits all rights to personal actualization and satisfaction in her relationship. She punches her feelings down when her partner neglects her and cries alone as he shows more affection and concern for literally every other girl’s feelings than hers. She becomes cowed by his outbursts and threats of violence. Instead of rising with the moon or resting in the warmth of the sun, she learns to stay in his shadow. She gives up her silly childish dreams of rebuilding her own dying culture’s traditions and advocating for other oppressed groups so that she can fulfill his wishes to rebuild his culture instead—by being his babymaker. Katara gave up everything she cared about and everything she fought to become for the whims of a man-child who never saw her as a person, only a possession.
Then, in her old age, we get to watch the fallout of his neglect—both toward her and her children who did not meet his expectations. By that point, the girl who would never turn her back on anyone who needed her was too far gone to even advocate for her own children in her own home. And even after he’s gone, Katara never dares to define herself again. She remains, for the next twenty-plus years of her life, nothing more than her husband's grieving widow. She was never recognized for her accomplishments, the battles she won, or the people she liberated. Even her own children and grandchildren have all but forgotten her. She ends her story exactly where it began: trapped in someone else’s narrow, stultifying definition of femininity and motherhood.
The story’s theme was destiny, remember? But this story’s target audience was little boys. Zuko gets to determine his own destiny as long as he works hard and earns it. Aang gets his destiny no matter what he does or doesn’t do to earn it. And Katara cannot change the destiny she was assigned by gender at birth, no matter how hard she fights for it or how many times over she earns it.
Katara is Winston Smith, and the year is 1984. It doesn’t matter how hard you fight or what you accomplish, little girl. Big Brother is too big, too strong, and too powerful. You will never escape. You will never be free. Your victories are meaningless. So stay in your place, do what you’re told, and cry quietly so your tears don’t bother people who matter.
I will never get over it. Because I am Katara. And so are my friends, sisters, daughters, and nieces. But I am not content to live in Bryke's world.
I will never turn my back on people who need me. Including me.
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♡ imagine onyankopon as your boyfriend... ♡
sfw
ony loves to pretend that he’s not completely obsessed with you, that you don’t have him wrapped around your finger but everybody around yall knows that’s not true. when you call he’s dropping everything to be by your side, doesn’t matter what he’s doing or who he’s with. you're his top priority, always.
acts of service is one of his love languages. any problems that you have, ony makes it his business to solve them. as his girl, you’ll never be stressed or be in need of anything because he’ll always provide, he’ll always take care of you. no independent woman shit round here. 🤭 “what’s wrong, baby? talk t’me, let daddy fix it.” “already told you don’t worry bout that shit.. i got it, mama.”
very attentive. surprises you with random gifts, usually things you’ll talk about and forget later on. (as long as you act right.)
definitely a “gimme kiss” type of nigga. lovessss kissing.
the sassiest nigga alive. loves using all the girl lingo. “yeah.. not too much.” “what you be saying? you ate thattt.”
as much as he loves expensive dinners and planned dates, he usually prefers to be home relaxing with you. ony is a homebody fr.
can’t sleep right if you’re not with him. and when he’s all cuddled up with you, you’re stuck there. better hold that pee till the morning.
possesiveeee. he tries to tone it down fr but he doesn’t play about you at all. anybody tries to push up on you, he’s ready to knock their head off. gets rowdy real quick.
steals your bonnets. like imagine you’d spent forever looking for your favorite one and you find him in the kitchen with your jumbo pink bonnet on his big ass head. “ony… take off my fucking bonnet.” “come take it off me, pookie.” knowing damn well you can’t reach him. 🙄
alwayssss buying you food. he loves to eat and makes sure you eat whenever he does. making you gain all the happy weight. “you ate mama?” “what you wanna eat? ima pick it up on my way back to the crib.”
you’ll always catch him staring at you. sometimes he can’t believe that you’re all his. and he doesn’t gaf, he’ll just be like “what? I can’t look at yo pretty ass?” “you too sexy t’not stare at, baby.”
nsfw
big dommmm. loves manhandling you, he’ll let you take control sometimes but it’s rare. (gotta catch him off guard)
will fuck the attitude out of you everytime. it’s like you tempt him because you know he’ll fuck some sense into you. (and do!)
loves spitting in your mouth. like holding your face and letting it drip off his tongue onto yours. jus nasty.
not much of a moaner, he curses and grunts a lot. some moans definitely slip out when he’s really in the moment, though. 🤭
eats your pussy as a form of apology. the way you grind your hips into his mouth? and grip his head? he knows you’ll accept it everytime. nigga you ain’t shit
loves backshots but also loves pushing them thick legs to your chest, giving long deep strokes that you can’t run away from.
loves putting a thumb in your butt like future LMAO
talks you through it, very verbal during sex in general. big dirty talker. 🤭 “let it out, mama. cum on this fucking dick.” “mhmm, just like that, fuck.” “this all mine… this my pussy, huh? say it.”
taglist: @kittyarmin @dionnethinks @90ekz @rintcrous @zuriayan @prettypixigrl @bey0nseh
@/hoesluvshanti, 2023. do not copy, steal or repost my content without permission.
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toji with a whiny bratty gf :3
tags. mean dom!toji x female reader. manhandling, mating press, daddy kink, degradation, breeding, size difference, toji calls u ‘little girl’ & ‘ma’ at the end.
you had lost count of how many times you’ve begged toji to forgive you for your behaviour earlier. he had you pinned to the couch, body pressed into a mating press with your big, beefy boyfriend hovering inches above your face.
it all happened because you were acting up while toji was on the phone. he was calling his agent regarding some business and that’s when you randomly decided to be a brat. you were teasing him by ‘unintentionally’ grinding against his crotch as you cuddled.
toji tried to make you to stop by giving you death stares, tightening his grip on your waist and gritting his teeth. despite all of that, you still acted like you didn’t know the impact your actions had on him.
once the call ended, the phone went flying onto the carpet beneath you. you were easily flipped on your back and your clothes were ripped off in under a few seconds. there was a fire in toji’s eyes; you were not getting away from his wrath this time.
“sorry—‘m sorry, daddy! nhhh, sorry!” your hands were clenching onto toji’s biceps, his arms on either side of your body. toji was steadying himself on his arms which made the veins on them even more visible.
your pussy was forced to stretch out and accommodate to toji’s thick girth as he currently didn’t possess the mercy to give you a break, “too late now, ain’t it?”
there was no backing out now. you had asked for it the moment you decided to tease him. toji had given you enough warnings beforehand to remind you of the consequences of such foolish actions,
“where’d that bratty attitude go, hm?” toji scoffs. your confidence from earlier had gone extinct as you were reduced to a whiny, teary-eyed mess underneath him;
“ya really thought i’d let you off the hook after that shit you pulled?” toji mocks you with a mean grin, “tha’s real cute.”
you sobbed and your words were getting a bit jumbled up from the way your boyfriend was using and abusing your overstimulated pussy to release his frustrations, “mmnhh ! n-never doin’ again— never d-doin’ it again,”
your promising words were answered by a simple haughty chuckle. toji knew that you’d do it again. you like to be a brat and you absolutely love the reaction you get out of him each time. you enjoyed the thrill of messing around with a man like him who could easily manhandle you and get what he wants, whenever he wants.
the teasing on your part was all fun and games until it wasn’t anymore and toji’s degrading and fucking you brainless. he always had the last laugh. that’s how your relationship is.
“t-toji— mhhhngg ! please..” your plea was left unfinished once you felt more pressure on your body—toji putting more of his weight on you to hit deeper into your cunt. your eyes rolled back and your lips were parted to let out soft moans instead of proper words.
“fuckin’ pathetic,” toji grunts, savouring the way your small body was struggling underneath him. your entire vision was obstructed by his bulky physique. it’s all you could see through the tears; “my little girl jus’ needed a cock to shut that pretty mouth up.”
you nod along to his words since, at this point, you couldn’t even think straight anymore. it truly felt like you were being broken by your boyfriend as your legs were stuck in the air, his hips slamming against yours in an inhuman pace, his balls clenching as toji desperately wanted to fill your womb up to the brim with his seed—breeding you full, which gave him a sense of ownership over you in the heat of the moment.
and once he eventually finished and dumped his big load into you?
“ass up, ma.”
toji’s already putting you in another position. even if his dick went limp after having his earlier orgasm; he knows he’ll be hard again in under a few seconds. he can easily cum over and over, as long as his semen was well-spent and put in your cunt.
you weren’t going to catch a break today.
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you know, one thing that i found extremely refreshing about the Barbie movie is how much it doesn't hate men or masculinity, and instead positions compulsory masculinity as similarly limiting and imprisoning as femininity when it's societally enforced
and i've been really surprised by how many people who have been going "this movie is anti-men, and that's GREAT" when like. it's not anti-men. it's opposed to patriarchy and toxic masculinity, but it extends a great deal of compassion to individual men
not just to magic ken and sugar daddy ken and allan and the other rejected kens, but even to stereotypical ken, who like. causes a lot of the problems in barbieland and leads it. it extends a great deal of empathy for his sense of powerlessness and loneliness
and it would have been very easy for the film to basically just call him an incel and punish him for what he's done by disenfranchising him even further, but it doesn't do that? it says, hey. you need more to your identity than your gender, and there's more to you than being str8
and that's exactly the same weight of the message communicated to barbie, that there's more to her identity than her gender, that there's more to her than her perfect appearance and performance
neither of them have to just be dolls
idk, i enjoyed it as a well-crafted film without finding it like, hugely artistically impactful on me, but that aspect of its gender commentary was incredibly refreshing, and far more nuanced than i'm used to expecting of cisgender creators
and i think it's a real shame for people to interpret that very carefully crafted arc for ken and the other kens and allan as "haha, this movie HATES men and thinks they're STINKY" when like. a lot of work was done to go beyond that sort of very easy reflexive hatred
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I was rewatching s1e3 and something finally clicked for me..
Please forgive me if this seems obvious to you. It helps me to type out my thoughts, but I'm sure I'm just an idiot and no one else needs this explained to them, lol. That said - I was always slightly confused by the emotional weight of the holy water arc during the flashback sequence. Particularly I was confused by how angry Crowley got when Aziraphale referred to their relationship as fraternizing in the 1862 fight. I mean, "to associate or form a friendship with someone, especially when one is not supposed to" is exactly what they are doing, right? So why the 80 year breakup?
Crowley says he wants the holy water for if "it" all goes pear shaped. The phrasing is necessarily vague, and could mean lots of things. Since I know what he eventually uses it for, I was thinking about it in the context of Armageddon, or maybe more generally and vaguely about Crowley not always choosing to go along with Hell, and associating with Aziraphale. But there was not much reason for Crowley to already be thinking about Armageddon back then.
As we know from the full diary entry Neil posted, the timeline of the Edinburgh entry, and the cut bookshop opening scene, it seems like Crowley and Aziraphale were spending A LOT of time together by the 1800's. When Crowley is pulled back down to Hell in 1827, he learns that Hell is paying more attention to him than he'd previously thought. Crowley realizes at this point that spending so much time with Aziraphale is actively putting him in real danger. He recognizes that, and instead of breaking things off, or seeing Aziraphale less, he doubles down. If this relationship is dangerous, then he wants the tools to fight for it.
That's what I think I didn't get about the holy water request. It's not just general insurance, it's specifically insurance for if Hell finds out about him and Aziraphale. It's also a super vulnerable request because in making it, Crowley is openly acknowledging how important their relationship is to him. Aziraphale casually brings up the arrangement at the beginning of the conversation, and that's part of it, right? Because the whole basis of their relationship is the arrangement. It continues to be the pretense under which they meet, despite the relationship clearly having developed beyond that. And the arrangement, as Crowley proposed it in 537, is born out of convenience, and the assumption that Heaven and Hell would never notice anyway.
Crowley's request for insurance breaks that facade. He's acknowledging that it's not convenient, or safe, but he wants to do it anyway, despite the risk.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, is not ready for the screen to be taken away so abruptly. To make it worse, he assumes Crowley wants the holy water as an escape, rather than a weapon. Suddenly he is confronted with both the danger their association poses, and the idea that Crowley might choose to take his own life. He can't imagine the guilt of being directly responsible for the latter.
I also think the strength of his own emotional response to the thought of losing Crowley catches Aziraphale off guard. He hasn't admitted to himself how much he actually cares, and it scares him. Worrying about Heaven is more comfortable and familiar, so he falls back on that and switches to "If they knew I'd been... fraternizing!"
But bringing up the threat of Heaven reads to Crowley as Aziraphale saying "You may be willing to put yourself at risk for the sake of our relationship, but I am not." The word choice of "fraternizing" comes off as a dismissive and demeaning way to describe a relationship that Crowley just admitted he would risk his life for.
It's an unintentionally deep cut when Crowley is already at his most vulnerable, and so he lashes out. As far as we've seen, this is possibly the first time Crowley has truly lashed out at Aziraphale. So yeah, 80 year breakup makes sense!
And what makes this so much worse is what happens next. Crowley reaches out again in 1941 with a dramatic gesture (rescuing Aziraphale from the Nazis, saving his books). It's clear they've missed each other. They don't discuss the fight, but it's there subtextually. Aziraphale, tentatively and thrillingly, refers to them as friends, for the first time ever. He tells Crowley that he trusts him.
And then, that very same night their worst fears are confirmed. Just when they've finally reconciled a fight over the dangers of their relationship, and just when Aziraphale has finally admitted that it is not a relationship of convenience, but genuine friendship, they are exposed. Crowley is going to face punishment from Hell, explicitly for being Aziraphale's "trusted confident", and he doesn't have insurance. If Aziraphale's trick hadn't succeeded, Crowley would have had no way to protect himself.
idk it just makes me feel things ok
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A lot of us with ADHD are familiar with the concept of time blindness, but for anyone who isn't: it's a neurological inability to have a consistent sense of the passage of time. If you put me in an empty room, gave me a button and told me to press it when I think it's been 15 minutes, I might press it after..... idk, anywhere between 3 minutes and 2 hours? And if we repeated it the next day the result would probably be wildly different!
But something I've only seen mentioned in one (1) Reddit post, which took some extensive digging to find, is the same effect extending to ALL things measured in numbers. Distance, weight, length, height, amount, space, volume, percentage... For me, small numbers are a bit easier, I could approximate a centimetre probably, but a metre would be much harder and 10 or 100 would likely miss the mark by a lot. Also, anything that can't be easily measured with a ruler or a measuring tape (like weight or volume) is even harder since I don't encounter reference points (like a 1kg hand weight) for those as frequently as I see visual representations of specific lengths.
It's not dyscalculia or anything like that, I'm decent at math (and the OP of the Reddit post was a math major) and I have no other difficulties with numbers, it's just a disconnect in translating real life experiences like sensory input into numbers (and possibly also inconsistent processing of sensory input? Like how the same sound volume is okay one day but hurts my ears the next?), which I think is basically the same thing as what happens with time blindness. For now I've been calling it "measurement blindness" since I've never seen a name for it anywhere, but maybe "quantity blindness" could also work?
I've talked to other people with time blindness to see if they experience this too, but so far none of them have known what I'm talking about. I'd really like to know how many of us are out there and if anyone knows literally anything actually scientific about this very inconvenient phenomenon!
Tl;dr: bc I am wordy:
It's like time blindness but for all things measured in numbers
Not dyscalculia or caused by it
Pretty much never seen it talked about anywhere
Please tell me if it sounds familiar and/or you know something about it, thank
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"Belong" - Young!Coriolanus Snow x Reader
a/n: aaand first time writing for coryo. i have failed you, ancestors, i have failed you. making a taglist for this war criminal so lmk if you wish to be added 🩷
Summary: Your best friend comes back from District 12 changed. And you wonder if the boy you knew is still there, buried deep inside.
Word Count: 1,325
Rating: 18+, MDNI
TW: HEAVY DUBCON, afab reader, she/her pronouns, profanity, innuendo, heavy overstim, oral f receiving, fingering, p in v sex, creampie, choking, hair pulling
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hunger Games/Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷
Just a year ago, you would’ve been able to say with total confidence that you know Coriolanus Snow better than anyone in the world. Both of you came from prominent families, so it made sense that you would gravitate toward each other. While many thought of you as airheaded and vapid, Coryo always seemed to see beyond that. To see the real you. The two of you often said that it was you against the world.
But, when he returns from his time as a peacekeeper in District 12, things have changed between the two of you. He has changed. You don’t know what to make of it at first. He’s back with you now, but his eyes always seem so far away. And anytime you try to ask him what’s wrong, he just gives you a small smile, assuring you that everything is fine and you don’t need to worry about him.
There’s an edge to him that there never was before. Your Coryo was soft and gentle and loving. Your best friend. This Coryo is so different. Anytime you mention hanging out with one of your other friends from the Academy, his jaw goes rigid, his eyes narrow as he stares at you and questions why the two of you can’t just spend time together like always. His arm around your shoulder, which used to feel like the affectionate gesture of a best friend, now feels like a weight on you, a reminder that you shouldn’t be looking anywhere except at him, talking to anyone except to him.
You’re lazing about in the room of the penthouse he now resides in, laying on your stomach on his bed, ankles crossed as you absent-mindedly flip through a magazine with the latest Capitol fashions, though your focus isn’t on what Tigris’ newest designs are. You peer over the edge of the magazine at your best friend, watching as he scribbles away in his notebook.
“You’re staring again.”
His voice shakes you from your reverie and you hum in acknowledgement, returning to your magazine before calling back, “Not looking.”
Coryo chuckles, setting down his notebook and turning his chair to face you. You can feel his gaze moving along your body, taking in the bare skin of your legs in the tiny shorts you wear. It feels almost like a shark sizing up its prey before going in for the kill. You continue flipping through your magazine, hoping that he stops looking sooner than later.
“We used to talk more,” he muses, his voice soft as he continues staring at you before questioning playfully, “What, is that magazine more interesting than me now?”
When you don’t answer, too busy pretending to read your magazine, he moves to sit down beside you on the bed, snatching it out of your hands and tossing it to the floor. You let out a huff of annoyance, turning to face him, pouting.
“I was reading that, Coryo!”
He laughs quietly, moving to run his fingers through your hair, those icy blue eyes meeting yours, feeling as if they could bore right through you with their intensity, “You look cute when you pout like that.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, crossing your arms as you sit up on the bed, “I’m gonna go home-”
Coryo hums, grabbing your arm before you can move, his hands, now calloused from his time as a peacekeeper, running along your smooth, soft skin, “I don’t think you really want to go home. Just give me an apology kiss and we can hang out a little longer.”
You wrinkle your nose in distaste before retorting, “Best friends don’t kiss, Coryo. Don’t be weird.”
That’s likely true for most best friends, but it never was for you and Coryo. Before he left, you would always kiss him, hug him, shower him with physical affection. It wasn’t until Arachne pointed out, a few weeks before the fateful Games, that best friends don’t kiss. Coryo frowns, grabbing you by the chin and forcing you to look at him.
“You’ve always kissed me,” he remarks, his voice stern as he stares you down, “Don’t start acting like you don’t like it either. I know you do.”
You squirm in his grip, your heart thudding against your ribcage, “Coryo, stop…”
He ignores your protest, cupping your face in his hands. Though his grip is somewhat gentle, his voice is harsh.
“Kiss me. Now.”
You shake your head, “No.”
Your best friend frowns, his fingers digging into your jaw now, eyes narrowing, “Don’t tell me no, princess. I know you want to kiss me. So just do it.”
You shake your head, looking up at him with wide eyes. Coryo’s thumb moves along your plump lower lip, pressing down on it before releasing. He licks his own lips, leaning in closer, his breath tickling your face. Before you can say anything, he presses his lips against your own, kissing you himself, moving to pin you down onto his bed. You let out a yelp of surprise, completely taken aback by his actions, pushing at his chest, though your attempts are fruitless. You try to keep your lips pressed together, not letting him deepen the kiss, but he has no intention of letting you succeed. Coryo bites down on your lower lip, making you let out a whine as your lips part, his tongue pushing inside your mouth, exploring every bit of you. He’s been so patient for so long, it’s finally his time to take you as his. To mark you.
His hands move down to your sides, squeezing every bit of exposed flesh he can, moving down to your thighs as he continues kissing you, “You’re going to be mine. No more best friends.”
You feel his lips on your neck, your voice coming out breathier than you intended as you murmur, “Coryo, please, I…”
Coryo bites down on your neck, reveling in the soft little moan you let out as his lips move along your collarbone. You won’t deny him. You’ve never denied him anything. He knows you won’t deny him this.
“No more running from this. From me,” he murmurs against your skin, “I’m going to mark you. Make you mine and mine alone. You’re never even going to think about another man again. Only me.” His fingers move to your hair, tugging harshly, the slight ache making you let out another moan, “Stop denying what you know you need, princess.” The soft whimper you let out as he bites down on your neck urges him on - he’s wanted you for so long now, having you be his is finally within his grasp, “You can’t run from me anymore. Say you want me to make you mine. Say you want to belong to me.”
You shake your head, your weak protests falling on deaf ears as he pulls off the flimsy excuse for a tee shirt you have on, lips twisting into a smirk when he sees that you’re wearing nothing beneath it. He moves his hands to cup your tits, kneading them in his palms, groaning at how soft you feel against him. And when you continue to protest, a low growl emanates from his chest, his voice firm as he glares at you.
“Say it.”
He’s not going to stop. Not until you give him an answer he wants to hear. And the thing is, the longer he kisses you, the longer he touches you, your will to resist him dwindles further and further. You gasp as you feel his hands moving to the waistband of your shorts, his thumb brushing against you over the fabric of your panties. You sink your teeth into your lower lip at the feeling, barely able to hold yourself back from bucking your hips up against him, chasing his touch as he teases you. He’s not going to do anything until you tell him you’re his.
Coryo leans in, brushing his nose against yours, repeating himself, “Say it, princess. Say you’re mine.”
“I,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut as his thumb presses down against your clit, “Yes, Coryo, I’m yours…”
“That’s my good girl,” he rasps, lips capturing yours again in a searing kiss, one where you lose all concept of time and space - there’s only Coryo. “Don’t you ever deny me again. You understand me, princess? You’re all fucking mine.”
He tugs off your shorts and panties, tossing them aside, admiring your naked body laying beneath him. You feel more vulnerable than you ever have in your entire life, the way he stares you down like a ravenous wolf. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, undoing the top few buttons, the material of it rough against your skin as he lowers himself onto you. His grip on your hips is almost bruising as he pulls you closer to him, making you cry out his name in surprise. Your eyes widen when he moves to sit back slightly, ridding himself of his shirt before pushing your knees apart. You tremble slightly, trying to press them back together, only for Coryo to let out a low snarl, tossing your legs over his shoulders and burying his face between your thighs.
For a second, you wonder if you’re even still alive, if this is all just a fever dream. The way his tongue moves against you is downright sinful, and worse still? Those blue eyes remain locked on yours. And the moment you try to close your own or look away, you’re reprimanded with a heavy-handed slap against your ass. And so you watch as he mouths at your pussy, his tongue lapping at your folds eagerly, reveling in every mewl of his name, every whimper. And when you reach your peak, he doesn’t seem to have any intention of stopping, continuing his onslaught, stiffening his tongue as he moves it in and out of you, almost as if he’s teasing you with what’s to come next.
Your second climax hits you harder than your first, eyes rolling back as he moves to focus his attention on your clit, wrapping his lips around the sensitive button while he pushes two long fingers inside of you, crooking them in a come hither motion that has you squirming away from him. But Coryo just pulls you right back, suckling at your pearl, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Coryo, ‘s too much,” you cry out pathetically, your entire body feeling as if it’s on fire.
He gives you a smug smile as he pulls his lips away from you, though his fingers continue their work, rubbing against that rough patch deep inside of you, making you let out a squeal of his name, “Say it. Say you want me to stop.”
“I don’t,” you reply weakly, eyes fluttering shut, “I don’t want you to stop.”
And when you come, soaking his fingers, he pulls them away from you, loving the way your body wracks with shivers. You’re being so good for him, so responsive. He pushes his fingers between your lips, a silent demand for you to lick them clean, which you immediately obey. His gaze is focused on you as your eyes close, your tongue swirling around his fingers. His pretty princess. Never one to deny him anything.
“Such a good girl.”
You shy away under his praise, a soft smile lighting up your features. And he knows in that moment that you want this just as bad as he does. He unbuttons his trousers, pushing them down his legs slowly along with his boxers, making your eyes go wide at the sight of his cock, achingly hard, pre cum weeping from the tip. You squirm when he runs the tip of it along your overstimulated cunt, watching as you whimper when he slaps it against your clit. The control he has over you, over your body… It’s intoxicating. He doesn’t know how he lived without this before.
You cling to him as he sheathes his cock inside you, your entire body trembling as you feel him fill you to the hilt. Coryo gives you a moment to adjust before pulling back out and pushing back into you again, making you cry out his name. His thrusts start out as even and measured, but the feeling of your warm, tight pussy around him sends him into a frenzy as he begins to slot his hips against yours without mercy.
“Who do you belong to?” He demands, hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to restrict your airflow.
“You,” you manage to rasp, your hips bucking up against his to meet his movements.
“Say my fucking name, princess. Who do you belong to?”
“You, Coryo,” you mewl, throwing your head back, tears spilling from your eyes, “Feels so good…”
Coryo pins your hips down into the mattress, rutting against you wildly, feeling you soak his cock, crying out his name. And when you say those two words, “too much”? All he does is speed up, a devious smirk on his face as he flips you onto your stomach, fucking into you at a new angle, one that has him getting closer and closer to his own end. You make no move to get away from him, his hands moving to your breasts, squeezing them as he fucks you like some sort of depraved animal, no thought except ripping another climax from you and spilling himself inside of you.
And when he does, that’s when he finally collapses against you onto the bed, pulling you into his arms. You stare at the ceiling, panting heavily, trying to catch your breath. When you do, you turn to face him, only to find him already staring at you, a soft smile on his face.
For a moment, however fleeting, he’s there. The old Coryo. He brushes your hair off your face, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then each of your cheeks, before brushing his lips against your own.
“You’re mine now, princess,” he whispers, “All fucking mine.”
And for whatever odd reason, you’re quite alright with that idea.
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