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inthehouseoffinwe · 13 days ago

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Aite, female character and general inclusivity rant incoming. Hate it and want to make a post? Sure. But give me the respect I gave those who inspired this and don’t tag me in it:

People immediately bringing the ‘female character’ argument into things drives me insane. Like we know she’s a female character, but trust me, that’s got very little to do with why people dislike her.

Are some people misogynistic? Absolutely!

Are most people misogynistic? No.

When we talk about Galadriel, and Luthien, and Elwing, and Aredhel, and Nimloth, and Melian, and Nerdanel, and Ahsoka, and Padme, and *insert literally any female character from any fandom here*, being female has nothing to do with it. It barely crosses our minds.

So for the love of all that is good, stop bringing ‘but she’s a female character! Anyone who sees her as anything but perfect, or thinks the male characters made better choices than her is obviously horrible and misogynistic and would never do this to a man :(‘ Into arguments.

I don’t care how few there are in the work. You can explain why you like her without blaming people for hating on the fact she’s female when 95% don’t. There are very literally hundreds of other reasons people interpret fictional events which portray the fem char negatively.

Especially in work like the Silm which is written by a canonical in-universe historian with basic backstory. We have every right to see him as unreliable and play with what that could mean. Doesn’t make it misogynistic if we want to see female characters as more shifty than they’re outwardly portrayed. Many of us often do the same with male characters, and even if we don’t, you have no right to judge someone so harshly when you barely know a thing about them outside an online persona. 99.9% of people don’t even consider male vs female when they write these things. And it’s not because of some weird subconscious misogyny either.

This is mainly aimed at those who bring this up over. And over. And over again in some weird attempt at guilt tripping people into ‘liking’ characters.

On the topic of things people do that make no sense, if characters are stated as being white, and an artist draws them all white. You have no right to say they’re being racist or whatever else you want to come up with.

Nor do you have the right to slander anyone who casually points out the character is white if others draw them as anything else. If we can call out whitewashing, we can talk about the opposite too. As long as the person isn’t being outright rude, have a conversation.

And don’t get me started on tagging pieces of fanart and fics specifically created platonic with a ship. Like the work? Great! Now respect the intentions of the person who created it.

No one in a fandom space, especially artists and writers, owes inclusivity of any kind when running off canon source material. You want to blame someone for a boring cast, blame the author! But even in general? You don’t get to force or guilt others to create content - original work included - that fits your ideal.

Yes I’m a writer and artist of original and fan content. Yes I’ve experienced all of these directly or indirectly.

Sincerely, a young brown woman tired of all the double standards.

#silmarillion #lord of the rings #tolkien #Star Wars #tcw #marvel #sorrynotsorry bout the rant #the guilt tripping is insane #fgs if you’d call out someone for whitewashing I’m sorry they have every right to ask if you make canonically white characters brown #or black or Asian or whatever #it’s not racist to say ‘this character isn’t canonically x’ ok?#I’m not talking about people who are outwardly disrespectful but wow some comments I see really make me wonder #don’t even get me started on shipping #it’s much better now but wow people gotta *chill*#should I tag characters?#sure let’s do the main ones I’m thinking of #Elwing #Ahsoka #padme #wanda maximoff #Melian #Fingon #finrod #Maedhros #silm #rant #I am once again sick and apparently that lowers my tolerance for people straight up not understanding what they’re talking about #or weaponising a sensitive topic to stop people arguing against them #omg how could I forget #luthien

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fgfluidity · 2 years ago

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nye

Summary: The attorney’s got a new hyperfixation, and Damien’s along for the ride.

Pairing: Damien/DA

Warnings: Damien is a chronic overthinker; alcohol; a bit of suggestiveness

i did a lot of research for this one and it’s late but yknow

i have a ko-fi here

@opprose @statictay @volbeast @mirrorslament @otterlyinluv

Damien impatiently taps his cane at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for a pause in traffic. He has a call to make, and the wait in the late-December chill makes his leg ache something fierce— something that only worsens his mood.

Finally, thanks to the traffic cop, the torrent slows; with a short nod to the man— who isn’t looking, but it feels impolite not to acknowledge him— Damien crosses the street as quickly as his leg can carry him.

The last storefronts before the city gives way to more residential zoning are pulling down their Christmas decor, red and green replaced by gold and silver, bells and tinsel in place with noisemakers and bottles of sparkling juice.

At least some of those are actual alcohol, but Damien isn’t the sort of mayor to tell on his constituency. He’s not innocent of sending along a few bottles, himself.

All this to say, Christmas is gone, and now it’s New Year’s Eve.

He grimaces, though not entirely due to the twinge in his leg.

The New Year has always been a bit of a double-edged sword in Damien’s mind.

There’s a certain excitement in preparing for the calendar to shift, celebrating with loved ones as the world passes from December into January. He’s always loved the idea of new beginnings, fresh opportunities; God knows he always dreamt of it, with his family.

There’s privilege in wealth and status, but such loneliness, such severe detachment, that he never could help wishing for something different.

As a child, he and Celine would be ushered off to bed no later than 9 o’clock; any later would make for miserable children, as his father always said, and would disrupt their strict scheduling. No breaks for holidays in his father’s book— though it never stopped him or his sister from sneaking down to take canapés, desserts, and a single glass of champagne a time or two.

It was never as fun as Christmas, but at the very least they could be left to their own devices.

Adulthood is a similar story. He works hard to ensure the city is protected and working smoothly, that his people want for nothing. It takes work all year round, work he’s happy to do.

The last week of December, though, feels as lawless as the Old West.

Between Christmas and the New Year, even his motivation begins to lag, and it’s difficult to stay on task when so many relax in the holiday haze of food and merriment. When no one else is willing, his work suffers, and a Damien who can’t work…

He’s been called relentless and obsessed, but he can’t help the irritation that creeps in with each passing day of leisure. Like a particular sort of dog, if he can’t work, his environment suffers for it.

Perhaps it won’t be all bad, though. The invitation in his pocket, cream stock and elegant inking, promises a wonderful night with close friends— something he hasn’t had since his election.

“You’re coming to this one,” Celine had said to him that morning, fluffing up her fur wrap to protect from the chill in the doorway. “I’m not taking any arguments.”

“Huh,” Damien had replied— mostly because she hadn’t even phoned about her coming. “Coming to..? Celine, come in, it’s cool out.”

“I would, but I can’t stay. Socialite business.” She gave him a wry smile, and a creamy envelope to go along with it. No— two, one carefully tied with his with a satiny red ribbon. “We’re hosting for the New Year, and I’ve about had it with you dodging our invitations. You used to love parties, Damien, and at the very least you should be at this one.”

Damien huffed, though lightly, as he pulled at the ribbon. “I still love parties,” he protested. “Not all of us can take off at a moments’ notice to have a night out— and a hell of a morning afterward.”

“As if you ever had a hangover in your life,” Celine commented, and he chose to ignore it. “The office is closed for New Year’s Day, I know it is, and you’ll want to be there for this. I’ll be there, and Mark, of course. And…”

She trailed off as he flipped over the second invitation. Not his name, not a plus one, but the attorney.

He looked up sharply, only to be met with her smug smile, a note of triumph in her eyes. “They’re coming.”

“Of course,” she replied. “They need their invitation if they’re going to make it on time. If you’d be a dear?”

In lieu of wrinkling the invitation, he briefly tensed his jaw, thinking over what might be a legal way to get one over on his meddling sister. “Why couldn’t you? Since you’ve decided to be a messenger, and all.”

“Only for you, baby brother. Besides, I think they’ll take the invitation from you much more favorably.” She fluffed up her coat again. “Be sure not to be late. You could even come together, if that would help. Best clothes, Damien.”

His aching hand pulls him out of the reverie; it still rankles him so that he stops to work the blood back into his knuckles.

At least mistletoe won’t be involved at New Year’s, he assures himself. God knows his sister and brother in law would concoct some sort of scheme to get him to admit… something.

Something he refuses to acknowledge, at that. He pointedly puts it out of his mind the last few blocks to the attorney’s abode, striding purposefully down the sidewalk.

It’s the same as ever, with the climate’s lack of change with the seasons, but it’s still a comforting sight; small, yes, and a bit unassuming, but the inside is where the real treasure lies.

Like his friend— and the thought is immediately catalogued away into Things Not To Think About.

The closer Damien draws, though, he notes something a bit strange— namely, that one of their windows are open, and every now and then, something flies out to join the small pile amassing underneath it.

It’s decidedly unlike his friend to be so cavalier about their possessions, and the confusion and worry spurs him on faster. A burglar? A collections officer?

All— or, rather, most— of his worries seem unfounded as he draws up to the window. The attorney is indeed the one tossing out old papers and broken pieces of furniture, sleeves rolled up and a bit of sweat on their forehead.

“I don’t think it’s time for spring cleaning just yet,” he calls through the window. “What on Earth are you doing?”

They pop their head up, confused, but a bright smile crosses their face as they lay eyes on him. “It’s you,” they say, and then quickly, “I mean— hello! I’m doing a cleaning for the new year. You know it’s tradition in some places?”

Damien raises an eyebrow. “It’s tradition to throw things out of your bedroom window?”

“In some places,” they repeat excitedly. “Most places have a tradition of just cleaning, but throwing things out the window is a way to get rid of bad luck without darkening your doorway.”

They must have been on some sort of research kick to know that— he could even guess from the bright look in their eye, how their words tumble over each other.

It’s been that way since they met, long nights over books and his friend regaling him with all the new knowledge they’d managed to gather. He was never interested overmuch in the intricacies of animal social behaviors, but God if he didn’t soak in every word.

He’ll admit— it’s quite the endearing trait.

“Well, if you don’t mind something else darkening your doorway,” he jokes, “I have a letter for you. Special delivery.”

“A letter?” They set down some large box of things, tilting their head. “I can’t imagine why you’d have mail for me, but— sure, come in. It’s a walk from your house, you need a sit.”

Damien could protest, but they’re already hurrying away from the window and into the depths of their home. Besides, they’re more careful with his bad leg than he is— any opportunity to host or tend him is one they’ll jump at the chance to take.

Without them, he might be worse off than a cane.

He rounds the side of the house, but he’s only just begun to ascend the stairs when the front door swings open. The attorney is a touch less disheveled than they were in their bedroom, sweat dabbed away and sleeves rolled back down, but they’re still in comfortable housework clothes.

“Come on, get in from the chill,” they urge, sweeping him in with one arm. “I put water on, but I can’t say I have any of your particular beans. You’ll have to settle for tea.”

Damien heaves a long-suffering sigh as he sheds his jacket, allowing his friend to help him hang it. “I guess so. If I must, to avoid being a rude guest, I’ll drink your tea. You know…”

They raise an eyebrow, pausing mid-shuffle of a foot stool.

“If I’d known you were doing housework, I may not have worn my suit. I feel a touch overdressed.”

His friend snorts and pushes the foot stool the rest of the way to him. “I wouldn’t expect you to go back to our college days for me. Get your shoes off and come in for tea; I’m curious about that letter.”

He’d like to go back to the college days, really. Simple and easy, running around with his closest friend with little regard for propriety or image— he regularly aches with nostalgia, but especially being in their presence. More doors seemed open wide, then, more futures at hand where they weren’t quite so locked into place.

Now he’s bound by duty, and the use of a shoehorn. It’s not how he’d have liked his future to go, much less predicted, but…

In the midst of yanking his foot free of shining leather, he hears a small clatter, followed by a muffled, “Oh, nuts.” He can’t help but smile, lining his shoes up alongside theirs; regardless of other twists and turns, they still have each other.

“Are you—“

“I’m fine! Just a bit of a butterfingers today.” More clattering, boxes and bags and cups rifled through before the solid thump of a cabinet. “Which is why we’re both having a snack with our tea and news.”

“Both?” Damien courteously returns the foot stool to its previous location. Once it’s comfortable, he follows suit on the attorney’s squashy couch, easing into the cushions with a pleased sigh. “I haven’t been throwing things out all morning.”

“You always forget to eat something when you’re buzzing.” The attorney aims a pointed look at him over a tray loaded up with mugs and various foods. “You’re out of sorts and you probably only had your coffee, so you’re eating with me.”

Damien meets their gaze, doing his best impersonation of a clueless stone wall. “You think I’ve been buzzing?”

The attorney sits right next to him on the couch, not bothering with the polite distance they give him in public, and reach for their plate. “Your cane is smudged, which means you’ve been wringing it all day.”

“Not necessarily.” He takes a sip of tea. Black, tannin-rich— just how he prefers. “Perhaps I’ve just been too busy to clean up.”

He gets a nudge at that— the warm, solid line of their thigh pressing harder into his. “I’d believe that if you didn’t match your tie to your scarf— which is mine, by the way.”

“I won it fair and square, if you recall.” Certainly hard-won, at that— he had to have used up every last scrap of luck to beat them at poker. “You know I like to keep up appearances.”

“Don’t you just.” They take a long sip from their mug in lieu of explaining themself, though the tired, far-off look in their eye gives him an inkling, along with a smidgen of guilt. “But that would include polishing your cane. You did that on the way over, after you put effort in.

“Which means,” they continue, a note of triumph coming into their voice, “that something frazzled you enough to still be on your mind, something related to the news you bring. The only person who can get you that out of shape is Celine. What’d she say?”

Damien blinks at them, then huffs a laugh. “Quite sharp. Are you sure you don’t want to swap careers to be on the police force? They’d kill for a detective like you.”

Their nose wrinkles a little over their mug. “No, thank you. Besides, the same skill set works wonders in the courtroom— and I could read you like an open book, we’ve known each other so long.”

Hopefully not too open. Damien clears his throat and digs in his pockets for the invitation. “Ah— here. She asked I hand-deliver it, though she’s perfectly capable of doing that, herself.”

“Sure, but I prefer a visit from you. You’re far less intimidating.” Paying little heed to his offense, played up as it may be, they open up the envelope. Their bright eyes scan the creamy card stock, then again.

Damien tilts his head to see their face better, but it’s irritatingly blank. Damn their poker face, for all the good it’s done them. “Is something the matter?”

“Hm? Oh— no, there’s nothing wrong, sorry.” They laugh a little, sliding the card back into the envelope. “Just— personalized, and you know how he is.”

God, does he ever. The ripped off section with detailed instructions on how to woo the attorney is presently in his trash bin under coffee grounds. “And what did he say?”

“Typical Mark teasing.” Again, that unreadable expression as they shrug, and he burns to know what they wouldn’t share with him.

As they reach for the tray, grabbing up a handful of plump grapes, he asks, “Are you coming?”

“Of course I am.” They give him a little smile. “We might be busier these days, but it’s a holiday, and I haven’t seen everyone in some time, besides.”

The knot in his chest loosens slightly, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. We may all be friends, but it’s nice to have you along.”

“Would you miss me, otherwise?”

Their eyes shine even brighter, and he’s thankful a blush can’t show on his skin.

“Eat your grapes. Aren’t they good luck?”

“Yes. Which is why you should eat them if you want to keep that scarf tonight.”

—

If it weren’t for his sister and brother-in-law’s machinations, he’d have been happy to stick around all day long, basking in company that demands so little; alas, after their lunch, he excuses himself.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me in another tradition?”

It isn’t fair to play that sort of card when he’s already thin on resolve. “What kind of tradition, exactly?”

They stop stretching their left arm over their chest, swapping over to their right. “I was thinking of going for a spin around the house, actually, but I also have some more things to toss out if you’d find it easier.”

They’re grinning, eyes shining, but he still can’t tell if this one is a joke or not. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to pass up both. My leg, for one, and for the other… well, they aren’t my things. Maybe that’s bad luck.”

“Very possible,” they muse, nodding. “You’d probably want as much strength as possible, anyway, party animal.”

“You’re one to talk, little monster.” It’s too fond to be much of a comeback, but it’s worth it for how they smile afterward. “Shall I meet you there?”

They pause in stretching, mouth open as if to say something, but they must think better of it; instead, they bend a bit to help stretch out their feet. “Sure thing.”

So… it stays on his mind a while.

Could they have wanted to join him? It’d save on a drive, yes, but surely they know the whispers that would follow.

Not that he’d give a damn, really. He’s been doing this for too long to care quite that much, and his reputation could probably do with a scandal— however false— to keep things interesting.

Celine’s words, not his, though he’s begun to see the appeal.

He should have said something. Should have offered, at the very least, to be kind.

What if that wasn’t their intention, though? What if it was a different train of thought entirely, their brilliant mind going a mile a minute, and any such offer would make things tense?

He looks down to the mild ache in his knuckles; just as earlier that morning, they’re white with tension, the gleaming wood and metal of his cane once more marred by oily fingerprints.

Damn it. With a sigh, he whips the pocket square out of his jacket to polish the worst of the smudges away. It might be a more intimate party, but he’d still like to keep tidy.

A few moments later, the black wood is about as good as it’s going to get without proper polish. Hopefully no one will look too terribly closely.

(No one ever does, but he worries.)

The handle hooked over a forearm, he goes about refolding the pocket square; only a few folds in, however, the back of his neck prickles. It’s the odd feeling of being observed, and not passively, either.

There’s no attorney when he looks up, but there is his sister, dark eyes sharp and keen as flint. Her intense stare would be bad enough for him, but after a moment, the corner of her moth lifts, and her eyes turn to the foyer.

“Oh, our esteemed guest, welcome! It’s been some time, you know,” Benjamin says, overdone accent and all muffled by the distance and din. “We’ve missed you at the tables, Mx.—“

Oh.

Before whatever Celine has in mind for him comes to pass, he needs a good drink.

A strong one.

—

Several strong ones later, he’s feeling light as a feather.

At the very least, Damien’s in good company; nearly everyone else in the ballroom is in a similar state, leaning into arms or lounges or walls. They’re merry, though, laughter and snippets of song joining in with the blaring radio at the far wall.

Even Mark and Celine look a bit bright-eyed, which is a sight. He hasn’t seen that sort of inebriation with them in years.

He can’t say the same for the attorney, for better or for worse.

A notorious lightweight, despite their absolute best efforts, he could estimate they’re as sloppy as he feels; they slump into his side, eyes glassy, though their slur can’t stop their mile-a-minute chatter.

“There’s so many, Day,” they enthuse, one hand clenching his suit jacket tight. “Everyone everywhere has a tradition, how amazing is that? Everyone does something different and new! There are ones even I don’t know!”

“I don’t know about that one, little monster,” he laughs. “You really seem to have done your research.”

“Research… that’s it!” They look up at him, as if they’ve found the discovery of the century. “Damien… what if I researched it? And wrote a book?”

If he’s honest, he’s surprised they haven’t by now, in some discipline. “You could, but it’d be a lot of work. Might take you years.”

“I have years,” they insist, “or, I could. If I wasn’t an attorney.”

“You’d give that up?” He frowns. “I thought you always wanted to be one.”

They shrug. “It comes and goes. I wouldn’t be upset, really. I could do whatever I want, then— and I’d still have you.”

They would. They’re always going to, no matter what, but if politics wasn’t in the way…

He’s pretty sick of it.

They’re here and soft and lovely, and everyone’s counting down, and he may not have done the research but he’s damn certain of one important tradition.

He pulls them in and kisses them.

It’s a little off-center, but it’s wonderful. They’re soft, warm, tasting like the dessert course and champagne, bubbles of sugar and alcohol coursing through him, enough to nearly make him take flight.

They… aren’t moving, though. Just in place, not pulling away but not leaning in.

Panicked, he pulls back, but the look of awe on their face halts any words before he can begin to say them.

“O-oh,” they say, so soft, and then they giggle. Not a laugh, but a giggle. “Um— yes, that… that could go in the book. And…”

“And..?” His breath catches, heart pounding.

“Well.” They smile a little, shy but under hooded eyes, and lean in a little towards him. “There’s another tradition. You’re supposed to wear red for luck.”

He eyes them. Not a drop to be seen. “Aren’t you worried about bad luck?”

Their sly grin grows. “No. You can check for yourself, if you want?”

Thanks to the alcohol, it takes him a good minute, but by then…

Well, they aren’t too worried about clothes, anymore.

#fg writes #mayor attorney #wkm damien #y/n district attorney #damien x da

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