#but that REEKS of white american individualism so i won’t even engage

[padfootastic]

maybe it’s becoming less of an unpopular opinion, but Remus is not a father figure to Harry. whether he’s a ‘good’ person is debatable, he’s human, but his flaws are often glossed over and he’s definitely not the saint fandom makes him out to be. even if we ignore his abandonment of Harry for twelve years (which doesn’t compare to Sirius not being able to be there because he was in JAIL), he doesn’t tell Harry about the friendship with his father until the end of POA, then promptly disappears from his life. he then shows up in OOTP, then promptly disappears after Sirius’ death. you can argue he was grieving the summer after, but Harry gets nothing until DH. Remus absolutely deserves the verbal smackdown from Harry in DH about abandoning his son. it’s just a shame no one else thought to do the same on behalf of Harry.

oof, okay, i see we’re out for some (nice, well deserved) violence ;)

i’m sure it comes as no surprise that i strongly agree with this

it’s like—even if u say that he couldn’t/didn’t need to contact harry pre-hogwarts (which i heavily disagree w tbh) then what reason did he have for his distance during hogwarts and ESPECIALLY post-poa? like, our boy had zero family during the third task, the least he could’ve done was come see him??? but nope. remus was just like ‘i’m outta here bye 🥸’

and don’t even get me started on all the fics/hcs that fully equate remus & sirius in terms of parenting in all the wolfstar raising harry stuff. like, i’ve mentioned it before and i really don’t care what individuals write about fandom is ur playground and all that but!! BUT!! when the dominant perception becomes that remus was just as good as, if not often better, than sirius at being a parent and s becomes the irresponsible man child then that’s where it gets me fired up. like, the audacity to not just be wrong but also completely malign sirius, the one adult who unselfishly cared about harry?? ugh sorry. u can tell this is my soapbox lol.

Send me unpopular opinions!

[pulitzerpanther]

I’m here- I’m here, now - with Blue

@immortallionheart sent in a meme | “Part of the Job”

My muse had been kidnapped and tortured for the past week send “I’m here- I’m here, now” for your muse to save them.

There’s a faint dripping in the back of her ears, a constant clopping at the edge of her subconscious, 

“Honestly, Martin,” Cat’s voice is strong despite the thickness of it, “You realize this is my money maker. It’s ensured. I’ll sue.” It’s rasped–exhausted–and any steel of her jaw is hidden underneath the impressive watercolor of blacks and blues and reds lining once-famous features. It will take a second surgeon to straighten all of it out, at the end of this, Cat’s sure. 

Because she refuses to believe anything other than the fact that she will be walking out of here.

The water drips, tongue heavy with cotton, body sagging against the cutting wood of a splintering chair at bare shoulders, wrists cut from the raw struggle against metal cuffs about skin, tied behind her back. 

“You realize you’ve been roamin’ through our reports and sticking your nose in dangerous, dangerous places, Grant?” It’s casual–familiar–and Cat remembers a dinner at Maxwell Lord’s house celebrating the California Governor’s run for senate, Martin’s voice laughing next to his wife’s. 

Cat feels bile rise up in her throat and she might laugh if her ribs didn’t ache underneath the purple tint of her skin. 

“The Third Geneva convention–”

“Is bullshit, Cat.” 

His voice rumbles and the rooms walls are covered in metal. Teeth grate as she listens to that dripping, trying to keep her back straight even as a shiver trails up her spine, stripped down to her (unfortunately) favorite fucking bra. 

“Where’s my tribuna–”

“Where, in the territory of a Party to the conflict, the latter is satisfied–” Martin starts to recite and Cat’s whole entire body tenses when she hears metal scraping behind her, unable to turn to look, the calm voice of a once friend settling in front of her, “That an individual protected person is definitely suspected of–” 

“You can’t do–” A hint of fear starts to curl up her throat, now, realization settling in, because she catches sight of the man walking behind her’s forearm. A tattoo, blazing and etched on a large muscle. “I’m not doing–” 

“Or engaged in activities hostile to the security of the State, such individual person shall not be entitled to claim such rights and privileges under the present Convention as would–” 

“Martin.” Cat whispers when a bicep curls around her neck, restraining her against the chair, Martin slowly standing up on his stocky 5′3 legs to readjust his belt, casually wrapping a towel around his wrist in even, smooth lines of white. Hazel eyes widen, gasping against muscle and flesh as she feels something prick against her skin, trying to struggle but–

Oh, oh, she can’t–

“C-Cart–”

“If,” Martin might be yelling for all she knows, voice booming over her own, “Exercised in the favor of such individual person, be prejudicial to the security of such State. And you, Cat Grant, are threatening,“ He steps closer and Cat tastes copper before he pushes the chair back, the noise of it skittering along the metal floor, wood splintering against her arms and back. “The United States.” His fist connects with her side and she gasps, small frame bending into him, muscles relaxing despite the fight in her mind, struggling to push–to press–to–

“You…you won’t–I won’t–let yo–”

Realization settles in terror.

It’s all a trap.

He sinks fists into her time and time again and Cat doesn’t remember much, after that. She’s read the files, of course. This is what she’s been trying to eradicate–her true purpose this past year–but she’s obviously as close as she was in the beginning. Corruption ran deep in the roots of American soil.

After all, there are parts of the government the President has no jurisdiction over–has no access to. National security is a matter of the military and the Commander in Chief isn’t considered the true commander–but the reports, oh…

The reports don’t do justice when it comes to torture and psychological warfare.

The seconds bleed into hours bleed into days. The lights reflect halogen off of her pale skin, the lack of food and water sinking dark circles like the hollowed eyes of a skull on her skin. Eyes. They blink. Blink. Blink. And the water drips. Drips. Drips. 

So does her blood.

Her teeth taste of it. Her body reeks of it. Bile. Blood. Tears. Sweat. Urine.

It tastes like the gutter of the Suicide Slums.

It’s the only way she knows how to tell time in this small cell, but she’s certain they’ve hindered that, too. The moment her body sags in a puddle of water, skin wrinkled and shriveled, she’s pressed against a wall, hand pressed against her throat. It’s not long before she can’t speak without stuttered, body kept on the edge of hypothermia–it’s not long before the sleep equates to pain and she restlessly scrambles against the smallest corner of her cell where they keep her restrained–suspended. 

Keep the blindfold on her eyes, only to rip it off, bleeding sharp lights like needles into her eyes–into her arms–and it’s difficult to focus–

They’ve taken her mind from her, even if they haven’t taken her spirit, and that’s one of the few weapons Cat has. 

By the time the blindfold is ripped off, again, Cat’s body is covered in bruises–sores; scrapes; tears that are certainly infected from the red flame licking at openings–body sagging against the corner in a desperate heave of breath. Her mind struggles to focus behind the sharp pain in her eyes. 

They won’t take her. She won’t let them take–

“Blue?” A gasping, rasping breath, mind lagging so far behind where it’s normally so quick. She’s slow to register the fact that she’s working at the metal cuffs of her wrists–raw; bloody; sunken; she can’t feel anything, anymore, but pain and cold and her teeth chatter when she–

No, no, no.

“Blu–” A gasp. It crackles from disuse because she hasn’t done anything but curse and scream and whisper and breathe. “Blue. L-look at me.” Cat’s body sags uselessly against her like a ragdoll the moment she’s cut free, sloshing into the puddle underneath them with hissing knees. “Stop. Look at me.” 

Her mind, she finds it again in the familiarity of concern and determination below her. 

Cat’s voice doesn’t waver, however much it rasps. She’s not being valiant. She’s not being a hero. She’s speaking the truth. “You have to go. They wanted you…to come here. You have to go. You’re–” The words all jumble together in a desperate cough, fluid settling in lungs. “Go. Please. Please.” 

Please–please–please–

“It won’t…end…with me. They–they want–you and you’re–you’re the–” It’s so difficult to focus, the pain searing up her spine. The cold sending shivers into her lungs, the weight unbearable. It’s difficult to string her mind together–to believe what’s real–but this isn’t a trick this isn’t–

“You’re the only one…I trust. To protect Carter.” 

Cat can’t move her arms. Her legs. 

“Please.” She begs–begs in a way she hasn’t with them; with people she’s danced the devil’s tango with. People she’s sinned with and conspired with and will go to hell, likely, with, someday, for so many of the things she’s done–or hasn’t managed to do. Martin has two daughters in the same way Cat has two sons and Cat would see all of this building burn to the ground–to ash–to–

They won’t kill her. Not until they have Blue and Cat is strong, even if her body is weak. She can be a little broken.

“Find…her. My…my phone–she–” Kara. Kara could–Kara would–the Danvers. “I’ll–I’ll be okay–they won’t–” It’s a rasp, fight leaving her body, because she can hear them, thundering footsteps, but she’s not strong enough to cup Blue’s cheeks–to reassure her–and she only prays that mind-reading party trick reads both ways. 

Because her last thoughts before her body slumps is of her sons and Blue saving herself before everything turns black, hoping to finally rest.