#but his reason why was tinged with misogyny | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mypoisonedvine · 4 years ago

Text

Hungry Like The Wolf | soft!dark!Ari Levinson x reader

summary: when you need ari’s help for a secret mission with the CIA, he expects gratitude from you— and he wants a lot more than just a thank you card.

word count: nearly 6.5k

warnings: smut (dub con/coercion/sex as bartering tool), oral sex (f receiving) and vaginal sex, overstimulation, possessiveness/very very slight yandere vibes?, some violence and gun use, mentions of human trafficking/warfare, religious discussions and traditions but not particularly orthodox ones, vague discussions of sexism and misogyny with implied religious background, overall just lots of global politics and all that fun stuff

(a/n: I went ahead and wrote the hebrew and arabic in english lettering because tumblr doesn’t support right to left text so just a heads up. my arabic is very weak so I apologize if there are any errors.)

Taking a deep breath, you ran through your pitch in your head again. Sure, you’d had plenty of time to go over it on the plane, but one last recitation couldn’t hurt, right? Unable to stall any longer, you turned the knob and entered Ari Levinson’s office.

You’d heard he was good-looking but his appearance still surprised you; his long hair and thick beard made him look like he’d fit in with a rock band better than an intelligence agency, and his half-buttoned shirt put his Star of David necklace and muscled, hairy chest on display.

He must have caught your gaze trailing down because he smirked at you, making your cheeks feel a bit warm.

“Mr. Levinson,” you greeted as you looked up to his face again.

He greeted you as ‘Ms.’ instead of ‘Agent,’ but you let it slide since you were about to ask him for quite the favor. When he motioned for you to take a seat across from him, you did so with a nod and a quick smoothing of your skirt.

“So, what can I help you with?” he prompted.

This was the easy part; this was the part you’d rehearsed a thousand times. “There is a group of trafficked women and girls who have been rescued from all over— Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Kuwait— and gathered in Riyadh. We are working on a plan to move them to Cyprus and, eventually, Greece where they will be accepted into a camp there. Maybe they’ll end up in the States at some point, if we can swing it, but… Cyprus is step one.”

Ari nodded, listening to your story with more patience than anyone else had so far.

“As you can imagine, it would be a lot easier to move through Jordan and Israel and use your ports, rather than go around through Egypt or Syria…” He stared at you expectantly as you trailed off, and you cleared your throat before finishing: "The CIA would greatly appreciate Mossad's cooperation in the movement of these refugees."

"How much would they appreciate it?"

You paused, unsure what he meant. "Um, quite a lot, I'm sure…"

"I just mean that we have missions the CIA could be a useful assist for, too,” he clarified, interlacing his fingers and resting his hands on his lap. “You guys have a lot more resources than we do. If we help you out, is this going to be an allyship we can rely on?"

You swallowed dryly, pondering if there was a way to get out of this before you sighed and slumped down in your chair, leaning a little closer to him. "Alright, I have to be honest with you: it's not really the CIA that's asking for your help."

"Then who is?"

"Me. Just me. I'm the only one who believes in this mission; I'm the only one fighting for these people. The CIA won't help you because they won't even help me and I work for them."

He slumped his shoulders a little bit. "Then I'm not sure if I can afford to say yes to you."

"Please," you implored, "I know I can't offer you as much as they can, but I'll do whatever I can to make this work. Please," you repeated as you laid your hand over his, noticing the way his expression shifted a bit, "help me."

"I've been the one person fighting for a mission before," he remembered, voice a little softer. "I know how hard it is to go it alone."

You smiled gently at him.

"And, I know how far I would've gone to get my people to safety."

His hand flipped around suddenly and grabbed yours tightly, pulling you closer as you gasped.

"How far will you go?"

You shivered, the darkness in his eyes burning right through you even when you tried to look away. "Mr. Levinson, I—"

"Call me Ari," he instructed gruffly, grip tightening around your wrist until you yelped softly.

"Ari," you corrected, "I have money—"

"Don't want it."

"I can offer you my assistance in—"

"Don't need it."

"Tell me what you need,” you requested softly.

"I need to know you're gonna show me this 'great appreciation' you promised,” he answered quickly. “I need to know that if I take care of you, then you'll take care of me."

You gulped but nodded. "O-of course…"

"Good."

He released you from his grip and stood up, smiling at you like nothing had even happened.

"Pleasure doing business with you, madam."

You stood up and left his office in a haze, unsure if what had just happened was a dream or reality. But, sure enough, he showed up the next day where you’d told him to meet you, and brought some money and fake passports that you desperately needed. Frankly, just having a man around was going to make things smoother for you, even if it was a white man who didn’t exactly blend in by any stretch of the imagination. Seeing him again the next day only reminded you how big he was, tall but moreso heavy with muscle; he looked pretty cramped in his tiny coach seat on the plane to Dubai (your connecting stop where you’d spend the night before flying out to Riyadh).

“Bloody mary, please,” he requested from the stewardess with a gentle nod, turning to you.

“Uh, just water, thanks,” you ordered quickly with a tilted smile. You had brought a book to read, but Ari insisted on barraging you with personal questions about your job, your personal life, your favorite things— he seemed fascinated by the most mundane things, and disinterested in giving his own backstory.

Of course you considered that it wasn’t a great idea to tell him so much about yourself, let him in your head and under your skin. But then again, you’d put your trust in him enough for the mission, so you ought to trust him completely, right?

So why did his stare send shivers up your spine?

There was room for you and Ari at a CIA safehouse outside Dubai; it wasn’t exactly luxurious or anything, but at least you weren’t going to have to share a room… or a bed.

Normally staying in a safehouse meant sharing common areas with a random assortment of other agents, but it being a Friday night in Dubai meant they were all out enjoying the local nightlife while you two stayed in. Hoping to review a game plan for the mission with him, you found Ari’s door open, peeking around to see him on his knees on the floor, a candle burning before him, and his hands raised to cover his eyes and face.

“Shema Yisrael,” he sung to himself below his breath, “Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Ehad…”

He jumped a little when he uncovered and opened his eyes only to find you standing there. “Shabbat Shalom,” you greeted.

“Shabbat Shalom,” he nodded back.

“I’m sorry you’re forced to take your Shabbat alone,” you apologized, “and that there’s nobody other than me to appreciate your vocal chops.”

His cheeks tinged pink at that. “It’s all part of the sacrifices we make for our missions, eh?”

“Then I suppose you don’t mind that you’ll be doing plenty of work tomorrow,” you presumed.

“You probably realized by now that I’m not actually so traditional,” he chuckled, extinguishing the candle and standing up. “I work on the sabbath quite a lot.”

“I hear work is permitted if it is needed to save a life.”

He smiled, but he looked a little sad; maybe not sad, but tired. “With me, it always is.”

The silence was thick as you tried to reconcile that this was the same man that had grabbed and threatened you— was it a threat? You couldn’t even tell anymore. Apparently he wasn’t going to take whatever it was that he wanted until you’d finished the mission, and that should’ve made it easier to procrastinate your worry, but the extra time to ponder what it was actually going to be only brought further anxiety.

Of course, you had an idea of what he was going to ask of you, but the fact that nothing too untoward had happened in his office when you first met him was throwing you off. In that moment, you were just waiting for him to tell you to get on your knees and show him how bad you wanted these women rescued, but he didn’t. Wouldn’t have been the first time somebody tried to bribe you into sex; it would’ve been the first time, however, that you actually considered doing it.

Now, the anticipation just made it worse; you were working with him every day and he always acted normal, as if there wasn’t this looming threat of whatever favor he was going to ask from you in return.

Once you actually got to work the next day, it was easier not to think about that. You barely had any extra brainpower to think about anything except survival and extraction. Still, each time you looked at him only to find him already looking at you, your hands shook a little.

“You’ve been driving for 10 hours, you’re sure you don’t want me to take the wheel?” you offered, watching him blink a few times to clear his vision.

“Not worth getting arrested,” he frowned.

“We’ll only get arrested if we get caught.”

“Not worth the risk of getting caught. And I don’t know about you, but if I get arrested here, I’ll probably be killed, too.”

You chewed your lip as you appreciated that it was probably worth avoiding as much trouble as possible. It’s not like the CIA was popular in these parts, either, and for good reason.

“What’s that up ahead?” he asked, leaning further forward against the steering wheel and squinting.

“Um,” you stalled as you unfolded the paper map in your lap, “I’m… not sure.”

“Looks like a barricade,” he announced, and it did; a gate with two guards and barbed wire on either side.

“There isn’t supposed to be a stop here,” you reminded him as you frantically shuffled around the map, making sure you were where you thought you were and that there wasn’t a mark indicating a vehicle stop on the road.

“What do we do?” he asked, looking around as if he was considering veering off the path even though that would be equally dangerous.

“There isn’t supposed to be a stop here,” you repeated, more anxiously.

“Well, there is,” he replied, his own agitation clearly increasing, “so we’ll have to go through it.”

“They’re going to pull us over.”

“Probably,” he admitted.

“And they will search the back of the truck.”

“I’d be surprised if they didn’t. How well do you think they’re gonna take it when they see eighty-something women packed like sardines?”

You chuckled a little even though you were anything but amused. “Um, not good.”

As the men at the stop waved to signal your car to slow down, Ari sighed a little. "I'll ask once again: what do we do?"

"Act natural," you suggested quickly as you lifted the scarf draped around your head to cover your nose and mouth.

Ari slowed down to a stop, lowering the window to talk to the officer outside and putting on a fake English accent. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Identification please,” he requested sternly. Ari smiled as he grabbed his and your passports, handing them over through the window. It was a long, awkward moment as he flipped through the thick papers slowly, his partner leaning down to look through your window but never taking his hands off his gun. “What brings you out here?” the man finally asked.

“My wife and I operate a restaurant in Jordan, and we get most of our equipment here because the workmanship is better,” Ari explained. “Just passing through with our new stoves and oven hood.”

The officer glanced back over your truck, his expression mostly unreadable but overall not necessarily friendly-looking. “Could you step out of the vehicle please?”

“Hal hdha daruri?” you asked quickly; Is this necessary?

“Alsamt,” he replied in a hiss; Silence.

Ari looked around like he was thinking but nodded and reached for the handle to his door. You did the same, the second guard stepping out of your way so you could swing open the rusted metal and step out.

The men guided for you to circle the car with them, stopping at the back and staring at the metal sliding door that was latched shut.

Turning to address Ari, the guard’s face dropped completely as he got a bit more serious. “What am I going to find in your vehicle?”

“Kitchen supplies, like I said,” Ari insisted.

As the officer reached for the latch on the back of the truck, Ari shot you a wide-eyed look and you gave him a quick nod. He lunged at the second guard, wrestling him for his gun while you went after the first, who was much easier to take down with him being distracted by trying to unlock the back of the truck. Your CIA instincts told you to shoot him once you’d grabbed his weapon, but thankfully you knocked him out with the butt of it instead.

Loud pops of gunfire beside you made you fear the worst, but Ari had managed to push the gun toward the sky before pulling it out of the officer’s grasp, swinging it wildly until it made contact with his head and he fell to the ground.

Gun in hand and panting heavily, Ari looked back at you with a grin. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“You almost got shot,” you reminded him.

“A little more than almost,” he corrected, showing you a gash where a bullet had grazed arm.

“Shit, Ari!” you yelped, running over to him and inspecting the wound. The way he looked down at you as you clutched him made you sort of regret it, though.

“It’s fine,” he assured you, but he made no effort to push you away.

“I… should check on the girls,” you decided, a little bit distracted but making your way back to the truck to roll up the metal back and examine the women inside, who looked scared at first but relaxed when they saw you.

“Kli shay' ealaa ma yaram,” you assured them that everything was fine, “nahn taqribaan 'iilaa al'urduni, wasawf nasil 'iilaa alsafinat allaylat.” We're almost to Jordan and will arrive at the ship tonight.

They relaxed a bit and smiled at you, a few muttered ‘shukraan jazilaan’s (meaning ‘thank you’) echoing from inside. You hated to shut the back and plunge them into darkness again, but they had assured you before that they would brave any conditions for a chance at freedom. You hoped they meant it.

“Please, let me drive, you’re injured,” you offered to Ari as he started to make his way toward the driver’s side door.

“It’s not even that bad, and we’ve had enough run-ins with the law today,” he dismissed.

“Then let me patch you up first, okay? Is that so terrible?”

He smiled a little. “No, I guess not.”

And that was how you ended up leaning on him in the passenger seat, supergluing his arm shut, trying not to think about how his bicep was probably bigger than your head.

“You’re a pretty good medic,” he observed, speaking quietly since you were so close.

“When you’re as clumsy as I am, you have to be,” you responded, sounding monotone due to focusing mostly on your work. “It shouldn’t scar too—”

You stopped when you looked up at him, because the way he was staring back down at you made you completely devoid of the ability to speak or even conjure words in your mind. You’d never seen him so close before and those piercing blue eyes made your head spin.

“What were you gonna say?” he asked softly,

“It… shouldn’t scar too bad,” you finished, “as long as you keep it clean and dry.”

“I generally aim to keep my entire body clean and dry,” Ari chuckled.

“Right, yeah, well— keep up the good work, then,” you stammered as you wrapped some gauze around his arm and rolled his sleeve back down over it.

“Let’s hit the road before we waste any more time,” he suggested, and with a nod you leaned back into your seat.

The radio blasting was the only thing keeping both of you awake as you drove through the dark. The border to Jordan was easy enough, and both of you sighed with relief as you crossed into Israel. It was by far the biggest blockade you’d seen so far, but of course, Ari got you in faster than you’d moved through anything else.

“Good to be home?” you asked when you saw Ari smiling as he looked around at the streetlights through the windshield.

“You could say that,” he answered. “Think we have time to stop for falafel before we get to the port?”

“Not unless you plan on buying for all your passengers,” you laughed, motioning toward the back. “If they have to wait until we reach the ship, so do we.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” he relented. “Besides, probably better to be seen by as few people as possible. Even if we’re in friendly territory, it’s still a covert operation and all.”

“Wow, so you do have some desire to play by the rules,” you gasped in faux shock. He smiled and shrugged a bit.

“More like the rules and my desires occasionally overlap.”

It was past midnight when you pulled into the port, surrounded by ships so big that you couldn’t see the tops of them from inside the car. A cargo ship was waiting for you, along with some Navy men who helped you escort the women onto the vessel.

Since it wasn’t meant to accommodate this many people, the refugees occupied extra crew space while you and Ari were given sleeping bags in an unused office; you were so tired, though, that it actually looked enticing.

As soon as you’d set your pack down and shut the door, you heard a distant horn and felt the ship begin to move. You let out a long sigh as you leaned against the desk, watching Ari take a seat in the chair and start laughing exhaustedly.

“We did it,” you smiled, “we fucking did it.”

“We’ve still got a long boat ride ahead of us,” Ari mitigated, “but yeah… we should be in the clear, and tomorrow afternoon we’ll be in sunny Cyprus.”

You were so elated from the high of a successful mission that you forgot to worry about Ari’s vague request all those weeks ago; it was probably the first time you hadn’t thought about it since then, truthfully. That changed when his smile fell as he looked up at you, eyes darkening a little and scanning your body.

“You’re a great agent,” he nodded slowly, “and an incredible woman. You saved a lot of people tonight.”

You shifted nervously under the weight of his stare, but tried to hide your discomfort. “I… couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I know,” he informed you coldly, standing up and approaching you. “I think I’ve gone above and beyond on my end of our deal.”

A pit formed in your stomach, growing with each step he took towards you. His eyes stayed trained on you except for when he glanced to the side to flip on the radio, American music suddenly piping through the speakers.

— discord and rhyme, I’m on the hunt, I’m after you…

You looked to the radio as well but his hand gently guided your jaw until you looked back at him; he was closer than ever, and you had to look up to meet his gaze, shivering as he ran his thumb over your bottom lip slowly.

“Are you good for your end of the deal?” he asked lowly.

And I’m hungry like the wolf…

You swallowed, hoping it would somehow ease the ache in your gut as you realized what was about to happen, before nodding meekly.

He smirked a little. “Good girl,” he praised, only a bit louder than a whisper, as his hand moved to cradle your face. “You want me, don’t you?”

Your brow furrowed as you tried to figure out how you were supposed to answer that. “I want to repay you, for all you’ve done for me.”

“No, not just that,” he disagreed, “you want me. I know you do. You don’t need to hide it, we’re alone…”

Hesitant but catching on to his desires, you nodded a little.

“Say it.”

“I want you, Ari,” you whispered.

It felt like forever waiting for him to kiss you as he leaned in slowly, eyes half-lidded and dark but never leaving you. As his lips brushed against yours, you finally let your eyes flutter shut and reciprocated his kiss. His hands felt especially big as one slipped behind your neck and the other rested on your waist; in fact, with the way you had to crane your head up to kiss him back, all of him felt big. Including the part you were pretty sure just bumped against the inside of your thigh.

His kiss was soft and patient but determined, slow but somehow still moving faster than you were ready for. You gingerly reached up and rested your hands on his shoulders; they were strong and warm beneath your touch, even through his shirt. You couldn’t think of the last time you’d been kissed like this, or held so tenderly like this, but then again, you were also sure that nobody had scared you like this in a long time, either. For a woman who always knew what to do in a dangerous situation, you couldn’t seem to get a read on Ari Levinson— mostly because you didn’t truly believe he was dangerous. But maybe you should.

When his hands reached up to start unbuttoning your blouse, you pushed him back a little.

"N-not here," you protested, "someone could hear, or walk in."

"There's nowhere else to go, and I'm not waiting 'til Cyprus. I need you now."

He kissed you again before you could respond, more forceful and desperate. You let him work open your shirt this time, his fingers dancing over your skin as he pulled it off your shoulders and tossed it aside. The feeling of him working your bra open made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, but his tongue slipping into your mouth distracted you and before you knew it, it was gone as well. Your nipples hardened in the cold air— or maybe they’d been that way already, for whatever reason— but they reacted even stronger to his thick fingers gently pinching them as his palms cupped your breasts.

You gasped against his mouth a bit, your breathing getting heavier as he moved his hands down to your trousers. The idea of being naked when he was still fully-dressed scared you, but you didn’t have time to think about that anymore when he pulled back to drop to his knees, taking your pants and underwear to the floor with him.

He looked back up at you with a mischievous grin as you cautiously stepped out of them. After guiding you to sit up on the table, neither of you stopping to consider how rude it was to put your bare ass on somebody’s desk in a borrowed ship, he slowly parted your legs. As he kissed a trail inside your thigh, you felt your hands clutch the edge of the table tightly with anticipation. You felt so exposed with his face right there, to the point that your cheeks were burning with embarrassment, and yet you couldn't manage to tear your eyes away from his as he leaned in to lick you teasingly with the tip of his tongue.

"Fuck," you shivered, feeling your inner walls quiver as he moved so delicately. You kept waiting for him to really get into it but he was determined to stay gentle and slow, circling your bud for one glorious moment before stopping again. "Ari, please," you whispered without even realizing you’d said it.

"What do you want, baby?" he asked darkly, his voice deep and gravelly as he ran his hands up the back of your legs.

Your begging whimper was so pathetic you could hardly believe you were hearing yourself. "More, please…"

He dove right in after that, suddenly latching onto your clit and letting his tongue explore every fold, every wrinkle, every sensitive spot with thick, wide licks. Your head fell back and your hands jumped to weave into his hair— that gorgeous fucking hair that had driven you halfway insane. It was soft between your fingers, and in this light you could see the touches of red, blonde, and maybe even grey scattered into the brunette. Better yet was the way he moaned against you when you accidentally pulled it, your hands clenching into fists against his scalp each time he sucked on your clit just right.

"Ari, baby, fuck," you groaned, feeling your hips shift a little as if to try to get more of yourself in his mouth.

Sensation was sparking under your skin faster than you knew what to do with it, faster than you had ever figured out on your own, and definitely faster than anybody else had ever managed. You felt your body shaking and couldn’t suppress it at all, every part of you (inside and out) quivering uncontrollably. It would’ve been embarrassing except that he seemed to be enjoying it quite a bit, egging you on with his tight grip on your thighs, and his deep moans that reverberated over your body, and the way his brow furrowed like it almost pained him to see you like this. Your back arched so dramatically that he had to hold onto your hips tight to keep you in his mouth, but he managed to maintain what he'd been doing— in fact, he didn't stop even when you started to whine and cry, feet digging into his back as you tried not to explode from the overstimulation on your sensitive clit.

"S-stop, s'too much, can't take it," you pleaded, looking down at him.

He looked back up at you with dark, dilated eyes that said 'you're gonna take it.' His tongue lapped at you with renewed vigor, sending you tumbling over the edge again and again and again.

Tears were streaming down your face when he finally relented, standing up slowly and staring you down as he wiped his face with the back of his hand; your arousal had coated his mouth and most of his beard, too. You bit down on your lip to stop it from shaking as he slotted himself between your legs again, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and smiling as he watched your gaze trail down every inch of newly-exposed skin.

You knew he was in good shape, because it was always obvious, but you still shivered a little when you were greeted with chiseled muscles, dusty-blonde hair, a few stray freckles and scars, and last but not least, the gauze wrapping on his arm where you’d patched him up before. It was nice to see a piece of your handiwork on something so flawless, like how it must feel to design the frame that holds a Monet. Your mouth was even watering as you followed the trail of hair down to where it was interrupted by his jeans, which were misshapen with the unmistakable outline of his neglected cock. Either you could actually hear it throbbing, or that was just your heartbeat in your ears as he made a show of undoing his buckle and fly slowly.

A breath caught in your throat as he slid the jeans down and kicked them off with his boots, his cock bouncing up against the bottom of his abs once he’d freed it. You hoped to hide your intimidation, but you must have failed from the way he smirked and licked his lips as he stepped forward and pressed it against your stomach; you felt a little dizzy seeing the head of it reach past your bellybutton. "That's how deep I'm gonna be in you, baby."

For all his delicacy and tenderness in everything before now, he must have had a change of heart; with a little growl, he pushed all the way into you with one brutal thrust, watching darkly as your head fell back in a choked scream. He didn’t stop for very long, either, setting up a pace that was slow but unyielding, his length filling every part of you and then some with each slam of his hips into yours.

He grabbed your hair tightly and suddenly, pulling your head back to expose your neck to him. He licked and sucked along your pulse until you were shaking against him, nails accidentally digging into his shoulders a little bit as you held onto him.

His lips trailed up to pull you into a frenzied, sloppy kiss, your mouth slack wide for him to explore however he wanted.

"Tell me how it feels," he growled against your lips.

It feels like my body is on fire but I like it. It feels like you're shaping my insides to fit you exactly how you want. It feels like you might split me in half before you're done with me, but if you stop now I'll fall apart even worse.

His grip on your hair tightened at your lack of response. "Gettin' fucked too good to answer me, huh? So full of my cock you can't even speak. Is that right, pretty baby?"

You nodded as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, your hoarse moans and sobs muffled by his skin.

"Aw, poor thing," he purred, wrapping his arms around your back. His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke to you in a deep mumble, the bass of his voice sending shivers down your spine with each word. "You don't have to tell me, I know how it feels… you're so wet that you're fucking dripping, your needy little pussy is clamping down on me like it's the end of the fucking world, and you're screaming for me so loud I bet half the ship can hear you. I know how it feels, baby; it feels so good that you're already about to come for me."

You gasped as he pushed you to lay back on the table, hoisting your legs up over his shoulders; you felt a bit whorish seeing your legs up in the air like that, especially when he leaned to the side to plant a wet kiss on your calf.

Soon he was letting your legs slip back down to his hips, leaning over you and caging you in with his thick arms, watching your face as he started to fuck you harder. His long hair was at risk of tickling you as it fell down beside your face, but it was that Star of David necklace that was dangling from his neck and swinging right in your face with every thrust. Slightly annoyed by it hitting your face from time to time, you stuck out your tongue to catch it, holding it between your teeth and finding that biting down on it helped you cope with the slight pain of him so deep inside you anyways.

"Baby," he moaned, inspired by the sight to grab your hips even tighter and slam into you even harder. "Fuck, I'm close," he hissed. "Gonna fill you up so good, baby, gonna ruin you for anybody else, huh?"

"Yes, Ari," you whimpered. "I'm close, too…"

"Go ahead, pretty girl, wanna feel how tight you get when you come— when I make you come."

Trying to hold it back only made it hit you harder, and as your moans grew louder and your body began to shake, you felt your walls flutter and flex intensely. He pulled his necklace out of your mouth and kissed you suddenly; it kept you grounded as you feared that the rest of you would float away, lost in pleasure so thoroughly that you'd never come back to reality. His moans mixed with yours as they moved between your tongues, and just when you thought you'd break into pieces if he didn't slow down, you felt his movements stutter and his cock pump inside you. You couldn't feel the warmth of it because you were already so hot all over, but the way his cock swelled as he came was unmistakable and overwhelmingly erotic.

He broke the kiss but didn't pull away, catching his breath while he stayed inside you, resting his forehead against yours.

After cooling off for a moment, he scooped your limp body into his arms and lifted you into his chest; you wrapped around him and let him carry you to the other side of the room where he set you down on the pallet sleeping bags and blankets. You whimpered as he pulled out, his softening cock still big enough to make you wince. The gush of warm, sticky come made your cheeks burn even if it also sent a dulled tingle of arousal up your spine. He was gentlemanly enough to wipe you off with a towel, mumbling something about how pretty you looked stuffed with his come, but you couldn't really focus on any of that because you were still waiting for sensation to return to your numbed extremities— brain included.

He turned his head and laid it on your chest, and you found yourself absent-mindedly scratching his scalp with your nails.

"That's nice," he whispered, but you could tell that already by the way his skin was erupting into goosebumps, and the way he held you tighter.

You must've laid like that for hours, or maybe it was just a few minutes, but it was one of those moments that felt like a piece of forever. He lifted his head to look up at you, pulling you down a bit so his face hovered over yours.

"What's next for you after you get these women to Greece?" he asked quietly.

You chewed your lip as you thought about that. "Back to DC, I figure, and then wherever they send me next. I hear they might want me undercover in Cuba or Russia…"

"How often do you end up in Jerusalem?"

You squirmed a little beneath him, but he slipped his arm under your neck and pulled you closer; how were you supposed to think with his bicep right by your face like that? "Uh, not often, but if I'm in town I'll give you a call—"

"Come with me," he requested softly. "Get to Cyprus, go to Greece, and then meet me in Tel Aviv."

"Ari, I can't—"

"Why not?"

You laughed a little, but he clearly wasn’t joking. "Because I have a job?"

"You won't need a job," he shrugged, "I make good money and you can just live with me."

Your throat went dry as you stammered, trying to figure out if he had seriously just asked you to quit your job and move in with him.

"You'll like Israel. You speak some Hebrew don't you?"

"Uhh, yeah but—"

"Then what's stopping you?"

You couldn't answer because you didn't even know where to start with all the things that were stopping you. Your mouth opened and closed silently like a fish out of water, and he laughed at you lightly.

"Just say yes," he encouraged gently, and your heart twisted as you wondered if this was part of the deal, if you needed to do everything he wanted to keep him on your side. You were on an Israeli ship, sailing international waters; if he changed his mind now, he could still sell you out and have these people arrested or worse. But he wouldn't do that, right?

Perhaps the more important question was not 'would he do that?' but rather 'are you willing to find out?'

"Yes," you heard yourself answer before you even realized you were considering it.

He grinned, hugging you tightly. He was already rambling about how great it was going to be and how he would spoil you all the time and maybe find a way to get you hired as a contractor at Mossad so he could bring you along on missions, but you couldn't hear it past the ringing in your ears. You desperately needed sleep, and his arms were warm and welcoming as you drifted off. He kissed your forehead before letting his eyes fall shut as well, joining you in unconsciousness.

The swaying of the ship was like being rocked to sleep, so much so that you slept for an uncharacteristically long time: you were just a few hours out from your destination when you awoke, in fact.

Instead of getting up and attempting to acquire some food, you laid there staring up at the ceiling as his heavy arm draped over your chest. Even in his sleep he had power over you, refused to let you go. You tried to remember how you'd ended up in this situation but instead you found yourself fantasizing about a chance at love. After running around the world for so long, there weren't many good men left to settle down with. And Ari was maybe not an entirely good man, but you believed him when he said he would treat you well. You'd shacked up with a lot worse in your time, when you were young and reckless and thought the worst thing you could be was alone. Still, a long-suppressed desire for companionship was awakening in your mind and you weren't going to swallow it back down this time. Smiling, you lifted his hand to your lips and kissed his knuckles. If what he wanted in exchange for his cooperation was your affection, you could do that.

#ari levinson x reader #dark!ari levinson x reader #ari levinson smut #chris evans x reader #ari levinson x you

842 notes · View notes

floralovebot · 3 years ago

Note

I saw your post and can you explain how helia is a stereotype and why is nabu asian? sorry

it’s no problem!

helia basically falls into a couple of stereotypes about east asian men! he's heavily coded as asian and often fans do lean into that and when they do they also lean even more into stereotypes.

-the whole calm, pacifist thing coupled with being codatorta’s best student (aka they wanted the pacifist stereotype and the good at fighting stereotype at the same time)

-the origami and art, but mainly the origami

-his really quiet and “shy” demeanor (personally, i don’t think helia was ever that shy, not even in the early seasons. i think a lot of fans just went with shy because he was quieter and flora’s love interest, which honestly isn’t great because it reduces his character to just being quiet and shy which again,, stereotype)

-the meditating (goes into the pacifist thing again. making one of the only asian characters casually into meditating, especially when none of the other characters are,, isn’t great)

-basically just making his entire personality and interests vaguely Asian Ninja Buddhist esque (it’s honestly one of the reasons why i don’t mind later seasons helia. since his character got assassinated, he isn’t a walking stereotype anymore)

-i hate to say it, but his visual looks as well. asian men constantly get emasculated and feminized by white people. it’s white peoples way of saying “you’re less than us” (this also has a tinge of misogyny and homophobia to it as well). helia being asian coded and also having longer hair, a slimmer face, and just a more “feminine” look, was not rainbow subverting stereotypes about men, it was them falling into stereotypes about asian men. while helia being more feminine than the others is never used as a joke or anything, it is highlighted frequently whenever the specialists or winx doubt his abilities purely based on his appearance. throughout the second season in the show and third season in the comics, helia often has to “prove himself” to the others. considering this didn’t happen for any other new character being established into the main group (except for nabu and roy who are both poc coded), it’s not great!

-i mean,, his characterization isn't the worst and it's definitely not the biggest example of racism in winx. and quite honestly, i find his fanon characterization to be much more offensive than canon was. fanon tends to lead way too far into Pacifist Goody Goody But Also Martial Artist for me to be in any way comfortable with it, especially since it's usually worse than canon ever was. (like. canon helia wasn't a pacifist. he was beating people up in an alley way. fans go way too hard on Pacifist Helia and it's usually under a layer of racism.)

there’s a couple other smaller things, but this is the general list! it’s most of the big things!

and about nabu being asian coded! nabu's coding is much more obvious than helia's yet somehow people miss it more? it's the racism.

most of nabu’s outfits are heavily asian inspired (mainly south asian with some chinese inspiration) however his parents are south asian coded (or southeast asian, however i have a feeling rainbow was probably thinking about india)

^here you can see a couple of nabu’s outfits plus his parents. the first outfit is pretty obvious i think? the middle one is maybe less so, however the collar he has is reminiscent of asian clothing and considering we don’t see those collars on non-asian characters, that’s definitely what they were going for. the last one is also pretty obvious i think, rainbow has this weird obsession with putting strings on their asian character’s waists as a belt (it’s happened with helia and musa and again, not on their non-asian characters). his parents are also pretty self-explanatory! rainbow just made them vaguely south asian, especially his mom (they were definitely going for indian with her, look at their attempt at a bindi and headdress ahgajhgk).

unfortunately, nabu also falls into a few stereotypes. the fact that he’s the only wizard among the main characters (not counting helia, since he never uses his magic), the fact that he’s also just a vague mishmash of asian cultures, the fact that they made him heavily south asian coded but because he has darker skin, also made him from andros (going into the stereotype that asians can’t have dark skin, especially since winx doesn’t have like. any dark skin asian characters). despite all of this, plenty of people see him as either black or mixed, especially since he is from andros and was aisha’s first love interest. tbh, while i understand why fans would think he's black, i do think the fandom should recognize his asian coding more. especially since most of the non-black fans that see him as black are only doing so out of stereotypes (black women only dating black men, andros only being black people, asians can't have dark skin, even his death gets used).

i'd recommend looking at this post by @bitchatcloudtower! it explains it more and has real life examples of his clothing.

#white people dont clown on this post #anonymous #answered #this is long sorry. but also i have a lot to say #winx club #five months ago.. you sent this five months ago...#well. i hope you see this #long post #also that pose nabu is drawn in.. complete racism #winx helia #winx nabu

67 notes · View notes

dalasteller · 4 years ago

Text

shadow and bone spoilers! malina/mal fans this is not for you but it’s not pro-darklina either. i’m an alina x alina supremacist

so, somehow, the show made me like book!malina more than show!malina after weeks of thinking the opposite would be true. i don’t even like book!mal/malina, but my neutrality towards them is nothing compared to how much i detested show!malina.

I WANTED THE TV SHOW TO MAKE ME LOVE THEM. the trailers made me think i would!!! i'd heard screeners and reviewers talk about this epic love story that transcends everything—these two people who would do anything for each other—and i don't disagree, they definitely would. i just wish they would shut the fuck up about it.

sorry.

looking back, i'd rather the show gave us mal with flaws, who wasn't perfect to alina, who would die for her, but still said the wrong thing and flirted with other girls and was afraid of her power at first. archie did a great job. he just couldn't make me love mal, and neither could the writers opting to make him main character no. 2 and alina’s prince in shining armour who supports her endlessly and has never done anything wrong in his life ever. writers, please, why did you think that was a good idea? when i said i wanted a more likeable mal, i meant i wanted his flaws accompanied by positive traits, by compelling backstory, by personality outside of being alina's hot best friend who never noticed her. i didn't mean i wanted a guy who could be wrapped in a gift box and sold as a robo-boyfriend designed for romance.

no, i mean, they really did write him that way.

what i definitely didn't mean i wanted was over an hour of the show dedicated to watching mal’s perspective of hunting the stag and making besties with his military bros and writing letters to alina and getting shot at a bunch of times instead of letting the book characters who were already beloved by fans get the screentime they deserved. what i wouldn't do to have gotten more genyalina and well-written zoya instead of mal dissecting deer shit...

you would think with how much talk about malina basically being soulmates, childhood flashbacks, fighting and nearly dying for each other at least four times (and did i mention more narration about being soulmates?) that i would take the bait and just let malina set sail. but this show held me at gunpoint for eight hours straight and told me that these two are going to have the same cultural influence as new romeo and juliet and that if i disagree i am going to be killed on the spot. because of this, i have now died.

don't tell me what to do, narrative, because i'm not going to do it!

i am also annoyed that they took the time to redesign mal in perfect childhood-friends-to-lovers dreamboat fashion but refused to retcon zoya's stupid misogyny-fueled bitchy YA girl arc and instead made it even worse by having her be racist to alina? what was the thought process there? they seriously fucked her over. i tried to pretend it didn't happen moving forward but why do they want to use racism as a tool for developing a "bully" character anyway, especially a woc? am i meant to forget about it? they lost me there. i feel like the female characters, with the exception of inej, generally weren't given the same care the male characters were. there was a lot of sidelining in favour of mal's redemptive rewrite and the darkling's 15 minutes of half-assed backstory and crying in every scene for some reason. “make me your villain” .... okay, simpboy, i’ll try my best.

i've already talked about why i hated mal's role (i clarify his role, not his character, because there was literally nothing wrong with him and that’s why i hated him so much) but i'm going to address it from the perspective of my love for alina and why i think this decision was so disrespectful to her. alina in the books was already in need of more characterization, time for herself and her internal development as opposed to her relationship with the three male love interests she acquires through the series. somehow this show took a main character already underused in her own story (though at least the books are told from her pov) and neglected her even further. alina is tied almost entirely to her male counterparts, mal especially, but i'd say the darkling is used as a narrative rebound. i think they both have chemistry and can serve a purpose in the story but the emphasis on codependency is impossible to ignore.

in the first four episodes, every scene that could have been alina struggling to settle into a new life and dealing with the emotional weight of her pressure as a saint was instead about mal. she writes him letters, and cries over him, and slips him into conversations that have nothing to do with him, and gets sad after slipping him into conversations that have nothing to do with him, and can't use her power because she's thinking of him, and then only decides to fully accept her power because of his absence.

alina's feelings are lended to nothing but her missing mal. he isn't just her best friend and love, he's this colossal piece of her identity that she doesn't get to exist without, even when he's gone. the show's exhaustive attempt to make mal loveable and make malina an epic love story turns our female protagonist into a sulking, miserable shell of a character everytime he's mentioned, which, by the way, is like, every two minutes. and apparently it's necessary to draw parallels to the same three flashbacks in all of them. i knoowwwwwwww, they held hands and now they can't anymore, i knowwww. they ran through a meadow, i knowwwwwwwwwwwwww.

watching her scenes almost drove me to printing out a bechdel test and ticking off as many boxes as possible.

i hated it. it made me sad.

i wanted more alina. i want her power to be her own. i wanted that tension between her and mal in the books because his flaws gave her a chance to stand up for herself and say that she liked being powerful. that summoning is a part of her and she would never give it up. that there was a tinge of corruption, of greed, of wanting to be the sun summoner, and it was intriguing! mal's issue of not accepting alina's power allowed her to express how much it meant to her. i wanted the alina who said "the night was velvety black and strewn with jewels. the hunger struck me suddenly. i want them, i thought." i wanted a hint of the sun summoner who decided when it got dark and relished in it (yes i know this can be expanded upon in s2). alina has a cocky side, her insecurities are explored and she finds strength in her new gift and eventually has to find strength outside of it, but in the show the catalyst to her powers is mal. always. is it romantic? sure. but it's hard to enjoy the romance when all we see of alina is her romantic connection to mal. can't she be more than that?

#anti malina #i dont use tumblr and i hate discourse so just block if this take bothers you because i can’t be asked to engage in an argument on here #sab spoilers #shadow and bone #shadow and bone spoilers #tgt #alina starkov #anti malyen oretsev

50 notes · View notes

blkmxrvel · 4 years ago

Text

Haven’t Forgotten My Way Home (24) - [CONVERTED]

Pairing: Kara Zor-El x Female!Reader

Summary: In the D/s society of National City, men and women abandoned by their Dom/mes or otherwise deemed unfit for life “outside” end up at the Mount Overland House for Orphaned Submissives. It is here that Kara Zor-El finds Y/N Hastings, broken and fearful from mistreatment at the hands of her former Dom. Can Kara coax Y/N back into the world that once so terrified her, and show her the true meaning of care and submission?

Warnings: Domestic Violence (Flashbacks, Mentions and Descriptions), Misogyny, Domination/Submission.

She had expected the courtroom to look… just like that, a courtroom. A vast expanse of rule and punishment, dark woods and a high bench in the center from which the judge would condemn them all.

She had probably watched way too much television, Kara decided, or it could be because only the major cases were tried in the main courtroom down the hall. Most, such as domestic disputes or “severed claims” (such a distasteful phrase, Kara thought) were heard in 203Left. It was little more than a boardroom, with 3 tables pushed together in an open-ended square, and the gallery was three or four rows of metal chairs sat towards the back of the room. Two members of the council sat in the very back row, a presence Kara noticed with a slight tinge of fear.

“Are you sure I can’t go up there with her?” she whispered to Lena, who was sat beside her in the first row.

She looked so vulnerable, Kara thought, flanked on either side by her lawyer and Sam… and him directly in front of her.

James Olsen didn’t look like a man capable of making a young girl’s life a living hell, and that, Kara knew, was because Alex had done a good job prepping him. Clean-shaven, hair cut short. His suit was dark, but not so dark as to give off the impression of “bad guy,” impeccably tailored and well-fitting. He sat ramrod straight in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood table the only indication that he was the accused.

He looked, Kara thought, like a little boy in a man’s clothes. And that, she knew, was what had started it all.

She shook her head and turned her attention back to the girl who mattered most, the girl who was staring at her with eyes wide and somewhat fearful. Kara smiled reassuringly, wishing with everything she had that she could go up there to her, to hold her in her arms and whisper that it was all going to turn out all right.

Except she didn’t know if it would.

Sam had helped Y/N dress for the trial as well, a move that Kara knew was just as calculated as Alex’s. She didn’t like it, because the white short-sleeve peasant shirt and black pants, along with a simple pair of black tennis shoes and Y/N’s hair held back on one side by a bow-shaped clip, made Y/N look even younger, smaller, more lost than what Kara knew she was.

Even if, just two nights ago, she’d been afraid Y/N had become lost to her forever.

Kara had known, from the moment she’d walked down the hall to her bedroom and found Y/N staring at her collection of punishment implements, hand held fast but shaking against the cabinet door, what the young woman had been thinking of. It had tempered Kara’s anger, somewhat, at her things having been gone through without permission, but it had been exacerbated, too, by the fact that Y/N still didn’t trust her.

It had made her irrationally frustrated, in those few short seconds standing there watching Y/N struggle with her own emotions, that after all this time, after all the care and devotion Kara had thought she’d provided, Y/N was still afraid of her. Hadn’t she done well? Kara thought to herself, after Y/N had gone to the living room and she was gathering up the paddle, the belt, the strap, the hairbrush, the crop in her hands and walking back down the hall herself, formulating the plan in her mind. Hadn’t she praised Y/N at every turn, hadn’t she made sure to call her good girl after every punishment, hadn’t she held her and loved her after every punishment, made sure that Y/N knew it was a clean slate, that everything was forgiven?

Hadn’t she been unlike James Olsen at every possible opportunity?

She’d wanted to call Lena, to call and ask what she should do, because why should she have to keep proving herself over and over again? But she knew what Lena would say, yet another lesson Kara had learned while kneeling at the woman’s feet.

A Dominant will prove herself worthy every day if her submissive needs it. Because the submissive deserves nothing less.

Kara hadn’t meant for things to be as intense as they were with Y/N’s punishment. She’d even momentarily forgotten the significance of the fire, until she’d taken the blindfold off Y/N and the poor girl had reacted to it with a heart-rending moan. Kara would have ended it right there, but she had to prove a point; she had to make Y/N see that Kara was determined never to be like him.

And then Y/N had safe worded.

Later that night, after dinner and as they lay together inside the blanket fort, Y/N had become uncharacteristically quiet. They had been talking and laughing together, making plans for the next day, but then Kara had lain down and taken Y/N into her arms. What she had thought was blissful, comfortable silence was apparently Y/N lost in her own thoughts, thoughts that she wasn’t inviting Kara to share. Kara had waited patiently, content to hold the girl close to her, rubbing her back gently and offering the occasional soft kiss, but still Y/N said nothing.

“Out with it,” Kara had finally ordered gently. “What’s bothering you?” Y/N shook her head.

“Y/N.” There was a note of warning, an edged reminder of the consequence of defiance.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Kara said, tipping her chin up to kiss Y/N again. “And I said you were forgiven for going through my things.”

“No. Not about that.”

Kara tilted her head. “Then…?”

It hurt when Y/N rolled over on her side, away from Kara, drawing her knees up and curling in on herself as if she was remembering being asleep on the floor, with nothing but a thin sheet for comfort. And then Kara was alarmed, because the quiet sniffling even as she reached out for Y/N told her the girl was crying.

“For safe wording.”

She didn’t pull Y/N back around to her; instead, Kara wrapped her arms around the girl’s waist and scooted herself closer so they were pressed back to front. “Why,” she asked softly, nuzzling her chin onto the girl’s shoulder and breathing in the scent of the shampoo that still lingered, “Would you apologize for that?”

“Because i-it made you angry.”

Now Kara was even more confused, and she wanted to roll Y/N over so that she could see her face, search her eyes for something, anything that would be the reasoning behind the girl’s emotions. But she knew Y/N, knew her boundaries, and knew the girl was lost inside something that it would be dangerous to pull her out of too soon, so Kara simply held her.

“I couldn’t be more proud of you for safe wording,” she explained. “You finally understand that it’s okay to safe word, that you have that right, that you will always have that right. And that makes me so happy.”

“I wasn’t a good girl.”

“What?”

Y/N drew herself up further, so that her knees were practically at her chest. “You always say I’m a good girl… after. This time, you didn’t. Because I’m n-not a good girl.”

“Y/N, no-“

“I safe worded. I’m weak, I didn’t trust you. I’m a b-bad girl.”

“No.” This time, Kara did turn Y/N over in her arms; Y/N didn’t protest, her limbs slack like a rag doll’s, and Kara sighed inwardly. She moved up against the pillows so that Y/N was laid a little lower than she was, with her head against Kara’s chest; Kara tightened her arms. She took a deep breath, letting go of the thoughts of how could I have been so stupid? and allowing her nature to flow through her, to take control. The need to dominate and care, to protect and train. She ran her fingers through Y/N’s hair, loosely, lovingly.

“For a person who has never had a safe word,” she said firmly, “and who has always been afraid to use a safe word because she thought it might result in worse punishment, to actually use a safe word…” Kara shook her head; this was no time for a lecture with big words.

“You’re the bravest girl I know,” she whispered, lowering her lips to the top of Y/N’s head, holding her close as the girl shook with silent sobs. “You’re the bravest girl I know, and the strongest, and I am so proud of you.” She cupped Y/N’s face in her hands, raising it so the girl was looking at her. “Don’t ever let me hear you say you’re a bad girl again, is that clear? That is unacceptable. You may be naughty, you may make bad choices, but you are never bad. Do you understand me?”

Y/N swallowed, her eyes locked on Kara’s. “Yes, Miss Kara.”

“I am so sorry for forgetting to say it,” Kara said, regret coating her voice. “Even a Dominant can make mistakes, and forget things. I am so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

Y/N was looking at her with an expression of wonder; Kara knew it was because a Dominant actually apologizing was a foreign concept to her. Still, she nodded, slowly. “I forgive you, Miss Kara.”

Kara smiled, and kissed her. “What a strong, brave, good girl you are,” she affirmed, and kissed her again. Y/N offered her a watery smile in response, and Kara brushed the tears away from her cheeks with her thumbs. “Good girl,” she cooed, tucking Y/N’s head back against her chest. “My good girl. My good, good girl.”

“She’ll need you more after than during,” Lena said, watching Sam with no small amount of pride on her face. “You know, she’s so hot like this.”

Kara rolled her eyes. “Now is really not the time, horndog,” she said affectionately, then paled when Lena turned to her with a glare in her eyes. “Sorry, Miss Lena,” Kara squeaked.

Really, it was ridiculous that that woman could still make her feel like a 16 year old sometimes.

Lena smirked, and patted Kara’s knee.

Both women tensed when the door to the front of the courtroom opened, and The Honorable Judge Winston Schott entered to take his place at the head table.

Kara knew as soon as she saw him that all was lost.

It wasn’t that he was particularly menacing or intimidating; in fact, with his sweater vest and his unruly, curly hair he looked more like a high school teacher than a judge. But it was in the way he walked, in the way he smiled and greeted James Olsen hello while merely nodding at Y/N, in the way he seated himself and rustled through the papers but not even giving them so much as a glance that told Kara he had most likely made up his mind before he’d even walked in the door.

“Right then,” he said, settling back in his chair and uncapping his pen, tapping it annoyingly against the table. “This is case oh three four dash three two six. I’m Judge Winston Schott; let’s have the introductions, please.”

“Lucy Lane and Sam Luthor-Arias, representation and advocate for Y/N Hastings, plaintiff, Your Honor.”

Kara wasn’t too sure about Y/N’s lawyer; the woman had her hair up in pigtails and was wearing an outlandish jacket topped with a feather boa. But Sam insisted she was the best, and Lena insisted that Sam knew what she was talking about. So Kara pushed aside her nervousness and smiled when Y/N managed a glance and subtle wave at her, then she turned her attention to the men sitting on the opposite side.

“Iris West-Allen and Alex Danvers, representation and advocate for James Olsen, defendant, Your Honor.”

Kara fought back a giggle as she caught sight of Maggie, sat just behind Alex’s table, pointing at her Ma’am and mouthing “She is so hot.” She shook her head at her and she grinned, giving a thumbs up before quickly slipping into what she termed “behave mode.”

Her nerves were quickly getting the best of her though, as the introductions ceased and it was time for the trial of Y/N Hastings-Olsen v. James Olsen to get underway. They were going to lose, she was sure of it, and everything Y/N had to go through would have been for nothing, because James Olsen was going to get a slap on the wrist.

“Right,” Schott was saying, sounding bored. “James Olsen, defendant, Y/N Hastings-Olsen, plain—“

“Hastings, Your Honor,” Ms. Lane interrupted, her tone clipped and determined. “Her name is Y/N Hastings.”

“Mm,” Judge Schott hummed. “Hastings-Olsen, plaintiff. Let’s beg—“

“Objection!”

All eyes turned to her.

“Kara, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lena hissed. “You can’t object; you’re not part of the trial!”

Alex looked as if she was about to come out of her seat at her; Kara sank down into hers, watching as Y/N raised a single eyebrow at her.

That eyebrow was really, really hot.

“There will be silence in the gallery,” Judge Schott reprimanded sternly, glaring at Kara. “Unless you are—“

“Oh I’m not a lawyer,” Kara explained hastily. “Though I have played one in a local theater production.”

Lena dropped her face into her palm as Sam snorted.

“There will be silence in the gallery,” Judge Schott said again with a sigh of exasperation. “Are we clear?”

Kara nodded, embarrassed that she’d let her nerves get the best of her so soon. “Yes, Your Honor, sorry.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then nodded. “We will proceed. As is always the case, the defense shall be presented first.”

Kara managed not to groan; she hated that so far, efforts in court reform had been rejected by the government, and so trials nearly always ended up skewed towards the accused. Proponents of the current system said it actually worked in the plaintiff’s favor, because theirs was the last testimony heard, and would therefore remain fresher in the judge or jury’s mind, but Kara wasn’t so sure she bought that. She only hoped it would be true, for Y/N’s sake.

She noticed that James was leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table in front of him, and his eyes glued to Y/N. She for her part wasn’t looking at him; she was staring down at the table. Kara wondered if she’d ever been permitted to really look at James.

“Hold on, angel,” Kara whispered. “Just hold on.” Lena shot her a look, and Kara quieted so she could hear the questions from James’s lawyer.

“Will you tell us, please, James,” began West-Allen, “How you feel about your submissive?”

“She’s not yours,” Kara muttered. “She’s mi—“

“Kara, shut up,” Lena said softly. “Remember, everything has to go perfectly.”

“I didn’t—“ he paused, as if fumbling for the words. “I never meant to hurt he—“ James Olsen stopped again. “Y/N. Y/N, look at me. Look at me.”

She didn’t, and Kara felt her heart swell as instead, the girl looked at her. She nodded at Y/N, who reluctantly turned back to James.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, and Kara rolled her eyes, only to have her mouth drop open in shock at his next words.

“Y/N, I love you.”

Kara felt sick. She had to lean forward a little, her arms pressed against her stomach; Lena laid a reassuring hand on her back. The words were… everything Kara knew Y/N had wanted to hear from James. Kara knew the power behind those words, knew how much she wanted to hear them herself. But would it make everything okay, she wondered. Would Y/N… leave her and go back to James, forget everything he’d put her through, just because he said he loved her? She sniffed, unaware until then that she was crying; she swiped the back of her hand over her eyes.

“Easy,” Lena murmured. “It’s not going to change anything, Kara. Easy now.”

“Do you deny doing the things that you are accused of?”

James Olsen shook his head. “No,” he said, and Kara heard herself gasp. She’d never expected him to actually admit it.

“But I never meant to hurt her, I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought—“

“What did you think justified your treatment of someone you say you love?”

This was what Kara had been waiting to hear. The explanation, the reasoning behind it all. Not that it would change her opinion of him, or make it all right, but if she didn’t get to hear it she’d be wondering for the rest of her life what had led James to be so brutal to one of the sweetest creatures she had ever known in her life.

She still wanted him to suffer everything Y/N had suffered, but more than that, she wanted to know why.

“I—my dad was a sub,” James said with a shrug. Before Kara had a chance to blurt out what’s that got to do with anything? he continued. “My dad was a sub, and my mom was his Dominant. I mean yeah that’s how it works so of course she was but… and he was a good sub, when he was around. At least what I can remember, I was pretty young when he left.”

“He left?” Mrs. West-Allenpressed, one hand scratching notes onto the pad in front of her, the other playing with the tie at her neck.

“Yeah he… got into some stuff, drugs I guess? I don’t really know, I was just a kid. He’d… go out all the time, come home… different. And my mom, she tried, you know, she’d punish him. Spank him, make him do chores, not let him leave the house. But she was kind of soft, she didn’t like punishing him and he got away with a lot of stuff. So he’d leave anyway.”

“And one day…?”

James shrugged, twisting his hands together as he looked at Y/N. “I love you,” he said, the words sounding gentle. “I love you, and I’m sorry.”

Kara fought back the urge to retch; Lena’s hand was soothing against her back. He didn’t mean any of it. She knew he didn’t. Not after all this time, not after everything he’d done to her. Don’t believe him, she tried to send to Y/N. Please don’t believe him, I love you…

“James.”

“Right, sorry.” Olsen took another deep breath and went on with a glance at Alex, who smiled encouragingly at him.

For a split second, Kara hated her again.

“One day he… went somewhere. Told my mom he was going shopping. ‘I’ll be back with dinner, Mistress,’ he said. ‘Take care of Mom,’ he said.” Olsen struck the table with his fist and everyone jumped; Y/N let out a whimper and in a heartbeat Sam had her arm around the girl, whispering words into her ear. Kara clenched her hands to keep from jumping out of her seat; Lena slipped her arm around her shoulders.

“Be strong, that’s what she needs right now,” she soothed. Kara swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded.

“We waited for hours,” James said through clenched teeth. “Mom paced back and forth, kept saying that this time he’d learn his lesson, this time he’d see that his place was at home with his family. And me, I just sat on the steps watching the door. Must’ve fallen asleep ‘cause when I woke up it was morning and I was still on the steps. Mom was on the couch crying and he never came back.”

West-Allen nodded, looking thoughtful; Judge Schott was staring as if he wanted to cuddle Olsen on his lap. “Can you explain,” James’s lawyer said, “How that affected your relationship with Y/N?”

“My mom… she was such a pushover, you know? She let him get away with everything. She’s the Domme, she’s supposed to be in control, show him who’s boss, but she kept letting him walk out. And I’m just 16, you know? I’m a 16 year old kid and my mom was so obsessed with finding him that… I didn’t know much. But I knew I wasn’t going to do that with you,” he said to Y/N, and she glanced away.

“I’m not weak. I’m the Dom, I control you and you’re going to do what I say. I love you, and I have to keep you safe. She didn’t keep him safe, and now he’s gone. We don’t even know if he’s still alive. You’re not safe out there, you belong to me and your place is at home, and if I have to beat and burn that into you every day then I’m going to fucking do it.”

She’d had enough. Kara jumped out of her chair and ran into the hall, with Lena right behind. She barely made it to the restroom, dropping to her knees in one of the stalls and emptying her stomach of all the contents from breakfast earlier that morning. Lena knelt behind her, holding Kara’s hair back with one hand, again rubbing her back with the other.

“How,” Kara croaked, shaking slightly, “How can any of that justify what he did to her?”

“It doesn’t,” Lena said matter-of-factly. “I don’t care how much of a scared, fatherless 16 year old boy he was, there comes a point when immaturity stops being an explanation and it becomes a get out of jail free card, an unfair justification for despicable behavior. Hey, I can imitate you pretty well, can’t I?”

Kara smiled weakly and stood up, brushing off her clothes and accepting the mint gum Lena held out to her, then allowing herself to be pulled into the other woman’s arms.

“We’re going to lose,” Kara said softly, leaning in.

Lena sighed and squeezed her. “I know.” She pushed back and looked directly into Kara’s eyes. “Which is why I said she’ll need you more after. Come on, it’s almost her turn to testify.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Kara admitted, tugging at the black skirt she wore and nervously adjusting the white top. It occurred to her that she and Y/N had somehow managed to color coordinate, though neither of them had discussed what they were going to wear.

It was… hopeful, she thought.

“Yes you can.” Lena had already turned away from Kara and was walking out the door, her heels sounding loudly on the floor. Kara shook her head slightly, recognizing that the encouragement was also an order, and she quickly followed her back into the courtroom.

Y/N looked worriedly at her as Kara settled back in her seat; Kara just winked at her and waved slightly before realizing that Schott was speaking to her.

“I trust there will be no more disturbances during these proceedings?” he said, once again sounding bored. “Honestly, if you were going to be this emotional you ought to have stayed home.”

Kara growled low in her throat, but managed to sound pleasant as she said, “No more disturbances, Your Honor, you can continue.”

“Well, thank you for your permission.” Judge Schott turned to Y/N’s lawyer. “Miss Lane, are you ready to cross-examine the defendant?”

“Ready, Your Honor.”

All doubts about Y/N’s lawyer’s qualifications disappeared as soon as Lucy Lane leaned forward in her seat, her eyes boring into James’s as she asked “Mr. Olsen… just who the hell do you think you are?” Kara smirked, and she even caught Y/N smiling slightly. Every question was on-point, every counter of his answers left the young man squirming in his seat, and Kara began to think that maybe, just maybe, they might have a shot at winning. By the time Lane said she had no further questions, James Olsen had been reduced to stuttering his answers.

“Miss Lane, are you and Miss Hastings-Olsen ready to present your own case?”

“Hastings, Your Honor.”

Kara’s head shot up at Y/N’s voice, even as a slow smile began to spread over her face.

Judge Schott regarded her coolly. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s Y/N Hastings,” she said, her voice low, but confident. “My name is Y/N Hastings.”

Lucy Lane was smiling; Kara caught Sam pumping her fist under the table and next to her, Lena chuckled.

“Very well, then,” he said, with a dismissing wave of his head. “Can we get on with this?”

“I believe we can,” Miss Lane said. “Y/N?”

Y/N hesitated, and Kara’s heart filled with pride as she looked at her, then nodded. “I’m ready.”

#supergirl #supergirl x reader #kara danvers x reader #kara zor el x reader #kara danvers #madi converts

48 notes · View notes

agentrouka-blog · 4 years ago

Note

Grrm mentioned Mya and myranda in Sansa/Alayne story as cautionary tales. A bastard girl and a girl who married to old man. Both girls are suffering from society misogyny and can't escape their faith. But Sansa isn't actually a bastard and her marriage to tyrion is unconsummated. She will still consider a prize. I think she will escape their faith and that's why I think her marriage won't happen to Harry.

I am not familiar with that GRRM quote, so I can’t judge.

A much simpler reason to believe that this marriage is never going to happen: Sansa is already married. While an annullment is possible, it’s not as easy as pushing the virginity button on an annullment dispenser. This was a high profile wedding and it is considered legally binding until the High Septon decides it is not. Or Tyrion shows up dead. But we know that won’t happen.

That said, I do think Mya and Myranda are definitely cautionary tales, in terms of how no matter what your station in life is, as a woman in Westeros partriarchy and classism will oppress you. But they also offer us reason to hope!

Mya is all about Sansa’a romantic hopes:

"Mychel's my love," Mya explained. "Mychel Redfort. He's squire to Ser Lyn Corbray. We're to wed as soon as he becomes a knight, next year or the year after."

She sounded so like Sansa, so happy and innocent with her dreams. Catelyn smiled, but the smile was tinged with sadness. The Redforts were an old name in the Vale, she knew, with the blood of the First Men in their veins. His love she might be, but no Redfort would ever wed a bastard. His family would arrange a more suitable match for him, to a Corbray or a Waynwood or a Royce, or perhaps a daughter of some greater house outside the Vale. If Mychel Redfort laid with this girl at all, it would be on the wrong side of the sheet. (AGOT, Catelyn VI)

THIS was back when Sansa still “loved” Joffrey. Which of course...

Mychel Redfort was the one. He used to be Lyn Corbray's squire. A real squire, not like that loutish lad Ser Lyn's got squiring for him now. He only took that one on for coin, they say. Mychel was the best young swordsman in the Vale, and gallant . . . or so poor Mya thought, till he wed one of Bronze Yohn's daughters. Lord Horton gave him no choice in the matter, I am sure, but it was still a cruel thing to do to Mya." (AFFC, Alayne II)

This mirrors her (to put it mildly) disappointment and later broken betrothal with Joffrey pretty well, but likely also foreshadows a proper love that also faces obstacles of the bastard or other kind.

Now Mychel has come to the Tourney like Alayne’s suitor Harry Hardyng, to potentially serve three years as a Winged Knight. Can’t wait to get away from Ysilla Royce, can he? (Ysilla of the Rhoyne has a husband who can’t stop himself from looking at “soiled” Septa Lemore bathing naked in the dawn, btw.)

Ser Mychel Redfort set one quintain spinning with a perfectly placed blow. He was one of those favored to win wings. (TWOW, Alayne)

(Dragon wings? Hollow knights turning into dragons?)

Something tells me the story of Mychel and Mya is not finished. If Lancel can refuse to consumate his marriage and offer freedom to Amerei Frey, who’s to say others cannot do the same...?

Myranda meanwhile mirrors Sansa politically, somewhat. Scandalously widowed, keeping her father’s castle because her mother is dead, much much smarter than she looks, even smarter than her father. Tell me that’s not Sansa and Alayne both in the present and the future. Myranda is a political player and I have no doubt she will force events to play out in her favor and gain control over her life. And I have no doubt Sansa will come to do the same.

Cautionary tales they may be, but also likely preparing for an unexpected turn-around.

Women are going to be taking control.

#asoiaf #sansa stark #alayne stone #myranda royce #mya stone #mychel redfort #jonsa #parallels #ladies and bastards - your fortunes are on the rise

42 notes · View notes

mercurymetals · 5 years ago

Text

the strongest chain

@thefrozencoelacanth SO UHHHH--

This was meant to be just a short scene like the others.... But then I started getting some ideas for the lore, and then I got invested, and now 1.8k words later here we fucking are. I decided to go with PB!Dio for this, because I love him. Also, this is my first female reader fic! Wohoo!!

Warnings: Honestly, like... Misogyny, mayhaps? We’re in 1880s, people, some unpleasant things get implied here and there. We also have a case of the “not like other girls” trope. I promise the views shown in this fic don’t reflect my own, lmao.

PB!Dio & “I’m a starved predator and you’re my only prey.”

You've always hated the little village that you had to call home, always hated those small-minded villagers you had to grow up amongst. They didn't like you much either - an orphan like yourself was hardly more than a nuisance, another mouth to feed with nothing to offer in return.

And you hated them all now more than ever, when they had given you up so quickly, so easily, like you really were worth less than nothing to them.

The moment the vampire walked into the town center and demanded for all the young maidens to be rounded up for his viewing, you were one of the first to be pushed into the gathering swarm of girls. You glared over your shoulder at the man who shoved you: it was the village baker, a nasty old rat that always had a particular dislike for you, claiming you were leeching off his produce more than anybody else. Whatever - you always hated his second-rate bread anyway.

As you stand there surrounded by shivering and sobbing girls, you cross your arms over your chest, your face twisted in a grimace. You're the only one with your head raised high, and so you're the only one who watches openly as the vampire who stands before you sweeps his red eyes over the crowd with a smirk.

You then watch as he walks up to one of the girls, tilting her head up by her chin and glancing at each side of her face. He's treating the whole thing as if you were nothing but livestock, and though you hold no attachment to any of these people, you are instantly filled a sense of vexation. You hate the villagers, but you also hate self-conceited assholes, and he seems to be a textbook example.

Soon enough his eyes wander to you, and you meet his gaze head on. You see something light up in his pupils - curiosity, maybe - and he shifts his attention to you fully. When he approaches you, the girl next to you, a short twiggy thing with a ruddy head, flinches away and hides behind you.

You stay rooted in place, though unease works itself into your veins from the sheer presence of the vampire. His tall frame and his sharply handsome features are not lost on you, but there's more to it than that. You can't describe it, but you can distinctly feel he's something inhuman, something different from you on all levels of existence.

You may be scared of him, on some instinctive level, but you won't cower. What's he going to do, kill you? At least the villagers will have a reason to celebrate, you think bitterly as you keep looking back into his eyes.

What you don't expect him to do is smile, grab you by the arm, and pull you closer to him. You stumble forward, then watch in confusion as he turns to the village chief, a portly and currently very sweat-covered man.

"You should count yourselves lucky!" The vampire exclaims in a slightly nasally voice. "I, Dio, have found someone I'm interested in. Count your blessings, foolish humans." He then looks down at you again, with a smirk you can only describe as carnivorous. "You're coming with me, girl."

The village is deathly silent as he starts leading you away. All eyes on you, and all of them as utterly shocked as you. Much as you imagine some of them had wished he'd pick you and spare their daughters, no-one actually expected him to do so, least of all yourself. There is nothing special about you after all - your features are not particularly striking, your figure average at best. Why, then?

You don't know, but you cast a brief glance over your shoulder. You look at them all, see the confusion and the relief and in some cases even joy - yeah, fuck that baker - and then you turn your back on them again resolutely.

You don't intend to submit to the whims of some vampire, but you definitely won't miss this sordid little place.

* *

You're alone with Dio in a vast, open chamber. A great chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, bathing the place in yellow candlelight even against the darkness of the night pouring in through the open windows.

When you had first arrived, Dio had his foul zombie servants guard you while he disappeared for a while. For you, every minute spent surrounded by the thick stench of rot was revolting. You were sincerely glad when they finally brought you to this chamber, where Dio now sits on a large gilded chair as if it were a throne, holding a glass of red liquid between his fingers.

You'd like to think it's wine, but you've never been much of an optimist.

His servants left minutes ago, and you stand defiantly by the door, glaring at him. Dio seems content to watch you right back, but the thought he's treating you like some animal on display annoys you too much for you to stay quiet.

"What do you want from me?" you ask, irate.

Dio hums, twirling the glass in his hand as he ponders your question. "Would you like to take a guess?"

You make a disgruntled noise at that. "If you want to kill me, just get on with it," you say in turn, crossing your arms. It's a defence mechanism - your hands tend to tremble when you're nervous, and despite your brave facade, you're pretty damn scared of your impending fate. You're only human, after all; death scares you like it scares anyone else.

Dio chuckles, pressing the tip of the glass to his lips, but not actually drinking. "If that's all I wanted from you, I would have done it all the way back at your puny village."

What's he playing at? You don't like where it’s going. "What, then?" you ask finally, when he doesn't say any more.

Dio takes his time to finish the drink, then places the glass on a small round table by his seat. He then slowly rises to his feet, and you can't help taking a step backwards. You feel your back press against the door behind you, the knob digging into your side painfully.

"I want to have some fun with you," Dio offers. Whatever expression you make in response he clearly finds incredibly amusing, as he laughs loudly and obnoxiously. "Oh, not that kind of fun. I can have that any time I want, from you or otherwise."

He walks towards you. Your heart is pounding, and your hands clench against your arms, but you stay where you are. It's not like you have anywhere to run to.

As soon as he's in front of you, you feel that dreadful aura of his surrounding you. You swear you can feel your body heat evaporating away from the deathly cold of his presence, leaving your skin chilly and strangely clammy.

Dio leans over you. You grit your teeth and, hating to show any kind of weakness, make yourself meet his eyes again. He smiles, and you glance at the long fangs in his mouth. "So defiant," he comments, and you watch his lips form the words. "But how long can you keep it up? Or are you giving in already, girl?"

Like hell. In a surge of anger, you try to shove him. Your hands push into his chest, but he doesn't even budge. Instead, you feel your back dig even more into the door behind you.

Dio chuckles at your attempt, catching one of your hands and stepping closer to you until he’s pressed flush against you. His large frame pins you with ease, and you tense when one of his legs move up between your thighs. You hurriedly stand on your tiptoes to avoid the contact, but that brings your face closer to his, and you feel cold, iron-tinged air wash over you as Dio exhales a quiet wrryy noise above you.

You try to lean away, but he holds your chin in place firmly. "Let me tell you exactly what I want," he says, and you have no choice but to keep looking into his eyes as he continues. "I want to drink every last drop of your blood. I want to have your body to do as I please with. I want you to serve me in every possible way. I want you all for myself."

You try to shake your head, but his grip makes it impossible for you to move. Dio leans in until the tips of his fangs are ghosting over the skin of your neck. "But that's not all. I want you to give yourself to me willingly."

No. There are fates worse than death, and this would be one of them. His words frighten you, but you don’t intend to submit to him despite that.

"If you want a personal slave so badly," you breathe out, forcing yourself past that shakiness in your voice. "Then get yourself one of the other girls from the village. They were bred for that kind of life."

Dio laughs again, the sound ringing in your ear obtrusively. His hand drops your chin, but he stays close to you, shifting to look into your eyes with a satisfied grin. "I knew I was right about you. What an impudent little creature!"

You scowl at him. You don't know what he's trying to imply, and maybe he can tell as much, for his demeanour grows calm again, and his cold fingers come to rest on your throat. "It's just as you say. Those other girls... They'd do anything I asked, if only they thought I might spare their lives. Pathetic."

His fingers start to trail down your neck. "But you... You're not like that, are you?" Now they move past your exposed collarbones, pausing at the edge of your dress. "You're going to defy me. And I did tell you... I want to have some fun with you. I want to strip away your flimsy excuse for resistance and show you exactly where you belong: crawling at my feet like the pitiful worm that you are."

You can feel the entire length of his body pressing into you, keeping you caged against him. His red eyes shine with a sadistic thirst as he looks at you. "Don't you see? I, Dio, am a starved predator, and you’re the only one worthy of being my prey."

As his hand tries to move even lower, you grab his wrist to stop him. He smirks. You know he could easily ignore you and keep going, but he doesn't. Instead, he finally steps away from you, giving you some much-needed space. Even so, you can feel his desire to see you bend to his will permeate into your very being.

You take a deep breath, and straighten yourself on your feet. You hate that smile on his face, and you want to feel angry about it, but more than anything you feel an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. Unwilling to admit it, you lift your head and meet his gaze again.

"I won't give in to you," you say.

Your voice doesn't shake, but your hands do. You want to hope Dio didn't notice, but you've never been much of an optimist, have you?

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere jjba #yandere dio #yandere dio brando #female reader #i had so much fun writing this omg #i fucking love writing dio and especially pb!dio because he talks so fucking much #i miss this cocky bastard a whole lot #song recommendation of the day:#stand up and shout by dio #both my dio fics so far have him be surprisingly non violent #but good news i have a gorey fic all written up with another character #AND i have plans for a gorey dio fic after that #so dw.. everyone will get their fill lmao

154 notes · View notes

waywardrose-archive · 5 years ago

Note

I just read your latest work and wanted to say how impressed I’m at how you handle the era in all your Abe fics... obviously, given the time period, it’s unrealistic to think OC was a completely independent feminist and thus the trope Can very easily lean into misogyny. Yet, in all your works you manage to balance that out, giving a realistic yet palatable (delicious, I’d say) view on the couple’s dynamic. Great job dear 😘😘

I agree! I think it would careen into misogyny if Abe didn't absolutely adore his wife. And vice versa. Their marriage is unconventional for obvious reasons. Like, Abe's a weirdo. Or maybe in more flattering terms: Abe's eccentric. And Reader's a sculptor. So, they're not going to adhere to convention.

The real thing I ignore for the time period is racism. Actually, I reject it outright. Because I write reader-insert. I don’t want any reader to feel they are excluded. If you are a person of color, you can marry Abraham H. Parnassus—or anyone else—in my world. I want you to know that you are included, seen, and loved. At least by me.

That's why I don't use the word blush—because when one has dark skin, one does not "develop a pink tinge in the face." I realize many people who write reader-insert are pale, but experiences are not universal—and I continue to remind myself that. (Because while I pass for white, I am not.) Now, I know I've made mistakes in the past with my writing. However, I try to correct it when I see it.

Anyhoo, I got off topic and on a soapbox.

Thank you for reaching out! Thank you for the compliment! I really appreciate it.

#ask

3 notes · View notes

bloomfish · 6 years ago

Text

I made a post complainign abt my roommates cousin who was here this weekend and tumblr movil swallowed it (it will undoubtedly be regurgitated at some point) but i just want to complain some more about this truly detestable little man

I hate the kind of dude who makes constant rly unfunny misogyny-tinged jokes just to get a rise out of you. I usually just ignore them cause I know ppl like this want you to react and get angry but UGH. Mostly stupid stuff like "women talk so much" and "women take ages to get ready" (btw i am LIVING AND OBVIOUS proof against these idiotic stereotypes and he knew it)

But anyway my roommate is actually pretty Wöke most of the time and he was talking about how headlines are written in a certain way depending on whether they concern a man or a woman and he pulled up some examples and a recurring one was "woman dies after 5 hours of sex" (for context she was on stimulants and after 5 hours of any rigorous excerise its not surprising her heart gave out)

And the cousin gives me a sly look and says something like "five hours isnt long enough!" And i just got so irritated by this. First of all, SURE, CHAMP, im sure you couldnt even last 5 minutes you gnome. Its like you wouldnt make that hilarious joke if you ACTUALLY had a lot of endurance/stamina/whatever because then youd actually have a reasonable idea of what "long" is and that 5 hrs without pausing is NOT reasonable, and u wouldnt feel as much need to brag either if it was true. The joke was in rly bad taste but i hate how this smug "subtle" macho bragging and how it was directed it towards me like. Ugh. Yeah i can tell ur a real stallion pal....

Anyway its been joke city all weekend... i said it in the other post but I got the feeling the constant needling was like bitterness at wanting to flirt with me but knowing I am 2,000 leagues out of his league. So he just resorts to prodding and poking and teasing like an overgrown 35yr old schoolboy so he can watch me do the offended dance. Why r men like this

#i should put music to this post and make a girl punk song #jana talks

2 notes · View notes

catherineland · 6 years ago

Text

Why Lance’s Story Arc Matters

I read a lot on this subject, particularly because Lance is the character I am the most interested by. I see a lot of different opinions, normally tinged by personal biases (not that I’m an exception) on if Lance’s story has received ample attention in the show. There is a lot of heated opinions and controversy on Lance. But here’s my take on why Lance’s arc matters. Whether you like Lance or not, there’s a reason a lot of the fandom has fallen for him, and there’s a reason why purely from a storytelling perspective why a satisfying arc/moment/episode should happen.

First off, I’m not saying that Lance hasn’t had character development or moments. He definitely has. But for me at least, his character arc is a lot more subtle then any of the other characters in the show.

I’ve seen a lot of comparisons with Lance and Sokka, stating that Lance’s development is continuous throughout the show. People state that Lance, like Sokka, is more of a comic relief character, more of a side character with less tragedy to explore, and that his more subtle progression is enough for his story. I agree that Sokka and Lance are very similar in terms of story and character. I also believe that Lance has had the most character growth from all the Voltron characters, but in the end, Sokka and Lance are different characters set in different stories, with very different roles, and I expect a lot more from Lance’s on screen character development.

The first difference between Sokka and Lance is how the story is set up. I know there is a lot of controversy in the Voltron fandom for when JDS and LM omitted Lance as a main character, claiming that Shiro, Allura and Keith were the main characters, but in my mind that’s not the show I’m watching, and it’s not how the story is set up. It’s about the team.

Avatar starts remarkably similar to Voltron, with Sokka being one of the first characters we see and interact with, but how the character is introduced in the story is very different.

In the pilot episode of Voltron, the Garrison Trio are really the first characters we interact with. That was either a horrible mistake on the crew’s storytelling or it was intentional. The trio is who we connect with, it’s who we interact with. It’s who we connect the story with. And at the head of the trio is Lance. Lance is the main character of the pilot episode. He’s who we see first, it’s who we interact with. Pidge and Hunk feel more like backup characters to Lance’s big personality.

Sure he’s all personality and comic relief and maybe a little annoying, but he gets a lion first, and the episode sets up so much potential for him as a character besides comic relief, i.e. “Don’t follow in his footsteps.”

Lance is set up to be this annoying comic relief character, but we are also shown vulnerability in a very personal way, where as Sokka’s weakness is more about prejudices, misogyny, and having snow fall on him as bodily humor. Sokka’s first impression helps viewers align themselves with Katara and the secret world of bending.

Lance’s first impression let me know that this is a character has a lot flaws, and a lot of room to grow and that this growth will be explored in the show. Yes Sokka’s character makes me aware that his character will also grow, but because so much focus in Voltron at first is on Lance, there is a big difference in who I aline myself with in the Voltron pilot versus Avatar pilot.

While Sokka is an amazing character, and an important and essential part of team Avatar, I wouldn’t say he’s really set up to be the main lead. Lance kind of is. I’ve had three people watch the pilot episode with me, I tried to keep my bias to a minimum and genuinely ask them at the end of the episode who they think is the main character or if there is any main character at all. All three people said that the pilot episode sets up Lance to be the main character. One of my friends even went on to say that Lance had the most original character design, drawing him to Lance and making him believe that Lance would be the main character of the show. I’m not quite sure why he thought Lance stood out the most from a design aspect, but Lance is framed in the middle of a lot of shots, drawing focus to him. Without prompting, every single person reaffirmed what I claimed. We see Lance first. We interact with him first. Even if you don’t care for Lance, we are still aligned with him from a story perspective. Voltron is about teamwork. There are a lot of characters and a lot to explore, but the first episode, especially the first half, sets us up to think that Lance is going to be a major focus.

There is in my opinion a big difference between Lance and Sokka besides how the story is set up. No one character in Voltron is the main comic relief character. There is also no main protagonist of Voltron. No matter what the crew says, all the characters get their time to shine. It’s about the team. Lance is not a side character in the same way that Keith and Pidge and Shiro are not side characters. Lance is not entirely comic relief; he doesn’t quite fit that role. He has too much growth, too much set up to be just that. It goes beyond comic relief with Sokka too. I don’t think Avatar is truly comparable to Voltron because Avatar has a lot less characters, and thus more time to commit to Sokka’s growth. But to me, Sokka’s growth is a lot more explicit and well thought out in the show. Yes a lot of his development is behind the scenes as he slowly grows and finds his place, but it feels like his character is explored and he feels like a well-rounded comic relief character. Lance on the other hand has so much potential, so many different things that could potentially be explored, but he is ultimately left on the sidelines as “the main characters” take center stage.

Sokka at least got the space sword episode at the end of season three. I don’t need Lance to be at the center of every scene, but I expect at least one episode dedicated to him in season eight. But Keith, Shiro, Allura and even Pidge got some epic fight scenes. Why not Lance? He’s got the sword. Give him one episode where it’s all about him.

Lance is a major focus for the show. The reason I love Lance so much is because he has all this amazing character development and potential. Lance has the comic relief, the romance, the insecurities, homesickness, his selflessness, the weird thing with Keith “Don’t follow in his footsteps” and just so much more. I truly believe that Lance has had the most character development in the show. But the problem is, is that it has been so much subtler in comparison with other characters because Lance doesn’t have a season arc. Lance development spans throughout the whole show. It’s always touched on, but so subtly. He goes a mile a minute being his annoying and charming self and then for a split second we get him revealing what’s beneath the mask. There are just so many interesting moments with Lance that don’t really feel explored because of how subtle his character growth and development is.

I have always believed in showing versus telling, but Lance’s arc is so subtle, so under the radar, so implied, that I as a viewer need more to feel satisfied. Otherwise it feels like so much was set up for Lance and he ultimately didn’t get anywhere. Lance has had the most growth, but what does he have to show for this growth? So going in to the last season, Lance as the character with the most set up, the most potential, the most left unexplored, I expect something. I’m expecting these subtle moments, where they have been building up to, to finally get some attention. I expect one episode, just one, where he gets his flashbacks, where he gets to break down (I mean he’s been so close to having a mental break down, let’s push it all the way), I’m just expecting something. I need that moment where everything that is set up for Lance to finally come to a breaking point where he faces the challenge and shows what’s he’s learned, and who he has become. I want the moment where all his great character development finally comes to the forefront of the show.

#vld #voltron #vlds8 #lance #lance mcclain #lance voltron #vld lance

11 notes · View notes

vera-invenire · 6 years ago

Text

VnC Liveblog - Chapter 7

.All chapter liveblogs are linked HERE.

Hey, note for people following along: the last two chapters (5 and 6) didn’t show up on the main Vanitas no Carte tags because Tumblr filters out any posts that have outside links in them. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ But they’re done and the links for them are right up there. ^

Now, on to chapter 7!

Methinks MochiJun is running out of art for the chapter covers. That’s okay, I like this guy’s face.

OH MY GOD ARE WE GETTING WORLDBUILDING I AM EXCITED

So. Paracelsus. Famed physician and alchemist, called the Luther of medicine. He’s got a wikipedia page that I’m not gonna link to here *shakes tiny fist at tumblr* but probably the most interesting thing about him (if not the most important, in this context) is that ‘Paracelsus’ was his pen name. His real name?

Theophrastus von Hohenheim. Yeah. That von Hohenheim. Or at least the original one he was named after.

More pertinent, I think, is the fact that Paracelsus was a doctor, like our main character. He had a reputation for disdaining conventional medical thought (as this was the 1500s, this was not unwarranted) and for prioritizing practical experience over unproven theories preached by people with silly titles. Going by Vanitas’ fight with Orlok, I think he would have liked Paracelsus.

With Paracelsus involved, we now have a timeline for Babel -- it occurred sometime during the first half of the 1500s, creating vampires, astermite, the border, and, apparently, a number of disasters.

(the sudden appearance of vampires among the human population might have been disastrous enough, but I wonder if there were other things that were thrown out of wack.)

I don’t...quite get this formula business yet, so I’m gonna wait to comment on that until it’s more clear.

Nice job breaking it, Hohenheim.

This is like the tenth time the church has been mentioned, when are they gonna show up?

Hello, Creepy Teacher. Still without eyes, I see.

But not all coal and not all humans were altered.

And what is that on Teacher’s lapel, a clock with wings --

...time flies. You think you’re clever, don’t you.

...he’s planning on using Noé, the last Archiviste. Noé is key to something. What are you planning, Creepy Teacher.

Memoire 7 Bal Masque

Night of Sneering Masks

Lord Ruthven has a real swanky place, don’t he.

On the one hand, I want to go to a ball like this. On the other, it is full of vampires. Who, admittedly, seem like fairly decent people on average -- when they’re not losing their minds and going on murderous rampages.

Kinda looks like the Charlatan parade, though, no?

Hm, Domi is a bit shorter than Noé than I thought she was.

...wait, wait, wait, hold up. let’s zoom in here.

that’s Domi??? that looks like Unnerving Boy. crap, is she Unnerving Boy? i was joking about that before.

Glad I’m not the only one making that connection. The narrative wants this decadence to remind us of Charlatan. re: we shouldn’t trust it.

Domi: That guy’s gonna keep a low profile, right?

Vanitas: *seducing ALL the ladies at the ball*

Y’all knew he was an unrepentant grandstander. What did you expect.

(note: Vanitas knows sleight of hand)

(note: vampires can smell humans)

Hahahahaha, “I don’t understand how vampires define ‘friend’“ is my new favorite line, right along with “several different kinds of unfortunate”.

So my question is, can he only see the memories while he’s drinking? Or can he revisit them whenever he wants?

Vanitas adapted to the usefulness of that collar real quick.

I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN, I KNEW THAT DUM-DUM WOULD LEAVE THESE TWO ALONE AND SHIT WOULD HIT THE FAN

this is gonna be good

So spoketh Dominique de Sade. Never has a character been more aptly named.

(yo, is that Ada’s iron maiden. and a tortured stuffed white rabbit in the corner, too. the spirit of Vincent is alive and well.)

Meanwhile...Noé has found a new toy.

precious cinnamon roll, too pure, etc etc

ohoho, I think we know this kid.

HI, LUCA. And Jeanne can’t be that far away.

These guys are bodyguards, or retainers? Dressed like plague doctors, nice touch.

Luca (Lucius?), this is the man who held you hostage, why you lying.

Uh-oh. Something is clearly wrong with Jeanne.

...you might even say, she should probably see a doctor. *baddum-ting* (I think she’d prefer to die of consumption)

But it seems to be something she’s suffered from before? Is it her breathing or her throat?

Likely the same sister who lent Domi the collar and chain. Sister has interesting hobbies.

“I was all excited!” Yeah, this game is gonna be called Ha Ha, Surprise, I’m Kinkier Than You.

Point, Vanitas.

But Domi rallies nicely.

This is where we start getting real; Domi doesn’t fuck around when it comes to Noé. But does she really need to threaten to carve out Vanitas’ eye with a knife??

...throw more knives at him, Domi.

This is why you need to learn to keep your mouth shut, Vanitas. (also check the misogyny, I don’t want you to turn into Vincent, please)

She brings up some very good points.

Ooo, and it looks like something she said hit home. ...or one of the knives stabbed him. Nah, the black border means a brief flashback of some kind.

...Vanitas hates the Vampire of the Blue Moon. Well, well.

So why did he take his name?? And his Book???

(omg, did he steal the Book)

He’s cracked. He’s gonna do something stupid and/or reckless.

HE’S GONNA THROW HIMSELF BACKWARD OFF THE BALCONY.

Well, he did say he was gonna get their attention.

(”you’re worried about Vanitas? you should be worried about me.” “no, wait, i mean, i’m here to save vampires. yes. out of the goodness of my bitter heart.”)

The chandelier’s made of bones, it’s a vampire ball, why wouldn’t it be.

Poor Domi’s like, ‘crap, I pushed the punk too far.’

The cajones on this kid.

Like, seriously, isn’t he supposed to be hiding the fact that he’s human...?

This is revenge for always wandering off and disappearing, Noé.

The gloves are coming off again and this time it’s not a bluff.

Holy crap, that’s a lot more extensive than I thought it’d be. Looks a lot like the moon and spider-webbed sky above Altus Paris, doesn’t it? And this mark is lower on his arm than we saw earlier.

Actually, let’s go back and compare. This is from chapter 4 --

So in chapter 4, we saw marks on his left arm. But...is it the same kind of mark? And how many marks does he have?

Branding is something you do to livestock.

The eyes look like the moon look like the brand. (ha, how much you want to bet the moon over Altus Paris is red and Vanitas’ mark is blue)

And the hourglass is front and center once again. He wears that thing for a reason and that reason is connected to the Vampire of the Blue Moon.

So was he really granted some kind of power, or is this another bluff? Then again, the power could be the ability to use the Book.

I’m starting to think the Vampire of the Blue Moon isn’t the only one who hates vampires...

(”fighting monsters is best left to other monsters”)

I would not trust a doctor who looked at me with a face like that, i’m just saying

And now this crusade to save the vampires makes much more sense.

In doing this, not only will Vanitas get the pleasure of having the vampires he’s curing at his mercy, but with each vampire he saves he sticks it to the Vampire of the Blue Moon.

This was never a charitable cause. This is a fuck you to the entire world, the original Vanitas in particular.

Everyone: “oh shit, this guy’s even crazier than we thought.”

Did he...not mean to say that part out loud...? Or did he see something in the crowd?

Guess we find out next chapter! Which is -- HERE.

#vanitas no carte #the case study of vanitas #noe archiviste #vanitas #vanitas liveblog

44 notes · View notes

snarkiara · 6 years ago

Text

Moon Chosen by PC Cast: About the Book + Chapter 1

First Thing’s First: Why did I buy this book?

I really like PC Cast’s earlier work, The Goddess Summoning Series and Tales of Parthelon, they’re well written, witty, and fun. They’re also Romance Novels. (The one’s I have most issue with are the second in Parthelon (Divine by Choice) and the last in Goddess Summoning (Goddess of Legend)) I started disliking her work when she and her daughter wrote The House of Night Series which is . . . disgusting.

Here’s a short list of wrongs from Fandom Hates People of Color

The MC killed two black men for no reason

Another link

Something people always applaud it for is that it doesn’t slut-shame because the main character has a whole bunch of partners and that is just . . . wrong. It does slut-shame other characters via the MC’s misogyny. Also the main character having multiple partners isn’t a good thing because she’s CHEATING on all of them.

Case in point: her ex almost died and ended up in the hospital so she lost her virginity to her teacher (this is statutory rape btw, he was also manipulating her but somehow she still agreed to it while thinking the man she loved was dying???) who she’d been cheating on said ex with and then later when she gets back together with her ex and he’s paranoid the narrative treats it like he’s being paranoid and jealous for no reason despite the fact she cheated on him with three different guys

just. yikes.

So when that series ended and I saw PC Cast was going to do a book alone I wondered “Is everything bad in House of Night from her daughter? How much is from her?” I was also curious because Moon Chosen would be PC Cast’s first solo YA novel.

Let me tell you right here and now that’s it was not all her daughter.

Moon Chosen is a YA novel published by St. Martin's Griffin in 2016 and it has one sequel entitled Sun Warrior (2017).

The Cover:

It’s not bad. One of the reasons I got it was because of the cover. I especially like the sun-like o (I think it’s supposed to be moon-like but . . .)

Goodreads Summary:

Chosen to embrace her true identity. Chosen to follow her destiny. Chosen to change her world.

Mari is an Earth Walker, heir to the unique healing powers of her Clan, but she has been forced to turn from her duties, until she is chosen by a special animal ally, altering her destiny forever. When a deadly attack tears her world apart, Mari reveals the strength of her powers and the forbidden secret of her dual nature as she embarks on a mission to save herself and her people. It is not until Nik, the son of the leader from a rival, dominating Tribe, strays across her path that Mari experiences something she has never felt before…

Now evil is coming, and with it, a force more terrible and destructive than the world has ever seen, leaving Mari to cast the shadows from the earth. By breaking Clan Law and forming an alliance with Nik, she must make herself ready. Ready to save her people. Ready to save herself and Nik. Ready to embrace her true destiny…and battle the forces that threaten to destroy them all.

Now, there’s a lot to unpack here. PC Cast always uses mythology in her books, focusing on European mythologies such as Greek, Celtic, and Roman. Since the MC in House of Night’s Native American heritage was NOT handled well I was already worried when I realized this story almost definitely took place in a fantasy North America (Hint: The series title is Tales of a New World).

I also want everyone to know that the top two reviews on Goodreads were both 1 stars. XD Here and here.

Now, reminder that when I first got this book like 2 years ago I couldn’t even get past PAGE 2

Without Further Ado: Chapter 1

There’s a lot to unpack here so I’m literally going to transcribe the entire first 2 pages to ya’ll because it is physically painful to read and I want all of you to share my pain.

The contagious sound of women’s laughter filled the warm, tidy burrow.

“Oh, Mari! That is not an illustration from the myth I just told you.”

Mari’s mother held the sheet of handmade paper in one hand and pressed the other hand against her mouth, unsuccessfully trying to hold back another bout of laughter.

“Mama, your job is to tell the stories. My job is to sketch them. That’s our game, right? Our favorite game.”

“Well, yes,” Leda said, still trying to fix her expression to a more sober one. “I do tell the stories, but you tend to sketch what you think you hear.”

“I don’t see the problem with that.” Mari moved to stand beside her mother and studied the newly finished sketch with her. “This is exactly what I saw as you were telling the story of Narcissus and Echo.”

If they’re in North America . . . why are they talking about Greek gods? This tells me that at least Mari’s mother Leda isn’t Native American. (As also evidenced from their names.)

“Mari, you made Narcissus look like a young man turning into a flower. Awkwardly. He has one hand that is a leaf and the other that is still a hand. The same with his--” Leda stifled a giggle. “Well, with several other parts of his anatomy. And he has a mustache and a silly look on his face--though I do admit it is an amazing talent you have that can bring a silly-looking half flower, half man, to life.” Leda pointed to the sketch and the ghostly nymph who Mari had somehow made to look bored and annoyed as she watched the transformation of Narcissus. “You made Echo look--” Leda hesitated, obviously searching for the right words.

“Fed up with Narcissus and his ego?” Mari offered.

Leda gave up all pretense of admonishment and laughed out loud. “Yes, that is exactly how you made Echo look, though that is not the story I told.”

“Well, Leda.” Mari used her mother’s given name as she waggled her brows at her. “I was listening to your story and as I was drawing I decided that something was definitely left out of the ending.”

Even I know this is too much telling instead of showing.

“The ending? Really?” Leda bumped her daughter with her shoulder. “And stop calling me Leda.”

“But, Leda, that’s your name.”

“To the rest of the world. To you my name is Mother.”

“Mother? Really? It’s so--”

“Respectful and traditional?” This time Leda offered to finish her daughter’s thought.

“More like boring and old,” Mari said, eyes shining as she waited for her mother’s predictable response.

“Boring and old? Did you just call me boring and old?”

“What? Me? Call you boring and old? Never, Mama, never!” Mari giggled and held her hand up in surrender.

This is not how mothers and daughters talk to each other? Gods I miss when PC wrote Romance novels. She is obviously not in her element in YA novels and doesn’t understand that - considering I started reading her work back in middle school and never had any trouble understanding it - she doesn’t need to change her writing style to apply to teenagers. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening because it reads more like House of Night than anything else I’ve read of hers so I don’t think it’s devolving I think it’s a deliberate choice.

“All fixed,” She said, holding up the sketch for Leda to inspect.

“Mari, his eyes are crossed,” Leda said.

“The rest of the story made me think he wasn’t too smart. So I made him look not very smart.”

I’ve not even gone half a page and already there’s this ableist crap and Mari shaming her mother for having been a teen mother.

Okay so Mari just named 4 Clans: Clan Weaver, Clan Fisher, Clan Miller, and Clan Wood. How many clans are there and do they all have specializations which give them their names?

[Mari] “Blueberries! Really, Mama? That would be wonderful. I love the color of ink I make with them. It’s a nice change from the black stain I get from walnuts.”

What?

[Leda] “I do, and I’m looking forward to dyeing a new cloak for you this spring, but I admit freely that I would rather eat a blueberry pie!”

WHAT?

So Mari brings up that Leda’s name is from a story and then mentions that her grandmother Cassandra did not name things sensibly. Then . . .

“You know very well that Moon Women always name their daughters whatever is whispered to them on the wind by the Great Earth Mother. My mother, Cassandra, was named by her mother, Penelope. I heard your lovely name whispered by our Earth Mother the full moon night before you were born.”

“My name is boring.” Mari sighed. “Does that mean the Earth Mother thinks I’m boring?”

“No, that means the Earth Mother thinks we should make up a story to go with your name--a story all your own.”

This reads like Mari’s 10 years old. She’s 16-17. So their clan is the Moon Clan and so far they’ve only mentioned Moon Women, no Moon Men and Mari’s father is not from the Moon Clan.

Woah okay here we go.

“Mari, sweet girl, I cannot tell another story tonight, though I wish I could, sunset is not far off, and tonight the moon will be full and brilliant. The needs of the Clan will be great.”

Mari opened her mouth to plead with Leda to stay just for a few moments more, to put her needs before those of the Clan, but before she could speak her small, selfish desire her mother’s body twitched spasmodically, shoulders trembling, head jerking painfully and uncontrollably. Though she had already turned from her daughter, as always trying to shield her from the change night brought with it. Mari knew all too well what was happening.

. . . She took her mother’s hand, holding it in both of hers, hating how cold it had become--hating the pale silver-gray tinge that was beginning to spread across her skin. And wishing, always wishing, that she could soothe the pain that visited her mother with the setting of the sun every night of her life.

Or . . . not? I’m . . . very confused because Mari’s sad she took up her mother’s time till after sunset which causes her mother pain but then . . . continues taking up her time??? Like after her mother goes through this pain they start . . . exchanging gifts? Her mother made her a flower crown that’s called a Maiden . . . Moon . . . Crown. What?

[I didn’t transcribe this part but I want you all to know that the words “glowmoss” and “glowshrooms” (“which suspended . . . like organic chandeliers”) were actually used.]

Men have finally been mentioned and it doesn’t look good.

“. . . I’m afraid this spring moon won’t be as festive as usual. Not after so many Earth Walkers have been recently captured by the Companions. The Earth Mother feels unusually restless to me, as if uncomfortable changes are coming. Our women have been filled with more sorrow than usual, and our men--well, we know the anger the Night Fever brews within our men.”

“They won’t just be angry, they’ll be dangerous. Damn Scratchers!

“Mari, don’t call your people that. It makes them sound like monsters.”

“They’re only half my people, Mother, and at night they are monsters. [wow wtf] Or at least the men are. What would happen if you didn’t wash them of the Night fever every three days? Wait, I know what would happen. It’s why a Moon Woman’s burrow has to always be hidden, even from her own Clan.” [WTF. btb they live in an actual burrow underground] Frustration and fear caused her words to be harsh, and as soon as she’d spoken them the sadness that filled her mother’s eyes made her regret such harshness.

“Mari, you must never forget that at night, even I have within me the capacity to be a monster.”

“Not you! I didn’t mean you. I’d never mean you!

“But the moon is all that keeps me from becoming more Scratcher than Earth Walker. Sadly, our people cannot call down the moon as I can, so I must do it for them as least once every three nights. Tonight is a Third Night, as well as the spring full moon. Our Clan will gather, and I will Wash [why is this capitalized?] them so that their lives may be open to accept love and joy instead of mired in melancholy and anger . . .”

I have no doubt this is going to be another Native American werewolves story. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? It goes into Mari being self-deprecating after this because she wants more than to be a part of her Clan and then talks about how Leda’s been hiding the truth about Mari her whole life. Presumably, that Mari is only half Moon Clan.

Okay so they talk about Mari’s power and how she keeps failing to do what her mother does but her mother assures her that nothing’s wrong because she “sane” with no sign of “madness or pain.” Leda needs to choose and apprentice but Mari’s wavering because she doesn’t think she’s good enough. Leda wants Mari to join her for the ceremony that night.

So apparently Mari has a choice to-be or not-to-be a Moon Woman?

Leda goes into pain again and Mari agrees to go with her.

Oh. oh no.

“Let me touch up your face. We’ll need to dye your hair again soon, but not tonight.”

Mari stifled a sigh and tilted her face up so that her mother could reapply the muddy mixture that kept their secret.

Leda worked in silence, thickening her daughter’s brow, flattening her cheekbones, and then, lastly, smearing the dirty, sticky clay substance down her neck and arms.

Brownface. Wow. I can’t even.

In other news Mari accidentally touched sunlight which caused a filigree pattern and a rush of power to spread over the skin on her hand even through the brownface.

So. Mari’s lighter skinned than the rest of her clan and she has an affinity for the sun instead of the moon. (btw that’s the opposite of how it should be genetically but whatever) Her mother and her have been hiding this for 17 years by keeping her locked up in the burrow during the day and hidden under clothing and brownface while she’s out at night. Wow.

This chapter was only 10 pages.

#moon chosen #moon chosen 1 #long post #my snarks #kiara snarks moon chosen

2 notes · View notes

melyzard · 7 years ago

Text

Star Wars Geekery II

Droid Rights Boogaloo! Cassian Andor (and Kay, too!)

I wrote a whole post earlier about some general observations about Stars Wars propaganda, such as how it relates to real world propaganda, with a little speculation about Saw Gerrera and the Alliance. But I also found some extremely interesting and relevant propaganda that sparked some droid-related headcanons about one of my faves: Cassian Andor. (warning: long post, many pictures, some rambling)

So a lot of (most of) Cassian's backstory is left extremely vague. We know he was born on Fest, we know his father died on Carida when he was six, and we know that even at a very young age, he was physically in the fight (although when Cassian was six, the Old Republic was still around, so he's been fighting the Empire longer than the Empire has officially existed). It's reasonable to assume that, since Fest had a sizable Separatist movement, when Cassian would have been quite young, he would, potentially, have been exposed to this little piece of Separatist propaganda:

This poster is a call for droid maintainers, because as we know, the Separatist armies fought primarily with battle droids. Granted, there were probably plenty of flesh-and-blood fighters too, but battle droids were the main forces used by the heavy hitters (Dooku, Trade Federation, etc). So it was a big deal to get droid maintenance and programmers onboard, and hey, why not use the small, clever hands and free labor of children?

This makes me wonder - who taught Cassian how to reprogram droids? I've seen all kinds of headcanons, mostly revolving around long-dead family members such as his father or cousins or what-have-you (interestingly, has anyone claimed it was his mother? Just wondering). But I'd like to submit a new theory: Cassian was only a small child when his family died, and it seems highly possible that he fell in with Separatists for at least awhile. Would he have been picked up by the IAADB or someone who worked on the droid armies? Was that how he was taught droid programming/maint, as a means of helping out the effort? Did little boy Cassian work on those silly 'roger, roger' droids? (Did he feel sorry for them? Hate that they were sent back and reassembled, over and over, sent marching face-first into Jedi that cut them down in waves? Did this perhaps color his attitude towards droids, and the people who see them as disposable?)

Speaking of droids, lets talk about one of my favorite subjects in this fandom: Droid Rights and how synthetic life was generally treated in SW. I mean, droids were a part of literally every facet of life, and yet were still treated with deep mistrust. Check out this poster, for example:

I mean, damn, right? There’s a lot to parse here: the shadow of Grevous, the ominous implication that a droid that isn’t regularly wiped is inherently dangerous no matter what, and the overt sexualization of the (very common) Personal Assistant Droid...(and let’s not even get into the underlying misogyny in depicting a “dangerous” person as a human female). And this poster is from the Old Republic, just before the Clone Wars. So this isn’t some "The Empire Hates Droids" thing, it’s just basic xenophobia. And sure, this particular poster would have been old news by the time Cassian was old enough to understand it...but I doubt very much this is the only one of it's ilk. More importantly, this is the sort of thing people like Draven, Mothma, Bail Organa (basically all the older members of the Alliance) would have grown up around. Even if they strongly disagreed with this poster, or didn't believe droids were inherently dangerous, I'm willing to bet this still tinged their thinking in some way.

Ever ask yourself: if Cassian trusted him, why wasn't K2SO ever allowed to carry a blaster? Well, first ask: who would have had to authorize it? Someone old enough, I imagine, to remember this:

Bear in mind, this was meant to be a reassuring poster. This is droids being presented in a friendly, helpful light. It is, interestingly, almost indistinguishable from anti-droid propaganda:

So here's my theory: young Cassian did not particularly like that "fighting for your independence" poster as a child, but it took him a few years to understand why, and it retroactively irritates him now whenever he encounters knee-jerk reactions to Kay, such as "put a restraining bolt on that thing!" or "you can't arm a droid with a blaster! It could turn on you!" (Also...kind of adds a few shades of nuance to that whole "You're letting her keep it?...do you want to know the odds that she'll shoot you?" scene for both Cassian and Kay, doesn't it?)

I personally feel that the Alliance demonstratively treats droids better than the Empire, but considering how low that particular bar is set, that isn't saying much. And bearing in mind that Rebel Intelligence is responsible for Alliance propaganda as well (both external and internal), I wonder how Cassian reacted to seeing things like this little number, plastered all over headquarters:

...probably not well. Another theory: every time Cassian sees this or something like it, he has to war with himself between "good soldier of the Rebellion who values operational security," and "wants to rip down the poster that advocates for lobotomizing his best friend." I'm willing to bet that he has a standing agreement with Kay to always preform all necessary maintenance himself, to avoid the potential that some indifferent mechanic will do a routine wipe without warning. Cassian probably had to get some fancy permission for that, too. Yet another reason Command won't authorize a weapon for K2SO; he is not routinely rendered "safe." That Cassian is allowed to keep Kay at all probably speaks more to Draven or Mothma's opinion that he needs some sort of social network or personal connection to keep him committed to the cause...or just alive at all.

Aaaaaand we're gonna stop there, before I work myself up too much about this.

(I have a whole thing for Jyn too, but that will come later, when I have some time.)

#rogue one #cassian andor #k2so #propaganda #meta #headcanons #droid rights #the empire is bad #the alliance is not perfect #cassian did not look like a man with many friends #and his reaction to kay's death was shattering #that's not someone who thought of Kay as just a droid #did I mention I like fictional propaganda #because it forces us to look at real world attitudes?#what do the droids represent in SW?#food for thought #also we need fic about this #throwing that out there

35 notes · View notes

thesagechronicles · 7 years ago

Link

“The studio behind the upcoming Aladdin remake (directed by Guy Ritchie) reportedly struggled to cast a Brown actor who can act, sing, and dance—after much Internet uproar, newcomer Mena Massoud and the light-skinned white and Indian actress Naomi Scott were cast as Aladdin and Jasmine. Besides the obvious issues with a major studio saying there simply wasn’t a “right fit” among 2,000 actors who auditioned for this role, there’s definitely an elephant in the room, and this time, it’s not Abu in the second half of the movie. That elephant is the source material of Aladdin itself—a misogynist, xenophobic white fantasy. No surface-level representation such as casting Mena Massoud, Dev Patel, or Riz Ahmed in the lead role would have changed that.

Aladdin is set in nonsense “Agrabah,” a faraway place that’s “barbaric, but hey, it’s home,” a line so racist Disney changed it the year after. Agrabah is basically “Arabland,” a fictional place that real Americans are down to bomb, replete with popular imaginations of the Middle East as a sandy desert under the rule of violent Islam. In the opening scene, after we are introduced to the exotic climate by a heavily-accented vendor who tries to sell us his wares, Aladdin skillfully avoids being punished for thieving. He later saves Jasmine from the same fate—if you steal in a violent place like Arabland, you lose your hand.

Aladdin is a white fantasy, and that’s hardly surprising, because the film is basically some white guy’s foggy notion of the Orient. It’s most likely a made-up story, added to a translation of A Thousand and One Nights by a French guy in the 18th century. Directed by white guys Ron Clements and John Musker, the 1992 movie was written by them and other white guys Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio. Its cast featured not even one Arab or South Asian voice actor.

Disney may be catching flak now for its poor representation of the POC experience, but let’s not forget that at the time, Disney was known for making stories just about white people and marketed Aladdin to people “of all races” in its “biggest ethnic marketing campaign ever, selling the film to Black and Hispanic children in the U.S. Disney thus conceives of “Brown” as a monolith that could encompass Middle Eastern, South Asian, Black, and Latinx experiences, so a “Brown” story could appeal and represent all shades of skin—making “representation” yet another careless rendition of the Other. Aladdin is thus fixed firmly within the gaze of white supremacy—the superior, Christian society that is not mentioned directly, but alluded to in juxtaposition to the brutal depictions of a hybrid Arab-South Asian culture and the film’s underlying anti-Islam messaging. At the time of its release, Aladdin served as a panacea, a sweeping solution to the vacuum of non-white narratives for children, callously delivered in a continuation of its rich racist legacy. This movie was, essentially, a way to justify neocolonial, imperialist white feminism. The film director Jean-Luc Godard noted Americans tell the “best stories” because they “invade a country and immediately construct a narrative justifying it.”

Misrepresentation of Islam is a uniquely Western weaponization of oriental tropes. As Edward Said said of depictions of orientalism,”whenever in modern times there has been an acutely political tension felt between the Occident and its Orient (or between the West and its Islam), there has been a tendency to resort in the West not to direct violence but first to the cool, relatively detached instruments of scientific, quasi-objective representation.” At the core of this Aladdin remake is a response to rising Islamophobia, but not the woke kind you hope for. Because of the Islamophobic nature of the source material, without significant changes, this remake is in tacit support of Islamophobia. As Said goes on to explain,“in this way Islam is made more clear, the true nature of its threat appears, an implicit course of action against it is proposed.” Between the timing of the movie during a huge rise in anti-Muslim hate crimes and the (mostly white) people behind the camera, it’s hard to be hopeful about Disney’s motives.

The 1992 movie’s racism extends beyond its setting by presenting a plethora of classic, deleterious Othering: It mispronounces Arab words including “Allah,” depicts nonsense scribble instead of real Arabic script, and codes its characters to reinforce racist and Islamophobic tropes. Main characters that the audience is meant to admire, like Aladdin and Jasmine, have Western features, lighter skin, and American accents, while nefarious or impoverished characters like Jafar and shopkeepers have beards, hooked noses, and thick, Middle Eastern accents. Jafar’s evil is further manifested in his curly beard, traditional clothing, and “queer coding”—while Aladdin is clean-shaven, mostly shirtless, and very hetero. These kinds of audiovisual cues are not accidents in the slightest. Want to know the real reason it’s “impossible” to find a good Brown fit for Aladdin? It’s because Aladdin’s character design was inspired by Tom Cruise.

Let’s not forget Genie, an important non-human character who embodies the vile trope of the magical negro, a term popularized by Spike Lee in 2001 to describe a saintly Black character who exists to illuminate a white character’s emotional journey. Genie, who lives only to serve, complains throughout the film of eternal servitude, and longs for freedom. This character is going to be played by Will Smith in the live-action film, and I only hope Disney agrees that the character is due for an upgrade.

Embedded deep within the obvious orientalism in Aladdin’s landscape is an unsolvable issue, unsolvable because it is inextricable from this boys’-adventure tale plot. It’s Jasmine. Jasmine, who has a decidedly non-Arabic, but still oriental and feminine name, and was named after a non-Arab actress, is introduced to us as a probably-teenager who is being forced “by law” (and her Santa-faced, bumbling father) to marry within three days of the movie’s beginning. She is the canvas on which white feminism paints its own image: She doesn’t wear a hijab (except for when she’s masquerading as a poor and thus “backward” Muslim) and longs for love in a marriage while playing with caged birds. She’s the “right kind of Muslim”—the rich woman who bears little cultural markers of difference and rejects the shackles of her religion for liberated sex. She is voiced by blonde Linda Larkin, who gave the character a breathy baby voice, fitting in with the rest of her persona: a barely-clad, animated sex doll whose fate revolves around the men in the story (This is where white feminism as written by white dudes fails miserably).

Jasmine has very little agency; her role in the film is entirely dependent on the men around her—her father, who admits that it’s not just because of the law that he’s forcing her to marry, but because he wants a man to “take care of her;” Jafar, who first wants to marry her for the power but then reveals it’s just lust for young flesh; an Aladdin, who spends most of the movie stalking her, going so far as to break into her bedroom at night and lie about his identity. And let’s not forget that sex slave scene, where a cuffed Jasmine seduces Jafar in what could only be BDSM fodder.

Jasmine has a few moments of self-determination, even if tinged with desperation—she escapes the palace to see the world, and invokes her role as princess to save Aladdin. But unlike Gautama Buddha who escaped his sheltered life as a prince to understand suffering, Jasmine goes on a joyride-sans-car to find romance and adventure in the arms of a prototypical aspirational street rat who’s obsessed with proving his “worth” and watches her palace from afar with unabashed longing. This rapscallion can show her a “whole new world,” access that he has on account of his secular inherent value as a “diamond in the rough.” Jasmine is only released from the “law” at the end of the movie when her father tearfully looks on as Aladdin and she canoodle, finally happy that the ownership of the “beautiful bloom” is satisfactorily passed onto a man who has proven he can protect her—a man who brings Americanized ideals of love marriages and cross-class pairings to Jasmine’s fettered life. Ella Shohat notes in “Gender in Hollywood’s Orient,” ”darker women, marginalized within the narrative, appear largely as sexually hungry subalterns.”

The most damning evidence of the intersectional misogyny of Aladdin? Jasmine is the only woman character. That is, if you don’t count the “loose” women and commoners who make fleeting cameos in songs with no real lines. Orientalism colludes with misogyny to subjugate women of color in a unique way.

This is the problem with fairy tales. They present alternate universes that explain our own. They’re peddled by oppressors and designed to make us feel better about our lack of awareness and our privilege. Your beloved Aladdin explains why Brown people are an evil monolith, and need to be subjugated by Western imperialism and liberated by white feminism.

In Agrabah, people are barbaric but a select few are just like us—in search of love, sweet secular love. Bemoaning the casting choices of white ass Guy Ritchie and his film bro crew is not going to improve POC representation in Hollywood or change the basic issue with Aladdin—which is Aladdin itself. Trust me.”

-ADITI NATASHA KINI

#pop culture #identities #aladdin #princess jasmine #disney #disney media #misrepresentation #middle eastern culture #muslim representation #racism #imperialism #colonialism #white feminism #misogyny

2 notes · View notes

duaneodavila · 7 years ago

Text

Catherine MacKinnon, Mother of the Mob

The #MeToo movement is accomplishing what sexual harassment law to date has not.

Catherine MacKinnon is being far too modest. Much as the movement may be the culmination of social factors that caused, and gave us, the current administration, she’s dedicated her life to making those factors happen, creating the narrative that allowed that confluence of events, beliefs and feelings that would result in a time when extrajudicial unproven allegations by women would, without more, destroy men.

Her first goal was the campus. but her baby has now grown to take its place in the real world. She must be very proud.

Sexual harassment law — the first law to conceive sexual violation in inequality terms — created the preconditions for this moment. Yet denial by abusers and devaluing of accusers could still be reasonably counted on by perpetrators to shield their actions.

This, of course, is utterly false. Rape has always been a crime. So too assault. Indeed, harassment was eventually criminalized, though not specifically for women. Much as there is no law prohibiting the murder of women apart from murder of any person, there are now laws that function that way, whether in word or practice.

Many survivors realistically judged reporting pointless. Complaints were routinely passed off with some version of “she wasn’t credible” or “she wanted it.” I kept track of this in cases of campus sexual abuse over decades; it typically took three to four women testifying that they had been violated by the same man in the same way to even begin to make a dent in his denial. That made a woman, for credibility purposes, one-fourth of a person.

There’s no cite for her claim that it “typically took three to four women” to get a man, but she’s never needed facts to support her claim. She’s proven remarkably capable of asserting her narrative as reality, inexplicably managing to simultaneously promote two facially inconsistent beliefs without the slightest hint of cognitive dissonance.

Women are strong and smart. They can be and do anything.

Women are weak and afraid. They need special protections and lesser demands of the law.

To note this inconsistency isn’t to be fair, to believe in equality, but to be a tool of the Patriarchy, and thus attacked with ad hominems under the guise of having a discussion. And it was the law that failed women, which is why any comparison of accuser and accused was a false equivalency.

Even when she was believed, nothing he did to her mattered as much as what would be done to him if his actions against her were taken seriously. His value outweighed her sexualized worthlessness. His career, reputation, mental and emotional serenity and assets counted. Hers didn’t. In some ways, it was even worse to be believed and not have what he did matter. It meant she didn’t matter.

No mention of foundational principles, like the presumption of innocence or burden of proof. Her contentions depend on the ability to push the appeal to emotion without invoking any appeal to reason. Thought was her enemy. Logic was the death of her rhetoric.

It is widely thought that when something is legally prohibited, it more or less stops. This may be true for exceptional acts, but it is not true for pervasive practices like sexual harassment, including rape, that are built into structural social hierarchies.

Murders are illegal, yet they still happen. So too almost every crime imaginable. But she plays a trick here, which is why this assertion might, at first blush, appear not nearly as absurd as it is. By using “sexual harassment” as her touchstone, she seizes upon that vagary, that phrase that has served to conflate every tinge of female unpleasantness, with heinous offense like rape.

But even rape isn’t rape anymore. That the word has become entirely untethered from any cognizable legal meaning is an amazing, shocking feat. The word still evokes a horrible image of a terrible offense, but it’s now used to describe a consensual sex where a women was tipsy, or where a year later a women rationalizes that her enthusiastic consent wasn’t given willingly, especially when the male has since started dating another. Or when the white women’s girlfriends start shaming her for trying a black man on for size.

This logjam, which has long paralyzed effective legal recourse for sexual harassment, is finally being broken. Structural misogyny, along with sexualized racism and class inequalities, is being publicly and pervasively challenged by women’s voices. The difference is, power is paying attention.

In the past, accusations of wrongdoing were deal with by the legal system. It was, and remains, a grossly imperfect system, but it served as a way for the people in society to co-exist. MacKinnon is right that the difference is “power is paying attention,” but is it because of the epiphany of unproven allegations or the fear of the mob?

Powerful individuals and entities are taking sexual abuse seriously for once and acting against it as never before. No longer liars, no longer worthless, today’s survivors are initiating consequences none of them could have gotten through any lawsuit — in part because the laws do not permit relief against individual perpetrators, but more because they are being believed and valued as the law seldom has. Women have been saying these things forever. It is the response to them that has changed.

Of course the law permits relief against individual perpetrators, and this assertion, like to many she propounds, is simply wrong. But what MacKinnon neglects to mention is that her mob is enjoying consequences because it’s been relieved of the burdens the legal system imposes. Burdens of proof. Presumptions. Evidence. The right to defend. It’s amazingly easier for the accuser to prevail in the absence of scrutiny.

But it is #MeToo, this uprising of the formerly disregarded, that has made untenable the assumption that the one who reports sexual abuse is a lying slut, and that is changing everything already. Sexual harassment law prepared the ground, but it is today’s movement that is shifting gender hierarchy’s tectonic plates.

In the past, this would be viewed as unprincipled, especially coming from a law professor. That the one-time irrational ranting of a lunatic against the presumption of innocence, against every precept of American jurisprudence, in furtherance of an understanding of evidence that suffices whether it’s overwhelming or totally inadequate, based on a nonsensical narrative, is an extraordinary accomplishment.

It’s taken MacKinnon a lifetime to undermine the legal system, to create a narrative that eliminates all reason, all principle, from the rage of the mob. She was the high priestess of a religion, and she’s managed to get people to believe in her god. Now the god demands sacrifices.

Copyright © 2007-2018 Simple Justice NY, LLC This feed is for personal, non-commercial and Newstex use only. The use of this feed anywhere else violates copyright. If this content is not in your news reader, it means the page you are viewing infringes copyright. (Digital Fingerprint: 51981395c77d7762065ca2c084b63e47) Catherine MacKinnon, Mother of the Mob republished via Simple Justice

0 notes