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tennessoui · 3 months

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hi kit i swear to god someone sent in 35 from the prompt list for 'one of them is trying to get the other off of drugs' but someone must have deleted the ask from your ask box.

oh no! who could have done such a thing. after i already wrote 3k for this prompt and everything!

(but in seriousness i KNOW someone sent me that prompt i just can't find it rn!!! but i enjoyed writing this so much it really literally could be the first chapter of a multi-chapter fic......we'll see)

(also this is what i wrote for the same prompt from a few years ago)

35. one of them is trying to get the other off of drugs

(3k) (warning: non con drugging/attempted date rape drugs used -not by main characters)

Obi-Wan’s got a heavy mind most days. Heavy heart too, but it’s been a while since he checked in with that part of himself. Mind’s easier.

Right now, he’s mostly annoyed at the cantina crowd, but that’s a most days thing too. After all, the cantina’s in the middle of the spaceport, best watering hole around. Only watering hole around, really, and it gets him all sorts of people walking through his doors.

Some days, he really wishes Linell’s hadn’t closed, mostly so he could send the roughest looking folk that way instead. He doesn’t care much if smugglers decide to get wasted at a bar before hopping in the cockpit of their ships, but he doesn’t necessarily want it to happen at his cantina.

Mostly because when smugglers get drunk, they get rowdy. They get dangerous. They get handsy.

And Obi-Wan’s not under any sort of illusion here, he knows what sort of cantina he runs, knows the crowd it attracts, knows no one’s ever gonna bring their youngling past the doors—knows that no Jedi is ever going to stop in for a drink.

But that doesn’t mean he’s going to allow for that sort of ruckus. The Temple raised him better than that, for whatever that’s worth. They instilled a pretty solid understanding of morality in him at a young age; then the AgriCorps gave him an appreciation of organization and tidiness that even after two decades away from it all, he hasn’t managed to shake.

It makes for bad business anyway, to allow the rougher-looking crowd to linger in the back corner, swat at the passing serving girl, call out harassments to other customers. And perhaps this wasn’t the life Obi-Wan thought he’d have, but it’s the life he does have. And he’s in no mood for his cantina to go under as well because of morons like Chak Tuuel getting too drunk and causing a scene.

It was easier four years ago, Obi-Wan has to admit. It was easier to keep a tight hold on his cantina when he could openly use the Force to pull patrons off of each other, push one back to his chair and spirit the other to the far side of the room. It was easier when all it took to convince a pirate that he’d be better switching to water was a well-placed Force command.

But the rise of the Empire saw the criminalization of Force users, even ones who can’t be called Jedi, like Obi-Wan.

It’s been bad for business, the Empire has. That’s the only thing Obi-Wan cares about, the only reason he has to hold such hatred in his heart for the emperor. It has nothing to do with the massacre of the Jedi, the fall of the Temple. It’s because it’s bad for business. That’s all.

Now he has to be ten times more discerning about who he lets into his cantina because he has to actually reason with them now. On more than one occasion in the past four years, since the Fall of the Temple, he’s chopped off a patron’s hand. Arm. Whatever.

That’s also bad for business in general, though it’s not as if he can actually get into much trouble for it, considering he owns this cantina. And it’s the Outer Rim. Anything goes.

His eyes survey the cantina as his hands busy themselves making a drink for a rather quiet patron at the bar. Most likely a businessman of some sort, given how often Obi-Wan’s seen him come in and out.

It’s rather late in the night, as much as there is a night at the spaceport. The cantina’s full of the usual sorts, and the place is loud. There’s a group of five men in the back, dressed like smugglers. Obi-Wan has been watering down their drinks for the last two rounds, but they’ve yet to notice. Their eyes are ravenous as they look around them. Most of them are big, all are human. There’s one small one amongst the pack, and it’s him that Obi-Wan’s eyes stick to.

There’s something about him. Maybe it’s the way he holds himself, tense and with his shoulder hunched. Maybe it’s because of how smaller he is than the companions he’s chosen. Maybe it’s because he’s so pretty.

Even from all the way across the cantina, Obi-Wan knows the boy is pretty, can see his pale pink lips and dark golden curly hair. He doesn’t look like the sort of person who tends towards the crowds of pirates and smugglers that populate the back corners of Obi-Wan’s cantina. He looks out of place, misplaced.

Sith’s hells, Obi-Wan probably looks more like a smuggler than this boy. Even the scar across his face, through his eyebrow and trailing down his cheek does little to make the boy look dangerous. Even his outfit—a black cloak on top of other, darker clothes—cannot make him look as dangerous as the men around him.

But they had come in as a pack, the boy in the middle of them. It had been the boy who had talked with the serving girl, Challa, who sat them. It had been him who’d ordered the first round of drinks.

The Force is screaming, a loud reverberation of a warning filling up his head and making the beginnings of his headache twenty times worse.

If someone dies tonight in Obi-Wan’s cantina, Obi-Wan is going to make Challa fill out the flimsiwork. It would be what she deserves for allowing this crowd in.

A moment before Obi-Wan looks away, the boy looks up from his drink and catches him staring. His face freezes as it is, held tight as he looks at Obi-Wan looking at him. For a strange moment, it looks like his eyes flash gold before they fall away, attention grabbed by the kid next to him.

Obi-Wan’s own attention is claimed a moment later.

“Whatcha looking at, boss?” the second bartender on shift asks, resting their arms on the counter beside him. “You look mighty disgruntled.”

“So you thought adding yourself to the situation would help,” he says automatically, caustically as he turns away from the group to stare at his employee. “Naturally.” “Naturally,” Saak agrees with a pointy smile. “I’m a saint.”

“Hm,” Obi-Wan says, even though he quite likes working with the twi’lek. These days, Obi-Wan keeps much close to his chest—especially his affection.

“That’s not an answer to my question,” Saak points out, looking back out at the cantina. “Who’s caught your eye? Because me and the crew in the back have a bet going about if you’re ever going to take someone home.” “I don’t mix business and pleasure,” Obi-Wan says, eyes staying resolutely away from the boy’s table.

“See, that’s part of the bet,” Saak says, easy as anything. “We don’t think you have pleasure.”

Obi-Wan frowns and turns to look at them fully. “What.”

Saak shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once, and I’ve worked here for three years. You don’t come out with us after work, you throw out every comm sequence customers leave you-–and trust me, I know there’s been a lot, you never mention anyone at home. In your personal life.”

“I enjoy a healthy amount of privacy,” Obi-Wan snaps, clenching his fists tight on the towel between his hands before he carefully tosses his irritation into the Force.

He understands almost immediately that his anger isn’t even at Saak for prying or at his employees for gossiping.

It’s because he knows Saak is right. Not about—well, not about abstaining from sex, as Obi-Wan gets a rather sizable amount of sex at any given time. But about the distance. The lack of pleasure. Even the sex doesn’t light him up the way it did when he was seventeen, fresh from leaving the Agricorps and setting out across the stars. A consequence of age probably.

“Hey,” Saak’s tone changes, turning from cajoling employee into something much more concerned. “That table in the back, look—I don’t think that guy is doing alright.”

Obi-Wan snaps out of his thoughts instantly and looks at where Saak’s gesturing.

He knows before he even sees them that it’s that Force forsaken table in the back.

And Saak’s right, shit.

The boy Obi-Wan had been staring at looks—looks rough suddenly. His head is reclining back onto the body of the man beside him, eyes half-lidded. He’s flushed a flattering red, lips parted and stained an even darker color.

He could just be feeling the effects of the alcohol he’s been consuming for the past hour now, but it’s the way his companions look at him that has Obi-Wan rounding the bar and crossing the cantina. They look hungry. Eager. Anticipatory.

In the Force, the boy’s muted presence has become fuzzy. Muted.

Of course the moment Obi-Wan turns his gaze away from the group, they drug the boy. It suddenly seems so inevitable that it’s almost funny. Of course this was going to happen.

“What did you give him,” he demands as he reaches the table. The anger licking at his chest is new. Useful. Righteous.

One of the smugglers, the one next to the boy, tosses him a sleazy grin, wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “No need to kick us out, mister,” he says. “We were just leaving.”

“Yes, you were,” Obi-Wan nods sharply. “Without him.”

The smuggler’s grin slides off his face. “He came with us.”

“You drugged him!”

The boy in question looks up at Obi-Wan as much as he can with his eyes half-way to shut. “Oh,” he says. “That’s what it is.”

His voice is slow and deep. A byproduct of the drug?

He blinks at him in syrupy slowness, and his eyes are tawny. Why had Obi-Wan thought they were blue from across the cantina? They shine golden now.

Something about his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at Obi-Wan makes his thin sense of control snap. “You will leave now,” he commands, Force reverberating through the words, so strong that the smugglers stand to attention immediately, repeating the order mindlessly.

Even the boy struggles to obey, pushing up on his feet in drunken surety.

“Not you,” Obi-Wan snaps. The boy sits back down like his strings have been cut, a sigh of relief at the release.

It’s entirely too orgasmic to be appropriate.

And the way the boy looks up at him is entirely too trusting for someone who’s just been drugged by his companions.

“I hope you have another form of transportation off here,” Obi-Wan says with a sigh. “I imagine you will not want to travel with them tomorrow.” “I’ll kill ‘em,” the boy mumbles, letting his head fall back.

“Sure, kid,” Obi-Wan tells him. He looks like he couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone kill a man, but he’s also not entirely sure the boy would appreciate him pointing that out. He looks like a kid who’s decided to try and play outlaw.

This is what happens to kids who try to play outlaw, he thinks dispassionately.

“Not a kid,” the kid says.

“Sure, kid.” He’ll need water. Obi-Wan grabs at his chin and forces his eyes up. His pupils are so dilated it’s hard to even see what color his irises are. Paired with the flushed cheeks, the poor coordination, and the slurred but cohesive speech, Obi-Wan’s pretty sure he knows what sort of spice they used on the poor kid.

And the comedown is legendary for how rough it is.

Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to sigh. It’s even harder to resist the urge to scream.

He hates the men who laced the boy’s drink. He hates Challa for letting the group of men into his cantina, thereby making this his problem. He hates Vynny for crashing his speeder and forcing Obi-Wan to cover his shift while he recuperates from the loss of both legs.

And he hates the fucking ghost of the Jedi Order for instilling in him the importance of doing the right thing.

“You’re coming home with me,” he says, unable to stop himself from sighing.

The boy blinks at him. “If you touch me, I’ll kill you too,” he warns, but his eyes are still much too trusting. “Slowly.” “Noted,” Obi-Wan snaps, reaching down to fish the boy out of the booth. “And when you’re sober again, you’re going to be paying for the entire tab you and your lot racked up.”

The boy pouts, even as he allows Obi-Wan to drag him to his feet. “What if I let you touch me instead?” “I don’t want to touch you,” Obi-Wan says. “I want the credits.” The boy giggles and presses his face against his neck. Obi-Wan waves to Saak behind the bar, gesturing to the boy and then to the doors, trying to convey I’m going home to take care of this absolute youngling because I am a better person than you and you need to take care of my cantina and lock up behind you and no, this does not count as taking a customer home with me.

Saak gives him two thumbs up, so Obi-Wan is hoping that means the message has been received. It had better be received.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks as he navigates out of the cantina. Thank the Force, his own cruiser is close. The boy is heavier and bigger than he’d looked amongst the rest of his group. Firmer and more weighted with muscle. And Obi-Wan is no waif, but he doesn’t care to lug around a man who is actually, well. Taller than him.

“Vader,” the boy mumbles, nuzzling into Obi-Wan’s touch. “Why do you feel so good?”

“It’s the spice they gave you,” Obi-Wan mutters. “Makes touch feel good, makes you…want.”

“Oh,” Vader says, rubbing his face against Obi-Wan’s neck like a cat. “I don’t want it.” “Me neither, kid,” he assures him, propping him up against the side of his ship so he can unlock it and key in the code to have the ramp descend.

“Good,” Vader says. “Keep touching me.”

Obi-Wan bites his lip so he doesn’t tell the kid that he doesn’t take commands, not even from imperious little boys who sound as if they’re very used to being obeyed.

It adds more evidence to his theory that Vader is some spoiled rich kid looking to rebel.

“What were you even doing with them?” He mutters as he drops Vader into the seldom-used co-pilot seat of his ship. “Not the sort you’d want to hang around with, are they?” “Bellion,” Vader replies loosely, waving a weak hand. “As’ —assign—assignm’nt.”

It takes through takeoff for Obi-Wan to realize what he’s said. “The Rebellion? You were on an assignment for the rebellion?” Vader makes a noise and turns his head to look at him, eyes almost shut. “Bellion,” he agrees, before promptly passing out.

“Huh,” Obi-Wan says.

Of course he knew that there was a rebellion against the empire, that they were building in both power and numbers as the years grew. He’d even flirted with the notion of joining it himself, but he’d always stepped back. The rebellion was too close to the Jedi. And the Jedi had made it clear that they did not want him.

Why would the rebellion be any different?

When he’s entered hyperspace, he looks over at the boy who has turned his head away from him, exposing the long lines of his neck.

He really is quite beautiful, for better or for worse.

The boy shifts, restless. He pushes himself further into the seat, leaning back and spreading his legs. Obi-Wan would wonder what he’s dreaming about, but before he can, the boy’s cloak shifts.

And there, on his hip. The handle of a lightsaber.

Obi-Wan is moving before he can help it, stepping over to Vader’s side of the ship quietly, eyes glued to the ‘saber.

It’s been so long since he’s seen one. He never got to hold his own. Never made one himself.

But here is one now, on Vader’s hip. Vader is a Jedi. A Jedi!

It is part greed, part agony, and part disbelief that makes Obi-Wan reach his hand out and carefully detach the blade from Vader’s belt.

The boy does not even notice, except to push his hip up further at the ghost of Obi-Wan’s touch.

It’s a heavy weight in Obi-Wan’s hand, and he takes a moment to just—look at it. It’s darker than he would have crafted his own, sturdier and longer too, as if Vader wields it with two hands. He probably does—Obi-Wan still remembers his forms, remembers each stance down to the footwork. Vader has the body to be a formidable Djem’So user. Or Atari. Obi-Wan had favored the latter when he was an Initiate.

Vader is a Jedi. Perhaps—perhaps in the morning, after the spice is out of his system, he can tell Obi-Wan about the Temple in its final days. Surely he was not there, Obi-Wan doesn’t know how anyone could have survived the massacre, but he must know. He does not truly look so young that he would have been an Initiate. He must have been a Knight.

Perhaps Obi-Wan will tell him about being raised there. He can share in his pain, if only a little bit. After all, Obi-Wan spent thirteen years of his life at the Temple. The Jedi will always hold a part of his heart. He has never before wanted to admit that, but now—Vader is a Jedi. He would understand.

Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry as he drops his gaze back to the saber.

He wants suddenly, terribly, to flick it on. To hear the buzz of the ions of the blade. To see the color of Vader’s kyber crystal. He wants to take pleasure from the sight of it, the enduring symbol of it, of the Order.

He knows he should not. He knows he has no right to it. If he were meant to hold a lightsaber, his life would have worked out in thirteen thousand different ways.

But—Vader is asleep.

And no one would have to know.

If just for a second, Obi-Wan allowed himself to give into his want.

He flicks it on and then almost drops it from the sheer surprise he feels as it powers to life in his hands. Because the blade is not green. It isn’t blue. It isn’t even purple, like he remembers Master Windu’s being.

It is a sickly looking red.

It is not a blade of a Jedi.

Obi-Wan flicks it off and tucks it back onto Vader's belt. Then he sits down in the pilot's chair once more, head spinning and heart racing.

And he directs the ship to drop out of hyperspace to his homeplanet anyway because---well. What else can he do? He'd promised to take the boy home and see him off the spice.

The fact that the boy is---is a Sith does not change anything. It cannot.

#asks #prompt fill #obikin #vaderwan #anakin is going to wake up and be like aw why is he being so distant and grouchy #and obi-wan is going to be like i cant believe im helping someone who probably helped murder my family #but then vader who has not experienced kindness from strangers before #keeps coming back for more kindness from this grumpy stranger #this is like #non consensual adoption of a grumpy bartender au #or something lmao

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attleboy · 4 months

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I'm so sorry if I've said this already (I often can't remember what I've said vs. what I've just thought).

In the lovely comic that started it all, Jax thinks to himself "Forget chew toys, I think she needs a muzzle..." Do you think Pomni really does need a muzzle? Does she bite people, or are her fellow souls safe from her teeth as long as they don't, like... stick their fingers in her mouth or anything?

depends on what we're talking about… for canon i can't really say because, well. i'm not goose

but, for my own pomni interpretation well, she's not completely feral… i play it up for fun, but she's got some dignity, so she wouldn't go around chomping people over minor things :P i'd say for the most part, she's safe! no muzzle needed, jax just said that because he's an asshole lol

however… if she was pushed enough or backed into a corner, she might, and it would probably not be pretty… ultimately, she wouldn't bite a person unless she was very angry or very afraid. you'd have to poke and prod her quite a bit to get to that point, or catch her by surprise at a really really bad time, and she'd probably feel really bad about it either way

i must admit the extremes are fun to think about so i diiiiid draw pomni going a little apeshit… would've put it here but i ended up talking a lot so. it gets its own post hehehe give me a minute

edit - okay here it is

#biting inanimate objects and even the non-sentient ai [ex. a gloink] is a different matter #i think she'd do that more often... like she'd probably rationalise it as a kind of stress relief which. to be fair it is #she'd be pretty embarassed about it though so she'd try and be sneaky about it #and as for consensual biting... well if someone asked her politelyyyyy... [anvil falls from the sky and lands on my head]#sorry what was i saying #ask response #chompni

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codename-adler · 6 months

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it’s so funny how the Twinyards are short. so funny. haha…

it’s almost like neither of their physiological need for touch was met as babies…. so touch-starved it led to this sort of dwarfism… no matter Tilda or foster care, they don’t get the soft caresses, the safety of arms, the tickle of the toes, the raspberries on the tummy, the soothing hand on the back, the fingers to clutch, the boops on the nose, the kisses on the cheeks and the head and the feet and the hands and the neck and… they just don’t, won’t get it, no matter how many scenarios in which they switch places. forever small, smaller, forever five feet nothing, forever the physical embodiment of everything they’ve lacked since before birth.

so funny.

#revisited maslows pyramid of needs in AA lit class today and boy did i get shot out of the fuckin blue with twinyards feels #so yeah lack of touch in babies can cause all different kinds of shit like specific dwarfism #won’t even get into the attachment issues both blonde shorties got going on #and then aaron physically abused by tilda and andrew sexually abused by drake and everyone before???#killme now #andrew and aaron my loves #you’ll get all the CONSENSUAL loving touches now i promise #aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #tfc #andrew minyard #aaron minyard #twinyards

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autistic-beshelar · 4 months

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Hey! I'm very interested in what you've told me about antisocial personality disorder, neurodivergence, and empathy vs. compassion so far. I would love to hear more!

hi, sorry this has taken me a bit to get to, i've had a hectic few days, and i knew i'd end up writing a lot!

ASPD:

i'll start by saying that i don't have ASPD, so i'm just going to give the basics and hand you off to people who DO have it. it's important to bear in mind that ASPD is primarily considered traumagenic, and that, like any other disorder, it can manifest in a bunch of different ways, and people with it can behave very differently from one another.

ASPD is a cluster b personality disorder characterised by low empathy, limited range and depth of emotions, disregard for other people's feelings, disregard for societal conventions and morality, chronic anger, and chronic boredom. the common view of pwASPD is that they are violent criminals, but that is primarily because research is only ever done on the worst kinds of people, and i'm sure many of them are misdiagnosed. i'm sure i don't need to explain to you why basing a disorder solely off of people in prison is fucked as a concept, given how both the prison system and psychiatry are both incredibly flawed. (it's also for this reason that i have no scientific studies to give you, because the only ones i've come across are grossly ableist)

having ASPD comes with a lot of challenges, but having a disorder - any disorder - doesn't make you a bad person. from what i have seen, a lot of pwASPD don't so much 'not have morals' as have a deep distrust of authority and base their morality on logic or serving their own interests. in fact i've seen an awful lot of pwASPD who are very left leaning or are anarchists. of course there's also plenty who are right wing assholes, but that kind of goes to show that a disorder doesn't dictate your morality, it just might lead you to approach your sense of morality differently.

ASPD resources, from actual pwASPD:

https://shitborderlinesdo.tumblr.com/post/115096247519/the-anti-social-personality-disorder-checklist

https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/your-stories/life-with-antisocial-personality-disorder-aspd/ (cw for mention of csa)

https://inanawesomewave.tumblr.com/post/177638772232/the-bones-of-it

EMPATHY:

my favourite thing to rant about. empathy is wildly misunderstood by most people, so let's start off with a proper description. there are two main types of empathy: cognitive and affective. you will also see some people say that there's a third type, 'compassionate empathy', but i have never seen a definition of it that isn't based on the idea that empathy is necessary for compassion, so i'm ignoring it, and i'll get to compassion later.

cognitive empathy: basically, thinking about feeling. cognitive empathy is the ability to recognise and understand emotions. it is involved with reading people's expressions, or understanding why a certain situation might cause a certain emotional response.

affective empathy: this is typically what people mean when they talk about empathy - the ability to feel what someone else is feeling.

it's extremely important to note that this is fucking impossible. 'feeling what someone else is feeling' is some sci-fi nonsense. it isn't real. the belief that it is causes a lot of harm.

affective empathy, properly defined, is the a person's emotional response to an emotion that they perceive someone else having. it isn't always as simple as 'i'm happy because they're happy'. affective empathy can also be involved in more complicated situations, like feeling afraid because of perceived anger (which leads to a whole conversation about hyperempathy and hypervigilance and the relationship between them, but that's a whole other post that someone who actually has feelings would be more qualified to write)

so that's empathy. it's really just a bunch of feelings that we have about or in relation to other people's feelings. there's no moral component to feelings whatsoever. morality only comes into play when action is involved. which leads me to...

compassion: being kind, not as an inherent state of being, but as a choice.

i'll talk about my own experience here, but i've heard similar from other people with low/no empathy, and i've heard similar from some pwASPD as well.

i choose to be kind because i believe it's the right thing to do. i see a lot of injustice in the world, and it makes me furious - in fact, for me, it's primarily my anger that fuels my compassion. my morals have been based partly on feeling, but also on logic, and on a lot of research. to me, being kind is logical and sensible. it's logical to want people to be happy and safe and free. it benefits me too, for starters.

i don't need to feel sad about people's suffering to want it to stop. and though i don't really feel much empathy, i do still get emotional about things - i can still be sad or angry or happy about certain things happening, it's just... less than other people.

i look at the world around me and i try to find things that i can do to make it better because i think that's my job as a human. sometimes i'm bad at it, and sometimes i'm too tired to, but at the very least i can refuse to cause harm, and when i do, inevitably, cause harm, i can make amends.

(there's also a long discussion to be had about how basing your morality on your ability to empathise with people makes it extremely easy to no longer care about people who have been dehumanised, but that's a post i don't feel qualified to make)

a book i am desperate to read on this subject is Against Empathy by Paul Bloom, but here's an article about it, which is of course not perfect, but makes a lot of interesting points: https://www.vox.com/conversations/2017/1/19/14266230/empathy-morality-ethics-psychology-compassion-paul-bloom

i hope that helps explain some things. if you have - or anyone else has - more questions, feel free to ask, and i'll do my best to answer.

#empathy #low empathy #politics #kind of #autistic #actually autistic #there's a lot more i could say tbh but lets leave it there or i'll write an entire essay. with chapters #also i've used pwASPD because i usually see person first language used for personality disorders #and it's not my place to use identity first if that's not the community consensus #but pls let me know if you are ASPD/ are someone with ASPD (or another PD) and have thoughts or feelings on this #identity first vs person first is sth that's interesting to me #disability #ableism

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bugsbenefit · 8 months

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It’s because some of us can’t stand fanon mike he’s not will or el at the end of the day it’s not our fault the duffers already messed up his character arc long ago. some of us aren’t really interested in mike like that and to be frank I hate how much trauma people are putting on him as if he isn’t a privileged middle class *maybe cis maybe not* kid with insecurities cause he can’t play hero anymore like he used to. Fanon mike is retaliation to whatever we got the last two season from the character and I get it, but why are we keep acting like he’s important to vecna or the plot like that he’s just els boyfriend and wills crush at this point.

You don’t agree with this most likely but idc I’m just here to let this out for those who sympathize with mike. He’s genuinely not a interesting character and if Will wasn’t in love with him I wouldn’t look his way.

Hello? Will solo stan that doesn't get the show in My asks? more likely than you think

i'm sorry but you clearly sent this knowing i wouldn't agree with you and you don't sound like you want a conversation so... why did you send this? was it just to tell me there's people that don't care about Mike? because shockingly, i know that already, the influx in open Mike hate was why everyone doubled down on his character being important and purposeful last week in the first place

i'm genuinely confused on how you're watching the show, though. i mean, at least you're admitting you're only in it for Will so i guess you're aware of your bias and shortcomings?

also lmao sorry but *maybe cis maybe not*?? are you trying to say being queer in the midwest 80s in a small town with a conservative environment wasn't that bad or damaging or worth elaborating on because he's "probably cis" and the family is middle class? hello? newsflash just in, the queers need to stop complaining about how scared they are of coming out and potential consequences of it, if you're cis you're basically getting cishet privileges anyway. i'm really not sure what you meant to say here, you okay? also, aren't All the characters cis??

the vendetta you have against "fanon Mike" is fascinating tbh. what exactly is "fanon Mike" to you, bc the ask suggests it's just Mike with any motivations and 3dimensional writing orrrr? also thank you for telling me that Mike El and Will are separate characters! i almost forgot! i really needed the reminder that these extremely different characters aren't actually the same person or re-skins. thanks for your service, you really showed the evil Mike-sympathizers today o7

but you know what, sure, i'll indulge this a bit, i like talking about the show after all, you don't have to read this ofc, i feel like we're both aware we won't find common ground here

saying that Mike isn't important to the plot is batshit crazy sorry not sorry. not even talking about s5, it's just plain wrong in general and i'm assuming you haven't seen the show in ages

even right from the beginning Mike is established as the first MC and then proceeds to be the main pov for the entirety of s1. in universe Mike is the parties dm unofficial leader and according to Will "heart of the party", out of universe Mike is the only character that has established relationships and evolving conflicts with every single party member and even most adults like Hopper and Joyce. i don't know how you're watching the show to take away that Mike is unimportant and a support character

ST is an ensemble show and Mike is one of the characters, alongside El, Joyce and Will that consistently fills an MC role. (while also being one of the only ones to outright get referred to as one of the mains by actors and writers) where you got the idea from that Mike is a useless character people are stupid to care about is beyond me

if you're genuinely going into s5 hoping for Mike to be as unimportant and off-your-screen as possible i feel like you're setting yourself up for the disappointment of the century. i feel stupid just listing the reasons for why Mike is clearly going to be an important player in s5 because of how obvious they are but oh well

Mike is the first protagonist ever introduced and the final season that wants to go "full circle" Has to finish his arc satisfyingly for it to work

Mike is Will's love interest, a character that's already confirmed to be more of a main on screen again, so focusing on both parties of the ship is necessary to get them together

also Mike is still in a relationship? if he's supposed to go from dating El to suddenly dating a guy that's also his childhood bff you need to elaborate on his feelings. otherwise Will's romance is also going to fall flat and i'm sure you don't want that anon

Mike is part of the people that only came back to town after everything in s4 went down already and part of the group that seems to be the main focus in s5 (see the hill shot)

also just regarding the hill shot, Mike is center stage here (and also between his two "love interests"), totally accidental i'm sure

also the only character Will told about Vecna being alive in s4 and already swore to kill him with Will, also totally not a s5 set up don't worry

and before i go on here, aside from the writers themselves mentioning Mike as a main in multiple interviews David talked about the s5 mains a few days ago and Obviously Mike is up there along with El, Will and Joyce, exactly the people you'd expect

i don't understand how people are trying so hard to claim that there's nothing interesting about Mike to get into, as if even just s4 itself doesn't go out of it's way to set up an excess of potential conflict for s5

obvious relationship drama with El left hanging after an "i love you" monologue which we didn't see a response to yet

feelings for his best friend while he's still dating his gf

the unresolved painting lie

also the sexuality issue that comes with being queer/gay, that's been going back to s1. also made more severe by the show going out of it's way to repeatedly hammer home that the Wheelers are conservative and don't have close relationships with their kids

"you're the heart", speech about leading the party and bringing everyone together. he can't just face into the bg after Will gave him that talk, there needs to be payoff

the whole hellfire thing that's set up with the members names and faces being broadcast as "satanists" and the potential reason for everything that's been going on ON TV, sure that won't have any consequences am i right?

the Vecna plot itself, s4 makes it a point to have Will tell Mike and only Mike about Vecna being alive and the two of them agree to kill him right before the season ends

and that's just the obvious set ups s4 leaves us with, not even touching on the fact that Mike's pov has been withheld for essentially 2 seasons. which is something you can do and ignore, but only if the characters don't have anything going on during that time. Mike meanwhile changes drastically in these two seasons and we never get to learn what actually happened, why he's suddenly so set on growing up and getting gfs in s3, why he's suddenly such an uninterested bf in s4, why he suddenly feels weird about kissing El in the s3 finale after already having made out with her. there's a lot happening and we only see the fall out of it, we don't get Mike's pov. you call it "bad writing" but that's a picture book writing 101 set up, if you don't see that i don't know what to tell you

but i feel like you said everything already, i'm just rambling because i like talking. we probably won't find any common ground here. you only tolerate Mike because you like Will and that's that. not everyone has to care about every aspect of a show, however, i don't get why you're going to other blogs to tell them about your personal preference and about how you don't like one of the MCs. this is an ensemble show, it's not the El-show, and it's not the Will-show either, both of these takes are equally wrong

i don't know what the ideal s5 would look like to you, but if it turned out Will was the only important thing and the only character we focused on it would be absolute ass and horrible writing

Lucas just lost Max and left him with a shit ton of trauma, also Erica's gone through so much too. Max is still lost in a coma. El is distraught over not being able to save Max and now not find her anymore. Dustin just lost Eddie right in front of him too. there's a military presence in Hawkins now, the hellfire club fallout still hasn't happened, and so on and on. (also things like the "Nancy love triangle" still need time to be resolved too)

there's a lot s5 has to focus on to be a good wrap up for all these arcs. and yes, handling Mike's arc well is also part of that, shockingly

also ending this with a: you know people are allowed to like and care about character even if you don't give a shit about that character, right? claiming a central character with a ton of conflict set up isn't interesting is well withing your right and i won't change your mind on that, i'm aware, but going after people for actually caring about the conflicts the show is setting up isn't the move either. not everyone is obligated to share your views, especially when they're this far out there. and i feel like you knew that going in here

#help what a take #no hard feelings anonie we clearly knew there wouldn't be a consensus from the start here lmao #but oh well i'm still kind of surprised to see these takes ngl #ask tag

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mx-myth · 2 months

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WIP Wednesday with the amnesia!dfs au again! Going to be honest, I don't have any other WIPs, so I hope even though they all come from the same piece that everyone enjoys these. (It's fifteen thousand words now...)

“Hey,” He rasps. Fang Duobing looks down at where he’s touching his wrist. “It’s fine.” “It’s not fine!” He shouts. He flinches back. The immediate and guilty flash of pain on Fang Duobing’s face makes him grip his wrist tighter. “The first thing I see is you, collapsing onto my feet, nearly naked and paler than a corpse! Do you know what I thought?! I thought you were dead, A-Fei! Dead!” He bends over him, eyes squeezed shut, and he realises that he’s worried. For him. “When we found you,” He whispers, “You were about to be married to a ghost bride. I paid ten thousand taels for you.” His face forms a snarl. “I will drink Meng Po’s soup before I ever goddamn lose you.” He reaches up to touch Fang Duobing’s cheek in wonder. He really is staking a claim on him, he thinks. Some part of him basks in this crude, animalistic idea. Unthinkingly he tilts his chin up, baring his neck as he looks at him challengingly. “What did I mean to you?” He asks roughly. “What did you mean to me?” This close he can see Fang Duobing’s throat bob as he swallows. He can see how his lashes tremble as he holds himself back, as all of his emotions roil behind his eyes. “I couldn’t tell you,” He says. He chokes, pressing his forehead against his temple. “I really can’t tell you, A-Fei. I don’t know how to.”

#where's that post about how difang is guard dog 4 guard dog because they're so right #can you see that fdb's abandonment issues are brighter than a dying star #there's meta to be said about how llh tries to forget but fails to. so he chooses death #and what fdb learns from this is that forgetting and dying are the same #he will forget his entire existence before he loses someone precious to him #(different story for a-fei who has the temporary kind of forgetting. the kind that was not consensual)#(the kind you can come back from like a miracle physician raised you from the dead)#mysterious lotus casebook #mlc #lian hua lou #di feisheng #fang duobing #difang #wip #wip wednesday #my wips #current wip

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moorishflower · 1 year

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pirate/siren dreamling 2: now w/more homoerotic cannibalism

we're playin fast n loose w/time in this one but idc because it's too much fun lol

@teejaystumbles more siren au for your perusal my dear!

All told, it takes Hob ten years to pull himself back together. Hardly a drop in the bucket of immortality, but each season that passes without him returning to the shores of Brighton makes him itch something fierce. But there's no rushing it: he's starting from scratch, after all, but worse still, he's starting with a reputation. News of his stranding has reached all the way to London by the time that he gets there himself, and he's forced to lay low for a time, to shave his beard and grow out his hair, to take a new name. Just different enough to not be marked upon a register: Robin Gadlyn.

So he bides his time. He shores up his savings. He becomes Robin Gadlyn, who has returned from Tangier with the intent of signing on again as a shiphand, the call of the sea still in his blood. It's not hard to find a ship that's looking for easy labor. What's harder is finding a small ship, with a cruel captain and a tired crew. Fortunately, cruelty is an export that is never in short supply, and at last, in his ninth year, Hob boards Le Petit Nief, captained by one Edmund Everille, a man in his late forties with thinning dark hair and a redness to his nose that speaks of drink and a twist to his mouth that suggests cruelty.

It only takes him four months at sea to bring the rest of the crew to his side, and he suffers the lash only three times throughout, which Hob considers to be fortunate. Less fortunate is Everille, who ends up pitched over the rails in the dead of night, his left eye a slashed ruin from where Hob had buried his dagger. No mercy, he thinks, for cruelty.

He's voted captain nearly-unanimously, and the two who vote nay, he speaks to individually. Addresses their concerns -- that he's young, inexperienced, thinks above his station -- and invites them to council him as they see fit. Hob's learned that most of the time, when people complain, all they really want is to be heard.

He wants his crew to be heard. He wants them to hear him in turn. He doesn't want a repeat of the last ship, when his ignorance resulted in him stranded, even if it did net him with his greatest calling, his reason for unending life.

Sometimes, when it storms, the scar at his thigh aches, fierce and vicious, and he remembers the brilliant swathe of colors that had painted that hidden grotto, and his heart swells with something huge, and terrible, and too difficult to name. He traces the scar with his fingertips, the neat imprints of teeth, and remembers how the creature had looked at him, there in the dark, its eyes like shining stars and its expression almost like awe. Awe! When he was the poor bastard caught by that siren call!

It doesn't matter. It's been ten years, and if the thing is still there, he intends to find it. A decade is long enough, perhaps, to smooth over any harsh feelings over not allowing himself to be eaten, and if the creature isn't there…well. Then he'll search. He's got all of eternity to do it.

When Le Petit Nief (newly christened the Lightfot after a hasty vote from the crew) docks at Brighton, ten years almost to the day since Hob was marooned, he feels an unaccountable sense of relief. Whatever happens, he still has his health, his life, and his liberty, and maybe he's a fool, to have spent the last ten years collecting trinkets and treasures to bring to some sharp-toothed sea god, but then, he's never pretended to not be a fool. Recklessness calls to him as sure as that siren's wail, and he gives the crew leave to visit the town under the condition that they cause no trouble lest trouble find them first.

And, under cover of the moon, the air humid and thick with summer's heat, he takes his little pouch of treasures, and his oilskin pouch of foodstuffs, and he takes a dinghy out to the chalk-white cliffs.

The sea is calm and beautiful, reflecting the moon like a fat pearl floating on the waves, darling Venus' delight. Hob takes an apple for himself from the rations that he's brought, and thoughtfully cuts it into quarters. And then, humming softly, he scores his palm with the tip of the blade, and lets it hang over the edge of the boat, dripping night-blackened blood into the depths.

Apples are sweet, this time of year. Firm beneath the teeth. There's different satisfaction to be had in fruit and meat, he muses. Meat fills the belly, but fruit heals the soul. One need only eat an orange after a long voyage at sea to feel the difference. He wonders if the creature has ever eaten fruit -- if it has spent its whole life in the depths, and never seen eggs, nor bread, nor honey. He wonders if, for it, the taste of his blood was as exotic as a fine wine, or if it was only a base satisfaction.

The water ripples beside the boat, and Hob peers over the side, clenching his fist to bring up more blood.

He gets no warning -- one second the boat is still and calm, and the next it thrashes sideways, rocked by the slam of many limbs, and Hob feels something strong and sleek as an eel wrap around his leg and yank. Panic is instinctive; he kicks, and feels another tether around his opposite foot, and, unmoored, he goes sliding over, the fingers of his cut hand grappling at the edge of the boat, but finding no purchase between the wash of the sea and the slickness of his own blood.

He's dragged down.

Down, and down, into darkness, the light of the moon disappearing above him, covered by the hull of the dinghy, until his eyes are forced to try to adjust to the endless pitch. They needn't adjust for long: some seconds later, and there's a wild flare of color, of light, springtime yellow and pink as rosy as dawn, all specked through with silver starlight. He sees the shape of the creature. He sees the strong limbs, supple, twined about his legs.

He sees its face: a man's face, sharp and canny, with high cheekbones and lips that look nearly black in the chaotic splash of color. When it -- when he -- smiles, it shows a hint of needle-like teeth, a perfect row of sharpness. Hob's lungs are burning, and every blessed instinct in him tells him to fight, to claw, to scramble back to the surface for a gasp of needed air.

Instead, he holds the quartered apple between them. The creature's limbs writhe busily over his legs, feeling out the shape of his calves and thighs beneath his breeches, and Hob holds its gaze while he opens his mouth and takes a bite of apple, bubbles ticking in slow files from his nostrils. He raises his brows. He sways closer, pulled as surely as the tide by the creature's tentacles, slowly inching their meandering way over his arse, the small of his back.

The creature blinks at him -- blinks! not quite like a fish at all, then -- and leans in to meet him, curious. He opens his mouth and lets the water wash into it, and Hob sees a curious mechanism of motion at his neck, which his air-deprived brain takes long seconds to recognize as gills.

Slowly, the creature scents him, sticks out a tongue as pink as a tea rose and touches it to the corner of Hob's waiting mouth, and then, in curiosity, to the bite of apple he holds in his lips. The teeth are so sharp, so sharklike, and so near to his face that Hob's heart kicks in fretful earnesty. He begs it to be gentle, and he begs his prick to stay quiet, and his vision fuzzes gently at the edges as the creature takes the apple from his mouth into his own. His dark brows raise, and Hob, his lungs screaming, and with nothing to occupy his mouth any longer, breathes in at last.

He wakes to a familiar sight: the grey-white walls of a chalk grotto, the light of the moon streaming through an opening in the stone, water pouring in all the waves of the unrelenting sea from his lungs. He rolls onto his side and heaves, coughing and spitting until his throat is sore and his chest hurts. Something taps between his shoulders, and then roughly slaps, sending another gout of water rushing from him, another fit of coughing. It doesn't feel like a hand, but it takes Hob minutes to overcome the gagging, and minutes longer still to reach coherence again.

The dinghy. The grotto. His gifts. He rolls onto his back, and finds that the cave he lies in isn't so dim as he originally thought.

The source of light becomes immediately clear, a pale-silver glow that leans over him, and gradually resolves, again, into the creature, the man, with his skin shining like glowbugs along the river in faint moonlit hue, with his eyes deep and dark as ink, and Hob sees, now, that his mouth isn't black, but red. Garnets blush his lips, and behind them the unsheathed daggers of his teeth, white as bone.

"You're beautiful," he says, and his voice is shaky, and hoarse, but Christ, he feels alive. "You know, I've been waiting ten years to find you again. Sorry for the wait."

The creature tilts his head, and Hob tries to gesture vaguely towards the pouches at his belt.

"I've brought. Ah . Gifts? I don't know what you are, some, some sea-god or siren, or…I don't know. But I hope you like them. I hope --" His hope isn't given the chance to explain itself, because the creature sways in closer, rubbing its mouth busily against the curve of Hob's neck. Without a beard it feels strangely intimate. Then again, he thinks it would feel the same whether he were bearded or not. The creature is slick and smooth all over, its mouth a warm snuffling press that drags over the thud of his jugular and then rests there.

"Or we could do that," he says softly, and tilts his head, and bares his throat. "Not like I haven't got blood to spare. Can tell the men a shark got me."

And, "No," the creature says, and Hob nearly sits bolt upright, and is held in place only by the heavy weight that slithers across his groin, the many limbs pinning him to the ground. Christ, but the thing is strong.

"You can talk," he says, joy in every word, and a ripple passes through the light, a wave of yellow ochre.

"Yes. Some. Mine."

The sharp teeth dig into his neck, not a proper bite, but a scoring of flesh. They drag, opening veins, but not the vein, and the hot flood of pain wakes every limb, jerks him to cognition faster than any wine or spirit. His hands scrabble for purchase on the ground, and then he feels them being taken up, slick tendrils exploring busily between his fingers.

"All right," he says. "Yes. Yours. No shark's."

He's rewarded with a soft rumble, a purr like a cat and a neat little clicking sound that he identifies, after a moment, as the creature's teeth champing together. He feels hands -- hands! human-shaped and gently grasping -- push back into his hair, scratching with nails as sharp as talons.

"Good," the creature says, and the bite, when it comes at last, rests not over his jugular, but at the crook of neck and shoulder, where the muscle is thick and corded from hauling rope, where the sharp teeth sink and spike with pain and bleed him slowly, but do not kill. The creature nurses like a babe from the wellspring that flows from him, and each suck is a bright star of sensation tied from shoulder to heart to prick. Hob strains against the limbs that hold him, not away, but closer.

Queer things, he thinks wildly, it does queer things to the soul. His soul was damned already, he thinks, from years of mercenary work and casual banditry. Let his soul become odd, if it means he can have this.

Blood pours hot and steady for long minutes, and the only sounds in the grotto are the creature's suckling, the wet smear of his mouth on Hob's skin, and Hob's own desperate panting. The weight on him is familiar, a lover's press, the core of the creature's body poised over his groin and wriggling slowly. His prick is caught between wet linen and what feels like a hundred touching, grasping hands, studiously plucking at his breeches, his boots, his tunic while their master feasts up above.

"Let me touch you," he says, he begs. This creature is the sea, beautiful and wild, the tempestuous waves and the deadly calms, and he's the soaring salt-wind and the cry of the gulls along the shore, the bright flicker of fish in the shallows, the darkness of the depths, and Hob thinks that the sea has its hooks in the blood of all men, but in him deeper than most. He can feel it in his heart, with each pump that takes his blood from his body into the vast and wending sea.

The creature makes a noise too close to laughter to not be, and the teeth retract from his neck, leaving a feeling not unlike the emptiness after being tupped. Hob sighs with it, rocks his hips to try and find something to fill that yawning gap, and finds his hands being drawn in rippling motion to the creature's hips. He feels human, here, a pelvis that's vaguely familiar, the smooth skin of his flanks. No navel, Hob thinks, with no small amount of dizziness.

"Yes," the creature says again, and he bucks upwards with a sob. His neck feels hot and cold all at once, and he's empty. "Be mine. Have me."

The voice is like a fisher's gaff, that spears through the ear and into the brain; a pulse that skims over his flesh and leaves ripples in its wake. It's the lonely call of the lighthouse's warning on a foggy eve, a gull's cry, the sound of the lapping tides. It washes over him. It'd drown him, if he let it.

Hob curls his fingers into the white flesh and strains upward, fucking into the writhing, muscular twitch of tentacles that cover him. They've none managed to figure out his breeches, but the linen is barely an impediment at all -- something slim and tapered bunches the fabric around his cock, until there's a sharp rip of cloth and blessed, blessed contact. A cool, wet spiral of flesh that circles his prick, a dozen lightning-touched mouths laying kisses along the length of him, and he sobs again. Cannot help himself.

"A name," he says, and smoothes his hands over the angular planes of the creature's chest. What he'd taken for nipples from a distance are flat and soft beneath his fingers, but draw a similar response as with many men: a soft sigh, the creature's head thrown back to expose the long white column of his throat, and the sharpness of his teeth. "Give me a name to call you, sweet."

"A name," the creature repeats, and gives another fluting sigh, and does not answer. His hands are still in Hob's hair, now tugging, and Hob goes to them, heaves himself to sitting so that the creature is perched on him, and he's fucking into the wet grasp of it like he would a woman, bouncing him in his lap. Everything is a riot of movement and the slick noise of flesh, and Hob tilts his head, angling for a kiss.

"Douce mer," he gasps, and the creature bends, at last, to brush their mouths together. No proper kiss, no caress of tongue and lips, but a smear of blood into his mouth; the creature kisses like he intends to eat him. Hob kisses him back like he'd allow it. "Mer de nuit. I can keep going."

"Yes." The word is bitten into his mouth, a catch of teeth against his lip, which the creature chases with singleminded intensity. "More."

And they say that the gods of the sea are fickle, and proud, and desirous, and so Hob laughs, and between the iron tang of his own blood he whispers: my sweet, my treasure, my darling. The creature rides him in rolling waves, and his skin is flickering flashes of color, of reds and pinks as deep as the brilliant dawn, and silver as sharp as the moon.

When Hob peaks, it's with a cry that he bites into the creature's mouth, his blunt human teeth catching the berry-red lips, hips stuttering as the thing's tentacles wring every ounce of spend from him, and then some. They crowd him, smearing the warmth of his seed across his length, each of them fighting for a turn to touch him, and all the while the creature moans into his mouth, shuddering softly in his arms. There's a new taste on his lips, and Hob chases it with his tongue.

"Mine," the creature murmurs again. The hands in his hair curl and shiver. "Mine."

Hob lets himself lay down, his back flat against the unforgiving stone, the afterwaves of his pleasure still rolling through him like thunder over the open ocean.

"All right," he says, and licks his lips again. Salt, and living things, and kelp. The sea. "All right."

The creature pets his hair, tousling it this way and that. And then, with a gentle sigh, he lays his head upon Hob's chest. His heart still beats there, strong and steady, despite the hook the sea has stabbed within it, and slowly, gradually, the light in the grotto eases, the busy movement of the creature's tentacles slows, until it's only the moon, a fat and drifting pearl, that casts its unjudging eye through the cave's mouth upon the lovers entangled there.

#siren au #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream/hob #dream of the endless/hob gadling #dream/hob gadling #the sandman #the sandman fic #my fic #the sandman fanfiction #tw cannibalism #tw blood #tw drowning #tw tentacles #cannot express to you how consensual this is including the cannibalism #is it cannibalism if your lover is an ancient mercreature #anyways they fuck in this one kind of #enjoy entertainment friends

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