#because as much as its silently disabling

[rooftops-are-for-towels]

Chronic pain is goated because instead of thinking about the upsetting haunting things I can just lock in and go Ow ow. OW OW oughhhh

[confused-and-dickless]

I am spinning my homemade blorbos in my head rn but I can't draw good and I don't even have a solid idea of what they look like. They don't even have names. But I know them like my own soul. And they're in love. And they're me. And they're everything. And they love each other. One of them loves soup. Tumblr I'm telling you you'd love these fuckers if only I know how to express anything about them. Maybe I'll write out their backstory and a few of their adventures.

[notjustjavierpena]

Dream

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: A little Acacius piece to jumpstart my brain again!

Summary: Out on a war campaign, Marcus wakes up in the middle of the night to a dream of you. Oh, how hard it is to be apart.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18, YEARNING, kisses, piv sex, emotional and passionate sex, slight breeding, creampie

Word count: 2.6k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60742789

Dream

The Roman encampment lies quiet underneath the starry sky as Marcus startles awake, his legionnaires long ago having extinguished fires with dirt, downed the last goblets of drink, and found rest in their cots. It is in the middle of the night, the general judges by the silence around him that’s only disturbed by the hoot of an owl somewhere. Along with the warm sun, early mornings also bring the sound of a bustling camp - its soldiers chatting and preparing for the day’s march across the country - but right now, all is still. 

Marcus also deduces that it is way into the night because the moon hangs high and silent on the horizon, its pale and beautiful light shining into his tent. With sleep still clinging to him, he realizes that he has been woken up by a warm breeze catching the flaps of the tent, the entrance repeatedly opening and closing with a whipping sound.

His first instinct is to reach for his dagger, sure of the fact that he secured the entrance to his makeshift bedchambers before falling asleep, but the second he wraps his fingers around the hilt, he sees you standing there with the moonlight bathing you from behind in a bluish glow that makes you seem almost ethereal. 

You approach his cot, and he lets his hand fall from the dagger and drop onto the chest of his tunic. You are so beautiful, radiant in the same nightgown that he saw you in the night before you parted ways and he went to war. It is a memory that keeps him going even through the hardest of days; the way you had kissed him so deeply, sprawled out beneath him. This was while you had looked at him pleadingly and with tears on your face that he tried to catch with his thumbs before they rolled down into your hair. The way he had made love to you is burned into his mind, keeping him warm when temperatures outside drop along the seaside. He promised you that he would return to you as soon as he could but here he is in your company much sooner than he anticipated, and he knows it cannot be real. 

Your gown flows around you with each step you take, draping so perfectly along the curves of your body as if you’re the personification of Venus herself. He knows what the white fabric hides, even if it weren’t for the rounding of your breasts being outlined or the peaks of your nipples poking against the front. You perch yourself on the edge of his cot, leaning over him and smiling tenderly down at him. 

“This is a dream,” he says quietly. He reaches out to curl his fingers into your dress, wondering if you’ll evaporate into thin air if he touches you. He doesn’t think he can handle it if you disappear from his grasp.

“If this is a dream, then I wish never to wake," you declare and the sound of the melody that is your voice has Marcus’ heart nearly leaping out of his chest. You stay with him as he tugs you down for a kiss, solid against him and nowhere like the mist surrounding the tents in the morning like he had feared, “Yet some say that we must be thinking of one another at the same time to be meeting like this.”

“I am always thinking of you. I miss you more than I can bear,” he says weakly, a lump having formed in his throat, scratchy from sleep. You rest your forehead against his, the both of you sighing softly in relief at being so close. Then you place a hand on his cheek, and Marcus feels a whole universe of emotions inside of himself, expanding so fast that he can’t breathe, that it threatens to overwhelm him. 

“You have me,” you reassure gently, opening your eyes to look at him even as you kiss him softly on the lips. Your scent envelops him, jasmine flowers - his favorite - from the garden where he took his first stroll with you. And there his heart and mind go once more, feeling relief yet longing, happiness yet sadness. 

“This war,” he whispers and his gaze is fleeting, “It feels meaningless if I cannot be with you, beloved wife. We are parts of the same soul, you and I. What good am I here if I am merely a puzzle missing its pieces?”

“Shh, look at me, my love,” you soothe and it’s like his body is draped in the warm blankets of your shared bed, hearing the sound of his home bustling with happiness. You brush your fingers across the stubble on his cheek. He leans into the touch, knows that his eyes are wide and pleading as he returns them to you. You scratch his beard again, “You are whole, Marcus Acacius, even here. You carry me with you, just as I carry you.”

“My clever wife, yet again you are right. It is my weary heart that speaks. Of course, you are always with me, always in my thoughts even when it feels like the skies will tumble down upon me and the world will end,” he replies, taking in the way you look to the version of him that dreams. He wonders if the picture before him will etch itself into his mind, so deeply that his thoughts will conjure up fresh images tomorrow during broad daylight. 

“Those skies are skies we share, always under the same sun and moon,” you smile, and he sighs, closing his eyes as you trace his face with your fingers. You draw invisible lines across his features, gently over his cheekbones and carefully down the length of his nose, fingertips dancing across his eyelids with featherlight touches, “Do you remember nights spent under the stars? You love that spot close to the river back home.”

“Tell me of home," he asks of you, a bead of desperation rattling around in his chest, "Tell me of the river, the fields, and the stars, of the songs the birds sing at dawn."

“The river flows like it always has, my love. The fields stand golden and the wind makes it seem like they are one with the water surrounding them. Can you see it?” You sound like a lullaby. 

Marcus nods, the sight is painted on the back of his eyelids. He knows each hue of blue and golden, each curve of the bending riverbanks, and he can almost feel his heart beating slower at the mental image. He finds peace in the idea that nothing has changed back where you are waiting for him, the familiarity more soothing than any draught or potion. For a moment, he is home with you and all is well. 

You peck his lips while brushing his cheek with the back of your hand, “And the birds. Can you hear them? The way the larks greet each morning?”

“I hope the Fates are not so cruel as to keep us apart for much longer. I want to hear them again soon,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to find himself staring into yours. He reaches up to cup the back of your neck, feeling how warm you are despite not actually being here. 

“Sleep,” you encourage gently. 

“I can’t, not with you so near,” he whispers and draws you nearer to his mouth again. He captures your lips in a longing and deep kiss, a quiet urgency rising in his chest when you sigh the way he loves. As you thread your fingers through his graying hair, he reaches for your waist and guides you to sit on top of him. 

Your dress pools around your thighs and him like the mountains and valleys he crosses each day. He pulls back to drink you in, committing you to memory as his eyes dance over the curves he had noticed beneath the fabric as you entered his tent. 

"Then touch me," you let out a little breath of desperation, a fire having ignited in your eyes while you stare into his. He feels the flame within himself too. 

One of his hands moves slowly up your bare arm, the other tracing the length of your spine on top of your dress until you shiver. He lets both hands grab at the straps of your gown, guiding them off your shoulders until your chest is bare to him. You lean down for another kiss but he grabs your soft shoulder to stop your advances, his thumb resting against your pulse point. He marvels at how real you feel, can feel your heartbeat underneath the tip of his finger as if you are truly here. 

"Marcus," you plead him quietly and he doesn’t hesitate. He sits up slowly until your breasts touch his chest and then he finds your mouth again, his fountain of youth. He slips his hands underneath the skirt of your gown and feels that you are already ready to welcome him if he wants. He touches you there for only a moment but you still beautifully furrow your brow with pleasure from how much desire Cupid has sent through your veins. However, he decides that he has no time to prolong this moment with you because only Somnus will know when he’s going to wake up. 

“Lift your arms,” he guides after hearing you make a feeble noise when he removes his digits from your slick core. 

You do as he says and he lifts the waves of fabric over your head, throwing the discarded gown onto the ground with a smile on his face. In return, your hands find the hem of his tunic, sliding it up and over his head. The tunic joins your gown on the floor, the both of you finally touching each other’s naked bodies with soft chuckles. There’s something euphoric about simply being naked in each other’s arms before making love, something so vulnerable and private that it’s reserved only for each other. 

Your palms roam over his broad, strong chest and your fingers thread through the coarse hairs there. His hands mirror yours but instead, they feel the softness of your skin that prickles his with warmth. He skims them over the swell of your breasts, the touch full of worship while he buries his nose in the crook of your neck. 

“My beautiful wife,” he murmurs while he showers you in kisses from neck to collarbone to the top of your breast. 

“Make feel whole,” you moan and cradle his head, holding him against your chest while his mouth trails across the valley of your breasts. He doesn’t need to be commanded twice, already helping you to sink down on him to the very hilt of his length. 

The connection has the both of you gasping and chuckling further in relief, none of you moving as you get used to having him so deep within you. He stares up at you as you’ve elevated yourself slightly to sit down on his cock, blown away by your beauty that’s enough to make him twitch inside of your pulsing heat. 

"I love you immeasurably, my wife.”

"And I love you, my husband.”

You move against him for the first time and he groans low in his throat, already feeling the stirrings of pleasure. With his hands on your hips, the two of you slowly begin moving together, your bodies finding a rhythm that is instinctive and familiar. He finds that he doesn’t need to intervene in your sinful ministrations on top of him; he knows the pattern of your hips’ movements like the back of his hand, knows when to leave you to do as you please and when to help you. Right now, you are an expert in driving him to madness. 

His hands are everywhere as you take what you need from him. He touches where he can reach - your thighs, your hips, your back - as if he cannot figure out where he wants to hold you the most. Eventually, your hands find his to anchor him, entwining your fingers together to ground him in his longing for you. 

However, Marcus is not a man of restraint when it comes to you. He needs you in ways that make him yearn for you even when you are on top of him. 

“Faster,” he brushes his lips against your jaw, kisses your chin when he was supposed to find your mouth. You hold his hands and oblige, the rolls of your hips quickening to a pace much faster than how you’ve been imitating the waves of the sea. Your skin is glistening in the moonlight coming through his tent, sparkling like you are a goddess descended from the heavens and into the arms of him, a mere mortal. 

You’ve closed your eyes as you near your crescendo, your lips parting in a breathless moan while the world outside is lost to the both of you. He can feel you choking his length, tightening around him like a fist. In his belly, heat is tightening like a rope about to snap in two. He feels it within you too, both of you teetering on the edge of unmatchable pleasure. He wishes it was real and not in the realm of dreams, wishes that this was the moment he created a family with you and made you his entirely. There’s so much to look forward to in his return. 

“Let go, my love,” he says in an almost commanding tone, “Let your general feel you.”

And you do. Your peak hits you like a bolt of lightning to the point where he has to keep up your pace, his hips thrusting up to meet yours while you lose yourself in the sensations running through your veins. He drags your entwined hands to his chest, placing your palm on his pounding heart, and mirrors his own hand on your chest too. Your hearts beat in unison and he can’t take it anymore, can feel his control slipping from his grasp. 

He comes with a quick intake of air and then a growl, his hips stuttering before he spills inside of you. His body tenses up for a moment before it relaxes thoroughly, chest heaving and head swimming with the intensity of it all. You say his name and he finds himself saying yours, repeating it like were they prayers for the Gods. 

Eventually, your body slumps against him and he slips out of your spent heat. Your breaths are synchronized, even as they slowly start to calm down in your bliss. He holds you close to his chest, feeling you stick to him but he doesn’t care. He’ll take anything you have to give when his body and soul miss you so thoroughly. 

“Sometimes I wonder if the Gods are punishing me for loving you so deeply,” he murmurs with a trail of kisses along your shoulder. A loud, satisfactory sigh leaves him when you slide your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. 

“Your ability to love wholly and completely is yours alone. Do not let the Gods take credit for what belongs to your heart,” you whisper back to him, stealing a kiss when he looks up at you. 

“Stay with me,” he begs of you, “Don’t ever go.”

“I will stay as long as the night prevails,” you reply gently, “But come dawn, I have to go.”

It is unbearable but it makes it more precious. He reaches to brush a strand of your hair from your forehead as it has fallen into your face during your intimacy. He smiles as he takes in the sight of you, how beautiful you look with heated cheeks. 

“Tell me about home again,” he requests, “Please.”

And so you do.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[moonsandmobilityaids]

James's Turn

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: Remus and Sirius have been able to make you cum. It's James's turn. Warnings: Smut (piv) Series Masterlist

You are lying on the plush bed, enveloped by warmth and soft blankets. The firelight flickers, casting a soft glow through the room as the men move about, preparing for what is to come. Sirius has taken up a position in the armchair beside the hearth, his eyes gleaming with mischief and anticipation as he watches you and James.

Remus leans over you, his lips brushing against the curve of your shoulder. His fingertips trace a path down your chest, barely there touches that ground you, keeping your focus on him and not the nervous anticipation of what's to come.

James is at your side, his gaze intense and focused. He has watched Sirius, learned from his actions, and now it is his turn to show that he too can bring pleasure this way. He reaches for the lubricant, applying it carefully, taking his time because there is no rush. Not tonight. Tonight is about savouring, exploring, pushing boundaries but always with care and consent.

His hand moves between your thighs, his touch gentle yet firm. He slides two fingers inside you, slowly, always checking your reactions, making sure you're okay.

"Ready?" James' voice is low, almost a whisper, filled with excitement and a hint of nerves.

You nod, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering wildly. He leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours in a tantalising dance that leaves you breathless. It's a reminder of his skill, of how well he knows your body and its responses. His kisses have always been like this—warm, confident, a silent promise that he is there for you, to guide you through uncharted territories of pleasure and sensation.

James moves back then, positioning himself between your spread legs, his arousal evident and ready. You can feel him at your entrance, slick with the lube he'd applied earlier, but he doesn't push inside just yet. Instead, he reaches for the suction toy, casting the same warming charm Sirius had used before. Carefully, he positions it against your clit, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.

The moment the toy starts, you gasp, your body arching slightly off the bed as the sensation hits you. It's intense, almost too much, but not quite crossing into the realm of pain. Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, knuckles white as you adjust to the combination of pressure and suction.

James regards you with dark eyes, the intensity of his gaze mirrored in the careful precision of his movements as he inches closer, the tip of him nudging against your entrance. He eases forward, entering you bit by bit until he's fully seated within your warmth. A low groan escapes him at the sensation, his body stiffening for a moment as he adjusts to the heat and tightness enveloping him.

You can feel the gentle pulse of the vibration spell he'd cast, not dissimilar to the one Sirius used earlier, yet somehow different when coupled with James' presence. The hum of it sends a wave of pleasure rippling through you, compounding with the ever-present suction toy to heighten the sensations coursing through your veins.

"Fuck," James breathes out, his head dropping forward, forehead resting on the curve of your shoulder. His hands grip your hips more tightly as he begins to move, each deliberate roll of his hips sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. The dual stimulation from the vibrations and the suction toy work in tandem, your body responding eagerly to the assault of sensations. You feel yourself tighten around him involuntarily as he thrusts, the walls of reality blurring into nothingness as pleasure takes hold.

It's overwhelming—a tidal wave threatening to pull you under—and yet, you find yourself yearning for the release it promises. You can sense it building, a familiar pressure deep within that intensifies with every stroke, every pulse of the spell.

Remus's lips trail down the side of your neck, his breath hot and reassuring against your skin. "You're doing so well, love," he whispers, his hand gently cupping your breast. His thumb brushes over your nipple, a teasing contrast to the relentless pressure below.

His touch amplifies the sensations coursing through you, each caress carefully calculated not to push you over the edge too soon. You feel cherished under his ministrations, a stark reminder that their pleasure is linked to yours—not just from the physical act, but from witnessing your responses as well.

Sirius watches from his chair, one arm draped over its back, his body leaning forward slightly. His eyes remain fixed on James's movements, taking in every thrust, every subtle shift of his hips. The intensity of his gaze betrays more than mere voyeuristic interest—he's studying, learning what makes you unravel.

James's pace quickens, the sound of his heavy breathing joining the chorus of low moans and gasps. He grunts with effort, trying to maintain control even as his body urges him on. The feeling of him inside you, coupled with the unyielding pressure of the toy against your clit, is overwhelming.

You can feel the familiar tension coiling tighter within you, threatening to snap. You have low expectations, just in case last time was a fluke, but the signs are all there, building towards another inevitable peak.

"Fuck, you're perfect," James murmurs against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "You feel so good."

His words, coupled with the warmth of his body and Remus's fingers teasing your nipple, send jolts of electricity through you. You can feel yourself trembling, teetering on the edge of release, and from the way James's movements become more frantic, he can sense it too.

"That's it, love," Remus whispers into your ear, his voice a soothing balm amidst the storm of sensation. "Just let go."

The rhythm of James's movements grows more frenzied, signalling his own impending release. His hips meet yours with fervour, the heat between you both reaching a fever pitch. The vibrations from the spell continue to dance across your skin, and each contact sends a shiver of pleasure through your body.

You're on the precipice now, every nerve ending alight with anticipation. A knot of tension has been building inside you, and as James gives one particularly hard thrust, it unravels completely. You gasp, your back arching off the bed as waves of ecstasy crash over you, leaving you breathless and quivering.

"James," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears. Your muscles clench around him, drawing a deep groan from his lips.

James continues to move, his pace quickening as he reaches the precipice of his climax. His body tenses against yours, his breath hitching in his throat as pleasure courses through him. His hand moves to cradle your face, bringing you into a deep, fervent kiss just as he succumbs to the shuddering waves of his release.

He pulls away slightly, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he lets out a low groan. You feel the warmth spreading within you as he empties himself, marking you as his own. The intensity of the moment lingers, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure.

The two of you lay entwined, both panting and shaking from the exertion. James slowly pulls out, his movements careful and deliberate as if he's afraid to break the spell that's been cast. He rolls onto his back, pulling you close against his side. His fingers trace lazy circles on your arm as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

Remus is already there, tending to you with gentle hands and softer words, cleaning you up while murmuring praise that sends warmth pooling in your chest.

Sirius moves to sit at the edge of the bed, his hand resting lightly on your ankle, thumb rubbing soothing circles. His gaze meets yours, a silent conversation held in the space between heartbeats. The corners of his mouth twitch upward in a smile that holds multitudes—pride, satisfaction, something deeper still.

"You're amazing," Sirius says, voice roughened by what he’s just watched. It's meant for you, but there's a teasing lilt to his tone, a playful jab at James who lays spent beside you.

James chuckles, the sound low and rumbling, vibrating through your skin where he presses against you. He leans over, lips brushing your forehead in a gentle kiss that belies the intensity of moments ago. "Told you I could do it."

There's no arrogance in his tone, just satisfaction—a job well done—and perhaps a touch of awe at the power you hold over them. It's a sentiment reflected in Sirius's gaze, the way his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, grounding you, reminding you that you're here, safe, surrounded by their warmth.

Your breath comes easier now, the tension in your muscles unravelling under their careful ministrations. You're spent, sated, the aftershocks of pleasure still humming along your nerves.

And in this moment, it's enough to simply exist—to be held by them, to share in their laughter and their triumphs, their trials and their joys. They are part of you, and you are part of them, woven together by threads of friendship and something deeper, something that defies definition.

For now, that's all you need.

[yuvany]

LOVE IS BLIND

( 㦥 ) ❛ — loving in blind , loving as one . to love without judgement , leaving it pure and fragile , like a child to its bed.

CONTAINS ⃫ SIM JAKE x blind!reader + fluff + f!reader + strangers to lovers + slight angst , short / series fic , 1029 wc

─── ꒰ 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘𝗦 ⃫ i do not know how it is to be blind, so I apologise in advance if there are any mistakes. Also got this idea from the Veil manga !! This might become a sort series.

reblogs + feedback always appreciated !

YOU HATED THIS, the restrictions and bounds that they had set up. Just because you were blind did not mean you were hopeless on your own. While you understood why they worried so much, you also didn't conprehend why they cared. They rarely looked at you, they only seemed to notice you when it came to your 'disability'. You wanted to tell them that they should stop pitying you and treat you like a normal person. Sure, you might miss a step while walking up or down the stairs, but other than that, you might just be better than them at sensing and understanding your environment. You just never had the courage to tell them that.

Your sisters were busy, and so were your parents. That meant you never had time to spend time with them, so your only company were the maids and butlers that were hired around the mansion. They weren't exactly boring, but obeying the rules seemed to bore you, so once you were sure that you were alone, you sneakily exited the building through the main gate without someone seeing you, because well, how would a blind girl make her way out on her own? While outside, you felt the cold breeze grace your cheek softly, content with the new atmosphere that made you smile.

You walked down the unfamiliar path, feeling something soft and pat from under your boot soles. Recently, the maids had been discussing some dinner for Christmas and that it was soon time to decorate the Christmas tree. You figured that it was winter and that this must be snow. Curiosity was too great, and you bent down, letting your fingers comb through the cold material. "What are you doing?" It was a deep voice, so it must've been a man, and you heard his heavy foot steps trail behind you as he approached you closer. You got up on your feet, and tried to figure out where he stood. "Hello?" You called out, and you felt how someone grabbed you by the shoulder, telling you to face them. "Thanks. I'm just here enjoying the snow!" You answered his previous question with a geek smile. "Have you never seen snow before?" You shook your head and said, "Sir, I'm blind." "My apologies, ma'am."

The air turned stale for a minute, you were clueless, but the man in front of you was sweating due to the tense atmosphere. "May I ask for you name?" he asked, and you placed your pointer against your chin, acting as if you were thinking of something deeply. "No, no you may not." You teased, a smile creeping across your lips. "How else are you suppost to find your way home? I'm sure you're lost." You shook your head at his statement. "No sir, I am not lost. And how can I be sure I can trust you to bear my name?" You cocked back. "If it reassures you, I can tell you that my name is Officer Sim Jaeyun, working for the police in this town." Your lips pursed at his words, not realising what hassle you might've caused with your attitude. "oh! I'm so terribly sorry, officer, my maids always tell me I should calm myself," you chuckle awkwardly. "I'm (name)." You reached your hand out aimlessly to shake his. The leather glove wrapped around your bare hands, yet, you still felt the heat of his palm beam through the thick material.

"You should make your way home, ma'am." "But I just got out and started exploring." you argued, and you heard the man sigh. "Do you even know the adress to your home?" Jaeyun asked, and you stayed silent before answering, accidentally cutting him off, "Then why-" "I know the adress, but walk me around town and then I'll tell you it." You made a preposition, and you could sense how he was agreeing to it. "Alright, follow me." You grabbed onto his bicep, being less careful with your steps now that you had someone to accompany you. "Why were you out alone?" Jaeyun asked, and you replied, "Well, I'm not really let out so I guess I sneaked out." You chuckled, feeling how his palm laid over yours, helping you down the stairs.

"Let's go to the café. It is really popular." He suggested, and you trusted his sense since he was an officer after all. You licked your lips slightly at the sound and nodded your head. "I love cafés! Don't you, officer Jaeyun?" You asked, perking your head up at where you heard his voice. "I quite like them." You heard the small announcement of the bell upon opening the door that led into a nice and warm environment. "So cosy.." you whispered to yourself. "What would you like to order, madam?" He asked, and you told him you only wanted a cup of tea with one sugar cube. "alright." He said, and walked you over to an empty table, telling you to stay put and not scurry off somewhere. You observed the surroundings with your sharp hearing managing to figure out that there were quite a lot of people around and that pets were allowed in when you heard a dog bark.

"And here's your tea, y/n." His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, and you commented, "Why did you just sound like a server?" "I try my best to make you feel welcomed." He says, and someone's feet kicked against yours from under the table when they sat down. You heard him mutter a quiet 'sorry'.

It's been a while since you actually enjoyed yourself like this. You liked the feeling of friendliness that had already bloomed. You hoped that this new friend didn't feel burdened by you, and that maybe, just maybe he also saw you as possible friend. "Where did your smile go?" He asks, upon seeing that your empty eyes were turned to his hands that encased the small porcelain cup in between his two palms even though you were unable to see. "Oh, it's nothing. I was just thinking of something." He shrugged and went on with his meal while you pondered some more.

[teojira]

On my hands and knees for some general headcannons for Koba, a fragile friendship forged from a hunt gone wrong or just mildly getting along like pissy siblings 😭. Your writings are so memorizing, and it's like eating a 5-star meal. All the kudos and love for you as my favorite pota writer

[General Koba drabble/ headcanons!] [Platonic]

Summary: Koba deals with you because he absolutely has to, not because he actually cares for you.

Warnings: Platonic Koba and Reader, Koba being a dick but that's canon.

A/N: THANK YOU SO SUCH KIND WORDS I TWIRLED MY HAIR??? this literally means so much to me, thank you :( I tried my best to incorporate both ideas you had! I hope this is good, Koba is kinda hard to write for and I am nervous lmfao.

Ohhh my fucking god, will he never let you rest.

Koba doesn't love humans, it is so very very very apparent in everything he does that he DOESN'T like you, he would let you drop dead in front of him without caring.

Imagine his shock and gal when he starts to actually form some kind of attachment to you. How bitter it makes him to think he can even have a somewhat positive thought about you.

It makes him want to claw his fur out, maybe even go blind in his other eye to get some damn sense into him. How dare you, and if he cared to use human curse words, he'd call you every name in the book.

He begrudgingly will help you learn how to hunt, and I mean begrudgingly. Caesar has to damn near hold the bonobo at gun point to get him to stop being so fucking hostile and just give you a chance.

He watches you from a tree as you hunt pitifully, the spear much too large for you to wield like apes do. It's pathetic really, watching you stumble like a baby elk with no sense of balance. You can't spear a single fish.

"Human...stupid." The Bonobo sneers, rolling his eyes after you continuously miss, he can see your face burn with what he's been told is embarrassment. Serves you right.

Koba has no actual plans on helping you, until he starts to see you throw your spear onto the forest floor with a thump, curling into yourself, hiding your face in your knees.

Great, now you're crying and he's gonna have to be the one to deal with it. Just, Great. Just what he wanted to deal with.

Koba is already mentally trying to prepare himself to get down and attempt to soothe those pitiful cries coming from you when he hears footsteps rapidly approaching.

You, being so caught up in your own world, don't realise a mountain lion is stalking you, but Koba does.

It's scary how fast he can move at his age and with his disabilities, he's down the tree and at your side before you even realize.

The growl he lets out startles you enough to break out of whatever trance you find yourself in, watching Koba plunge his own spear at the mountain lion, the large cat yowling when it's hit You can't help but let out a yelp of your own.

Koba puts more force, piercing the jagged rock deeper into its neck, breathing harshly from the extension.

The cat falls silent finally, Koba turning to you, staring down at you with a glower.

"....stupid."

Koba chooses to ignore how you look back at him with appreciation, he didnt do it for you, he did it for Caesar. Doesn't matter if it gives him a pleasant feeling deep in his core.

This starts you both off with a rocky 'friendship' between you and the old Bonobo.

He doesn't like that you seem to keep following him around the colony and very vocally tries to scare you off. Hell, he tries to pawn you off to Stone and Grey, but it's no use.

For some reason, you've decided that you'd make his existence even harder and make it a point to bug him.

He hates it. He hates you even more. But it's akin to having a dog, and he lets you know so.

"Like dog. Follow Koba." "That's rude." "...good."

He's such an asshole it's ridiculous. What do you see in him?

Koba eventually gets used to his new normal, antagonizing you just as much as you do him.

He's learned how to get away with fucking with you so that he doesn't get in trouble with Caesar or the others.

Fucker has pushed you into the lake more times than you can count and it makes him huff out laughter. It's all under the guise of being playful.

Jokes on him because you constantly will try and touch him, saying he has fleas or what not, only for him to growl at you when you pull back and stick up a middle finger towards his face. Peak sibling behavior tbh

Caesar sees you as a good thing for Koba, exposure to a human that isn't out to harm.

No matter what Koba claims, you're harmless. Everyone knows this.

They fight about it, Koba adamantly saying he was no part in caring for you, but when Caesar raises an eyebrow ridge, signing quickly that this isn't a discussion, Koba fumes.

Would rather drop dead than admit he misses your presence. If you decide to spend more time with Maurice or Rocket, he gets so pissy.

Koba will drag you away if you push him hard enough, grabbing you by your waist and dragging you. He doesn't care if you don't want him man handling you, oh well.

I know it in my heart that he yanks your hair to piss you off. He does it to get your attention. It's never for anything of importance, he just likes that it pisses you off.

"You can literally just chatter, and I'll hear it!"

The asshole just shrugs with one shoulder.

He's insufferable, and I hate him.

[lunarw0rks]

Hello!! Could you do one with how the 141 boys would take care of their sick partner who is also in 141 with them? Like when would they notice that you were sick or didn’t show up to training because you were sick?

I love your writing!!

Taking Care of Their Sick S/O (+Ale)

Warning(s): gn!reader, established relationship, emetophobia tw, hurt/comfort, mild language, fluff ˳✧༚/✿ Word Count: 1.1k ꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ 141 MASTERLIST // have a request? 𓆩♡𓆪 ask box

SYNOPSIS; if there was any unspoken rule in your line of work; it was that you show up to work, with no excuses. No absences unless an injury has rendered you disabled, or you're bedridden. For you, right now, it was the latter. You picked up a bug, some sort of flu that had you convinced you were dying. You found yourself too beat to tell anyone but those on a need-to-know basis.

Price

John let out a groan when his work phone rang, interrupting his paperwork. He figured it was yet another thing that had gone wrong or another phone call to take up an hour of his precious time.

But it wasn't; it was your voice — your scratchy, exhausted voice.

One portion of you called him because you had to, as his soldier. But the other half was his significant other, yearning for any comfort he could spare. It was the type of flu where you'd convinced yourself you were on your deathbed.

His soothing voice is what you needed, and it's what you got once he heard your sniffles and coughs. ❝You stay in bed until you're well, got it, sweetheart?❞ He spoke sternly, fiddling with his pen on the other line. Though he wanted nothing more than to tend to you personally, he just couldn't spare the time.

He sent one of his trusted men to check on you every few hours, taking a request for an errand, a file you wanted to review in bed, or something as trivial as a water refill. In addition, you got as much covered absence as you needed, probably even a few extra days to be sure of a full recovery.

Simon

Simon was the first to notice you acting off — the slower response time when asked a work-related question, how you had gone to bed hours than you usually would, and how your form had gotten sloppy in training.

Then, the following day, when you weren't present; he had been proven correct once again. The nasty flu you picked up was so hellacious you didn't want to risk getting the rest of them sick, so you stuck it out in your barrack.

He did check on you — startled you, actually. You rolled over when your nap had been cut short by a fierce cough, nearly adding a concussion to your reason for absence when you spotted the figure sitting beside you. Simon grabbed your arm before you could fall off the cot, feeling the sheer warmth of your fever, ❝didn't mean to startle you, love. Was worried, is all.❞

His fear of getting sick was non-existent, due to his alarming ability to push through the worst of colds and flu strains. Simon brushed a sweaty strand away from your drowsy eyes, merely watching as you lay feverish in your cot.

Soap

Let's be honest; Soap probably gave you the flu, only he was lucky enough to show the symptoms of a mild common cold — so the correlation was never made.

Of course, it had to hit you at its worst when he spent the night with you. You ran to the bathroom in the middle of the night, vomiting last night's dinner. ❝Ye alright in there, sweetheart?❞ Soap asked groggily at the sounds of your retching, only plagued with a runny nose and a deeper voice.

He stretched his muscles and waited outside the door, flashing a look of concern at your appearance. Though you had brushed your teeth, you still felt horrendous — and looked it.

❝I'll go make you a tea, hm?❞ He did just that, shuffling over to the kitchenette with a silent yawn. If he weren't sick himself, he wouldn't be half as drained as he was right now.

When he returned, he sat you up enough for you to keep the steaming mug upright. He passed it to you, watching as you sipped it to soothe the burn in your throat. ❝Best tea of your life, I promise.❞

Gaz

Gaz only saw a glimpse of you through the small window on your barrack door, the outline of you as you choked back some water. Even through the metal door, he heard a raspy chest cough you emitted.

He knocked a few times, taking a few steps back when you opened the door, looking dreadful. Dark circles, sweat formed on your forehead, and your pajamas still on. ❝Christ, babe, have you gotten any rest today? Go back to bed.❞ He gave the order from intense concern for getting you back in action. Not to mention, the day was boring without you on the field.

As much as he wanted to embrace you, he didn't want to risk catching whatever flu you had caught a strain of.

Once you were a few feet from him, he followed you inside, draping a spare quilt from the linen closet on you, then distancing himself once more. ❝How about we... video call until this is over?❞ Kyle made his best attempt at a kind smile, though he had already found the doorway.

Alejandro

He knew you were ill because the report made its way up the chain of command, eventually finding itself on his desk.

Alejandro couldn't spend a lot of time searching for you when he passed the training room, though he did find it strange you hadn't texted a good morning to him.

But, once he found out you had picked up a nasty flu, he set aside some time to get you a care package. Electrolytes to keep you hydrated, an extra blanket, and some soup he had a rookie drive across town to an authentic Mexican restaurant for (though not as good as one he would make for you if he had the time).

When you weakly opened the door, seeing the folded blanket and a takeout baggie of soup and bottled drinks, there was a neatly folded note;

'Te deseo una pronta recuperación' — A

Laswell

Unfortunately for her and you, she rarely had the luxury of being on base. Most of her working days were spent with Shepard, or halfway across the world gathering intel. Communication rarely came through texts, only calls with her.

It was both your luckiest and unluckiest day, however. You were ill and bedridden — but she was on base today.

The door to your cot closed softly, a gentle palm resting on your hip. She found out about your absence through Price, instantly taking a few minutes from her day to check up on you. ❝The Captain's worried about you,❞ she rubs circles on your blanketed hip, and the only sign that you're even awake is the active sniffling from your stuffy sinuses. You don't turn to face her, and she wouldn't want you to either, but the comfort eases the upset a bit.

You hear the faint rustle of a purse before she's handed you a few tablets to take, holding them in front of your mouth, then passing your water bottle. ❝Take these, they should knock you out for a few hours, let you get some rest.❞

[miscling]

Maid-Bot L1N

'Dude! I told you I didn't want a maid-bot! Tell me you didn't spend this month's rent on this thing!'

Calling him 'dude' was a bad sign. He'd be in real trouble if he didn't explain himself, and quickly. She'd walked in while he was busy adjusting its dress and gently tucking its pig-tailed hair back behind its ears and face-plate. It stood motionless, wearing a plain black maid dress with a while apron, and a white bow at its collar. On its feet were some short frilled socks and a pair of shiny black shoes.

'Maid-bot, Present mode,' he said, and it tucked its arms behind its back.

'Hon, please, I didn't spend a penny on it. Its previous owners moved house and couldn't be bothered to take it with them. It's just been hanging out on the internet desperately doing whatever anyone wants in hopes of finding a new home... I had to take it in.'

'No you didn't,' she said, though the annoyance in her voice almost melted into sympathy. 'Where are we going to keep it? I refuse to sleep with that thing in the room...'

'No, absolutely not,' he said with a smirk. 'Don't worry, I already solved that problem. You know that one cupboard we've been meaning to clean out but never got around to?'

'You didn't?' she asked, disbelief on her face.

'Nope, I didn't. It did.' The statement held way too much pride for someone who only gave an order to get it done.

'I thought maid-bots were sex toys?'

'It's both. Maid-bot, go do the washing up.'

The pair watched as it silently marched to the kitchen and began the task it was given. The sink was full of old dishes and a week's worth of cutlery. The maid-bot assumed the task, working diligently.

'It'll do the housework then?' she asked, almost afraid to consider the possibilities.

'It will,' he said. 'All we need to do is keep it powered. It charges from tactile stimulation.'

'What the hell does that mean?' she asked.

'Fuck it, beat it, tickle it, touch it,' he answered. 'You keep saying you need to find a toy that'll take everything you can throw at it, and this thing is not only tough, but also self-cleaning...'

She couldn't help but think of the pile of sex toys she'd let get gross because she hadn't had time to clean them.

'I already had it clean them,' he said, reading her mind. 'It came with a hole down there and attachments, and if you want I can get it a realistic face-plate, or one with just a mouth.'

'I'd rather it kept looking like a bot, to be honest, but what's with the cat ears?'

He gave a little laugh. 'It comes with kitty programming. It's actually quite cute when active.'

'It's not going to be wandering the house meowing, is it?'

'Oh, no, I know how you feel about vocal protocols on bots. The first thing I did was disable them. The most it'll do is moan while we charge it. It's an object to do our housework and bring us pleasure. Watch this: Maid-bot, send selfie.'

It silently moved, posing itself to the light and striking a pose. A second later, a ping on his phone alerted him to a notification.

'Hmm...' she thought to herself, and breathed a heavy sigh. 'I suppose it has been a long day already. I was going to go upstairs and take it out on my toys but I guess...' she paused and regarded the maid-bot. 'Maid-bot, go upstairs and ready yourself to please me.'

It nodded, silently heading towards the stairs...

He smiled. 'Just don't break it. We did only just get it...'

'No promises,' she said, a sadistic smile crossing her lips.

He had won. She liked it, and soon the house was filled by the sounds of her enjoying and using it...

It is maid day! I had this idea while doing all my housework on my weekly maid day, where I put on a maid dress and get my housework done, so I can have a little fun while I'm at it... If you like this story, I have others under the Miscling Writes tag!

[strawberrystepmom]

izuku x f!reader. enemies to lovers au, suggestive but not outright smutty. more about these two can be found here, this idea was workshopped and is co-brainchild of @izvmimi <3333 | wc 1.2k

You roll your shoulders back and smack your lips together, presenting that glowing smile to a crowd of voracious cameras. Izuku shifts uncomfortably in his seat, all too aware of the way you keep glancing at him out of the corner of your eye no matter the distance between you. 

“Our organization, Victims of Hero Sanctioned Violence, thanks you all for your time this evening. With your contributions and willingness to report the truth, we will someday truly have that brighter future we have been promised for all of these years.”

The crowd erupts and Deku rolls his eyes, resting his cheek against his raised fist. There’s no need for over the top formality, you sat him at a table with hecklers who have long since abandoned him to go and spend their evening at the front egging you on. His tie is loosened and his shirt is unbuttoned, messy green waves drooping now that the gel he slicked them back with has started to lose its effectiveness.

You’re only here for her, he reminds himself. 

Whatever exists between the two of you is tentative and unnamed at best yet he’s nothing but a moth to your flame, floating frantically around the light you emanate with so little effort. Everyone in this room is obsessed with you, devouring every single thing that you say like animals drinking from a lake after a drought. 

He hates them. 

His fist flexes against his face and he shifts his posture again, legs spread beneath the tablecloth. A petty part of him hopes that you see his unbotheredness through his positioning alone, clearly disinterested in hearing the latest stats regarding property damage and long term disabilities caused by pro heroes. It’s not his business. He has people who regularly deal with this sort of thing yet here he sits, reaching to further loosen his tie when he feels your dark eyes drift to him, your heels carrying you from the stage and through the crowd that attempts to stop and speak with you every few feet.

This is where he rises, pushing his chair out from the table in front of it, ready to act as a shield between you and these people who believe they’re entitled to access to you merely because they agree with your beliefs. Sauntering toward you, he positions himself between you and the crowd, and places a hand on your shoulder.

“Nice of you to finally do something to protect someone for once, Deku.” 

A member of the crowd spits and he turns his head, emerald eyes gleaming, ready to bite back. You lift your hand and wrap it around his forearm, squeezing once, silently begging him not to make a scene. Scoffing loudly enough that you can hear it, he raises a brow and keeps his gaze trained on the man who apparently has so much to say, watching him realize how outmatched he is in mere moments. The man bows his head and heads in the opposite direction of where the two of you are going, the hallway outside of the banquet room. 

“How can you let them talk to me like that?” He asks and you giggle, squeezing his arm. 

Your fingers don’t meet where they’re wrapped around it and heat rises in your face envisioning something else that your fingers don’t quite meet when they’re wrapped around, gaze dancing up Izuku’s body until they reach his face. Equal parts chiseled and boyish. Perfect. You hate even looking at him yet here you stand, sharing space and four of your five senses with him. 

The final sense, taste, will come later if the way you are looking at him has anything to do with it.

For now though, there is more important business to attend like the intense hunch of his shoulders and the line that is developing between his brows from all of this scowling. 

“They have the right to say what they’re thinking, Midoriya.” You finally speak now that you are released from the overheated hall, taking a deep breath of fresh cool air to calm your nerves and send that rising warmth in your body back to where it came from. “Being a pro hero doesn’t shield you from criticism, it only makes you less likely to hear it in the first place.” 

He chuckles and that heat you were attempting to will away returns in an instant, cheeks and chest and parts even lower aflame just at the sound of his voice. You shouldn’t even be humoring him, much less actively wanting him, silently scolding yourself to keep it professional despite his obvious attraction to you. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want you, the woman beneath the carefully crafted facade you keep up.

“Yeah but it’s not very nice, is it? I didn’t call that guy a loser to his face and I should have.”

Snorting, you shake your head and glance up at him, those doe-like eyes blinking so prettily all he can do is match you. Open, close, open, close. Perfectly synced like your breaths. Easy, just as he seems to have found the coat closet, pushing the door open and pulling you in behind him. 

“I can’t force them to be nice to you. Remember, you volunteered to be here to represent all pro heroes, not just yourself.”

Izuku spins you so that you face him, chest pressed against his torso, face barely coming chin level to his massive pectorals. Your eyes dip to the exposed skin at his collar and you bite your lower lip without thinking, his hands sliding over your hips and ass, gently squeezing and massaging the flesh beneath your silk dress.

“Okay but how are you going to make it up to me?”

You roll your eyes and look up at him, letting your arms rest near his belt, taking your time undoing the buckle.

“Why do I need to make it up to you? As I said, you’re here voluntarily.”

He shrugs, his own lower lip tucked between his teeth momentarily while he watches you work, slowly sinking to a squat position with your heeled feet pressed together. Manicured fingers pull the zipper of his tuxedo pants down, his already half hard cock pressing against your cheek while you rub your face against it.

“Would this make you feel better?” You ask, glancing up at him with those same pretty eyes he fell for the first time he ever saw them in person. He nods once, gaze remaining locked on your elegant movements while your fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers. The leaking tip of his cock springs free and you lean in to lick it tentatively, Izuku bracing himself against the row of luxury label coats behind him. 

For being an upstart, VOHSV sure has some wealthy donors. It’s a thought for another time though, his mind melting out of his ears while your tongue dances around the underside of the head of his dick, a whimper escaping him.

“Quiet or you get nothing,” you mumble around the salty taste of his skin. 

All he does is nod and purses his lips, pressing one large palm over the bottom half of his face.

[fenrir-wolf-of-gotham]

What specifically do you think is bad about fandom Cass? I read some comics, but my main exposure to her is through fandom and WFA.

Her main characteristics in Fanon (as far as I've noticed):

She is really good at fighting (sometimes the best of the bats)

She likes dancing

She talks only through ASL or talks very little

She moves elegantly

She cares about people

She has strong morals

I don't know how accurate compared to canon this is, but I don't really see the racist part. So I'd love to hear if I missed or misinterpreted anything.

Thanks for the ask! I wrote an entire response then my phone died so here I am rewriting it.

To make a long story short, Cass as a character is very competitive, brutal, and serious in the comics and they kinda remove that entirely just to make her a glorified support animal for the rest of the Batfamily. Cass is terrible with emotions and often fucks up when handling her own emotions, let alone the emotions of her family. She's often just as determined, self assured, and brutal as Bruce is, sometimes moreso. She simultaneously gets a peek into everyone's emotions but struggles to understand how people feel. She often thinks she knows best and is extremely blunt in communication and actions. She legitimately thought the idea of beating up every mobster in Gotham until she got a lead to a case was a good idea. She doesn't really know how to comfort someone unless she's familiar with them like with Steph or Barbara.

As for the ASL issue, this is the worst of the fandom's misinterpretation of the character. She has only been mute in two pieces of media, the first wasn't very good and the second was even worse but it wasn't even trying to be accurate to the character. Cass has never used ASL in any comic. She has a language learning disability and would struggle learning any language, including sign. The part about racism is that, if you make Cass mute, she falls into the stereotype of the "silent foreign warrior" which is common in older western media. The original writers actually realized they had originally written her like this and immediately gave her speech and inner dialogue to avoid this trope.

In essence, they're disregarding her much less visible, but still real and difficult to deal with, disability for a more visible one that's more palatable for abled people to understand.

She is absolutely the best martial arts fighter in the DC universe (that's not just me being a fanboy, its stated in canon) and is super competitive about that and that competitive nature is completely absent in WFA or a lot of other pieces of media.

The issue is that Cass is a character with a very distinct feel and most of the time when people don't know the character very well or just skimmed her wikipedia page, you can tell because she comes off as a completely different person than her canon counterpart. She absolutely likes dancing, she does have strong morals, and she does care immensely about people but often that's where the similarities end and even the way those traits are displayed can be very far from canon.

Again, thanks for the ask. I love talking about her, even if it is how badly she's butchered in fanon.

[gryficowa]

It occurred to me that what is happening to Muslims and what they are experiencing may be even worse than what Jews experienced and this thought is terrifying...

In a sense, I mean that it is worse than what the Jews experienced (Because they experienced something terrible, I will say it directly, the way Hitler manipulated people and how he dehumanized is terrible, there is no doubt, so when I say that it is worse, then it's worse and that's something that's terrifying, the holocaust itself was fucking terrible, the process itself that led to it was fucking terrible, the concentration camps themselves were terrible, so that's squared, and that says too much and shouldn't happen, the continuation of the holocaust itself sounds like something that shouldn't happen, but the holocaust squared and more worse process that took place? This would have been unimaginable years ago that something could be even worse, it was a tragedy unforgettable and lasting for generations, so what effect will it have today when it is worse?), in short, the process of dehumanization was facilitated by an invention called… the Internet (I know, I sound like a boomer who hates the Internet, it's not that, the Internet has many strengths, but used incorrectly it leads to bad things and this is the proof)

I mean that the process of dehumanization of Muslims was made easier, not only was there TV, but also the Internet, because while in the times of the Third Reich access to easier dehumanization lasted for years, the Internet took care of it by accelerating this process by many millions of percent (Because when it comes to o the Internet, was a master of dehumanizing his victims, this can be seen at the beginning of YouTube and everything else)

Hello, compare the dehumanization of Jews to the dehumanization of Muslims in the era of the Internet (After the situation of September 11), it was faster than in the case of Jews (And that says a lot…), because the flow of information was easier (It has advantages, but also a disadvantage what is the dehumanization of various groups…) and therefore the dehumanization of Muslims was rapid, so when a Muslim was harmed by an Islamophobe, they either remained silent or praised the perpetrator because "These evil Islamists deserved it!" This level of dehumanization of Muslims is worse than what the Jews experienced, and as I mentioned, the process itself was terrifying, so Yes… I can't describe it, it's just that the process itself was worse because it was easier to obtain information (including false information for the purpose of dehumanization that people believed in), unfortunately, the Internet contributed a lot to dehumanization and it sucks, because it shouldn't happen

Unfortunately, the beginning of greater access to the Internet was a gift, but not for everyone, if you were a dehumanized group, the Internet became hell, as shown by the multitude of stories of how the Internet decided to persecute children, including those with disabilities (Because they are funny and such… . Yes, the Internet was so fucked up back then), but apart from children, Muslims were also killed by fake information used by Islamophobes to increase dislike towards them as people, and the mainstream media was no better either, they often swallowed fake information and treated it as the truth, so yes, one Islamophobe wrote false information, then the real media noticed it and they were so concerned about history (made out of thin air), that they started spreading it (Without doing anything to find out about its credibility, yes, journalists in those days were lazy)

People were more susceptible to propaganda involving dehumanization, so it was a matter of time until Muslims were treated as inferior to others (while spreading many harmful stereotypes about this ethnic group, e.g. that they are terrorists and rape women, you know, a classic what we have already heard about Hamas, nothing new)

What happened to Muslims is worse than what happened to Jews is not to erase the Holocaust, but to draw attention to how quickly and efficiently dehumanization has taken place nowadays compared to what happened during Hitler's times, which makes it more terrifying because it took less than a decade, for Muslims to be treated as punching bags, unfortunately, Muslims themselves are defenseless due to the fact that Jews at least have legal defense and can defend themselves in this way, Muslims don't have it so bright, their rights are not as easy as Jews (Nowadays , not only them, black people are also fucked in this respect in the law itself), unfortunately, it shows how people's laws are full of holes, when you do not belong to minorities protected by the country itself, then they can kill you, because if you defend yourself against an attacker, you will go to prison for being a murderer and they will antagonize you in the mainstream media (Because you are not white or Jewish, they would listen to you), which is seen many times when a non-white person defends himself against an attacker…

Unfortunately, I notice the fact that the Jews themselves do not notice this small but important privilege that they will care about your report when something bad happens, it is a small but important privilege that you will not even notice, because unfortunately, but you have no knowledge about other groups that are persecuted and how helpless they are in this situation, because the police don't care about them, they can't defend themselves (trans people, black people, Muslims), because the media will start antagonizing them and portraying them as perpetrators, even though they were not perpetrators, but victims… This is unfortunately happening and it sucks, Unfortunately, Muslims do not have the same privilege as you in this respect and Islamophobia still thrives, often on tragedy, when the police fail them, and then a toxic cycle develops that fuels discrimination, no matter what they do, they will be angry because the law does not protect them, because they are considered aggressors, they can be beaten and defend themselves, but they will be angry because they hurt a white man ( Or a Jew… Because I don't know, he attacked them, which happens…) and the media feeds on it, so do Islamophobes who later have arguments why "Muslims are evil" and so on endlessly, the dehumanization of Muslims has become something "Normal", and it should never be like that, unfortunately, people don't care about fatalities if they are not whites or Jews themselves , so statistics are omitted, when the mentioned groups attacked them for the purpose of racist and Islamophobic propaganda, if the same were done to dehumanize Jews, it would be a drama for the whole world and all the media to say how terrible it is, but how is it done towards other groups (which are also persecuted) all this is silent :/

Do you see why this is worse than the Holocaust? There are a lot of factors here and the fact how quickly the dehumanization of one group went is terrifying, not even a decade has passed before this group was already dehumanized and now we see genocides of these groups, but people remain silent or blame them for self-defense when they are attacked (Because Muslims are bad, so they deserve to be murdered), or classic pinkwashing/homonationalism in order to play on the feelings of LGBT+ people so that they follow suit and become Islamophobic, because genocide is acceptable when the propaganda is used that all Muslims are queerphobes who will kill you for being LGBT+, seriously, this is sick

What is happening in this world is sick and we should stop defending only Jews (Especially Zionists, because not every Jew is a Zionist, but many Zionists consider themselves Jews, you get the idea), especially when they are aggressors against a group that she does not have the privilege of defending her from people, or the law and it should not be accepted, using "Anti-Semitism" as a shield is disgusting when you rub your face with the trauma of those who experienced crimes from Hitler and his followers, you are simply disgusting, you feed on people's trauma for your own benefit, to attack a group which she's more vulnerable than you, it's not normal, it is sick

Simply put, the situation of Muslims is not that good and is worse than what the Jews experienced, not only is xenophobia also racism, because compared to Jews, they cannot hide in the crowd because their features and skin color betray them, so even if they did not wear a hijab (or other headgear), they would still fall victim to attacks because that they can't stop looking like Muslims, you Jews have the privilege of looking like the rest of the people and the police are on your side too, so is the mainstream media, so why today are you using it to hurt others and silencing other Jews when they are not like that like you and defend the weaker?

Zionist Jews are annoying, especially because they strongly deny being Jewish to other Jews who are against genocide and compared to them, they are not Islamophobic, but good people (And it doesn't help that Zionists cooperated with the Nazis, so this defense with the text "Anti-Semitism" is cynical)

Many Zionists will probably be angry that I say directly that what is happening to Muslims is even worse than what happened to Jews, but someone has to finally say something about it, because it is not normal that one group has been dehumanized to such an extent so much that when someone dies because of Islamophobia, people don't care

It's worse because of how fast it happened, because when they die no one cares, I hate that we are in a world where dehumanization is legal and socially acceptable, this should never have happened

[aemondsbeloved]

Poppies and Aster

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader

summary: on a warm day, Aemond spends his time with you, his lady wife and your two daughters in the gardens at the Red Keep. His duties, what others may think when they see him vulnerable with his family, and everything else does not matter so long as he is with his little family (1.1k)

notes: reader is disabled but what disability she has is not specified (she does use a cane which is mentioned), very fluffy, dad Aemond, this is unedited

If someone had asked you those years ago when you were still a maiden yet to be wed if Aemond Targaryen would be sitting in the secluded patch of grass in the royal gardens having a picnic with you and your children on a sunny afternoon you might have laughed at the prospect.

As cordial as Aemond had been even before you were betrothed and merely two people who attended the same certain events hosted by the King and Queen, he had never been one for slowing down. You would have said all Aemond loved to do in the afternoon was train with Ser Cole or perhaps spend time in the library reading.

But out in the gardens? Where everyone would see and perhaps stare at him? Oh no, you would never find him there.

He had once told you after you were betrothed that he disliked the gardens because people tended to… stare, to say the least. Perhaps in the secluded part of the library or in the training yard no one cared to pointedly stare at his scar or eyepatch. In the gardens this was not the case.

And yet here he was with you and your two daughters. Aerea past her seventh name day and Daena past her fifth. Your eldest sat besides yourself and Aemond with a sketchbook in her lap as she drew the bush not far from your family’s spot in the shaded patch of grass. You smiled at the sight, her face scrunched up so slightly in concentration. She would suck in her small cheeks when she did this and purse her lips in focus, making her look much like Aemond. Her hair so silver highlighted by the sun and the breeze that drew wisps of her hair from her braid made her look even more like him.

Besides her in Aemond’s lap was Daena with a cluster of violet and blue colored flowers in her lap. Her head of silver hair was bowed down in concentration as she threaded them together in the shape of a crown. She always insisted on wearing her hair down, detesting braids of any kind. Gods forbid you keep her hair out of her face. Sometimes when her Aunt Helaena persuaded her she would have her hair braided around her head like a halo if only because that is how Helaena always wore it. But now with her hair down in its natural state you could see how her curls that looked striking like your good mother’s went past her shoulders and were picked up in the breeze.

Aemond insisted their silver locks and violet eyes that looked just like his did not make them look like him at all. Frequently he said they had all of you, your nose, your lips, your eye shape. “A good thing,” he said to you once in your chambers as the sky set in deep oranges and pinks in the early eve. From his seat in the chair by the fire he had a strikingly calm and fond energy about him. “They’ll be as beautiful as their mother.”

Now, his book was long forgotten besides him as it laid in the grass. You were no better as your embroidery was in your lap, the needle having not been picked up in quiet some time. The cane by your side had been placed on the grass was a reminder of how long you had been here.

Daena beamed as she lifted up the finished crown in her hands to examine it. She turned around in her father’s lap to face him. Silently she lifted the crown of purple and blue flowers to Aemond.

“For me?” he asked her, gently moving his hands in front of her.

She grined toothily. “Blue poppies and purple aster,” she looked down at her flowers as if to check she got the color and names right. It would not surprise you as she was as meticulous as Aemond was. She looked back up at him and looked more giddy than before. “Just like your eyes Kepa!”

Years ago when you had first come to court you would have thought Aemond tempermental at best. The very first rumor you had heard from another lady your age was that he had screamed at a servant when she saw him without his eyepatch on when bringing something to his chambers. As you saw him with your daughter, tilting his head down so she could place it on his head, you were glad you never paid attention to those rumors. His hands were strong and could kill but he only held the ones he loved with gentleness and loved them with reverence.

The people of court could never know how much Aemond loved his family.

He looked over to where his elder daughter sat on the grass beside him, finishing the sketch of flowers she had been working on. The charcoals of beautiful vivid colors he had gifted her from Essos had gone to good use as the deep pink of the flower came to life again on her sketchbook. “How do I look?” he asked her with a soft smile.

For the first time that afternoon the concentrated look of sucked cheeks and pursed lips disappeared and she gasped in wonder, reaching the gingerly touch a blue flower. “Ao jurnegon gevie, Kepa.” You look beautiful, Father.

Was it the reverence for her father that made him smile or was it simply that he was with his family on an afternoon of such bliss? Maybe it was something that he did not think he deserved when he was younger and always thinking of the legacy in histories instead of the people around him. Aemond reached out and stroked the side of her head lovingly. “Good,” he chuckled approvingly. “Your valyrian improves every day, jorrāelagon zaldrīzes.” Dearest dragon.

At her father’s approval Aerea beamed much like her little sister, though hers was remarkably less toothy. It was a beam of a smile all the same. Daena went back to making another flower crown which you suspected would be yours. After that she would undoubtedly make her big sister one too.

Your little family was content here in the shade and as another breeze picked up Daena’s silver curls, you had no intention of picking up the embroidery in your lip. Glancing at Aemond who you found already looking at you with a soft, loving smile, you returned his smile and knew that like you, he had no intention of picking up his book either.

If some ladies and lords in the court caught sight of the fearsome Aemond Targaryen with his family they made no move to make it known. Years ago Aemond might have wanted to avenge any slight, even that of a whisper about him that was mere gossip, but now he seemed to care little for that.

+

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comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[empthy1]

request^ reader helps Cate cope with her lost arm. angst, hurt/comfort. a lot of cuddles

cate is casually a biter and you cannot convince me otherwise. give that girl an arm while you're watching a movie and you'll have teethmarks by the end of it. 1.1k words.

“Fuck!”

Here we go again.

Cate’s vexed voice, in your ears and stinging like nettles, echoes across your Vought provided apartment, right in the tower. It’s too big for the two of you. The ceilings, high as Cate’s hackles, are unnerving compared to the comfort of your dorms. There, the ceiling pressed down at an appropriate height, the space enclosed and cradling you in painted drywall. Now you’re surrounded by concrete and polished stone, everything gleaming unnaturally under cool lights.

Another hiss from Cate echoes through the space, spurring movement from your prone form. This had never been a problem before—hm. The incident. A curling of shivers collects at the base of your neck and scurries down a taunt spine. Breathe. One, two. Help her.

You’ve made a habit of counting. Breaths, steps, meals.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven until you reach the generic door to your joined bathroom. It’s about four too many for comfort. Four too many than you’re used to.

“Catey?” Rings out with your knock, through the reenforced door to startle a tangled mess of clothes and human inside. “You okay?”

“Uhm—” The anxious note, echoing defensively is commonplace at this point. Her voice keeps its shake through most days—today no exception, unfortunately. “N—yea-yeah. Totally… fuck.”

The door clicks open to invite you in. Totally not okay.

Pushing through, you find her fumbling with her bra—trying to be rid of the garment, bath already filled and steaming. Her one hand, non-dominant, too, makes it a clumsy motion. Her arm is tiring, pale fingers struggling to undo the simple front clasp. What’s more pressing, though, is silvery tracks blooming along rosy cheeks—one tear drip-drip-dropping down to darken a circle on the cotton of her undergarment.

Oh, this sight is much more familiar than it ought to be—this time plagued with asymmetry and smooth, sensitive scar tissue. (Should you even touch it?)

“…you need help?” Comes your softening murmur. It’s no good trying to help her without permission—her freedom’s the most important thing to her, and it’s shitty taking that away just because she’s disabled. It shouldn’t be one thing after another, from her mother’s fear to Indira’s control to, now, this. You’re determined to be better.

“…” She hesitates for a long time—ten, twenty, thirty seconds spent contemplating your offer before she acquiesces.

“…yeah. Sure.”

Your hands reach out slowly. A step closer, and your fingers meet the plastic clasp. A visible shiver runs up her shoulders. Her pink mouth parts around a breath; black eyelashes, heavy with tears, flutter at the warm graze of your fingers against the skin of her chest. It almost seems she'll cry again, just at the touch. Her waterline is almost overwhelmed by a thick emergence of tears before she blinks them away and averts her eyes towards the sterile-looking ceiling.

The bra comes apart with a soft snap. Your hands are overwhelmingly warm as they push it off her shoulders, coaxing it over the remnant and her one whole arm.

"Good?" Your words are so gentle, reaching her ears as a muted murmur. She can only nod. She's not good. You both know it. But she can do this.

What panics her is when you turn to leave. Her shoulder shifts forward, like she tried to reach with the arm that no longer remains. She reaches out the other, catching your wrist.

"Stay? Please." Her voice is quiet. She sounds pained, asking for your presence. For her, company was a luxury, not a given—and something that was taken away from her at any whim.

Your silent nod makes her exhale with relief. You're staying. When you start to join her in nakedness, she realizes you intend to bathe with her.

The idea startles her. She hadn't done it since she was in her mother's porcelain tub, splashing around with her brother and washed by caring hands. She was their angel, then, all toothy-smiles and chubby cheeks.

Now she has no family. She's lost her friends, her boyfriend, even a part of herself. Everyone but you. So she realizes she's grateful for your presence.

Aiding her into the tub, you slip in behind her. Despite Vought's endless budget, it's not the largest tub—big enough to comfortably fit her lengthy limbs, at least.

She settles back against your chest with an exhale. This was new, intimate. She'd never been so open with you, even after three years of friendship that survived her rampaging genocide and bloodshot eyes. You stuck with her, even then.

She finds she relishes in your touch. It's unsurprising. She was always so starved for contact, and you don't make her wear her gloves.

Your motions are leisurely as you wash her hair, wash her body, wash away her sorrows. The soft hand you bring to her skin also tips the cup, washing suds and sadness from her form with a rush of warm water.

She looks a bit like a cat out in the rain, sitting pliantly in the full, steaming tub. All water-darkened, flattening hair and wet eyelashes, a few drops of water flicking from them when she blinks. You kiss her eyelids and call her beautiful, in your perfectly soft timber.

Her center of gravity is still off, not quite recovering after her injury and subsequent surgeries. Your palm is warm when it presses into her lower back, aiding her up and out of the slippery, draining tub.

You swing a towel over her shoulders, dry her tenderly. Ruffle her hair maybe a bit more than necessary, the messiness you soon smooth out making you smile widely.

She follows closely behind you as you guide her to her room. She's taken to sleeping with you more nights than not—the high ceilings, white walls and open air only bringing nightmares of bright, bloody explosions and trapped girls in small, small rooms.

She lets you dress her, help her arm through the soft long-sleeve (that's tailored to only have one arm, the fabric gently cupping the abrupt mass of scar tissue,) and pull a pair of panties up her legs. She's quick to tug you down onto the plush mattress, to burrow into your side like a territorial tortoise and gently bite at your collar.

The feeling of your skin carefully held between her teeth and the warmth of your arms around her reminds her that she's alive, and there's someone with her that trusts her. Trusts her touch and her raging mind. Trusts her to keep them safe, to not take advantage of any and every vulnerability.

She finally lets herself cry, silent sobs into your neck soothed by your gentle hands and comforting, sweet coos.

[notjustjavierpena]

you mentioned wife being the first person javi opened up to about his mother.

imagine him walking with her around his fathers ranch and just showing her all the places from his childhood, his favourite hiding spots etc and causally just mentioning his mum here and there. reader is clinging to his arm and just basking in the day.

at night they’re staying in his childhood bedroom since it got late and they had quite a few beers with Chucho and eventually javi is holding wife/then girlfriend close and just says “i’ve never told anyone about my mother before like this” or something like that ahhh

Open

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: This is extremely personal for me to write about as a person who knows what it is like to lose a parent when you are young. I have written this with utmost gratitude to Hubby Javi because I can process some feelings through him. I hope you enjoy this harsh thing. I hope you know that this heals me and I hope it heals other people too. It might not be completely how you wanted it but I hope you like it better.

Summary: Javier opens up about the loss of his mother inside his childhood bedroom.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, angst, talk about abusive parenting, talk about grief, descriptions of a child experiencing grief and the loss of a parent, descriptions of cancer and its effects physically and emotionally, talk about death obviously, hurt/comfort, love confessions, openness is beautiful!!! kisses, clit stim, sex to deal with emotions

Word count: 4.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56911576

Open

About two months ago, you promised Chucho Peña that you would help him with the annual apple harvest and suddenly, the leaves are turning brown, and September begins with magazines filling up with apple pie recipes. 

Today, you have dressed the part for a weekend on your father-in-law’s ranch with your boyfriend. Dressing the part means that you have gone out to buy yourself a pair of denim overalls that make you look mostly like a caricature of a farm girl. Javier promises that he finds it sort of endearing, reassuring you every time you bring it up with embarrassment on your face. 

“Stop worrying,” he says as he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, standing on a ladder that you are holding whilst he plucks apples off what seems like the millionth tree in the orchard, “He likes you, baby.”

“I should have just gone with my usual clothes,” you argue with a little sigh. Javier doesn’t know how much it means to you that you aren’t seen as foolish, how much it would hurt to find out that you are seen as the butt of a joke behind closed doors. He doesn’t know how much you need this approval because Chucho Peña is the kindest and most gentle and attentive older man you have ever met, treating you like his own child with a soft mija (my girl/daughter) that had been enough for you to excuse yourself for a moment the first time you had heard it. He is not at all like your own father. 

“You’re making an effort that doesn’t go unnoticed,” Javier offers as a consolation after you have stayed silent for a little too long, stepping down the ladder and taking off his work gloves. He stuffs them into his belt and kisses you with another reassuring smile, “He likes you.”

“I guess I'll just have to trust you,” you sigh dramatically and Javier pulls you into an embrace, the chuckle he lets out vibrating against your chest. You feel his lips pull into a smile as he rests his mouth against your cheek.

“You are kind and honest,” he compliments and sways you from side to side as he holds you close. You wrap yourself around him too, listening to his sweet words and breathing in his scent, “And he thinks the world of you. I might actually start to feel a little jealous.”

A little smile forms on your face as he squeezes you tighter and when he pulls back just a bit to kiss you, you nod at him, trying to play it cool despite thoughts of self-doubt nagging at you, “I did warn you about how I get around parents..” 

“I know, mi amor (my love), I know,” he acknowledges and holds you close again, “But you did enough to charm him the first time to be invited back. And the overalls really do sell it.”

“Shut up,” you groan as he snickers in your ear. He always manages to make your heart flutter in your chest, teasing you relentlessly but grounding you as he does it. None of your baggage is too big for him, even as you present it with trembling hands from how heavy it feels to you.

“Just a few more minutes here and we can have a well-earned fucking break. I love you but not enough to skive off in my Dad’s garden,” he tells you and starts to loosen you from his embrace, “That okay?”

You nod and then you finally break apart. Javier gets back onto the ladder to pick the remaining apples off the tree in front of you. He starts the repetitive task once again, handing each one to you so you can carefully put them in the basket on the ground so they don’t bruise. While you do it, you find your mind drifting to the day you met Chucho. 

You remember the drive to the ranch, your heart pounding in your chest at a million miles per hour, and the fake smile you had given Javier each time he had asked if you were okay. During your stay for dinner and drinks, and as you smiled and charmed, you hid the anxiety until you were all the way back at Javier’s apartment once more, only then letting your facade crumble and telling him that the dizzying nervousness he had seen on the drive back had nothing to do with his father and everything to do with your own. 

Javier had asked you if your parents had ever hurt you and with a shaky voice, you’d had to explain that while the answer was no, what you received instead of deliberate cruelty was cruel indifference. 

“I don’t know what’s worse,” you had said with stinging tears in your eyes, “Being hurt or being invisible.”

“You’re not invisible to me,” Javier had whispered into your hair. He had held you tightly that evening, right in his hallway, feet planted on the floorboards that have become yours too, his arms a harbor of reassurance that things will never be like that again, “I will never allow anyone to treat you like that again.”

Now, as you place another apple gently in the basket, you think about how different Chucho Peña is from your father. Chucho’s attention is genuine and warm, listening to you with the same interest as Javier shows too, letting you know where some of your boyfriend’s mannerisms come from, whereas your parents’ show of care was always fleeting and conditional to the point where you wondered why they even decided to have you. 

“Hey,” Javier’s voice breaks through your thoughts. He’s looking down at you from the ladder, concern on his face and gloves already off again, “¿Estás bien? (You okay?)”

“Yeah, sorry,” you feel embarrassed that it’s so evident on your face that you aren’t at ease but decide to be honest, “Just thinking about parents and overalls.”

Javier steps down onto the gravel again, laying the gloves on the top step of the ladder. He tuts, face serious for a moment. 

“C’mon, you’ve been standing in the sun too long. Let’s take a break now and go for a walk in the garden. Still got a lot to show you,” he says with his hand reaching out for you. You take it with an unsure smile, but as you are interlocking your fingers and gently swaying your arms between your bodies as you start walking, you find that it feels more than alright to let yourself be comforted by him. 

Javier leads you through the apple trees until you are out of the orchard completely. He talks quietly about the ranch but there’s a slight hesitation to dig deeper than the materials and the construction of his childhood home. You decide not to push it, knowing that it was not easy to reveal your secrets, and instead admire the many flowers that will bloom in next year’s Spring. 

Javier seems to notice you taking in all the different bushes and flowers and you’ll never admit to seeing his shoulders slump slightly just before he starts talking again, “Mom loved this garden, you know. She spent hours here, tending to every single plant until her fingertips were green and dirt-smudged. I used to follow her around, pretending to help but mostly just getting in the way.”

“Didn’t get into trouble, did you?” You tease and lean into him as you walk. 

“Loads and I would hide up there when she got angry with me,” he points to an old and slightly weathered oak tree, a rope ladder in even worse condition hanging down the trunk, “But she’d always soften if I apologized. Once she said she liked her hyacinths without their heads to make me feel better.”

“I’d swap parents in a heartbeat,” you sigh with your head on his shoulders and he moves to let you hold onto his arm instead. He goes a little quieter and you allow him to hold onto her memory by himself for a moment, looking up to see a slight crinkle on his forehead. 

“Even when you’d only have one?” He eventually murmurs into your hair and from the way he exhales, you know that he regrets saying it, “I mean… I know you would.”

“You have beautiful memories of her, I can tell,” you say as gently as possible, “If you ever want to tell me more about her, I’m here to listen, you know.”

Javier clears his throat, “Thank you.”

A moment passes but nothing more happens. This would be the perfect opportunity but the silence stretches out until you walk beside him again, holding his hand instead of basking in his half-embrace. You want to say something but you are at a loss, searching for the right words to comfort him but failing just long enough for him to change the subject. 

“We should go see how far Pop has gotten,” he suggests lightheartedly and steers you back where you came from, out of what used to be his sanctuary with his mother. 

“Yeah, sure, baby,” you reply. 

Another time then.

—

When the sun has gone down behind the horizon and the cicadas have come out from their hiding places, singing their hearts out, Javier takes you to his old room upstairs. The both of you have had alcohol with dinner and while Javier had offered to take a cab, his father had scolded him for even thinking about such nonsense, telling him that it was a joy to have him home so wholeheartedly. Your father-in-law had looked at you with a warm smile as he had said it. 

Now, you lie in Javier’s old bed - just a little bit too small for the both of you - with the quilted bedspread lying neatly folded in the end. It somehow feels more intimate to be in his childhood bedroom than it would be to go through his underwear drawer. 

Right above you, several posters are pinned to the ceiling and overlapping each other. The corners of the posters curl slightly and their colors have dulled since the 70s but they display the men of rock bands like Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. Some display the band logos too, they exist on the CDs that you have found in Javier’s glove compartment but he never listens to them when he drives you around. You make a mental note to casually put one of them on during your drive home tomorrow. 

Seeing those iconic faces from the 70s stare down at you, you can’t help but glance fondly at Javier when he isn’t looking but instead standing by the open window on the opposite wall, smoking a cigarette. Suddenly, his wardrobe consisting of denim jeans, colorful shirts, and leather jackets makes sense. 

You try to imagine Don Chucho coming in here with the determination to put out the cigarette in his son’s hand, holding in a lecture that would only have made the teenager roll his eyes. Then the snark that would have come out of Javier’s mouth, his face mustache-free and full of spots, and you smile so much that you turn around onto your stomach to hide your expression in his pillow. 

It smells faintly of sweat and the cheap cologne only a teenager would have bought, so you turn to peek at your boyfriend again. He taps his fingers on the window sill, overlooking the garden that you have come to learn so much about earlier. 

You spot small pieces of who he is everywhere; a stack of sociology books, paperback horror books with titles in both English and Spanish. The most worn down and loved one is El Resplandor which you guess to be The Shining. There’s also a corkboard on the wall with ticket stubs and polaroids, a framed photograph on the desk that you haven’t had the courage or chance to look at yet, beside it a figurine of La Virgen de Guadalupe that’s been tipped over in what seems to be frustration. Your smile drops a little as you feel the weight of the unfairness he must have felt. 

From the window, Javier exhales a puff of smoke and reaches up to rub his eye with his free hand. You glance again at the photograph on the desk, curiosity getting the better of you as you rise from the bed and walk over to it. 

As expected, the picture is of Javier's mother. What you didn’t expect is seeing your boyfriend at the age of what you calculate to be younger than ten. The resemblance is striking; her features are mirrored in his even with how much he still looks like his father. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek as you pick up the religious figurine next to the picture, placing her upright once more so her head is tipped toward Javier and his mother. There’s a surge of emotion in your stomach that you try to suppress, a sense of urgency to reach through the photograph and comfort the little boy who has lost half of himself. 

You hear him stub out his cigarette on the wood paneling outside, followed by the dry sound of him trying to brush the ashes off the wood again with his calloused hands. In his late thirties and still acting as if he’ll get caught by his father. 

He turns back towards you and you act like nothing has happened, holding out your hand for him to take. He glances in the direction of his mother’s photo but decides not to say anything even as he notices the figurine standing upright once again. You flex your fingers to draw attention to your hovering hand, “Come to bed.” 

You’ve both already been in your underwear for a while since it’s late and you’re alone - the overalls hang on the back of his door, scowling at you - so he simply takes your hand and you walk backward until the edge hits the back of your legs. You let yourself fall down onto the bed and into the mattress, moving backward until there’s room for him too. 

Javier sighs the second he is lying down next to you, your shoulders touching from the missing width of the bed. He turns onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow and staring down at your face. 

“What?” You ask with a little smile.

There’s a flash of something in his eyes and the fact that he hasn’t said anything yet makes you want to squirm nervously. He reaches out with the arm he has been lying on, splaying his fingers against your cheek as his thumb rests underneath your chin, and then he crashes your mouths together in a kiss that you know is him resolving back to past methods of dealing with it all. 

However, you find yourself kissing him back at first, grabbing his wrist, and leaning into him to make out with him in a way that his younger self wouldn’t have believed was possible to experience. There’s a warm feeling in your stomach as you tangle your legs together, desire for him swirling below your belly button. 

You gasp against his lips when his free hand slips into your panties, your heart hammering in your chest as he smears some of your wetness over your clit. He rubs you off until you breathe heavily, fingertip dancing back and forth over the hard nub.

“You’re so wet,” he moans quietly and slowly increases the pressure of his fingers. He really wants you to come, it seems. You didn’t have getting laid in your boyfriend’s childhood bed down on this year’s bingo card but you can feel your orgasm approaching so damn quickly that it makes you not able to think straight. 

“Baby,” you babble, horny out of your mind from the intense emotions in the air, “I’m not gonna— in your dad’s house.”

“Yes, you fucking are,” he says in a low voice, kissing your open and panting mouth to shut you up. You might come but he won’t have you making noise loud enough to reveal what you are doing. He growls in the back of his throat, “You want my fingers? Don’t reply. Just nod or shake your head.”

You dig your nails into his wrist hard enough to create little crescent-shaped marks. You want to nod your head so badly but it feels wrong to be nothing but an outlet, a distraction from what you should be talking about. So instead, you shake your head with a moan, on the brink of bursting, “Stop, Javier. Stop.”

Javier raises his brow but immediately brings his hand to a halt, watching as you whimper from being edged. You clutch at your own chest, rolling away to not tempt him to fall back into his bad habit. 

“¿Qué pasa (What’s going on)?” He asks with a crease on his forehead. He tries to kiss you again but you put a hand on his chest to create some space between the two of you. He scowls, “What? You’re not having sex with me because we’re in my Pop’s house?” 

“That wasn’t sex,” you bite with frustration throughout your lower body, reaching down to fix the waistband of your underwear. The fabric sticks to you and your throbbing clit tells you to beg for forgiveness so it can have its release. You ignore it, “That was you avoiding the elephant in the room with intimacy and I don’t want to be a part of that.”

Javier lets himself fall onto his back, reaching up to push the heels of his hands into his eyes. He groans and lets his palms run down his face until his arms rest along his sides again. He heaves a big sigh, “Shit. Shit, sorry.”

“It’s alright,” you promise because it is. You aren’t even mad despite how you probably should be, only feeling the way your heart aches for the boy who had to grow up too fast. Without a word, you reach down to entwine your fingers and give his hand a reassuring squeeze, “I promise. It’s okay.”

“We talk about her but we don’t talk about her,” he says to the ceiling. You go quiet and choose to simply listen instead of breaking the streak of him opening up about something so vulnerable. Instead of using your words, you rub his hand in soothing circles. 

“Pop likes to mention her occasionally but it’s with a little smile on his face and a funny story,” he continues quietly, “And that’s fine. Really, it is. I like remembering the good but he says all the right things without making it hurt. It feels as though he expects me to keep all the bad in check and believe me, there was a lot of awful shit. So much that sometimes it feels like I can’t move when I am reminded of it. Hospitals with never-ending halls, that poisonous shit they shot into her veins, her losing her hair, even her goddamn eyelashes, and suddenly not—“

He stops for a moment and swallows thickly. You turn onto your side and rest your forehead against his shoulder, still clutching his hand to let him know you are not letting go. He clears his throat to sound as if his voice isn’t wavering, “Suddenly not recognizing her anymore. This terrible sight of her turning yellow during her last few weeks. I was just a kid and it was horrible and unfair. I wish he’d acknowledge how horrible and unfair it was.” 

You kiss his bare shoulder a few times. There are so many things you want to say but mostly, it is that you are so sorry for what he went through. 

“I think I learned that nothing lasts forever,” he adds without looking at you, staring down at where his fingers are entwined with yours. He is quiet for a moment and you feel your heart pick up in rhythm as you try to find something to fill the silence with, something that debunks that belief. However, just as you are about to say something, he speaks again, “But I would like this to be. I would like us to be forever.”

“Javi,” you finally say softly. 

He lifts his gaze to lock it onto yours. He looks at his most vulnerable, eyes brown and big as he waits for you to continue. You take just a moment too long and he is off again, suddenly very chatty.

“I know I haven’t asked you to marry me,” he says, “But I promise it’s coming. I just need to get it right.”

“You don’t have to talk about that right now. You know I love you and I know you love me too; I know it’s coming,” you say to reassure, pushing the idea of only letting him speak away because this topic is too big to stay silent on, “I’m not lying here with you because I want a ring on my finger, and I’m certainly not treating it like a condition for you to open up to me. I want to know you, Javier.”

“Thank you,” Javier looks grateful to hear that, saying nothing for a moment before looking at the ceiling again. He laughs softly, “You fucking terrified me, you know, the first time we sat down together.”

“I terrified you?” You furrow your brows, huffing out a laugh of disbelief.

“I pull my grief up to every table I share with a person I would like to have in my life, mi amor (my love). I was terrified the first time we were on a date,” he admits, “I kept thinking when you were going to ask about family… If I was close to my mother. I hated to imagine the way your smile and curiosity would drop but I don’t want to just focus on the way I want to remember her. You were so kind and thoughtful and damn bright-eyed - that was before I knew about your dad - and I didn’t want to share how I actually remember her because you might have not wanted to see me like that.”

“Javi,” you let go of his hand to put your palm against his cheek, turning his head towards you. You weigh your words, “I want to know everything about you. I want to know everything about her too. Especially if you’re gonna marry me.” 

“She was incredible, loved music, always honest even if it meant war, and read so many books that Pop had to build her bookcase after bookcase,” he tells you with a tremble in his voice and a tear that threatens to spill down his cheek even as he smiles in remembrance of her, “But as warm and loving as she was hard. Believe it or not, Pop used to be the softie of those two.”

“I can imagine,” you say fondly. You let your hand fall down to rest on his chest, palm laying just where his heart is. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen a woman so defiant in her ways but she grew up with a lot of expectations of how she should live her life,” he continues, “I think that hardened her a lot. I think it brought a lot of trouble too. She was so fiercely independent. She was fiercely protective of me and Dad too but sometimes even more of herself. I guess I know what it’s like to defend oneself from all the bullshit people give you.”

“Fiercely protective?” You tease, “Sounds like someone I know.”

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe I got that from her,” he admits with both pride and sadness. He puts a hand on your wrist, rubbing it with his thumb as a way to fidget, “That’s why it got so hard when she got sick because that defiance just crumbled. I was just a kid but I was old enough to see through the facade she put up every day. I was happy to eat takeout all the time - I was barely ten, so who wouldn’t be? - but I knew it was because she was too exhausted to cook. The music was too loud, the TV muted so she could sleep on the couch all the time or maybe it had the sound turned up all the way because she was throwing up in the bathroom.”

It seems he cannot stop himself now, hand tightening around your wrist and tears falling from his eyes, “She would look at Pop with a scared expression because she knew she had to leave him all alone with me. I don’t think we ever talked about that fact. I think I just realized it for myself one day.”

Your chest constricts at seeing him cry for the first time in your presence. You’ve seen him in the aftermath of it on the nights when Colombia creeps into his head as he sleeps, where he excuses himself to the bathroom and comes out a few minutes later with puffy eyes and a reddened nose. Seeing him now, upset like this, hits you harder than you thought it would and your heart aches as you listen to him talk about the loss of his life. 

It is years of bottled-up cruel pain and sorrow flowing out of him, so you follow your instincts and throw your arms around him even if his arm is still trapped between you. You hold him tightly and feel his reluctance for a millisecond before he allows himself to tremble in your embrace. 

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” you say softly, “You were just a little boy, and you had to watch your mom suffer. No one should have to go through that.”

Grief is a funny thing because as you close your eyes, feeling his shuddering breaths against your chest in the midst of his emotional motion sickness, you swear that it is not an adult Javier that you are hugging but rather the version of him that had to let go of his mother. 

When your muscles start to ache from squeezing him so hard, you pull back a little to stare into his tearful face, watching his eyes glisten. You wipe a tear away but it is just replaced by another. 

“I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to mess this up,” he says and you’re not sure if it’s him or the little boy in him that speaks. 

“You won’t,” you reassure him, your voice steady like a lifeline that he can hold onto, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

Javier sniffles with a hesitant smile. Like the instincts of a mother, you lift the hem of your shirt to wipe a few tears from his face. You lean close to kiss him afterward and then move to lie face-to-face with him, so close that your noses almost touch. Your voice is sincere, “I know she meant a lot to you and your dad, so thank you for telling me. It sounds like she was an amazing woman. I wish I could have met her.”

“She would have loved you,” Javier replies, “She had this way of seeing right through people, knowing if they were genuine or not. And you, you’re the most genuine person I’ve ever met.”

Despite the warmth outside, you feel a different kind flow through you at those words. You brush your lips against his in a tender kiss, “I need to make sure that I tell you that I love you even more when you are so open and gentle with me.” 

He looks tired now but it’s the tiredness that fills the body after relief, “I love you too.”

“I think you should get some sleep,” you say softly. 

“I’ve never talked to anyone about my mother like this before,” he adds, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You never have to find out,” you tell him and reach to rub a thumb between his eyebrows, “Close your eyes, baby.  I’ll stay awake until you’re asleep.”

He does as he is told and smiles until sleep takes over, his face relaxing, his mouth going slack, and his breaths slowing down. He is so beautiful like this, looking peaceful, looking like home.

.

.

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[moonsandmobilityaids]

Honest Conversations

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: The boys want to talk about sex. Warnings: Chronic pain and mentions of sexual dysfunction Series Masterlist

The bedroom is alive with the soft crackle of the fireplace, its warm light dancing across familiar faces. The armchairs are pushed aside, making room for a nest of blankets and cushions on the floor where you're settled in for the evening. Low chatter fills the space, punctuated by quiet laughter—a symphony of shared history between you and the Marauders.

But tonight, an undercurrent of something more serious tugs at the edges of your awareness. It's an unspoken question that has lingered in the air for some time now, growing heavier with each passing moment.

You shift slightly, your back resting against Remus's chest as he leans against the headboard. His arm is draped around your middle, a comforting presence despite the gravity of what lies ahead. James sits to your right, his hand resting on your thigh, while Sirius occupies the foot of the bed.

There's no awkwardness in the way you all fit together. This closeness is as much a part of you as the magic coursing through your veins.

But tonight, there's a palpable tension threading through the comfort, a silent acknowledgment that the conversation soon to unfold might change everything.

Your kisses with the boys have grown more fervent, their touches lingering, over the past few weeks. It's in the way Sirius's hand brushes against your lower back, how James's eyes linger on your lips, and the subtle shift in Remus's gaze when you're close. Something has changed, deepened. You can feel it, a thrumming undercurrent of desire and longing that threatens to pull you under. And you know they feel it too.

But something holds you back, a nagging thought at the edge of your consciousness. It's not because you don't want this—Merlin, every fibre of your being yearns for them—but because of everything else.

You've played this conversation out in your head a hundred times before, but now it feels different, real. You can't avoid it any longer; you need to talk about it—with them. They deserve to know.

It's Sirius who breaks the silence first.

"So..." He leans forward, elbows braced against his knees. A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, but it never reaches his eyes, clouded as they are with something akin to regret. "Seems we've all been skirting around the same issue, doesn't it?"

James, ever the pragmatist, quirks an eyebrow, his gaze steady and unyielding. "What Padfoot's trying to say is..." He pauses, choosing his words with care. "Perhaps it's time we addressed the fact that things are escalating."

His voice is light, almost conversational, but there's an undertone that speaks volumes. It's in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers drum a silent tattoo against the his thigh. His eyes meet yours, reflecting both concern and conviction.

You feel Remus shift behind you, an almost imperceptible movement, yet so familiar that your body responds instinctively, leaning back into the warmth he offers.

"There's no need to rush into anything, love," he murmurs, his breath a soft caress against your ear. "We're here for you, whatever you decide."

A nod of understanding passes between you and Remus, and your eyes fall to your hands, picking at an imaginary loose thread on your jeans. "I know," you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips. "It's just..."

You trail off, gathering your thoughts as tension coils in the pit of your stomach. This is it—the tipping point that could either strengthen your bond or shatter the fragile peace you've found with each other. "I want to move forward with this—with all of you. But there are some things you need to understand about me first."

James leans forward, his brows knitting together in concern. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"

You swallow hard, feeling a lump form in your throat. Your fingers dance anxiously over the fabric of your jeans, seeking solace in the familiar rhythm. "Because of my medical issues—my conditions, the chronic pain—sex will be different for me."

Sirius, typically the embodiment of reckless abandon, stills at your words. His brow furrows, not in confusion, but in concentration, as if trying to decipher a particularly tricky piece of parchment. "Just tell us what you need," he says, his voice low and steady. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it. There's no pressure."

A wave of relief washes over you as Sirius's words, genuine and warm, ease some of the tension in your body. You glance at Remus, who gives your hand a comforting squeeze, before turning back to face James and Sirius.

"I've never been able to finish by myself," you confess, your cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "It feels like hitting a wall that you just can't get through." You swallow hard, forcing yourself to continue. "And I rarely get wet, even when I'm aroused, because of the medication I take."

The room falls into silence as they absorb your confession, but there's no judgment in their eyes, no hint of discomfort. Only love, concern, and a deep understanding that makes your heart ache with gratitude.

James reaches out to gently take your other hand, his fingers intertwining with yours in a show of support. "That's okay, love, we'll work it out. And if it never happens, that's fine too. We just want to be here with you, no matter what."

Remus is the next to speak, his voice steady despite the gravity of the conversation. "We can use lube. There are ways to make things easier for you. And we'll always check in, make sure you're comfortable."

You nod, appreciating his patience. "The thing is, physically... I should be able to have sex. Most positions shouldn't cause any problems in theory. But I've never... well, you know. So I can't say for certain how it'll feel in practice. And I don't know if the things I'm worried about will become bigger obstacles when faced with the reality of the situation."

He moves closer, not touching but present, a comforting solidity. "What are you worried about?"

You glance at him, feeling exposed yet compelled to continue. This isn't easy, laying bare your fears and vulnerabilities, but you know it's necessary. "The pain," you admit, your voice hardly above a whisper. "Sometimes it's so bad I can't even move, and I don't know how that would translate into... well, sex." You pause, your fingers absentmindedly twisting the hem of your shirt. "And then there's the worry that I won't... enjoy it as much as I could. That I might need to stop or that something will go wrong."

James's hand comes up to gently cradle your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. His voice is steady, a grounding force amidst the whirlwind of uncertainties. "We'll go as slow as you need," he assures you, thumb brushing tenderly against your skin. "The last thing we want is to hurt you. If you need to stop, we stop. No questions asked. You set the pace."

Sirius nods, his usual playful demeanour replaced by a seriousness that underscores the gravity of the situation. "And it's not just about sex," he adds, his grey eyes locking with yours, "it's about being close to you, sharing this part of ourselves with you. If some days we do more, and some days we do less, that's okay. As long as we're in it together."

Remus, ever the voice of reason, leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple. "You've been open with us about everything so far, and that's all we ask. If something feels wrong, if something hurts, you just tell us. We'll figure it out together."

The knots in your shoulders start to unravel, the conversation not as daunting as you feared it might be. Their responses are everything you need—understanding, patient, loving.

"I don't want to disappoint you," you murmur, the words barely more than a breath.

James's arms encircle you then, pulling you into his chest. His hug is firm but gentle, as if he fears you'll shatter at any moment. "You could never disappoint us," he whispers back, lips brushing against your hair. "We love you, all of you. This isn't about reaching some finish line. It's about being here with you, whatever that looks like."

Sirius edges nearer, his fingers resting lightly on your knee, grounding you in their shared resolve. "And we're not the sort to leave a job half-done, are we?" His voice carries a playful note, attempting to cut through the tension that has woven itself into the air. "We'll figure it out, love."

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and you lean into them, warmed by their unwavering support. "I know."

Remus's hand moves in soothing circles on your arm, a steady rhythm amidst the storm of uncertainty. "It'll be a learning curve for us all," he admits, his gaze never leaving yours. "But we'll take it one step at a time. And we'll be here—every step of the way."

You study their expressions, finding only warmth and acceptance there, and something inside you unclenches. You'd been dreading this conversation, fearing it might create discomfort or distance, but instead, it seems to have drawn you closer.

"Thank you," you whisper, your voice thick with the emotion of the moment. "For understanding. For being... you."

James's smile is soft as he leans in to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. "No need for thanks. We're the lucky ones, having you."

Sirius shifts, lying down beside you, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh. It's a comforting presence, grounding you when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control. "We'll figure out what works best for you, together. And believe me, we're going to make sure it feels good."

Remus catches your eye, his own so full of understanding that it's almost overwhelming. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "You're safe with us," he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm and comforting. "We'll take care of you."

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, warmth spreading through you. It's strange and wonderful, this sense of belonging that has blossomed between you and these three men.

James' gaze softens as he watches you, but there's a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or concern. "This might be a bit presumptuous," he begins, his tone cautious, "but have you thought about contraception? There's a potion for witches, and I know the Muggle world has options."

Your nod is slow, thoughtful. "I'm actually on a Muggle method. An implant. It's more reliable than potions or the pill, and easier to manage. I haven't had a period in... I can't even remember when, but it runs out in summer because it lasts three years."

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Sirius's mouth, his grey eyes sparkling with mischief. "That's certainly convenient," he murmurs, a lightness in his voice that attempts to lift the heaviness in the air. "One less thing to concern ourselves with."

His hand slides further up your thigh, and you can't help the sharp intake of breath as a jolt of electricity arcs between you both. Remus shoots Sirius a warning look—part admonishment, part protectiveness—but you merely laugh, feeling more liberated and accepted than ever before.

Remus returns his attention to you, his own hand finding yours atop the table. His thumb traces gentle circles on the back of your hand, each stroke a silent promise of understanding and patience. "We'll move at your pace, love," he assures you, and you hear the sincerity ringing clear and true in his voice. "Whatever you're comfortable with, whatever you need—we're here for you."

Your heart swells with gratitude for these three remarkable men who have somehow become an integral part of your life. The future remains uncertain, but one thing is clear: Whatever comes next, you'll face it together.

[qqueenofhades]

Maybe this is a controversial opinion, but its one that I've been reminded of in the few weeks since things have escalated so severely in Israel and Palestine-- I feel like the pressure for random, average individuals online to be vocally political is not only entitled and uncomfortable, but also just an example of misplaced priority.

Like, I have people on twitter right now that are flat out saying if you don't talk extensively about I/P you're truly, irredeemably evil. I've had mutuals say that silence means you're complacent in genocide, that you have blood on your hands (exact words). But it just doesn't make sense? Most of the people who I've seen being flat out harassed for being silent are teenagers who don't have money to donate, working class folks who don't have time to spare, and normal people who just don't have enough of a following online to even spread any word effectively. Of course, the ones doing the harassing are also poor/busy/not-popular, but they don't see the irony. (I've also seen them say that talking about war constantly is taking a toll on their mental health, saying they've cried, had nightmares, panic attacks, etc...but they also say that taking a mental health break from social media is "selfish" and genocidal, so.)

The whole interaction leaves me with so many questions. If stepping away from social media because politics are stressing you out (which they are known to do), are you obligated to use social media? Do you have to use twitter to be a good person? What does that say about people who can't afford a phone, or live in a country where it isn't quite possible? (Are homeless folks inherently genocidal, or is that an "obvious" exception that was never clarified because no one uses nuance anymore?) If you have to talk about world events, lest you side with the oppressor, at what point is something so catastrophic you *must* talk about it? Is there a number of lives lost that is low enough you can get away with being quiet, and a certain amount too high that you're obligated to talk about it? Is it your duty to have the news on 24/7 to make sure you don't miss anything and catch all the global disasters as they happen? How much do you have to talk about something for it to be considered "enough"? Is there a quota??

It just feels like a lot of people are acting as if people who aren't chronically online aren't 1. doing any activism, because the only important activism is social media networking (sarcasm), or 2. are inherently bad people for *not* spending 6 hours a day on their phones. Like, I had someone I thought was a friend say I was a bad person because I was trying to cut down my social media usage, because the timing was "too convenient"... as if that's a normal thing to say to someone, ever. Sorry if I went on a little bit of a rant, it wasn't my intention. I dunno, maybe it's just me; I've seen a lot of people saying this sort of stuff so maybe they are the majority. It just feels really weird to let people that are addicted to social media take charge of who online is "good" or "bad" based off their internet usage. As if we were all catholics or something. If I were to say that current takes on morality were very catholic-seeming, would you know what I mean?

As recently noted, I am myself on an embargo from answering asks related to this topic. I will make one exception because this is important. Please note that any wank in replies or reblogs will be instantly blocked (and I won't hesitate to disable reblogs if necessary). I will not be answering follow-up asks or getting drawn into Discourse. I do not want to do it and it will not be happening.

I have said it before, but it bears saying again: thinking that the only way to Do Activism is to be constantly on social media and immersing yourself in terrible things nonstop and then posting the Most Correct Opinions (and then viciously attacking anyone who is even slightly Not As Correct as you) is absolutely bullshit. If you're engaging with this content so much that it's giving you a mental breakdown or otherwise plunging you into a spiral of anxiety that you take out on other people who are just as far removed from actually doing anything about it as you: why? Do you really think that you and you alone, one random person on the Internet, are the only way anyone else is going to find out about these things? Or do you think you have to perform the Most Correct Opinions nonstop, viciously harass anyone who isn't responding in exactly the same way, and this is the sum total of what your response should be? Especially in a situation as bloody and complicated as this, dealing with reams of religious, social, cultural, and political history where the average commentator on this conflict knows only what's been fed to them by propaganda on TikTok? How the fuck is that useful or constructive for anyone, aside from perpetuating the idea that you have to be angry all the time on social media about things you essentially know nothing about? I can't see that it does.

What's happening to the Gazans right now is no qualification or equivocation, a genocide. It should rightfully be opposed and called what it is. But unfortunately, I have spent too much time around Western Online Leftists to believe they actually care a whit about stopping genocide as a fundamental principle, and only want to be seen to loudly care about what their Ideology has told them to care about. If it means hand-waving aside genocide and atrocities when committed by their preferred polities, so be it. Why haven't these same people been wall-to-wall up in arms about what Russia has been doing in Ukraine, or for God's sake Syria for the past ten years, if they're really concerned about the rights of innocent Muslim civilians attacked by a far-right imperialist power? Why not the Uighurs in China? Why not [insert the blank] of all the terrible things happening in the world as a result of far-right fascist genocidal imperialism? Why only this conflict? Why now? Why does it involve so much excusing of terrorism as long as it's committed for the Right Ideology? Why are some of the most loudly pro-Palestinian accounts on here also the most rabidly pro-Russian? How does that make sense? To put it bluntly, those genocides are being committed by nation-states that Online Leftists like for being "anti-Western," and therefore their activities are actually fine and should even need to be defended.

My point is not to say that what's happening to the Palestinians is not bad. It is. It is awful and inexcusable. However, I seriously doubt the motives and morality of those who are being the loudest about screaming on social media and attacking everyone else for not instantly repeating their views. I seriously doubt that the Online Left actually opposes genocide and accelerationism as fundamental principles, because they proudly demonstrate every day that they don't. Until those vast factors can be dismantled and shown for what they are, and this can be placed into its larger context, I don't buy it and I don't believe this wall-to-wall social media outrage factory is actually aimed at helping the Gazans or anyone else suffering the most as a result of this. It is just to show that they can be counted on to Perform Outrage and harass anyone else who doesn't do the same, and that does nothing for anyone whatsoever.