#i don’t actually like most of these i fear

[sanguineterrain]

knight in shining helmet | jason todd

Summary: You're a princess who's visiting Gotham City. You weren't loving it to begin with—then you of course had to get kidnapped. Needless to say, your expectations of the night are in hell. You're hoping, at least, that you'll be rescued by the famous Batman. Instead, it's the infamous Red Hood that finds you.

Pairing: Jason Todd x princess!fem!reader 

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings/tags: kidnapping, rescue, reader and jason don't get along at first, violence, drugging, meet-ugly, 7-eleven food as a courting strategy, kissing, softie jason (he always makes an appearance somehow!), strangers to...not-so-strangers.

the divider

You suppose that, for a princess, you ought to have expected a kidnapping to pan out at least once in your life. 

You just didn't think it would happen tonight. In Gotham City. A place you weren't loving to begin with. 

“Unhand me!” you scream as soon as your taker's filthy, sweaty hand leaves your face. “You'll be executed for this!”

You're not actually sure of Gotham's death penalty policy, but you feel like it's something you should throw in. In any case, the three men who've dragged you away, tied you up, and bruised you in the process, should be a little more afraid of getting caught. 

“Batman will find you,” you add. “He'll save me.” You've heard great tales of Gotham's hero. If anyone can help you, it's him. 

That makes one of them pause. But the ringleader sneers at you. “If he finds us. He's got a lot on his plate every night, ya Majesty.”

“I am a priority guest in this city, of course he would—”

“Shut her up,” the leader snaps, and suddenly, you're being gagged. Disgusting. Completely unsanitary. You don’t want to imagine if the gag has ever been washed.

You keep screaming and fighting through the gag until a needle pricks your neck. Your terror spikes as you realize there's suddenly an ultimatum to fear: what if Batman doesn't reach you in time? 

That's your last thought as the drug renders you unconscious. 

When you awaken, it's still nighttime. Nearly pitch black, except for a dim lightbulb in the center of the room. It looks like you're in some kind of warehouse. You can't see much of anything and it makes you claustrophobic. Your head aches and your vision is blurry, and your cheek is pressed against a grimy floor. You just want to go home.

You try to sit up first, but that nearly makes you throw up, and you do not want to throw up through this ratty gag. So you swallow the feeling and close your eyes, waiting until the nausea passes. You open your eyes and they begin to adjust to the darkness. You’re alone, which confuses you.

Then you spot the explosives hooked up at the bottom of your dress.

The good news is that your kidnappers aren’t here. The bad news is that the reason they aren’t here is because they can remotely explode this place and you inside of it. If they don’t get the ransom they’re no doubt demanding, tonight will be your first and last night in Gotham. 

Another thought chills you to your bone: what if the explosives are set to go off whether they get the ransom or not?

You squeeze your eyes shut as the tears come. You’re going to die.

But wait. Maybe not. Surely, Batman is looking for you. And his young, brightly-colored companion. You never understood that color palette choice.

They’ll save you. Your father has no doubt alerted authorities. You’re the most important person in the city tonight! Of course people are looking for you. 

Yes, you’ll be saved, the criminals will be punished to the highest extent of the law, and you’ll be escorted back to your hotel where you can take a long, luxurious bath. That’ll be very nice. 

You’ll also never visit Gotham again, that is for sure. 

The door to the warehouse rolls open with a boom. You flinch and squint, trying to make out the figure. If it’s your kidnapper, you want to act like you’re still asleep. You think you saw that trick in a film at the cinema you snuck out to watch when you were young. You didn’t catch the whole film, though—you were found out by your guards before you could. Maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d watched the whole film!

As the figure gets closer, you realize firstly that he’s a lot bigger than your kidnappers. You sigh in relief. Batman.

“‘Lo?” asks a gruff voice. “Anybody here?”

You shout through your gag. You can’t make out a face, but it’s alright. Relief floods you. You’re saved.

Your savior jogs to you. You tilt your head as you make out a… red helmet? With glowing eyes?

Wait a minute.

“Holy shit,” Not-Batman says. He pulls out your gag first. “Y’okay?”

Realization strikes you; you recall a story one of the party guests shared earlier in the night about a crime lord and his terror on Gotham.

"You're that terrible gangster that left a duffle bag of heads!" you blurt.

"In the flesh," he says, tapping the barrel of his gun to his helmet in a salute. Red Hood. “You don’t look very happy to see me, all things considered.”

“I don’t want your help!” you say, wriggling away from him. “I’m in an alliance with The Batman!”

He tilts his head. “‘S that so? What alliance would that be? Beauty Pageant Runaways For Bats?”

“I am not a beauty pageant contestant,” you say hotly. “I am a princess, and I have a small militia looking for me.”

He kneels in front of you, holstering his gun. His one of many, many guns. Your skin itches with sweat and adrenaline as he approaches. Those glowing eyes in his helmet flip your stomach. This is all wrong. You're supposed to be saved by a hero, not an outlaw. A criminal.

“Princess, huh?” Hood nods. “Ah, yeah. I heard somethin’ about that. They took you from the Plaza. Just my luck that I’d run into ya.”

“You mean, you weren’t actively looking for me?” you ask in a small voice. 

“Nope. You’ve got every vigilante and cop in the city looking for you, Your Highness. I came in here ‘cause I smelled motor oil.” 

Now that he’s found you, what does he plan to do?

“Are… are you going to release me?” you ask.

“Depends. Is this place rigged to blow?”

“My dress,” you say, unsure whether you should let him know about the explosives. A man who leaves severed heads in a duffel bag doesn’t seem wrapped up too tightly. 

“Hm?” Hood lifts your skirt slightly. He whistles. “Damn. This is some excellent work. Whoever did this is a pro demolitions expert.”

His praise doesn’t comfort you, oddly enough.

“Is it live?” you ask.

“Doesn’t look like it. And I’ve got a lot of experience with explosives. Just stay still for now.”

Hood squats and pulls out a knife. You shift. He's bigger than you even like this, crouched at your level. His shoulders nearly block your entire view. 

“Who were they?” he asks.

“Who was who?”

“The people that took you.”

“I don't know. They were wearing masks. Three men,” you say, frozen as he takes the knife to your feet.

“Mm.”

Hood begins to cut the ropes around your ankles. You delicately point your feet, unsure if he'll slip and get you. 

Your lip curls. "Where's Batman? Or that boy who works with him? Aren't they in charge of this city? I want to speak to one of them."

“I don’t work for the Bats,” he says, an edge to his words.

“Well, I don’t feel comfortable with you rescuing me,” you say. “You’re a criminal.”

Hood stops cutting and looks at you. "Y'want Batman? Fine. I don't mind letting you wait around for the Bat.”

He pockets the knife and rises, walking out of the warehouse and disappearing. Just like that. Your heart jumps.

"Wait!" you shout, squirming in your binds. "Wait, come back!"

But it's silent. Panic digs its claws into your chest.

"Red Hood! Red Hood, come back! Please!"

You begin to cry out of desperation, tears dripping onto your already soiled dress. You try to pull your feet apart, but the rope isn't cut enough and all you do is worsen the burns around your ankles.

You bow your head and cry onto the floor. You just want to go home. You want your goose feather pillows and Egyptian cotton ten-thousand thread count sheets. More than that, you never want to return to this stupid city.

"Are you cryin'?"

Your head shoots up. Hood stands over you, arms folded. 

"You-you came back," you say, voice wobbly.

He shrugs. "I had an inkling that you had a change of heart, princess.”

You look away. "You left me.”

"I did,” he says. “But as much as you might deserve abandonment, I'm duty-bound to rescue everyone. No matter how obnoxious of a Batman fan they are."

"I'm not a fan. I just didn't want the morally corrupt, violent drug runner to save me."

He leans down and snaps away the ropes from your ankles—a feat of strength that doesn't go unnoticed. Then he saws the ones around your wrists. "Yeah, well, I don't do that anymore, and for such a pretty face, you suck at sweet talking."

He tosses the rope aside and pockets the knife. You rub your wrists and attempt to sit up. This time, you don’t want to throw up. Success! 

“Anything hurt?” he asks. 

“My legs,” you say miserably. 

“Okay, let me rephrase: anything that'll make you bleed out in the next ten seconds?”

“Um… no.”

“Fantastic. I can probably getcha back to your hotel in an hour.” 

You hold out your arms expectantly. He tuts.

“I don’t give hugs until the third kidnapping. Fourth one is free.”

You huff. “You expect me to walk like this? They took my shoes! Gotham is so uncouth.”

“And what am I s’posed to do about that?” Hood asks. “I look like a Payless to you?”

“I don’t know what that is,” you say. “Don’t you vigilantes have a protocol to follow? I cannot possibly walk through this filthy warehouse on my bare feet. I’ll catch a virus! You’ll have to carry me.”

Hood lets out a full-bellied laugh. It’s somewhat eerie through his modulator. You lift your chin, maintaining your composure. 

“Oh my God! Highness, you’re a diamond-encrusted piece of work. I don’t carry anybody unless they’re unconscious and I like ‘em a lot. It’s a short list.”

Your brows furrow. “I’m a guest in your city, and I’ve been kidnapped! The least you can do—”

“The least I can do is leave you to rot here,” Hood says, tone cutting. “Or let your kidnappers come back and finish the job. You aren’t in whatever palace they carted you out of; you’re in fuckin’ Gotham, and if y’want my help, you’re gonna suck it up and walk.”

You look away, tears brimming once more. You sniffle. 

“You don't have to be so mean,” you say, voice watery. “I’ve had a difficult night.” 

It's quiet for a few moments. You've never cried as much as you have tonight, especially not in front of a stranger. A dangerous stranger. 

“...Look, I think I got some spare boots,” Hood finally says. “Stay here.”

“Where would I go?” you mumble. Whether he hears you or not, he doesn’t reply, stalking out of the warehouse. He returns thirty seconds later with a pair of ugly, black, man boots. 

“Used?!” you ask, voice high.

“Lightly, Your Majesty. They’re my spares. Here.”

Hood tosses the boots at you. You stare at them like he’s flung a pair of rats at you. He taps his wrist.

“Time’s a-ticking, princess. I’m on a schedule. I can always let you wait for Batman. He’ll find ya. Eventually.”

So you put on the boots. 

You attempt to stand next, but the drugs and binds have made your limbs weak. You try and fail to get up twice before Hood hooks his arms under yours and hauls you up without a sweat. You squeal, fingers digging into his brown leather jacket. 

He towers over you, doubly intimidating now that you're standing. 

“Got it?” he asks, arms slipping away. 

You definitely don’t have it, and you wobble backward. Hood grabs you again, hand on your back. 

“Whoa. Easy.” Hood cups your face, a little rough. You squirm, mind flooded with all the germs that are probably on his gloves. “Look a'me. Look—stop fighting, Jesus Christ.”

“This is no way to treat a princess!”

“Yeah, I missed that day of training,” he says dryly. “Stay still, I'm tryna see if your pupils are dilated.” 

“Your grip hurts!”

Hood loosens his grip and manages to keep you still long enough to examine your eyes. He hums and lets go.

“Seems like you’re still feeling the effects. Should wear off soon. Now…”

Hood steps back, but not so far that you can’t grab onto him should you fall again. He gives your dress a onceover. 

“So that’s not gonna work.” He takes out his knife again. Your eyes widen. 

“What on earth are you doing with that?” you ask, taking a small step backwards.

“Cutting your dress,” he says, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.

You gasp, backing away. “No you will not!”

“Princess—”

“This dress is one-of-a-kind, handmade for tonight’s gala. You’re not going near it! It cost seventeen thousand euros!” 

“Is it worth more than your life?” Hood snaps. “I don’t have any spare clothes and I’m not dragging a ballgown with three pounds of C-4 attached to it around. You have to be able to move and you have to get on my bike. Now quit whining.”

You sulk as he cuts and tears the bottom layer of your gown. He isn’t as savage about it as you expect: the cut is neat and could even be salvaged in the hands of a good seamstress. The night air makes your legs prickle with goosebumps. Then his words register.

“Bike?” you ask as Hood sets your dress remains aside. You’ll grieve for your dress privately.

“Mmhm.”

“I thought you had a Batmobile.”

“That’s Batman’s car. Hence the name. I have a bike ‘cause I’m a morally corrupt, violent, drug runner.”

Your nose wrinkles. “Can’t we take a taxi? Or call a car service?”

Hood snorts. “No one’s driving to this part of Gotham at this hour. It’s my bike or nothing. Or, of course, you can wait for Batsy.”

He starts walking and you hurry to follow. Hood’s strides are long and you’re unsteady in his too-big boots.

“Can you please slow down? These boots are enormous!”

He doesn’t say anything, but he does slow down, waiting until you catch up before leading you to his bike. It’s a nice motorcycle, you suppose, if you were into that thing. You’ve always thought motorcycles were a stupid risk to take. Being on the road is dangerous enough—why remove the comfort and protection of a car?

Hood’s bike is shiny and cherry red, just like his helmet. He produces a proper motorcycle helmet from nowhere and hands it to you. 

“Are you sure this is safe?” you ask, inspecting the helmet. It looks fairly clean and unused. 

“Hasn’t killed me yet, and I’ve been dead once.”

Is that his idea of a joke?

“You’ll be fine,” Hood says at your silence. “I’ll go slow.”

“Alright,” you say, putting on the helmet. It smells oddly pleasant, like spicy cologne. “Very slow.”

“Yeah, yeah, very slow. C’mon.”

Hood kicks a leg over the bike and straddles it, all muscle memory. His muscles flex as he bends his legs. He pats the space behind him. 

Cautiously, you attempt to do the same, but you soon realize that doing that exact move in a dress is probably not the smartest. You hold onto the seat with both hands instead and clumsily try to fold a leg over. It doesn’t work.

“Yo, Bambi. This century would be good.”

“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle!” you say, glaring at the back of his helmet. “You could help me.”

“For fuck's—” 

Hood turns around, grabs the back of your calf, and pulls. Your legs part and you shriek, certain you’re about to flash him. He holds your waist as you flail so that you don’t bang into him as you sit. 

“What is wrong with you?” you hiss, smoothing down your dress.

“Re-lax, I didn’t see anything.”

“This is highly undignified—”

“Yeah, we don't really do dignified in Gotham, princess. Comfy?”

“No.”

“Mm. Hold my waist.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Beg all ya want.” Hood takes your arms and wraps them tightly around his waist. He’s warm and, oddly enough, soft despite his bulk. “You’re drugged and unsteady. If y’don’t hold on, you’re gonna fly off. Press up against me and hold tight.”

“Go slow,” you say again, obediently holding his waist.

“Yeah, I’ll go slow,” he says. 

“Do you promise?”

“Promise.”

Hood turns the ignition. The bike roars to life, louder than you expected. You suck in a breath as he revs the engine and starts off.

True to his word (and what a flimsy word it is), Hood goes slow. He takes gentle, easy turns and breaks at all the stop signs, even though this part of the city is essentially abandoned at this hour. You’re able to study the streets, twinkling streetlights a little too bright to your recovering eyes. But you look anyway, shocked at the dilapidated buildings and uneven pavement. You’re definitely not in the Gotham you were earlier tonight. It hardly looks like the same city.

You turn your attention to your savior. It feels like an odd word to use for the Red Hood, whom you’ve heard enough about tonight. Your father had warned you excessively about what a dangerous area this was, and who exactly made it so dangerous. 

But a savior is exactly what Hood has been to you. You decide that, despite his roughness, he still deserves a good reward. Perhaps a Hoodmobile. Or new boots.

Your rescue is going smoothly until you cross the bridge. That’s when another biker turns onto the road behind you. 

“Shit,” Hood says, and you’re startled that you can hear him so clearly despite the noise. It’s like he’s in your head. “We’re being tailed.”

Well, that’s not good. You turn around briefly but you can’t make out your follower; you’re too scared to move on the bike.

But then you hear the bike behind you speed up. 

“Motherfucker,” Hood says, and speeds up. Your arms tighten into a death grip. 

“Hold on,” he says, like you'd do anything otherwise. 

Hood speeds up and takes a sharp left turn. You tense and yelp, squeezing your eyes shut. He takes several winding turns and you keep your eyes shut through all of them. The nausea has returned and you’d prefer not to ruin the inside of his helmet with your stomach contents.

“We lose him?” he asks when the road levels off and it doesn’t feel so much like you’re on a rollercoaster.

“Um…” you begin, and chance turning around.

It’s clear for a few seconds until…

Well, to echo Hood’s sentiment: motherfucker.

“He’s there!” you yell, and Hood growls.

“The helmets are mic’d, you don’t have to shout,” he says, leaning into a left turn. 

“I see him!” you say, and grab one of Hood’s holstered guns. He scrambles to grab it but misses, surprise slowing him down.

“What the fuck are you doin’?!”

You ignore him and take off the safety. Moving your free arm up to Hood’s neck, you fire. He curses up a storm, throwing in a few words you’ve never even heard. 

The shots go wide; one dents a parked car, and one hits a stop sign. 

“You’re fuckin’ nuts!” Hood yells and snatches the gun out of your hand. 

But your tail falls back, evidently spooked enough by you and your poor aim. He turns on a side street and disappears.

“He’s gone! We’ve lost him!” you say happily. 

“Are you insane?” 

You wince at his volume. “The helmets are mic’d, you know.”

“You’re so—”

Hood cuts himself off and pulls sharply onto the sidewalk. He dismounts and pushes the kickstand down hard. Then he turns to you, chest heaving.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again. Are you crazy? You could’ve gotten us killed!”

“It worked, didn’t it?” you ask, putting out your arms. “We lost him!”

“No, we didn’t. All we did was throw him off our trail a little. We gotta walk the rest of the way now because he probably fell back to get more guys to follow us. But that’s not the point: what you did was insanely risky and stupid. You don’t know how to use a gun and you could’ve hurt yourself.”

You stay silent, chewing on his words. Hood isn’t wrong, he’s just… loud about it.

“Do you understand me?” he snaps. 

You don't reply. 

“I need a yes.”

“...I wanted to help.”

Hood sighs. “Yeah, well… just don’t. I’m good at what I do and I’ll get you back in one piece. But you gotta trust me.”

“Okay,” you say quietly. You feel small, but you don't want to cry in front of him again and confirm that you really are just a spoiled, whiny princess. “I'm sorry, Red Hood.”

You sit down on the curb, feeling exhausted. Tonight is awful. 

It's quiet for a long moment. Then Hood says, “Don't cry.”

Your jaw works as you swallow hard. “I'm not.” You turn your head so he won't see.  

“Christ on toast,” he mumbles above you. “This is exactly why I don't do rescue missions—”

You sniffle. “I'm not crying.”

“—’Cause I'm the world's biggest asshole,” he finishes, voice miles softer. 

Hood sinks onto the curb next to you. He scoots in just enough so that your shoulders brush against each other. 

“Look, ‘m a jerk. The Bats are better at handling civilians and being nice. You got the potty mouth with a bad attitude.” 

You rub your eyes. “I don't like yelling.” 

“Yeah,” Hood says quietly. “Okay. I'll try not to yell unless you're in immediate danger. But you can’t pull stunts like that. Deal?”

You nod. “I won't fire any more of your guns.”

He snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. Where’d you learn how to shoot, anyway? I mean, y’didn’t do it well, but you did it. Not half-bad for your first time in Gotham.”

“My father wanted me to learn gun sports,” you say. “I learned how to take the safety off and point and shoot, but I refused to do any more lessons after my instructor shot a duck for target practice. I think guns are uncivilized and destructive, and I don’t condone killing animals for sport.”

“Uncivilized unless you're getting tailed by kidnappers?” You think you detect a smile in his question. 

“Everything has its exceptions,” you say primly. 

“Ain't that the truth. C'mon, we should get moving. We're, ‘scuse the saying, sitting ducks out here.”

Hood stands first and offers you a hand. You take it, letting him pull you up. He does that so easily. It makes your spine tingle. 

“How far are we from my hotel?” you ask.

“‘Bout two miles. If I had my gear I'd call for an assist,” he says apologetically. “Wasn’t planning to save lost princesses tonight.”

“I don't suppose there's any chance that you'll carry me, is there?”

“Pretty and funny,” Hood says. “You're the whole package, beauty queen.”

Your snarky reply is cut off by your stomach growling. Your eyes widen. 

“Pardon me,” you say, mortified. 

“What, ‘cause you're hungry?” Hood asks. “‘S a normal human condition.”

“You don't know anything about royal manners,” you say, but you're relieved. Your father would give you a tight, deadly look if you were hungry in public. 

“No, I really don't. Born and bred Gotham, baby.” 

“Showing any signs of hunger or thirst around company is highly undignified,” you say. 

“Being a princess sounds exhausting.”

No arguments there. 

Hood starts walking. You scramble to follow, and he seems to remember your shorter stride and slows down. 

“There's a pretty decent 7-Eleven nearby,” he says. “I'd take ya to my favorite diner, but we're on a tight schedule. Those guys won’t be far behind.”

“A seven and eleven? Oh, I've heard of those!” you say. 

“I’m… glad you're so excited about convenience stores?”

“I saw it in a film once. My father didn’t catch me watching this one. It looked so rugged, eating in a convenience store and fighting crime afterward. I've never been to one.”

“I know I shouldn't be surprised considering how much your dress cost but it does kinda blow my mind that you've never tasted anything but the finest cuisine,” Hood says. “Wait, did you say your dad didn’t catch you?”

You hum. “He doesn’t like me watching films that aren’t pre-approved.”

“Wow. Y’know, I could pirate you some movies if y’want. I know a great website for it.”

You laugh. “That’s alright. I manage to sneak out to the cinema more than I used to, now that he’s older.”

“Pretty sneaky, beauty queen.” He sounds impressed. 

You shrug, trying to hide your pride. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

You turn on the corner and he leads you through a residential area. A few people outside of their apartments stare at you, but when they see Hood, they relax. 

“Red!” a little boy shouts from a fire escape. He waves excitedly. Hood waves back.

“Hope you’re listening to your ma,” Hood calls to him, mock-stern. To anyone else—to you—it would be unnerving. 

But the boy grins. “I am!”

“Then why aren't ya in bed, huh?” 

The boy shrugs. “Not tired. Who's the lady?”

“The lady is a princess, so be nice,” Hood says.

“Whoa!” The boy gapes at you. You wave at him and he jumps up from the window. 

“Mom!” he yells. “Red Hood found a princess!”

You giggle as Hood leads you away. 

He shakes his head. “Kids.” He sounds terribly fond. 

You stare at his back for a moment. 

“They like you,” you say. “You keep them safe. But you're also a friend.”

“Helps to earn their trust,” he says gruffly. 

You walk a little more in silence. 

“I was wrong about you, Hood,” you say. He doesn't look at you. 

“Lotta people are. Nothin’ new.” 

No, it probably isn't. 

“‘Kay, here we are. C’mon. We gotta be fast, alright?”

“Alright,” you say, following him into the 7-Eleven. 

“Hey, Benny,” Hood says to the tired cashier behind the counter.

Benny nods. “Long night?”

“You got no idea.” He gestures to you. “She’s a princess.”

“Sweet,” Benny says. “What’s up?”

“How do you do?” you say politely. 

Hood leads you to the rolling hot dogs and other cylindrical foods under the heat lamps. You frown.

“I have had a hot dog before,” you say. “I’m not that sheltered.”

“Yeah, but have ya had a buffalo ranch roller? My brother and I used to get these after patrol. That with a blue raspberry slushie? Heavenly after getting thrown into a dumpster.”

“Well, you’ve gotten me this far, so I suppose I’ll trust you,” you say.

“I’m flattered. Benny, my usual.”

Benny gives a thumbs-up and puts the ‘roller’ in a paper bag. Meanwhile, Hood takes you to the back where the slushie machine is. You watch as he fills a plastic cup with electric blue sludge. Your brows raise.

“Why is it that color?” you ask.

“Tasty chemicals,” Hood says cheerily. “It won’t kill ya, I promise.”

“That would be counterintuitive at this point,” you say. 

“I appreciate your faith in me, princess.”

You return to Benny, who rings up the food. “Five twenty-seven.”

Hood looks at you expectantly. You look at him.

“What?” you ask.

“This is the part where you pay,” he says.

“A princess never carries money on her person,” you say, like it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“You–” Hood looks at Benny and sighs. “Why am I not surprised?”

He pays and you take your treats, trotting out the door. 

“Thank you, kind sir!” you say as Hood waves. 

“See ya, Ben.”

You hold out your slushie for Hood to take while you work on your fried goodie.

“I’m not a cupholder,” he says, but he takes the cup anyway.

“It’s warm!” you say, delighted. “Let me take a bite.”

Hood patiently waits as you bite and chew. You hum.

“Good?” he asks.

“I like it,” you say. “It’s unusual. Is this chicken?”

“So they say,” Hood says. “Try the slushie.”

You take the cup and first take a small sip. It’s cold and sweet and slightly sour and probably full of enough sugar to rot your teeth out of your head. You love it.

“This is wonderful,” you say. 

He laughs. “Yup. Told ya, nothin’ like this combo. It’s a classic. C’mon, let’s get moving.”

You walk and eat, and it definitely improves your night, having something in your belly. 

“This is just like Roman Holiday,” you say.

Hood snorts. “I don’t think we watched the same movie.”

“It has a likeness. You’re Gregory Peck.”

“Yeah, sure. If Gregory Peck was a street fighter, then yeah. I’m Greg fuckin’ Peck.”

“No, you’re right. You’re much younger than he was in that movie. How old are you?” you ask.

“Twenty-four.”

“Really? Why are you doing this?”

“Took a career test.”

You bump his shoulder. “Seriously, Hood. You’re young. You’ve so much potential. I can tell that you’re smart.”

“Maybe I like doing this,” he says.

You tut, shaking your head. “That’s ridiculous. You could do more. Be more.”

“You’re just fulla charm, aren’t ya?” Hood says. 

Your next step is hesitant. Hood keeps walking. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” you say. “I guess I assumed…”

“Yeah, I know. You assume a lot, princess. And you’re wrong.”

“You made assumptions about me! You thought that I was stupid and naive and I’m not.”

Hood stops, turns. “Maybe I like doing what I do, huh? Ever think of that? I meant it when I said I’m not a criminal anymore. I help people.”

“I know that,” you say quietly. “I see how the citizens treat you. They like you. You care for them greatly. I just… I just meant that you could try new things too. If you wanted to.”

He’s quiet for a bit. You keep walking. 

“I didn’t think you were stupid,” he eventually says.

You scoff. “Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. Yeah, I thought you were a little… sheltered. But you’re smart. You’re certainly tougher than your dad gives you credit for.”

You roll your eyes. “He still thinks I’m six years old. It takes me getting kidnapped to see a city.”

“Pretty shitty tour.”

You smile behind his back. “Oh, I don’t know. The tour guide is alright.”

Hood stops. When he doesn’t speak, you approach.

“Hood?”

He suddenly puts a hand over your mouth and drags you backwards into an alleyway. Your yelp is muffled. Hood puts a finger to where his mouth would be under his helmet.

That’s when you hear voices.

“—single fuckin’ clue. She could be in the fuckin’ Atlantic by now. Halfway to China!”

“China’s on the other side, dumbass.”

You look up at Hood, eyes wide. 

Those are your kidnappers' voices.

He seems to understand and nods. He squeezes your arm and removes his hand from your mouth. He points to himself and points outside, then points to you and points down. 

You assume that means stay put and don’t try to shoot anyone with his gun. You can take a hint.

Hood slinks out of the alley. You peek your head out to look, curiosity overtaking fear. Besides, you trust Hood. You figure with a reputation like his, he can more than handle his own. 

“Nice night, ain’t it?” he says. 

The two men turn, looking close to pissing themselves. Good.

“Hood, we weren’t doing nothin’!” one says.

“Yeah, Ricky and I are clean!”

“Oh, really? So you had nothing to do with the kidnapping of a certain visiting princess.”

“We was nowhere near the Plaza!” Ricky cries.

The other elbows his friend. Before you can blink, Hood has them both down on the ground, pistols pointed at their necks. 

“You were gonna hurt her,” Hood says, and now there’s no trace of humor in his voice. “That poor, sweet princess. Strapping C-4 to her like a fuckin’ bank vault. Drugging her, tying her up. You fuckin’ animals.”

“It wasn’t our idea, it was Bobby’s!” Ricky cries. 

“Shut up, Ricky!”

A shot rings out and you flinch. Ricky starts sobbing. Red seeps from his leg.

“The only reason I’m not killing you two right now is because I want a word with your boss. But make no mistake.” Hood leans in. “You’ll pay for hurting the princess. I’ll make sure of it.”

With two final hits, Hood knocks them out cold. The sudden silence is loud. 

He looks at you then, those eerie eyes glowing. He beckons you out. You go. 

You look down at the unconscious bodies. “You don’t have to kill them.”

“What?”

“I mean, I’d rather you didn’t. You shouldn’t have that on your conscience.”

“They kidnapped you. They would’ve hurt you had their boss ordered it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I don’t want you to bear that burden, Hood.”

“‘S not a burden,” he says, gently taking your wrist. Your eyes fly open. “If it’ll make you feel better, safer, anything. It’s no burden.”

“Okay,” you say quietly, frightened at how pleased a part of you is at his words.

“I’ll tie ‘em up and send for ‘em when we get back. One second.”

You watch as Hood drags their bodies into the alley like they’re sacks of feathers. He handcuffs them to a drainpipe and ties their feet and gags them. 

“So they can see what it feels like,” Hood says, dusting his hands. You can’t help your small smile. 

“Ready?” he asks.

You look up at the starless sky, suddenly exhausted. Your limbs feel like lead. “I guess so.”

Hood looks into the distance, then back at you. He sighs.

“Climb on my back.”

You blink. “Pardon me?”

“You’re pardoned.” Hood shrugs. “I can tell you’re tired. We don’t have far to go.”

“Won’t I be too heavy?” you ask. “All that way…”

“Princess, I’m honestly offended. I once carried Batman and my brother to Bludhaven. I’m more than capable.”

“But what about your rule?” you ask. “About carrying people.”

“Turns out you’re not so bad,” he says. “Get on ‘fore I change my mind.”

So you climb onto Hood’s back. He secures you easily, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Don’t choke me out,” he says. “Otherwise we’re both goin’ down.”

You smile and relax on his back. “Thank you.”

“Mm.”

At first, it feels like an eternity, waiting for the familiar Plaza sign. You can’t complain, though: Hood is warm and being carried by him is even better than riding on his bike. 

You blink, startled at the thought. What are you even talking about? This is the Red Hood. You were terrified of him a few hours ago. 

And yet, the rhythmic bumping and Hood’s solid figure lulls you to sleep. You don’t even realize until you’re being nudged and a voice pulls you back to consciousness. 

“Hey.”

You’re gently jostled awake. You blink blearily, yawning into Hood’s shoulder.

Oh. Right. You’re on his back.

“Hm?” 

“Ride ends here,” he says. “We’re at the Plaza.”

“Oh.” Sleepily, you try to climb off. Hood sets you on your feet. Embarrassment fills you as you become more awake.

“I’m so sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. You could’ve woken me! I—”

Hood holds up a hand. “Hey, chill out. ‘S fine. You had a long night, I get it.”

“Right. I, um…” You look up at the hotel. The top floor windows disappear in the layer of fog that’s settled over the city. You wonder what Hood’s windows look like. 

“I’m gonna track down your main kidnapper and make sure they don’t hurt anyone else. I’ll kick his ass, at the very least.”

You look at Hood, blinking. “Oh. That’s very nice of you, thank you.”

He shrugs. “‘S my job.”

You nod clumsily. “Right, of course. I could give you something in return, though. Money or, um, firearms. A car, perhaps?”

He snorts. You smile shyly. 

“Cute,” he says, but he’s not being mean. “No, that’s okay. I’m pretty set, actually. Doing what I do is surprisingly lucrative.”

“Surely there’s something—”

“Seriously, princess, no charge.”

You bite your lip. Is this too bold? Yes, definitely.

“What about a kiss?”

At first, you think Hood hasn’t heard you. Then he turns to face you in a way that tells you no, he definitely heard you. 

“Ex-cuse me?”

“Um.” You scratch your neck. “Well, princesses kiss their knights goodbye, don’t they?” you ask, but it’s weak. It’s stupid. You’re so young.

You think he’s going to just walk away. That would be the kindest thing to do in response to your blunder.

“I’m sorry, forgive me. That was a terrible joke,” you blurt.

“No, it wasn’t.”

He steps forward, close enough to kiss you if he didn’t have the helmet. You look up at him, heart pounding.

“Wasn’t terrible or wasn’t a joke?” you ask, blood roaring in your ears.

Hood’s quiet. 

“Haven’t done much kissing, to be honest with ya,” he finally says, not answering your question. 

You shake your head. “Nor I.”

“Mm. And y’wanna kiss me? Don’t offer ‘cause you think you owe me.”

“I want to kiss you, Hood.”

He tilts his head. “Y’wouldn’t be kissing a knight. More like kissing a toad.”

You frown. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, I’m no Greg Peck. And I’m no hero either.”

“Do you give this speech to everyone who wants to kiss you?”

“You’re the first one who’s wanted to,” he says.

You inhale sharply. “Oh.”

“Uh-huh.”

You wait. He waits. You both wait for the other to back out. You don’t. Neither does he.

“Can’t believe a princess wants to kiss me,” he mumbles.

And then he covers your eyes with his hand.

You blink, lashes sweeping over his glove. You hear a click, then a hiss of air. His helmet hits the ground with a dull thud. 

Hood gingerly holds your chin with his free hand. You keep your eyes closed even though he’s covering them, out of respect.

His mouth is warm and so, so gentle. You barely feel his lips at first, so you press a little harder. Hood doesn’t know what to do with his mouth, resting it on yours, so you take the lead, following what you’ve seen others do and what you’ve watched on television.

You reach up and hold his face. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. You stroke his stubbled jaw, feel strong cheekbones and the ends of curls above his ears. 

“Your Highness? Your Highness!”

The hand leaves your face so quickly, your eyes stay closed for a second longer, slow to react. Then you open your eyes and see the empty street.

Your lips tingle with heat. It’s all noise around you, policemen and your guards flitting around you, asking questions, alarmed by your torn dress. 

You exhale, disappointment overtaking you.

Your father is in front of you, taking your wrists. “Can you hear me? Doctor, I need a—”

“I’m fine,” you say, finally meeting his eyes. “I’m alright, Father.”

He exhales and pulls you into a hug. It startles you. He pulls away before you can hug him back.

“I am so glad you’re alright,” he says. “The police say they saw a figure with you. Who was that? Was he your kidnapper?”

“No, not at all,” you say, staring out into the street beyond. Your lips are buzzing. “He was my hero.”

[creatingblackcharacters]

“The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth” - Violence, Violent Imagery & Black Horror

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of death, violence, blood, hate crimes, antiblackness, police violence, rape

Note! I am going to be speaking from a Black American point of view, as my identity informs my experience. That said, antiblackness itself is international. The idea of my Blackness as a threat, as a source of fear and violence to repress and to destroy, is something every Black person in the world that has ever dealt with white supremacy has experienced.

There are two things, I think, that are important to note as we start this conversation.

One: there is a long history of violence towards Black bodies that is due to our dehumanization. People do not care for the killing of a mouse in the way they care about a human. But if you think the people you are dealing with are not people, but animals- more particularly, pests, something distasteful- then you will be able to rationalize treating them as such.

Two: even though we live in a time period where that overt belief of Blackness as inhuman is less likely, we must recognize that there are centuries of belief behind this concept; centuries of arguments and actions that cement in our minds that a certain amount of violence towards Blackness is normal. That subconscious belief you may hold is steeped in centuries of effort to convince you of it without even questioning it. And because of this very real re-enforcement of desensitization, naturally another place this will manifest itself is in how we tell and comprehend stories.

There are also three points I'm about to make first- not the only three that can ever be made, but the ones that stand out the most to me when we talk about violence with Black characters:

One: Your Black readers may experience that scene you wrote differently than you meant anyone to, just because our history may change our perspective on what’s happening.

Two: The idea that Black characters and people deserve the pain they are experiencing.

Three: The disbelief or dismissal of the pain of Black characters and people.

You Better Start Believing In Ghost Stories- You’re In One

I don’t need to tell Black viewers scary fairytales of sadists, body snatchers and noncoincidental disappearances, cannibals, monsters appearing in the night, and dystopian, unjust systems that bury people alive- real life suffices! We recognize the symbolism because we’ve seen real demons.

Some real examples of familiar, terrifying stories that feel like drama, but are real experiences:

12 Years a Slave: “This is no fiction, no exaggeration. If I have failed in anything, it has been in presenting to the reader too prominently the bright side of the picture. I doubt not hundreds have been as unfortunate as myself; that hundreds of free citizens have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and are at this moment wearing out their lives on plantations in Texas and Louisiana.” – Solomon Northup

When They See Us: I can’t get myself to watch When They See Us, because I learned about the actual trial of the Central Park Five- now the Exonerated Five- in my undergrad program. Five teen Black and brown boys, subjected to racist and cruel policing and vilification in the media- from Donald Trump calling for their deaths in the newspaper, to being imprisoned under what the Clintons deemed a generation of “superpredators” during a “tough on crime” administration. And as audacious as it is to say, as Solomon Northup explained, they were fortunate. The average Black person funneled into the prison system doesn’t get the opportunity to make it back out redeemed or exonerated, because the system is designed to capture and keep them there regardless of their innocence or guilt. Their lives are irreparably changed; they are forever trapped.

Jasper, Texas: Learning about the vicious, gruesome murder of James Byrd Jr, was horrific- and that was just the movie. No matter how “community comes together” everyone tells that story, the reality is that there are people who will beat you, drag you chained down a gravel road for three miles as your body shreds away until you are decapitated, and leave your mangled body in front of a Black church to send a message… Because you’re Black and they hate you. To date I am scared when I’m walking and I see trucks passing me, and don’t let them have the American or the Confederate flag on them. Even Ahmaud Arbery, all he was doing was jogging in his hometown, and white men from out of town decided he should be murdered for that.

Do you want to know what all of these men and boys, from 1841 to 2020, had in common? What they did to warrant what happened to them? Being outside while Black. Some might call it “wrong place wrong time”, but the reality is that there is no “right place”. Sonya Massey, Breonna Taylor- murdered inside their home. Where else can you be, if the danger has every right to barge inside? There is no “safe”.

It is already Frightening to live while Black- not because being Black is inherently frightening, but because our society has made it horrific to do so. But that leads into my next point:

“They Shouldn’t Have Resisted”

Think of all the videos of assaulted and murdered Black people from police violence. If you can stomach going into the comments- which I don’t, anymore- you’ll see this classic comment of hate in the thousands, twisting your stomach into knots:

“if they obeyed the officer, if they didn’t resist, this wouldn’t have happened”

Another way our punitive society normalizes itself is via the idea of respectability politics; the idea that “if you are Good, if you do what you are Supposed to do, you will not be hurt- I will not have to hurt you”. Therefore, if my people are always suffering violence, it must be because we are Bad. And in a society that is already less gracious to Black people, that is more likely to think we are less human, that we are innately bad and must earn the right to be exceptional… the use of excessive violence towards me must be the natural outcome. “If your people weren’t more likely to be criminals, there wouldn’t be the need to be suspicious of you”- that is the way our society has taught us to frame these interactions, placing the blame for our own victimization on us.

Sidebar: I would highly suggest reading The New Jim Crow, written in 2010 by Michelle Alexander, to see how this mentality helps tie into large scale criminalization and mass incarceration, and how the cycle is purposely perpetuated.

You have to constantly be aware of how you look, walk and talk- and even then, that won’t be enough to save you if the time comes. The turning point for me, personally, was the murder of Sandra Bland. If she could be educated, beautiful, a beacon of her community, be everything a “Good” Black person is supposed to be… and still be murdered via police violence, they can kill any of us. And that’s a very terrifying thought- that anything at any point can be the reason for your death, and it will be validated because someone thinks you shouldn’t have “been that way”. And that way has far less to do with what you did, than it does who you are. Being “that way” is Black.

My point is, if this belief is so normalized in real life about violence on Black bodies- that somehow, we must have done something to deserve this- what makes you think that this belief does not affect how you comprehend Black people suffering in stories?

Hippocratic Oath

Human experimentation? Vivisection? Organ stealing? Begging for medicine? Dramatically bleeding out? Not trusting just anyone to see that you are hurt, because they might take advantage? All very real fears. The idea that pain is normal for Black people is especially rampant in the healthcare field, where ideas like our melanin making our skin thick enough to feel less pain (no), an overblown fear of ‘drug misuse’, and believing we are overexaggerating our pain makes many Black people being unwilling to trust the healthcare system. And it comes down to this thought:

If you think that I feel less pain, you will allow me to suffer long before you believe that I am in pain.

I was psychologically spiraling I was in so much pain after my wisdom teeth removal, and my surgeon was more concerned about “addiction to the medication”. Only because Hot Chocolate’s mom is a nurse, did I get an effective medicine schedule. My mother ended up with jaw rot because her surgeon outright claimed that she didn’t believe that she was in more than the ‘healing’ pain after her wisdom teeth were removed. She also has a gigantic, macabre (and awesome fr) scar on her stomach from a c-section she received after four days of labor attempting to have me… all because she was too poor and too Black to afford better doctors who wouldn’t have dismissed her struggles to push.

As a major example of dismissed Black pain: let’s discuss the mortality rate of Black women during childbirth, as well as the likelihood of our children to die. When we say “they will let you bleed to death”, we mean it.

“Black women have the highest maternal mortality rate in the United States — 69.9 per 100,000 live births for 2021, almost three times the rate for white women, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Black babies are more likely to die, and also far more likely to be born prematurely, setting the stage for health issues that could follow them through their lives.”

Even gynecology roots in dismissal (and taking brutal advantage of) Black women's pain:

“The history of this particular medical branch … it begins on a slave farm in Alabama,” Owens said. “The advancement of obstetrics and gynecology had such an intimate relationship with slavery, and was literally built on the wounds of Black women.” Reproductive surgeries that were experimental at the time, like cesarean sections, were commonly performed on enslaved Black women. Physicians like the once-heralded J. Marion Sims, an Alabama doctor many call the “father of gynecology,” performed torturous surgical experiments on enslaved Black women in the 1840s without anesthesia. And well after the abolition of slavery, hospitals performed unnecessary hysterectomies on Black women, and eugenics programs sterilized them.”

If you think Black characters are not in pain, or that they’re overexaggerating, you’re more likely to be okay with them suffering more in comparison to those whose pain you take more seriously- to those you believe.

What’s My Point?

My point is that whatever terrifying scene you think you’re writing, whatever violent whump scenario you think you’re about to put your Black characters through, there’s a chance it has probably happened and was treated as nonimportant (damn shame, right?) And when those terrifying scenes are both written and read, the way their suffering will be felt depends on how much you as a reader care, how much you believe they are suffering.

There’s a joke amongst readers of color that many dystopian tales are tales of “what happened if white people experienced things that the rest of us have already been put through?” Think concepts like alien invasion and mass eradication of the existing population- you may think of that as an action flick, meanwhile peoples globally have suffered colonization for centuries. The Handmaid’s Tale- forced birthing and raising of “someone else’s” children, always subject to sexual harassment by the Master while subject to hate from the Mistress- that’s just being a Mammy.

There’s nothing wrong with having Black characters be violent or deal with violence, especially in a story where every character is going through shit. That is not the problem! What I am trying to tell you, though, is to be aware that certain violent imagery is going to evoke familiarity in Black viewers. And if I as a Black viewer see my very real traumas treated as entertainment fodder- or worse, dismissed- by the narrative and other viewers, I will probably not want to consume that piece of media anymore. I will also question the intentions and the beliefs of the people who treat said traumas so callously. Now, if that’s not something you care about, that’s on you! But for people who do care, it is something we need to make sure we are catching before we do it.

“So I just can’t write anything?!”

Stop that. There are plenty of examples of stories containing horror and violence with Black characters. There’s an entire genre of us telling our own stories, using the same violence as symbolism. I’m not telling you “no” (least not always). I’m telling you to take some consideration when you write the things that you do. There’s nothing wrong about writing your Black characters being violent or experiencing violence. But there is a difference between making it narratively relevant, and thoughtlessly using them as a “spook”, a stereotypical scary Black person, or a punching bag, especially in a way that may invoke certain trauma.

The Black Guy Dies First

The joke is that we never survive these horror movies because we either wouldn’t be there to begin with, or because we would make better decisions and the narrative can’t have that. But the reality is just that a lot of writers find Black characters- Black people- expendable in comparison to their white counterparts, and it shows. More of a “here, damn” sort of character, not worth investment and easy to shrug off. The book itself I haven’t read, just because it’s pretty new, but I’m looking forward to doing so. But from the summaries, it goes into horror media history and how Black characters have fared in these stories, as well as how that connects to the society those characters were written in. I.e., a thorough version of this lesson.

Instead, I wrote an entire list of questions you could possibly ask yourself involving violence or villainy involving a Black character. Feel free to print it and put it on your wall where you write if you have to! I cannot stress enough that asking yourself questions like these are good both for your creation and just… being less antiblack in general when you consume media.

Black Horror/Black Thriller

We, too, have turned our violent experiences into stories. I continue to highly suggest watching our films and reading our stories to see how we convey our fear, our terror, our violence and our pain. There are plenty of stories that work- Get Out, The Angry Black Girl and her Monster, Candyman, Lovecraft Country, and Nanny are some examples. There’s even a blog by the co-writer of The Black Guy Dies First who runs BlackHorrorMovies where he reviews horror movies from throughout the decades.

Desiree Evans has a great essay, We Need Black Horror More Than Ever, that gets into why this genre is so creative and effective, that I think says what I have to say better than I could.

“Even before Peele, Black horror had a rich literary lineage going back to the folklore of Africa and its Diaspora. Stories of haints, witches, curses, and magic of all kinds can be found in the folktales collected by author and anthropologist Zora Neale Hurston and in the folktales retold by acclaimed children’s book author Virginia Hamilton. One of my earliest childhood literary memories is being entranced by Hamilton’s The House of Dies Drear and Patricia McKissack’s children’s book classic The Dark-Thirty: Southern Tales of the Supernatural, both examples of the ways Black authors have tapped into Black history along with our rich ghostlore.” “Black horror can be clever and subversive, allowing Black writers to move against racist tropes, to reconfigure who stands at the center of a story, and to shift the focus from the dominant narrative to that which is hidden, submerged. To ask: what happens when the group that was Othered, gets to tell their side of the story?”

For on the nose simplicity, I’m going to use hood classic Tales From The Hood (1994) as an example of how violence can be integrated into Black horror tales. Tales From The Hood is like… The Twilight Zone by Black people. Messages discussing issues in our community, done through a mystical twist. Free on Tubi! If you want to stop here before some spoilers, it’s an hour and a half. A great time!

In the first story, a Black political activist is murdered by the cops. The scene is reflective of the real-world efforts to discredit and even murder activists speaking out against police violence, as well as the types of things done to criminalize Black citizens for capture. The song Strange Fruit plays in the background, to drive the point home that this is a lynching.

The second story deals with a Black little boy experiencing abuse in the home, drawing a green monster to show his teacher why he’s covered in wounds and is lashing out at school.

The fourth story is about a gangbanger who undergoes “behavioral modification” to be released from prison early. Think of the classic scene from A Clockwork Orange. He must watch as imagery of the Klan and of happy whites lynching Black bodies (real-life pictures and video, mind you!) play into his mind alongside gang violence.

Isn’t Violence Stereotypical or antiblack?

That last story from Tales From The Hood leads into a good point. It can be! But it does not have to be! Violence is a human experience. By suggesting we don’t experience it or commit it, you would be denying everything I’ve just spoken about. We don’t have to be racist to write our Black characters in violent situations. We also don’t have to comprehend those situations through a racist lens.

Even experiences that seem “stereotypical” do not have to be comprehended that way. I get a LOT of questions about if something is stereotypical, and my response is always that it depends on the writing!!! You could give me a harmless prompt and it becomes the most racist story ever once you leave my inbox. But you could give me a “stereotypical” prompt and it be genuine writing.

Let’s take the movie Juice for example. Juice in my honest to God opinion becomes a thriller about halfway in. On its surface, Juice looks like bad Black boys shooting and cursing and doing things they aren’t supposed to be doing! Incredibly stereotypical- violent young thugs. You might think, “you shouldn’t write something like this- you’re telling everyone this is what your community is like”. First- there’s that respectability politics again! Just because something is not a “respectable” story does not mean it doesn’t need to be told!

But if we’re actually paying attention, what we’re looking at is four young boys dealing with their environment in different ways. All four of them originally stick together to feel power amongst their brotherhood as they all act tough and discover their own identities. They are not perfect, but they are still kids. In this environment, to be tough, to be strong, you do the things that they are doing. You run from cops, you steal from stores, you mess with all the girls and talk shit and wave weapons. That’s what makes you “big”. That’s what gives you the “juice”- and the “juice” can make you untouchable.

I want to focus particularly on Bishop, yes, played by Tupac. Bishop, the antagonist of Juice, is particularly powerless, angry, and scared of the world around him. He puts on a big front of bravado, yelling, cursing, and talking big because he’s tired of being afraid, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it otherwise. So when he gets access to a gun- to power- he quickly spirals out of control. His response to his fear is to wave around a tool that makes him feel stronger, that stops the things that scare him from scaring him.

Now, that is not a unique tale! That is a tale that any race could write about, particularly young white men with gun violence! If you ever cared for Fairuza Balk’s character in The Craft, it is a similar fall from grace. But because it is on a young, Black man in the hood, audiences are less likely to empathize with Bishop. And granted, Bishop is unhinged! But many a white character has been, and is not shoved into a stereotype that white people cannot escape from!

Now would I be comfortable if a nonblack person attempted to write a narrative like Juice? Yes, because I’d worry about the tendency to lose the messaging and just fall into stereotype outright. But it can be done! The story can be told!

“But if Black violence bad, why rap?”

The short answer:

“In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political, I must listen to the birds, and in order to hear the birds, the warplanes must be silent.”

Marwhan Makhoul, Palestinian Poet

First, rap is not “only violence and misogyny”. Step your understanding of the genre up; there are plenty of options outside of the mainstream that don’t discuss those things. Second, every genre of music has mainstream popular songs about vice and sin. The idea that Black rappers have to be held to a higher standard is yet another example of how we are seen as inherently bad and must prove ourselves good. We could speak about nothing but drugs and alcohol and 1) there would still be white artists who do the very same and 2) we would still deserve to be treated like humans.

That said, many- not all- rappers rap about violence for the same reason Billy Joel wrote We Didn’t Start the Fire, the same reason Homer first spoke The Iliad- because they have something to say about it! They stand in a long tradition of people using poetry and rhythm to tell stories. Rap is an art of storytelling!

Rap is often used as an expression of frustration and righteous anger against a system built to keep us trapped within it. I’m not allowed to be angry? Why wouldn’t I be angry? Anger is a protective emotion, often when one feels helpless. Young Black people also began to reclaim and glorify the violence they lived in within their music, to take pride in their survival and in their success in a world that otherwise wanted them to fail. If I think the world fights against me no matter what I do, I’d rather live in pride than in shame with a bent head. Is it right? Maybe, maybe not. But if you don’t want them to rap about violence, why not alleviate the things leading to the violence in their environment?

Whether you choose to listen to their words, because the delivery scares you- and trust, angry Black men scared the music industry and society- doesn’t make the story any less valid!

Conclusion

I am going to drop a classic by Slick Rick called Children’s Story. I think listening to it- and I mean genuinely listening- summarizes what I’ve said here about how Black creators can tell stories, even violent ones, and how even the delivery through Blackness can change how you perceive them. Please take the time to listen before continuing.

I’ve been alive for 28 years and have known this song my whole life, and it just hit me tonight: not once is the kid in this story identified as Black! My perception of this story was completely altered by my own experiences, who told the story, and how it was told.

That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can tell stories of violence that involve Black characters. I love and adore a good hurt/comfort myself! But you need to be cognizant of your audience and how they’ll perceive the story you’re telling, and that includes the types of imagery you include. It’s not effective catharsis via hurt/comfort for the audience if your Black readers are being completely left out of the comfort. “I wrote this for myself” that’s cool, but… if you wrote racism for yourself, and you’re willing to admit that to yourself, that’s on you. I’d like to think that’s not your intention! You can write these stories of woe and pain without mistreating your Black characters- but that requires knowing and acknowledging when and how you’re doing that!

@afropiscesism makes a solid point in this post: our horror stories are not just fairytales full of amorphous boogiemen meant to teach lessons. Racial violence is very real, very alive, and we cannot act like the things we write can be dismissed outright as “oh well it’s not real”. Sure, those characters aren’t real. But the way you feel about Black bodies and violence is, and often it can slip into your writing as a pattern without you even realizing it. Be willing to get uncomfortable and check yourself on this as you write, as well as noticing it in other works!

If you’re constantly thinking “I would never do this”, you’ll never stop yourself when you inevitably do! If you know what violent imagery can be evoked, you can utilize it or avoid it altogether- but only if you’re willing to get honest about it. You might not intend to do any of this, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t change the pattern, because as always, it’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers!

[starryem0461]

[CW: mention of sexual themes, so to any minors reading this, please skip this. Not with spicy intent, but mature topics including pregnancy.]

No joke, Haunting Ground is creeping into being a secondary fixation of mine; it’s actually quite fun! I appreciate it as an art piece; I adore its sound design. All of the rooms are unique in some way, so you can generally find your way around through memory most of the time, and the puzzles and their solutions aren’t too terribly convoluted. The solution is usually somewhat close to the puzzle, and the panic system and chasing mechanics feel very fluid! Although it has its occasional hiccups in turning around, the controls are very satisfying.

Ironically enough, I’m acespec, so sex just as a concept is something both strange and fascinating to me. It seems to hold this power over people I just..don’t understand. Maybe it’s the ‘tism in me, but I tend to seek out such things being portrayed in varying lights. Maybe to research it, in order to understand it? I still don’t ’get it’, not entirely.

It’s a secondary fixation that’s come and gone, so I’m generally aware of the plot and what comes already. Even still, as a woman that’s terrified of pregnancy, a lot of Haunting Ground’s presented spooks hit home for me. The game is a masterclass on replicating The Ick, if you know what I mean. That instinctual lean back with a disgust in your face because of the stink that just permeated through your ears. I know some scenes coming up are gonna feel real icky😖

But hey, that’s how you know a piece of art is effective, you know? That it hits you like that. I respect this game a great deal for how it portrays the topics it does. It feels respectfully done, in my book. Nothing too terribly explicit is directly shown, and jumpscares aren’t flashy and loud. Very tame, and minimal. Has its tense moments, but not scary. (Then again, Alien Isolation does very little to me bc I internalized it as a stealth/puzzle game 💀 so I might just be numb to it)

(Psst speaking of fear, not to get political but yeah. Imagine being stuck with growing an entire ass human being in your body against your will. Please, for the love of god vote. Don’t subject millions to the fear this game emits.)

I haven’t beaten Debilitas yet (I’d have done so by now if I could remember pathing better), but what I’ve played for myself I do look forward to seeing more of the game!

As for now, Daniella is probably my favorite antagonist of the game. I’ve seen her cutscenes but I look forward to seeing them directly 👀 she has some of my favorite dialogue, props to her voice actor and the devs that worked on her animations and character design, yall nailed it! She’s so cool, there’s just something about her little “Blood, Flesh, Woman” speech’s phrasing that really gets my brain’s gears turning. I look for to seeing that scene for myself.

Maybe that’s the aceness talking? Like yeah, folks have sex and some are drawn to it, but…why? It’s just….weird. And the fact that she can’t feel pleasure—

Oh. Is..is that technically ace representation? Would Daniella be ace?

I found interest in this game before I even knew what ace was.

Go figure Daniella was my favorite, other than (Fiona and) the dog 🧹🚶‍♀️♠️

and they're so expensive (´;︵;`)

[slfcare]

you are so kind. i just discovered your blog and im crying while reading your posts because you radiate a light and hope through your words that inspires me despite everything. i love that you write anecdotally since it feels so much more real and tangible that i could also achieve what you have than a generic positivity post which, while im sure are made with good intentions, always feel so distant. you are a stranger across the world from me yet i feel i am talking to an older sibling from across the kitchen table in my childhood home. i don’t know you and yet my fears and struggles were once yours… and now i have yet another source to look to and say to myself “you can’t give up yet. look. it will not be like this forever. there is proof.”

i hope for every single star in the sky to conspire to give you the brightest future ever and may your path be filled with opportunities abounding. i hope you never waver and that even if you do, your heart fortifies itself with the knowledge that you have so much goodness in you. i hope that one day i can be at least a little like you.

i am actually speechless. i probably typed up and deleted tens of responses to this but none of them seem to capture / convey how i actually feel.

thank you so much for your genuine message and the fact that you sent it even though you didn't have to! thank you for taking the time to read my posts and sit at this metaphorical kitchen table with me. thank you for even opening up enough to receive what i'm saying, because i can have the most beautiful words ready for you, but they wouldn't mean anything if you weren't hearing them.

i hope that with time you will learn to believe in yourself with the exact conviction and faith you believe in me with, and in the meantime i'm always here for you, rooting for you and sharing my random thought pieces in the hopes it will help you forward. whether it's as the sibling at the kitchen table or as a symbol of 'future you' or simply as words on a screen by a stranger across the planet.

whichever one i am, our futures are equally as bright, our paths equally as opportunity-filled, our hearts equally as strengthened by the goodness we both possess. you will be okay as i am okay. i have no doubt about it.

[puppywilliams]

just to ruin things.

summary: you and ellie’s cant run from your past forever.

warnings: toxic!ellie, mentions of drugs (cocaine), mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of relapsing, angst, implied bi reader

a/n: hi! ive been sooo very busy but heres a little smth i wrote! this might be boring but i need to post </3 also listened to memories by conan gray while writing this if you care

────────୨ৎ────────

some stupid party got you exactly where you always ended up. in ellies truck. it made you so fucking angry the way she always swooped in to save that day like she was some superhero, like she was doing you a favor. you couldn’t blame her too much, you always gave in like a lost dog finding its owner.

part of you Needed her to save you, the unfortunate truth you weren’t ready to unfold, its one you couldn’t face in fear of what it might do to the wall you’ve spent Too long already rebuilding, 7 months and 13 days of rebuilding to be exact. you tell yourself you’re not counting, its just an estimate. like this, its just friendly, this is what friends do. they drive you home. you’re not even that drunk, you knew you were getting into her car, you knew you were letting her right back into the place you needed to keep her out of the most.

her eyes were straight on the road with her knuckles around the steering wheel. you looked at her, freckles splatted across her face like god himself hand picked each one. “youre a fucking idiot you know that? all over that guy? you dont even know him. he couldve slipped something in your drink, youre gonna get yourself killed.” she spat venom through the atmosphere, turning everything sour like she managed to do every damn time.

“fuck you.” you spat back. it wasnt worth it, never was nor ever had been. but ellie argued either way.

“what? you still cant handle the truth?” she piled on, it was like a never ending mound of what you did that she didn’t like or approved of, it pushed your buttons in a way ellie knew it would. when you spend enough time together, the memories you’ve engraved into your head don’t expire. ellie knew you like she practiced your coding. every nook, every cranny, every corner, every place she knew and altered as she pleased. ruining you every time without so much as an apology. it angered you so much, for someone who swore she didnt care, it hurt.

you looked down and fiddled with the hem of your dress, hyper focusing in on one thing so you didnt burst like a can of shaken soda, youd been on the edge of your breaking point since you had broken up. so many words you didn’t say, so many words you wish you didn’t say.

“cant speak now? what? have too much to drink? bet you remember that guy you were all over. probably remember him more than you remember anything about me.” she pierced daggers right into your pressure points, only fueling the fire that endorsed your temper.

you took a breath before turning your head to look at her. “you dont have the right ellie. youre a fucking loser. you know that?” you looked right at her. the way you knew she despised when she couldn’t meet your gaze. “i dont Need you to save me, we’re long past that. what i do and who i do is none of your god damn business!” you threw your hands into the air finally letting yourself lose your calm facade, not missing a beat in fear she might cut in and ruin what you know you Need to say, for yourself and maybe its a plead. you dont think, only spoke.

“youre acting like when we were together you didnt drink your ass off every fucking night. sitting on My couch, watching My tv, crawling into My bed pissed out of your mind, you dont have any idea do you? none?” you breathed heavily with tears in your eyes looking Right at her before moving your gaze again to meet the hem of you dress. knowing the battle you say is with ellie, is actually with yourself. its one you always lose. “im so fucking m-mad at you still..i dont need this, or to see you at all…id listen to silence and see nothing but black just to know id never get confirmation you still existed..i cant stand you..” ellie stayed silent, the way she always did. white knuckles gripped over the steering wheel, her jaw clenched, but you see the gloss over her eyes. you see the way she breathes like shes making sure its the perfect rhythm.

you closed your eyes, the silence was so deafening you thought you got your wish, but she opened her mouth proving you wrong and teaching you once again to not get your hopes up.

“you want me to got care anymore? you fucking got it.” she put it simple, you should be grateful but you cant seem to be. its your weakness, and its one you’ll never strengthen, her weight always dragging you back down like a purgatory, but your shackles will never be lifted, so potentially its a sugarcoated way of calling it hell.

you turn to look out the window. “thank god.” you utter under your breath, a chunk of your soul hopes she doesn’t hear, of course she does. “dont ask me to pick you up at 11pm anymore. im not coming.”

she makes a good point, a great one even. one that not even you could manage to figure out if you tried.

“then stop picking up.” its all you say, its all you Needed to say. you glance at the way shes losing internal fight in the torn up seat of her truck.

“you know i cant do that..” she whispers as a single tear falls from her eye. she tries to wipe it away with the knuckle bound to her thumb before you see. “i know.”

“then why? why pull me in to push me away? why?! why do you do it?” you fall silent, its a conversation you hadn’t prepared for, but its a hole you dug so long ago it feels like centuries, but like every past, it catches up to you. its something so long overdue it churns your stomach like a knot in a rope you cant seem to unravel. “what am i meant to do ellie? come crawling back to your doorstep and repeat everything i spent so long trying to mend myself back together over? seeing your face is the worst kind of relapse. its a reminder of what i worked for, to self sooth for months and act like kissing someone else doesn’t still feel like cheating. i do what i Have to do ellie, i cant plead with you, not when youre not mine and im not yours, because just like you. i have no fucking right..” your voice shook with emotions you didn’t know you we’re still capable of feeling.

ellie doesn’t try to hide her tears anymore, its pointless. its something rare, something you so selfishly cherish. its like feeding a sweet tooth that cant be settled unless you have empathy, you crave it every day knowing you never got it. you tell yourself shes crying for You and not yourself, its the fix of what will get you through this conversation, through tonight, and through next week.

“you think thats what i want?” she dryly chuckles before scoffing, using her pointer and thumb to wipe at her tear ducts. you fucking hate it. “you think thats what i want? i want you to be happy believe it or not, even if its not me. but god damn, it kills me seeing you with someone else and you dont even Care.”

you take her words as something thats malicious, but deep down somewhere in your heart you know its just the truth, maybe you’re not ready for this, you might never be. “you made that decision a long time ago. its out of my control now.”

her face hardened and her eyes stayed put on the road ahead. “you gave up on me. you put everyone else and everything else before me, was i supposed to stay?” she breathes out through her nostrils. you looked at her like she had said something outrageous, like it was a life altering claim.

“thats what you think huh?” you scoffed rolling your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest looking back out the window.

she raised her voice, her temper always did run thin. something you didn’t miss. “yeah, it is!” she bit the inside of her cheek and took a deep inhale.

“no ellie. i tried, and thats what you never give me credit for. i tried to help you get sober, i payed for your rehab bill so you could come back home to me, but the first thing you did when you got home was snort a line before you even looked my way. we’re not dogs, i cant lick your wounds and tell you they’ll heal, i had myself to worry for. you put drugs above me, so i stopped trying. i stopped begging you.” she fell silent for what you hoped would be the last time tonight, you watched the way she went to speak but shut herself up.

her voice still appeared a few seconds later. “i know i was an addict, i know i fucked up but you gave up on me regardless.” you looked at the tense expression she had as she drove, not even sure if she was driving in the right direction anymore. as much as you

wanted this to all be over you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“you gave up on yourself. i didn’t even get a sorry.” you said dryly, looking back at your feet. everything seemed to consume you. “well im saying sorry now. and for the record i still love you.”

you wanted to recoil, to scream at her and tell her to fuck off, but you softened. you wiped your eyes, sniffling. “i still love you too, it drives me crazy.”

it was the truth, one you ran from. something you denied to your friends and family, knowing if you said anything remotely to the truth you’d see the way their face morph into an disapproving expression.

“i know ill never have you again, but for what its worth i’m thankful you were mine.” its something ellie never intended to say out loud but she used every resource she could.

you gave in to something she wasn’t even asking for, just something you needed to ruin you.

“for what its worth if you asked me to be yours again i don’t think i could say no.”

“then dont say no.”

[gotham-adrenaline]

Can I make a request

Plsssss I never get picked can you do a

Tim Drake x reader where the reader is a girl and she lives with Tim in their own apartment and that she just came home from getting her hair done and it’s this awesome Red Robin streaked patterned in her hair and she surprises Tim plsssssssssss I never get pic for requests 😩😢😩😢😩😢

I gotchu babes- I got way too into my feels during this so the fluff may be so thick it'll choke you, but hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Tim Drake x fem! reader

Word count: 1900

Warnings: None really, mentions of fear toxin and Tim's specific brand of issues, and also near-lethal levels of fluff

So maybe it was a little silly to be nervous, considering the situation. Or a lot silly. Either way, acknowledging the ridiculousness of your current feelings didn’t make them actually go away, much to your disappointment.

You just really wanted him to like it. You wanted him to understand like he always did. 

When you told Tim you were going to get your hair done this afternoon, he didn’t seem surprised, likely because you had told him you were considering getting a new style almost a month ago when you first got the idea. 

Stepping into the elevator, you made a mental note to send the salon a muffin basket at some point this week. The tip you left was fairly large, definitely larger than the standard amount people give, but most people don’t spend almost an hour making sure the shade of red dye will be absolutely perfect while being unable to explain why it needs to be so specific and why all the photo references are weird and extremely close up. The hair stylists who dealt with you today deserved far more than muffins. 

The black dye was much simpler thankfully. 

Your stylist warned you that the colours would wash out and change over time, which was to be expected really. The particular shade of your hair didn’t need to last forever, just long enough for you to get home. 

Because Tim had an eye for details. He noticed so much and cared enough to store all those tiny facts, and yet he was always surprised when you remembered anything about him, even major things. He was so used to going unseen, even by those close to him, and that wasn’t fair. 

You loved Tim. You loved him, and you noticed him, and you needed him to know that. You needed him to know that saw him and loved him because of that, not despite of it. 

Your reflection stared back at you in the spotless reflection of the elevator doors, black hair with large red streaks running through it hanging loose around your face. 

Yeah, maybe a dye job like this shouldn’t have taken as long as it did, but Tim would (hopefully) see the specific shades and understand. You didn’t spend so much time matching the red exactly to his Red Robin suit for no reason, after all. 

Tim “told you” he was Red Robin over 3 years ago now, if you consider telling you as him showing up at your apartment (the one before Tim and you moved in together, a tiny flat in a less-than-ideal neighbourhood of Gotham), bleeding and suffering a mild reaction to fear toxin. He insisted on “guarding you” until Batman (who is apparently Bruce Wayne? Sometimes you truly hate Gotham) showed up half an hour later and found Tim curled up, unconscious, on your coach with you trapped underneath him (for safety reasons, of course). 

When he showed up the next day looking like a kicked puppy, clutching a container of baked goods from Alfred, he seemed genuinely surprised when you steered him inside and back to the coach with a cup of hot chocolate so he could explain while comfortable (“Tim, I saw you less than 12 hours ago, bleeding on my kitchen floor and shaking in fear while trying to protect me from people who weren’t there. Sit down before I make you.”). 

And yeah, sure, maybe it would have been nice to know the guy you’ve been dating for a year was a vigilante who fought criminals and patrolled Gotham every night, but that knowledge could be incredibly dangerous for you, Tim and his whole family. You got it, as much as you could as a civilian, anyhow. This is the same guy who got injected with a new strain of Crane’s drug and immediately became so terrified you were in danger that he ran from his entire family to ensure your safety. You couldn’t argue that he didn’t care enough to tell you about his night job even if you wanted to, not after something like that. 

Even now, you could tell that the obligation of being Red Robin weighed on him, especially recently. He’d been stuck on different missions almost constantly this entire last month and when he finally made it home during the small breaks in between, he was exhausted and usually in pain. Then he’d try to ask you about your day as if his hands weren’t trembling from sleep deprivation. And worse, he’d look guilty when you ushered him into the shower and heated leftover soup for when he got out, apologizing after he nearly fell asleep sitting up at the table as you told him about the new drama at your job. 

As if the world nearly ending at least twice within two weeks was his fault. As if he wanted to be so busy lately, working to his breaking point. As if he hadn’t been trying so desperately to be available for you, insisting on flying straight back to Gotham after a battle instead of resting, calling you almost every night before you went to bed regardless of time zones, asking Alfred to drop off brownies because you mentioned craving them offhandedly in a message the night before. 

As if he hasn’t made sacrifices for you time and time again. 

So yeah, you missed him like hell over this past month, but you also loved him more than enough to compensate for that pain. And Tim showed how much he loved you in return so clearly it almost hurt that he couldn’t see it. He didn’t need to feel guilty that being Red Robin made life difficult recently, that was out of control. Everything that he could have done to be here for you, he did. And you saw that. You saw him. 

The elevator dinged gently, startling you out of your thoughts. Slipping out the doors as they slid open, you dug your keys out of your pocket as you approached the apartment. 

It wasn’t always easy to tell, but Red Robin’s uniform was a different shade of red than Robin’s. While the style of both outfits has changed over time, Tim always kept the colour tones individual. Once, cuddled up with you in a pillow fort you both assembled on the living room floor during a movie night, Tim admitted that it was intentional. That he sometimes still needed the reminder that Red Robin was different, a separate entity from Robin. That he was different. And that those differences could be a good thing. 

So it just wasn’t fair that he felt guilty over something he suffered so much for when it was all for the sake of others. He gave so much to protect people, including you, and still tried to make sure you knew you were loved. 

So maybe matching your hair perfectly to the colours of the Red Robin outfit probably wasn’t the biggest gesture in the world, but it meant something to you, and knowing Tim, he’d understand what you were trying to say. And if he didn’t, well, you’d have to trap him on the coach for another emotional conversation, even if he whined the whole time. 

The front door opened with a click and you pushed inside, hanging your keychain on the hook near the coat rack. Tim’s voice drifted out from the living room, talking with someone on the phone. Admittedly, you were still a bit nervous, but this was Tim, and you loved him. With a measured breath, you walked into the room. 

“-but that’s not how donating works, Damian, and being a Wayne doesn’t mean you can try and steal elephants from the zoo- no, I don’t care that she looked lonely and that they’re Dick’s favourite animal, you could have-” Tim’s mouth clicked shut mid-sentence when he saw you, staring wide-eyed as you enter the doorway. 

“I gotta go, call Dick,” and ignoring the younger boy's annoyed squawks you could hear from the other side of the room, Tim hung up the call. Setting his phone down on the couch, he fluidly rose to his feet and closed the distance between you both in 4 long strides. 

Hovering his hand beside a loose strand of red hanging by your face, he gently wrapped it around his finger and looked down at you, the smallest smile on his face.

“Hey, sweetheart,” his voice is gentle, far quieter than it was on the phone a minute ago, as if speaking too loud would break the moment and you’d disappear in his hands. “This is new.”

And of course Tim would ask a question without making it a question, as if you tripped and somehow accidentally got your hair dyed in his colours. 

You hummed, leaning into him further as he fiddled with the bright piece of hair, a smile of your own pushing across your lips. “Yeah. You like it?”

Tucking the lock behind your ear, Tim pulled you even further into his arms, the hug so encompassing you could hear his voice rumbling through his chest. 

“You’re wearing my colours, baby,” He laughed disbelievingly, long fingers carding through your hair, drifting from black to red and then back again. “Yeah. I like it.”

Sighing into his shirt and letting him take some of your weight, your eyes drifted shut, focusing on his steady heartbeat and the pleasant shivers across your skin from his caresses. 

“Hey,” Tim whispered, hand sliding down to cup your cheek and tilt your head to look him in the eye, and he looked so soft right now in a way you haven’t seen recently, too stressed and guilty to indulge in himself like this. “I missed you.”

“I know.” 

Pressing yourself up to meet his lips, you allowed your hand to drift into his own hair, keeping your movements as slow and loving as you could. 

With the life your lover has lived, Tim knows how cheap words could be, so you found yourself trying to show how much you loved him in other ways. With homemade soup and pillow forts and stupidly long hair appointments. But just in case-

Pulling back after only a few seconds, you cradled him close and grinned up at him. “I love you.”

And he got it. Of course he did. Because it’s Tim, who noticed all those tiny details, all the things he could about you, and loved you because of those details and not despite of them. Yeah, he could be blind when it came to people's affection for him, and the stress of recent events only made his mind fixate further on the “what ifs”, on what he sees as his own inadequacies, but even he couldn’t miss this. 

When he kissed you again, he was smiling so wide you both had to pull away far too soon. He pressed his lips to your forehead instead, hiding his grin against you. 

“I love you too,” and then, “Thank you.”

And it’s hard to say what exactly he was saying thank you for. Thank you for supporting him as Red Robin enough to wear his colours, even knowing the teasing you’ll receive from the rest of his family? Thank you for understanding that he missed you, even if he couldn’t come home? Thank you for loving him? 

It didn’t make a difference, in the end. You understood what he meant.

[meemaw-the-beemaw]

I used to be all maps all the time but now I think it’s more situational. Sometimes I actually don’t want a map depending on what I want to achieve. It really depends on how I’m engaging my players. If I’m trying to challenge my players with tactical combat, a maps vital, but if I’m trying to emulate other emotions, like fear, heroism or mundanity a maps not strictly speaking necessary or might even be detrimental.

Out if those fear is most obvious. It’s easier to do horror when the imagination is running wild, but in a way the most interesting emotion to evoke is boredom. It sounds counterintuitive but sometimes I want a boring fight, to build up a sort of mundane danger level that exists in a fantasy setting (this comes with many caveats and ifs and buts), and for that I never use a map.

There’s been a consistent push towards mapless play in the TTRPG space (in all but those games that lean most heavily into their tactical wargaming roots). The idea of genre emulation and trope usage has made tracking precise physical space all but obsolete in most cases . . . but I hate that. I think that there are some stories that are only at their most effective when one can see, interact with, and directly make use of their environment. There’s the obvious example of war games, but stealth games also heavily benefit from having an environment that players are able to see (or at least see a vague representation of). The visual representation of physical reality helps ground the fiction in that reality, and mapless play almost always loses that.

Do you prefer maps? Do you hate maps? Why or why not?

[cranberrymoons]

we deserve a pre-canon buddie fight where buck does something reckless and eddie gets angry with him bc he was scared 🥺💗

ooh see but i don’t think he would get angry like that over buck doing something reckless! i think eddie understands buck on a deep enough level and if he’s not honestly just next to him doing the reckless thing with him, i think he is the one person who is going to see him do it and say “i love you and i understand why you did this and it is for sure terrifying that you did it but it is part of who you are so i’m not surprised and i love you”

the only time we’ve ever seen him even get angry with buck (and it was for like. a day, and they had the world’s MOST embarrassing divorced dads fight and then said :) and hugged about it) was when buck “left him” and reactivated his shannon trauma which was already on the surface because it was so soon after she died and he was worried about chris. so i think if they were going to get in another Big Fight it would be over something like. well i can’t actually think of something because they’re crazy. but i feel like it would come from a place of fear but not necessarily a “how dare you do this reckless thing” fear, you know? because eddie knows buck and loves him for who he is, and part of who he is is sometimes reckless for the sake of saving other people who he sees as more valuable than himself. ugh :(

[senseandaccountability]

One thing that I really dislike about Veilguard is that (spoilers through most of act 2)

the tone of the Lighthouse crowd is so chipper, so life coach-y whereas DA sidequests in their usual way are all about death and despair and little codex entries about idk people dying alone in the dark not because of some god’s failure but because people suck and betray each other out of greed and fear. See: overarching theme of the series.

And the Crossroads are LITERALLY FALLING APART AT THE SEAMS with Solas’s guilt and regret and you can, as you poke around there, fight a Boss Champion called The Betrayal of Felassan which the Caretaker says is extremely powerful because FELASSAN and there are notes and codes entries scattered everywhere that tells a much more subtle story not just about him but about the past. But it drowns in the many variations of the same group convo circled around the topic “so Solas regrets what he did?” WELCOME TO THE MEETING ROOK, YOU ARE ONLY TEN YEARS LATE LET’S START FROM THE BEGINNING AGAIN, SHALL WE? The main narrative is trying too hard to make him a (very sexy) Trickster God of Trickery and it exhausts me when the minor things like Solas’s memories and the codex give me a much, much better character and depicts an Empire that got corrupted by its own brilliance and lack of boundaries and Solas and the likes of him being counterweights to that, forming the line that should not be crossed, questioning authority - which is ANOTHER CRUCIAL THEME FOR THIS SERIES. The subtext talks about the dangers of blind worship, of hierarchies (please remember Solas proto-anarchist takes on society in DAI, his genuine disgust at all sorts of servitude, his spite if you abuse your Herald status, his entire CHARACTER) and abuse of power, of entitlement and lack of morals. You can do this thing, but should you? That's one of the crucial things about Solas as a character too, it cuts through the best and worst of him. His greatest fear, as he tells a friendly route Rook after Blood of Arlathan, is to end up like Elgar'nan, entitled and blind. As a summary of this moral conundrum the game gives us “SO SOLAS AND MYTHAL WERE DOIN’ IT?” and Rook’s refusal to accept that is written like “ewww, not the guy in my head doing it with Mythal” like some overgrown teenager. THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE, ROOK? 

Also, the lack of subtlety and nuance about the Veil thing drives me batty like Solas tells Rook that he had made a plan to minimize the damage done to the world when the Veil was meant to go down. No follow up for that though. Like, is that a possible option to consider? Solas says Varric wouldn’t have agreed to thousands dying (I’m really not even sure about that characterization of Varric) and Rook is meant to just let that go? Come on. I want Rook to talk to Solas - THE CREATOR OF THE VEIL - about the Veil. I am so extremely uninterested in “exchanging verbal jabs” with the Dread Wolf (I hated you so much, Purple Hawke, you were part of the reason I stayed away from the DA fandom for years) I WANT THE LORE OF THE VEIL AND ITS ACTUAL CONSEQUENCES OVER THE PAST TEN YEARS WHAT ABOUT THOSE, FEN’HAREL TELL ME WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN UP TO. 

Sorry. Those were… some words. 

I don’t even think Act 3 is going to solve these issues for me (NO SPOILERS), but we’ll always have fanfic, I guess. I’ll write a coda where everyone is miserable and has existentialist convos about mortality and morals and faith. 

--- A friendly reminder of this DAI banter that never fails to break my heart, and tell us the truth about Solas in a less clunky way than group conversations at the Lighthouse:

Cole: You didn't do it to be right. You did it to save them.

Inquisitor: Solas, what is Cole talking about?

Solas: A mistake. One of many made by a much younger elf who was certain he knew everything.

Cole: You weren't wrong, though.

I really, really wish Veilguard's main narrative gave me a sense of wanting to depict this.

[ciaossu-imagines]

Day 3 - at some point the vongola 10th squad will move to italy, lbr. Question is: what is rhe BIGGEST culture shock for the japanese boys? What ia the thing Dera and Lambo will miss most about Japan? Anything anyonw will have issues to adapt to or adapt to again?

I actually think that me and you have talked somewhat about this before! At least, the fact that I really don’t think that the Vongola 10th move to Italy full-time. The TYL! Arc was still set in Namimori, where we see a strong Vongola presence in Japan. We kind of see that a lot of them were off and doing their own things. Chrome was in France, along with Chikusa and Ken. Yamamoto had said he was off and playing baseball, and to be doing so at 24/25, I like to believe it means that he was at least able to go semi-pro, like he’d hoped in his younger years to do so. It’s said that Ryohei was visiting Italy to see Lussuria, and that combined with the photos on his dresser and Hana’s dresser, leads me to believe he divides his time in between different places and that he still spends a good chunk of time in Japan, albeit it I don’t believe he lives there year-round either. Hibari is so devoted to Namimori, it’s a huge part of his character, that I do not see him being willing to move full-time to a foreign country. On top of that, Tsuna’s Vongola Neo has broken literally every single other rule around Mafia life, for the most part, that I don’t think they’re going to follow some old-fashioned rule about needing to live and operate exclusively in Italy. There’s just a lot of inference, in my personal opinion, that lends itself more to the idea that Tsuna’s Vongola operates on a more global scale. Hell, if the right people were to find their way into the story in future arcs, I could even see the reach of the Vongola extending past Italy, past Japan, and extending into many other countries, though I don’t think it will be Tsuna’s goal and more something that just kind of happens.

With all that being said, I’ll do my best to answer the question, really just focusing on what the biggest culture shocks were for everyone when they first visited and what they had the most trouble getting used to, whenever they spend any amount of time there.

Tsuna really struggles with just how much more pressure he feels whilst in Italy. Whenever he is in Italy, whether it’s a short visit or a longer stay, there just seems to exist a pressure that he doesn’t feel when he’s back in Japan, with his Guardians and those that he’s gotten to know since his teenage years. In Italy, more people seem to know him and those that don’t seem to suddenly kowtow and treat him with a respect bordering a little on fear at times as soon as they hear the word Vongola in relation to him. Those left over from Timoteo’s time as the Vongola boss all seem to have great expectations from Tsuna or expect him to largely be something he’s really not, even though they have all had literally years to realize that Tsuna does not want the Vongola to continue the way it always had prior to this. There’s just a lot of stress, anxiety and pressure that he feels whenever he has to spend time there that he’s not really fond of. Plus, with all the stress and anxiety, on top of the difference in his diet while in Italy, he always struggles with stomach issues while there.

For Yamamoto, the biggest culture shock is really just getting used to how grand everything seems. Namimori was kind of a sleepy little Japanese town where most everyone knows everyone else. He’s used to knowing all his neighbours. He’s used to just casually chattering away with the elderly folks. He’s used to a specific type of architecture. Italy? Nothing at all like what he’s used to. It really hit him, the scale and grandness of some of Italy’s architecture, how big the country really is, how just…different…everything is on that first trip he took there with Dino back as a teen. Despite knowing in his mind after that what Italy can be like and that it is different from Namimori, the fact still really hits him each and every time he goes there. To him, there’s just something old and grand and cultured about Italy and while he loves it, it also kind of makes him feel out of place at times.

Gokudera doesn’t really experience much in the way of culture shock when it comes to returning to Italy. He spent too many years of his life there, so he knows what it’s like. He’s accustomed to it and every time he returns, he just kind of slips effortlessly back into the customs and culture of the place. He not only has that going for him, but I also don’t see him as being someone who is prone to experiencing much culture shocks. Any time he is going to be travelling to someone new and unfamiliar to him, he spends a lot of time researching the geography, interesting locations, history, and culture of the place he’s going to. He learns social customs and taboos. He’s always been kind of a nerd when it comes to researching in that it’s something that makes him happy, but this kind of research also means that he feels pretty well-prepared for exploring untrodden ground.

Ryohei? His biggest culture shock moment, and the thing he finds hardest to adjust to, is definitely the currency system. He’s spent his entire life using Japan’s currency system. He knows the yen. It’s all he knows. So switching to the euro and remembering how to convert a yen to a euro on the fly? It’s really, really hard for Ryohei, who isn’t the best at math-based things to begin with. It kind of hurts his brain and it’s going to take him at least a solid month before he becomes at all comfortable with it. Even then, he’s still going to prefer what he’s grown up with and is the most comfortable, and frequently encourages his Italian friends to champion converting their country’s currency system over to the yen.

While Lambo might have spent the first four to five years of his life in Italy, enough to have pleasant memories of it, he has, for the large part, grown up in Japan. He’s spent most of his formative years in Japan. He’s no more fully steeped in Italy’s culture than an Italian-American who goes on their first trip to Italy to ‘discover their roots’ is. It also doesn’t help that a lot of his memories are from such a young age, when they’re hazy enough that he doesn’t remember what was make-believe and what was truly real. Because of that, he is definitely prone to culture shock. The biggest one that gets him is the food culture between Japan and Italy…honestly though, he’s not complaining. While he’ll miss Nana’s home cooking anytime he’s in Italy for long stretches, he’ll find he’ll go back to Japan and really end up missing out on some traditional Italian dishes that he routinely had while there as well.

Hibari experiences less culture shock then you would expect. It’s mostly because, when he travels, which we’ve been shown he does with startling frequency (he’s been travelling as an adult when we see him in the Future Arc, he travels to various places to train with Dino during the ring arc), there’s explicit reasons and purpose behind his travels. When he’s going someplace new, someplace outside of Namimori or even outside of Japan, he’s doing so for one or two explicit reasons and those reasons are all he cares about. He doesn’t want to sightsee. He doesn’t give a shit about the culture or immersing himself in it. He can speak the language (sometimes only crudely, but enough to carry on basic conversations), he can figure out where he’s going, that’s all he needs. It’s really tough to experience culture shock when you don’t care about the culture, when you just want to accomplish something and leave the country.

Mukuro really doesn’t experience a lot of culture shock anytime he’s in Italy. It’s got nothing to do with whether he’s from there or not originally, as I know there’s some differing opinions on that, but more to do with the fact that Mukuro travels the world. He’s not someone who stays exclusively in one location constantly and has no experience outside his home base. He likes traveling and he’s someone who honestly finds a lot of fun in learning about the culture of a place before going there. Some of his ideas are definitely very misinformed and based on popular media, but he does his best to learn the language of the area and at least the broad strokes of culture. He doesn’t really get ‘culture shock’ because he’s throwing himself into the culture, getting as immersed in it as humanly possible, whenever possible. The new experiences and the differences in how societies function intrigues him instead of confusing him.

Chrome’s biggest culture shock the first time she was in Italy? Just how physically affectionate Italian’s seem to her. To her, compared to Japan, they seem very touch-focused and it’s something she really, really doesn’t like. There’s a lot of amazing things about Italy in Chrome’s mind, but that’s not one of them.

[fierceawakening]

…looks like I’m not done

It irks me so much too that people like this gloss our position as “some people are just evil” so they have a nice straw man to vanquish.

Dude, I don’t fucking know if some people are evil.

I don’t know if we’ll find a magical key someday and learn the words to say to Diddy that will make him go “shit, man! I coulda just thought about those things and stroked my own dick instead! I’d still jizz! You know what? I’m gonna do that from here on out. I’m sorry, man. Wow. All that was stupid of me.”

I hope we learn those words. I HOPE no one is evil, and that recidivism is just about society not being very smart.

But I don’t know it with sufficient certainty to feel confident that I know institutionalization will never be necessary.

The other side claims to know it.

I envy their certainty.

But it’s the same problem I have when people go “oh I KNOW God is real,” and I go “how?” and they go “thing that has very famously failed to convince lots of people.”

I can only go with what I see, and what I see is “I don’t think anything I could think of to say to Diddy would convince him to stop. I know MANY mental health professionals who are very well trained and highly skilled, and while I think they might have better success than me I can’t swear they would. We’re actually really bad at unraveling abusive people’s rationalizations, and having expertise only helps so much.”

Hell, I see it at the shelter where I work. We HAVE mental health experts who try to talk people down from violent behavior all the time.

Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.

I’m not sure we’re ready to end all institutionalization of any kind for any duration until we can get sometimes to always.

Stop talking to me like I just make up bogeymen in my head and not like I have to talk particular people out of verbally abusing me on the daily.

Most of all.

Dude.

Just STOP talking like my reason for worrying that some of those people are going to eventually have to get sequestered is fear and ignorance of what they’re actually like and not, you know, “Oh Susan is just like that. Defuse it today and she’ll do it again tomorrow. Just make sure she’s not between you and the door.”

Said this in a longer convo and thought it got at a point I’ve been struggling to make about “punishment should not be a part of morality” type claims I see on here:

Basically, I look at statements like, “if we were truly good we’d evolve past the desire to punish those who harm us and our loved ones” and think “every once in a while the left reinvents original sin and gives it a new name.”

[boomposhpow]

MAGMA DOODLES WITH @starzarer !!!!!!!!

[formerprincewille]

Something that really sets Wille and Simon apart from other queer ships is that when we say their love language is physical touch, IT REALLY IS PHYSICAL TOUCH. And I’m not speaking of just sex. Over the course of the show, the amount of touching between them is astronomical. And that’s really something rarely seen in queer media. There may be moments here or there, but often times there’s a lack of physical contact unless it’s for “the plot”. Wille and Simon feel like a real couple in the way they’re always physically reaching out for each other.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

literally the easiest way to make someone care about a character and make them feel well-rounded beyond basic traits like personality, sexuality, ethnicity, etc, is to give them an actual character arc, and it’s shocking how many people do not seem to fully realize this

you cannot just cram a bunch of tropes. tropes are not the main event, they are tools to tell the story you wish to tell. emotional impact comes from the lead up, so you can’t just jump ahead and expect the payoff to work. “I want this character to just ___ already!” but they’re not there yet. that’s where the arc comes in - how do they get there?

and! most importantly, and this is something I really want people to think about when writing - the most important relationship your character should have, always, is with the world and society around them. defining your character purely through their interactions with other characters are, I find, how a lot of female characters end up feeling flat or not engaging with the themes as much as the male characters, and also how queer and non-white characters wind up as devices for other characters’ development instead of being more fleshed out

[valewritessss]

The amount of criticism and hate the wottg book is getting makes me scared to like it bc it feels like if I do then I’m doing something wrong😅

[herbofgraceandpeace]

I was chilling, and now, alas! I am not.