#and privileged though i am compared t most people who have ever lived (i have access to disposable income and sweets)

[junewongapologia]

The fact is tho that no matter how you look at it, no matter how insufferable she is, no matter how Out Of Touch, regardless of whether she’s doing herself no favours: Eloise is right about society and just about everyone else in the show is wrong.

Like, she’s not got the full picture, she’s blinkered and her political philosophy is not very in depth or well thought out. But she’s right, and I think that’s why a lot of people watching really don’t like her because she’s breaking the illusion. All in all, the 1810s were a shit time to be alive for most people, and you can “well actually” it all you like, but the Luddite movement existed for a reason, the Chartists existed for a reason, Porto-feminist writers like Wollstonecraft and de Gouges wrote what they did for a reason.

So when you keep being reminded that it was a terrible social order for women - in a show targeted mainly towards women for escapist purposes then that character is going to come across as irritating, because she’s ruining the immersion.

Really, her attitude isn’t more anachronistic than the dresses, or the hairdos, or the diamond necklaces (men and women had been advocating women’s right to vote since before Eloise was born, lads), but it’s a problem because people are watching the show for the sweeping romances and the general regency vibe, they don’t want to think about how the regency was for most people. Which inevitably leads to some incredible projection, when watchers of a show with the central conceit of only being interested in the love lives of the top one percent of the one percent of the British aristocracy acting as though Eloise is the only privileged person on the show.

And yeah, she is better off than most of the people who exist in all of Regency Britain (though if you were to take the show as read, Britain is made up of about 70% aristocracy, 1% gentry, 5% urban bourgeoisie and 24% urban workers), but she’s the only one whose privilege is harped on out of her whole family and social circle. 99% of the speaking characters in the show come from a posher background than Beau fucking Brummell.

And! Eloise is literally just about the only main character who ever has to question her privilege! And when she is in season 2 she doesn’t throw a shitfit, she’s willing to learn! She goes out of her way to hear perspectives that she wouldn’t have heard in her social circle! But the narrative punishes her for that, and that’s because for all the criticism she gets about needing her privilege checked, they don’t actually want her to learn, they just want her to shut up and enjoy the trappings of regency decadence as much as they do.

Also - I know it’s really fashionable to rag on “pick-mes” and “Not Like Other Girls” - but actually, no, “traditional femininity” has never been socially unacceptable for women the way being GNC is, and it is in fact ruthlessly socially enforced against GNC women, even more so in the 1810s. Eloise is a teenaged girl in a society that stigmatises her for her wish for more legal autonomy, the idea that she’s somehow the villain for not being able to enjoy “feminine” hobbies without seeing them as just another element of the way women’s education is trivialised as ornamental, is farcical. “Sewing is a valuable and useful skill” so is cooking, but there’s a reason my mam, and not my dad, had home economics lessons, and that reason is still misogyny, despite the fact that it set her up better for being able to operate independently as an adult.

Idk I’m just kind of uncomfortable that in a world of rising reactionary political sentiment towards women, and this seemingly increasingly re-normalised view that women need to be wives and homemakers, people feel that the person on the show who needs to do the most introspection regarding their politics is an eighteen-year-old who is vocal about the fact that she has limited legal rights, and not any of the adult men in the show (a lot of whom probably have seats in the Upper House!!!) who never mention politics at all.

And frankly, given the shower who were Having Political Opinions in the long eighteenth century, Eloise’s brand of semi-anachronistic protofeminism is infinitely preferable to Hannah “I refuse to teach the poor how to write in my schools” More, or Edmund “don’t read my big thesis on revolutions too closely it’s definitely not all lies and junk history” Burke, or even a load of prominent members of the Bluestocking Society.

[eboymoder]

i love how a shit ton of transfemmes love to act like transmasculine oppression is not only less important, but mostly nonexistent, to the point of it even being heretically offensive to discuss in a way that takes it as seriously as transmisogyny or even like. seriously AT ALL and not just something to joke about doing to transmascs when they happen to be both annoying and someone who goes by a common name, like aiden.

like i know you get all your facts and logic from a bunch of super retarded twitblr baeddels but i do in fact regret to inform you that out of most known social demographic categories, transmasculine people have THE highest rates of suicide and sexual assault, especially compared to cis men and cis women, but even sometimes when compared to transfems!

but yeah, tell me more about how “transandrophobia” is just some reddit MRA shit. keep talking about how transmisogyny is the worst kind of oppression that could possibly happen to anyone ever and how transmascs are just transitioning because they hate women and want to attain male privilege, something not only regular for us all to want but definitely possible to achieve through the cis validation we are soooo totally receiving from society.

if you believe that being a man or transitioning into masculinity is INHERENTLY EVIL or makes you get MORE PRIVILEGE AND NOT WAY LESS OF IT FROM LITERALLY ANYBODY INCLUDING OUR OWN SUPPOSED ALLIES then i am sorry to say but i think the thing that is poisoning your brain and making you stupid is not testosterone. it might be 4chan though, you might wanna get that checked out. being a woman does not make you inherently softer, more pure, more innocent, kinder, more deserving of love. none of those things. and in fact, acting like women can do no wrong by virtue of simply existing as their gender is often used to silence victims of abusive women, because feminism or something. absolutely shut the fuck up.

god you are all so stupid. why the fuck would a man with a pussy or boobs get MORE RESPECT instead of MORE KILLED AND HUMILIATED. WE BY VIRTUE OF BEING BORN ARE FAILDAUGHTERS WHO ARE CONSTANTLY REMINDED OF OUR INHERENT LACK OF THE MANY CENTRAL DEFININITIVE CHARACTERISTICS ASSOCIATED WITH MANLINESS. WHY WOULD WE BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY BY “REAL” MEN AND WOMEN, AS WE ARE SEEN TO BE NEITHER OF THOSE?

imagine let’s say, a trans man. scary, fucked up, i know right, but bear with me now, i have a point to make. so this guy is for all intents and purposes completely cis-passing. his voice is deep and melodic. he has full grown facial hair. his facial structure is like a chad wojak. he isnt getting bald from taking t yet. he’s skinny, but not to the point of looking twinky or like a femboy. he isn’t overly emotional in a womancoded way most of the time. he’s white. he’s got a good job that pays well enough to not be homeless or starving. so yeah, all of those things. except for one crucial difference: he does not wish to pursue bottom surgery. he enjoys having a vagina. he is also interested in having sexual relationships, exclusively with other men-identified people.

here’s where things get tricky. you know the trans panic murder legality exception? that still does apply to transmascs too, you know. we are also transgendereds. but yeah so this guy decides to hook up with a stranger off a dating app. things are going fine. he hasnt yet disclosed his birth sex, he had no pronouns in bio, he is assumed to be cis.

wow, you think, this guy is living the dream. he is so privileged for this.

sike, you fucking idiot. he is about to get hatecrimed and abused as soon as he does the pussy reveal. he will probably also get raped. the guy he wanted to have a fun time with actually hates women so much he thinks that sometimes they try to become men to trick true homosexuals. he fucking gets this guy. transmasc chad is now dead. when his funeral happens, his estranged parents retcon his legal name change from years prior to deadname and misgender him as a final slap in the face. where is this privilege then? huh? tell me, quickly now.

every single fucking hate crime that is possible to do to a transfeminine person is just as easily possible to do to a transmasculine person. absolutely fuck yourself if you disagree. because it can and does happen. not only that, but we experience unique things you never will be able to: getting pregnant, getting raped in ways that could make us pregnant, if we want to get pregnant we have to temporarily detransition in order to do so, period associated symptoms that involve painful bleeding and not just period-lite emotional swings like some people experience on estrogen. stuff like that is what we need our own words for, you just wouldnt get it.

you just live in a bubble full of shetheyits who love to be stupid online and expect the entire world to kiss their toes in response when they say things that are just completely and objectively wrong but frame themselves in a tactical light in order to shit on the most amount of people they can just to fucking feel something. why do you love re-creating or appropriating existing structures of oppression and drawing lines in the sand arbitrarily with people you should be experiencing sympathy for because we are more like you than we are not like you. society hates us all, dont you dare forget that.

[vendettaparker]

What a Dumbass [P.P]

Summary: Peter’s mistake leads to you being injured. 

Pairing: Peter Parker x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 2.1K

Warnings: Swearing, like a substantial amount, suggestive content kinda, gun shot wound, and flustered!Peter 

a/n: I really liked writing this. I couldn’t stop laughing at some of the dialogue. and the mistake peter made to cause the whole set-up of the story is so funny to me. like i can legit see him making this mistake. also, i’m gonna make a permanent tag list, so please send me an ask or message me if you want to be on it! <3

        ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

     Peter Benjamin Parker is a fucking dumbass. All the time mostly. Most of the time his dumbassery leads to a lot of annoyed avengers, a lot of clean up, and a lot of spilled secrets. Hence why like three people who definitely shouldn’t know he is Spider-man do. But every once in while his idiocy can lead to an unexpected happily ever after, at least until he fucks something up again. 

     This particular fuck up has yet to be determined as a happy accident or your new 13th reason. It all started when that spider bitch decided it’d be a good idea to watch some explicit content on his laptop. Now, this wasn’t particularly an unknown activity for him to partake in, since we all know about his little impromptu purchase in Germany, but unbeknownst to this dork, his aunt was in the next room over working on a tear in his suit. And to make matters worse, he accidentally just so happened to purchase a subscription using said aunt’s credit card that was pre-setup in his laptop. 

     Now May is a very understanding woman. Very sex-positive, very loving, and inclusive; the whole shebang really. So when she happened to catch this idiot doing what he most certainly shouldn’t have been doing, she wasn’t mad, just thoroughly disturbed. Then she got the notification about the purchase. That was a bit more taboo in her eyes. So Peter was grounded from patrolling for a week and his laptop privileges were revoked for two weeks. That was fucking merciful compared to what this whole fuck up put you through. 

     At the school that following Monday, Peter spent the whole first, second, fourth, and lunch period trying to convince you to take over patrol for a week. Sure, you could definitely handle it, not to pat yourself on the back or anything, but you were significantly stronger than Peter, so it shouldn’t have been that big of a deal. But you just really didn’t want to. Peter had his ‘Peter Tingle’ to help him find danger, while you’d actually have to look. It just seemed harder for you to do than it would be for him. 

     “Why are you even grounded?” You sighed after Peter's 3rd time bringing up the possibility of you patrolling for him at lunch. 

     “He got caught watching and buying p—” Ned started laughing.

     “Ned! Shut up!” Peter yelled, slapping his hand over his friend's mouth. 

     “How has your identity not been leaked yet, Jesus Christ.” You mumbled, giggling. You flipped through your chemistry textbook, writing notes to prepare for Friday’s quiz. 

     “Yeah, and how come you didn’t know May was home?” Ned pushed Peter’s hand away. “Where was your ‘Peter Tingle’ then?” 

     “She’s not a threat, dude. But shit, I really wish my tingle detected her.” Peter groaned, a deep blush covering his features. “Please (Y/N). I really, really don’t wanna leave Queens without any protection for a week. I’ll try to convince May to let me go out on the weekend, so really it’s only five days.” 

     “I guess I could help you out, but you owe me. I should really spend this time studying for my chemistry test. Iron bitch is gonna have my head on a spike if I fail another chem test.” You said, highlighting more notes. 

     “Okay! Delmar’s for a week, anytime, anywhere.” Peter said putting his hand out for you to shake. 

     “Make it a month, I know my worth.” 

     Peter hesitated, but eventually gave in, “Fine, but you better do a good job.” 

        ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

     So now you were stuck patrolling from 8:30 to 11:00 every night. It wasn't bad per se, and nothing too eventful happened. You stopped a small convenience store robbery, gave a few kids some tips at the skatepark, ran some errands for an old lady, and saved a cat from a tree. Thursday night was the real kicker though. Your night had barely started and you accidentally got in the middle of a drug deal between some smaller mob and a real messed-up junkie. This should’ve been an easy takedown, only six people in total that needed to be taken out, but like was mentioned before, you don’t have Peter’s goddamn, stupid fucking tingle. So after taking all six of the perps out you started to walk away after alerting the police. Unfortunately, one of those assclowns had come to, and grabbed the gun a few feet away from him and shot it towards you. The bullet went through your thigh and out the other side. Screaming in shock and pain, you used your own throwing knives and knocked the gun out of the mobster’s hand, then you proceeded to knock him out again with a few good punches to his noggin, maybe a few more, just for good measure. But this wound would need to be cleaned and stitched up. And if you went back to the Tower, Steve and Tony would give you an earful about “watching your surroundings” and “being more careful”. So in a moment of pure adrenaline and desperation, you texted Peter. 

You: are you home

Spider-Dork: Yeah, why?

You: i’ll be there in 5 

Spider-Dork: What? Why? Is everything ok?

Spider-Dork: Hello??? (Y/N)????

(Y/N) declined (3) calls 

Spider-Dork: Answer my calls idiot. 

     Peter’s texting and constant calling was cut short from a crash in his room. 

     “(Y/N)? Is that you?” Peter called from the couch in the living room. 

     “Yeah, can I borrow a t-shirt?” You called, fumbling around accidentally knocking over another lamp. “Oops, sorry!”

     “Uh, yeah sure. In the closet!” Peter called back pausing his show, prepared to make his way over to you. 

     “And some sweats?” You called back, blood dripping all over Peter’s hardwood floor. 

     Peter got up to make his way to his room. “Yeah, second drawer on the left side.” He said as he made his way to his bedroom. Knowing you were in there, most likely changing, he knocked. “You decent?” 

     “Nope, not really. I need a pair of your boxers too, though.” You called through the door, now seeing that the blood splattered on your underwear as well. “Also, bring the first aid kit when you come in.” 

     ‘What? Why?” Peter said in a more stressed tone, pushing his way into the room, completely ignoring the fact that you were very much not decent. “Holy shit.” He said seeing you out of your suit, in your bra and underwear, blood dripping down your right leg, pooling onto the floor. Your hand, red and bloody, pressed onto what he only assumed was the wound and blood seeping through your fingers. 

     “Bring a mop too.” 

     Peter ran out of the room to grab the first aid kit, plus some extra bandages and a cleaning solution. When he came back in he found you in the same state, standing in the middle of the room, eyebrows furrowed in pain, clutching your right thigh. 

     “What the hell happened?” He gasped, motioning for you to sit on his bed. You hesitated, not wanting to mess up his sheets. He seemed to notice your thought process quickly adding, “I have to wash my sheets anyway.” 

     “Gross.” You mumbled, scrunching up your face in disgust and finally settling down on his bed. 

     “Move your hand and tell me what happened,” Peter said kneeling on the floor next to the bed, positioned right at your hips. You removed your hand, bloody instantly seeping onto the bed. Peter winced looking at the hole in your leg, quickly grabbing the peroxide and dumping heaps of it onto your leg, much to your distaste. 

     “I got shot.” You stated as he cleaned the blood around the hole with alcohol pads.

     “Well, no shit. I mean by who and how?” 

     “Mobster. Sneaky bitch got me while I was walking away.” You winced as Peter inspected the wound further. 

     “I need to stitch this up. Did it go all the way through?” He said lifting your leg to look underneath for an exit wound. 

     “Yeah.” Peter found the exit wound and held your leg up with one hand, pouring peroxide on the back of your thigh with the other. 

     “You have to be more careful, (Y/N)! This looks really nasty.” Peter scolded, setting your leg back down and prepping the needle and sutures. “What if this was in your chest? Or—or if you didn’t get here in time? You could’ve bled out!” 

     “Well sorry that I don’t have your stupid tingle to help me out when I’m being fucking shot at!” You yelped, gripping the bedsheets. 

     “You don’t need spidey sense, you need fucking common sense,” Peter mumbled, stitching his first suture.

     “What the fuck did you just say?” You looked at him incredulously. 

     “I— uh, nothing.” Peter huffed, focusing back on stitching you up.

     “This is your all your fault, to begin with!” You accused, shifting uncomfortably, due to the needle constantly being stuck into your leg. “You’re the one that begged me to go on patrol for you! You’re the dumb bitch that got caught watc—” 

     “Ok! Shut up! For God’s sake, you’re never gonna let me live that down.” Peter groaned, finishing up the last stitch. “Flip over.” He commanded, pushing at the side of your waist to help with the movement. 

     “Well, it was fucking dumb. Don’t you check to make sure nobody’s home? God, we all know you’re a vocal bitch too.” You said, fully situated on your stomach. 

     “What the fuck is that suppose to mean!?” He gasped, prepping another needle. 

     “You’re a sensitive boy.” You shrugged, wincing when Peter started his next stitch. 

     “I-I am not sensitive! I’m emotionally and physically staunch!” He defended, going in for another stitch. 

     You just raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Sure, whatever you say, babe.” You winked at him, blowing an exaggerated kiss. 

     “You're a jerk,” Peter mumbled, finishing up his stitching job. “A jerk with a fucked up leg.” 

     You hummed, quite amused. Peter got up and started to collect his medical supplies. He shuffled out of the room to put everything away. When he returned you were trying to get up and walk, wincing at every slight movement. 

     “Here, let me just—” Peter lifted you up, bridal style. A small yelp coming from you when a sharp pain shot through your leg. “Sorry.”

     “It’s fine. Can you help me get dressed?” You said as he walked you over to his desk and set you down in his desk chair. 

     “Sure.” Peter blushed, painfully aware of your lack of clothes. He picked out some clothes from his closet and drawers. He helped you into them, wallowing in the uncomfortable silence, taking in each whimper and wince from you whenever he brushed against your thigh. 

     “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” He sighed after you were all dressed. “This is my fault.” 

     You looked at his distraught face, feeling bad for initially blaming him for the events of tonight. “No, Pete. It’s fine. I should’ve made sure all of the guys were knocked out.” You put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

     “No, I should’ve been more careful when I was watching that stuff. I have my spidey sense, I would’ve been able to avoid getting shot. It’s not your fault that you didn’t get bit by a radioactive spider.”

     “Pete, really, I’ll be better by next week anyway. It’s fine.” 

     Peter shook his head, sighing. “I just feel so bad, I shouldn’t have forced patrolling on you.” You hugged him and rubbed his back soothingly. “It’s my fault you got hurt.” 

     “Peter stop. It’s just an unfortunate accident.” You mumbled, hugging him closer. “It could’ve happened to anyone.”

     “But it didn’t happen to just anyone (Y/N), it happened to you. And I caused it. I-I don't know what I’d do if something ever happened to you. What if it was worse?”

     You sighed, pulling away from Peter and cupping his face, seeing the regret and shame pooling in his eyes. Without much thought, you pulled him closer, slowly connecting your lips in a sweet kiss. Truly getting lost in the feeling of his lips against yours, the feeling of perfection. 

     Peter’s eyes widened in shock for a moment, before he was kissing you back, reveling in the feeling he’s been dreaming about for months. You finally pulled away to catch your breath. Peter flushed at your actions, unable to stop the wide smile crossing his features. 

     “Sorry,” You mumbled sheepishly, “just needed to shut you up for a second.”

     “Maybe I should talk more, just to see what happens,” Peter smirked, pulling you in for another shorter, but just as sweet, kiss. 

     You hummed against his lips. “I really like you. Even when you're a dumbass.” You sighed against his lips.

     “The feeling is mutual.” 

     “Rude. I’m not a dumbass.” You gasped in faux offense. 

     “You’re the one with a bullet wound.” he deadpanned 

     “You’re the one who got caught watchin—”

     “(Y/N)!”

[froog-water]

howdy and hello

and thank you for finding this! If you enjoyed this madness that I have somehow managed into a story, then, please do not be afraid to interact! I am relatively new to the whole Apex scene and am, obviously, prone to make mistakes. If there is anything wrong, like spelling errors or something like that, just point it out and I will try to fix it :) This goes without saying but, apologies in advance if Bloodhound appears to be OOC or anything along those lines. As I said, I'm new to all this but I still wanted to try my luck with writing something so, yeah. Though the reader is written with the intention of being a female (she/her), there is really no specific mention of their gender (unless I missed it somewhere) so for now, the reader is greatly gender neutral :) Other than that, I hope whoever reads this likes it. This story is purely selfish and my response to the clear lack of good Bloodhound fics out there in the world 

Upwards Over the Mountain (Bloodhound x Reader)

Chapter 1; next

From somewhere outside, beyond your stone walls, the world raged. The overhead night sky rumbled thick and dark with heavy rain clouds that every so often flashed with brilliant lightning and shook the ground with terrible thunder. Tonight was the last good storm of the year before winter set in to turn everything to ice and chill, and Mother Nature was holding nothing back.

The wind howled painfully and threatened to rip the bar's front door clean off its rusty, old hinges. Worriedly, you pass the rickety things a brief look, unsure if the storm would make due on its promise to ruin your night. Rain hammered endlessly on the ceiling and your lights gave a concerning flicker - there was still time yet.

As your hands busied themselves with the cleaning of the day's mess, wiping down tables, and stacking plates and glasses for washing, your mind wandered to the security of your late-evening patrons. You whisper to yourself, and whatever god was listening, a silent prayer for their safe journey home.

The town you had precariously made your home was a terribly small farming community nestled tightly to the base of a mountain, families here were numbered and small and people were old and simple-minded. At the center of this plain society sits your bar, the beating heart of all the people, where conversations were light and bubbled easily with the flow of alcohol and food. Your connection to this hub of activity, being its sole owner, meant that on a near-daily basis you had the privilege of intruding in on these strange people's lives, of which they were more than eager to allow you entry.

Though in the beginning, you tried to keep them all at a safe arms-length, smiling at their jokes only when necessary, they had a way of seeping under your skin. The country life was most infectious and her inhabitants, even more so. They were plain people plagued by simple problems and naively narrow mindsets and it was all so intriguing to you in a sort of enjoyable manner. Their ways of life, views on the world and politics, the way they treated each other, and, of course, their stories. Especially their stories. All this brought out of you a sense of interest, albeit a somewhat back-handed one. The imagination of these people, whether it be for the better or worse, always struck you as so strange and wonderful. The fishermen who strolled into your bar would regale you with the tales of their daily catches and how the ocean had favored them thanks to their abiding of some ancient traditions. The farmers would entertain you with wild gestures of their experiences in the fields, proclaiming with great conviction that they had seen something almost magical in the early rays of the dawn. Such simple things when compared to the true, harsh reality of the machine-driven world beyond your doorstep.

Having known nothing but bitter metal and concrete jungles for the majority of your early life, these seemingly insignificant worries of old entranced you and teased out a seemingly lost sense of childishness. Despite your heavy scrutiny, these people prevail and their stories linger long after your doors shut for the evening.

Your thoughts often drifted back to their many tales, replaying their absurdity like television in your head in times of quiet with gentle bemusement. It was always more preferable to occupy your time with fairytales than to dwell on more intrusive voices. Tonight, however, the usual whimsical wives' tales were instead replaced with ill tidings.

Again the front door pushes inwards as the wind picked up and the glass windows rattled in place. You exhale loudly in a desperate attempt to soothe your racing heart. This bar was old and stable, earning the title of being reliable after many years of resistance to this tortuous climate, and though it whined at the force of nature beckoning down on it, you had to trust that it would not fail you this time. Your night was not going to be ruined by faulty foundations.

You fill your arms with dirty cutlery and take it back to the kitchen to be washed and packed away. While walking you pass the front window, a beautiful piece of stained glass gone yellow in its corners from age, and there you hear the noise again. Your mind immediately flickers back to the prominent story that had not left your consciousness since the first rumblings of the storm.

The caw of a raven.

A large part of you scoffed at yourself and your childish notions for even humoring the idea. It was absolutely, totally, 100% ridiculous. But, you muse to yourself, there was nothing else to listen to and your mind had a tendency to drift away.

You had heard this wild tale about the Winter ravens from a group of old ladies who had visited the bar in your early years of employment. They had occupied a large table in the corner of the room and blew tobacco smoke out their pipes whenever you approached them. Eventually, they eased into your sweet hospitality and offered you some advice, curling their elderly fingers in a motion for you to sit with them. Their ‘advice’, if you could be so generous with the word, was to never feed the ravens who arrived in winter. They foretold of a great danger to those who stupidly talked to these birds and of a stranger who followed them, whose eyes glowed in ominous moonlight and who was nothing like anyone had ever seen before. How vague a description but how fascinating it all was. It captivated you at the time, how entirely peculiar this story was and how it had entrapped the women in its grasp of fear and worry.

It was in their wrinkled, old eyes that you wondered if maybe there was such a person, if perhaps their story was somehow based on true events. But your rational mind was quick to corral your thoughts and you slipped back into unphased independence. It was just a fancy story made up by people who had nothing better to do than to smoke and spread rumors.

Even so, through all the talking down and condescending, the story still held a tight grip over you. And it did not help that over the storm you could hear the very ravens you had been so warned about. The previous winter was bizarrely devoid of these animals, drawing even some backward comments from the more normal of your patrons. It seems that this year, the birds were determined to make amends for their absence.

Over the clattering of glass and metal and the ever bellowing of the storm, you could still hear the birds calling. They scream loudly, their voices seeming to get closer to the front door with every passing utterance as if drawing in on your location. Despite everything, the corners of your mouth twitch upwards in a smile. How exciting it would be if such a wild story was true. Imagine the looks on the ladies' faces if you were to tell them you stole a look at their raven stranger or even, heavens forbid, you spoke with them. The bird outside caws again and, against all your better judgment, you stop your washing of the plates and quickly dash for the door. A soapy hand grasps the handle and before you could reason with yourself to stop being so ridiculous and easily persuaded, pulls it open to reveal a world wracked with night and storm.

Immediately, the biting cold of the rain stings your bare face and the wind pulls mercilessly at your clothes. A hand shoots up to cover your eyes and the other grasps the collar of your coat closed, a feeble attempt to remain steady in the torrent. In the darkness of the night, your eyes squint, darting up into the sky to find any sight of your midnight visitors. They sounded so close, as if sitting right on your front porch waiting for you to open and allow them inside. Unsurprisingly the ravens were nowhere to be seen, supposedly their black bodies giving them the advantage of hiding perfectly in the night. Surprisingly, however, when your eye level lowered to the empty street before you, you caught sight of the outline of a figure in the rain.

In the instant, all your whimsical fantasies and daydreams flee your head and are replaced instead with very real concern. That was a person.

“Hey!” Your voice hardly makes a dent over the orchestra of water and thunder and you swallow hard before trying again. “Hey!” You yelled, your free hand coming down from your eyes and cupping your mouth. This seems to have finally grabbed the attention of the troubled figure and they suddenly turn in your direction. The moment your eyes make contact, you barely manage to stifle a shocked gasp. Two reflective disks stare back at you, catching the light of the storm in an almost hypnotizing way - you were sure that had the moon been out, you could have mistaken them for glowing eyes. The story of the raven stranger starts afresh in your head but you quickly shake free of its grasp. Now was not the time to reminisce on fictitious gossip - right now there was a person who needed your help getting out of the storm.

You beckon the figure with urgent hand movements and a hasty side-step, revealing the warm glow of the bar inside as invitation. Your message was clear - please come inside. Luckily, the stranger was willing to follow your orders, reacting before you could even blink, and swiftly making their way towards you in powerful, strong strides. You hold the door open with your shoulder as they approach and it is only when they enter the doorway do you finally get your first good look at the figure.

Your first thought - they were much larger than they had appeared to be while standing in the darkness. Closing the door behind them you try your best to remain aloof and polite, casting your eyes to the floor so as not to stare. With the door closed the bar fell back into subtle stillness and you could finally come to bearing with your panicking mind. You had just invited a most odd-looking stranger into your bar, one who fits to the T the very weird description of an even weirder story and now, you were alone with such a stranger. A part of you, the one who scorned your carelessness, lashed at the back of your mind - this was a most stupid and potentially dangerous folly. But there was no going back now. It would be rude to turn possible patrons away especially in this sort of storm.

“Well,” You remark a little too breathlessly, shaking your wet head and walking behind the front bar. You reach underneath the long table and produce a towel with which you begin to pat dry your hair. “What horrible weather.” You offer the stranger your best winning smile - this would be easy, you try to convince yourself, you know how to deal with all manner of people and though this particular one, clad in heavy hunters gear and animal furs, was a little startling, they were just like anyone else who strolled in through your doors. You force your anxieties to leave your chest as you exhale and prepare to make light conversation.

“What an odd coincidence this all is.” Your voice carried around the bar without much-needed volume, the atmosphere somewhat lightening as you broke the quiet. The stranger remained motionless, their head turning ever so slightly to scan their surroundings. You push on. “I had no idea anyone was even out on such a night as this. Had I not looked out the door at that exact moment, who knows how long you would have been-”

“This is The Drunken Mule, is it not?” The stranger suddenly spoke, ripping the carpet right out from under your feet with how loud and potent their voice was. After a minute of composure, you nod even though they were not looking in your direction. Something about their tone made you narrow your eyes and set your warnings on high alert.

“Yes.” You answer strongly. “A most unfortunate name.” Out of nowhere the stranger rounds on you and steps forward, drawing you into their mesmerizing appearance with their illuminated lenses and towering physique.

“Vhere is the owner, Andante?” There it was again, unmistakable and oh so violent. Carried over their heavy accent and muffling mask, the anger in their voice was most noticeable. At the rising sense of threat, you drop nearly all of your trained mannerisms and you furrow your brow. Your thoughts momentarily flicker to where your gun was stashed and you shudder at the thought of retrieving it. Never have you had a fight occur before in this bar and tonight, you were not looking to make this encounter be your first.

“What business do you have with him?” You ask with professional coolness that only appeared to irk the stranger for their hand twitched and an annoyed scoff could be heard. You had to keep it cool despite their obvious rising temper and though your heart beat around your ribs like a wild rabbit caught in a cage, you knew better than to back down.

“That is of my own.” They shoot back with half-bitten venom.

“I am afraid not.” You replay placidly, swallowing your bubbling fear in favor of remaining in control, “Andante More died last spring. I am the sole inheritor of both his bar and his inn. So whatever business you have with him, you also have with me.” Thankfully, your voice did not betray how shaky your knees had become and you puff your chest out and glare in an effort to portray false courage.

There was a moment of tense quiet, neither one of you moving or speaking, all that could be heard was the constant drumming of rain on the roof. Then suddenly, movement from the stranger, and although you cannot see their face, you can most definitely feel contemplation slowly corrode their malice. This action, along with your revelation, made the stranger hesitate in their defense then deflate in an almost defeat, although it was hardly discernible under all that heavy clothing and armor.

“I ask again,” You pry further, your arms crossing over your chest and your trained eyes never once leaving their daunting outline. “What is your business here?” A moment of silence passes before the stranger manages to speak, their voice devoid of their previous hostility but not of mild irritation - you could tell that they were trying to rein in their heated emotions even if some residue still clung to their words.

“I had an arrangement vith Andante. I have a cabin out in the mountains, he vas to maintain it vhile I vas away. I vas kept busy last year and vas unable to visit until now. It vas not in my knowledge that Andante had passed.” They were certainly quieter now, their voice smoothing out into a relaxed and almost apologetic tone. News of the man's death must have struck a nerve with them and you could feel the room shrink as their fury did. You take in the stranger's words, rolling them over your tongue before deciding how best to answer.

“This is the first I have heard of such an arrangement. Had I known, I would have happily taken up Andante’s duties.” You admit plainly, allowing some sweetness to ooze back into your words and extend out to the stranger in a metaphorical olive branch. You were quick to forgive the grievances of this troubled stranger - a personal fault you had yet to decide was virtuous or not. You would have to wait and see. “Is there a problem with your cabin?” It was obvious what the answer was by the way the stranger had arrived in all their unfriendliness and from basic deduction, but you still asked the question with genuine concern.

“It has been left unchecked. The roof is torn and the rest is in disarray.” They replied after a moment of debate, unsure if they were allowed to speak to you after their appalling entrance. Suddenly the stranger lowers their head in a short bow, a gloved hand touching the brim of their helmet. “Please forgive me and my intrusion vith such reiði. I vill leave now.” In a blink of an eye, the stranger had moved to the front door and already had their hand around the handle.

“W-What? Wait!” You react off instinct, a hand reaching out to follow the retreating figure. It was so abrupt to have this person switch between such potential anger to this somehow polite and embarrassed individual that it took you at least a few seconds to gather your bearings. “Wait.” You say again, a tired laugh passing through your lips as they stretched back to their gentle smile, all your pent-up repentance bleeding away into comfort and ease. “I am afraid that I cannot let you leave. Not after all,” you make a motion with your hand, “This.” The stranger does not turn to face you completely, instead, they hover by the exit, offering you only their ear to listen to what you have to say. If they really wanted to, this person could just push their way into the night and you could do nothing to stop them - it was only courtesy that kept them in place long enough for you to speak.

“You say your cabin has a hole in its roof. And I imagine it would not be very pleasant to sleep in, especially on a night like this.” You step out from behind the bar and stride over to the door, moving close enough that you could start to make out the more fine details of their unusual outfit - a collar of thick fur, many odd pockets and bags covering their chest and hips, and a head hidden behind a most bizarre gas mask and goggles. Something about them strikes you as extremely familiar but you cannot remember ever meeting someone quite like this person before. “As I have said earlier, I own Andante’s Inn which, unsurprisingly, is empty this evening.” You manage to edge yourself into the stranger's field of view, successfully bringing their attention back to your face. You smile encouragingly under their unwavering gaze.

“Did you walk here?” Your curiosity gets the better of you and makes its presence known through the form of impertinent questions. The stranger does not answer, rather they slowly and deliberately tip their helmet downwards in a quiet yes. “Then I really cannot let you leave.” You boast, your arms once more folding proudly around your chest. “Please, I insist you stay the night here where, at least, you will not get wet.” They made no moves, showed no indication that they had even heard your request.

“If not for your sake, then for my own.” You add on, your tone gentle and beset with sincere worry, “I would not be able to sleep tonight knowing that I willingly allowed someone to brave this horrible storm alone.” This roused something in the stranger and after a few silent minutes, they nodded in reluctant agreement. Your smile doubled in size and you clapped your hands softly.

“Wonderful! Thank you so much for agreeing.” You bow your head slightly before darting back to the kitchen to secure the bar for the evening. After grabbing your coat and turning the lights off, you return to the waiting stranger and motion for them to follow. Over your shoulder you throw them a tease, winking in a terribly playful and scripted manner.

“Do not worry. Our boarding rates are quite manageable and I may even throw in a free breakfast.”

~

As the warm smell of sizzling bacon and fried eggs fills the small kitchen in the early hours of the morning, your mind wanders back to the events of the night before. You can not help but cringe pitifully and wrinkle your nose in disgust.

How idiotic you had behaved, how unnecessarily childish you had been - all with a complete stranger no less! It is the most common knowledge to be wary of strangers, especially ones who appear at night dressed as if ready to go to war. What had compelled you to be so reckless and to willingly invite such a danger into your abode? You had put yourself in jeopardy's way all in the name of some old promise of benevolent kindness. Always help people, Andante drilled into your head. Always. Perhaps your unwise behavior was the result of too many late nights or maybe a far too-convincing patron had indulged you in one too many beers. Whatever the cause was, you cursed it wholly.

Over the crescendoing noise of your own self-degradation, the sound of the kitchen doorway creaking brought your head up and towards the solid figure suddenly occupying its space.

“Ah!” You jump slightly, the spatula you have been using to cook the bacon flying up in a defensive position. It takes you only a heartbeat to relax, laughing airly and banishing your vile self-criticisms to be examined on a later date. “You scared me!” You say to the stranger, waving them over to the small, prepared table with a well-oiled smile. “Please,” You motion to the chair, “I woke up feeling rather generous this morning!” After a moment of consideration, the stranger silently slipped forward and took their place at the opposite end of the breakfast table. You afforded them their stoic silence, deciding rather to lead the conversation yourself than to try drag a word out of them. Clearly, the two of you were both still in equal shock over last night's events.

“I have not had the honor of sharing breakfast with someone in quite a long time so forgive if my culinary skills are,” you turn around and slide two pieces of bacon off the pan and onto toast, “lacking.” You lift your eyes to meet their emotionless mask, an unconscious and unwelcome shiver travelling up your spine as the thought of what lay beneath bites at your curiosity. Something was most certainly familiar about them but what exactly it was still eluded you. “Coffee or tea? Or, better yet, do you even want the bacon?”

“Coffee vill do. No sugar. And bacon is velcomed.” They finally speak and greet your ears with a much admired and amused delight - no longer were their words dipped red with unidentified anger but now, rested and offered food, were decent and alluring. Their accent is on full display to your interest and your keen ears lean in. You feel your painted smile shift more in favor of sincerity as you prepared your guest their meal.

“I must commend your sense of timing.” You push on the conversation much to the gratitude of the stranger who eased at your playful words, as did all your patrons. You were the master of teasing people, talking them up with trained comfort and care until eventually they paid you or offered you something more. You were a most tantalizing host. “It was just last week that I had helped old Carter on the hill rebuild his disheveled cattle shed. See, I have never done such a task before and had provided him with…” You pause, carrying over to the table the stranger's made-up breakfast and drink, “an overabundance of supplies.” The silence from the stranger wordlessly implored you to explain where exactly you were heading with this discussion.

“What I mean to say is, you have a roof with a hole in it. Correct?” They nod, the beads hanging from their odd helmet swaying with the motion. “And I have a heap of unused materials just laying around taking up space.” You plop down in your chair with a small huff, “Do you see where I am going with this?”

“You vish to help me?” They ask without missing a beat, taking up your offer with the grace and judgment of a butcher at a slaughterhouse. You blink in surprised confusion.

“Is that so wrong?”

“I know that service from people is not like air - it is not free. Vhat do you intend to gain from helping me?” Though their apprehension to your rather forward proposal was expected, you still felt a twinge of hurt at their words.

“Nothing at all. What could I ever want from you?” You mockingly place a hand over your wounded heart, an attempt to break the blooming ice in the stranger's concerns. “If anything, you will be doing me a service and getting rid of my supplies. Plus, I might add, you technically have paid me already.” This draws a curious reaction from the raven stranger, their head cocking to one side. You stand quickly and from the counter, grab a piece of crumpled paper.

“For the longest time, ever since I first got my hands on the finance documents of this place, I wondered where the hell these quarterly sums of money were coming from. If perhaps, Gods forbid, Andante was involved in a more shady money-making scheme. But now I know.” You offer the paper to the stranger and they take it with a thick, gloved hand. As they scan over your business's finances, their thumb tracing over a particular underlined article, the very one you had spent all night pondering over. “It's from you, isn’t it? No name, no details. Just money.” You watch them for a reaction, shuffling over to your seat and taking it up once more. “Money you paid Andante to watch over your cabin in the mountains.”

“You are correct.” They answered after a minute, handing back the paper and sealing together the theory you had come up with. You sigh your relief.

“Then it is settled,” You announce, taking your fork and jamming it into your food, “We leave after breakfast.” The stranger waits in strained quiet, an uncomfortable atmosphere ebbing off their totally unreadable appearance. You wonder what could be ticking behind those moonlight lenses of theirs, what kind of person were they really. The same curiosity that compels you to store and maintain the stories of a fantasy people tugged at your chest - this stranger, as unpredictable and bizarre as they are, attracted you more than anything before.

“I eat alone.” They announced suddenly, snapping you violently from your daydream. You shake your head and return to your autopilot hospitality.

“Of course. Down the hall, second door on your left. There is the lounge. It is empty and you are welcome to close the door.” At your orders, they rise from their chair. “Oh and just one more thing.” They pause, training their unblinking mask on your face under which you did not cower. “As crazy as it sounds, I don’t remember asking for your name last night.” The raven stranger tenses at your request, almost as if taken aback by your lack of recognizing them, then lifts a hand to their chest.

“I am Blóth Houndr. You can call me BloodHound.” You tell them your name and they dip their head in acknowledgment. And with that, they collected their food and made their way to the other room.

~

The sun overhead gave little warmth as you stood in the field, dying blades of long grass coming up and raking across your pants like zombie fingers of the earth. Bloodhound had asked to visit Andante’s grave before departing to the mountains and you were more than willing to oblige. Typically graveyards were somber, cold places, filled with the forlorn memories of people no longer walking. But this place was the furthest thing from that plain description.

Sure, it housed many a sad memory but it certainly was not cold and somber. It occupied the top of a hill, overlooking both the town and neighboring mountains. The air up here was clean and always blew with the faintest hints of lemongrass. In a most unusual way, it was peaceful up here, light and alive as if untouched by time, people, and maybe even death. You hesitate to even call it a graveyard.

In the distance, you could see Bloodhound, their head lowered over the late man’s grave in some unimaginable prayer or curse - you were not sure which they had chosen to say. They were a most weird enigma and you found yourself inclining into them with every passing conversation. People who wore masks obviously had something to hide and you often prided yourself on not being too nosy and digging in on their private business. But with this raven stranger, you could not help but want to know more. No matter how much it pained you to have to admit it. You knew everyone else who lived, worked, or passed through this town but not this one. You pinch the bridge of your nose with your thumb and forefinger and whip yourself anew. You have to get out more often, have to meet new people, and be reminded of your own insignificance. These old town’s people were incredibly boring and were starting to make you act desperate.

Bloodhound shuffles and you assume their grievances to be over. With a hand full of freshly plucked wildflowers, the last growing of the season, you make your way over to them. Silently, you slip beside them, eyes downcast and focused on Andante’s headpiece. You kiss the tips of your fingers and touch the cold stone - a true sign of admiration.

“I know it is not proper to offer flowers such as these at a grave but,” You bend down and gently place your makeshift bouquet on the dirt floor, “They are so beautiful. And I know he would not have wanted it any other way.” You remain kneeling for longer than you had expected. Suddenly your chest feels tight and something made of iron drops heavy in your stomach. You had never been accompanied to his grave before and apparently being there with someone was enough to draw out of you, long-buried emotion.

“You must forgive him.” You whisper to the open air, your mind slowing and your tongue working off an unpracticed instinct. Your shoulders sag and your knees begin to ache. “Andante was not all there when he died. In his last few days, he could not even remember his own name.” Yellow grass tickles your hands as they follow the engravings of the man's name in stone. “You cannot blame him for forgetting.”

“I do not. I hold no biturð against Andante.'' Bloodhound answered next to you. That weight in your stomach lightens and you find the courage to stand up straight again. “My journey here vas long and left me unfocused. My reiði vas improper and unjustly pointed towards you. I am sorry.”

“Please do not apologize.” You murmur softly, shaking your head in a slow gesture, all the while with your eyes remaining fixed on the grave before you. “We all have our reasons for performing and yours was perfectly adequate.” You finally manage to tear your gaze away from the ground and towards Bloodhound. You are startled to find that they were already looking at you. “You are human under all that, right?” You joke, your signature playfulness sweeping back into control over your actions. Bloodhound curtly nods and you smile, charm gleaming off your eyes. “Then you don’t need to apologize. It is an occupational hazard.”

~

When Bloodhound had first told you that their cabin was up in the mountains, you had foolishly hoped that it would be a short drive to get to. This whole town was, by all technical reasoning, ‘up in the mountains’ so how much further out could their cabin be? It took you nearly an hour along a treacherous dirt road to finally reach their hidden paradise. By the time you stepped foot out of your dingy old truck, your back was aching and your legs whined to be stretched. The sun was right above your head in a gloriously mild midday. Clearly, your hopes for a short day were quickly going down the drain.

Their cabin was modest, but then again so was everything else here so how much of that was a virtue still hung in the air. You complimented it regardless. The small wooden house blended seamlessly in with the forest scenery, even as the greens turned to yellows and browns, so too did the wonderful dark wood of the house. The trees surrounding the building were tall and ancient which all stretched high above your head, standing tall and unphased by man's will. This was no ordinary house, you said to yourself as you stepped into its shadow, it did not claim itself different from the wild world. Instead, it sat in it all, watching as everything moved untouched around it. You pass a cheeky look at the raven stranger and contemplate if they shared their cabin's sense of independent aura. Bloodhound led you around to the side of their home and even from your viewpoint on the ground you could make out the extent of the damage. After a very minimal inspection, you nod your head, grab the ladder from your truck, and set to work removing the fallen tree branch.

It was a long and tedious job, your hands acquiring many new scraps and splinters and your muscles gaining a sort of stiffness you would regret in the morning. Bloodhound had offered you gloves but you politely declined, you did not wish to ask too much of the stranger and plus, they were doing all the heavy lifting. By the time the sun had started to dip behind the horizon, your work was thankfully nearly complete. With a triumphant and defeated puff, you land ungracefully on the forest floor. Exhaling loudly, you flex your red and sore fingers and watch as your knuckles acquire a purplish tint - it sure was getting colder now. Bloodhound approaches your resting position and sits across from you, a glass of water in their hands. They extend it to you and you gratefully take it.

“Your vork is done here. I vill handle the rest. I thank you again for your rich generosity.” They say, their signature head tilt making an appearance as a sign of unspoken, and unnecessary, gratitude. You scoff and brush them, and their charming words, off with tired bashfulness.

“Please, I had you do most of the hard work.” The water goes down with much praise from your tired body and you relish for a moment in the relaxing quiet of the forest. The air was cold and getting even more so as the sun’s warmth retracted behind trees and clouds. Around you, the world was at a complete silence save for the mere brushing of leaves and the odd call of a bird. You open your eyes at this sound and see before you a raven pretched surprisingly on Bloodhound's extended forearm. It looked at home on their arm and playfully nipped and pulled at the many beads dangling from their unusual helmet. With the back of their forefinger, they gently stoke the black bird's chest feathers, a forgein whisper escaping their masked mouth.

It was a marvelous sight indeed, something you had never seen before and you were certain to never see again, but you found yourself unable to truly relish in the scenery. Your internal confusion must have made its way to your face for Bloodhound cleared their throat.

“Clouds cover your mind. You look troubled. Something the matter?” They asked and you felt embarrassment well-up in your stomach.

“No, of course not!” You dismiss haphazardly, flicking your hand around your face as if trying to shoo away an annoying fly. When it became clear that your flimsy denial did not please the raven stranger, you relented slightly. “Well, it’s just that…” Never had your words betrayed you like this and you inwardly screamed at yourself for being easily moved to speechlessness. “You seem awfully familiar to me. I mean, I know I have never met you but ever since last night I have this nagging feeling that I have seen you somewhere before?” You frown and break eye-line with Bloodhound’s disk-like goggles, shaking your head slightly in befuddlement and apprehension. You were getting too comfortable with this stranger, going so far as to feel safe enough to share such personal and tripe worries with them as if they were more than but a most perfect and dangerous stranger. Bloodhound hums and sends their bird away with a jolting motion of their arm, rocking back onto their hunches and then into a crossed-legged position. They fold their arms firmly across their chest and watch you as you try to fruitless pluck an answer from your frazzled mind.

“Your intuition rewards you. I am the many seasons vinna of the Apex Games. Perhaps you have seen me on the television.” At this you snap your head around to them and stare with wide, unblinking eyes. Suddenly you laugh and run a hand through your damp hair.

“Oh my god, of course! That makes so much sense!” You practically shout, straightening your back and coming to life in a most comedic fashion. “Then that means,” You turn to Bloodhound again this time with awkwardness flickering in your eyes, “You’re like a celebrity.”

Bloodhound shakes their head in disagreement, “You’re flattery is misguided. I am merely a hunter for the Gods.”

“Still that's… wow.” You breathe, defeated by your own stupidity and reaction. This was the furthest thing from the cool persona you had worked so hard to create and maintain - you were speaking freely and from your own ass. Was it such a shock to your system to meet this wild and unfamiliar person that you could no longer remain in your aloof loft? You were crashing down to earth and embarrassment clawed at your corpse to claim it. You send out a silent prayer that maybe Bloodhound would not notice or take offense to your spontaneous giddiness.

“I must admit.” Bloodhound’s voice wafted to your ears as if through a dream. You turn to look at them, offering what little smile you could muster. “I have never had a reaction so adverse like yours before. Most people just cower.” Their teasing comment turns your smile from artificiale to one more earnest. “I did not think the people here vatched such programs.”

“They don’t.” You answer in between breaths of laughter, catching their amused tone and running with it - playing along with them much to the ease of your heart.

“I had my suspicions that you vere not of this place and now it is clear I am correct.” They admit.

“Oh really? What gave it away? Was I too rowdy? Or was my tongue too harsh, as I have been told many times?” Your face beams with reigniting vigor, the last of your energy seeming to only grow as Bloodhound spoke more with you. They shook their head.

“Nei. Your spirit is strong and velcoming even in the face of danger. And your tongue is quick. The people of this planet, however. They are more…” They hesitate, fingers drumming on their bicep as they rake their brain for the correct words to use.

“Old-fashioned?” You offer, leaning over in their direction. They shake their head again, this time rather absent-mindedly. “Suspicious? Sheltered? Inclined to gossip?”

“You speak such harsh words yet I detect no hostility in them.” Bloodhound gazes at you from behind their mask, eyes flickering over your form in search of any hint of malice. Your airy laugh only relaxes your shoulders and brings to life your weathered face. They notice this and observe with meek delight the way your face stretches with a genuine smile. It was wonderful to see, they had to admit.

“I don’t mean any. The people here are wonderful and kind. They gave me a home when no one else did.” Your heart thumps painfully in your chest and you quickly avert your eyes back to the grassy, forest floor. It was so easy to overshare with Bloodhound, whom you had to hotly remind yourself, was a complete stranger to you. You steady your mounting nerves by plucking yellow grass in your hand and crushing the blades in your fingers. “They do have their flaws however and often, that involves making up wild stories.”

Perhaps Bloodhound had sensed your apprehension for instead of questioning your previous comment or casting you away after your needless exposure, they simply continued on with the conversation. You appreciated that.

“I have had many stories made about myself.” They say, almost proud in their odd accomplishment. “Some say that I am half bat. Others that I am fabulously vealthy. None, I assure you, are true.”

“Are you sure?” You snicker, gathering the courage to once more look them in their moonlight lenses. “That bat one sound awfully convincing.” After your comment, the world falls back into blissfully silence. The air between you two feels somewhat lighter and you breathe deeper, taking into your lungs the smell of oak, of cold earth, and of the open wilderness all around. While you know you will kick yourself later for all that you have allowed yourself to get away with, in this moment you are relaxed and content - happy to simply sit and exist.

All too soon the wind blows, dragging its boney talons along your exposed skin and reminding you of the time. You shiver and hurriedly jump to your feet, eyes glancing to the setting sun. “I should get going now.” You turn towards Bloodhound and find that they too are standing, looking up at the sky. They lower their head to you and you hand back their glass. “I must go before it gets too dark. I hope you enjoy your time here now that everything has been set right.” You take a small step backwards, “Goodbye.”

“The Allfather goes with you.” Bloodhound responds, their body bending as they bowed stiffly. You offer them a smile once more before turning and walking your way back to your truck. Suddenly you stop and spin on your heels.

“You are more than welcome to come round to the bar again! Any time! I might even throw in another free breakfast!” Though you could not see it, Bloodhound chuckled at your offer. They did not answer, however, because before they could you had already jumped into your truck and sped off down the dirt road and into town, leaving behind nothing but dust.

[arigatouiris]

perhaps... // sanemi x reader

Author’s Note: Another vvvvv self-indulgent one shot for my soft babie Sanemi! Idk I just can’t see him as anything but a softie after that episode with Nezuko~ Obviously, this has Kimetsu manga spoilers, so please be warned! Sanemi deserves the world, honestly. I love him SO MUCH.

Word count: 5662 words

Pairing: Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader

Warnings: angst, pining, somewhat of a crackhead reader?, fluff, spoilers for the manga, mentions of blood and sex

A lot of people were grateful to the Hashira for finally defeating Muzan. However, the fact of the matter remained—after the war was done, they had no place to go if they already didn’t have a home. Most demon slayers sought shelter within the butterfly estate and the wisteria estates till they could get back on their feet, but Sanemi wasn’t the sort to do that at all.

It wasn’t pride or ego, he simply wanted to get away from it all. To learn of troubles that weren’t demons, to go see sights he hadn’t before—live so that his brother and the family he had lost could see life through his eyes.

The sudden optimism flushed into his system upon seeing Nezuko, after all. The child reminded him nothing of Genya, yet there were instances that he’d wanted to cherish. Perhaps, every little sibling had that in common, the aura that makes you want to protect them. 

It’s not that he suddenly wanted to explore the world, it’s just that Sanemi wanted to feel excluded in inclusivity. He wanted to live a life that resembled a normalcy he had only dared to dream about in the distant future; but now was the distant future, and the suddenness of it all threw him off guard. He wanted to go a place and feel disliked because he was a man who didn’t look like he could be trusted; he wanted to go to a place and meet kids who would give him weird nicknames and maybe one day find out that he’s actually not the monster that they thought he was.

No part of Sanemi dreamed he would one day find love, but perhaps, the universe wished that for him by sending him you.

Upon moving to a tiny village near what used to be his old home, he met you—a farmer who worked on a land that did not belong to you, offering people smiles and sometimes, cashew fruits to the kids (when your landlord wasn’t looking). People generally liked you, you seemed the sort of person one couldn’t dislike because you radiated warmth with every action. Sanemi tried to stay away from you, but his arrival to the village brought attention—which was unavoidable considering people knew he was a Hashira. How they knew, he would not know, he considered himself to be a rather secretive person; but the mere mention that he once slayed demons alerted you.

You approached him the second day he settled down and handed him a basket full of produce—some rice, persimmons, cashew fruits (of course, one needn’t know you to know you liked these), adzuki beans, and pickled plums. 

     “I don’t need it—”

     “Oh, come on!” You pushed it forward onto his hand, causing him to pop a vein in annoyance, “Don’t be closed off, Hashira-san! You saved our lives, after all!”

He didn’t like to think of it that way, but that was what he had done. Not directly, but he had assisted to bring down one of the biggest menaces the world had seen. It wasn’t that he was incredibly proud of the fact; this accomplishment had taken from him more than it had given, and if Sanemi was ever given a choice, if he was ever given a choice...

He didn’t thank you, though you didn’t leave too easily. You started talking to him about some gibberish that he obviously wasn’t paying attention to, after which he simply headed back inside his hut, sitting against the wall, trying to catch a bit of sleep. He liked that he could sleep without the worry or fear hanging over his mind—he was free at last to be lazy, and what a privilege this seemed before.

     “I’ll bring you more things later!”

Sanemi scoffed, “Listen, I don’t need you to bother. Buzz off, and leave me alone.”

     “Ooh, you’re the strong and rude type, aren’t you?” You folded your arms in front of your chest, shooting him an idiotic smile, “I’m willing to bet your heart’s soft.”

It didn’t take him long to throw a stone to your side in a way to say ‘fuck off’. You giggled before waving at him and leaving, but something told him you would only return again; what kind of idiot you were, he did not know, but no part of him was grateful for your smiles knocking on his door when all he clearly needed was some peace and quiet.

Sanemi had money; the demon slaying profession had given him enough of money that he carried around. People would often consider it stupid to carry a large amount of money around, but it was Sanemi, and most people did not bother him—and no thief dared attempt stealing from him. He might not have a reason to rage at anyone, but Sanemi’s life was pent-up rage, nestled in his heart in the form of yearning and sorrow that he could not, for the life of him, unravel.

A few days later, Sanemi ran out of the rice you had given him, which meant he had to go to the village to buy things. It wasn’t that the village was overtly welcoming to him, but they left him alone and that was perhaps what he wanted. In his spare time, he trained, he didn’t know for what, and he would hunt. Sanemi learned how to cook better than he ever had before, and thought of his brother, thought of Masachika, and sometimes, if he dared, he thought of his mother.

     “Shinazugawa-san!”

He clicked his tongue when he noticed your head pop into the entrance of his house, a wicked smile plastered on your face. 

     “What is it now, woman?”

It wasn’t that he disliked you. He didn’t want anything to disrupt what was left of his life; he wanted to stay here till he got bored, and leave when the time was right. Getting to know you would only complicate things. But, why was it that you were hellbent on constantly checking up on him and speaking to him? Despite the fact that he looked so scary and intimidating all the time, despite the fact that he was rude to you almost always, you always trod on.

     “Would you like some ohagi?”

His eyes twitch at your words, cursing at himself for revealing to you that he liked the sweet the other day. It wasn’t that he explicitly told you, but it was simply that he was eating it the day before and you saw him—trodding on and making a big deal out of him liking a sweet that you apparently knew how to make really well.

     “Stop bothering me.”

     “Eh? You don’t look busy to me.”

     “But I am, woman. Leave me alone!” He barked, only to have you giggle.

     “I’ll leave it here. Have them, okay? You saved our lives, after all.”

There you go again, bringing it up like it was something to be proud of. Sanemi clicked his tongue before lying down, showing you his back. He was done with dealing with you for the day, and somehow, you understood that what you had said did not resonate well with him right then. You blinked a couple of times before pressing your lips together and leaving him to himself.

It wasn’t that you intentionally wanted to bother him. You were clearly aware that he did not grasp the affections of your fellow villagers, but you did not see a bad man in Shinazugawa Sanemi. You did not have any family to compare him to, but there was something strikingly similar to Sanemi and a particular demon slayer that had saved your life a few years ago. The boy was definitely younger than you, but scars adorned his face as well, and he did not use swords like most demon slayers that you had heard of.

Looking up to the sky, you walked to your special spot—a spot that you had reserved for yourself and your ‘little friends’. You hoped to tell Shinazugawa about this someday, because some part of you believed he would understand it better than the villagers did.

Maybe I should invite him? You thought, pressing your lips together into a line. What’s the harm? 

You made a U-turn and headed to Sanemi’s, to find him asleep. Your eyes wandered on his scarred face, his scarred chest, his well-toned muscles. You noticed that his right hand was missing its index and middle fingers, and you believed it was something the profession he had chosen had taken from him. Maybe, I should stop reminding him he saved our lives, you thought, before absentmindedly reaching forward to touch the man’s face.

You almost yelled when he suddenly caught your arm mid-air, and his eyes shot open at your blushing form. 

     “What the hell are you trying to do?”

You gulped, “T-There was something I wanted to show you.”

     “Not interested, woman. Leave me alone—”

     “Please, no one in the village understands. I think,” You frowned a bit, which was unusual because this was perhaps the first time he had seen you frown. “I think you’ll understand.”

Maybe, it was the way you said it. Sanemi noticed how hesitant you looked, but when he thought of it, you were perhaps the only one who was even bringing up his demon slaying in conversation. He sighed before sitting up, ignoring your sudden happy expression and waving his hand at you, telling you by action to lead the way.

You lead him into the forest behind the farm, and in a small clearing, Sanemi saw a bunch of rocks embedded on the ground, facing the sky. Upon one glance, he could tell that they were makeshift graves, but he wondered what the hell you were trying to show him. 

Why was he the only one who would understand?

     “What the—”

     “I met this boy a few years ago,” You said, turning to him, kneeling down by the graves. “He had scars on his face just like you.”

There were many boys with facial scars. But, for some reason, Sanemi kept listening, his heart pounding at your every word.

     “He told me about this kind brother he had. The one he wanted to meet and rekindle his relationship with. He told me that his kind brother made him want to get very strong, and from the looks of it, he really was strong. He saved my life, after all.”

He didn’t want to believe it, at first. He didn’t want to believe that you had somehow met Genya. And that Genya had saved your life. He did not want to believe that it was Genya you were talking about, but why did this seem so familiar?

     “These graves are of kids with no family. Like me. I didn’t know these children, but my heart breaks when I think of them being left behind like that. This demon slayer boy helped me put up these graves. He told me he lost his family to a demon too,”

Sanemi’s breath was stuck in his throat as he watched you carefully.

     “His mother was turned. And his kind brother saved his life by killing her. It must have been a nightmare.” 

You weren’t saying that out of pity, Sanemi saw the dead look in your eyes—the lack of understand was present, but there was no pity, no sympathy, just... plainness. Somehow, he appreciated that.

     “I don’t know what losing a family feels like because I’ve never had one,” You said, looking at the graves now. “But, that boy carried so much pain in his heart and so much love for his brother that it made me want to know.”

His lips quivered but he swallowed any emotion that threatened to spill out. You turn to spot him staring at you, expressionless, hardened, and you smiled. 

     “I’m sorry I keep troubling you,” You put your hands behind your back, “You just remind me of that boy, that’s all. He had kind eyes, like you.”

*

It was a few days after that did Sanemi notice that you were being treated harshly by your fellow villagers. He was getting ready to move, but he didn’t know what to tell you. After that night near the graves, he had grown to tolerate your company, but your visits were fewer than before, you gave him a lot less produce whenever you dropped by (not that he wanted you to give him any, at all).

That night, he told you he was leaving. What he expected was a muffled reaction asking him to stay or beg him not to leave.

But your eyes were wide, a growing smile formed on your lips and you looked at him and only him, the gaze almost weakened his knees.

     “I’ll come with you.”

It was a simple sentence but for some reason, Sanemi thought this one sentence could destroy every bit of strength that was left in his bones. He had assisted in ending the reign of demons, but there you were, giving him a determined expression, your hair disheveled, your kimono old from having been washed too many times, and your hands behind your back.

Your determination could end him.

And for some reason, Sanemi wouldn’t mind letting that happen.

     “You’re a fucking idiot.” He snapped, eyes glaring at her face. 

     “Shinazugawa-san,” You said, sweetly, “There’s no need for you to be harsh anymore,”

His eyes widened.

     “There are no demons left,” You were twirling on the ground you were standing on, “There’s nothing that should cause you to hide your softness.”

     “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

You approached him, looking directly into his eyes, capturing his breath in a way he never thought possible. Sanemi’s eyes widened but you remained put.

     “During times like this, Shinazugawa-san,” You smiled softly, “Being soft is a much harder task.”

In an instant, you took his right hand in yours, which he surprisingly doesn’t push away. His heart was beating rapidly and there wasn’t much he could do. Did he want you with him? Did he like your company? What would it be? What could he do?

The way you were looking at him... Damn it, there was no use pushing you away.

He took you to the wisteria estate, which was the closest to the village; Sanemi wanted some relief before heading to a place he had never been to. A hot bath, some good food, and a good night’s sleep on a futon—things he had missed. However, these were things you never had access to, and seeing you try them for the first time warmed his heart.

He found himself talking to you, sitting by the engawa, now that he had learned Genya saved your life. A life that his brother had saved, it was something special whether he would like to admit it or not. He told you about Genya and your eyes widen instantly, recognizing the story, the name attached to the boy, and tears fill your eyes when you learned of what happened.

You couldn’t say anything, you almost couldn’t breathe—and it was Sanemi’s first time seeing you cry. 

For some reason, the sight warmed his heart because there was another person feeling sorrow over the loss of his brother. Genya really was kind, Genya was perhaps everything that Sanemi one day wished he was. And here you were, crying for the boy because he was all those things. 

Without a second thought, Sanemi’s hand rushed to the side of your cheek, a soft smile sat on his lips as he watched you—the woman whose life his brother had saved—cry because Genya had died. You automatically leaned into his touch, almost as if this wasn’t new, you liked the warmth his hand presented against your cheek and it felt oddly like home. 

Huh? You thought, opening your eyes to see Sanemi smile at you. What is home, anyway?

     “Shinazugawa-san,” You sniffed, “You really are so kind.”

*

Sanemi had just given up trying to make you go away. In fact, he had come to accept it, in fact, he was slowly getting used to her being around him. A few days later, you and Sanemi set off in another little journey; where you began to wonder what it was that Sanemi was looking for, and why it was that you followed him so.

Perhaps, you wanted to feel that feeling of home again.

You two were walking across rice fields, the path was rocky yet it was as straight as it could be—and you were attempting to walk along a straight line, just for the heck of it. Sanemi grunted at what you were trying to do, but kept his nose out of it. If you fell down, it would be on you; however, when you did trip, you felt a strong grip grab you by your elbow, preventing your fall. Your eyes were wide at the sudden contact, but you felt grateful nonetheless. 

     “Careful, idiot.” 

You smiled at him, before snaking your arm around his, ignoring the growing redness against Sanemi’s cheeks. You cushioned yourself against him and hummed, suddenly liking the feeling of his warm yet toned stature against your soft and fragile form.

     “Sanemi-san,” He had no idea when you started calling him by his first name, but he didn’t mind, “I’ll follow you anywhere if you help me out like that!”

He pushed you away roughly before grunting at you, angered by the sound of your giggling—but ignoring the butterflies swarming in his chest at how happy you looked. Suddenly, all Sanemi could feel was a gnawing sense of fear cascade in his heart, his eyes wide at your laughing face, before he looked away, masking his emotions behind a veil of annoyance.

The fear was familiar; it was the very same feeling he had felt just before losing someone. This fear was the reason he kept pushing Genya away, before it was too late. It was this fear that had turned him into someone he could not even recognize, he was not the Sanemi he was born as. It was this fear that had turned good old kind ‘Nemi into Hashira Shinazugawa Sanemi, brutal, arrogant, brash and ruthless.

     “What’s wrong?”

Yet, there you were; figuring him out as if he was meant to be read so easily. As if all the walls he put up were no good. You were like a rabbit that bounced into areas it was not supposed to, yet Sanemi’s wolf-like stature did little to intimidate you. 

     “None of your business.”

You pressed your lips together before pouting once, pulling away and staring at his face. 

     “Come on, tell me!”

He gave you a good, long look before understanding something for himself. The woman his brother had saved, it was fate that had brought you to him, and he blamed fate for making you an idiot that he was falling in love with.

It was not hard for Sanemi to accept his feelings; which was what made it so easy for him to accept death, accept the death of his family, accept the death of his comrades. Sanemi might come across as someone who would do anything to run away from his emotions, but he was not the sort. It was because his emotions were so well sought after, because he knew the damage his emotions could cause him, did he put up walls so high.

Yet, how in the world were you getting through?

The two of you reached a tiny village clearing, where its people were more than happy to welcome the both of you. The elders mistook you for a couple, causing you to turn beet red, and earning no response from Sanemi whatsoever. Your eyes widened at his seemingly nonchalant demeanor, but you half expected him to deny that you were anything to him at all.

A small smile sat at your lips before trying very hard to calm your heart.

Sanemi and you were given a regular sized hut, three or four villagers pouring in to give you gifts in the form of provisions and leather. You were thrilled, thinking that this was perhaps the home the two of you needed, however, something didn’t sit right in Sanemi’s mind. Whenever a demon was nearby, he’d get the sense of dread spreading all over the air around him; it would be hard to breathe.

Sanemi slowly felt a tad bit suffocated at the ‘kindness’ the villagers were showing the both of you. 

Once inside your hut, Sanemi notices you were watching him as he unpacked—confusing him and shutting him up. He knew that if you had something to say, then you’d say it, but if you were just going to watch him, then he’d let you.

     “You didn’t correct them when they called me your wife.”

It was a statement; Sanemi could hear the happiness behind it, and didn’t understand why you were so peppy about the entire ordeal. Something seemed off, weren’t you suspicious? Why were you so ready to accept kindness, even from strangers?

Ah, Sanemi chuckled, it’s because you were like that.

     “What’s the use explaining anything to them anyway?”

     “Who am I to you then, Sanemi-san?”

Sanemi looked at you now with the wildness of a wolf, his gaze penetrating your very soul. Yet, you didn’t look away; you may have been the most timid creature in the world, but with Sanemi you were fierce, you were everything that he wasn’t, in a world that knew only how to kill. He felt the strange feeling bubble in his chest, before forcing himself to look anywhere else. But, your gaze was fixed on him and even if his eyes were to roam every single inch of his room away from you, he was still being burned by your intensity.

     “Do you like boar?”

You gasped, clapping your hands together, “I love boar! Are you going to hunt for me, Sanemi-san?”

He sighed, scratching the back of his head, “Yeah, sure. Beats sitting here being stared at.”

You pouted at his words, “Your skills at turning the conversation away are top-notch!”

All you could hear was his chuckle.

*

The fear continued to bubble in Sanemi’s heart.

He understood well enough more than anyone else that it wasn’t the fear of the demons that was the most terrifying. Nothing was more frightening than a fear you cannot name, and right then, Sanemi felt scared and couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

Was it because of you? Was it because he could lose you in an instant? And he would feel the same—empty, regret and sorrow that he felt when his brother died in his arms? He couldn’t compare the same pain with the hypothetical one, but the mere thought of losing you left him breathless. It was not blind anxiety, here it was possibility; because Sanemi had always lost everything.

In his entire life, keeping something for himself was a dream he knew he couldn’t achieve. This was perhaps why he kept roaming from one village to another; until he met you. You tagged along, making things all the more complicated. Yet, he liked the sound of your voice in the morning, he enjoyed your company and the sound of your laughter rang in his mind even when you were not conscious. And perhaps, the fact that he was in love with you did losing you become more of a possibility, and perhaps, this was what the fear was addressing. That despite not wanting to get close to anyone, you’d managed to crawl into what was left of his sanity, and make yourself feel at home.

Despite everything he had done to ensure he doesn’t lose anyone again, he was back in the most vulnerable state of affairs. This left him weak, ready to be pounced at—but, like you said, there were no more demons. 

But, the mistake people often make is associate an evil with an evident form of it. Most often, evil lurks in corners that one would not notice.

Sanemi’s growing dread only made sense once he returned to you. He believed you’d either be making rice or sleeping because you slept more than you spoke sometimes. He liked the sight of your light snores, but what he came home to knocked the wind out of him.

There you lay, wincing, crying, four mean huddled around you—a knife was lodged in your left thigh, and it was clear from the smell of it that you had lost a lot of blood. This is why the village was welcoming, his mind told him. The second he was away, they pounced on you—because you were the weaker link. 

     “Nemi... Nemi....” You cried, turning to his form at the entrance, clutching your leg because your life did depend on it.

All his faces were designed to express rage or loathing. Now that something had happened which really deserved a face, he had none to celebrate it with. He quietly unsheathed his sword before killing everyone inside the hut, grabbing the one bag of money that they had come for, and picking you up like you were made of feathers, Sanemi rushed away from the village. He didn’t know where to go, but he was certain of the outcome.

As he was running, his eyes leaking tears either from the harshness of the wind or... or because his insides were turbulent, he could not hear your soft whimpers. Only when your shaking hand touched his chin did he pause, look at you—your lower lip trembling, your face deathly pale, your forehead sweaty, and your eyes were struggling to see.

     “I won’t...” What were you trying to say? “I won’t die... Nemi... I won’t...”

His eyes widened at your words. That’s it. That was what he was most afraid of. And here you were, addressing it as you were dying.

No.

Taking a deep breath, Sanemi held on to you tighter before rushing to the butterfly estate. It would take him almost an hour to get there, especially if he used his ability, but he was willing to take that chance. The knife was still in your leg, he was unsure if you would hold out till then, but he wanted to trust you.

     “I promise... I won’t die, Nemi...” You breathed, your hand clutching the side of his collar. 

On reaching the estate, Sanemi quickly walked inside, ignoring the fact that his entire torso was drenched with your blood, you were barely conscious, your hands limp at your side. Aoi, the blue haired girl who was in charge of healing people in there, immediately rushed to his side, asking the others to take you inside.

Sanemi wanted to follow, but the girl stopped him. It was then he took a long hard look at himself, your blood having turned him red entirely. He felt sobs knock at the base of his throat but he wasn’t going to cry. You weren’t dying, you had made a promise, you were not going to die.

But, what if you did?

What if he lost you too?

Sanemi was so sure he would just follow you. There was nothing for him to live for. There was nothing left if not for you.

He never realized he was praying; he never realized that he could. He sat by the engawa after changing into regular extra clothes, and waited for Aoi to come say anything regarding your status. 

I won’t die, Nemi.

You had called him Nemi. The last time someone had called him that, they died. He couldn’t help but correlate.

     “Shinazugawa-san,” Aoi’s voice sounded softly from the side, “You can go see her. She’s asking for you.”

That was fast. Sanemi’s eyes widened.

     “She’s so strong, I... I don’t understand how she can be awake after losing all that blood. We’ve closed the wound on her thigh, she just needs bedrest now. She’ll be fine in a few days. We’re lucky that the knife didn’t hit the bone.”

Were we lucky? Or were you?

Why was it that Sanemi felt the luckiest?

He rushed to where you were, noticing you lying down, eyes were fixed at the door. Were you waiting for him? Idiot, he thought before going to you, leaning over you by the bed. There was no one else in the room apart from the both of you, and all Sanemi could think of was how you had kept your promise.

Maybe...

His eyes were wet with tears now.

Maybe you could stay, after all...

Aoi closed the door behind her, wanting to give the two some space. What she didn’t tell Sanemi was that you refused to take any anaesthesia just so that you could stay awake for him.

You were crazy. And maybe he was too. She could never say.

     “I told you I won’t die.”

Sanemi’s hand strokes your cheek before leaning down and kissing you, squarely. You kissed back as if you expected it, your soft hand covering the side of his face. You couldn’t tell if he had done this with other women, but the kiss felt so strong—it reflected who Sanemi was, as a person. It was the kind of kiss that would inspire stars to climb into the sky and light up the world.

Upon pulling back, Sanemi’s gaze weakened you, but made your heart stronger.

     “I love you, Nemi. My Nemi. My kind Nemi.”

He wanted to break something, but this was his reaction to most things soft. However, instead of breaking something, Sanemi instead chose to kiss you again. You were darkness and he was darkness and there was never anything like this before; only darkness and his lips upon yours. You didn’t even want to speak, his mouth was over yours again. Suddenly, you felt a wild thrill, a thrill you’ve never known. Perhaps it was joy, fear, madness, excitement, surrender to arms that were too strong, lips too bruising, fate that moved too fast. You could sense his care when he practically refused to weigh on you, your leg untouched, your injury ignored yet strictly taken care of. When Sanemi made love to you, it was his way of saying he loved you.

He assumed you’d fall asleep after something that intense. He lay next to you, bare chested, the blanket covering only your tiny frame; you were laying on his left hand, with him cradling you from the right. You nuzzled into him more, liking the warmth, and also because you were practically naked under the sheets. He knew you were inches away from falling asleep, which was perhaps what motivated him to speak.

     “I love you,” His voice was a whisper, “But I... I can’t lose you.”

A second later, he heard you groan.

     “Don’t be stupid.”

Sanemi lay still, vision blurring, and in that moment, he heard his heart break. It was a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a flower's stem.

Whoever said that heartbreak was only supposed to be sad? Sanemi’s heart broke at how easily you accepted him, and it was every reason worth breaking. 

*

The next time Sanemi had a nightmare of losing you, he felt a mild slap on his cheek, causing his eyes to open, his lips separate in a gasp. Staring into tiny purple eyes, glaring at him, Sanemi realized he had angered his four-year old girl.

     “You were groaning again, ‘tou-chan!”

     “Sorry, chibi-chan.”

     “Don’t call me chibi-chan!”

His daughter was sitting on his chest as he slept; he turned and noticed it was already mid-day, and he wondered why you hadn’t woken him up yet. Getting up, Sanemi held the back of his chid’s form so as to not have her fall off, and he sat up straight.

     “Where’s your mother?”

     “Scolding nii-chan.”

Sanemi groaned, “What did he do now?”

Your little girl shrugged, so as to say she doesn’t know, which only made the father all the more curious. Sanemi put the girl down before walking toward the entrance of the house that you two shared. He noticed how you were yelling at your eldest boy, who looked glum with a large frown on his face. That’s why you didn’t wake me, he thought, scratching the back of his head.

     “How many times should I tell you that picking on people isn’t how you tell them you like them?”

Your son scoffed, “Whatever.”

     “Don’t be stupid!”

Sanemi felt his daughter tug at his left hand, which caused him to turn to her with a questioning gaze.

     “Pick me up, ‘tou-chan!”

He instantly picked her up, with her weighing as much as a flower did. Immediately, the child’s fingers traced the outline of his scars, bringing a soft smile to his face when he saw the same smile being reflected back in his daughter’s features. She leaned in and kissed his scar, forcing him to still his movements.

     “Aren’t my scars scary?”

The girl shook her head as if it was the most preposterous thing she had ever heard. Perhaps, it was. He’d never know.

     “They’re so awesome!”

Sanemi raised his eyebrows. A moment later, your son who was being scolded came over to stand beside his father.

     “Nii-chan, aren’t 'tou-chan’s scars awesome?”

As if the boy was suddenly taken out of his stupor, his dark eyes widened, and a large grin plastered on his face.

     “Yeah! ‘kaa-chan told us the story behind them!”

Sanemi narrowed his eyes.

     “Did she now... What was the story?”

     “You saved the world!”

Sanemi’s eyes widened when he spotted you, leaning against the entrance of the door, a wicked grin on your face. Sanemi scoffed before looking away from you, you and your idiotic tease of a personality. A hand rested on his son’s head and he cradled his daughter by his left waist. 

But for a second, he swore he heard a voice whisper behind him,

‘My Nemi is the kindest’

[agent-cupcake]

Hey AC! I love your blog and was wondering if I could get your opinion on something. I've seen some people complaining that Ingrid and Hilda are treated by the fandom, with Ingrid stans saying that Hilda is also racist towards Almyrans (which, granted, she is) but doesn't get nearly as much hate about it as Ingrid does. But personally I feel like their attitudes and the way they react towards Dedue/Cyril are wildly different and Hilda generally seems less hateful/irrational about it. Thoughts?

This is... kind of a touchy topic... I like it though! It’s worth discussing, especially since I feel like it’s broke criticism to simply deflect blame onto a character in order to prop up another.  Full and obvious disclosure: I very much dislike Ingrid and very much love Hilda. That said, I don’t think it’s fair to compare them for the sake of which is worse. I fall into the trap of character criticism through comparison far too often and it's not really valid unless you can fully explore each character in their own right beforehand. Which is why, while writing this, I came to the conclusion that the ways these two characters are interpreted and the reason people view their racist tendencies differently has far more to do with the characters themselves than their actual beliefs.

From first impressions to subsequent playthroughs, this is pretty much how I feel about Ingrid: she brings up her hatred of the Duscur people and Dedue unprompted and uncontested several times at the very beginning of the game, putting it front and center to her character. This is important, it sets a foundational component for how I could come to view her. According to her introduction, she is honorable and respectful, a model lady knight trope. But, as mentioned, she's really racist. Literally standing around thinking about how awful it is that Dimitri would trust a man of Duscur because they are all bad people. Yikes. And nobody calls her on it. Again, this is very important for perception. People judge Sylvain for his bad behavior in a much more harsh way than they do Ingrid for her vitriolic loathing for another classmate who we have seen as nothing but respectful. It's weird. And then, despite the fact that her close friend Sylvain was able to reason out that it’s not possible for the Duscur people to be at fault for the Tragedy, despite the fact that the prince of the country she supposedly hopes to serve with unwavering respect and loyalty has made it clear that he does not believe that Dedue or Duscar are responsible for the Tragedy, and despite the fact that Dimitri, her close friend and the one most affected by the Tragedy (seriously, she lost a guy she might have married and he lost his best friend, mother, and watched his father be killed in front of his eyes) continuously insists that neither Dedue nor Duscur are at fault, she loudly and openly believes that the ensuing massacre of Duscur was deserved and Dedue is inherently culpable simply because of his race. Her motivations for this hatred feel even more cheap considering her dogged hero worship for Glenn was born out of the fact that she was promised to him, making the fact that she’d use his death as reason enough for the destruction of countless innocent lives even more unsympathetic in my eyes. I mean, seriously, she was around 13 and he was older than her, how close could they have truly been? Dimitri says they were in love, but she was a child. Abandoning my modern sensibilities about age of consent or whatever, kids at that age don't have the emotional or mental capability. Maybe this is just nitpicking, but I have a very hard time caring about that relationship. But, if her actual justification is because of what happened to Faerghus as a result of the Tragedy and feels duty-bound as a knight to find justice through the systematic destruction of the Duscur people, then it just circles back to confusion considering the future leader of said country doesn't hold Duscur or Dedue responsible. The importance of perception comes in because despite these paper thin excuses and her seemingly willfully ignorant hatred, she is never challenged on her racist beliefs. The reason she seems to change her mind about Dedue and consider that maybe excusing a genocide is wrong stems from guilt that Dedue continuously comes to her aid in battle at the potential cost of his own life. I can understand, to a certain extent, why she might feel the way she does. But, again, I have such a hard time with any justification when nobody that she's close to is even nearly as hateful as her, there is plenty of evidence (evidence that the people close to her have found!) to provide a very reasonable counterclaim to Duscur's guilt, and that none of that even matters when it would require her to openly contradict the prince of her country to make the claim that Dedue was in any way complicit in the Tragedy. Which would be fine if she wasn't established as the model Lady Knight archetype, which also brings us into Ingrid's moral high horse. Admittedly, I hate the Lady Knight trope. I have a significant bias against these types of characters. However, I really do think that this moral crusade is where she lost me completely. Without even a shred of empathy or self awareness, she lectures Sylvain about his shitty behavior even though their circumstances are at least somewhat similar and he has his reasons (bad ones, maybe, but ones worth understanding if she actually cares about him), she lectures Felix about not being interested in knightly endeavors (an aspect of his character that is born of the trauma she has appropriated), and she lectures Claude about behavior that is befitting of a man in his position. Not because she cares about the girls Sylvain is hurting, not because she thinks there are any grave stakes from Felix choosing to do his own thing, and not because she knows that Claude's behavior affects his ability to lead, but because she doesn't like these behaviors and thinks they should be fixed. Yet, at the same time, she believes Dedue deserved to lose his family, country, and culture based on his birth and nobody ever does anything to morally correct her, it is something she eventually is forced to acknowledge on her own. It's frustrating, infuriating even, that the game lets her get away with being so grossly hypocritical. And, all the while, she is being painted as sympathetic. Again, I have a hard time feeling sympathy for her about Glenn, and I certainty don't feel sympathetic towards her issues about marriage because there's never any actual tension there. Of course she won't be forced to marry, she's a Lady Knight. Beyond being unsympathetic, I also find her massively unlikable. Awful design, poor voice direction, food-loving-as-a-personality-trait, the fact that she's written as one of those stock "feminist" characters who hate makeup and girly things until it benefits them, and constantly butting in on other characters to give her opinion without taking any criticism herself are all aspects that I just personally dislike. Ultimately, Ingrid being racist is only a symptom of the many reasons her character is one of my least favorites. Most of these points can be countered by someone who doesn't take issue with the things that annoy me and to point out that Ingrid DOES get over her racist beliefs. It's not fair to say that she doesn't change but, for me, the damage was already done by the time she became tolerable so I still have a hard time appreciating her. My assumption would be that there are a lot of other people who feel similarly to me regarding their dislike of Ingrid so they focus on one easy character flaw, her being racist at the beginning of the game, as a reason to validate their dislike of her overall.

On the other hand, Hilda's racism isn't a main trait of her character. It's related to her overarching character flaws, but she doesn't bring it up unprompted and can actually be pretty much missed without the Cyrill supports. Like you said, Hilda does seem less hateful and irrational, it doesn't take willful malice and an active rejection of reason for Hilda to dislike the Almyrans, they pose a genuine and provable threat to her family and territory, seemingly senselessly testing the borders and throwing away lives for the sake of conquest. To be clear, her "you're not like those OTHER Almyrans" schtick is legitimately nasty. Her behavior is gross and condescending and it really underscores the fact that Hilda is ignorant, lazy, inconsiderate, and incredibly comfortable in her privilege. She accepts what she's been told at face value because she's too lazy to look into it further. Cyrill does tell her she's stupid to think that way, though. Which is satisfying because Hilda in those supports is insufferable, it really highlights the worst aspects of her character, dismissive, manipulative, and very selfish. However, for me, she's also very likeable. I'm not interested in going over my opinions on her like I did with Ingrid as I don’t feel it’s as important to my point but a few reasons I really like her is because I think Hilda has a fantastic design, cute supports, amazing voice work, and is secretly sweet in a way that absolutely tickles my fancy. I am sure many people do not agree with me, which is fine. Additionally, just as Ingrid grows out of her racist beliefs, so does Hilda. They both end the game as more tolerant and caring people. Still, for the same reason a person could argue that Ingrid is actually great and I'm being unfair, they could argue that Hilda is terrible and I'm too biased. That's fair and true..... but I think the fact that Hilda is more generally appealing in conjunction with the less obvious nature of her racist attitude makes people less likely to dismiss her as a racist in the same way they do Ingrid. Unless they dislike Hilda, in which case, it’s all fair game.

Anyyyways, a main takeaway from this is that I highly doubt people are truly arguing on the individual basis of who's more racist, but that they're engaging in the age old waifu war. As with many characters in this game, it's easier to argue moral superiority when you can't quite articulate what you like or don't like about a character. Or, even worse, when you're arguing opinion. Even now, as is clear by reading this, I am arguing my opinion of why I don't like Ingrid. Not because she's racist, but because of the character traits and writing choices that make her unlikable to me. I like Hilda because, flaws and all, I find her to be compelling and enjoyable. From the people that I know, at least, that is basically how the Ingrid stans v Hilda racism argument is structured, even if they dress it up in different language.

By the by Hilda never talks about how the Almyrans deserve to be wiped out. I think that probably sours a lot of people's opinions of Ingrid no matter what happened afterward but that’s fine we can just pretend that didn’t happen

[mrs-nate-humphrey]

What do you feel about amandamaryanna’s video on gossip girl and cosplaying poor? It reminds me of those tik tok videos that are about the most insane rich person behavior you’ve experienced. I feel like it’s subjective because the characters Dan Vanessa and Zoya are basing their poor ness around THEIR environment. So yes, there are MANY people who are actually poor but compared to their UES counterparts they would be considered “poor” due to the fact that they do not have the insane amount of disposable wealth that the other characters have and I do not really see that as them trying to cosplay as poor.

Also what are your thoughts on her argument on GG not really talking about class consciousness and POC issues. Even though the characters Ursula, Jane and Raina had short appearances on the show, as a Black person I think that is was great that they added the few POC characters on GG because their identity was not the main focus of their characters. Usually with Black or POC characters they have to go through some racial turmoil as part of the plot and in GG they got to be rich UES-ers simply because they are. Even though GG is very verryy flawed Penelope, Nelly, Kati, Isabelle and Zoe were shown how POC characters can be rich like the white characters in the show as well GG is obviously a fictional show that’s not based on anything so I don’t think that racial income statistics/racial implications need to be talked about 24/7.

so i started watching this video & just ended up reading the transcript instead. anyway. under a read more:

like, yes. i agree with her on one hand - i think gossip girl 2007 messed up by making dan's grievances be connected to financial status, because the humphreys certainly weren't "poor". like i think this point she says makes sense to an extent:

The comparison between outsiders and insiders and gossip girl is all about relativity. To the average viewer it seems absurd that a character like Dan is supposed to represent the outsider when he is so farther in than any of us could get.

But honestly, something i hate is how people who talk about this show act as if everyone who's watching is expected to know the prices of rent in new york city, etc. like i did NOT realise how expensive that loft is until someone else mentioned it to me and i would not have guessed! who is your "average viewer" - is it an American? someone who lives in New York? someone who lives in Brooklyn? you can't just define an average viewer in that way, i feel! like you are making a BIG Assumption there and it's not necessarily accurate. people who aren't american watch american tv! such is the world we are living in.

but keeping that aside, yeah: dan and jenny had stable and secure housing, the guarantee of meals, and were attending expensive private schools, so i think the show's messaging regarding class was a little strange. they definitely weren't in a financially unstable situation.

but also, you're right. like, dan and jenny weren't super duper broke, and at no point do they actually act like they are, tbh. dan is very 'oh my parents sacrificed so much to send me to st jude's' and jenny is very 'damn i wish i was richer' but there isn't really an instance where the humphreys seem to view themselves as being extremely poor, that i remember at least. in s1, jenny says something along the lines of, "we're humphreys; we're not exactly royalty." and like. she is not wrong! they're financially stable kids, but they're ordinary kids living in an environment where everyone else has the safety net of millionnaire parents to fall back on, and however much money rufus has, he isn't that.

so i think it's a grey area, like, YES, the humphreys have wealth related privilege (i don't know if this can be said for v, because honestly we don't know much about her living situation, but we do know that she works as a waitress for a bit in s1, and also that she's homeschooled, so she isn't shelling out big $$ for school fees.) but also dan and jenny are treated as 'less than' because they are considered nobodies.

and i feel like THAT is the angle the show should have taken. not "i am oppressed because i am not rich" but rather, "everyone at school alienates me and treats me different and it's making things so difficult for me." whenever people say that dan and jenny acted like they were more oppressed than they actually were i'm like. they were both, in different ways, made to feel small and insecure and hopeless, at school? like of COURSE they're gonna feel victimised. dan is treated like he doesn't exist, and jenny is treated so horribly that i don't even have an adjective. like. i think the writing of the show would've been much stronger if it had focused on THAT and not made it a class thing.

i haven't watched the reboot beyond ep02, so i'm not gonna comment on that.

so yeah, i don't think it was 'cosplaying poor' as much as it was 'showing wealth related stuff extremely inaccurately.' like an anon told me, portraying nyu as community college is super inaccurate, as well. and it makes no sense? like i don't know why they had to do this and why they couldn't just... shoot at a regular community college. gossip girl 2007 did not care for representing poor people at all, like, if you watch the show you can tell that it just luxuriates in this aesthetic of like: more food than anybody can eat at every meal. so many luxuries. unnecessarily expensive things everywhere. like the show was very much luxury porn. to me it felt like it wasn't cosplaying poor as much as it was offering people a chance to wank off to the rich. & maybe because of that, the humphreys weren't allowed to be poorer. gg 2007 wasn't supposed to represent all of NY, it was supposed to represent the uber rich elite. and then you have dan and jenny humphrey, and vanessa abrams. they weren't allowed to be rich, because we needed a class conflict. but they weren't allowed to be poor, either, because this show was all about rich people aesthetics. so we got something weird & in the middle instead.

people forget that chuck was canonically a billionnaire - like, that is a LOT of money. and he is dan & jenny's peer! sadly, i think solely because of THAT, a lot of the oppression the humphreys face... checks out. like chuck being shitty to both dan and jenny - he' has an unethical, absurd, uncomparable-to-whatever-the-humphreys-have amount of money. he can do whatever he wants & buy his way out of there. rufus humphrey's ten thousand dollars or whatever amount he mentions are like pocket change to that guy. if jenny is gonna be treated like a commodity by everyone around her, do her upper middle class roots and expensive loft really matter? well, not do they matter as much as like. can they protect her? (we've watched the show. we know the answer is no.)

re: the characters of colour... i think it's subjective. i ADORE raina, and honestly, if we'd had a NJBC that was nate, serena, blair & raina, the show would've actually been AMAZING. like raina was such a cool character to me - i liked that she was driven, passionate, intelligent, sensitive, caring, fun-loving, thoughtful.... she wasn't on the show for long, but her character felt really solid and fleshed out. i remember a review (idk who wrote this one) in which someone felt that raina's character was "lazy" because a lot of her traits and her backstory paralleled chuck, but i strongly disagree. on raina, those traits were interesting. on chuck, any backstory and larger motive felt like a carpet to cover the dust that was his predatory nature, and to me, felt forced and off. like. this dude assaulted people, i don't care about his daddy issues. but raina seemed SO amazing. her backstory actually fit her personality and gave her depth, and to me, didn't feel forced.

i liked ursula, too! she was a really minor character, but she had a whole arc, and i liked that a LOT. her friendship with serena was very cute! i sadly do not remember jane. i think she was... someone's assistant? but i don't remember who. but i agree with you about raina and ursula, their arcs were very interesting and did not end up being about racial trauma & all that, which, like you said, is refreshing when done right.

that said, i think blair's minions were, uh, an example of blair's racism, and i think it would've been cool if the show unpacked that. blair uses her minions as a status symbol - her 17th birthday at kati's place which is anime themed (?) leaves a bad taste in my mouth because it feels very tokenising of a culture that blair isn't a part of? it would be different if blair treated her minions with respect and dignity and like they were her equals and peers, but she doesn't. the word "minions" itself makes me flinch because it's such a "oh you're inferior" kind of word. it felt to me very much like - they never got to be characters in their own right. they solely existed to prop up blair. and i think that is racist. there was a sense of "Oh, I can't be racist! I have a Black friend and an Asian friend" from Blair - like that's what kati & is were to her. and i think that is a big problem, especially glossed over like that.

i also do think that racial stuff doesn't always need to be the focus! but i don't think it can ever be completely ignored, either. an example of something that is maybe unintentionally racist, but racist nonetheless, is how dan cuts vanessa out of his life entirely but forgives his white friends for treating him farrrr worse. it's an inherent double standard, because dan kind of went "oh yeah. my threshold for white people fucking me over is really high, but if my Black best friend who's so close we're practically family does something even slightly wrong i'm going to cut her out of my life 4ever." did the writers realise this? i don't know. maybe they just didn't think about it. but this is exactly the sort of double standards and racist bullshit that woc, especially Black women, have to face irl (though of course i don't need to tell you that at all), except here, the narrative doesn't even address that, hey, maybe dan's being a dick by reacting this way. and i think that's a problem, too.

[hb-pickle]

Frozen 2: Dangerous Secrets Review Essay

Why Sensitivity Readers Are Always Necessary

Before I start, I would like to make it very clear that this review only critiques the aspects of colonialism and representation in Frozen 2: Dangerous Secrets. I will not be discussing the romance, side characters or anything else like that. Also, I would like to make it very clear that none of this review is meant to personally attack or berate the author @marimancusi . I firmly believe that none of the cultural insensitivities in her book were intentional, but were simply the result of a non-indigenous, white author writing about experiences she could not personally relate to. My only goals for writing this review is to show the author how her book unintentionally perpetuated many harmful and outdated ideas about racism and colonialism, and to convince her and Disney to contact and hire sensitivity readers before they create content about vulnerable racial/ethnic groups. 

I would also like to state that I am an African American woman and not indigienous, so I have personal experiences with racism and colonialism towards black people, but not towards indigenous communities. So if any indigenous people see problems or inaccuracies with my review, I would be happy to listen and put your voice first.

- - -

To summarize quickly (with full context), Frozen 2: Dangerous Secrets is about Iduna, a young indigenous Northuldra girl (oppressed racial/ethnic minority) who was suddenly and violently separated from her home and family when her people were betrayed and attacked by the Arendellians (colonizing class). As a result of the massacre battle between the two groups, Iduna is permanently separated from her home (caused by a magical and impenetrable mist) and forced to spend the rest of her days in the kingdom of Arendelle, where she lives in almost constant fear of being exposed as a Northuldran (for the townsfolk are violently bigoted against them). Naturally, this book contains many many depictions of racial hatred and bigotry along with exploring the mindset and fears of a young girl dealing with the brunt of colonialism. Unfortunately, it tends to fumble the seriousness of these situations (out of ignorance or out of a desire to keep the book lighthearted/to center the romance plotline), which results in an overall detrimental message to the audience. The missteps I specifically want to unpack are as follows.

- (1/5) Severs Iduna’s connection to her culture before the story even begins (making us feel less empathetic for the Northuldra’s plight) 

I’m not 100% certain, but my understanding is that the purpose of making Iduna a double orphan was to make her more sympathetic and to give her a reason to save Agnarr’s life (to have compassion for a stranger, the same way her adoptive family did for her). In theory this is perfectly fine, quickly establishing that the audience should like Iduna is smart and so is rationalizing her most important, life changing decision. But in practice this only functions to distance Iduna from her culture and family and make the reader care less about the Northuldra. This is because it takes away Iduna’s chance to have a strong, palpable relationship with a specific Northuldra character, which would humanize their entire group (even if only in memory). The only Northuldra characters that Iduna mentions more than once is her mother and Yelena. Both of these characters are mentioned rarely, neither have a close relationship with Iduna (her mother dying 7 years before the events of the story), nor do either of them have any specific personality traits or lines of dialogue (Yelena has exactly one line and it is about knitting). The goal of a story about a child unjustly stolen from her home should be to explore why those acts of violence were so horrific. The very first step of exploring that is to humanize the victims. After all, why would a reader care about the injustices done to a group of people who barely exist? How are we, the readers, supposed to feel bad for Iduna and mourn her family like she does, if we barely know them?

We needed more of Iduna’s memories. We needed to learn about her friends, her family, her mother and Yelena. What were they really like? How did they love Iduna? What were their last words to her before she never saw them again? Didn’t Iduna care for them? Did she worry about their well being and miss their comforts? We need to hear about how she bonded with them, how they made her feel, how they made her laugh or cry. How they taught her to hunt, forage, and knit so that when we hear how the Arendellians speak of them, with such ignorance and contempt, we are as truly disgusted and offended as we should be. 

- (2/5) Equates Iduna and Agnarr’s suffering, aggressively downplaying the brutality of colonialism (even to the point of prioritizing Agnarr’s needs)

First things first, I understand that Dangerous Secrets is a modern day romance novel for older children/teens so an equal power balance between Agnarr and Iduna is preferred (which I agree with). But, this balance extends past the romance and personalities and into attempting to portray Agnarr and Iduna’s suffering as equal. This is best exemplified in these lines of internal dialogue by Iduna:

I did not deserve to be locked away from everyone I loved. But Agnarr did not deserve to die alone on the forest floor because he’d had a fight with his father. Whatever happened that day to anger the spirits and cause all of this, it was not his fault. Nor was it mine. And while we might be on different sides of this fight, we had both lost so much. Our friends. Our family. Our place in the world. In an odd way we were more alike than different. (Page 67)

All of this is technically true, up until the very last line about them being “more alike than different”. Agnarr and Iduna’s lives are nothing alike. Iduna is a poor, indigenous girl who had everyone she ever knew or loved either killed or permanently taken away from her, stolen from her home and forced to spend the rest of her life living in a foreign kingdom rife with people who actively, consistently threaten her safety. While Agnarr, on the other hand, is a white male member of the royal family, heir to the throne, and extremely wealthy. The novel doesn’t shy away from this (at least on Agnarr’s part), and doesn’t hesitate to show us that Agnarr is royalty and will never experience what Iduna has to endure. But it behaves like Agnarr’s relatively petty, temporary, and incomparable ills are just as heartbreaking as Iduna’s and focuses significantly more time and energy building up empathy for him and his woes. This extends from small things like the book asserting that the few times Agnarr needed to stay in his castle, to avoid political assasination was comparable to Iduna’s family being trapped in the mist (against their will for 30+ years); to more concerning issues like claiming Agnarr’s separation from his parent’s is just as distressing as Iduna’s separation from her entire people. Now fleshing out Agnarr and his relation to parents is a good thing, since it can provide crucial character motivation and make him more of a well rounded character. But when Agnarr’s suffering is presented as more relevant and worthwhile discussing than Iduna’s it, by extension, implies that the frustrations of an affluent life and being separated from parents that did not value you in the first place (Runeard and Rita) is somehow more or just as pressing as facing the brunt of the most violent and terrifying forms of colonialism. Agnarr’s story may be tragic, but it is nowhere near as horrific as Iduna’s and the book should acknowledge and reflect that.

- (3/5) Has a rudimentary understanding of racism and how if affects the people who perpetuate it

Dangerous Secrets’ understanding of racism (and how to deal with it) is summed up very concisely in a conversation between Lord Peterssen and young Prince Agnarr. Agnarr asks his senior why the Arendellian towns people are so obsessed with blaming magic and the spirits (magic and spirits being an allegory for real world characteristics that are unique to one culture or people) for all their problems, and the following exchange insues: 

“People will always need something to blame for their troubles”, he explained. “And magical spirits are an easy target-since they can’t exactly defend themselves… “So what do we do?” I asked. “We can’t very well fight against an imaginary force!” “No. But we can make the people feel safe. That’s our primary job.” (Page 132-133)

Though Lord Peterssen is supposed to be a flawed character, who puts undue pressure onto Iduna and Agnarr to uphold the status quo of Arendelle, this line is (intentional or not) how the book actually views racism and how it expects the characters (and reader by extension) to deal with/understand it. Bigotry is portrayed as something that is inevitable and something that should not be quelled or disproven, but accommodated for. Agnarr, as king next in line, should not worry about ending the unjust hatred in his kingdom, or killing the root of the problem (the rumors). Instead he should tell his people their suspicions are correct, and put actual resources and time into abetting their dangerous beliefs. Even later on, at the very end of the novel, Agnarr treats the prolific bigotry and magic hatred of his people as an unfortunate circumstance he has found himself in, and not something that he, as king, has the power or civic responsibility to change. 

This could have been an excellent line of flawed logic, representing how privileged people tend to avoid/project the blame of racism, and prioritize order and peace over justice. Which would work especially well for Peterssen and Agnarr since they are both high class nobles with the power to actually make a difference, instead choosing to foist responsibility onto Iduna (in the case of Peterssen) who was only a child, relatively impoverished, and the one with the most to lose if she spoke out. Or, in the case of Agnarr, they do disagree with the fear mongering, but only for personal reasons (Agnarr because his father used it as an excuse for his lies); refusing still to actually work to improve his society. But the key detail is that this needs to be portrayed as wrong, which this book fails to do. Agnarr nor Peterssen are ever expected to disprove the townsfolk’s bigotry in any meaningful, long lasting sense, Peterssen is never confronted seriously for his cowardice and victim blaming, and Agnarr is never criticized for his anti-bigotry being based entirely on his own personal parental issues and not in the fact that he knows with 100% certainty that the Northuldra are innocent.

This flawed understanding of bigotry also applies to how the book depicts the Arendellian townsfolk, who are awarded no accountability whatsoever for their actions. The townspeople spend the entire book threatening to kill any Northuldra they find and Peterssen, Agnarr, and Iduna are constantly afraid that they would immediately destabilize the government if they found out their king was close to one. But somehow this does not translate into any contempt or distrust in our protagonist or the reader. In this novel, we meet only four openly bigoted individuals: the two orphan children playing “kill the Northuldra”, the purple/pink sheep guy (Askel), and the allergy woman (Mrs. Olsen). The orphans are dismissed wholesale because they are literal children who also lost both of their parents in the battle of the dam (so they were killed by Northuldra; somewhat justifying their anger). And the other two townsfolk are joke characters, whose claims are so unbelievable that they aren’t supposed to be seen as a serious threat. Not only that but Askel is rewarded for his bigotry when Iduna offers he sell his pink sheep’ wool (which he thought was an attack from the Northuldra) as beautiful pink shawls. These are the only specific characters that show any type of active bigotry in the entire kingdom besides Runeard, whomst is dead. Every other character is either an innocent and friendly bystander (the woman at the chocolate shop, the new orphans Iduna buys cookies for, the farmers Iduna sells windmills too, the people at Agnarr and Iduna’s wedding), has no opinion at all (Greda, Kai, Johan), or is portrayed as someone who is just innocently scared and doesn’t know any better (the rest of the townsfolk, especially those who fear the Northuldra are the sun mask attackers). Even the King of Vassar, the most violent and dangerous living character of the story, doesn’t even hold any prejudice against the Northuldra, and simply uses their imagery to scare Arendelle into accepting his military rule. 

So according to this book, bigotry and racism come not from the individual, but from society and the system you live in, but also not really because the people in charge of that system (Peterssen, Agnarr, and eventually Iduna) are also virtually guiltless. This, of course, is not true at all. Racism is a moral failing which exists on all levels of society, from individuals who chose to be bigoted, to others who tolerate bigotry as long as it doesn’t inconveniance them. It's not just an inevitable fear of what you don’t understand, but an insidious choice to be ignorant, fearful, and unjust to the most vulnerable members of society. It is malicious and irrational, and the more you tolerate it, the more dangerous it becomes.

- (4/5) Presents Iduna’s assimilation to the dominant culture as a positive

As the romance plotline of Dangerous Secrets really starts to get underway, Iduna’s life seems perfect. Her romance with Agnarr blossoms, she has her own business, and is becoming accustomed to her new surroundings (in order to make the coming drama more exciting). This is her internal dialogue as she returns to town one day:

I couldn't imagine, at the time, living in a place like this. But now it felt like home. It would never replace the forest I grew up in… But it had been so long now, that life had begun to feel almost like a dream. A beautiful dream of an enchanted forest… There was a time I truly believed I would die if I could never enter the forest again. If the mist was never to part. But that time, I realized, was long gone. And I had so much more to live for now… And my dreams were less about returning to the past and more about striking out into the future- (Page 128-129)

Again, I understand that the point of Iduna being content with her life like this is to be the “calm before the storm” of the romance arc, but the fact that Iduna is almost forgetting her old life, and that it is presented as a good thing, is extremely distressing. At only 12 years old Iduna lost everything she ever had besides the literal clothes on her back; she would never forget that. Not only that, but the real world implication that a minority should cope with their societal trauma by spending the rest of their life working for said society that unapologetically wants to kill them (and get a boyfriend) is horribly off putting. It strikes a nerve with many people of color and indigenous readers because telling minorities to “get a job” or “get a life” (especially when said jobs ignore/are separate from their own cultures) is commonly used by privileged folk to blame them for their own dissatisfaction/unhappiness with the society they live in. The idea is that minorities should continue to suffer, but busy themselves, so they stop criticizing dominant culture and defending/uplifting their own. This is part of cultural erasure, and the book plays into it, by commending Iduna for “having more to live for” than cherishing/wanting to return to her original home, for prioritizing Arendelle over herself, and for forgetting her heritage/playing it off as nothing but a dream. Devaluing indigenous culture like this, especially through an indigenous character, is extremely disrespectful.

Not only that, but it’s completely antithetical to Iduna’s character, since she claims to be proud and unashamed of who she is, but happily assists the townsfolk who hate her, and rarely mentions her heritage besides when she’s caught in a lie or actively being persecuted. This is another failing brought on by the lack of understanding of how racism affects its victims. Being a minority plays into all the decisions you make and all the interactions you have; it’s not something that you can just turn off unless directly provoked. Iduna’s would be constantly fretting about who she talks to, and who she is with because if she gets too close to the wrong person, she could have put herself in serious danger. 

Nowhere is this lack of realism more obvious than the scene directly after Iduna rejects Johan’s proposal. Iduna spends a long time thinking about whether marrying Johan or Agnarr would be better for her, and not even once does being a Northuldra play into her decision making. This should’ve been front and center because your husband can be your strongest ally or your greatest enemy. If Iduna was outed, what could she do to defend herself against or alongside her partner? If she was ever going to consider marrying for anything other than true love, her chances of survival should have been her first priority. 

What I’m not saying is that there needs to be a complete overhaul of Iduna’s personality, or that she needs to be frightened and suspicious at all times. Iduna can project strength and caution. She can be kind to the townspeople, but reserved in order to keep a safe distance. She should cling to the few pieces of her culture she has left, despite what society tells her to do. Or, on the exact opposite side of the coin, Iduna’s personality could be kept relatively the same, but the book needs to acknowledge that this is a terrible thing. Iduna is being assimilated against her will to a society that doesn’t value her and that is a tragedy. In a futile attempt at survival, Iduna buries her culture away and lives her life as a perfect, contributing, model Arendellian citizen, but they terrorize her regardless. 

- (5/5) Negatively depicts the indigenous Northuldra as murderous invaders

In Chapter 34 of Dangerous Secrets it is revealed, during a flashback, that Iduna lost her parents and her entire family group in an attack by a separate group of Northuldra invaders. This scene is completely unacceptable regardless whatever narrative/story purpose it was supposed to achieve for several reasons. Firstly, because this book is about colonialism, which we as a society already know the consequences of and how colonizers, in an attempt to rid themselves of blame, react to it. One of the very first things a colonizer/privileged class will do to make themselves feel less guilty for the atrocities they perpetuate is bring up acts of violence/wrongdoing on behalf of the oppressed. The sole purpose of this is always to make the victims look less sympathetic and less deserving of justice, equality, or attention because “they’re not so innocent, they did wrong things too, so maybe we shouldn't feel that  bad for them/maybe they got what they deserved”. And of course this mindset is absolutely horrific and unforgivable when you’re talking about a group of white colonizers actively trying to destroy and indiscriminately slaughter a large group of indigenous people, including their children. 

The second reason is because the author is a non-indigenous white person, and therefore benefits directly from the downplaying of indiginous pain. I’m sure this wasn’t intentionally malicious on her part, but that’s what she wrote; these are the consequences.  

((Also the fact that one of the Northuldra groups are murderous invaders means that Iduna was actively lying the entire book about the Northuldra being peaceful.)) 

- - -

In conclusion, any book that incorporates the culture and experiences of a group the author is not a part of, should absolutely hire a sensitivity reader to ensure accuracy and respect. As a Frozen superfan myself, I actually enjoyed this book a lot and I was delighted to see the lore, worldbuilding and romance. I loved Agnarr, Lord Peterssen, and Princess Runa and certain pieces of dialogue and imagery were beautiful. This novel just desperately needed someone to check it. All this book needed was a bit more of a critical gaze on some of the character decisions and motivations (I truly believe Agnarr and Peterssen would have been even more intriguing and likeable characters if they were actually called out, and given time to reflect on their hypocrisies) and it would’ve been much stronger and more palatable to diverse audiences. Some elements did need to be cut out completely, but a sensitivity reader would’ve easily been able to point this out and offer alternatives that preserved the spirit of the novel, without including any offensive and distasteful implications.

[mypoisonedvine]

I Never Danced Until I Met You - Chapter 1

Jaskier x (female)Reader

Rating: T (we’re getting into E territory eventually… but not today)

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3.6k (ooh boy it’s a long one… and just the one chapter lol)

Summary: You and Geralt fought together years ago and became quite close friends, but you stayed in your kingdom as a knight while he traveled the Continent to fight monsters.  When business brings him back into town, he has a new friend tagging along.  Jaskier is mischievous, boisterous, and unrelenting in his romanticism: just the opposite of yourself.  No one expected you two to get along… and exactly the last thing you expected was to find yourself developing a peculiar interest in him.

A secret meeting had been called late in the evening by the Queen and her closest staff members.  Something had been hunting and killing the citizens of the nation, and a decision needed to be made quickly to save lives and prevent hysteria.

Sadly, not many solutions were being brought forward.  You were only there as the Queen’s guard, not a politician, but after an hour wasted on nothing useful, you felt you had to say something.

“I humbly offer a proposition,” you spoke as you bowed before your Queen.

“A knight should not be speaking on matters of governance,” an advisor scowled discouragingly.

“This is not only a matter of governance but a matter of protection of the people: exactly what my Protector should be consulted on,” Queen Araja responded coolly.  Her expression softened as she turned back to you, though. “Speak,” she commanded.

“My troops are not prepared to wage war against something of a magical nature.  Our royal mage brings understanding but lacks tactical skill.  We need someone who can assess this threat and fight it.  A-”

“Witcher,” she beat you to your point.

“Blasphemy,” another advisor sputtered incredulously.

“Geralt of Rivia is a famed Witcher; I know him, he is a… colleague.  I could write to him, negotiate a reduced price,” you offered, ignoring the dissenting men.

“Price is no issue.  Negotiate instead for efficiency, and discretion,” she announced.

“Yes, my lady,” you bowed again, turning to leave.  You heard the arguments of the advisors at the table, but ignored them as you rushed to your quarters to get out the parchment and ink so you could write to an old friend.

~

“There is a man at the gates,” the errand boy said as he burst through your door.  His eyes went wide when he realized you were still dressing, your chest exposed.  He turned away.

“I should’ve knocked!” he apologized, but you weren’t sensitive about that sort of thing: knights don’t usually have the privilege of privacy, and you hadn’t really gotten used to having a room to yourself since you had become the Royal Protector and been granted your own space and luxuries.

“What you should’ve done was let him in- you knew I was expecting a witcher,” you instructed, slipping the tunic over your head and finally your chainmail and chestplate.  Sure, he was a friend, but technically he was here on request of the Queen, and that meant a formal royal greeting, with all the bells and whistles (or in this case, flags and trumpets and horses).

“H-he’s a witcher?!” he stuttered.

“Yes,” you looked at the boy with a tinge of confusion, “why are you so scared?  You’re not a monster in disguise are you?”

Clearly he wasn’t one for humour, just looking at you with an expression of absolute terror.

“My horse is ready?” you presumed.

“Yes, my lord- I mean, my lady- er, knight-” he began.

“Shut up, please,” you begged.

“Yes,” he agreed weakly, nodding in submission.

You shot him one last glance before putting on your helmet.  You had gotten used to seeing out of it, but it was always a bit of a transition when you put it on and the whole world was just a slit.

There was quite a fanfare, as you had informed the Queen how famous a guest they were entertaining.  You knew he didn’t care about that kind of stuff, but it was moreso to send a message to the other staff that Geralt was someone worth respecting.  Purple flags were draped over golden staves, an infantry of knights rode their horses towards the gates with full ceremonial armor, there was even a royal announcer to make the whole thing official.  It would’ve seemed ridiculous to a foreigner, but it had become very familiar to you after nearly a decade of serving her Royal Highness.

Seeing Geralt again, even from such a distance as your horse trotted towards him with the company in tow, made you smile.  It had been a long time since you fought beside him in the battle that made you famous and gave you the opportunity to serve the Queen, but of course he had not aged a day.  You were only sixteen then, a naive girl full of anger and a thirst for revenge.  In the decade since, you had come to appreciate the art of war, the realities of justice, the balance of peace.  You were probably nicer now than you were then, or at least more polite, but every year and the losses it brought hardened you to the world.  Even having advanced yourself to leading the Queen’s personal guard, most still doubted you simply for being a woman.  Not that you were ever much of a daydreamer, but you were probably the woman in the kingdom least interested in romantic pursuits or anything of the sort.  It was just as this thought crossed your mind that you noticed a man stood beside Geralt’s horse, dressed more… flamboyantly, to say the least.  They were a nobleman’s clothes, and as you came closer, you realized they were an entertainer’s clothes: he was a bard.  

You couldn’t stop yourself from noticing that he was rather attractive.  He had a young face, but you figured he was about your age considering his frame and the shadow of stubble on his jaw.  It was quite a diverse crowd- knights in armor, royal attendants in proper clothing, Geralt in witcher’s gear- and yet this bard stood among all of them.  Dressed formally but with most of his doublet’s buttons undone, and a posture that suggested a lackadaisical attitude.  You tried to ignore the chest hair creeping up from behind the collar of his exposed tunic, or the way the muscles in his thighs shifted underneath his tight trousers.  Men didn’t really dress that way in your kingdom.

“On the behalf of her Royal Grace, Most Honorable and Noble Queen Araja Persepolla Constantine Asher the Just, the kingdom of Revellon welcomes and accepts Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, Witcher most famed, as a royal guest and an honorary citizen of her nation,” the announcer read loudly from a scroll after the horses stopped moving.

“So much for discretion,” you heard your lieutenant mumble so that only you could hear.  You tried not to giggle.  

“This isn’t really necessary,” Geralt grumbled.  His voice sounded even deeper than you remembered, and that’s saying something.

“As a token of her gratitude and appreciation of your arduous journey, a feast will be held tonight in your honour in the main hall,” the announcer continued, ignoring Geralt’s disinterest. “Please join us at your convenience.”

“When is it?” the bard asked.  His voice was sort of high-pitched (but then again, whose wasn’t compared to Geralt’s?), his accent indicating that he was highly educated.

“A servant will fetch you from your rooms when the celebration is beginning,” the announcer explained.

“We’re expected to stay in the castle?” Geralt asked incredulously.

“We suspect you will find our conditions highly accommodating,” the announcer smiled politely.

“And the security?” Geralt interrogated.

You smiled as you removed your helmet, letting your hair fall down from the tight bun you had tied it into.

“Finest in the Continent,” you said confidently.

Geralt grinned when he saw you, and you glanced over to absorb the bard’s shocked expression for a moment.

“You failed to mention in your letter that you’d become a member of the Queen’s royal guard,” he said joyfully.

“She is the Queen’s royal guard,” your lieutenant corrected.

“Is that true?” he quirked an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t have worded it that way,” you said humbly, “but yes.  I am the Royal Protector and leader of the good Queen’s army.”

“Spectacular,” he said admiringly.

“You know this woman?” the bard asked nervously.  You looked to him but you almost didn’t want to, now that he could see your gaze.  You wondered if he could see your own unexplained nervousness.

“She’s a fine warrior,” he said, “one of the finest I know.”

When the formal greeting was complete, you let the servants show Geralt and his new friend around the palace, while you returned to your quarters to change into your dress blues.  There was never much of a security threat at a party, especially this one with a witcher in attendance, but for the sake of tradition you were expected to wear your medals and stand at the Queen’s side with your sabre at your hip.  You were pulling on your white gloves when a lady-in-waiting came to fetch you.

“I’ll be ready in a moment,” you told her, not even needing her to say anything- because why else would she be here but to tell you that it was time to escort Her Royal Highness to the banquet hall?

Everyone stood as the Queen entered, of course, and you took your post beside her.  She sat and motioned for everyone to return to their seats, but you were expected to stand the whole time at her side.  You always felt kind of like a decoration at these sorts of events… everyone would talk and drink and eat and dance as if you weren’t there, and you were not permitted to partake of any of it- not that you really wanted to necessarily.  You took your duty very seriously, even if you understood that there was not much of an actual risk.

That’s why it was so peculiar when Geralt’s bard- you’d figured out his name was Jaskier, or at least that was what he called himself- stopped playing along with the royal bards and approached you with a chalice in hand.

“I noticed you didn’t have a drink,” he explained, offering it to you, “so I brought you a glass.”

“That’s… kind of you,” you replied, trying to be gracious instead of just confused, “but I won’t be drinking this evening.  I’m on duty.”

“That’s all right,” he responded with less disappointment than you expected, “more for me.”

He took a swig of the drink and you felt so unsure of what to do.  People normally didn’t talk to you during these things- or all that much in general, really.

“What’d you think of my playing?” he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“It was… fine,” you answered simply.  Now that made him look more disappointed.

“Just fine?!” he repeated incredulously.

“I’m not really the person to ask- I don’t listen to much music, so I’m not a good judge of musical quality,” you defended.

“I wasn’t asking if it was objectively good, I was asking if you liked it,” he clarified.

That was a harder question to answer.  You hadn’t really been paying attention to the music itself, but the energy that filled the room with Jaskier played.  It was different from other events you’d attended.  

“The crowd seemed to be enjoying themselves,” you offered.

“That’s not what I asked,” he pressed.

You sighed.

“I suppose I did like it, yes,” you finally resigned.

“Then why don’t you come down and dance with me?” he asked.

You were blushing, strongly against your own will.  This was probably the longest personal conversation you’d had in months, and it was easily the most interest someone had ever shown in you for something other than your fighting skills.

“I don’t dance,” you announced.

“You don’t dance, you don’t listen to music, you don’t drink; what do you do when you’re not fighting?” he asked with a smirk.

“I prepare to fight,” you answered.

“Live by the blade, die by the blade,” he quoted the adage in warning.

“I plan to,” you responded coolly.

You had expected him to be shaken by that, but he just smiled even more.  What a weirdo.

“All the better to live for the moment while you can, before your untimely, tragic demise on the battlefield,” he countered.

“That’s preposterous,” you scoffed, crossing your arms.

“As your Queen, I order you to dance with this man,” Queen Araja suddenly interjected, “if for no other reason than for me to be spared of this irritating conversation.”

The smile he shot you when he heard that made you suddenly very nervous.  

He reached out and it took you a moment to realize that you were supposed to put your hand in his.  You cautiously removed your hand from the grip of your sabre and place it on his.  Even through the white gloves you felt that he was warm, and his touch was oddly electrifying.

The royal bards started the next song and you tried to ignore the guests staring at you, apparently noticing that you were not really meant to be mingling with them as given away by your outfit.  You felt horribly out of place, and the way Jaskier was looking at you made it so much better and and yet more nervous simultaneously.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you danced, but he guided you through it, slowly at first, and you were very aware of his hand on your back.

It was a lively tune, so you had to keep up the pace without stepping on toes which mostly worked.  You tried not to say anything, just hoping to get this over with, but eventually you had to speak up.

“You’re staring at me,” you observed.

“I’m looking at you; I’m dancing with you, where else should I look?” he asked with a tone of sarcasm.

“We’ve fine silk on the walls, look at that,” you suggested.

“Silk looks finer on you,” he winked. “Nice outfit by the way, certainly stands out.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever met a man who didn’t mind trousers on a woman.  Causes quite a stir around here basically every single day,” you rolled your eyes.

“You don’t seem the type to suffer fools,” he noted.

“And yet, here I am,” you sighed.  Suffering didn’t even begin to describe it.

“This couldn’t possibly be less fun that standing at attention and staring straight ahead,” he frowned.

“It wasn’t so bad,” you shrugged.

“Of course it wasn’t, because you kept sneaking looks at me,” he winked.

Your eyes went wide.  Had he really seen you watching him?

“You were the one playing music, where else should I have been looking?” you defended.

“Ah, so now you can’t say I shouldn’t be looking at you while I dance with you,” he countered.

You laughed, sort of an instinctive reaction to the mild annoyance-yet-bemusement you felt.  

“Your smile is gorgeous,” he said with a gentleness to his voice you were unprepared for.  You wanted to look away from him to avoid blushing, but you didn’t want to show any sensitivity either.

“I swear if one more man tells me to ‘smile more’,” you began threateningly.

“No, your stern, serious face is gorgeous too,” he interrupted. “I just hope I can get a chance to make you smile again.”

How were you supposed to respond to things like that?  Even if men had ever been interested in you like this, you suspected none of them would’ve been this forward.  

“Do you know how to do a dip?” he asked, thankfully giving you something else to talk about.

“I said I don’t dance,” you recalled.

“It’s not difficult,” he soothed, the hand on your waist tightening.

“Oh, no no no no,” you rushed anxiously.

“It’ll be fine,” he said in a way that wasn’t very reassuring.

“No, Jaskier, I swear on all things holy and unholy if you drop me on this floor-”

“I like the way you say my name,” he smiled, and just as you reacted to that rather unsavory double entendre, he swung you into the dip.

The only way to describe the sound you made was girlish… not a word that described you or your activities very often.  You tried to suppress it and it helped but you were still sure everyone thought you were out of your mind.  The fear of falling washed away as you looked up at him, and there was definitely a moment.  You had heard of these sorts of moments before, but until now you never understood it.  Now that you were there it all made perfect sense.  

Just as you noticed that a moment was happening, it ended: he pulled you back up and spun you in a quick circle.  You were incredibly close to him for a second, your body pressed completely against his, and it was exhilarating in a way entirely different from combat.  It may seem obvious that those things would be different, but you had gotten so used to approaching everything as if it were a war.

The song ended, and unlike if it were a war, you found yourself wishing it would’ve lasted longer.  He stepped away from you, and you both did the polite post-song clapping.  As the next song was just starting to begin, he gave you a little bow.  You figured you were supposed to curtsy in response, but you weren’t even sure how to, and bowing back seemed even worse, so you just stood there.

“Thank you for the honour,” he said as he came back up, and you tried not to notice his gaze trailing up your body.

“Thank you, for…” you weren’t sure how to finish that.  Thanks for reminding me I have a sexuality, I seemed to have misplaced it for the past decade didn’t seem to be appropriate even if it were true.

“For showing you a good time?” he offered.

“I’m not sure I’d’ve phrased it that way.”

“For lively conversation?” he proposed instead.

“The conversation was the worst part of it!” 

“I assumed the dancing was the worst part.”

“Oh, yes, you’re right, it was,” you corrected. “Thank you for the conversation: it was less frivolous than the dancing.”

He laughed in a way that made you wonder if you’d actually managed to hit his ego.  You’d been trying so hard to do so, but now that you might have, it was a lot less fun than you’d imagined.

“I won’t keep you, you can get back to what you were doing before,” he said flippantly.

“You mean guarding the Queen?” you asked, offended by his tone.

“I meant watching me play,” he winked.  Before you could react, he turned away and flipped his lute around on its strap to strum on it.

“Do you know Fishmonger’s Daughter?” he called out to the band as he approached them.

You smiled to yourself just a little as you walked back to your post, and tried not to make eye contact with Queen Araja: you weren’t sure what look she would give you but it would most likely make you more nervous.

You went to bed that night still trying to shake the ridiculous giddy feeling.

~

The next morning came early when the Queen requested to speak with you.

“The witcher is out on the hunt as we speak: while he is out and the infantry are on leave, take the bard out someplace,” she ordered when you arrived. 

“What am I supposed to do with him?” you asked innocently.

“I don’t know, go to the training fields and teach him archery or something,” she shrugged.

“Am I to believe you are giving me a purposeless assignment, my liege?”

“Cut the formality; we’re alone,” she instructed. 

“Sorry, my- Araja,” you stumbled.  Force of habit.

“It’s not purposeless, to answer your question.  I want you to spend more time with him,” she explained matter-of-factly.

“Why is that?” 

“He makes you laugh.  I’ve never seen you like that- the way you were last night at the banquet.”

“I apologize for my indecency,” you bowed, “I was caught up in the moment.”

“Exactly.  Get caught up in more moments, please,” she begged. “It’s good for you.”

“Pardon my insubordination, madam, but should a Queen really be concerning herself with the romantic exploits of her soldiers?” 

Even such a simple, and fair, question made you nervous.

“First: please shut up about insubordination.  Second: you’re not just a soldier, you’re my protector and closest ally in this castle, and it bothers me to see you always alone.  Lastly: who said anything about romance?  Just make a friend,” she encouraged.

You blushed, realizing that your wording had accidentally revealed your suppressed interests.

“I won’t hear any dissent from you, now go fetch him from his quarters,” she demanded.

“Myself?” you guffawed. “A lady of fine standing should not be seen entering a man’s quarters.  I’ll send a servant to do it.”

“Most everyone in this castle has forgotten that you’re a lady, except possibly for him,” she frowned. “Just go.”

You bowed before you left, turning down the hall to where you knew Jaskier had been staying.

Knocking on his door, you found it already cracked open.

“May I come in?” you called out into the room.

“Always,” you heard him reply, so you pushed the door open to find him sitting at the vanity, shaving with a dagger.  

“On business of the Queen?” he asked.

That was not the easiest question to answer.

“Yes, she has asked me to take you on a tour of the grounds,” you explained.

“Alone?” He smiled. “How scandalous.”

You ignored that.

“Shame,” you mumbled to yourself as you watched him shave.

“Hm?”

“I thought the stubble suited you,” you stated, hoping it didn’t come across the way you actually meant it.

He stopped moving the blade.

“Wish you’d said that before,” he frowned.

The idea that he cared what you thought of his appearance, enough to change his habits, was intriguing.

“It’s done now,” you fought a smirk, “can’t go out with half a beard.”

He sighed, his gaze returning back to himself in the mirror as he resumed moving the blade slowly along his jaw.  You watched intently for a moment, the muscles in his arms exposed by rolled-up sleeves, slowly shifting as he delicately dragged the knife along his skin.  

“When you’re finished, meet me in the courtyard,” you said quickly before stepping back into the hall.

Why did he make you feel so flustered?

[next chapter]

[misterbitches]

Hello! @flootweed replying to the post from before. the long format was killing me. why does tumblr look like this...

I haven’t watched episode 8 yet...or have I? If it’s the most recent one. No.

Is the hornbill a bird? It probably is but I have a terrible memory and I’m dumb so. I skipped the last few weeks because I’m scawwed. How are you liking it? I did see someone say that the hornbill makes sense (without knowing what it is...at all) bc heart transplant patients only live like 5-15 years after but someone in those comments pointed out that he was so young when he got his and that’s pretty rare so he has a higher likelihood of survival. Frankly, this is the only way I will proceed. Since when did shows ever care about the heart transplant health? Never and it needs to stay that way!

What did we think of ep 6? LMAO. I need opinions! And omg it makes me feel special when I can point things out to people because I so...rarely get to LOL. Editing is like one of my favorite things ever so I can be super particular about it but I try to do the thing you do when you’re supposed to see if it works within its context. I’d like to go in with scissors and glue but alas. 

THe mic covering....the rustling....it’s like guys...please. Ironically the audio today wasn’t great. I don’t know why. IDK if you watch c-dramas but I am not even sure what’s worse between them because they dub their dramas. But actually no it’s best to have the dubbing because even tho it is painful they have to put a lot of effort into it. LOL. 

Right? @ Aey! It’s just weird if they would show us more about what he’s done instead of saying he’s done sth bad and not even explaining that....like you could even do some shitty exposition. I think if he is to be a true villain then we really need to be privvy. All the warnings make it seem like he’s a fuckin’ serial killer so when we get the scene of him at home it’s like....actually this is really serious? Maybe his pain is like...for a reason. Althought you won’t even TELL US WHAT HE’S DONE WRONG BESIDES BE JUST FUCKING WEIRD AND ANNOYING! So from what we have it’s just a realllllllll fucked up sad person lol. god i forgot about the dinner! and i totally agree. he really needs them to succeed. i like your theory because it would make the scene where he like blocks the twitter user make more sense. he also says they dont really know each other etc so it’s realllllyyyyy probable that he just sees it as a way out. if not then we shall pretend u wrote it :)

god yea i wouldnt say it is art but i also guess we technically have to since it is technically. in the way that technically performance artists are artists but mostly i uh technically ignore them. Also one of my fav BLs is called the best twins. If you do not know what it is I will not elaborate further.t 

i want to know more abt poli sci majors lmao but they sound DRAMATIC/ hopefully most ppl in ur cohort arent losers! 

hahahha i understand. there was just a thing on twitter about DSA and then the day before about reading discourse. the same thiings. over. and over. and over. and over. we are our own worst enemies but also our own best friends? but i hate tankies and that wont change. but hasan’s a decent guy. he said sth abt black ppl during biden’s primaries in GA or whatever and i was like chill. but he’s insecure and has adhd which means ur more open to being wrong and changing otherwise u will suffocate and die. 

and totally about hiding fuck ups. i’ve tried really hard bc of organizing IRL to like...be honest, question, etc but also like...approach it naturally? because if you’re trying to be perfect and so worried you’ll fuck up you don’t realize that puts  more stress on you, makes you seem like a robot, and could potentially not make you realize the mistkaes you made. also if we’re privileged in certain spaces there is just no possible way we won’t get something wrong. im light and i know that honestly any way to speak up on colorism is going to be difficult and that’s a space where i have power so i just have to figure it out. we should be uncomfortable because we have to sit with unpleasant feelings and sort through our own whatever. that just makes the next time even better and people can trust u more.  i think some people sweat it sooo much or maybe they think their personal life and what theyve been through is more the norm? on the other hand people can be sf reactionary in the worst way and idk what their issue is. there was also a user who said sth very inch arresting about tankies which i thoroughly enjoyed (how like violent lefitsts or tankies / ppl who are like ooh a gun whatever just want to be violent in another space so they have shit tendencies from jump and nothing of substance which i think i agree with tbh fo ra lottttt of ppl. like their anger is actually like “no im about to beat that ass” instead of what we actually want to get done) 

sort of in the same vein re: taking it easy...we coudl all be more understanding too. to slow it down like you mentioned about not being privvy to fucking eveyrthing and saying anything on our mind. i saw this person talk about y2k which was a huge deal while happening bc it was the turn of the millenium (bruh were u even alive?) but this twitter user grew up in a super super SUPER religious household and was like why do ppl make jokes about Y2K it was insanely traumatizing? though my first instinct was confused ive tried hard to like look more before i judge especially thanks to a friend of mine. turns out that with the further reading the more we found out he was just really traumatized; it was very common in religious households to be afraid of 2000. so we could have come at him with no understanding and he could have thought that everyone had the same experience with that year that he did. his feelings sit precedent though but i think it was just very hard for him to fathom. 

i didnt reply bc he didnt need that and what could i have said? he’ll see what the truth is with exposure and unfortunately this was something he really did go through. 

and that’s what makes most people think others could be over the top. because it sounded ridiculous but then it was this huge traumatic thing that we could have never known about. so maybe when someone sounds like actually crazy they have an explanation? of course some ppl are just batshit or annoying but that’s anywhere not just leftists it’ just means more i guess when a ~~librul is annoyed~ but it can be easy to want to make fun of ppl too. lmao.  basically what i am saying is the internet? especially twitter? for leftists? in this economy? bitch it’s the wild west out here.

i am 29! idk if i said it or not. i am OLD u probably werent even born in the year i was talking about wah. i know not old-old or old at all but compared to you i’m due for a colonoscopy.

omg i hope u can get vaxxed soon! are you wfh rn? i hope ur also not in a bad state as in state state not state as in ur being :| bleh what a fucking time. it sucks that you have to fucking do work. well unless u like school. which i hope u do. i just assume everyone hates it cos i did lmao

was it the lindsay ellis drama? that bitch is dumb. if there was other drama oh wait the drama i was referring to it all happened on the same day. idk book twitter that well but i saw something from someone who was abt that shit and wowie! the american people are not that.....intelligent to put it lightly.

i’ll get better. ppl tell me they miss me and im like aw. i have insanellllyyy bad insomnia and a lot of stuff happened this year HOWEVER I SLEPT FOR TWO DAYS FOR 8 HOURS AT A REASONABLE TIME. im a new woman.  anyways you too! i hope ur not too burnt out with school. we just dont know when the burnout is or we just dont know we are burnt out until we are. the panaramiciccici hit and all the things i was ignoring kind of just fell on me and sooo much happened at once. and frankly it’s hard to take care of ourselves. lord. 

Like if you aren’t interested in expanding on the issue in a way that hasn’t been done before all you gotta do it like… spread resources and donate if you can. I dont see the point in having to say something about every issue especially if you (not at you specifically just in general) aren’t immediately impacted by the issue. Like is the 14 yr old white marxist named sarah on twitter really gonna have meaningful insight on anti-asian violence ?

this is part of why i cannot telecommunicate. i dont want to do shit on the internet. i am able bodied so i know that this time has been of such ease for other people. but mentally i just can’t. i don’t have a comment on hand like that and i hvae no desire to engage with ppl that way. i am a super super super solitary person but thats bc it’s MY time so when it’s like all this effort with other people i dont ever want to be alone. it’s the same with the way i approach filmmaking. it isnt a sole thing so i hate it not together. that’s part of how u can get so sucked in and repeat doom scrolling. i was in this webinar last may after [redacted] and this black woman prof said “read with a community and talk” because otherwise she said we are torturing ourselves. you can’t carry that weight all on your own. unfortunately i hate zoom, discord, slack, signal, whatsapp, facetime. you name it this panera has made it evi.. L

you make a really excellent point. i think the young young gen zers are really really just interesting because it’s like this whole new world for them with leftist politics and they just can’t grasp the horrors of the world and the kind of freedom being a leftist can bring. and so many people don’t grow out of it. those people so happen to be the “least productive” in terms of how much time they spend IRL withe these issues. naturally, younger kids are gonna have a harder time. they are not as mobile as well so the internet becomes this place. but then it’s this echo chamber. and many times just things posted without sources. and social media NEEDS that to exist.

i think of the irony of leftist kids on tik tok and while i am happy it’s reaching them it’s just....different. very different. the growth of social media is so good but also so fucking sad, it’s too much! i think the point about not writing everything is major. even i have to do this which is part of the disappearing.y ou need to detach and make sure your head is on straight again. but when you think eveyrone has to be privvy to every thought and you can’t just sit back....which twitter and social media doesn’t encourage. you have to join in. that’s often why when i have something to say it is dense because i don’t feel like repeating it. ever. lmao ust ever. i cant pay attn. social media is a fucking minefield for my brain u can get so lost in it and absorb it but once u start talking you may not be able to stop. 

i think a big part of that is it not being a leisurely thing but sort of just in our lives always. this sounds like a grandpa rant but ykwim. We dont have to see the same thing over and over again. And eventually it gets sincerely diluted or its diluted bc of capitalism or whatever. Or if theyre very young or maybe they don’t have like the greatest way of sharing the knowledge? then it can be butchered. I hope this is making sense...i’m talking beyoond the boring surface-level milquetoast shit. i see really ahistorical stuff on there from leftists (like this thing about NK + africa and it being a beneficial rship as opposed to a um not beneficial one. and it isn’t.  beneficial but this young black girl was talking abt it and noname rtd and i was like it’s just too complex. there’s no good/bad here just bc it’s not america. dont get me started on this.)

but Lol that was kinda off topic but I think what I meant in my last reply about not turning off the voice in my head is about when I consume media, not necessarily when I’m online talking about. Even if I have criticism for something, I’m usually pretty chill when consuming fandom content bc I think being serious online all the time is kinda boring. Like sometimes I’m analyzing theme and shit but really most of the time im memeing.

exactly.........gotta laugh. thats why sometimes im like i cant think lmao. unfrotunately i have been ARGUING with ppl on the internet for rly no reason when  i could have replied to ur very nice fun wholesome message. i love torture. i miss memes.

“ i think the people who get the least enjoyment out of that are those so obsessed with getting upset with anyone thinking outside of their lines as if it equates to them “ EXACTLYYYYY

kekekekeke im glad u got it. it’s like with conservatives throwing around snowflake. now im beginning to question who the real complainers are. 

LMAO exactlyyyy. i posted a screenshot of this writer from twitter saying that exact thing. Like first of all, I’m...an adult? and if you are as well uh? i’m sorry for you but are we 12? But how is it affecting u this viscerally? And if it does why dont u...do...research? pihgofuaipoajghou but honestly everything u said. we’re trained to go into it with nothing. i was only around ur age when i started to get more serious about this stuff but you’re like lightyears ahead of where i was at 21. did i say this but i’m in iww and literally i can tell u in 2016 i did not think 2019 me would be in a union bc i told my friend in a train station that we don’t need unions. i was 23...but the thing is i didnt know what i was talking about. at all. and i knew i didnt know and she knew i didnt know and now i am the clown.

also yes at critical engagement. i had to learn so much through experience and this is tuff that i coudlnt be shielded from. there’s an empathy you kinda have to develop and this understanding that you move through the world as this person who is “nowhere and everywhere; nothing and everything” so i’ve always had to think about things differently just to survive. that’s also what can drag a lot of people towards it like theres so many black kpop fans bc i think a lot of the pain in SK can be mirrored (sort of) through our history. and theres currently a history now but it had to be forged. uh what was my point oh yea however i wouldnt have been able to move further if i didnt have my background to go off of  bc i knew something was off when i started getting into all these things (ill give u a hint) but if i had no prior knowledge and didnt have to think about it then the critical approach is either stale or stupid. 

i had to research but i dont understand how ppl are so bold with little to no research and understanding? thhey just inherently know with also like ZERO experience in what they need experience in. engaging critically means “how i see the world” with dashes of trying to be open adn understanding or whatever. actually that’s another thing like being afraid of criticizing things bc theyre foreign to you so u give it a pass (like we discussed) but it doesnt hAVE TO BEEEE JUST REAAAAAD and then take all the info ur teensy brain and apply it. be a normal human being and dont be fucking rude and racist. thats it! u can complain abt literally anything without being a dick.

as we start with LW and end with LW.....what do we think (i asked this already) omg please share wbl thoughts i THINK i know what ur talking about. well it could be two things; their rship when they came back and the physicality and then pei shou yi. i almost dont even want to use my brain to fucking look at that. i think wbl can get away with more bc of visual~*~*~* reasons (like literally, the look of the show. there’s more space to get lost in the frames. many thai dramas are a lot more literal? this isn’t the right word but it’s very heavily character focused particularly bc of $ i think) though good production also underscores flaws so i am also wrong. but like do u know what i mean? u have to kinda focus on it? or maybe it’s just cos like.....ur so used to it in thai bl idek. i’ve seen tw bl ofc. 

look i swear i will justify this forever bc there are some things we miss right but if u feel like someone’s a bad actor....theyre bad. it’s about tone movement etc etc etc and since most thai bl productions have 0 interest in that....well. they take these newbies and put them in these situations. we dont understand thai but if we see them and we’re like “wow this is really bad” then they’re bad lmao. IDC i will never be like cos idk what theyre saying NO WHY HE LOOK LIKE A ROBOT???????? DOES HE EMOTE? why is he CRYING WITH NO TEARS? and it’s not even a total requisite to cry with tears(i mean for me it is) but it’s just like what is happening on ur face right now young man????????

painful.

the inflection stuff is very valid ooh good point tho but that’s only a part of the piece. plus we get used to the way they communicate. like the ppl from sotus were prtty bad. i dont like that show but thats an ex of ppl liing the actors and the person i thought was better other ppl dont think that? well apparently hes a shitty guy but. um. so when theres decent acting its so glaring.

although i must say even tho i dont care for 2gether anymore and would never like to be reminded about its existence (only bc i just cringe lol) i honestly....didnt think bright was a bad actor? but people keep saying he is and i am much more inclined to believe them than myself. though i am not often dickmatized that could have been it. until he opened his mouth and ruined it and then i stopped paying attn.

although honestly i’m so much more critical than i could be positive. i have ben stumped for the last day about how i wasnt mad at his acting in the show. is it me? is it him? who’s......the wrong one.....(me) 

oh shit they have been denied? i haven’t been paying attn to whats been going on recently. i just got into it on MDL because of snowdrop. sometimes i literally cannot engage bc ill just be like alright well im black so this power button in my head is going off when ppl talk abt that shit. back in the day when kpop jawns were saying some real outta pocket anti black shit (now everyone is slick with it) it’d always be THEY DONT HAVE GOOGLE THEYVE NEVER SEEN A BLACK PERSON but really it’s like no...maybe they are just racist? that’s ok too.

also the past 2 weeks have been um atrocious bc how fucking easily people fell into the pit of white supremacy and started to turn their ire towards black people and making a competition between our groups just like they wanted. it’s not about the women who are dead anymore, who were sex workers, their womanhood, being asian, being poor anymore. it’s about how much black people get attention and why people only pay attn to us. i am not feeling very generous this week for ppl to excuse that hsit.

on a lighter note, ppl say that abt the whole husband and wife thing. i dont know how to explain how angry that shit makes me but maybe it’s because i do not want to think of my body in relation to a fucking penis at all hours of the day. if bls could kindly not do that it would be nice lmao 

yes there are a lot of those. who are only there to gawk lmao. and just idk worship bc of the cult of personality thing bc of how weird and open they have to be as actors. some of the others are people who /think/ theyre really smart (i think im asmart but i also think i am very dumb and i have adhd to prove that MEDICALLY!!!) but are actually not? or their observations arent great? or idk if they are they arent interesting? but i think well..........we have more refined palettes :P

jk also theres just different personalities. you and  i mesh more bc we have a lot of the same beliefs and are coming from the same place. that makes it easier to understand as well. i really try to remember that but some people are really weird so. again just...the perception of certain things even down to acting skills. but i also dont like.......believe this genre can really do anything at all. on one hand i want them to do it right bc it’s a piece of work so they should. be proud of it. cos most things arent advancing us bc representation and culturalism are a lie bla bla. it’s just that when the depictions are negative or not done well it adds to the problem as opposed to the things that are well done are fairly benign and can’t really pull us back (perf example is the black panther film. i woudl definitely not say it was transgressive as a literal work but visually it’s just stunning. and it’s sad that it’s stunning and surprising but still with basically an all black cast of mostly dark people abd like what it means in the zeitgeist yes. it’s also just a good movie. but it’s still imperialist prop and unfortunately and this is fucking pathetic to say it “opened eyes” in other countries where they hate black ppl and ignore their own racialized minorities HENNYWAYSSSS a better ex is moonlight except moonlight isnt mainstream and is indie tho...still thru a funnel of capital bc a24 but who cares bleed the fuckers dry is my motto. my point is moonlight is both a great work and doesnt bring any failures to the table and its existence helps in ways outside of art but they arent the defining things giving us material advancement sooooo i mean it’s complex (this is my conclusion to everything um guys it’s complex) 

er i had one more point in conjunction to above. oh yea so i like dont need all these extra things to make it progressive. like people really want more women in the show and i am honestly like i really dont. i dont want them to actively do this. if they cant do it naturally then let someone else do it. i am not asking for more bc i dont want it from them. when something comes along i embrace it but i do not see why women should be represented when the genre RELIES on patriarchy. there is no complete satisfying existence for the women in these series. i dont want it. i dont ask people to show us~*~* or respect~* like fuck no the people who make it make it and hopefully more will make it in the future but i will not beg bc THEY DONT WANT TO DO IT SO WOULD FORCING IT MAKE IT BETTER? just fucking leave them out entirely. that’s the answer if theyre gonna make nasty female characters then those bitches can geaux. we have other plcaes to be. booked. and. BUSY!

[you-guys--are-losers]

Hey I know this is a difficult one, but could you write one where MJ cheats on Pete? The resolution is completely up to you

//Um, are you kidding??? Thank you SO much for sending in this prompt, I love angst! Stay safe and healthy, darling, and I hope you enjoy! 

Stretched Too Thin

Summary: How much weight can a spider’s silk bear? 

Characters: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones

Wordcount: 2,603

Warnings: HEAVY Angst, Cheating, Hurt

“We never kissed.” 

Peter never thought that his life would bring him here: to the center of the apartment he just bought with MJ, standing in the middle of all of the piled boxes and the orange glow from the streetlamps outside the window. A feeling of emptiness sinks in his chest, and it’s more painful than any injury he has ever sustained while running around with the world on his shoulders. 

At least when he is hurt while fighting, there is blood welling from the wound or the throbbing of a bruise: something to remind him he is still alive. As Peter stands here now, he feels like he is floating, tangled in webbing and bobbing above the ground. He can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think as the hollow numbness in his chest spreads to flood him with nothingness from head to toe. 

It feels cold. 

“We never even met more than three times, and we didn’t… Do anything. We just talked.” 

Peter is looking anywhere but his girlfriend, who is standing two feet away but somehow feels much farther. He knows what he will see if their eyes meet: he will see her face in all of its constancy. He will see dark eyes locked on his own, searching. He will see a carefully composed mask, separating emotions from the truth that is on her lips. 

It is the face he has always loved for its honesty, that has now been forever changed by that same lust for truth. 

“When?” 

He doesn’t remember planning on saying the word, but when it tears from his throat it is husky and constricted, more like a cough than a word. 

The answer meets the air quickly, like a bullet from a loaded pistol. Peter has dodged plenty of those, but he knows that these will land and leave scars forever. 

“Two weeks ago. While you… While you were in Cairo.” 

Another threat, another battle. The perfect place to hunt a Scorpion, and another victory to wear on his chest for his effort. But is it worth it, compared to what he has lost for his time? 

He does not ask anything else, but MJ is speaking anyway. The words are heavy but swift as they leave her lips, each another blow. 

“It was the DA in the Kleinfield case.” 

Peter does not move, blinking blankly as he registers the name of MJ’s latest client. The dusty floorboards of the apartment squeak beneath his feet as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He remembers the night they first moved in, sweeping the broken glass and carpet fibers from the wood and putting a blanket over boxes as a tablecloth for their Chinese takeout. He remembers falling asleep in MJ’s arms on their frameless mattress, the sheets slipping off the corners and the chill not quite reaching them so long as they were tangled together. 

He’s cold now. 

“It was a case that I… That I didn’t believe in. They come sometimes, and as a Public Defender you can’t turn them down.” 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to talk about this stuff. Attorney-client privilege.” 

“This is more important than my work, Peter.” 

“Or it’s just getting easier and easier for you to betray people’s trust.” 

There is quiet between them now, and it is not the contemplative, easy silence that he and MJ have perfected to a tee. He knows he’s struck a nerve, and something in Peter pangs with guilt. He never wanted to cause her pain… He remembers looking upon her the first time they kissed, at the worry that had creased her brow at the blood weeping from his cuts, and swearing to himself that he would do his best never to put that expression on her face again. 

Maybe he wasn’t the one who needed to worry. 

“We talked after the case.” There is something tight in her voice now. It reminds Peter of a clenched fist. She is not going to swing with it if she can help it; she will stay calm. The rational one. Always careful, planning her next step. 

Then how the hell did this happen? 

“He… His arguments were clean, honest. He didn’t use cheap emotional appeals or play dirty. I fought my hardest because it’s my job, and he respected that, but he also saved me from having to go home knowing I’d let a guilty woman walk.” 

“So we met for coffee.” 

Peter draws in a sharp breath, turning his back on her. There is a stabbing pain in the back of his throat as he listens, his own hands balling so tightly that his nails jab into his palms. If he’s not careful, his super-strength might cause him to draw blood. Maybe he doesn’t have to be careful. Maybe he can give up control over this one thing; after all, she wasn’t careful. God knows he should be allowed a slip-up. 

“He invited me, and we went to a cafe. We sat, drank coffee. Talked. About work first, then writing, then a few other things. I only went one more time after that, and that was it.” 

“And did he ask you to come again?” 

Peter’s voice is quiet, composed again. The words are terse. MJ draws in a breath, and then she speaks again in a tone matching his. 

“Yes. I said no the couple times he texted after, and then he stopped messaging. Nothing happened, Peter. I’m not proud of it, but it didn’t mean anything.” 

“I’ve known you a long time,” Peter breathes, turning back. Her feet are clad in the Spider-Man slippers that May bought her as a joke last Christmas, and Peter doesn’t look anywhere else. However, the tension she holds in her body extends all the way down to her toes.

“I’ve never known you to say anything you don’t mean.” 

A beat. 

“You have every right to be angry.” 

“Thanks for reading me my rights. Good to know the law is on my side even if you aren’t.” 

For the first time, the tension she is holding creeps to her voice. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake, Peter. I know it’s my fault, I know that sorry won’t make it better. But… I am.” 

“I thought it didn’t mean anything, so what do you have to be sorry for.” 

“Peter.” 

His eyes finally snap up to hers, and it is just as he predicted. They bore into him, deep and dark and piercing. He can see the tangle of hurt and frustration that gleams within them, and her brow is furrowed the same way it is when she is looking over documents for her work, trying to figure out how to make them say what she wants to. 

Well, he won’t. It’s not rational, the pain and sadness that bubble up in him like magma from a split in the earth, but he can’t seem to force them down. Maybe it’s the exhaustion; maybe it’s the weeks spent in the blistering heat pursuing leads to stop a man who hurt thousands. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the hunger that is currently gnawing at his stomach. But he can’t keep it all in anymore, not after months of being called away to fight the next big, bad guy. 

He can’t keep it in, not even for her anymore. 

“Why the hell did you tell me?” 

His voice breaks as he looks at her, and he feels a painful stinging in his eyes that throbs in time with the lump in his throat like an accompaniment. 

MJ blinks, and for the first time Peter sees some indication that she is rattled. She makes her living anticipating questions, anticipating responses. He knows what it looks like when she is on the receiving end of an inquiry she isn’t prepared for. 

It doesn’t happen often. 

“It’s the truth.” 

The words are a reflex for her, spoken as if they are the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe they are, to her. A draft breezes through the house, probably something that snuck through the window frames. Peter is already colder than he has ever been, but the little breath of wind ruffles the few curls that have escaped MJ’s messy bun, the ones that are lit orange by the phosphorous lamps. Goosebumps rise on her arms beneath her ratty, Columbia University t-shirt. 

The urge to offer her his jacket is overwhelming, but Peter manages to resist it as the silence stretches on. 

“So you didn’t tell me because you thought you owed it to me,” he murmurs, his voice starting soft. As he continues speaking, it rises slightly in pitch, and though he is not yelling, he cannot keep the pain from his voice. 

“You didn’t tell me because it’s the next step to rebuilding, to moving on. You told me to make yourself feel better.” 

“Peter, you know how I feel about-” 

“About truth? Yeah, I do. You worship it.” 

“Don’t interrupt me.” 

MJ’s eyes have narrowed slightly, and Peter knows this look. It is the same one that crosses her face when a witness is being evasive on cross-exam. 

“I screwed up, Peter. I hurt you, and that’s something I… It’s not what I ever wanted. You can be angry. But don’t speak over me.” 

“So that’s where you draw the line?” 

“What?”

“That’s the boundary you can’t cross? You can have an– an emotional affair with someone, you can text and talk on the phone and meet up with someone behind my back, but the moment I cut you off, that’s where your tolerance runs out?” 

MJ steps towards him, and there is anger in her eyes now. It is desperate, wild, defensive. It doesn’t look that far from sorrow, really. But Peter can tell that she’s clinging at it with the same claws she uses to grasp for truth for those who deserve it, to drag the truth, bloody and bruised, out of the cracks and caves it hides in and into the light. 

“That’s not a valid argument, Peter, and you know it. Those two things aren’t comparable. It’s a fallacy of logic.” 

“That’s your problem with what I’m saying?” 

He takes a step closer, too, and his voice rises to pure, broken desperation as his shoulders slump. 

“I can tell you I’m hurt and frustrated and-and you’re concerned with the validity of my argument’s premises?” 

“No. I can tell you’re overwhelmed and lashing out, and I’m trying to focus you on where that hurt really comes from.” Her voice is collected, but only just; her eyes are pleading, but she has not let down the wall she had up the moment he walked in the room. 

“I’m not one of your witnesses, MJ!” 

The statement bursts from him, and for some odd reason Peter almost feels like laughing as he brings his hands up between him, clutching with clawed fingers at the air as if he is trying to grip onto nothing. 

“You can’t set me up in front of you to extract what you want me to say!” 

“I’m not trying to do that, Peter! You’re not a witness, I’m not– you’re so much more than my work to me, Peter. I love you.” 

“If I’m more than your work, then how did this happen?” 

“I was alone, Peter!” 

The words burst from her lips, and they’re the first thing Peter can tell she really did not mean to say. In an instant, his face clears of emotion. Everything just feels heavy, as if the effort of even maintaining an expression is too much. 

“I didn’t mean to say that.” 

“No, keep going.” His words are monotone, robotic.

A pause, in which the only sound is the rattling of the thin glass windowpanes and the whining of the house’s old, weary bones. 

“I… I missed you, Peter.” 

“I was gone for three weeks.” 

“Please let me talk.” 

Peter purses his lips, eyes not leaving her face. There is something pleading in it now, something that twists his heart like a dagger to the chest.

“I… I know it was only three weeks. But I just-” MJ’s face tenses, and her lips shrug downwards as she swallows, trying to find the words. 

“I missed you before that. You’re so selfless, Peter, and I’ve always struggled with the fact that I’m… I’m never going to be able to match how good you are.” 

Peter feels the stinging in his eyes intensify. His face is cold, unfeeling. 

“Always helping, always putting your life on the line. Morocco, Berlin, Egypt, Italy, you just– You change the world every day. And when you come back, I can see the ghost of the parts you give away to those people.” 

Marble. He is marble. 

“And I help people, I’m not trying to diminish that. But it isn’t–it’s not black-and-white, it’s not… It’s not simple. I don’t get to leave the people I helped, knowing I made their life better.” 

Tears spark in her eyes, and she does not bother to address them as one slips free. Her face does not change. “I get to be told that… That I’m helping the villains. The ones who did it, and who are trying to get away with it. For all the good people I help, there are the ones who are guilty, and I’m-I’m good, Peter. I’m good at what I do.” 

“Good for you.” 

“Please.” 

The streetlamps turn the tears the color of liquid gold, orange and glowing in the dim light. 

“I couldn’t look myself in the eye in the mirror. I couldn’t look at all of the things that… That were here, reminding me of high school and college and the person who wanted to make the world a better place, not turn cheaters and liars and oppressors back into it.” 

“So I told Harry about it. I told him, and I… I let things go farther than they should. I did it. I did it, because I couldn’t look into the eyes of the man I love and tell him that– that for every bad guy he’s put away, there’s one I’ve released.” 

Her voice breaks, and Peter finds himself taking a step closer. He wants to wrap his arms around her, let her bury her face in the crook of his neck so that her curls tickle his cheek. He wants to watch one of the Planet Earth documentaries that they watch after a bad day, to eat cannoli from their favorite bakery tangled up in the quilt May gave them for their five-year anniversary. 

He wants to look into those eyes, through which hope pierces the tears, and to tell her that everything is okay. 

But he’s tired… So tired. The kind of tired that life inspires and nothing but time can erase. 

And even then, there’s still a smudge on the paper. 

Peter stares into her eyes for one moment, the broken feeling in his chest only growing like a fault line to his heart. He catches his breath, and then he is turning, shrugging back on the shoes that he had slipped off by the door. 

“I’m going to May’s for the night.” 

“Peter.” 

“I understand, Michelle.” 

“I know you do.” Her voice breaks then, and she doesn’t move. It is quiet for another moment longer. “But I was hoping…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. 

“I know,” he breathes, his hand lingering on the knob. He tries to swallow the pulsing lump in his throat, and the words that follow catch after the unsuccessful attempt. 

“I was, too.” 

Taglist: @eniemeanie @inlovewithtoomanythings @booksarelife-stuff @AlexanderThyGreat @flawless-tlc @heynowitsafangirl @but-saving-what-we-love @haurasha @friendly-spoodermin @lundya366 @nicolewithasoul @1am9root @spiderkaren

[quicklyseverebird]

Why I became politically activated (agitated), or why I became a Trump supporter.

All the cards on the table, I doubt anyone will read this, especially anyone to whom it might make a difference or change a mind.  This is a textual equivalent to shouting into the wind, and at the moment of writing these words, I don’t even know if I will post them anywhere.  Yet I find clarity in writing things out, and in light of the state of our country, I want to organize my stream of consciousness to see why and how I got here, to where I stand now, at this point of time.

I used to pride myself on my lack of political involvement.  I used to all but sneer when people got all worked up about political issues.  Such things were distant and had no seeming impact on my life, though I did my civic duty and voted whenever possible, because that’s what you do in a republic, and you have no right to complain about the results if you did nothing to affect them.

So, when Trump first mentioned that he was running for president, I just rolled my eyes and chuckled like anyone else.  He was vain, self-promoting and way too quick on the Twitter finger.  He’s no one I would want to have over for dinner, but now I’m glad he won and I hope he wins again.  I don’t think anyone else’s ego would have been able to weather the storm we’ve gone through over the past 4 years.  Especially not a politician, who survives mainly by going wherever the wind of public opinion blows.

But I’m not a Republican, so I can’t vote in their primaries, so when he rose to the top, I was as surprised as anyone else.  So, who was my other option?

Hillary Clinton, the poster child of political corruption and cronyism, whose scandals and crimes make a bigger volume than all the books she’s written explaining(complaining) about her loss.

2016 is when I had my political awakening and started to really look around at what was happening in the culture around me.  Perhaps it was because I was a parent to a child on the cusp of adolescence who would soon start to be immersed in it.  What I saw terrified me.

America had a rising group of Nazis infiltrating our culture.  And I don’t mean the stereotypical skin heads we all revile and view with disgust.  And I don’t mean the paltry 10-11k white supremacists in our country of 365 million (per Anti-defamation League data).  No one took them all that seriously, because their bigotry was all too obvious, easily exposed, and they were, quite frankly, too few to matter.

No, I mean a real group of extremists who were Nazi’s in all but name.  Who actually made a point of labeling anyone who disagreed with them a Nazi, in fact.  Who with seeming ignorance of the historical irony of their actions, re-enacted every deed performed by the black and brown shirts of pre-WWII fascist Europe.  They worked to shut down free speech (of anyone whose position differed from their own), attacked and intimidated anyone who challenged them with threats physical, verbal, professional and political, advocating literal book burning, public destruction of property, and most sneaky of all, enacting a new form of acceptable racism into a form that some have compared to a state-sponsored cult or religion.  I saw the blossom in 2016, and now I am seeing the fruit.

A couple weeks ago, I watched, in horror, live on television as the Krystal Naught was reenacted in my own city and cities across the country.  Since then I’ve seen these groups claim territory, terrorize and destroy businesses and residents’ homes.  Most often—again in seeming unconscious irony—those belonging to the very people they claimed to be fighting in support of.  The term terrorist is apt, as well as zealot.  They subvert groups of well-meaning people to their own political ends and rain down terror on anyone who disagrees with them, up to and including actual physical harm, and provoking situations that wind up in death.

They are left wing, just as the Nazi’s were, born from a communist/Marxist foundation with an emphasis on race, instead of class, as their dividing point.  It’s not the proletariat and bourgeoisie anymore, it’s <insert minority group> vs white.  The irony that most of these individuals are themselves, white, seems—of course—to be lost on them.  Fascism is socialism with a nationalistic and racial focus.  It was invented by a student of Marx as a way of making socialism feasible.  Apart from the nationalistic bent, this group follows the same formula.  Anyone who disagrees with them is a Nazi or some kind of “-ist” or “-phobic.”  It’s a marvelous rhetorical device.  Say you’re not racist, well that that’s proof that you are!  Try and bring up a factual point that disagrees with them, and they slap you with a label and claim through intersectionality politics that they don’t have to listen to you or any facts you might have to offer because you are from the “wrong group.”  They only have to listen to details or views on an issue from a group appointed and designated by their ideology.  No one else could ever offer a differing position.  And those from the group in question who DO disagree with them?  Well obviously, they are “race traitors” and their views don’t matter either.  After all, a person is only a part of the “right group” if they agree with these people.  If this took place in Nazi Germany, they would have been called “Jew-lovers.”  I’ve literally watched people of color assaulted, abused, called racial slurs, by white people.  (yes, there’s that irony again.)  I’ve watched POC being told by these individuals, unaware of their actual skin color, to check their white privilege because obviously they have to be white if they disagree with their position.  I see this inherent and rampant racism every time I post my own views and watch as people assume I’m a white man because…I hold the “wrong view.”  Why would race even matter to whether or not what is being said is true or accurate, unless you're a racist?  They have all their groups in neat and tidy boxes, with their assigned positions and “proper,” “permitted” viewpoints and anyone straying from the herd must be culled.  I’ve watched them tear down statues of the men who gave them their rights, and statues of the men who freed slaves or died to free them, even black heroes!  They’ve torn down statues built to commemorate abolitionists in the name of…racism…  They paint a street, claiming that it is free speech, but when someone else paints on the same street, it’s a hate crime.

They are, in fact, the most racist people in our country, and they revel in it because they feel it’s justified.  Place any of these people in Nazi Germany and they would be chomping at the bit alongside the Fuhrer at the "outrages" the Jewish race had inflicted on their country and the "privileges" they possessed.  Their racism is “justified!”  It is “right!”  I have no doubt that, if our skin color didn’t already distinguish us from one another, the mobs roaming our cities now would be demanding something akin to pink triangles or stars of David be worn by the designated parties.  We can see their racism clearly wherever they find a position of power and are allowed to organize themselves.  We watched an utterly self-unaware Chaz/Chop re-institute Jim Crow laws and create race-designated locations, parks, gardens, etc.  Whenever they find themselves in power, they organize themselves along racial lines.  Given enough time, they would probably have created separate bathrooms and drinking fountains.

Like the Nazi’s of Germany, they thrive on division and fear.  It gave the Germans a sense of purpose and pride coming out of the Great Depression following WWI.  In today’s world, they never would have risen so far or so fast if not for the economic devastation following Covid-19 and the many frustrated, unemployed, frightened people it left in its wake.

And they do it all in the name of “racial” or “social” justice, and justify their rampant racism that way. They excuse their racism in the name of…racism.  It leaves one wondering if these are either the most historically ignorant and self-unaware people in human history, or if they are literally evil.  And I don’t use the term evil hyperbolically.  I don’t mean mustache-twirling villains in black.  No one really evil believes they are evil.  The Devil himself thought his actions justified.  Evil always justifies itself, masks itself as good, and this allows them to do even greater harm, for no one does more damage than an intellectual fool who believes they are doing the right thing.  The only thing greater than mankind’s tendency towards evil is our ability to convince ourselves that it is good.  And oh, they lie, and they lie, and they lie.  They lie about events where they were the aggressors.  They lie and even post videos of the event proving they are lying, boasting about their lies, because they know that they won't be held accountable, and their lie is being spread faster than the truth, and the people in authority will allow this.  Far from being counter-cultural, they are now a state-sponsored, state-supported non-theistic religion.  The similarities with a cult are creepy.

The truth is, they aren't interested in eliminating racism. In fact, as we can see from these protests, they make racism worse!  And they do so deliberately.  Why?  Because they aren't interested in lives, no matter the color.  They aren't interested in actual justice.  More black lives alone have been killed by these protests, by actual BLM and Antifa people, than unarmed black men were killed by cops across the country in all of 2019.  Perhaps we should defund/disband them.  They are militarizing racism the same way the Nazi's did, to gain power.  It's not about lives, it's not about actual violence or inequality, it's about the Movement. It's about gaining power and influence in society.  And it is working the same way it did back in Germany.  When you have literally white, leftist people attacking and calling black people racial slurs because they don't agree with their positions, and then claiming they are against racism....

So, let’s see here.  We have an international organization born from the German Communist Party, with localized cells but a unified ideology, cooperative networks, shared finances, a common uniform, trademarked logos and merchandise, who ferment racial tensions to gain political power, create divisions between communities, seek to destroy anyone who would stand in their way through threat of violence and intimidation, destroy history, hide in screens of “useful idiots” seeking to be a part of a cause that they stir into “protests” so they can create further unrest and violence, all so they can gain power for their ideology.  And all the while, claiming to be the victims of the people they attack so they can claim the moral high ground.  Self-defense in the face of the mob is “racist.”  Protecting your property is a sign of “privilege” that must be purged, even as they loot, burn, destroy homes and businesses of the people whose lives they claim to want to protect.  

Explain to me how, exactly, they aren’t exactly like the Nazi’s before the rise of Hitler?  They are a socialist organization, with a racial element that use intimidation, threats of violence, doxing, actual violence and harm to anyone who disagrees with them or stands in their way to gain political and social power.  A literally evil ideology that has caused more death and suffering to mankind than any other in history, that has failed everywhere it was implemented.

And all the while the media propaganda praises them, just as they did Hitler (who himself won Time’s Man of the Year award, recall).

If you want to know if you are one of the good guys, then ask, which side supports freedom of speech?  Which supports liberty?  Which side doesn't advocate for violence as a means to their ends?  Which side are literally attacking their opponents?  Are people better off when you are in control, or not?  I think we can look at the smoldering ruins of our cities to decide where these extremists stand.

So, why did I become politically activated/agitated?  It wasn’t some YouTube channel “radicalizing” me.  I am not a MAGA fanatic or Trump fan.  What motivated me was seeing the rise of a new, evil authoritarian power in America.  They wear a different mask, but their actions speak for themselves.  They are the REAL neo-Nazis.  It doesn’t matter what they call themselves now.  You can change your name, but your deeds remain.  Your title doesn’t define you; your actions do.  If it quacks like a duck….  The Right didn’t pull me to their side, you on the left drove me here in fear for my life and the future of this country.  The fear is only growing now as I see official after official bow (sometimes literally) to these groups.  If they gain any more political power, I shudder to think of the world my daughter will inherit.  Will she be the new Anne Frank?  The Right isn’t the one making threats or calling me names if I disagree with them.  You are.  They don’t threaten my life or my family’s future.  You do.  They aren’t the people approaching with devastation in their wake.  You are.  You activated me.  I can only hope enough other people will see you for what you are and be activated as well.  God help us all if you ever gain power.  Some of them are literally already calling for anyone who disagrees with them to be imprisoned in "re-education" camps.  No lie.  This cannot happen.  Never again.

[snake-noodles]

Hidden Away

Chapter 1

TW: Minor character death, Gun Violence, Blood, Body Horror,  implied mutation, implied body horror. Please tell me if I missed anything!

Words: 3,000

Read on AO3

----

> Please insert Passcode

> ********

> Processing…

> ...

> Welcome Back to Lobotomy Corp, LOGAN

> You have 2 new messages. Would you like to read them?

>YES

>Understood. Loading…

> "4:42 AM, message from A.

Greetings, Logan. As you are well aware, we have finally captured our newest abnormality. As we are not yet sure what it is capable of, we have given you the proper information and materials to help you not die when entering it's containment.

Thank you, good luck. Your information will be sent shortly."

> "4:44 AM, message from IT computer.

Newest abnormality.

Name: Currently Unknown.

Identification Code: O-01-62(H)

Basic Information: Unknown.

Found in a highly wooded area. Is not fond of employees.

It's danger level is HE.

This abnormality is capable of containment breach.

This abnormality is capable of employee alteration.

Qliphoth Counter: ???

Attack Type: ???

Abnormality Work Favor

Instinct: TBD

Insight: TBD

Attachment: TBD

Repression: TBD

Origins Unknown."

Logan rolls his eyes. "Welcome back", as if he could ever leave this place. No, the only way to leave after entering is dying. Not even those who retire can leave. But, well, he isn't going to complain. He knew what was coming the moment he got accepted for this job. Whether he dies from an abnormality, by the hands of another, or by the hands of nature, he would die inside of this building.

But he has already accepted this.

Swiping his hand, the messages are stocked away for later. He stands still for a moment, looking around the room he was given in this prison of a workplace.

It wasn't bad, really. Patton had complained about it being too bland for his tastes- and he could see why. The walls were a blue-grey and the floors were hard and cold. You were allowed to decorate, but he only thought to grab what he absolutely needed when he was accepted for this job. Of course, he has a few items of sentimental value, but his dorm looks more like a prison cell than a room someone would live in. Not to mention the only windows in this damned place show projections. He knows this is the life he chose, but he wonders often when he'll get depressed from the lack of sunlight. Or when he'll go insane from the sanity drain of the abnormalities. Or when he'll get killed for making the wrong move.

Maybe he's already depressed. He wishes he could change the color. As much as he loves blue, he knows that bright colors would help better with his mental state, even if he prefers cool colors. Maybe he could convince A to let him order some things. Patton would like that, too. And… Roman.

...

He sighs, adjusting his glasses and straightening his tie, slowly standing from his office chair and walking to the door. Pressing his hand to the sensor, the mechanical doors open for him, and he makes his way into the hallway, where plenty of other dorms are. Most dorms are meant to hold 2 or more people, but since Logan was the best human on his team, he got special privileges. He walks to the elevator, going down into the large building where the information team is settled.

The building is absolutely massive. With the dorms, offices, and the apothecaries scattered on the top floors, while the abnormalities stay underground. There were the employee containment cells as well, when one of the workers lose their sanity from an abnormality. There's the morgue, and the body chute. That's self explanatory. There's the lobbies on the different floors for the separate teams. They did a good job at making it look like a nice environment. It's horrible, though.

The elevator finally slows to a stop, the elevator shaking as the heavy doors open. He steps out into the Information Team lobby, seeing coworkers hanging around, waiting for their next tasks, and others rushing to and fro. Some coming back from their abnormality work, and others wearing fake courage as they go to collect more information.

Logan ignores it all though. He has a job assigned to him. And so, he walks out into the long hallway, brushing past other employees and reading the signs before stopping at the mechanical door labeled O-01-62(H). He's not exactly sure what to expect. He makes sure he has everything on him before he enters. Notepad, information file, gun… He should be set.

He raises his hand, letting the door scan him. The light blinks green, and the heavy door opens. He enters the containment to see the abnormality waiting for him with a smile. It isn't the first time he's seen one waiting for him with a smile. Won't be the last either.

The subject in front of him wasn't the most outrageous he's ever seen, though. In fact, it was rather tame compared to most of the others. What seemed to be a normal man covered in emerald scales. A snake eye, large claws, and some lizard like anatomy in his legs, as well as a long scaled tail. He had a longer neck, that was a little strange to see on someone so humanlike- but Logan is used to this stuff already. He wore nice clothes, and it reminded Logan of one of the other abnormalities.

"My, my, it's rude to stare." He smirks, showing fangs. Logan simply ignores it, taking out his notepad to start writing.

"Not a talker? How boring. First I'm kidnapped, and my kidnappers aren't even social." He dawls, resting a hand on his head. Logan briefly wonders where the extra limbs came from. But, he rolls his eyes. Kidnapping. As if Logan himself wasn't a victim in this thing too.

"You're rather calm compared to the last one. Have you been here longer? More used to the freaks here? Well, I suppose compared to Remus-" Logan's eyes widen slightly.

"How do you know about the other abnormalities? That information is classified, and you're not even allowed to see them." Logan stares.

"Oh so that got your attention? I have no idea what you're talking about, though! I never said anything." The abnormality giggles, snake eye glowing. And even though Logan knows that it's lying, for some reason, his brain wants him to believe it. He shakes his head, writing that down in his notes. He would not let himself panic.

"So you're a liar." Logan notes aloud. The abnormality laughs.

"Ohh, so smart. Wow, Logan, you must be a genius~! Are you gonna get a gold star for making such a good guess?" He smirks, stepping dangerously close to the yellow line. Logan's grip tightens on his pen ever so slightly, but he stays in his spot, writing down his notes.

"Just continue talking and this can be over with." Logan sighs, and the abnormality smirks, pacing around on its side of the room.

"Oh, you think you're safe once you get out of here? You took me from my home and keeping me in this room so I never see the light of day. If I escape, I'll be killed. And for what reason?" It steps forward, straightening its posture. "Because I'm not normal? Not human? I feel like I'm in the right to want revenge. What's next? Will you chain me down? Will you poison me? Tie me up? Burn me? I'd love to see you try."

Logan shifts slightly. The progress isn't going well. He needs it to go well. It has to go well. He cannot let himself drain.

"... You're right to feel like this." Logan says, and the reptile laughs, throwing its head back.

"Oh, that's a lie! Logan, you just want to get on my good side so you'll have a shiny sparkling reputation! It's no use lying to me. I can see everything." The snake smirks, eye glowing.

Shit, this isn't going well. Logan grits his teeth, finishing up his notes and turning to leave.

"Don't think you're safe just because you can leave this containment." It states, watching as Logan leaves without another word.

The moment he steps out and the doors lock, he sees employees with their weapons out, chasing after another employee whom failed with an abnormality. Typical.

The man was screaming, clawing at his hair and face, spouting nonsense and hurting others. And Logan doesn't hesitate to do his job. So without any second thoughts, he pulls out his gun, and shoots the man. It takes 3 shots before the screams go quiet. There's a beat of silence, before employees either go back to work, or go to their respective lobbies to try and not think about their dead coworker.

It was another thing Logan had grown used to, as horrible as it sounds. If an employee breaks, they cannot hurt others and damage any work. It disrupts the order. Really, he's doing a favor putting the poor souls out of their misery. He's just glad that panicked employee didn't murder anyone this time.

"Aw, what the fuck! He was a newbie you guys!" An AI shouts. One from one of the other departments. He looks over to the employee being reprimanded by… Remy, he believes. The AIs were strange. A was the only AI here that was not programmed with emotion. The others are… uncomfortably human. So much so that Logan often forgets that they're not real. Remy rants, dragging away the dead body past Logan, a trail of blood following behind. He blinks simply, going to his next task.

The day continues as normal. Or as normal as it can get here. Talking with abnormalities has become normal. He isn't attached to any of them, but a few seem to like him. He's not sure why. He's not the kindest on the team. He's horrible with attachment work as well. One reason he's not allowed to even go near some of the others. If he did, he'd die. Simple as that.

He finishes up his insight work with O-01-92(T) feeling oddly refreshed. He did come in at a good time, he supposes- she was in her smiling state. He looks down, seeing his next assignment, which was to talk with O-01-62(H) again. He purses his lips. Everything has been going fine so far, he believes he can do this, get information, send it to A and then he can better deal with it. He takes a deep breath, brushing down his jacket and getting to work. He walks down the long hallways until he once again reaches the room.

"Back already, Logan?" It smiles, pacing back and forth. Logan simply sighs. Better to just get it over with, he supposes.

"Yes, and we both know why."

"Really? Truly, I have no idea why. Care to elaborate for me?" He smiles, looking at his long claws. Logan stares for a moment, before sighing.

"I am simply here to gather information about you to better understand you and keep you under surveillance and contained." He states, straightening his posture.

"I must be a real threat." He snarls.

"That you are." Logan says, missing the sarcasm. "Normal people cannot know of your existence as well as any of the others if they want to live a happy life. They'd be ignorant, but at least they would not be living in fear."

The snake stares, unimpressed. "And your employees?"

"They know and accept the dangers that await them. If they're afraid, they should have not signed up for this job." He shrugs. The abnormality laughs.

"Perhaps you're right! This job did a lot of good for Virgil!" He slams his fist against the wall.

"... It didn't do Virgil any good. He simply wasn't ready."

The snake stares. "Yes, as I said… And you and the others let him turn into another freak to keep in captivity."

Logan shifts uncomfortably. This abnormality shouldn't know about the others. How does he know all of this? How does he know what happened to Virgil? He takes a breath, adjusting his glasses.

"That's neither here nor there. Right now, I need to gather information about you. Surely you want me out of here as soon as possible, correct?"

"Oh, of course not, Logan. I just looove seeing your face in this bland bland room. In fact, I'd love to talk to you some more! I'm sure there's so many interesting things to learn all about you." The snake spews out those words, sickly sweet on his tongue, acting as if the sugar of the words made him sick. "If you couldn't tell, that was a lie. This is dreadfully boring."

"... Right." Logan shakes his head, writing this all down in his notebook. The abnormality taps his claws against the metal walls. For a few seconds, the only sounds were the metal taps and the scribbling sound of pencil on paper. He still finds it strange how he has to write on paper when they've got so much advanced technology in this place. But that's besides the point. After he writes down the subjects behavior and general personality, he looks up.

"... If it's alright with me asking, are you cold blooded? You are very reptilian in appearance, so I'm just curious. And, if you get a nicer employee, they could accommodate your needs. If you're lucky, anyway." He starts, stopping himself short from rambling. The abnormality is silent before speaking.

"No, I- Yes, I am cold blooded. I cannot blink with my left eye. I have a forked tongue. But I am also different in certain aspects. But I don't feel like telling you. Have I satisfied your curiosity, smart guy?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Fascinating." He whispers, so quiet that the snake barely hears it as the employee writes it all down. He'd still need to learn about the abnormality's backstory and abilities, but for now these will do, and he can hopefully trade in his information to A later today.

He's snapped out of his thoughts though when the lights flash red a few times. The abnormality smiles, looking up. Logan doesn't leave. He's not allowed to when he's working with an abnormality.

"Seems a certain itsy bitsy spider is having a meltdown." The snake states. Logan purses his lips. How the abnormality knows all of this, he isn't sure. But hopefully he will know soon enough. He hardly notices that his time is up. It's strange- this went alot better than last time, and seemingly quicker, too. He would have thought the abnormality would try to rip out his throat, but he isn't complaining.

"Time's up already? Well, I'm sure you're needed elsewhere, little lamb." He laughs menacingly. "But don't worry, doll. I'm not going anywhere."

"Of course you're not going anywhere. There's nowhere else you can go. So, I'm not worried." And with that, he leaves the containment, making sure to lock the metal door behind him.

The day went a lot faster than he had realized. It was already time to clock out. He sees employees and agents leaving to soon be replaced with guards. And he's never seen them himself, but supposedly the deliverers to bring the abnormalities food. But, he doesn't wait around. He doesn't have to go to his dorm room, yet, so he wanders to the Control Team, seeing Roman reluctantly leave the room belonging to F-06-54(W), or Remus. Roman's very own brother. Though A didn't name him Remus, instead calling him 'The Duke'. Roman hated that they wouldn't call him by his actual name. Patton hated it too. Virgil was slowly being forgotten as 'Virgil'. And Remus was only known by Roman- the others only having vague stories and experiences prior to his… corruption. Logan stares, Roman quickly spotting him and putting on a dashing smile. It was hard to believe he was an employee here. At least Patton's job as a nurse made more sense- but Roman didn't seem like the type for this job at all. But he was surprisingly good. The abnormalities that favor attachment absolutely love Roman. And of course, he has never been purposefully hurt by Remus. In fact, Remus would probably meltdown and kill anyone that wasn't Roman.

Roman walks over, rubbing his arm.

"Rough day? You seem tired." He points out, swaying slightly as he walks.

"Do I? I hadn't noticed. We have a new abnormality, and… he's difficult. Not the worst I've dealt with, though." He shrugs. "Mostly… confusing."

Roman pats him on the back, maybe a bit too hard, but he doesn't seem to notice Logan's discomfort. "Specs? Confused by something? Unheard of! Surely you'll get it, bud! You're the best on your team, after all!" He smiles, pulling his hand away and swaying his arms as he walks with Logan.

"Oh, shut up." He rolls his eyes, sorting his papers.

"Say, are you hungry? Patton wanted to meet for dinner! I know you're a busy guy and all, but we can't have you passing out on us." He hums, looking over with hope in his eyes.

Logan opens his mouth to protest, but slowly realizes he hasn't eaten at all today. He was so absorbed in doing his work that he didn't think about actually using his lunch break. He sighs. "I suppose you're right. How irresponsible of me. As soon as I finish, I'm going to file my subject reports, though."

"Okay! Not gonna stop you. But let's not make Patty cake wait!" Roman laughs, taking Logan's hand and dragging him to the elevator, making him stumble over his own feet and curse under his breath. The brunette laughs, and the two are on their way.

In containment O-01-62(H), when all the lights are out, he changes his form, stretching out his now human fingers.

In the dark, his glasses catch the faint red light of the exit sign.

And he smiles.

>...

>... Information Sent!

> Thank you for your hard work, LOGAN. A report on O-01-62(H) will be written based on your information and be sent to you shortly.

> Thank you, valued employee!

[planetsam]

Prompt: Alex’s relationship with his heritage and race

“I’m done.” 

Alex looks up at the stack of papers that are dropped in front of him. Michael stands there with outrage on his features, chewing his bottom lip. Alex moves his computer to the side and looks from Michael to the form. Applications are done online but Michael likes pen and paper. He’s tactile. So he’s printed out the general application. Alex remembers him getting into all the colleges he applied to, mostly with full scholarships. He doesn’t think anything will be easier this time around. Him being done doesn’t mean the application is. 

“What am I supposed to check for race?” He demands, “there’s nothing there for alien!” 

Whatever Michael had checked as a teenager—actually Alex can’t speak to that. Maybe not having a box was just as upsetting then as it was now. But without a roof over his head or a support system, Michael had to pick and choose what he got upset about. With those things taken care of, maybe the hurt is new and fresh. And it’s one that Alex gets. That box doesn’t matter until it does. He stared at his own applications through a haze of confusion about everything. First when he was applying before he got shipped off and then when he finally went. They don’t have a box for ‘monster’ anymore than they have a box for ‘alien’. 

“What do you identify as?” He asks. 

“I identify as someone whose done with this bullshit,” Michael snaps. 

“You could leave it blank.” Alex offers. 

“I mean it’s gonna come up right? They talk about this shit on campus don’t they?” 

Alex can see the nerves for what they are. Michael hates the unknown. Which is somewhat ironic for a man who had very firm plans to fire himself into space on a homemade rocket. Michael has talked himself in and out of going to college for most of the last decade. But he’s staying. He’s staying and, as he puts it, he’s going to have to make something of himself on the planet. Though Alex points out that Michael has made something of himself, no matter how often Michael dismisses him for saying it. At some people Alex swears he’s going to wear him down. 

“You’re not going to be living on campus, unless you’re planning on moving out,” he says, “and you still look like you’re a teenager when you want to, so you’ll fit right in,” he leans back in his chair, “what do you want to tell them?” He asks. 

“I can’t just—“

“I’m not talking about what you can and cannot do,” Alex says, meeting Michael’s chaos with his own calm, “what do you want to do?”

Michael hesitates for a moment and then seems to fold slightly into himself, the way that he only does around people that he trusts. Alex knows being part of that group is a privilege. One he has every intention of keeping. 

“Tell them,” Michael mutters before shrugging off any melancholy, except for what lingers in his eyes. He swings a chair around and straddles it, “but I can’t so what do I tell them?” He says and it’s almost a whine, “am I caucasian?”

“You know those DNA tests are a massive conspiracy to collect biodata,” Alex says. Michael’s not satisfied with that answer, “tell them you don’t want t talk about it.” 

Michael looks at Alex sharply, taking in how his body language changes. Alex has been his greatest resource and his main source of comfort navigating the potential of going back to college. College, home, relationship—he doesn’t think he’d even want any of it without Alex but he certainly feels like he couldn’t do it most days. But something about the question seems to dig at Alex, though he’s doing a really good job at hiding it. 

“You don’t talk about it,” he says. 

“About what?” Alex asks and Michael can hear the lie in his voice. 

“What box did you check?”

Alex stiffens and Michael gives himself a mental high five for figuring it out fast. Except Alex stiffens and Michael kicks himself for not figuring out that this was something Alex didn’t want to talk about sooner. But Alex does this thing where he compares himself to everyone and then comes up with why his personal shit isn’t a big deal. Which is the most ridiculous thing Michael has ever seen. He doesn’t think his monsters growing up were any worse than the monster who Alex had to come home to every night. His own frustration because his heritage doesn’t exist on the form doesn’t mean Alex isn’t entitled to be frustrated. Shoulders still tense, Alex sets his pen down and looks at him. He’s more guarded than Michael has seen him in a while. Alarm bells go off in his head and Michael wonders if this is a line he’s not supposed to cross.

“Does it matter?” Alex asks.

“Only ‘cause it’s you,” Michael says. 

Alex sighs and closes his eyes.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Michael starts, reaching for the form but Alex puts his hand over it. Michael’s still not a hundred percent when it comes to looking at his hand. He’s always been more tan than Max and Isobel. “Alex.”

“Look, my mom left,” Alex starts slowly. Michael nods, “until 2016, same sex marriage was illegal in her tribe,” he continues, pressing his lips together, “that side of my heritage rejected me just as much as the other one,” he attempts as casual shrug that falls horribly flat, “besides my dad was reading all of them. Checking the white box was easier.”

The amount of information Alex gives in those few words makes Michael’s heart break for him. Of course Jesse Manes would object to Alex claiming his heritage. Jesse is the epitome of that kind of guy, but it has nothing to do with Alex and everything to do with his mom. And on top of that, Alex’s mom rejected him as well. It’s a load of shit that the one safe haven Michael’s ever had has managed to get rejected by all of his. Michael gets up and moves the chair around, sitting next to Alex at the table. He tugs the application back over and checks the box. If they don’t have alien, he can stand being in the same box as Alex on the stupid form. 

Next question. 

“Can I put my truck in place of my parents?” He asks. 

Alex works not to smile and looks at him. 

“Guerin.”

“I’m serious!” 

“Just finish filling it out,” Alex says.

“Fine but I’m putting the truck as my parents,” he says. 

[islamcketta]

What a week it’s been. Seven days ago at this time, my husband was with our dog, Rocky, at the vet for what would be his second to last visit and I was trying to decide how to tell our four-year-old son that the dog wasn’t coming home. The dog did come home, and we spent a tense 48 hours watching for the inevitable before we could get the second, final visit. And somehow, on Monday I did find the words to tell my son that Rocky was not coming home. He covered his ears and did not want to talk about it. As heartbreaking as this conversation was (as well as subsequent ones where I tried to make sure he knew he could talk to me when he was ready), it’s nothing compared to trying to explain racism to a small child, even as I’m still learning about it myself.

But the time for change is now. That’s why I finally took Ijeoma Oluo’s So You Want to Talk About Race off the shelf in my bedroom where it had been waiting too long to be read.

When my son was born, a friend insisted I read Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates. An excellent book, and a hard read in that early parenting time when my empathy for all humans was almost shattering, I learned a lot from Coates. But my reading of that book did not fix our society and really, it did not fix me either. And I won’t say that I’m fixed now that I’ve read (most of, I’ll finish the rest this afternoon) Oluo’s book, either, but So You Want to Talk About Race engaged me in a conversation I needed to have with myself and Oluo gave me both the language and the understanding necessary to try harder.

A Lexicon of Racism

Too much of my experience of the world these days comes from Twitter-sized synopses in which I either smile or rankle before moving on and forgetting. And while I’ve had a superficial understanding of the concepts of white privilege, intersectionality, and microagressions, I haven’t really put the work in to know what I could do about any of it besides feel guilty and try to not say ignorant things. Oluo helped me take that next step by unpacking what the words mean and what they look like in everyday life. She opens up ideas of how white people can start to confront and dismantle them in their own lives and in the lives of the people around them. She also speaks directly to people of color.

Two of the most impactful things Oluo helped me understand are the power dynamics of racism and the ways I’ve been failing to properly empathize with the experiences of people of color. They are not unrelated, but while I cannot dismantle the white supremacy inherent in our institutions (today anyway), I can breathe in her “basic rules” of determining if something is about race until they are a part of my body:

It is about race if a person of color thinks it is about race.

It is about race if it disproportionately or differently affects people of color.

It is about race if it fits a broader pattern of events that disproportionately or differently affect people of color.

Do any of those rankle? As a student of sociology, I had no trouble accepting the last two, but I really struggled with the first. Which meant I had to ask why. Where I’m at now (a few days into this process) is that I’ve been so gaslit about my own experiences (as a woman) that victim blaming is part of my body. My mechanism for feeling better about myself is trying to control every aspect of every situation so that I can never get hurt so if someone else gets hurt then clearly they failed to control something. Except that argument is as full of bullshit for people who are subjected to the abuses of a racist system as it is for women who are raped, assaulted, or harassed.

And the passing of a counterfeit $20 bill is never, ever a crime that should be paid for with a life.

The Beauty of Vulnerability

“Acknowledging us, believing us, means challenging everything you believe about race in this country. And I know that this is a very big ask, I know that this is a painful and scary process. I know that it’s hard to believe that the people you look to for safety and security are the same people who are causing us so much harm. But I’m not lying and I’m not delusional. I am scared and I am hurting and we are dying. And I really, really need you to believe me.” – Ijeoma Oluo So You Want to Talk About Race

I haven’t read White Fragility (yet), but I do know that when confronted with my own racism I more want to hide in a corner than confront my bad actions and I’m certain I’m not alone. In So You Want to Talk About Race, Oluo does the reader the kindness of opening up her own vulnerability. She both unpacks moments when she was not representing the values she espouses and experiences when she has been victimized by institutions and individuals. I’m deeply grateful for this approach, because by being so open and vulnerable with her readers, she made it much easier to be open and vulnerable back. Although she often says (correctly) that it is not the victim of racism’s job to educate the perpetrator, this choice is helping me examine both the problems with the system and also the ways in which I have perpetuated those problems.

The Structures of Power

As I mentioned, institutionalized racism was one of the hardest parts of this book to get my head around, I think because I was raised to believe in this American ideal of founding fathers who were looking out for all of us and who set up this great nation around some very laudable ideals. And now I have to interrogate all of that. We all do.

The police in my brain are here to “protect and to serve” and that’s a comfortable place to return to when I want to ignore one more abuse or death at their hands. But I remember the way the teenagers in my home town were hounded by the police—and we were white. When you entrust someone with a job, you have to be very careful how you frame that job. Even if you think about little things like quotas for traffic tickets. That’s not the police looking to stop people who are breaking laws, that’s a worker trying to check off a list of tasks and they’ll enforce traffic laws at whatever level they can until that list is complete. Now add a government and a legal system that was designed to protect the property of white men. I don’t know enough about what makes the police act as a military force against people of color (though I’m thinking about it); I do think they are acting to protect a status quo that should not be protected.

I don’t need to watch the video of George Floyd’s death to know that kneeling on the neck of a human being (ever, not to mention until they die) is not ever okay. But when John T. Williams was shot down in cold blood by a Seattle police officer, I used personal knowledge of his behavior to make excuses for the officer. When the pregnant Charleena Lyles was shot and killed three miles from where I lived with my almost two-year-old, I was sickened yet did nothing. In truth, those cases formed a pattern where the police failed to place the value of a human life above the value of their own inconvenience.

It’s beyond time that we confront what is wrong with policing in this city and this country, that we dismantle the current system, and that we instead build something that serves everyone. Something that treats human lives (of all colors) with value. I believe strongly that this starts early in life when we must give all children the same opportunities. I also believe that we have to stop treating 12-year-olds like Tamir Rice like it’s too late for them because their bodies are big. That no one should die for selling cigarettes, as Eric Garner did, or for being in a house where drugs were suspected of being sold, as was the case with Breonna Taylor. Black lives are human lives and black lives matter.

What I’m Telling My Son

The day my (then two-year-old) son asked for a Playmobil tactical van, my heart sank. But he thought it was a police car and he wanted it and I wanted him to have what he wanted. Now he asks me to turn off NPR when they use the word “dead.” Mostly I do, because there are a lot of details he does not need to know. But this week is different. As will be all the weeks going forward.

This week we talked about why people become police officers, that some people want to help others and that’s good, but that some people want power over others, and that’s bad. We talked about skin color and things that make people look different but that’s only how they look on the outside. We talked about how he needs to stand up for his friends because sometimes they won’t be able to stand up for themselves. Later, I’ll probably have him sit through the Sesame Street town hall on racism. Because while we try to surround him with diverse books and friends of all colors with a wide variety of life experiences, it’s not enough.

So I’m going to keep reading, Oluo’s book and others, and turning that knowledge into action. There are a myriad of good anti-racism reading lists out there and I also recommend this podcast and essay. As always, I’m open to your suggestions. Let’s take our hands off our ears and change the world with the power we have. We’re stronger than we know.

The post So You Want to Talk About Race (I Do) appeared first on A Geography of Reading.

[vicweasley]

I was born with a HURRICANE HEART with wild rains and unchallenged rogue winds;           I am constantly fighting, fighting to keep those dear to me within its eye.

DICHEN LACHMAN? No, that’s actually VICTOIRE WEASLEY from the NEXT GEN ERA. You know, the child of FLEUR WEASLEY ( NEÉ DELACOUR ) and BILL WEASLEY? Only 27 years old, this SLYTHERIN alumni works as a DRAGONOLOGIST and is sided with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX. SHE identifies as GENDERQUEER and is a 1/8TH VEELA who is known to be MERCURIAL, SELF-DESTRUCTIVE, and STUBBORN but also LOYAL, PASSIONATE, and STRATEGIC. — &&. ( JINX, PST, SHE/THEY, 24. ) Note: Victoire is adopted.

PLAYLIST • PINTEREST 

CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS: Mercutio ( Romeo and Juliet ), Kady Orloff Diaz ( The Magicians ), Bellamy Blake ( The 100 ), Kara Thrace ( Battlestar Galatica ), Sara Lance ( Legends of Tomorrow )

HEADCANON ONE:

Character Name: Victoire Apolline Delacour-Weasley

VICTOIRE: Seventeen years of hearing stories about those who died on her ‘birthday’ before her. Over a decade of not celebrating it when she realized what it meant to others. Of course, she understands that this is the burden she carries – while her cousins bear namesakes of those who had fallen before them, she is the painful reminder of the day they lost people – so they could win freedom. She is the h e l l f i r e that is left after a victory, scorching technicolor brutal memories into the minds of those who were left behind. Still, she is a Victory none the less, and her family adopted her the day of a horrible day when she was a baby. They chose her instead of the pain, they named her after the good instead of seeing the bad.   APOLLINE: The french derivative of the name Apollonia which comes from the Greek god, Apollo. Apollo, the god of the sun, prophecy, music, beauty, healing, poetry, plague and so much more. It could be said that Victoire is her own brand of beautiful – of course the Veela genes help ( or do they? ) but if there’s anything she’s gotten from this namesake it’s the love of music. She’s sure that if she wasn’t going to work with dragons when she was older it would be with music – something she practically speaks as a language. The name might sound too flowery or too soft for Victoire – but her grandmother from which she was given this name was still a Veela. She still had the siren song that was deadly to almost associated with her name. Still, just because Victoire is comparable to a constantly raging storm – she has times where parts of her mother and grandmother comes out.   DELACOUR: While she embraces the Weasley, Victoire also embraces her mother’s French heritage. If there’s anything of her mother, of this side of the family that comes out – it’s when she speaks French. She refuses to call her mother anything but maman, and will quickly switch to French around her during Weasley-Potter-Lupin gatherings at the burrow to make her feel even a little more comfortable. For Victoire, the Delacour name embodies softness and embodies femininity that she’s not always connected to. It reminds her that she’s not been alone in being discriminated against or objectified, that others understand what it’s like to be in her place to some extent. It’s then that she’s able to embrace the girl, that she’s able to feel like one and not always so at war with her body and herself. WEASLEY: If the other parts of her name didn’t already come with enough precedence – perhaps the name ‘Weasley’ was the icing on the cake. She couldn’t be prouder to be a Weasley, no matter how much fussing her grandmother does or how everyone is in everyone’s business – Victoire knows she is lucky. Vic is well aware of how privileged she is & how her infamous family of blood traitors are lucky to have the life they do. Even though she looked different from some of her family, so did so many of her other extended family members. She took comfort in the fact that Weasley-Potters were a mixed bunch, in personality, in races, in ideals, and her being different was celebrated. There may have been a thirst to know her heritage the older she got, one that would later be quenched, but her real family were the Weasley’s. They chose her, they were better than her blood family ever was, not that she could remember them.

Pronouns & Gender:   She/Her. Victoire identifies as Genderqueer.

HEADCANON TWO:

gender dysphoria tw

C h a n g i n g. From the minute Victoire was born, she was always fidgeting, always moving and her first display of magic was at 4 years old, when she tried to change her hair blue like Teddy’s. Instead, it changed her beautiful crop of dark brown into a dirty blonde. Often, she’d find herself envying Teddy’s abilities to change, feeling uncomfortable in her skin and angry that it wasn’t as easy for her. As she grew older, she came to understand  what her body was, what it would be and that she’d never be able to change herself like Teddy or change herself at all. Any change that she’d make would be permanent and she found herself not wanting that in the slightest. Not wanting to limit herself because while Victoire loved her feminine side – there was something she felt growing in her soul that was just … something else. It didn’t have a label but it became her, it was her, and it was confusing but it was who she was. Victoire did research and after a while the closest thing she could find to what she felt her gender was the term: genderqueer. Of course, after she realized this she told her parents, getting nothing but support from them. A reason they’ve let Victoire dye her hair so much and wear clothes that some parents would have heart attacks at, is so she feels like she has an option to be who she is. Even though they know that their child will be who she is with or without their permission, they figure helping her along the way in a world where there are many people who are against what her gender is & think it’s unnatural. They are Vic’s parents after all and after a war where they lost family and friends who gave their lives so their children could have freedom  – it seems trivial to ever fuss over something like gender. At twenty seven, Vic is more comfortable in herself but still struggles. She keeps it to herself instead of talking about her own dysphoria because it seems trivial compared the war going on around her, compared to so much else.

HEADCANON THREE:

About: ( SELF HARM MENTION, VIOLENCE MENTION, MISOGYNY MENTION )

Storm with skin. The performer. { Secret Strategist }. Masochistic with sadistic tendencies because she is just so filled with A N G E R ( being sexualized at a young age, her ass pinched on her first Hogsmeade trip, and so so much more that she doesn’t have a language to explain it in — only violent actions ). N o t that she’d let you know.  Warrior, no,VALKYRIE more of a DRAGON than a girl ( if she ever was a g i r l in the first place ), fiercely protective of the people she loves — and if you dare mess with her family, friends, or any of the sort, you better run for oblivion.  V I C T O R Y in her veins that she will hold onto until her dying breath.

Victoire Weasley is more than just a simple human being, she’s the true embodiment of what it means to be a storm with skin. Enigmatic even.

Victoire is quite sure of who she is, what she wants in life & what she will get, she’s quite sure of everything that she is —-

                …but in those moments she blacks out in pure rage — she’s not so sure.

She’s h o r r i f i e d. In those moments where she looks for pain like she’s a drug addict and it’s her next fix, she mortified. She can’t remember how it quite started – a punch to the wall there after a fight, a purpose slap in the face, anything that released the rage she had. Victoire didn’t dare release it on the people she loved because she’d never be able to forgive herself for that, but it grew. The feeling grew and soon she had to hurt herself. But she can remember when she knew. When she needed reminders, when she needed blood and big bruises to litter her body. It’s something she’s so ashamed of, that she hasn’t let on to anyone. A reason Victoire craves fights and sometimes throws them is because of this masochistic need to hurt herself – just letting people beat her to unconsciousness. Her anger is so great, so c o n s u m i n g, there’s the small hope if she finds a way to release it somehow – it’ll go away.

              “I will always scare; and more than anyone else — myself.”

It was in House of Serpents that she learned there is grey. There is moral grey, and it’s where she lives. With a heart so big, so W I D E, that even she doesn’t realize it’s part of the reason her anger can consume her. Feeling things for Victoire Weasley is never half arsed, it’s full arsed, and her passion, her ambition, could be the death of her. Her ambition to save the ones she loves, to protect her family. F a m i l y. A word redefined by Victoire fucking Weasley.

But when you meet her, she’ll s m i l e. She’ll laugh, she’ll charm you most likely and she’ll talk about the fact that Freddie Mercury is much more interesting than John Lennon, thank you very much. How Johnny Cash, Jeff Buckley, Arctic Monkeys, HAIM, and Aerosmith should be listened to at least once a day and how if she wanted anyone’s singing voice besides Freddie’s, it would be Hayley Williams, no doubt. She’d take off her shirt to show you the tattoos that run down her back, tell you about the ones that s n a k e down shoulders, arms, legs and how they’re ones dedicated to each and every one of her family members. For her best friends. For past people she loved. With child like w o n d e r m e n t and pure genuine glee, she’ll talk about her dragon, Mercury, and how her and Hagrid planned to try to start a campaign to get real dragons at Hogwarts — or at least they had. Never has she doubted being a Dragonologist and never has she had so much peace.

THOUGHTS ON THE TIMECLASH: Victoire thinks it’s amazing, sure she’s worried about the world as a whole, but she thinks this timeclash is kind of lit! It’s like a big party to her in a way, she’s never been more excited to learn about history than through the actual people she actually read about in the history books. If anything, she’s trying to learn from the new people around her, often sparking up random conversations with absolutely anyone she can to try to understand where they all come from.