#proofread*

[kaeyx]

Sigh @mossmotif has me thinking about jaded knight reader x young bishop Suguru.... Maybe they're not old by our standards but prematurely grey, a body knotted with muscle that's starting to soften out with age, covered in scars, crows feet gathered around their eyes... Dressed in bulky leather and maille with fine rivets betraying their status. Only the best get to live so long when they dedicate their entire life to servitude.

And fresh faced Suguru, newly moved in to the capital by a noble as the new bishop, who can't resist the impulse to teach an old dog new tricks. He sees the worry in your eyes, the way your hands shake slightly when you pray. It used to be just a ceremonial thing but Suguru is gently ushering you deeper into the house of god, turning it into the pillar you need. He knows what you are, he knows you need outside guidance, you're not used to navigating the world without your king, but you can't depend on him anymore. The man is going mad, and inadvertently pushing his most competent knight right into Suguru's arms.

LONG utc!!! Not smut just m rated | tagging @faiyhe

You're not used to giving yourself luxuries. Suguru gets his kicks out of pulling out the church's wines and cheeses when you come over, and makes a point to walk you through the beautiful inner courtyard of his church while you follow behind him, stony faced. He loves the confusion and guilt in your eyes, the way you flinch away from allowing yourself to become soft after an entire life of routine. You're famous in the kingdom for being the perfect balance of what a knight should be: a warrior poet, well read and noble; a strong and well trained fighter; and also someone humble like a dog, willing to throw their entire life away for their king's wars. In your confessions Suguru can't help but be enchanted by how you talk. He reads your poems, about the places you've seen and conquered in the name of an old man who's rotting away on his throne. He wants that for himself.

Suguru almost stalks you, appearing in dinners at the court and greeting you when he meets with your king and you're part of his entourage. These are strange times after all, and the crown needs to be protected. Suguru notices the way your grip is almost slack, when usually it's renowned for its steadiness. As your faith wavers you've seemed to lose interest in your work. He knows you no longer believe in your cause.

You come to mass more often and he hears you've even deigned to get yourself a proper bed, instead of sleeping on hay like a monk. You comment how it's been good on your back and Suguru trembles a bit. The lines around your mouth get deeper when you smile indulgently at him and call him "bishop" like one would indulge a child. He mentions a hot spring not far from the city and you confess you've been putting off the desire to go for a long time. Suguru convinces you to go and sighs to himself when he can't accompany you, or casually plan an overlapping trip to the same place. Not even the layers of cloth and metal you wear can fully mask your bulk, your calloused hands. He wants to see more.

As the kingdom falls into ruin you become apathetic. Suguru has been managing to shepherd you into the confession booth more often than not these days. You don't like the king anymore, you don't like how the once steady man is now plunging your home into chaos. It is not god's will, you say, and Suguru nods indulgently, following the wrinkles in your forehead and the silver flashes in your hair. You wear more armour now, as the cold and the war set in, slouching in the tiny wooden box that can barely fit your bulk. You refuse to put down your weapons, even in a house of god. Suguru knows you're arguing with most of your old friends, who are either fleeing or vying for the throne themselves. One of the king's bastard sons hovers on the eastern border. Suguru goes to the castle to watch you train, his cock stirring when you land brutal blows on a wooden training dummy with your longsword.

When Suguru mentions your skills later and laughs about feeling protected you thumb your knife and keep silent, looking up into the cathedral's pillars. You hum with something that might be assent, and he realises you treat him differently now. You're not indulging a kid, someone who rose through the ranks too fast and has a job he doesn't deserve. You're talking to him as an equal, and there's a weary flicker of warmth in your eyes when you call him "bishop". His stomach flips.

And then one night, dark and still, when you slink in through the side door and sit silent in the pews for hours, when Suguru stands at the altar and watches as you try to forget the nightmares that plague you, the front door groans open. Two knights burst through the tense silence and leave muddy footprints on the stone floor, their cries bouncing off every wall. Suguru is about to vault the altar, draw the knife he's not supposed to have- but you beat him to the punch and meet the men halfway.

It's impossible that someone can move that silent and swift, with only a few rustles of maille. You take both of them head on, drawing a short sword from your belt, not bothering to say a word. It only takes a few seconds, and two heavy thumps hitting the floor, before Suguru knows it's all over.

In the dim candlelight you kneel down and wipe your sword on one of the men's capes. As your form straightens up again and you come out of the shadows, into the moonlight of the altar, he notices some blood on your clothes. You pause a step below him, separated by the cold marble of the altar, solemn.

"I couldn't let them kill a servant of god. I couldn't let them kill... you." Your eyes give nothing away, indifferent to the minute spray of blood near your hip. Indifferent to how Suguru's cock stirs below his robes.

"I'm going to fix it all." It sounds like a promise, and all of a sudden your eyes won't leave his. "It's my job to protect this kingdom, and everything in it. I stood back for so long, because I was lost. But no more of that."

Suguru leans closer, wetting his lips, watching as the final puzzle piece falls into place. He brushes a hand over your shoulder and yours snaps up to hold it in place. Your rough, broken hand and his long, pretty one, stained with ink. He leans down, over the altar, and finally captures your lips with his own.

[sh-tposter2021]

Hobie Age Rant Under the Cut

Spiderverse fandom really do be stressing me out rn with all the Hobie age discourse and maybe honestly this is just me being a people pelaser, but I genuinely feel like I can’t enjoy fics anymore bc I feel like some people are SO insistent on his age even though we don’t have the greatest confirmation, or any at all.

I get it and I agree, proshipping is absolutely horrible and terrible and all around disgusting. However I see where the other side is coming from.

PunkFlower has been a ship for YEARS bc of the comics, so it’s been a thing for a long while now but why is it JUST NOW an issue? The director ONLY said the concept for a 20 yr old Hobie would be for Prowler!Hobie (at least from what I understand) and not the Hobie we see in the movie, the clip it was from was specifically clipped to be out of context (again just from what I know). Also the part where he says Gwen left her stuff at his place: the dude is homeless. He’s, in the comics, a teen likely squatting in an abandoned building or staying in alleyways, under bridges and other places with his bandmates. It’d be weird if he was in his 20’s and they left that in there. lol

As far as I know, his age currently is up for interpretation. If you intepret him as in his 20’s, cool, go for it, that’s your current belief/headcanon because we have no confirmation. If you believe he’s younger, cool, go for it, that’s your current belief/headcanon because we have no confirmation. Just do not use that belief/headcanon of his age to go onto other peoples post and harass them about it and what they wrote.

I personally don’t interact with that kind of content (smut, ect.) bc it makes me uncomfortable in general. I only interact with fluff, but I’m not gonna sit here and tell people what they can and cannot do and write because of my belief/headcanon. I’m still of the belief that his age can be anything the writer wants it to be (I personally headcanon that he’s at least 17-18).

So all in all, we don’t really know his canon movie age and we shouldn’t be pushing our headcanons on other people. If you don’t want to see stuff that goes against your headcanon, simply scroll past, there’s no real value in harassing people for having a different headcanon. If you have proof that he may be in his 20’s in the movie, please send it my way, my DM’s are always open and I’m always open to learning more and changing my opinion if I feel it needs to be changed after seeing facts.

[tommosyko]

And I know that if you end your life, I will be joining you shortly

Starring: Thomas Sykes Type: Alternate Universe Setting: Abandoned Warehouse Mentions: Lee Malia, Oliver Sykes, Hannah Snowdon, Max Helyer

Tom groaned and slowly opened his eyes as he regained consciousness, and once he had he immediately regretted it. All he could feel was a searing pain in his head and in his arms. It hurt. It hurt so badly. He had never experienced this kind of pain before, despite everything he had been through as a kid. The male couldn’t help but cry out in pain, unable to stop the tears from streaming uncontrollably down his face. Where was he? He couldn’t see anything. It didn’t matter if his eyes were closed or open, it was all the same to him. He wiggled his fingers, but winced as pain shot up his arm and through his body. The pain that he had just felt was pain he was familiar with. This pain was the pain of broken bones. The man bit his tongue to keep from crying out as he continued to wiggle his fingers and move his hand in the hopes of pinpointing what exactly was broken. After a few moments of wiggling his fingers around, he deduced that it was his wrists that were broken, and it seemed to him as if they were strapped rather tightly to the chair he was sitting in. On his head there seemed to be a metal contraption. Concentrating hard, Tom deduced that it was a helmet like thing on his head and the source of his cranial pain came from his temples and the very top of his head.

“Hello?” Tom called out and winced automatically, even the slight movement of his head resulted in a white hot pain felt throughout the rest of his body. This time he wasn’t able to hold his cry of pain in, but even his cry held pain for him.

Almost instantaneously after Tom called out, a light flickered on a few meters away from him. Being careful not to jostle his head, Tom looked at the light curiously. He was still in pain but after spending time with the horrid man of his past, he had mastered keeping his pain to himself. Tom’s breathing was laboured as he tried to focus on the spot of light before him, barely able to see through the pain. If Tom hadn’t been through everything he had been through as a kid there was no way he would have been able to stay conscious through the agonizing pain in his head.

It was then that Tom heard an oddly mechanical voice begin to speak. “Hello, Thomas.” It said from a spot that Tom couldn’t quite identify. It was everywhere, almost as if it was being spoken directly into his mind.

“What’s h..appening?” Tom managed to get out weakly. The British male was now alert with adrenaline, and the need to know what was happening, where he was and how he ended up in this position.

“Most people are so ungrateful to be alive. But not you, Thomas. You cherish every waking moment, don’t you?” the voice said as Tom heard an odd creaking noise. He waited impatiently, desperately wanting to know what the sound was. Tom didn’t have to wait for long because soon enough he saw a tiny little tricycle slowly roll into view in the middle of the light. On the tricycle was a doll. This doll was dressed in a suit with a bright red bow tie. Its face was shockingly white and oddly proportioned with swirls of red adorned on each cheek. Its shoulder length black hair looked greasy and matted. The photographer was confused. What was this doll doing here? What did it symbolize? Where had it come from? Who had moved it there? Tom squinted at the doll, ready to ask some of his questions out loud when his attention was suddenly captured by four more lights flickering on one after the other, just behind the doll.

Underneath each spotlight was a person. Four people that Tom recognized immediately without having to think about it. Tom looked back at the doll in shock, his mind working a million miles a minute as he tried to figure out what was happening here. As if reading his thoughts the doll —or whatever the voice was coming from— spoke again. “Here we have three people who are ungrateful for the life they have been blessed with. All three have attempted to take their own lives at least once. Now, you may recognize these people but these peoples’s fates lie in your hands now.”

Tom gasped in shock and looked at the three people again, but this time took that extra minute to properly examine them. They were standing on pedestals, arms tied above their heads, their bodies wrapped in barbed wire. Tom traced the barbed wire with his eyes, drinking in how it loosely wrapped around their wrists, their arms, their necks, their torsos, their hips, their legs. It was wrapped everywhere.

“Now, when I let you go, Thomas,” the voice spoke again, startling Tom and causing him to move his head which in turn drew a cry of pain from his lips, “you have five minutes to pick who dies. Whoever you pick’s pedestal will be dropped from beneath them and their body will fall tightly into the barbed wire. Their cause of death will be suffocation but they will suffer. If you don’t pick someone to die, the helmet on your head will slowly screw into your brain, causing you to die instead.”

Tom screamed for all he was worth and turned to look at the people behind the glass. The people he loved most in the world and he had to kill one of them. He couldn’t do that. Tom screamed and screamed, all self preservation out the window as he shook around and tried to get out of the chair that he was latched to. He was panicking. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t do this. Would he?

“Your time starts now.”

Tom felt the restraints on his wrists and ankles slide off. Without hesitating, he jumped from his chair and ran to the glass, throwing himself at it and sobbing heavily. He banged on it, hands slapping the glass desperately again and again, praying that they would wake up and look at him but to no avail.

“Three minutes. Who are you going to pick? Lonely Lee who has no one? The brother who saved you, who has millions of fans relying on him? Hannah; your best friend with child? Or perhaps Max; the man you claim to love?”

There were four buttons in front of Tom. Each corresponding with a person, he assumed. His fingers brushed over each button before they made their way back to lee, lingering there for a moment before they sweeped over the other buttons as well. That was when Tom made his decision. What was the obvious choice. The only choice there really was. The British man took a deep breath and focused his eyes on Max, not looking away from him for a second. “I love you,” he whispered quietly as he accepted his fate. It was better this way. This was the only way. His eyes never left Max’s form when the drilling began. Only when the pain was too much to bear did Tom close his eyes and scream out before falling to the ground, clutching at his head.

All of the lights flickered off in that little room as the doll on the tricycle wheeled away, the only sound to be heard was Thomas’s agonized screaming.

Until there was nothing but silence.

[masque-blanq]

The problem i have with women bashing the ''not all men'' argument is that, all right, i see why ''not all men'' is still a problem. There are still bad ones out there and they leave a bad taste in your mouth when talking about feminism and the male population in general.

I just saw this quote on my dash:

You say not all men are monsters?

Imagine a bowl of M&Ms. 10% of them are poisoned.

Go ahead. Eat a handful.

Not all M&Ms are poison.

-The Frogman

BUT

My question is, are all women perfect and humble and not in any way dangerous to men? Nope. Just as the male bowl of the M&M has poisonous pieces, so does the women's bowl. The percentage may be less, but that does not alter the point. You still wouldn't eat the candy.

There are abusive, controlling, power-hungry women who will use men to get what they want, or over-power and suppress them the same (perhaps in a tiny bit less obvious) way that men have used women. And it is not only about women 'standing up to themselves in a mostly patriarchal world, it's about the human race in general.

The question is not about men vs women. It's just the way humanity is. It's aggressive, power-hungy, and abusive. There's nothing we can do about it. We wouldn't have made it this far in the evolution if the human race wasn't like that. We needed aggression to survive. In males as well as in females. You can argue that if we don't address these issues, then how are we supposed to evolve further, and I agree that among sentient beings, we have to be a step above, say, lions and control our animalistic nature (again, men and women), but to expect it to completely disappear... not going to happen. 

Bottom line. I'm not saying that men aren't monsters. I'm saying that women are, too.

EDIT: I feel like I should clarify that I'm not saying that the ''not all men'' excuse isn't bullshit. I'm simply against this radical, infinite hate towards men which almost makes it feel as if we should eliminate men altogether, because, after all, all they're capable of is killing and raping. Making the issue so anti-male as it is on this website, is completely irrational and just as narrow-minded as the 'not all men' argument.