#but then why can't I do even the things that I WANT to do more than anything

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-two —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.1k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

The tray of food crashes to the floor at her feet. Salome gasps. Her hand shoots back, fumbling for the doorknob, and her lips part, ready to call the guard you know is just outside.

"If you call for the guard," you stop her, "I’ll cut deeper."

She clamps a hand over her mouth. "Please—stop! Hurting yourselves is a sin, a great dishonor to the body God gave you—"

“It is,” you agree calmly. You press the shard deeper into the cephalic vein, ignoring the bite of pain. Blood spills in a fresh, startling curtain down your arm, the wound mimicking the severity of an arterial cut. “And she’ll blame you for it. You’re the one she entrusted to watch over us, and you didn't notice we broke one of the mugs."

"I did not think you would—"

"What happens to you,” you cut her off, pointing the bloody shard at her stomach, “—and your baby when the two new child-bearers die because of your failure? Because I will die, if I cut any deeper. This artery,” you lie, tapping the wound for emphasis, “is important. If I finish slicing through it, I’ll bleed out in less than a minute. Not enough time for you to get help. Not even enough to try saving me yourself.”

Her lashes flutter rapidly through a swell of tears. "You could have a good life here—"

"Answer me. What happens to you if I die?"

She swallows hard. "She’ll punish me," she whispers frightfully. "I have seen what happens to those who fail her. She might take my child and I will... never see them. Please, don’t do this—”

"Why should we care about you and your child when you are okay with them killing an eleven-year-old girl tomorrow?"

A flash of shame crosses her face. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't know Maman would want the girl. The offering has never been so young before. But it is God's will, there is nothing I can do to—"

"What you can do is open the cell. Open it and we will kill Maman, then you won't have to worry about anyone taking your baby. But if you don't open it, then we die in here and you will face her punishment."

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. She looks between you and Nereida, eyes darting wildly, fingers twitching against her stomach. 

"Decide before I bleed out!"

"I... I can't," she says pitifully.

With a glance at Nereida, she takes her cue, digging into her vein.

"Open the cell," Nereida urges far more soothingly than you can, blood dripping to her elbow. "We won't hurt you. We want Maman gone, not you."

Salome whimpers under her breath, but her fingers move before her mind catches up, reaching inside her robe to retrieve the key, gripping it like it might burn her. She shuffles closer but pauses, inhaling deeply before finally reaching the door. Her hands shake so violently that the key rattles against the lock. It slips against the metal, failing to match the hole, and your finger twitches when she nearly drops it.

"Mais si elles ne parviennent pas à la tuer..." The whisper leaves quietly, lost beneath the veil. "Sa punition pour moi sera pire."

Then, her hand curls back around the key.

She swallows hard—and steps back.

No. 

You see red.

A growl curls at your mouth and you snap forward, grabbing onto her dress through the bars before she can retreat too far, and pulling her flush against them, her forehead banging into the metal. Before she can scream, you clamp a bloody hand over her mouth and then press the piece of broken mug to her neck with just enough pressure to make her panic. She gasps into your palm, struggling. You dig it harder, forcing her body to turn still and rigid.

"Twix—"

"I tried doing things the nicer way," you speak in a low snarl, veering off the script you and Nereida conjured. Round, glossy eyes stare into yours. "You should have made up your mind before getting within my reach. Now give her the key. I’d hate for my hand to slip."

Another sharp press into her skin wrings a squeak from her, her breath coming out jagged and uneven against your palm. Trembling, she extends an arm through the bars, offering the key to Nereida.

The moment Nereida takes it, she fumbles to find the lock from the outside, her fingers searching blindly. The key scrapes against the metal—once, twice—before a soft click finally reaches your ears.

The door swings open.

You don’t hesitate. Keeping your grip firm over Salome’s mouth, you shove through the opening and swing around to the other side. Before she can react, you force her back into the cell, driving her onto the bed. The veil tears free from her head as you pin her down, your weight pressing her into the mattress, the sharp fragment still poised at her throat. When her legs begin to flail helplessly, you order Nereida to grab them. She clasps Salome's ankles to keep her from bucking you off.

"You were afraid of the wrong person," you hiss, your nose nearly brushing hers. "Maman may have spared your life because she values her baby makers—but I don’t. Answer everything I ask, or I’ll show you just how merciless I can be."

The dishonest threat rolls off your tongue with enough force to make her nod frantically, fear widening her eyes. But what she doesn’t need to know—what you won’t let her see—is the part of you still holding back. Because even now, even as you pin her down and press the shard to a vital piece of her throat, you’re careful. You don’t dig hard enough to damage. You don’t let your weight bear down on the swell of her stomach.

"I'm glad we understand each other. I am going to lift my hand, and you're not going to scream. You're going to tell me everything we need to know about the guards out there."

Her lips are puffy and raw when you set them free. 

"There is only one outside the d-door," she sputters in a whisper. "B-but there are more... more by the... h-homes and the keep."

"The keep?"

"Where they keep the new m-males," she chokes out, snot dripping from her nose.

"That's in the old slaughterhouse, right?"

She nods.

"How many guards are over there exactly?"

"I do not know." At your glare, she rushes out, "B-but there are less after d-dinner ends. Many go to sleep, and switch shifts at sunrise."

You mull over the information, eyes darting across her face. “And the child—the offering? Where is Maman keeping her?”

A terrible look of fear ripples through her eyes. "Only few are allowed near the offering b-before her ascension. 

"So you're telling me you don't know?" you seethe in her face.

She sobs. "I know they... they will offer her to the démons right before the sun rises. The night is when God’s wrath is strongest, but it’s in the morning—when hope ascends—that we seek atonement."

Despite further pressing, that seems to be the extent of what she knows—or she's still withholding. Either way, you're satisfied enough. You rip strips of the sheet, using one to gag her and two more to bind her wrists and ankles. You and Nereida wrap your wounded wrists tightly to stop the flow. Then, you remove her white gown. You’ll need something to wear that doesn't easily mark you as an escapee, but there’s only the one white dress and veil. You hurriedly slip into them, making sure all of your hair and face is hidden, leaving Nereida still in the thin slip. The shoes Salome wears are thin and made of unsupported leather, but they are all you have to tuck your bare feet into.

Salome said there will be fewer guards after dinner. You and Nereida listen carefully to every sound that bleeds through the window. When you hear a few exchanges of bonne nuit, you figure people are starting to retire for the night. You take this as your cue to grip your makeshift weapon. The guard outside the door is expecting Salome to leave at some point, giving you the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard while dressed as her.

You quietly open the door to the warm summer night, the long gown ghosting around your ankles. As expected, a well-built man leans against the side of the building, arms crossed languidly. No one else is in sight, which brings you some relief. When his gaze shifts to you, he raises a brow.

"Tout va bien, mademoiselle? Vous êtes restée là-dedans un moment."

The last word barely makes it out of his mouth. Within a heartbeat, you spring at him like the head of a snake, one hand over his mouth and the other stabbing his neck with the shard, then sweeping it through the thick of his trachea. A gush of blood oozes out in one thick stream, before he gargles out a strangled choke and turns to dead weight against the wall. 

With Nereida's help, you quickly push his body inside the building to keep anyone from spotting it. 

"Wear this," you usher, already starting to undress him. Like the man who visited you, he's wearing a grey cloak. Though it's too big for her, and bloodied, it will be enough to keep her discreet in the dark, her long hair safely tucked beneath the hood.

Two things race through your mind: the ticking time toward sunrise and the fact that you still don’t know how many more men you’ll have to take out to reach Ghost, Price, and Kyle. The knife you find on the guard adds a small weapon to your shitty arsenal. You have no idea where they could’ve stored the guns and ammo they took from you, or your bow. How you'll manage to fight through a community of cultists without those is a worry you can’t afford to dwell on right now—one step at a time.

After a few minutes of collecting yourselves, urgency pulls the two of you outside, free from the barred enclosure for the first time in almost four days. In the blanket of night, you quickly scan the area, taking in what you’re up against. The community appears fairly spread out, with only six small farmhouses like the one you just escaped from, along with a few larger structures in the near distance—likely where they house the men. You catch a glimpse of a fenced pasture’s perimeter and the unmistakable stench of cattle fills the air. Despite the faint shuffle of hooves and grey plumes of smoke from a few of the chimneys, everything is eerily still, leaving an unnerving amount of quiet for your heart to shatter through.

From what you can see, there aren’t many places to hide Blue, but there could be more to this place beyond what’s visible, especially since the chapel you first saw is nowhere in sight. But none of that matters right now; you need to find the others first if you’re going to have any real chance of saving her and getting out of here.

The next male you encounter spots you first as you make your way up the gravel road towards the barn, the sound of his boots making your hand tighten on the knife's handle. He greets you unassumingly in French, causing Nereida to startle beside you as his shadow approaches. Then he stops in front of her, his shoulders tensing and his hand hovering near a knife at his waist.

"Que fais-tu avec la femelle? C’est interdit!"

Again, you go for the throat, desperate to silence any screams that could cause alarm. You get a good swipe at the base of it, but he is at least a head taller than you, making it difficult to stab fully. He grabs you by the waist, clearly in shock that a veiled female just sprung on him with a knife, but swipes a fist at your face nonetheless. The force spreads through your temple, thrusting your head to the side. 

"Take the knife from him," you hiss at Nereida through the pain, who until now was effectively frozen. She finally moves, using the distraction you've caused as he clutches his bleeding neck, and snatches the knife still hanging at his waist. Once she has it, you leap at the disarmed man again, this time stabbing his liver. With a muffled grown, he face-plants into the gravel, quickly soaking it with blood. 

"The body," she stutters worriedly. "We need to hide it."

You look around, spotting stacks of chopped wood.

"Over there. Help me drag him."

Once the body is heaved behind the logs, you pat him down in search for anything else, but there's nothing.

"Keep that on you," you tell her, and she gives a quick nod, hiding the knife under her sleeve.

You keep following the road up to the fence, your white dress splattered with crimson, resembling the dotted stars overhead. The 'keep' is somewhere by the barn that man said, but you notice smaller buildings to the right and to the left of it. Which one looks like an old slaughterhouse? It's too difficult to tell even when you squint, so you grab Nereida's arm and quickly lower by a bush.

"Watch that one, and I'll keep an eye on this one. Whichever building has more guards patrolling is probably where they're holding them."

"Okay," she whispers, peering around the bush.

Minutes pass. The building on the right has more shadows skirting around it—three guards total. You take a moment to study their movements. One is stationed near the back, the other two at the front.

"I want you to take the one at the back and wait for me. I'll handle the other two."

"How do I take him?" she whispers uncertainly. "He’ll see me coming."

"You’ll come at it from an angle." You point toward a stack of hay. "Sneak over there, quietly. Once you're behind it, circle around and approach where he can't see."

She hesitates, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. "I’ve never—"

"Never killed anyone?" 

The way she grips the knife, her fingers white on the handle, confirms it.

"These people deserve it, Nereida," you say, forcing her to meet your gaze. "John is in there."

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down on her. When she opens them again, her jaw is set, and her grip on the knife tightens.

After reminding her where to strike, you pause for a moment, watching as she sneaks over to the hay. Then, you move toward the other two, slipping behind a tree for cover, but your foot catches on something and you almost trip, catching yourself against the bark. Your breath hitches and you steal a peek at them to make sure they didn't hear you. No—they are too busy murmuring to each other, laughing in a low exchange.

When you glance down, you spot a shovel half-buried into the ground, its handle sticking out. Carefully, you wriggle it free, having to grit your teeth to fully remove it. This will let you stun one while you deal with the other. Inhaling deeply to center yourself, palm tight over the splintered wood handle, you close in on the two guards.

The shorter one with curly hair spots you just before you take a swing, his eyes widening. The shovel slams into his skull, effectively making him stumble to the ground, but slips from your grip from the force. The other guard whirls around, hand slapping for the pistol at his belt. You deliver three consecutive stabs to his stomach, heart, and cheek. The gun never leaves his waist before he falls dead.

You suck in a gulp of air just as the curly-haired one regains his footing. His head is still heavy from the blow, and before he can draw his knife, you shove him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground. You pin him easily beneath you, his movements sluggish and weak. The two of you wrestle in the grass, jagged breaths mixing with frantic, scraping nails, until, with a snarl, your knife finds purchase in his neck, stealing the life from his eyes in an instant. You stab him again and again, shaking, until the ticking urgency pulls you back into control. With a deep breath, you steady yourself and wiggle the knife lodged in his trachea, your hands slippery with blood.

"You got death," you spit in a whisper, thumbing his lids shut.

You lift up.

Now you have a single gun.

It is an old thing. Outdated and far from the military-grade weapons Ghost has. It takes a moment to figure out the parts—your fingers fumble for the small magazine, which is stocked with three bullets. You pull the slide to chamber a round with a click and keep it ready in your hand as you circle the building toward the back, praying that Nereida managed. When you find her, she is stood over the man's body, a deep cut oozing on her cheek.

"He saw me," she says, swallowing. "But I did it."

You nod. "We need to hide them before we go in."

All three bodies are hidden behind the hay stacks. You cover them with manure to mask the smell, not wanting a horde of Greys to materialize. You'd spotted a door at the back and hope it may be more discreet then blazing in through the front, given that you don't know who all is in there. Finger ready on the trigger, you hold your breath as you lead Nereida into the old building, instantly met with the rich smell of pennies. The space quickly unfolds into an old butcher house, rusted hooks hanging from the stone ceiling, the air cramped and cold. 

"Une femme? Maman ne voudrait pas de toi—"

The voice echoes in your ear as you round the corner, and then a fiery bullet rips into the owner's chest. Nereida flinches. Another guard comes barreling over, shouting, but you slide the chamber and shoot him in the head.

You don't linger by the bodies, itching to check the first steel door you see. You lower the gun only to pull at the handle, but it won't budge.

"Check him for keys," you motion to the dead guard.

Nereida crouches, hands rifling through his pockets until she yanks free a ring of keys. Her fingers shake as she tries them one by one, the lock stubborn—until, at last, it gives. With a sharp tug, the door groans open, revealing a windowless chamber. In the center, a lone captive hangs from chains.

It’s Price. Shackles bite into his wrists, his bare chest mapped with deep bruises against pale skin. Beaten, but unbroken—his gaze sharp as it lifts to meet yours. Nereida chokes on a sob, ripping the hood off her head and sinking to her knees before him, cupping his jaw.

A weighted baritone manages: "Duchess."

"There is nowhere I will not find you," she croaks. Teary kisses find the corner of his mouth. "I'm here, I'm here."

"How did you—"

"We got out. Where are the others?" you ask.

His jaw grits. "I haven't seen them since they knocked us out."

"They must be here somewhere. We need to move quick before someone notices the bodies."

After finding the small key to undo the manacles, you leave them to each other for the moment, continuing down the hall until the next door. An undeniable pull rises in your chest, something that has nothing to do with the adrenaline rushing through you—something you can’t quite name. But when you open the door, your heart falters with unwelcome disappointment at the sight of Kyle. He looks equally battered, but still aware enough to lift his head as you step in.

"Who are you?" 

You lift the veil.

"It's me," you answer, the words almost lost in the rush of emotions. Only when you fully take in the room do you notice Ari, curled in the corner. They’ve put them in here together. While there are no obvious injuries on the boy, the sight of the open Bible on his lap, and the empty dinner plate beside him, sends a cold shiver down your spine. You touch his cheek, feeling warmth, and reassure him he’s safe.

You release both of them. "Price and Nereida are through the door down the left. I need to find Ghost. I’ll be back."

Kyle rubs his wrists and manages to stand despite his black eye and shaky legs. "I’ll come with you."

"No. I’ll get him." The words come out sharper than you mean to, but you turn away before he can question them.

You are pulled further through the tight, cold hallway, movements turning more hurried as you look around. There are a few more half-opened doors, but they only lead to supply closets filled with whips and metal batons and empty chambers where old blood stains the floors. Something sharp tugs at your heart, and for the first time since initiating your escape, your fingertips succumb to a tremor of fear. 

Where is he?

The hall spits out into a room where dried animal carcasses hang from the walls.

One final door sits on the far end.

The rusted lock resists, swears hissing from your lips—until a sharp kick forces it open.

The smell thickens with fresh blood, and a cold pit sinks into your stomach at the sight of him—bound in chains, his body slumped haphazardly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t lift his head. You rush forward, a shaky breath catching in your throat as you take in the blood caked on his shoulder blades, deep welts splitting through the inked skin. His back, too, is covered in wounds. He looks worse—so much worse—that a bite of anger swells moisture in your eyes.

"Simon, you idiot. What did you do?" The words slip out on a sharp inhale as you lower yourself in front of him. "Simon," you whisper again, silent tears hot against your lips. You thread a hand through his hair, tilting his jaw up with careful fingers. His eyes are heavy, but relief finds you when they flutter open. He’s alive. The reddened whites flicker over your face, unfocused—until something strange sharpens the haze. A flicker of fear.

"It's me, Simon. We're getting out of here."

The brief fear shifts into shock when he recognizes your face, and only after you fumble with the key ring does understanding click into place, causing his jaw to flex. "Where... where is she?"

"I don't know, but we need to hurry. They have her." You undo the manacles, and his body rolls heavily into you, face falling onto your collarbone. You struggle to hold him up, gripping his shoulders without touching the wounds. A low groan bleeds through his teeth, and his eyes flutter shut again. No, no, no. "Please, you have to... you have to get up, Simon. I can't—she's going to fucking die!"

His upper chest rapidly expands with a breath, and he musters the strength to lift his weight off you and slap a hand against the wall. As he leverages his weight up, you help by grabbing beneath his other arm, until a final rush of adrenaline gets him on his feet. Urgency snaps tension into his limp shoulders, and he growls out another, more steady, breath.

"Price," he says.

"He's alive. Come on."

It takes some effort to help him walk at first, but eventually, he manages on his own. You guide him to the first room, where the others are pacing, murmuring in low voices.

"Simon, Jesus," Price mutters when he sees him.

Ghost brushes it off, his eyes narrowing. "They're going to kill her."

"At sunrise," you add, your voice tight. You pull out the pistol and show it to them. "I have one bullet left. I don't know how many more men are in this cult, but we've killed six so far."

"We have one shitty old gun." Kyle growls in frustration. "They took all our shit. How are we going to—"

"We find the weapons. They must have stored them somewhere," Price says.

"We can't just go searching through every building here. We don't have the time," you press. "And how are we supposed to get it back without everyone noticing we're gone?"

"I don't give a fuck about the guns. We find her first," Ghost grits, nostrils flaring. 

"We can't help her if we don't think things through. We can't just start a war with these people empty-handed, Simon," Price says.

"We find her first!"

"Simon," you say, reaching for his arm, but he pulls it away, clenching his bloody fist. The energy radiating from him would scare you if you didn't feel the same way.

Just then, there is the faint sound of a door opening and footsteps clanging through the hall. You tense up, two male voices shouting in echoes, one of them vaguely familiar.

"Quelqu'un les a tués ! On doit régler cette merde avant que Maman découvre quoi que ce soit."

"Les putains de prisonniers!"

Before you can react, Ghost snatches the pistol from your grip. The second they rush toward the open door, he launches at them—an elbow to one’s face, the butt of the gun breaking the nose of the other. Price uses Nereida's knife to stab the fallen guard, while Kyle helps Ghost subdue the second one. You only recognize him as the man who made you strip when they forcibly drag him toward the manacles, the sight of his blonde hair making your nails curl into your palms.

"You stupid fucking Brits!"

Ghost strikes the gun into his left eye, making him jerk within the constraints, howling as the socket turns into bloody pulp. 

Kyle grips the man's scalp from behind to hold his head up, while Ghost presses the gun into his cheek, where you notice a wound shaped like a bite mark.

"Tell us where she is," he roars. "Or I'll take the other eye."

Nereida cowers into the corner, holding onto Ari's arm. 

"I don't know!" the man spits blood, and Ghost digs the gun into his cheek, ripping it open further until the bitten flesh hangs as a torn flap, exposed all the way to his eye. The scream that follows feels inhuman. "I swear, I don't—I don't fucking know!"

Fresh blood drips to the floor. Price, much more calm, lowers at the man's side. "How many people live here?"

The man grits his teeth, struggling to answer, "T-thirty males, and six females. Plus the infants."

Twenty-two now, you count in your head.

"And the weapons we had. What about those?" Price questions further.

When only staggered, pained breaths fills the room, Ghost tosses the bloody gun and grabs the knife from Price, stabbing the man's kneecap without hesitation. Another scream ensues, and there is the small itch to cover your ears, but you steel yourself against the wall to keep watching.

"Answer the fucking question." Ghost twists the knife in his knee.

He cries out, more bloody spittle flying from his mouth. "All of the ammo is hidden. Only A-Alexandre knows!"

"Who is Alexandre?"

“Maman's son, he enforces her commands and oversees the males.”

"Where is he?" Price asks, voice hard.

“He… he resides in the work shed, while the rest of us sleep in the quarters within the barn.”

You step forward. "We saw another building outside with just one guard, that must be it."

There is a beat of silence as Price processes the information, giving Ghost a satisfied nod. With pain still contorting his face, the man's eye drifts past Ghost's shoulder toward you. His lips twitch into a faint, bloody smirk that makes your skin crawl. Ghost follows his gaze, snarls, and abruptly slashes the man's throat from ear to ear.

B

It is still dark when Eloise comes to awaken her, though Blue's eyes never once fell shut with sleep. She spent the short-lived night alternating between staring at the crescent moon outside the window, and fiddling with the knitting needles left on the table. There is a new dress in the woman's clutch, beautiful white fabric embroidered with flowers, and a pair of beautiful leather shoes in the other hand.

"See? I told you the dress would be nicer." She smiles and hands it over, as if to offer something to be thrilled for. "You must change quickly. There is a lovely breakfast of framboises and milk waiting for you. Put these on as well." She sets the shoes on the floor.

Blue thinks it strange, to bother feeding her just before her death. Blankly, she asks, "How many people will be there? To watch me die."

Eloise's smile quivers slightly, a slight crack in her composure. "Not too many, I assure you. Only a few of us women, and one or two worthy men. Most are still sleeping." After a pause, she adds even quieter, almost ashamed, "Be thankful you don’t suffer through childbirth instead. It is... a painful thing. Long, too. At least this pain will be honorable and swift."

Blue's fingers tighten around the dress. "Okay. Do you mind if I change alone, please?"

Eloise bows her head. "Of course."

She casts one last gentle glance her way before shuffling out of the room, locking the door behind her and leaving Blue with only the dress and shoes. Once the door is closed, Blue quickly slips the dress on, shuddering as the cold fabric caresses her limbs. It’s more beautiful than anything she can remember ever wearing, and that disgusts her. Swallowing the churn in her stomach, she grabs the needles and sits back on the bed.

The wounds on her feet are shallow, her fingernails only able to pierce the thick skin slightly. Using the needles, she digs into them deeper, trembling from the pain that throbs as fresh blood begins to seep from the soles. She cuts and cuts furiously, teeth gritted, praying it’s enough to soak through the shoes she slips on over the new wounds. She covers the blood stains on the sheet with the blanket, then stands, almost crying out from the agony of walking on her torn feet.

"Please dad," she whispers, closing her eyes briefly, before calling to Eloise that she is ready.

"Is everything alright, miss? You've been in there for a while." "What are you doing with the female? It’s forbidden!" "A woman? Maman wouldn’t want you—" "Someone killed them! We need to fix this shit before Maman finds out anything." "The fucking prisoners!"

[foone]

All this Kurtzman/Section 31 stuff reminds me that not enough people have seen (or understood, I guess) Star Trek:Deep Space Nine.

Because it gets described as "it made the Federation a morally gray society instead of a utopia!" or "it fought back against Roddenberry's vision for the Federation and Star Trek!" and it's like... did you watch the same show?

DS9 didn't think the federation was any less of a utopia, than TNG or TOS or VOY, it said EVEN IN A UTOPIA, THERE WILL BE CHALLENGES, THERE WILL BE USURPERS, THERE WILL BE SNAKES IN THE GARDEN: THAT IS WHY WE MUST FIGHT!

Homefront/Paradise lost are about how even in a utopia, authoritarians will sell fear and get people to give up their freedoms. Fascists will burn the Reichstag to create a crisis they can exploit.

Doctor Bashir, I Presume showed that for a society without money, people still worry about success, and their legacy, and they'll do horrible things to their children to make sure they can be that legacy. And the episode CLEARLY DISAPPROVES OF THIS! The man responsible realizes the error of his ways and submits to punishment to save his son.

I don't want to list examples all day, I have other stuff to do, but DS9 very much didn't say "utopias aren't real, every so-called utopia has evil somewhere in the foundations", it said that utopias are something you have to fight to maintain. You can't take the easy answers, listen to the fascists promising safety, and avoid examining the faults of your society. Sorry. But the good news is that you can, you can win, and you aren't alone.

DS9 was aiming for more of a "realistic utopia" than other Treks, it's true, but despite that realism it still said a utopia was possible. It used that realism to show that a better world must still be fought for. And it warned against anyone selling easy solutions to those battles.

Because as has been pointed out recently, fascists don't sell eternal war and oppression to the in-group: they promise safety and power and belonging and prosperity. They're gonna oppress them to save us.

DS9 said those men are not to be trusted, and must be opposed. It won't be easy, there will be struggles, but they will be stopped. The world will get better. We can do this, together.

I don't know about you, but I find that more optimistic than if they hadn't, and just said The Federation is Perfect Forever.

[subshine-thoughts]

"It'll be fun," he said. "A relaxing day by the lake, making sure we soak up the summer sun. I'll even pack us a picnic."

So you went, because why wouldn't you? He's your childhood best friend, after all. Of course you trust him. And spending a day away from civilization sounds like just the thing to relieve your stress.

So you go, spending the drive to the lake laughing and listening to the joint playlist you two have been building for years. You're having such a good time that it doesn't occur to you how far out in the middle of nowhere this lake is.

The morning is perfect. You both read under the sun, camped out on an oversized blanket. When your stomach growls, he reaches inside the picnic basket and pulls out your favorite type of sandwich and a bottle of water.

You think it's thoughtful. He even thought to open up the cap on the bottle so you wouldn't have to struggle with it.

Everything is going fine, and you're about to suggest doing this again before summer ends when a sudden wave of sleepiness hits you.

Must be from the sun, you think tiredly as you lay back down and close your eyes.

"Tired already?" your friend asks teasingly.

You can barely manage to nod in response. Just so tired.

You drift off to the odd sensation of breath against your ear and your friend whispering, "Don't worry. I'm gonna take care of you."

When you come to, still drugged and only half-conscious, almost all your clothes are off. You feel wet in between your legs, and your nipples feel sensitive, like they do after you've played with them for a long time.

Your best friend is dragging his lips down your thigh. You try to reach for him, but your hand is too heavy.

You drift off again.

This time, you wake to the sensation of being filled. You're a little more aware now, but still too sleepy to put together a coherent thought.

All you know is you're fully naked now, laying on your back with your legs spread, and your best friend is slowly sliding in and out of you.

When you moan, a sound of confusion mixed with pleasure, he smiles down at you.

"I'm sorry, princess. I just couldn't help myself."

His voice pulls you back to a more wakeful state, and you realize with horror what's happening. You try to struggle, but you're still so weak. He pins you down easily and picks up the pace of his thrusts.

"No, don't do that. I know you want this. Can't you feel how wet you are for me? How perfectly I fit inside you?"

To prove his point, he pushes deep inside you and holds himself there. You whimper and shake your head. All those years of trust, broken in a single afternoon.

"It's okay. You'll see it soon enough."

You should kick, or cry, or do anything to get him to stop. You should scream, even though there's no one around for miles.

But all you do is lay there while he continues thrusting inside you.

He leans down and kisses you, and despite your fear and your hurt, you kiss him back. You spread your legs open more for him so he has even better access to you.

They're automatic actions, your body responding to the stimulation.

At least, that's what you tell yourself as he comes inside you and then flips you onto your stomach for another round.

And when he nudges your legs open, you let him, lifting your ass into the air so he'll have an easier time violating you.

[velvetvexations]

the way people talk about other trans people and our cis allies on here is just so horrendous

when i initially saw this discourse, i took the side of transgender radical feminists, because i have always been very critical of accusations against transfems. i have several transfem loved ones and i have been dedicated for years to making sure i unlearn transmisogynistic biases and am safe for my loved ones

i looked into these popular transfeminist blogs, specifically the ones ran by transfems, because i wanted to hear their stories. i was very taken aback by what felt to me like hatred and resentment towards transmascs. and i saw this type of stuff on the blogs of transgender radical feminists who AREN'T transfem, too

and i saw even more people talking about how awful cis people are, how cis people can never truly be our allies, how we need to separate ourselves from cis people

and i talked about this with one of my transfem friends. i talked to her about how i've found tumblr discourse and it feels like there is a portion of transfems online that hate transmascs. and i talked to her about it because i wanted to make sure i wasn't being transmisogynistic and having a knee-jerk reaction

and she told me that she doesn't hate transmascs. she told me that the things that were being said about transmascs WERE mean and hateful and cruel. she was very saddened, because these people on tumblr were sowing seeds of resentment between transfems and transmascs. she agreed that, while transfems face a unique subset of oppression in transmisogyny, transmascs also face a unique subset of oppression

all my other transfem loved ones also agreed. they said that no, i was not having a knee-jerk reaction, these were just genuinely cruel things to say about transmascs

i believe in anti-transmasculinity/transandrophobia/transmisandry/whatever you want to call it, because my transfem loved ones and i have diacussed it and they listened to me about my own oppression and agreed that there are unique ways in which we are all oppressed

i am not my transfem loved ones' greatest enemy. our cis loved ones are not our greatest enemies. transphobic cis people are our greatest enemies

i am the one who goes shopping with my transfem friends to find skirts that fit them. i am the one who teaches my transfem girlfriend about different types of bras. i am the one trying to help my transfem friend from america move to my country. my transfem friends are the ones who help me figure out mens' fashion and how to make my clothes fit me in a masculine way. our cis friends are the ones who treat us like people. not like freaks, or monsters, but like people.

transfems aren't my enemy. cis people aren't my enemy. transphobia and transmisogyny is my enemy

i can't understand why people don't love and appreciate our cis allies. after spending years being mocked and assaulted and abused by cis people for being trans, it's a breath of fresh air to see cis allies

like, with how popular it is to be transphobic nowadays, for a cis person to actively be our ally, they would have to be consciously monitoring their biases and actively doing their own research. they are ACTIVELY and CONSCIOUSLY making the CHOICE to stand with us. i love our cis allies so deeply

and i love my transfem sisters and nonbinary siblings, too. i have far more in common with transfems and nonbinary people than anyone else, even if i am a transmasc and transitioning in a different direction.

tumblr 'transfeminism' isn't helping my transfem loved ones. it isn't aiding them in any material way. letting them call me a theyfab does NOTHING to help them or to improve their lives. and THAT is why i hate this tumblr discourse. because these privileged pieces of shit are using the guise of transfeminism to be cruel to others, instead of materially helping other transfems like my loved ones

All very true anon. Thank you for sending in. <3

[cursedcola]

Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore (Here) | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: Putting all my brain rot from my notes into something cohesive. Contrary to my love for ripping your hearts out, I've come with some fluff this time around. BTW you may or may not already do things mentioned - I write my works with a specific Yuu in mind for each character so this is based on them. Just a reminder.

Habits you steal:

Posture (Inherited): You know that scene in every princess movie, where they're in training with books balanced atop their head? Walking in circles over and over to maintain perfect posture? Yeah. Just yeah. It's one of his more annoying habits, for sure.

"Any further and you will kiss the table. Right yourself this instant." <-If you so much as slouch like the gremlin he truly does love - he will straighten you himself.

Social Freedom (Inherited): You are....a wonderfully weird character. Even by Twisted Wonderland's standards. Vil loves bringing out the intricacies in people and blossoming them into perfection. His confidence oozes and bleeds. Which is why being near him makes doing the most spontaneous and crazy things easy. Especially when there's such fondness behind his 'scolding'. You won't be camera shy or just shy in general, that's for certain.

"I never thought fleeting liberty could be portrayed as elegant. Alas, I am still yet to be convinced otherwise - but it is a wonderful look on you. That was a compliment, my dear." <- Others look at Vil as someone without the ability to let loose. They're correct to an extent, yet it does come easier with you. The last person he expected such a thing from.

Healthy Eating (Inherited): Vil follows a strict dietary regimen - he won't subject you to it's itinerary to a T. However, he is going to give the snide eye if you don't get a side salad with that pizza. He'll often order on your behalf at eateries or when the team is taking meal orders on set. Never in an oppressive way, it's always things you like, but he is stubborn when it comes to nutritional gain. There lingers a deep rooted discomfort that you'll one day feel neglected in his absence. Even if Vil isn't home, expect those ready-made meal packages to be sent to the door. Vil is nothing if not attentive - that much is for certain.

Pagers and Beepers (Inherited): A bit old-school, but he carries one. Vil can't always drop everything to check on his phone. He also puts the addictive device away two hours before bed to ensure better sleep - what he does keep on at all times is a functioning pager. This is Vil's preferred communication device and he expects you to have it on your person at all times. Never miss a beep. Especially if he is out for long periods of time, or you're in a state he's fussing over (gods do NOT get sick. He will be an absolute mess).

*Bzz* 'Home Late. 10:00.' *Bzz* 'Come to studio. Wear Mask & Bring Downtime Material' *Bzz* 'Still Sick? Have You Eaten Yet?' *Bzz Bzz Bzz* 'Love you. Miss you.'

Skincare (Inherited): Vil's very pushy when it comes to personal care - Epel can 100% attest to this, and takes every chance to voice his grievances (when Vil is not near, of course. Somehow word always gets back though). While he runs a tight ship, he's very sweet and takes your preferences into consideration when making products.

"Come here. Ah...your cheeks are reddened. Sunburn is a very dangerous opponent this time of year. Tsk. I fault myself for not thinking ahead. You might survive the occasional visit in Scarabia, but the Shaftlands climate is unpredictable." <- Vil will gently graze your cheekbones, already thinking over what potency of sun cream he needs to make. Everyone is different, after all. He already makes your perfume, shampoo, lotions, and cosmetics all from scratch - although he does have a preference for when you wear notes of citrus. Bright scents and soft looks suit your character (and are reflective of the effect you have on him). Beauty is an art, and you are his most precious canvas.

Wet-Wipes (developed): Yes, he owns smudge-proof lipstick. Yes, he could choose to wear said lipstick...Vil does not, and thoroughly enjoys seeing whatever shade he picked out smeared on your cheeks or lips. It's a rare bit of selfishness to waste time re-applying it, but he gets a bit of pleasure watching you scrub frantically at it in the mirror. Especially on days you have somewhere to be.

"Ahaha...oh? That look on your face is worth a bit of extra effort. I cannot expect to be rewarded without putting in the work, after all." <- It's a rare bit of unnecessary selfishness on his end. To waste his carefully crafted products, just to watch you scrub his mark off in the mirror. Not too frantic otherwise it'll earn a scolding...but he gets a brief twisted pleasure from it. Especially on days you have somewhere to be.

Apologies(Developed): You...always have to initiate apologies. He's nothing sour or stubborn. Vil can admit his faults when exposed to constructive criticism, and he will work on them. Do not expect things like silent treatment to work, because he will not give in. He is stubbornly attentive, making sure your pettiness won't bleed into life. Makes sure you still share meals together, etc. He will NOT apologize first though.

Habits he steals:

Junk Food (Inherited): Just like he tries to heal your body, you'll try to heal his heart through soul food. It's a part of bonding, and contractual between partners. Is he really going to sit there empty handed while you gorge on candy hearts after a bad day? He better have at least one, or you won't tell him what's wrong. What about peanut butter and potato chip sandwiches?

"You truly are one stubborn creature. Is your stomach made of impenetrable steel?... *sigh* I will taste this concoction of yours, but never claim that I do not love you. If I break out in a rash then you will have far worse to fear beyond my potions" <- He'll be disgusted, but you insist he has to have at least one bite. Just for the cultural experience. If you drink his convoluted potions, then he needs to try your culinary concoctions. Secretly? It's a bit thrilling. You're so wonderfully novel that he can act out any role without thinking the character weird. He's got the biggest weirdo at home after all.

Paparazzi (Developed): Vil will take the blunt end of the media to keep you hidden. He has a private account for people close to him on all sites, and knows what tricks to use so images can't be reused. Like always wearing the same outfit when accompanying you to the gym. This way pictures can't be reused. As much as he encourages you to blossom from your shell, he's a cautious fellow. Not unfamiliar with how obsessive some fans can be. When you're alone, there's always a body guard. Yet unwilling to make you nervous, he arranges for a more...secretive approach.

" - and how was your outing today? Rook is exceedingly knowledgeable on the tourism in this town. I'm sorry we could not go shopping together, but you bought me a gift surely?...hah! I'm merely teasing. It's good to hear that you both had a fun time exploring" <- It's honestly just Rook. Always Rook until the end of time. He's the only one Vil would trust to either politely follow, or simply hang out with you. You're familiar with him, Vil knows there are no ulterior motives, and he's got a sharper eye than most.

Cuddling (Developed): It's scientifically proven that cuddling improves the quality of one's sleep, did ya know? Get in the bed. Now. Don't you want his affection? Hmph.

"Now, I know fully well that you have no intention to spend the night on the couch. I suggest you join me in the next five minutes, or I will take matters into my own hands."

Video Games (Inherited): Vil isn’t a stranger to them. Enjoys them from time to time but never too much because he’s so busy - but you introduced him to Dress to Impress and now he’s addicted. Not just that but he absolutely loves a good rpg. He does like to play with you - like in a co-op platformer, cozy game, or service - when able because it’s bonding time. Vil gets so invested in story lore and actively starts seeking roles in Live Action Adaptation films. Vil as Astarion when???

Thrifting (Inherited): There’s something magical about not knowing what you’re going to get. At first he was against it. You don't have to do that anymore, y'know. He can buy you new clothes if you need them. That is - until you take him through an upcycling market. Vil is used to his designer brands and high fashion - but when you’re able to see potential in something? Make it sparkle? He’s just a big slut for creativity, and I think he would love upcycling.

"My radiance touches all fronts - including my darling. How bold of you to insinuate anything but - No. How daring of you to suggest that adhering to anyone else's standards is worth my time." == Vil is happy to discuss your relationship if the topic is breeched politely during an interview. He isn't shy, neither does he approach anything with less than his best. That includes romance...but oh, hell hath no fury than a smitten Shoenheit scorned by an uncouth reporter. He can sense their attempts to doctor an interview for petty gossip a mile away. He is PROUD that you are learning from him, and views the changes you've brought to his life as improvements. Not lovelorn imperfections.

Habits You Steal

Locks (Developed): Rook is? Oh...okay, so your love's a bit of a prankster - or perhaps a thrill-seeker is more like it? He doesn't let life get too boring, that's for certain. Rook knows Ramshackle through and through. It's not uncommon to look out the window and see his feathered hat zip by in the woods, or through the garden. He does love playing his own version of 'where's waldo' - flickering about to and fro, weaving between the garden trellis and ducking behind trees. Just waiting for his amour to spot him from afar. He knows the layout too intimately - you fear. His habit of breaking and entering instills an anxiety over how unsecure Ramshackle truly is.

“BOO! Aha - desolé, mon coeur - I didn’t mean to startle you so. Consider this a lesson in spacial awareness! Mon dieu, there is a blatant gap in your dorm’s fencing just near the east! Wild beasts can break through and have you for supper. My poor heart will be shattered!” <- So yeah. He's all to happy to set up padlocks on the weak point windows, your fence, etc. He even encourages you to set up some traps yourself. It'll make those 'where's waldo' games more fun for him with new obstacles hehe.

The Nearest Exit (Inherited): Huntsman through and through - he's trained you well. You always sit by the nearest exit in class, closest to the door wherever you are.

Research (Inherited): While Rook is très passionné about fine arts, he's also fascinated with the unknowns in this world. What better club for the truly curious, than the science club? He adores bringing you in to join experiments, always questioning your perspective and letting you take the lead (when safe). It makes a routine procedure all the more interesting, watching what is familiar to him become novel through your eyes. It's like planting a rare seed for the first time, not knowing what will bloom. Akin to venturing within the barred sections of NRC's greenhouse, a thrilling adventure in the pursuit of knowledge. Alchemy becomes your best subject, you can recite the periodic table without need for mnemonics, and you breech the top five in your academic year. Crewel is thoroughly impressed. Good pup.

“Hm? Ah, how curious…there are 123 elements for study in this world, my dear assistant. Would you like to learn the song we teach young mages to memorize them? I will happily serenade you as we work. <- Yup. Twisted Wonderland has more elements than we do, since they’ve got magic resources. Sadly singing the Periodic Table Song won’t be useful. Well, it’s mostly useful still? Trey will actually kill you for teaching it to Rook though. Their mnemonic is much less fast paced and…less annoying. Yeah.

Fleurien (Inherited) : Is this truly shock to anyone? It's french in our world - so props if you already speak the language. Rook isn't fluent but he'd love to learn more. So ... either you use it more with him, or pick up a phrase or two here and there. It's scary as shit - by the way. Now Epel's got not one head popping up screeching "BONJOUR" but two. Don't get comfy because he's small - Rook might be quick enough to dodge a punch but you're one to many outbursts away from a broken nose.

Talking To Yourself (Developed) : Alright. Ace is officially convinced you're off your rocker and need to go visit the nurse. There's no way you know when Rook's skulking about - and if you did, why the heck are you talking to thin air? Just tell him to come out?...yeah, it's not uncommon to have a conversation with your 'boyfriend' when said man isn't visible to the naked eye. There are rumors you finally snapped, just so y'know. Rook physically had to go clear it up with Kalim before the sunshine child sent you on an all-paid tropical vacation to destress (Dammit Rook we were so close -)

“Mon cherie! You look positively radiant in the afternoon light! - ah. The answer is 27, adieu!” <- Call out any question on your Maths or Science homework to the barren sky, and an answer will sound from proximity unknown. The gods have answered your academic dilemma in the form of fleurian embellishments. No. Grim. You can’t just ask every problem - okay you might want to only do this when alone.

Compliments (Developed// Inherited) : Rook is a sweetheart. Maybe a bit of an acquired taste - but he always has something wonderful to say about everyone. No matter their faults...it's almost instinctual, the way you flip from boxed caution to returning his zeal with a genuine compliment. Each and every one. His reaction remains unique as well, he never grows accustomed to it. People groan at the 'shameless flirting' - only to blanch when Rook compliments them in turn, and you are so quick to back him up.

“Oh…mon amour, you never cease to surprise me.” <- Spoken with the most tender affection. Tips his hat to cover his blushing cheeks.

Habits he steals:

Surprises (Inherited): Rook often leaves little gifts and surprises for you to find - in a way he's testing himself, gauging your reactions and getting a spin of glee when you show him a new expression. A bouquet of fresh flowers (their meanings spelling a love letter), sweets from a far corner in the Shaftlands, poems hidden throughout your home in places he predicts you'll check, polaroids of sites across the Isle (urging you to find where for a surprise) etc. This actually started with you - knowing his love for the unknown, you wooed his heart by making little games for him. Not so much snooping into his affairs, but it was fun being under someone else's watchful eye. A bit clumsy but charming to have someone wanting to get the jump on him. Could he be considered prey, if he wanted to be caught?

Decor (Developed) : We've...we've all seen his bedroom, right? Now it isn't going to be the extent of Neige of Vil. Be this a concern or comfort to you? - it's subjective. He will preserve every little thing in regards to your relationship. That middle space above his bed? Cut a square right down the room's center, taking equal parts away from the Neige and Vil spitdown. Add some shelving, a few boxes under his bed and new linens...yup. Polaroids, mementos, paintings, love letters, mayhaps not a plush but if you consent to him having a tiny crochet doll or tsum of you then he will be thrilled. It's all there, right at the center of his organized chaos. He doesn't harbor the same feelings towards you as he does his idols, but that doesn't mean you're any less important.

Organization (Inherited): On that note, since Vil's your friend and the space can be a bit much? Rook will politely tone it down when you're over - flipping the posters and dolls if he's expecting a visit. It is wonderful that you accept his bonified fanboy behavior, but he concedes this much for your comfort.

“Ah…my limited edition Appleblossom-Vil sheets. I understand your discomfort my love, so I have graciously turned them into the perfect couch-cushion cover! Come and see how magnifique they match the drapes!” <-Again…compromise. You can’t even be put off with that level of creativity and excitement.

Freckles and Gloves (Developed): Stop. Covering. Your. Damn. Freckles !!!! This isn't about the hair. Believe it or not, his hair is cute and anyone who says otherwise can stfu because he likes it. If it's what he likes then it's what he likes. The freckles? You're slapping that damn bottle of concealer out of his hands. He'll wake up early to try and reapply it before you wake up. Nope. Nada. He cannot go preaching about the beauty of imperfections while still covering up what triggers the most extreme cute aggression known to man. You compliment every nick on his hands and forearms and wherever else, praise all the little freckles on his nose and cheeks until this man physically is sent to the moon and back from your passion.

“Aha! I am being assaulted by a ticklish foe! If my face is enough to elicit such sweetness from you, then I will certainly die the happiest man in this lifetime” <- He's never seen you so passionate about anything. it's enough to overwhelm him, in all honesty. Stops wearing the concealer most casual days, but won't concede his gloves. Might wear it on occasion to see if you notice (and get a bit of that fire in your eyes to come back).

Scrap Booking (Developed): Rook documents everything, why not keep a scrap book? You suggest the idea to him as a way to immortalize his findings without always needing some kind of trophy. Now he has a scrap book dedicated to literally everyone. Vil and Neige might have multiple…and at some point you have to wonder when it breeches scrap book criteria and just becomes a full detailing of his observations. It depends on how you feel about candid photos.

Newspaper Club (Inherited) : Oh yeah. Rook becomes an honorary member of the Newspaper club. He finds great thrill in trying to get those candid shots without being spotted by his targets <3. If he can help out his amour on his little escapades, then say no more. He's honored to be the only one allowed to use your ghost camera.

“Oh just look at that sunrise! It is the true embodiment of what our students stand for! To press through the darkness through tireless hours of study and labor - all to emerge in new dawn as promising mages! I must get the perfect shot for my darling’s club…non. A ground view will not do - to the skies!” <- He proceeds to break six rules, pilfer a broom from the Spelldrive team, get the photo and return to class without any evidence

-

“Oh mon dieu - how my heart soars! To be loved is to be seen, no? Ah, I could as for no greater compliment. Merci Beaucoup, mon amie!” == Others might make the comparison with scorn. Most find Rook’s mannerisms to be peculiar, some find him distasteful. He is merely an appreciator of beauty, and you are one of the most marvelous creatures he has ever set eyes on. In body and mind. It is an honor to be mimicked. To be loved is to be changed. If anyone holds a true appreciation for sharing habits, it is Rook Hunt. He detests others prying into his personal affairs…and yet, he finds himself willingly giving hints to you. Oho?

Habits you steal:

Dialect and Slang (Inherited) : The most obvious. You don’t spend hours upon hours with someone and not walk away without some of their lingo. Do you REALLY think he has the energy to maintain that primmed facade all the time? The moment it’s closed doors Epel lets loose like no one else on campus. The personality flip is insane. It’s like when you spend time in a foreign country and pick up a bit of their accent - but that southern drawl.

"I don' sound like that! Wait..." <- Slams his palm over Deuce's mouth when he and Ace were mimicking you who 'apparently' started to sound like a bumpkin. Doesn't help that Epel calls you a 'pumpkin' either....oh yeah, the teasing is relentless.

Survival (Inherited): Epel could get you off a stranded island with just a coconut, three sticks, and a rock. Not even exaggerating, he’s just that resourceful. Navigating through woodlands through any kind of weather, making deliveries across towns and encountering any spectacle the mind can trudge up? Yeah. Teaches a guy somethin’. He makes sure you don’t walk off the farm without a survival pack and even shows you how to tell time using the sky. If only he realized how attractive this sort of thing is.

Apples (Developed) : I sincerely hope you have a taste for apples and everything apple related. Epel will be carving away, picking the dud chunks with toothpicks and handing them off without a second thought. Who eats them? You. Also his family sends a care package at least once a month. Cider, pie, tarts, hell they somehow got apples in kugel? The others in your little possé help polish it off, but Epel’s family is so stoked that he has a partner. That Harveston event was a doozy, let me tell ya. A village full of elderly folks asking after you means you will never go hungry. Well…so long as you can survive on apples.

"You know...you kind of remind me of a McIntosh apple. Pretty sweet but also nice an' refreshing...a-ah? That was romantic? I was just thinking out loud but if you say so..."

Cold Tolerance (Developed) : Speaking of Harveston, did you know you got thirty-minutes? Oh yes, thirty minutes to run my friend. Just kidding. Don’t run. Not unless you want to see a sled coming at you in the distance at breakneck speed. Now that his family has a face to match their Epel’s sweetheart, you will always be expected to join him on trips home. They want pictures, updates, your measurements for new clothes and he better be sending notice so the guest room is made up. Epel will be sent right back to NRC if he ever comes back without you in tow. Congrats, you’ve been adopted. It’s chilly there but you get some hand-knitted mittens out of it. Epel is mortified but also so thankful he has someone to buffer the welcome-wagon with.

"Hey uhh...do you mind if we take a picture together? It's just for my mom's scrapbook. She's been asking for one 'a us together and I don' want to disappoint her....h-huh? What'ddya mean you already sent some?! When?!" <- You're writing to his family. Alright. He's totally not running through every embarrassing story his Meemaw or parents have in their arsenal...ah crap.

Cowboy Hat Rule (Developed) : One-hundred percent true across dimensions. You are NOT allowed to wear anyone else’s hat, ya got that? No one. Especially not no-one from the shaft-lands or the Savannah. Rook once offered you his brimmed-hat on a rainy day and Epel completely lost his mask for a moment. He quite literally yanked his jacket off and smothered your head with it, meeting Rook’s amused mirth with narrowed eyes. He didn’t care if Vil scolded him. That Hunt knew exactly what he was doing, ain’t Epel’s fault. Not this time, no way.

"A-a little water won't kill anyone! Let's just run for it!" <- Shoots a poorly-controlled glare as you both book-it to the nearest shelter. Rook's laughter was as boisterous as ever, always happy to push Epel's buttons.

Cat-Calls (Developed) : Assholes love to hit on Epel. The amount of times other students mistake him for a girl - man. Poor guy. It really peeves him off when it happens in front of you too. We’re talking veins popping out of his neck and red enough to rival Riddle on his worst days. What makes it worse is that you defend him. Ain’t it supposed to be the other way ‘round? On one hand he’s smug because you’re parading him like a prized trophy - hah! Look at that, ain’t he a catch? The high dies down a bit when the pursuer leaves. Then he gets sulky.

Heating Pack (Inherited) : Dear god farmlife is kicking your ass. Epel cackles and jokes at your suffering, but hauling those crates is no joke. Thank god he knows a remedy and lends you his heating pack every night. Some icy-hot on the joints, a foot bath for the ankles, and he might rub your shoulders if you ask nicely. He won’t admit to using the remedies himself, claiming they’re for his parents. He just wants to seem tough but you know better. Seven have mercy on your aching knees…there’s got to be a way to worm out of this.

There isn’t. You don’t work, you don’t eat. Haul ass dimension traveler.

"Howdy pumpkin, how're you holding up? Jeez, I warned you about lifting with your legs...nah, forget about it. Vil must be rubbing off on me with his scolding. Here's some hot chocolate to tide ya over until supper. Meemaw's got some herbal remedies lying around, want to give them a try?"

Habits he steals:

Thievery (Inherited): Goes in-hand with the care packages he's getting from home. Those are suppose to be FOR HIM, but you're sneaking all the good bits and leaving him with the barrels of apples. Get your own mail man...just kidding(-ish). He honestly is so glad to have some of the heat taken off his shoulders. Plus, you writing them means he gets a bit more freedom...but seriously. He has to keep stealing back the stuff you've pilfered. Sure he's getting an allowance, but c'mon. Half the stuff that gets sent are things from his room that he already owns, like clothes and his whittle knives...it was cool showing off his best stuff, until his parents sent over his baby album without saying nothing. He had to pry that out of your mitts and bury it under lock-and-key in his room.

"Son of a- Hey! The heck did I tell ya about stealin' my socks?! I know yous ain't that desperate! Go an' get et yer own already dammit!" <- Doesn't matter if he sends a letter back to his Meemaw, asking her to send some extra pairs of those fluffy slipper-socks. Maybe some stationary and a couple jars of jam that Grim'll just run through in a day. You're always fighting over stuff.

Delinquency (Inherited): You are literally Vil's worst enemy - undoing everything he's sought to instill. When Epel is with you, he reverts back to his most basic form. Aka. hunched over his carvings like a gremlin crescent, doing contortionist moves through the halls, sneaking cup-ramen at 2am just 'cause he's bored (Rook plays Hide 'n' Seek those nights, chasing ya through Pomefiore until you're back in Epel's room. Wanna eat? Gotta work for it) , and really the most unmannered bullshit possible. Spell Drive was his go-to outlet where he could get muddy and talk hot shit. Still is - what? You think the Savanaclaw students (70% of the team) are going to sit there and paint their nails? Nah, he's been initiated and all that. Had to show his muscle...but this is different. Vil's considered banning you from the dorm during important times like exams, parties, assemblies, etc. just to get some grounding. Doesn't work, since Epel will just sneak out. Riddle isn't the only one with crafty first-years looking to couch surf.

Malipulation (Inherited): Epel learns how you've managed to last this long in Twisted Wonderland with nothing but that pretty little brain under your belt. People are so quick to expect nothing from the Ramshackle prefect...and instead of proving them wrong, or getting heated? You let them think that way, because bad press was good press at NRC. Let them think you were a conniving, brown nosed kiss-ass who was getting it in with the dorm leaders. Let them think you were a walking sack of bad karma. Let them think whatever else - because those stereotypes are what's keeping you afloat.

"Ah - pardon me...I'll take that challenge on their behalf, if it's all right with you? Don't hold back on me now!.....ya pea-brained fucknugget." <- Epel twists this in his own way- aka. he starts using his pretty looks to his advantage. Let people think he's a weakling, so that when the time comes to prove himself he'll make a 180 change and give a big ol' can of whoopass. Your 'normie-ness' as Idia puts it, is your biggest weapon. Same for Epel's disarming visage.

Cologne (Developed): In an effort to be seen as more 'manly' in your eyes, Epel went down to the Isle shopping district and bought the most putrid smelling drugstore musk you can imagine. One whiff near-singed your nostril hairs off from how much he packed on...Vil did not approve, and gifted him a higher quality scent with notes of peppercorn and jasmine. You personally went and thanked Vil in secret - unable to tell Epel just how bad he smelled since he did it trying to impress you.

Lint Roller (Developed): Vil runs a tight ship - Epel's needs to get Grim's fur off of his uniform for every inspection or else he'll get his head chewed off. Especially if his dorm uniform gets dirtied.

Confidence (Developed): Stops masking his accent when with friends. Never had anyone cheering for him before. Like, really cheering for him. So you coming to his Spelldrive games is such a boost. Wears Ramshackle colors (bandanna and waist-flags) on his club uniform - Vil not mad bc Rook wouldn’t shut up about it being in the name of love -

"Woooo! Score! Blue must be my lucky color! Hahaha!" <- Epel always looks for you in the crowd. Luck isn't nothin' to do with it, but if wearing blue and white gets him playing better? The team isn't complaining.

Protective (Developed): Part insecurity, part him being a bit old-fashioned, part being sick of stereotypes against the underdog (aka. ya both), and part pure country-boy lovin'. He's not a raised gentleman like Riddle, doesn't know the ins and outs of 'romance' like Rook, honestly bro is fumbling half the time...but ain't no one seen Epel flair up like he does in your defense. No one can talk him down. On the protectiveness scale he would get 15/10, because there ain't many friends to make back at Harveston. Surely not anyone to love. He's got some good examples for how to treat a life-partner, and knows 13 different moves to dislocate different joints across the human body.

"Sure ya want ta go there, huh? Huh? Say that again to mah face. I'll put ya nose to the dirt so fast that filthy mouth'll o' yers will taste nothin' but soil fer weeks!" <- He'll do it too. His Meemaw trained him for more than just the Sledathon...nah, years of hauling crates built muscle. Back when he was still a first-year on the Spelldrive team, he'd get shit from his teammates while they 'tested' him. The worst mistake they made was coming for you though, even if it was a bit. Epel was full on ready to clobber a Cheetah-beastman twice his size, and if Jack hadn't stepped in...he probably would've, no mercy.

-

“That’s….that’s somethin’ else, ain’t it? Heh. Heheheh,” == Epel had to excuse himself to go giggle on his lonesome. Can’t have anyone see how happy that small comment just made him. You really love him that much? You respect him that much? He can’t begin to put two and two together - his heart was pounding like some lovesick ninny…oh. Oh hells. He is a lovesick ninny. Needless to say that Epel is absolutely riding a high for the rest of the day.

[thetruemasterofgames]

Okay I'm seeing confusion on this so let me help out to people who don't see the path chose.

Pedophilia, grooming, sexual abuse ect. is nearly universally hated it makes a knee jerk reactions of fear and hatred in most people.

In that reaction people act irrationally they will support a bill without fully reading understanding that it hurts predators and that's enough for them.

Next either hidden in addendum or in a seperate bill they sneak in a less publicized vote to consider expressions of same sex attraction or gender nonconformity to being "explicitly adult material".

Now you may be saying "ttmog it's been culturally adult material for generations what's the issue?" Well I'm glad you asked hypothetical questioner. The difference is it wasn't in legal documentation. The moment it becomes legal documentation it doesn't matter how defiant or polite you are it's seen as adult only material.

Now what does this do? Well it is illegal to distribute or expose adult material to minors. These bills would wager that by a child seeing two men kissing, or a amab in a dress, it is inherently exposing them to adult material. Which classifies the people observed as displaying adult material to a minor, which could be classified as grooming so now....:

We have a gay couple getting executed for displaying affection because a child happened to be present... despite the fact they see straight people do this every day on tv...

These bills are dangerous, they set dangerous precedent, and give means to change the word groomer to mean whatever the hell they want it to mean.

Leading to them being able to execute any group they want.

Be safe, be vigilant and keep fighting. These can not be let to lie we can NOT let them twist things.

Why am I telling all this? Well partially for your education maybe somebody will read this and be inspired to stand up in newfound clarity. But that's not the only reason. Those of you fighting need to be prepared to explain this. Because every time we just dismiss the people posting that "why are you saying it targets you" meme with that dumb goose it tells onlookers who are undecided that we can't answer the question.

Remember its not our goal to convince our opponent it's our goal to refute them well enough that onlookers won't be pulled into their den of propaganda.

Even if you think it won't convince the person you are arguing explain it so others don't get dragged down. And if you can't handle it? That's fine everyone needs a rest. Feel free to use this post as a way to explain if you wish or even tag me I have no qualms fighting bigots. I'm disabled I'm stuck at home and am working on making things for the family most the time. If I can use the times I need to rest my back to fight against stuff like that? Then I'm glad to just to make sure people are more safe.

Stay safe all drink yet water and remember you are loved and matter. You have a whole community behind you no matter what you aren't alone.

LGBT people, I need you to know that any “pedophile execution bill” passed in the US is meant to put you, personally, to death. When the right says “groomer,” they’re talking about you. When they say “predator,” they’re talking about you. When they say “pedophile,” they’re talking about you. Any actual child sex abusers who are convicted and executed would be, to them, a happy accident, a cherry on top of a law that’s meant to exterminate anyone who deviates from the cisgender, heterosexual norm.

[lov3darlings]

darlings thoughts, figureskater!reader (18+)

cw: jealous!lando, creampie, multiple orgasms, age gap (6 years), exhibitionism (ig), this is just a more of an expanded version of figureskater!reader. also do watch kamila valieva's bolero because i've referenced her signature spin (at the end of the program) and the start of the program.

lando norris is one hell of a jealous and possessive man. he hates seeing others looking at his beloved like they want to have a piece of her. as if they can, in his humble opinion some should be grateful to be even breathing the same air as his beloved.

he watched you talking to the reporter who was asking mundane questions. the report wasn't the problem, it was one of the mclaren reserve driver who was filling the seat while oscar was injured. he watched with such a gaze that only be described as lustful. the pleasant weather of Netherlands seemed off suddenly.

"hey lovie," lando warapped his arms around your waist, walking into the frame. "oh and we have lando norris here," the reporter laughed before wandering off to bother someone else.

"who?" you questioned. "i know you're jealous, you're gripping me too tight," you said. lando mumbled a quick apology and loosened his grip, moving both of you away from the pit lane. "i can't help it," he said, pressing you against the wall in his garage

"you're too pretty. why are you so pretty huh?" he said while prepping butterfly kisses all over your face as you giggled. "ahh you make me feel like such a bad boyfriend for being jealous. but how can i not be when everyone want my darling?" he squished your cheeks.

"lando norris and a bad boyfriend don't belong in the same sentence," you scrunched your nose. he smriked, feeling proud. if he knew the way to your cunt and your heart then you knew how to stroke his already huge ego and dick. "my smart and pretty girl. you're my favorite."

was the pda too much? in his opinion, it was enough for the cameras and fans to call him a sweet boyfriend. and enough of a signal for the reserve driver to back the fuck off.

he won the race with almost half a minute lead. his teammate was down in 19th, lando lapped him fucking twice.

if there's something that lando doesn't credit you enough for was your flexibility. despite being a professional figure skater, you were more flexible than an average skater. some demonstrations of your flexibility was your ability to do the heart pull move, move your arms to the back and conjoine them and bring it forward over your head. even your signature needle spin was tough to replicate. all in you current program, bolero.

lando groaned into your mouth. one hand on your face and the other roaming all over your body as he pressed you against his driver's room door. he leaned in again, kissing you harder. you could practically taste the washed away residue of champagne in his mouth. he stripped you down, moving your clothes aside.

he shoved his middle and ring finger into your needy cunt. you threw your head back with a moan as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. his fingers curling all in the right places. your hands reached to pull your darling boyfriend even closer, if possible. you were practically a puddle in the palm of his hands, spasming as he increased his speed.

was there a bed in his driver's room? obviously but where's the fun in fucking you that way. plus that bastard would hear it clearly anywhere lando fucked you because of how loud you were being.

"are you gonna come?" he hummed when your moans got louder making you nod pathetically. lando clearly instructed his team to not let anyone come near the driver's room. not that they had any stuff to do there as they were busy in wrapping up things.

he wanted his temporary team mate to hear it all. he wanted the other guy to know that only lando can make sounds out of you like that. sure, it makes him sound like a jealous bastard but how could he not be when some random guy has the audacity to look at his pretty girl so lustfully.

"oh my god," you gasped, cursing under your breathe as you came on his fingers. "you good princess?" lando asks placing gentle kisses on your face. "yeah," you whispered. "think you got a few more?" he leans down, placing tender kisses over your shoulder. lando starts fingering you again as soon he gets a positive sign from you.

he takes out two more orgasms out of you. "just a few more," he mutters as he goes down on his knees. lando laps up at your juices. he lets you be as loud as you wanted to.

"yeah baby be loud. let that fucker hear," he whispered against your clit. his tongue tracing his name on your cunt. your moans grew louder, louder, and louder. "oh gosh i'm gonna──" your words were cut short as you came all over his face. lando wipes you clean, letting you ride out your high.

he gets up, holding you by his own muscles and strengths. "you think you got a last one?" lando asks. you whine into his hold, too tired from the four orgasms. "please baby" he guides your hand to his clothed, hard cock. "feel this? It's just for you." you'd be cruel to deny your precious boyfriend this. plus you were still hungry for his cock. sure his fingers and tongue was great but nothing compared to his cock. "yeah," you nodded making him smile. "thankyou darling," he kissed your forehead.

you squealed when he lifted your leg and threw it over his shoulder, similar to your signature spin you do on ice. the hand on your waist moving to your inner thigh to hold you up. lando got his cock out of his sweatpants and sank it into your cunt making you both moan simultaneously. "that's it, fuck, that's a good girl," he mumbled into your neck, slowly rocking in you. "I'm going to show you how much I love you."

"don't close your eyes, baby. look at me," he orders when your eyes are about to close. "good girl," he praised when you look into his watercoloured eyes. "please mark me, i want everyone to know i'm yours." your words make him smirk. the older man wasted no time in do as you asked him to do.

lando faced you after he was done leaving hickeys on you collarbones. his fingers tipping your chin up, caressing your jaw and his thumb slowly parts your lips, dipping it into your mouth. "that pretty little mouth of yours," he humms. after it was wet enough, he trails his thumb, drowning in your saliva to your clit and starts toying with it making you moan louder. you felt the ache in your legs, not only because of the how good he was fucking you but also from the position he held you in.

despite being a sweet dom, lando surely was a tease. ghosting his lips against yours before pulling back with a smug smirk, making you chase him desperately. when your lips finally met it felt like pure bliss. lando chuckled, fucking you so good that that you were struggling to kiss him back.

your walls clenched against him, breath hitching with his every thrust. "i don’t— i don’t think i can last any longer, fuck, please—" you whimpered. "gonna cum? go ahead, cum all over me baby," he ordered. and you did just that, your cum splattering all over his dick. lando gave in a few thrusts, chasing his high before finishing inside of you.

he lets your leg down. "you did so good for me darling," he says as curled up into you. he rubbed your back, placing soft and tender kisses to your collarbones and face. he lifted your chin to make you look at him. "let's get you all cleaned up?" he hummed before placing small pecks on your lips.

lando quickly washed you up, helping you get dressed into the same clothes he stripped you out of. finally, getting out of his driver's room you still clung to his side. you were too busy talking about what you wanted to eat to notice lando swiftly unlocking his temporary team mates driver's room from the outside. letting the trapped man out. "sounds good honey," he replied when you said you wanted a cheesecake.

[kyunniebuns]

˗ˏˋ Entry : 059 - Lover! HSR Men x Fem! Reader: Period Cramps ♡ ˎˊ˗

꒰ Dan Heng, Aventurine, Caelus, Sunday ꒱

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝔻𝕒𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕟𝕘 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Dan Heng is actually a veteran in taking care of girls during their periods. Why? You have March 7th to thanks for that. His poor friend's cramps are hell so he stepped up to assist whenever he can if Himeko isn' present to soothe her.

So when it comes to you? It's no problem really, he even enjoys the fact that you're relying on him for this since it shows that you trust him entirely.

Does he track your period schedule? Definitely, he has a tracker installed in his phone that he always checks. Periods are tricky and he wants to know incase anything wrong comes your way.

A little overdevoted of him, but you're not complaining. Why would you?

He has everything prepared a week advanced before your period.

Heating pads? Check. Extra napkins? Check. Snacks? Check. Chocolates? Check. Medicine for cramps? Check. Plushies? Washed and ready.

"Is your stomach acting up? No?" Dan Heng asks as he secures the blanket over you after placing a heating pad on your belly.

"I hate being a girl..." You complain, curling up further beside him for comfort.

"I know, but just for a few more days, it'll be alright" He says, stroking your head lovingly. "How about a movie? There are a bunch of new movies I managed to download."

"Okay..."

You actually passed out halfways into the movie, which Dan heng of course predicted already since he had the lights in his room already turned off. He changed the heating pad on your stomach first before tucking himself back in.

"Goodnight," Dan heng mumbles, placing a peck on your forehead before pulling you in for a cuddle.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝔸𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕖 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

"There we go" Aventurine gently settles you down on the bed after placing an extra towel on it. "Is that better, love?"

You nod, cuddling the teddy bear he bought you just because you're on your monthly hell.

Your period week is strictly a no-gambling and no-business-trips time for Aventurine. Even if his bosses and the other stonehearts decide to bug him into doing stuff.

He values your happiness and comfort above all else, even work. So to hell with them if the ipc blows up out of nowhere during your menstruation. Aventurine will just throw a middle finger at them and laugh at their misery.

Aventurine was so dedicated he spent hours reading books about periods and even goes so far to research good napkin brands that wont make you itch.

He wants nothing more than the highest of qualities for his beloved who is going through a lot just because a woman's body decided to evolve suffering like this. he even has some doctors on stand by just incase anything goes wrong.

Of course, we can't forget his philanthropic side— this peacock man needs to spend his money on you even for the littlest things. You'll be having brand new jewelry, cosmetics and perfumes coming in rapid succession for you as well as a barrage of kisses to go along with it.

"My poor princess, are you sure you don't need anything else?" He asks, kissing each and every one of your fingers. "Should I order some shortcakes for you? Or should I call the doctor to check on you?"

"Vasha... I'm not bedridden..." You say.

"I know, but I would rather not risk anything happening bad, so if anything hurts too much you must tell me" Aventurine simply smiles.

"Your kisses are more than enough"

"Who am I to say no to that?"

And with that, he dives in to pepper your precious and pretty face with pecks.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ ℂ𝕒𝕖𝕝𝕦𝕤 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

"Okay, everything is settled" Caelus nods to himself after making a makeshift pillow fort in his bed for you to snuggle in.

The plushies he had ordered just arrived in time with your menstrual cycle. He made sure to ask March 7th about this just to be sure too. He can't screw this up—

Yeah, he's acting like he's about to go through something major or something. What an idiot.

Your lovable idiot atleast.

"Cae? I'm back" You say, walking out of the bathroom after changing your napkin. "???"

"Ah... Well" Your boyfriend sheepishly scrtaches the back of his head as you glance at the makeshift fort he managed to make during your time in the bathroom. "I figured I should make a fort so we could snuggle up more?... I don't know"

"You're cute" You laugh, kissing his cheek before crawling into the fort he made. "I like the fort, maybe you should keep it"

"I'll order more pillows and a canopy for my bed then" He grins before going in after you. "I'm not really good at taking care of you, my bad"

"It's fine, just you being with me is more than enough and I'd much rather cuddle with you" You wrap your arms affectionately around his waist. "Just be you as usual, that's more than enough."

"I should be the one comforting you" Caelus pouts, rubbing your cheeks together just so he can elicit a sweet giggle from your lips. "If there is is anything I can do, please just tell me what you need and I'll do my best"

"You're really like a puppy" You muse, kissing his cheek lovingly.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕒𝕪 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Just like Dan Heng, Sunday is a veteran at this. His mother died before his sister had her very first menstrual cycle. And although there were servants around to assist— he still took the initiative to help Robin himself because he was her brother.

The result of that? He's absolutely good at taking care of you during your period. Much like Dan Heng, he has a period tracker on his phone and prepares everything in advance the week before your period starts.

But of course, Sunday actually memorized your cycle dates, he just prefers to be more organized and to fouble(triple) check everything

It's much more important for him to be assured that eveything is ready.

"Not like that, you'll make your stomach hurt even more, dear" Sunday says, putting down the book he was reading and reaches out to rub firm but gentle circles around your tummy. "I know it's different for each woman, but this is the method I used on my sister when her cramps are bad. Is that better?"

"Yes..." You nod weakly, melting into his massages quickly. "You're really good at this"

"it's only because I took care of my baby sister a lot" Sunday replies, keeping his gentle pace to help ease your pain.

"Robin must miss you" You mumble.

"It's alright" He shook his head, smiling bitterly. "I miss her too, but one day we will reunite. But right now you're the main character. You need me since your cramps as especially bad during the first few days of your cycle."

"What did I even do to deserve you?" You whisper, slowly drifting off to sleep the further he massaged you.

Sunday wouldn't reply until you finally gave in to the call of sleep.

"I need you more than you need me" He finally says, replying to your unconcious state while pressing his lips on your forehead. "So let me do this, it's the least I can do since you never gave up on me"

꒰ 🪼 A/N: This one is a bad fic but I'm really deep in writer's block. I'll try to get it in my next one. For now please be patient with me qwq. I hope you guys understand huhu. I'll try to make more comprehensive and better fics:3 ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[cherry-coffees]

Marriage of Convenience!Caitlyn headcanons

marriage of convenience!Caitlyn who does not want to get married - much less to someone she doesn’t know or have feelings for. so when Cassandra introduces you to her for the first time, all she knows is that you’re from some noble house in Noxus and she resents you. It’s not your fault, she knows, but it’s so much easier to have someone to blame for her unhappiness.

marriage of convenience!Caitlyn who watches Cassandra talk to your mother in silent rage, who watches you smile politely and just go along with this. this just makes her resent you even more because why are you so okay with it?

marriage of convenience!Caitlyn who (very reluctantly) attends the ball in celebration of your engagement. no one know it’s arranged - everyone in Piltover thinks that a Piltovian and Noxian fell in love and oh how wonderful it is that these star-crossed lovers will bring peace and an alliance between the two regions! Caitlyn wants to scream the truth at them all until her lungs burn. but her mother would kill her, so she just stands there with a fake smile, blue gaze icy.

marriage of convenience!Caitlyn who eventually ducks out of the main ballroom and onto a secluded balcony, seeking some relief from the constant attention of the crowd, only to find that you’re already there. frustration runs through her veins, a scowl automatically gracing her sharp features because why can’t she just have a single moment alone? but her expression morphs into one of surprise when she takes in your posture: leaning against the balcony railing in your gown, your head low and your body almost crumpled — defeated.

Caitlyn can’t help but hesitate, straightening out her Commander uniform she had insisted upon wearing. She doesn’t know whether to intrude or leave you be. But, she supposes, you will be married soon. 

So she breaks the silence, stepping forward to lean on the railing beside you. “Why aren’t you in the ballroom?”

“Why aren’t you?” You counter, not bothering to meet her eyes. You stare ahead, looking out at all of Piltover all lit up at night. 

Caitlyn can’t stop the scoff that escapes her. “Too much attention for something I don’t want.”

You bob your head once, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Makes two of us.”

“Are you kidding?” Caitlyn’s eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing and turning her body to fully face you. “You seem to be quite content going along with everything your parents want.”

“Yeah, well,” you exhale, your breath coming out as a puff in the cold night air. Caitlyn notices this, gaze darting to the gooseflesh that prickles on your bare arms. “There’s nothing either of us can do about it. It’s better to go along and make the best of it. If I’m going to be married to you, I don’t want to hate each other.”

Caitlyn blinks, slightly taken aback. “I-“ she pauses, considering your words. “I don’t hate you.”

“Seems like it.”

“I don't,” she insists, and you finally turn your head so your eyes lock with hers. “Look-“ Caitlyn holds your gaze, a twinge of respect stirring within her. “If my parents had to marry me off to someone, I’m glad it’s you. I know we just met, but you’re very respectful, and you seem kind. I like that.” She hesitates again, eyes flicking down over your body for a split-second. “And you’re undeniably pretty.”

“Uh- thank you." You blink, wide-eyed at the unexpected compliment, a pink hue dusting your cheeks. You can't deny that being called pretty in that posh accent of hers makes you a little flustered. But you push past it, shaking your head to clear your mind and continuing. "You’re right: we don’t know each other. But since we’re getting married, I’d like to, if you’ll allow it.”

And for the first time since Cassandra broke the news to her about this marriage, Caitlyn lets herself give you a half-smile. “Yeah,” she nods, a hint of interest in her eyes. “I’d like that.”

I have loose plans to write a full fic of this so!!! Stay tuned and lmk if you have any ideas/things you'd like to see with this <333

Reminder that my asks are open!

[summertimesadnessirl]

Nobody offers me the things I need just stuff that is another burden where I am expected to thank them for it.

This is not a good feature.

It's actually not.

This is why we made rules and laws.

To stop some mob of creepy judgmental assholes from making it impossible to live because they don't like things you can't help for reasons tat aren't justified.

They used to just leave people to die.

Shunning.

They used to burn people at the stake.

They used to stone them.

Now they use social exclusion and gatekeeping resources.

You can be a socialist but you cannot make life into a popularity contest.

Clean water and Healthcare and all that stuff has to be an entitlement.

Not something you earn by squashing down as much of yourself as possible and going along with forcing others to do the same.

It has to be that everyone gets housing or we set the housing on fire, not that if everyone likes you enough you get 6 houses and you can convince other people to make people you don't like 40% more likely to be homeless.

It has to be that everyone gets clean water, even people who have a stupid ass religious belief that is personally intolerable to you, not that those people can go make an entire city of people who's skin color they think is cursed by god drink water with lead in it for years.

It has to be that everyone gets bodily autonomy, even people who use it to look weird or ugly.

This shit isn't fucking optional.

You cannot use "accept what you are given" as a fucking stick to beat people who don't want what you think they should want to death with.

i think "it takes a village" shouldn't be just "to raise a child". we should understand it takes a village to do literally everything we do. all day every day. without our communities we would not have drinking water or electricity or clean streets or food or shelter or anything. we cannot do any thing alone. we just can't. and with that comes the fact that you are not alone. you already have a community, seek to be an active part of it, you will feel better. reach out and thank them, they're happy to have you too. i promise. it takes a village to live.

[protect-namine]

YE6's butterfly effect. AKA: how did vein "die"?

I'm trying to puzzle out the butterfly effect in YE6, and here is my interpretation so far. if this theory is correct, it would also answer the question of who has the faking death ability and what exactly was liu xiao doing during the whole arc.

of course, feel free to correct me if I got this wrong. I could be missing some key information. I'm just writing this in an attempt to figure it out myself. also, this is gonna be a long post, sorry.

a lot of people are speculating that lu guang directly killed vein somehow through an ability, but I don't think that's what actually happened (although I wish that was the case). I also don't think the situation is as simple as "lu guang wanted vein dead" because I also think that liu xiao is interfering with the same events. there are two puppeteers in YE6, imho.

let's start with lu guang. for one thing, we know he can't directly kill vein with any of the abilities he has, since both scanning 12 hours of photo history and diving into the past require, well, a photo, which lu guang did not have. yingdu even stressed the rules of how both abilities work. if lu guang directly killed vein through ability use, this would imply he has another ability up his sleeve, and I really don't think we've been given enough evidence that points to that. if he always had this ability, why hasn't he used it before on vein in other timelines?

remember that yingdu has a lot of visual metaphors in its storytelling compared to other seasons. I believe lu guang caused the chain of events to happen in such a way that vein would die, but he was not the one to kill him, and that's why there's the animation of him orchestrating vein's death through wang qing, like a ventriloquist would control a puppet. in fact, I would go even further: lu guang and wang qing never got the chance to kill vein, although lu guang certainly thinks he did. we will circle back to this under the cut later, once we've built up the evidence to reach this conclusion.

another thing is the info we learned from an interview with director li. it is unfortunate, imo, that we had to learn this through an interview and not from the show itself (I feel this is yingdu's biggest writing flaw), but whatever. here are the key points to know though:

vein doesn't have an ability during yingdu arc

liu xiao has more than one ability (we know one of them already, which is interestingly enough, heartbeat related)

(not from the interview, but hinted in the show) someone has a "faking death" ability

before we go into the butterfly effect and how vein died, let's go over the details of his death:

from the autopsy report: vein's cause of death is myocardial infarction. aka a heart attack

xia fei later says there were no external injuries and no signs of poison

also, tiny detail, but vein was holding something like a tranquilizer gun in the clinic. the "bullets" he fired on both wang qing and cheng xiaoshi were meant to put them to sleep, not to kill them.

finally, let's lay out some character motivations. this will be important later.

liu xiao wants to get the notebook that belonged to cheng weimin. vein is working with him on this.

lu guang wants to avoid cheng xiaoshi's death node, and he plans to do it by killing vein

now, for the analysis. how did vein "die"?

let's establish something first. since xia fei doesn't know what happened to vein and is looking for the true culprit, we can rule out his involvement. he probably doesn't have the faking death ability, since it was used on vein. and vein doesn't have an ability. so the most likely person to have this ability would be liu xiao. he is also most likely the one to open the body bag with vein in it.

so we can now assume that liu xiao has two abilities:

he can sense someone's emotions and intentions through hearing their heartbeats

he can "fake death" (it is unclear how this works)

well. what an interesting combination! let's put a pin on that for now. remember this for later.

okay. now. let's switch over to lu guang. the big important question here is this: how did lu guang know that delaying vein from entering the clinic would lead to his death through a butterfly effect?

for full context, let's look at what lu guang says in his conversation with vein (I'm using ani-mi's translation, but I watched the bilibili one first and there aren't any drastic changes imo):

do you know the butterfly effect? in a dynamic system, event the smallest changes in initial conditions can lead to vastly different outcomes. I've been wondering, how do you alter a destined ending? what would happen if, before the conclusion, we added another fixed point? another unchangeable node? instead of avoiding deviations, why not let it deviate completely? I know I can't stop you. but I can make you stay a bit longer. now, you can go in.

two things here. first, the mention of an unchangeable node. aka a death node. lu guang for sure wanted vein to die. because if vein dies first, he can't kill cheng xiaoshi. simple logic; great plan.

next, from this speech, we can infer that lu guang planned to create a small change (a butterfly effect) that will lead to a big consequence (vein's death).

it's the second part that should clue us in. he said, "I can make you stay a bit longer. now, you can go in." he knows he can't stop vein from entering the clinic. but he can stall him. he can add a small bit of delay, long enough that it actually matters that vein went into the clinic later than usual.

lu guang knows the effect he wants (vein's death) so how does he know what event (stalling him) would cause the domino effect that leads to it? why does that small delay matter?

let's look at what that extra bit of time actually changed. by delaying vein, another important event happens: cheng xiaoshi has extra time with wang qing, long enough for him to meet his mom, shao yuanyuan. cheng xiaoshi then learns that shao yuanyuan is trying to save cheng weimin. he promises to wait for them and to stop investigating. it is after he makes this promise that vein enters.

we can now infer one more thing here: cheng xiaoshi did not meet his mom through wang qing in the original order of events. this event only happens because lu guang stalled vein.

most likely, in the original order of events, vein incapacitated wang qing too early for her to do anything to him. we don't know what her ability is, but it doesn't matter for this post. all we need to know is that lu guang believes wang qing could kill vein if she was never put to sleep. that is the point of stalling vein from entering the clinic early.

so here's part one of my theory. from lu guang's perspective, this is the plan to kill vein:

stall vein from entering the clinic

because vein entered late, wang qing was possessed by someone with better fighting abilities, allowing her to hold out during the fight

she is then freed from possession, and is still awake when vein tries to leave with the notebook

I don't think we have enough information to really explain what happens next, but what's supposed to happen, imo, is that wang qing kills vein, either through her own ability or someone else uses her to do it. it doesn't really matter how, but this is what is supposed to happen. this is what lu guang wanted to happen. for the sake of this post, we will assume wang qing has an ability to kill vein

vein dies, therefore he can't go to the time photo studio in the future to kill cheng xiaoshi

that's lu guang's butterfly effect. stall vein -> vein dies -> cheng xiaoshi lives.

simple? not quite. I did mention there's another person interfering with these events.

everything I mentioned above is from lu guang's perspective, and that this is what's supposed to happen. but let's look at the actual order of events.

wang qing wakes up (is freed from possession), notices the notebook on vein, and calls his name (interesting point: she knows his full chinese name). at this point, her eyes have NOT changed color yet.

vein gets a heart attack

only after that does wang qing's eyes change color

we know that changing eye colors is not diegetic, meaning this is more for the audience's benefit. their eyes don't really change color in-universe. sometimes they don't even show us eye colors changing. but when they do show us, we have to pay attention.

therefore, I believe that the timing of the shift in eye color matters.

so here's part two of my theory. liu xiao knew lu guang is going to interfere, so he already arranged a "fake death" for vein in advance (which he doesn't tell vein about lmao, but he seems to have figured it out when he gets the heart attack)

this is how, I believe, yingdu happened from liu xiao's perspective:

he wants cheng weimin's notebook. wang qing has it, but would never give it to him. but she might for cheng weimin's son

he baits cheng xiaoshi into going to bridon

he heard lu guang's heartbeat in the airport, which tipped him off that he's someone he should watch out for

he confirmed that cheng xiaoshi and lu guang are investigating cheng weimin

he assigns xia fei to keep an eye on their progress

he planned to use cheng xiaoshi to bait wang qing into giving up information about the notebook. this is why when xia fei told him that cheng xiaoshi was about to meet her, liu xiao reacts like this is the expected outcome

he assigns vein to get the notebook because wang qing is about to reveal the location. but he also knows that lu guang is kinda shady, so when lu guang stalls vein (and tells him! bro don't tell your plans to your victims! don't tell him you're trying to make a butterfly effect!), liu xiao either just knew this would happen or vein tipped him off before going in

now, notice that vein gets a heart attack before wang qing uses an ability (or is used, whatever) to kill vein. and what have we established before at the beginning of this post? liu xiao has a heartbeat related ability and can fake a death. we don't know the mechanics of the second ability, but we know that compatible abilities can combo with each other. it's not far-fetched to think that liu xiao can fake death with a heart attack

later, we see vein wake up after someone (most likely liu xiao) opens his body bag

so now who's fooled? the police arrives and even does an autopsy. they declare vein dead. lu guang is relieved, and for years he believes this. vein doesn't even visit the studio in 2021 (though li tianchen does, through liu min, but that's neither here nor there). he avoided a death node by creating another one. we can let him believe this lie for a little while...

TL;DR lu guang created a butterfly effect by stalling vein, and that creates a domino effect that should have led to vein's death. except he's not the only one interfering with the timeline. while this is happening, liu xiao orchestrates a fake death for vein before his supposed death actually happens, allowing him to act dead during the autopsy and "revive" later

[eldizzle69]

“To Disappear from here”

part one | two | three | four | five | six | seven

masterlist

including :: frostheim

Or…a collection of your last moments together, and what happens after your gone.

One week. One week until the one year anniversary of you coming to Darkwick Academy. There's also just one week until the day you turn into an anomaly fully.

You think you’ve accepted it, you think you’ve come to terms with changing. But looking back, it hurts to leave so much sooner than anticipated. And you wonder if there was anything you could have done to change things. What if you hadn’t been on that train? What if your favorite group hadn’t disbanded?

What if the others had done a little more to save you?

You don’t blame them, you try not to. This was just an unfortunate experience, and an unfortunate end for you.

It was complicated, the relationships you had built with the ghouls of this school. But it clearly wasn’t enough for them to want to try and little harder to save you.

So with the last week of your life, you spend it away from all of them, spending the time for yourself, writing letters and getting all the things you never got to say out of the way.

Laying down for the last time you close your eyes, knowing you’d never wake up as yourself again.

FROSTHEIM

—jin kamurai

your last moments together

“Don't be stupid," Jin said roughly, followed by a yawn. Fluffing up the couch pillows you rolled you eyes. that was a response you had seen coming from a mile away.

"I'm serious Jin, i can't wake you up anymore," you said hands resting on your hips, hoping to get your point across.

Jin didn't get up from his bed, instead he cracked on eye open to look at you disapprovingly. "Waking me up every morning was your idea, so I'd better see you here tomorrow too. That's an order." you stifled a laugh. had it been the old you, you might have been scared by his words, but not anymore.

Trudging over to his bed you plopped down besides him, nudging his arm with your head. "Get your shoes off my bed," he grumbled and you laugh. "Already took them off."

Silently, Jin wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into his side. Mumbling something about you being quiet he closed his eyes. But you couldn't sleep, you had been having sleeping problems for a while now. Your impending doom weighing too heavily on your shoulders for you to properly rest.

Maybe Jin's warmth would bring you some peace, maybe now you could actually close your eyes soundly.

after it’s all over

A groan escaped Jin’s lips. Opening his eyes he glanced down at the crumpled paper laying on his chest.

You were a fool.

Usually servants were obedient, not going where they weren’t given permission to go. So what made you so different? What made you think you could go off and die? He had long accepted it, he thought. He knew your time was limited, and he reminded himself of that time and time again as he felt himself grow more fond of you.

Lighting a cigarette Jin could only stare at the ceiling. There was dust on the curtains, and his bed needed to be made. So where were you? He asked himself even though he knew the answer.

He also knew there was more he could have done. There was wishful thinking that some of the other ghouls would help you, that he wouldn’t have to lift a finger. He wasn’t one to blame himself, but he acknowledged that he and the others were at fault. He had consciously chosen to not help you actively, he had chosen to let you die.

So why? Why were your final words to him so sweet? How could you leave him a letter filled with anything but hateful words? It pissed him off.

He wanted you to hate him, curse at him and wish horrible things upon him.

But you’d never do that, and your letter filled with sugary words made that clear. And your words would taunt him for just as long as your memory would.

—tohma ishibashi

your last moments together

A sigh left you as you plopped down in a heavy bench in Frostheim. Running around and doing various tasks for others seemed to take more out of you than you had anticipated for the day.

“You seem a bit overwhelmed,” said the familiar voice that seemed close by. Looking up you were met with the piercing eyes of Tohma. You gave a tired smile and only nodded. At his words, it finally settled in you body how tired you were. “Good health is a treasure, you do best to acknowledge this.” There was no bite in his words, instead there was a caring tone he rarely took.

Before you knew it he stood directly in front of you. “Please don’t overexert yourself. There are many people here who need you.”

That made you freeze. Because you wondered, what would they do without you? If they really did need you. But that was an easy thought to push aside. They had live before you were in their lives, and they would continue to live after you were gone.

Looking back up at Tohma you gave him a smile. “I’ll do my best,” you said simply.

“Come with me,” Tohma hummed turning around, expecting you to follow, “I’ll brew us some tea.”

after it’s all over

Lately, Thoma had been working late into the night. He spent many hours simply going through paperwork, running errands, and taking care of appearances in front of his dorm mates. Before he even knows it, night creeps up on him, engulfing the halls of frostheim. He also found a habit of looking up at the stars.

He used to laugh when people would say the stars were looking over them. But somehow he wonders if you had become one of those stars. If just maybe you had been looking down at him.

That’s what you had promised him after all. In your last letter to him you wrote about how you’d always be there, always watching. If the circumstances had been different he would have found it strange, but knowing what happened, how you ended up, it brought him some comfort.

Trudging out of his bathroom he sat on the bed and opened his bedside table. He took the letter out and gently flipped through it. Your last words ringing in his head. And they would continue to do so for a long time.

—kaito fuji

your last moments together

"God, please don't make me go on anymore missions..." He begged with a groan when he saw you getting close to him with a mission paper in hand. "Kaito," you called out sternly and he only shook his head.

"It's not like me being there is any help to anyone anyway..." He added on soon after to try and argue against you. Instead of your words, however, he was met with silence. Looking up, he was met with your tear eyes and mad face.

"(N-name)?!" He almost shouted in shock, "I'm sorry! I'll go! Please don't cry! there there...." He tried to sooth you but your expression never changed, you were mad at him.

"How could you say that about yourself?" you blubbered, "I hate when you say stuff like that!" Kaito froze, shock taking over his face as his own eyes watered.

"You’re so nice," he blubbered back, his own tears crowding his vision. And then there were no more words said between the two of you, only tears and hugging.

after it’s all over

Kaito's voice was hoarse and his eyes stung. He can't tell you how long he had been crying. Hours? yes. Day? yes. How many days? he couldn't tell you.

Not even his neighbors minded. Usually they'd come banging on his door telling him to be quiet. But they knew what had happened, he knew he was grieving.

Your letter to him was left on his desk, unopened and left there. He couldn’t bring himself to open it, what good things could you have to say to him? The one thing he did best was run away. He was a coward, he knew this, he could accept this. What he couldn’t understand was how you looked at him in such a good light. How could you think so much of him?

What he feared most was your disapproval. He was scared that your opinion would have changed. He greedily wanted you to keep thinking of him in a good light. He never wanted that to change.

So he couldn’t bring himself to read what you had wrote to him. He would keep crying in his ignorance, still believing that you thought highly of him.

—lucas errant

your last moments together

Peaceful moments were hard to come by in your day to day life. Missions after missions, ghouls after ghouls. There was very little time for you. So moments like these were treasured.

The wind blew through your hair, the sudden coldness making you shiver. “Are you cold?” Came the question from Luca, who looked at you with a concerned expression. “I’m alright,” you said before the two of you were engulfed in a comfortable silence. Your walk together being more calming than either of you had expected.

Glancing at Luca you saw him in deep thought, “penny for your thoughts?”

Luca only smiled and shook his head, “I was just thinking,” he began, stopping his walking.

“We have experienced many joys and sorrows together since becoming friends,” he spoke, tugging at your heart strings, “I’m very glad we met. I look forward to walking the road ahead with you.”

He said this all with a smile, but you couldn’t bring yourself to return it.

“(name)?” He questioned with a slight panic in his eyes, “did I upset you? I’m sorry—“

“You didn’t upset me,” you said softly in a shaky voice, realizing suddenly that you were crying. “Excuse me Luca,” you said before bringing the boy into a tight hug, which he returned after a moment of stiff stillness.

You couldn’t promise him you’d walk the road ahead with him. You couldn’t lie to him.

But you could forgive him.

after it’s all over

Luca had failed time and time again to protect the things close to him. It seemed to become a bad habit for him. Vaguely he wondered back to when you guys first met, and he wished he could go back. He wishes he could go back and fulfill his promise to protect you and cure you.

But now, as he’s sat in his room with his head buried in his hands. Thoughts raced through his head and suddenly he realized that, just like you that time, he had been crying. Moving the paper off his lap to protect it from his tears he silently let his tears fall.

He didn't even think he deserved to cry over you, but he couldn't help it. He had promised you he would help you return to normal, and here he was, without you.

And despite his mediocre efforts, you forgave him. In your last words to him you forgave him for not saving you. That brought him no comfort, instead it worsened the guilt eating away in his chest.

Once again, he had failed to protect what was dear to him.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Petard (Part I)

Few things are more wrong than "if you're not paying for the product, you're the product." Companies sell you out when they can, which is why John Deere tractor milks farmers for needless repair callouts and why your iPhone spies on you to provide data to Apple's surveillance advertising service:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

When a vendor abuses you, that's not punishment for you being a cheapskate and wanting to use services for free. Vendors who screw you over do so because they know they can get away with it, because you are locked in and can't shop elsewhere. The ultimate manifestation of this is, of course, prison-tech. A duopoly of private equity-backed prison-tech profiteers have convinced prisons and jails across America to get rid of calls, in-person visits, mail, parcels, libraries, and continuing ed, and replace them all with tablets that charge prisoners vastly more than people in the free world pay to access media and connect with the outside. Those prisoners are absolutely paying for the product – indeed, with the national average prison wage set at $0.53/hour, they're paying far more than anyone outside pays – and they are still the product.

Capitalists, after all, hate capitalism. For all the romantic odes to the "invisible hand" and all the bafflegab about "efficient market hypothesis," the actual goal of businesses is to make you an offer you literally can't refuse. Capitalists want monopolies, they want captive audiences. "Competition," as Peter Thiel famously wrote, "is for losers."

Few lock-in arrangements are harder to escape than the landlord-tenant relationship. Moving home is expensive, time-consuming, and can rip you away from your job, your kid's school, and your community. Landlords know it, which is why they conspire to rig rents through illegal price-fixing apps like Realpage:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/27/ai-conspiracies/#epistemological-collapse

And why they fill your home with Internet of Shit appliances that pick your pockets by requiring special, expensive consumables, and why they tack so many junk fees onto your monthly rent:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/01/housing-is-a-human-right/

Tenants aren't quite as locked in as prisoners, but corporations correctly understand that you can really fuck with a tenant over a long timescale without losing their business, and so they do.

Ironically, monopolists love each other. I guess if you loathe competition, a certain kind of cooperation comes naturally. That's why so many landlords have forged unholy alliances with internet service providers, who – famously – offer Americans the slowest speeds at the highest prices in the rich world, trail the world in infrastructure investment, and reap profits that put their global cousins in the shade.

Many's the apartment building that comes with a monopoly ISP that has a deal with your landlord. Landlords and ISPs call this "bulk billing" and swear that it reduces the cost of internet service for everyone. In reality, tenants who live under these arrangements have produced a deep, unassailable record proving that they pay more for worse broadband than the people next door who get to choose their ISPs. What's more, ISPs who offer "bulk billing" openly offer kickbacks to landlords who choose them over their rivals – in other words, even if you're paying for the product (your fucking home), you are still the product, sold to an evil telco.

Under Biden, the FCC banned the practice of ISPs paying kickbacks to landlords, over squeals and howls of protests from industry bodies like the National Multifamily Housing Council (NMHC), National Apartment Association (NAA), and Real Estate Technology and Transformation Center (RETTC). These landlord groups insisted – despite all the evidence to the contrary – that when your landlord gets to choose your ISP, they do so with your best interests at heart, getting you a stellar deal you couldn't get for yourself.

This week, Trump's FCC chair Brendan Carr – who voted for the ban on kickbacks – rescinded the rule, claiming that he was doing so to protect tenants. This is obvious bullshit, as is evidenced by the confetti-throwing announcements froom the NMHC, NAA and RETTC:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2025/01/fcc-chair-nixes-plan-to-boost-broadband-competition-in-apartment-buildings/

Reading Jon Brodkin's Ars Technica coverage of Carr's betrayal of millions of Americans, I was reminded of a short story I published in 2014: "Petard: A Tale of Just Desserts," which I wrote for Bruce Sterling's "12 Tomorrows" anthology from MIT Tech Review. It's a fun little sf story about this same bullshit, dedicated to the memory of Aaron Swartz:

https://mitpress.mit.edu/9780262535595/twelve-tomorrows-2014/

Realizing that there were people who were sounding the alarm about this more than a decade ago was a forceful reminder that Trumpism isn't exactly new. The idea that government should serve up the American people as an all-you-can-eat buffet for corporations that use tech to supercharge their predatory conduct has been with us for a hell of a long time. I've written a hell of a lot of science fiction about this, and sometimes this leads people to credit me with predictive powers. But if I predicted anything with my story "Radicalized," in which furious, grieving men murder the health industry execs who denied their loved ones coverage, I predicted the present, not the future:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

Likewise in my story "Unauthorized Bread," which "predicted" that landlords would use "smart" appliances to steal from their poorest, most vulnerable tenants:

https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/

It's not much of a "prediction" to simply write a story in which "Internet of Things" companies' sales literature is treated as a straightforward idea and writing about how it will all work.

The same goes for "Petard." The most "predictive" part of that story is the part where I take the human rights implications of internet connections seriously. Back then (and even today), there were and are plenty of Very Serious People who want you to know that internet service is a frivolity, a luxury, a distraction:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2010/10/04/small-change-malcolm-gladwell

They deride the idea that broadband is a human right, even after the pandemic's lesson that you depend on your internet connection for social connections, civic life, political engagement, education, health and employment:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/30/medtronic-stole-your-ventilator/#fiber-now

Writing sf about this stuff isn't predictive, but I like to think that it constitutes an effective rebuttal to the people who say that taking digital rights seriously is itself unserious. Given that, I got to thinking about "Petard," and how much I liked that little story from 2014.

So I've decided to serialize it, in four parts, starting today. If you're impatient to get the whole story, you can listen to my podcast of it, which I started in 2014, then stopped podcasting for four years (!) before finishing in 2018:

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_278

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_292

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_293

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_294_-_Petard_04

#

It's not that I wanted to make the elf cry. I'm not proud of the fact. But he was an elf for chrissakes. What was he doing manning — elfing — the customer service desk at the Termite Mound? The Termite Mound was a tough assignment — given MIT's legendary residency snafus, it was a sure thing that someone like me would be along every day to ruin his day.

"Come on," I said, "cut it out. Look, it's nothing personal."

He continued to weep, face buried dramatically in his long-fingered hands, pointed ears protruding from his fine, downy hair as it flopped over his ivory-pale forehead. Elves.

I could have backed down, gone back to my dorm and just forgiven the unforgivably stupid censorwall there, used my personal node for research or stuck to working in the lab. But I had paid for the full feed. I needed the full feed. I deserved the full feed. I was 18. I was a grownup, and the infantalizing, lurking censorwall offended my intellect and my emotions. I mean, seriously, fuck that noise.

"Would you stop?" I said. "Goddamnit, do your job."

The elf looked up from his wet hands and wiped his nose on his mottled raw suede sleeve. "I don't have to take this," he said. He pointed to a sign: "MIT RESIDENCY LLC OPERATES A ZERO-TOLERANCE POLICY TOWARD EMPLOYEE ABUSE. YOU CAN BE FINED UP TO $2000 AND/OR IMPRISONED FOR SIX MONTHS FOR ASSAULTING A CAMPUS RESIDENCE WORKER."

"I'm not abusing you," I said. "I'm just making my point. Forcefully."

He glared at me from behind a curtain of dandelion-fluff hair. "Abuse includes verbal abuse, raised voices, aggressive language and tone –"

I tuned him out. This was the part where I was supposed to say, "I know this isn't your fault, but –" and launch into a monologue explaining how his employer had totally hosed me by not delivering what they'd promised, and had further hosed him by putting him in a situation where he was the only one I could talk to about it, and he couldn't do anything about it. This little pantomime was a fixture of life in the world, the shrugs-all-round nostrum that we were supposed to substitute for anything getting better ever.

Like I said, though, fuck that noise. What is the point of being smart, 18 years old and unemployed if you aren't willing to do something about this kind of thing. Hell, the only reason I'd been let into MIT in the first place was that I was constitutionally incapable of playing out that little scene.

The elf had run down and was expecting me to do my bit. Instead, I said, "I bet you're in the Termite Mound, too, right?"

He got a kind of confused look. "That's PII," he said. "This office doesn't give out personally identifying information. It's in the privacy policy –" He tapped another sign posted by his service counter, one with much smaller type. I ignored it.

"I don't want someone else's PII. I want yours. Do you live in the residence? You must, right? Get a staff discount on your housing for working here, I bet." Elves were always cash-strapped. Surgery's not cheap, even if you're prepared to go to Cuba for it. I mean, you could get your elf-pals to try to do your ears for you, but only if you didn't care about getting a superbug or ending up with gnarly stumps sticking out of the side of your head. And forget getting a Nordic treatment without adult supervision, I mean, toot, toot, all aboard the cancer express. You had to be pretty insanely desperate to go elf without the help of a pro.

He looked stubborn. I mean, elf-stubborn, which is a kind of chibi version of stubborn that's hard to take seriously. I mean, seriously. "Look, of course you live in the Termite Mound. Whatever. The point is, we're all screwed by this stuff. You, me, them –" I gestured at the room full of people. They all been allocated a queue-position on entry to the waiting room and were killing time until they got their chance to come up to the Window of Eternal Disappointment in order to play out I Know This Isn't Your Fault But… before returning to their regularly scheduled duties as a meaningless grain of sand being ground down by the unimaginably gigantic machinery of MIT Residency LLC.

"Let's do something about it, all right? Right here, right now."

He gave me a look of elven haughtiness that he'd almost certainly practiced in the mirror. I waited for him to say something. He waited for me to wilt. Neither of us budged.

"I'm not kidding. The censorwall has a precisely calibrated dose of fail. It works just enough that it's worth using most of the time, and the amount of hassle and suck and fail you have to put up with when it gets in the way is still less than the pain you'd have to endure if you devoted your life to making it suck less. The economically rational course of action is to suck it up.

"What I propose is that we change the economics of this bullshit. If you're the Termite Mound's corporate masters, you get this much benefit out of the shitty censorwall; but we, the residents of the Termite Mound, pay a thousand times that in aggregate." I mimed the concentrated interests of the craven fools who'd installed the censorwall, making my hands into a fist-wrapped-in-a-fist, then exploding them like a hoberman-sphere to show our diffuse mutual interests, expanding to dwarf the censorware like Jupiter next to Io. "So here's what I propose: let's mound up all this diffuse interest, mobilize it, and aim it straight at the goons who put you in a job. You sit there all day and suffer through our abuse because all you're allowed to do is point at your stupid sign."

"How?" he said. I knew I had him.

#

Kickstarter? Hacker, please. Getting strangers to combine their finances so you can chase some entrepreneurial fantasy of changing the world by selling people stuff is an idea that was dead on arrival. If your little kickstarted business is successful enough to compete with the big, dumb titans, you'll end up being bought out or forced out or sold out, turning you into something indistinguishable from the incumbent businesses you set out to destroy. The problem isn't that the world has the wrong kind of sellers — it's that it has the wrong kind of buyers. Powerless, diffused, atomized, puny and insubstantial.

Turn buyers into sellers and they just end up getting sucked into the logic of fail: it's unreasonable to squander honest profits on making people happier than they need to be in order to get them to open their wallets. But once you get all the buyers together in a mass with a unified position, the sellers don't have any choice. Businesses will never spend a penny more than it takes to make a sale, so you have to change how many pennies it takes to complete the sale.

Back when I was fourteen, it took me ten days to hack together my first Fight the Power site. On the last day of the fall term, Ashcroft High announced that catering was being turned over to Atos Catering. Atos had won the contract to run the caf at my middle school in my last year there, every one of us lost five kilos by graduation. The French are supposed to be good at cooking, but the slop Atos served wasn't even food. I'm pretty sure that after the first week they just switched to filling the steamer trays with latex replicas of grey, inedible glorp. Seeing as how no one was eating it, there was no reason to cook up a fresh batch every day.

The announcement came at the end of the last Friday before Christmas break, chiming across all our personal drops with a combined bong that arrived an instant before the bell rang. The collective groan was loud enough to drown out the closing bell. It didn't stop, either, but grew in volume as we filtered into the hall and out of the building into the icy teeth of Chicago's first big freeze of the season.

Junior high students aren't allowed off campus at lunchtime, but high school students — even freshmen — can go where they please so long as they're back by the third period bell. That's where Fight the Power came in.

WE THE UNDERSIGNED PLEDGE

TO BOYCOTT THE ASHCROFT HIGH CAFETERIA WHILE ATOS HAS THE CONTRACT TO SUPPLY IT

TO BUY AT LEAST FOUR LUNCHES EVERY WEEK FROM THE FOLLOWING FOOD TRUCKS [CHECK AT LEAST ONE]:

This was tricky. It's not like there were a lot of food trucks driving out of the loop to hit Joliet for the lunch rush. But I wrote a crawler that went through the review sites, found businesses with more than one food truck, munged the menus and set out the intersection as an eye-pleasing infographic showing the appetizing potential of getting your chow outside of the world of the corrupt no-bid edu-corporate complex.

By New Year's Day, 98 percent of the student body had signed up. By January third, I had all four of the food-trucks I'd listed lined up to show up on Monday morning.

Turns out, Ashcroft High and Atos had a funny kind of deal. Ashcroft High guaranteed a minimum level of revenue to Atos, and Atos guaranteed a maximum level to Ashcroft High. So, in theory, if a hundred percent of the student body bought a cafeteria lunch, about twenty percent of that money would be kicked back to Ashcroft High. They later claimed that this was all earmarked to subsidize the lunches of poor kids, but no one could ever point to anything in writing where they'd committed to this, as our Freedom of Information Act requests eventually proved.

In return for the kickback, the school had promised to ensure that Atos could always turn a profit. If not enough of us ate in the caf, the school would have to give Atos the money it would have made if we had. In other words: our choice to eat a good lunch wasn't just costing the school its expected share of Atos's profits — it was having to dig money out of its budget to make up for our commitment to culinary excellence.

They tried everything. Got the street in front of the school designated a no-food-trucks zone (we petitioned the City of Joliet to permit parking on the next street over). Shortened the lunch-break (we set up a Web-based pre-order service that let us pick and pre-pay for our food). Banned freshmen from leaving school property (we were saved by the PTA). Suspended me for violating the school's social media policy (the ACLU wrote them a blood-curdling nastygram, and raised nearly $30,000 in donations of $3 or less from students around the world once word got out).

Atos wouldn't let them re-negotiate the contract, either. If Ashcroft High wanted out, it would have to buy it's way out. That's when I convinced the vice-principal to let me work with the AP Computer Science class to build out a flexible, open version of Fight the Power that anyone could install and run for their own student bodies, providing documentation and support. That was just before Spring Break. By May 1, there were 87 schools whose students used Ftp to organize Atos alternative food-trucks for their own cafeterias.

Suddenly, this was news. Not just local news, either. Global. Atos had to post an earnings warning in their quarterly report. Suddenly, we had Bloomberg and Al Jazeera Business camera crews buttonholing Ashcroft High kids on their way to the lunch-trucks. Whenever they grabbed me, I would give them this little canned speech about how Atos couldn't supply decent food and were taking money out of our educational budgets rather than facing the fact that the children they were supposed to be feeding hated their slop so much that they staged a mass walkout. It played well with kids in other schools, and very badly with Atos's shareholders. But I'll give this to Atos: I couldn't have asked for a better Evil Empire to play Jedi against. They threatened to sue me — for defamation! — which made the whole thing news again. Stupidly, they sued me in Illinois, which has a great anti-SLAPP law, and was a massive technical blunder. The company's US headquarters were in Clearwater, Florida, and Florida is a trainwreck in every possible sense, including its SLAPP laws. If they'd sued me in their home turf, I'd have gone bankrupt before I could win.

They lost. The ACLU collected $102,000 in fees from them. The story of the victory was above the fold on Le Monde's site for a week. Turns out that French people loathe Atos even more than the rest of us, because they've had longer to sharpen their hate.

Long story slightly short: we won. Atos "voluntarily" released our school from its contract. And Fight the Power went mental. I spent that summer vacation reviewing Github commits on Ftp, as more and more people discovered that they could make use of a platform that made fighting back stupid simple. The big stupid companies were whales and we were their krill, and all it took was some glue to glom us all together into boulders of indigestible matter that could choke them to death.

I dropped out of Ashcroft High in the middle of the 11th grade and did the rest of my time with homeschooling shovelware that taught me exactly what I needed to pass the GED and not one tiny thing more. I didn't give a shit. I was working full time on Ftp, craiglisting rides to to hacker unconferences where I couchsurfed and spoke, giving my poor parental units eight kinds of horror. It would've been simpler if I'd taken donations for Ftp, because Mom and Dad quickly came to understand that their role as banker in our little family ARG gave them the power to yank me home any time I moved out of their comfort zone. But there was the balance of terror there, because they totally knew that if I had accepted donations for the project, I'd have been financially independent in a heartbeat.

Plus, you know, they were proud of me. Ftp makes a difference. It's not a household name or anything, but more than a million people have signed up for Ftp campaigns since I started it, and our success rate is hovering around 25 percent. That means that I'd changed a quarter-million lives for the better (at least) before I turned 18. Mom and Dad, they loved that (which is not to say that they didn't need the occasional reminder of it). And shit, it got me a scholarship at MIT. So there's that.

#

Network filters are universally loathed. Duh. No one's ever written a regular expression that can distinguish art from porn and no one ever will. No one's ever assembled an army of prudes large enough to hand-sort the Internet into "good" and "bad" buckets. No one ever will. The Web's got 100-odd billion pages on it; if you have a failure rate of one tenth of one percent, you'll overblock (or underblock) (or both) 100,000,000 pages. That's several Library of Congress's worth of pointless censorship — or all the porn ever made, times ten, missed though underfiltering. You'd be an idiot to even try.

Idiot like a fox! If you don't care about filtering out "the bad stuff" (whatever that is), censorware is a great business to be in. The point of most network filters is the "security syllogism":

SOMETHING MUST BE DONE.

I HAVE DONE SOMETHING.

SOMETHING HAS BEEN DONE.

VICTORY!

Hand-wringing parents don't want their precious offspring looking at weiners and hoo-hahs when they're supposed to be amassing student debt, so they demand that the Termite Mound fix the problem by Doing Something. The Termite Mound dispenses cash to some censorware creeps in a carefully titrated dose that is exactly sufficient to demonstrate Something Has Been Doneness to a notional weiner-enraged parent. Since all the other dorms, schools, offices, libraries, airports, bus depots, train stations, cafes, hotels, bars, and theme parks in the world are doing exactly the same thing, each one can declare itself to be in possession of Best Practices when there is an unwanted hoo-hah eruption, and culpability diffuses to a level that is safe for corporate governance and profitability. #MissionAccomplished.

And so the whole world suffers under this pestilence. Millions of times every day — right at this moment — people are swearing at their computers: What. The. Fuck. Censorware's indifference to those minute moments of suffering is only possible because they've never been balled up into a vast screaming meteor of rage.

#

"Hey there, hi! Look, I'm here because I need unfiltered Internet access to get through my degree. So do you all, right? But the Termite Mound isn't going to turn it off because that would be like saying 'Here kids, have a look at this porn,' which they can't afford to say, even though, seriously, who gives a shit, right?"

I had them at 'porn," but now I had to keep them.

"Look at your tenancy agreement: you're paying twenty seven bucks a month for your network access at the Termite Mound. Twenty seven bucks — each! I'll find us an ISP that can give all of us hot and cold running genitals and all the unsavory religious extremism, online gaming, and suicide instructions we can eat. Either I'm going to make the Termite Mound give us the Internet we deserve, or we'll cost it one of its biggest cash-cows and humiliate it on the world stage.

"I don't want your money. All I want is for you to promise me that if I can get us Internet from someone who isn't a censoring sack of shit, that you'll come with me. I'm going to sign up every poor bastard in the Termite Mound, take that promise to someone who isn't afraid to work hard to earn a dollar, and punish the Termite Mound for treating us like this. And then, I'm going to make a loud noise about what we've done, and spread the word to every other residence in Cambridge, then Boston, then across America. I'm going to spread out to airports, hotels, train stations, buses, taxis — any place where they make it their business to decide what data we're allowed to see."

I whirled around to face the elf, who leapt back, long fingers flying to his face in an elaborate mime of startlement. "Are you with me, pal?"

He nodded slightly.

"Come on," I said. "Let 'em hear you."

He raised one arm over his head, bits of rabbit fur and uncured hides dangling from his skinny wrist. I felt for him. I think we all did. Elves.

He was a convincer, though. By the time I left the room, I already had 29 signups.

#

All evil in the world is the result of an imbalance between the people who benefit from shenanigans and the people who get screwed by shenanigans. De-shenaniganifying the world is the answer to pollution and poverty and bad schools and the war on some drugs and a million other horribles. To solve all the world's problems, I need kick-ass raw feeds and a steady supply of doofus thugs from central casting to make idiots of. I know where I can find plenty of the latter, and I'm damn sure going to get the former. Watch me.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/30/landlord-telco-industrial-complex/#captive-market

[theweewooshow]

the truth is i can't say goodbye

@bucktommywinterfest prompt: accidental texts | rated: M

God I know I'm a broken fucking record, but I'm baking again so I don’t text him. I’ll bring by some more scones later.

Buck shoots the text off to Eddie because he’s feeling pathetic and lonely and he’s been wallowing and baking all day again instead of doing his laundry like he’s supposed to and everything feels overwhelming even though it shouldn't.

Eddie doesn't text back and his phone doesn't vibrate for a long while so Buck just closes his eyes and grits his teeth.

It really shouldn't be this hard, right?

He’s gotten over people before.

He held onto Abby even when she was gone, but that was so murky and he was still living at her place, thinking they were still going to be together when she got back. But when he realized it was over, he moved on. He left her place and tried to leave most of the baggage and emotion he felt for her there.

And yeah, he didn't get real closure for a while, but he was over her probably before he ever left that note for her in her apartment. He didn't think about her much after he left her place because there wasn't anything to think about. He’d done his mourning of that relationship while he was waiting for her. So when he was out of her place, there wasn't anything left to think about.

That’s the most comparable relationship he has to Tommy so he doesn't know why he can't get his brain to catch up with the facts. It's over. It's done. So he should move on and Tommy should stop taking up so much real estate in his mind.

But it's easier said than done. Because he thinks about Tommy all the time. He wants to talk to him all the time.

There’s so much of him everywhere he looks.

He sees the blanket Tommy used to wrap himself up when he slept on his uncomfortable couch so he could be steps away in case Buck needed him when he dislocated his shoulder.

His ghost is in Buck’s kitchen, puttering around, trying to find a spoon to taste the sauce he cooked the first time he made Buck dinner.

Tommy’s side of the bed is empty when he gets into bed every night. The pillow on that side of the bed has lost the scent of Tommy’s shampoo.

There’s a memory of him in Buck’s shower—on his knees, hands and mouth worshiping him—that Buck can't get out of his head when he showers, his dick stubbornly hard even though he refuses to jerk himself off to the memory of Tommy.

The second coffee mug Buck pulled out before his brain woke up the morning after he was dumped that he hasn't been able to bring himself to put away sits empty on his counter, mocking him, every single morning.

Beyond that, Tommy’s ghost is at Eddie’s house and at the station and in his Jeep and at the fucking grocery store, so everywhere Buck goes, he can’t help but think about him, can't help but want to text him every little thing like he did when they were still together.

And when he thinks about him, he pines, according to Eddie. And when he thinks about texting him or calling him, he bakes just to give himself something to do with his hands that isn't scrolling through their text thread and pouting.

No matter what he does, he can't get him out of his head though.

He unlocks his phone to call Eddie to complain out loud since he won't validate him over text, but when he sees the name at the top of the screen, his heart stops.

Because he didn't send that text about Tommy to Eddie.

He sent it to Tommy, whose text thread he was looking at earlier before he sent off that embarrassing text.

He swallows, but it feels like his heart is stuck in his throat because Tommy’s bubbling him again. Tommy’s seen the text and he’s bubbling him.

Buck looks at the screen in abject horror as he watches the bubble disappear and reappear, wondering what Tommy’s thinking right now, if he’s thinking that Buck is kind of pathetic to still be thinking about him over a month after he broke up with him.

He sets his phone down and drops his head into his hands because he can't believe this is his life.

He’s contemplating how difficult it would be to just mysteriously disappear when his phone pings with a message and his heart stops again.

He already knows whose name he’s going to see when he looks down at his phone, but he still feels oddly taken aback seeing the message notification that says he has a text from Tommy ❤️.

He unlocks his phone and the message reads: I know this text was meant for someone else, but can I still have a scone?

Buck jumps up and rushes over to his fridge to take a picture of the loaves he baked over the weekend. He sends the picture along with the message You can have whatever you want.

Maybe it’s a little on the nose, a little too close to how he feels about everything with him, but it somehow works because Tommy texts him back right away.

I wouldn't say no to banana bread or some scones

Before Buck can even think of responding, the bubble is popping up again, letting him know Tommy’s typing again. He holds his breath as he waits for the text to appear. Tommy doesn't make him wait long.

If you wanted to drop it off at my place, I’d let you in so you can tell me all about what you’ve been wanting to text me.

With his heart pounding in his chest for an entirely different reason from when he first realized he accidentally texted Tommy, Buck’s fingers clumsily type out his message.

When are you free?

drop a kudos or comment on ao3

[isa-ghost]

I'm fucking insane over The Realm Veteransduo.

If they really are both q!Phil and q!Fit respectively, they're coping SO BADLY with the loss of their kids. They've made multiple references to QSMP and such, but I know Phil isn't rping intentionally. I have no idea if Fit has confirmed anything on his end.

Phil is keeping everyone at arm's length, even the two people (Sneeg and Fit) he has explicitly said he trusts and clearly enjoys the company of. Even to the point of snapping at them and wishing even they'd leave him alone sometimes.

He doesn't want any attachments or investments. No faction alignment, no snail or pets, leave him alone. Attachments can be used against him, to bribe or blackmail him, to hurt him.

He's still grieving the loss of Chayanne and Lullah, he doesn't want ANYTHING to remind him of them and the pain that comes with those memories.

He's been trained between DSMP and QSMP to expect attachments and anyone/anything he cares about to be weaponized and used against him in one way or another, or ripped away from him in the end. He CANNOT go through it again, he's sick of it. It's slowly driving him insane and he's at a breaking point right now.

And despite wanting nothing more than to be left alone so nothing can hurt him or be used against him, he can BARELY tolerate actual isolation right now after spending that time on QSMP almost never being alone. The thing he wants most is the very thing he can't actually stand at the moment. And this is why he's begrudgingly made exceptions, allowing Sneeg and Fit to hang around him.

And Fit...

He's homeless, addicted to redstone, he's going about things the same as Phil, but he's a little more emotionally better off than Phil. He didn't let going from being accustomed to isolation in 2B2T to constant company on Quesadilla Island and then back to isolation eat him alive, at least not the same way as it has Phil.

He's aligned himself with a faction but not out of genuine allyship, he's doing it for his own benefit, true to someone of his origin. In 2B2T you do what you gotta do to survive, including use people. He's basically on the same page as Phil, but instead of shoving everyone away to avoid being hurt again, he's lurking in their periphery so he doesn't have to get his hands dirty himself to get by.

[shadowmaat]

This is all good information to consider, and the perspective of fostering as opposed to adopting would be a good one to explore more in depth.

While I agree that Din's role was "take care of the kid til I find the right people to raise him," and that this shares a lot in common with fostering, it obviously isn't a traditional set-up. There's no Agency to act as a middleman. No Agency to keep track of records and information. There's just Din.

And that's why I think the handover scene fell apart. Sure, from a cinematic perspective it's all cool and mysterious and brief. Luke swoops in, saves the day, and takes the kid.

But from a realism perspective I think exchanging names and comm codes would be the very least they could do. Even if Din fully plans on never seeing Grogu again. Even if Luke intends to raise and train Grogu in the ways of the Jedi. There are still likely to be questions Luke might need to ask. Does Grogu have any allergies? What's his vaccination status? He's telling me you let him eat five frogs for dessert, and he's so convinced of this I can't tell if he's lying. Is he?

Sure, Luke can get some information direct from Grogu, but he's limited both by what Grogu knows and what Grogu believes. Having another perspective would be useful.

Also, just because a kid gets adopted or goes back to their "real" family doesn't mean the foster parent has to sever all contact forever. That's something that usually gets worked out between the parties. By talking.

It was blatantly obvious that Din and Grogu shared a bond. The least Luke could have done was toss out a breadcrumb. Or explain why he didn't want to maintain contact. Telling Din (and Grogu) that Grogu needs to concentrate on his studies and can't afford any distractions would be a good one. Warning them that their bond is in danger of becoming a threat to them both and everyone around them (as evidenced by Grogu's misguided attempt to strangle Cara) would be great, too, and would emphasize the need for a permanent separation.

Otherwise I don't see the point of implying they'll never be allowed to see each other again. I could get behind a moratorium of, say, a year, to allow Luke to work with Grogu to strengthen his shielding and skills and so forth so that he'll know how to control himself, his emotions, and his bond with Din so that there won't be any danger in a visit/return. But permanent? Why? Canon Jedi lore is a bit of a nightmare to try and parse, but given that Jedi were allowed to go "home" to learn more of their culture, I think there's at least some wiggle room. It could also vary from person to person, rather than being a Temple-wide mandate. Not that it should matter since Luke is doing his own thing and isn't bound by whatever came before.

Anyway! I don't believe Luke "stole" Grogu. That's Sith propaganda right there. I do, however, think things could have been handled better. Even if TPTB hadn't handled it in the moment (and thus ruined all the dramatic tension), there could have been a filler scene showing Din and Luke (or more likely Din and Ahsoka) setting up some ground rules and going over some of the basics of the Care and Feeding of a Tiny Chaos Gremlin.

Favreau really said that Luke Fucking Skywalker is a baby snatcher. The ONE GUY who has never given a single blessed fuck about the jedi attachment rules. He would STEAL A BABY without bothering to leave a name or number to keep in touch with the baby’s dad.