#i think there is some classism at play here too

[monstermoviedean]

hi! i actually would liek to hear your thoughts on the whole "health" = "care" thing but i dont want to subject you to my followers on that one post so i'm asking you about it here instead 👀

oh i didn't want to subject you to a rant! but thanks for giving me the opportunity :) I just can't stand the idea that if you "take care of yourself" you will automatically be healthy, and that if you are unhealthy it's because you didn't do a good enough job taking care of yourself. side note that i think the concept of "healthy" in and of itself is an issue because it's predicated on a set of ideas that cannot and do not work for everybody.

but in this particular case what pisses me off is this common fanon construction: sam eats vegetables and runs = sam cares for himself = sam is healthy vs. dean eats burgers and doesn't run = dean does not care for himself = dean is unhealthy. also at play is dean's drinking, which i view as a serious disease influenced by social factors and his mental state, but which others view as a personal moral failing (dean drinks = dean doesn't care about his body = dean is unhealthy). i'm not saying either of them is healthy or unhealthy, just that i really don't think it's up for us to decide how healthy anyone else is, and especially not based on how much care we think they are or should be taking.

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 2 - Adjustments

Summary: You're struggling a bit in your adjustment to your new life, and you're finding some of them are easier to get along with than others. Luckily you're not in it alone.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, military inaccuracies, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Author's Note: I'm so just overwhelmed with the attention this fic has gotten, but not in a bad way I promise! I'm just surprised is all. Thank you everyone that has read and reblogged and commented. I love all of you and so, since I have no self control, here is Chapter 2. Lots more world building and dialogue in this part, but I promise good stuff is coming.

Also I promise Soap will get his time soon. He's just the hardest for me to write, and you'll see why in this chapter.

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“She was lying.” 

Price doesn’t bother looking up as a dark figure leans against the wall next to him. He stares out at the empty space between the barracks and the mess hall, not much traffic between the buildings during this time of day. 

“About how she got to the institute.” 

“Or at least not telling the whole truth.” Price says, turning to look at Simon. “Something tells me she’d talk if we asked.” 

“She’s soft.” Simon says, letting his gaze drift off into the distance. 

“She’s a civilian.” Price counters. “The CIA did a little training, but she’ll need some work. We can’t leave her completely defenseless...” 

Simon turns to face him again. “There’s something else.” 

Price pushes himself off the wall, heading back inside. Simon follows, the two of them making their way down the hall to his office. “There’s hundreds of American military bases across the world, thousands of regiments they could have chosen from, and yet, they sent her to us.” 

Simon closes the door behind him as Price sinks into his desk chair. “You think it was deliberate?” 

Price pulls open one of the drawers, pulling out the file Kate had given him. “Laswell said the CIA has had eyes on her for years.” He slides it across his desk to Simon. “There’s a lot of why's in this situation, and a lot of how’s. Like, if what she’s saying is true, how did a Staff Sergeant get his daughter into FIOT practically overnight?” 

Simon glances up at him over the top of the file. “You think there’s something else going on with this Initiative.” 

Price nods. “I do. I think there’s more than one experiment being run, and we’re the guinea pigs.” 

You stare at your reflection in the mirror as you run a comb through your damp hair. You look tired, the dark circles that have plagued your face for the last few weeks looking even darker now. It’s been a long day, so long it’s hard to believe it’s only been a matter of hours since you boarded the helicopter in London. 

Your new pack had made themselves scarce after dinner, leaving you to your own devices. You had been left alone after lunch too, and you had spent that time laying in bed, resting after the overwhelming scenting. 

You’d played back the last few hours in your mind. Leaving London in the helicopter, meeting your new Pack Alpha, Laswell leaving, meeting your new pack, the scenting. You had plenty to think about, to stress over, and you had been surprised when the knock came at your door for dinner. You were equally surprised to see Gaz and Soap waiting for you. 

You’d been sandwiched between them again as you walked to the mess. It was busier for dinner, and the eyes weren’t quite so quick to look away with the alphas missing. You know they have to be curious, with an omega on base following around two members of a SpecOps team, smelling like them. You know what they were probably thinking of you, what they were thinking your presence means. 

You’ve begun to understand Price’s rules a bit more. 

Price and Ghost had joined you as Soap said they would, coming in late from whatever they had been busy doing. You had been seated next to Soap, Ghost taking his other side while Price sat next to Gaz. It hadn’t gone unnoticed to you how close Soap and Ghost sat, and you remembered the look in Ghost’s eyes when Soap had approached to scent you. How his defensive stare had turned icy, threatening even, when he’d gotten close to you as if you were capable of hurting Soap. It had been a silent warning. If you tried anything, you’d have him to contend with. 

Ghost is territorial, more so than most alphas. You had seen it just a bit in Price, but only because you had been watching for it. Ghost was silent in his claim, but his gaze spoke of his territorialism. As you sat at the table with them, you slowly felt the stares lessen, the curious alphas and betas around you slowly turning away from your table until you were left in peace. You knew it was all thanks to a well-pointed glare from the second alpha at the table. 

They’d escorted you back to the barracks before disappearing again, leaving you alone. You’d opted for a shower to try and clear your head, exhaustion weighing heavy in your limbs but your mind was racing too much to really get any rest. You haven’t been told what their normal schedules entail or even what they look like, but you expect an early morning tomorrow. Since Price had said at least one of them needed to escort you around base, that likely meant you were going to be constrained to their schedules. 

You know even when they’re not away, their days are probably full of training and briefings, much like yours had been for three months. They’re probably up early, earlier than you’d like to be, and then they go non-stop all day. 

You wonder if they ever get a break. 

Maybe this is a break for them. 

You sit on the edge of the bed after you finish your routine, eyeing the pillows and blankets stacked at the end. They’re military issue, not as soft or as plush as you might have preferred. This is your new normal, though. Comfort isn’t exactly going to be a high priority. 

Tears prick your eyes as you run your hand over the comforter. You know it’s the exhaustion, the stress of the day beginning to weigh on you. You’re worn out, and that’s causing a slip in the tight reins you keep on your mood. Omegas and alphas were both prone to being moody, and those who were unrestrained could lose control quickly. Alphas were quick to anger, while omegas could get depressed very easily. Exhaustion drives both to being grumpy, though alphas will descend into irritability and anger, while omegas will get whiny and weepy. 

You hate it, how easily you can be driven to cry. How easily you can lose control. It makes you feel weak and helpless, but that’s partially by design. It was supposed to be your pack’s job to fix that, to give you that support and take care of you. 

Except you don’t know your pack. 

What would they do if you approached them like this, all teary and needy? Would instinct take over and snap them into their roles? Or would they give you an awkward pat on the back and leave you to take care of yourself? Gaz would help you, you think. He had slipped into that role so easily during the scenting. Your fingers twitch on the bedspread, your mind telling you to seek him out, track him down, even if it’s only to catch a whiff of his scent again.  

Your phone screen lights up where it’s sitting on the nightstand, drawing your attention from the door. Kate had given you the phone just this morning before you left the hotel. It had her number on it, as well as your pack’s. You’d half expected to find messages already from them when you’d turned it on, but there had been none. They had kept that boundary of meeting in person first. 

You pick up the phone, checking the message. It’s from Price. 

Breakfast is at 0700. I’ll take you to see the Omega Specialist after. 

Seven o’clock. It’s not terribly early. You’d eaten around the same time at the institute. You’ll get to meet the Omega Specialist as well tomorrow. You’ve met plenty of them in your time as an omega, but something about the idea of having someone there who knows, who understands is comforting to you. 

You send a reply in acknowledgement for tomorrow’s plan before setting an alarm for tomorrow morning. There’s an uneasy feeling under your skin, a tickling in the back of your mind that you can’t seem to relax. Your eyes are drawn to the desk where the shirts still sit, and before you know it you’re moving to the desk, letting your fingers trail over each one. 

You grab Price’s shirt, taking it back to your bed. You curl up with your back facing the door, holding the shirt against your chest, letting the scent of tobacco smoke and whiskey fill your nose. Silent tears slide down your cheeks, your face pressing into the pillow to muffle your sobs. 

As you try to muffle your tears, you miss the sound of boots pausing in front of your door, the person on the other side standing there for a moment before continuing down the hall. 

You let out a groan as your alarm pulls you from sleep. You had drifted in and out for a few hours before finally managing to get a couple precious hours of sleep. You’d woken when the others got up. You knew they were trying to be quiet but you had heard them shuffling around, talking quietly amongst each other. You’re normally a fairly deep sleeper, but in a new place you always struggle. 

A new place surrounded by almost complete strangers. 

You turn off your alarm, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. They’re burning a bit, the exhaustion still weighing heavy on your shoulders. You pad to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face to try and make yourself at least look more alive than you feel. The last thing you need is them getting worried about you. That’s attention you’re not sure you want right now. 

You blink sleepily at your closet, trying to decide what to wear. Were you allowed to wear anything? You didn’t have much besides the basics, since the only thing you had been allowed to wear at the institute was its uniform and the clothes they provided. Then when you were with the CIA, they had provided clothes for you to wear as well. The things you have now had been bought by Kate before you left D.C. 

Everyone on base wore similar variants of the same uniform. You’re not military, though, so you don’t think those rules apply to you. No one had said anything about your state of dress yesterday. You opt for comfort, knowing you’d likely find out soon if you were going to be forced to dress differently too. 

You’re tying your shoes when the knock sounds on your door. You had heard the others moving around, footsteps in the hallway, opening and closing doors, quiet voices talking and Soap laughing at something. You know it’s one of them, yet the nervous tickle at the back of your head is back. 

Soap is leaning casually against your doorframe when you open the door. His face lights up in a smile as he sees you. “Morning, bonny. Sleep alright?” 

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Tossed and turned for a while.” 

“We didne keep ye up did we?” He asks, his smile faltering just a bit. 

You shake your head. “No, I never sleep well the first few nights in a new place.” 

“Well, our beds are always open if ye need something more comfortable.” He winks at you playfully. 

Your face warms at his words, the double meaning not lost on you. You were right, Soap was going to be the one to push your boundaries the most. 

Gaz elbows him in the ribs as he passes. “She’s been here a day, mate, don’t go scaring her off now.” He leans on the other side of your doorframe, giving you a smile. “Morning.” 

“Morning.” You say, your face still warm from Soap’s teasing. 

“You hungry?” Gaz asks. 

You nod. You do feel hungry this morning, likely a side effect from your emotional night last night. You step out of your room, the two betas stepping back to give you space as you close the door behind you. Ghost is leaning against the wall next to his door, his eyes watching with the typical cautious disinterest that seemed to be his default setting. 

Gaz and Soap sandwich you between them again, close enough their arms brush yours as you walk. It was almost as if they could sense your inner turmoil, the neediness still tugging at the back of your mind. If Ghost hadn’t been trailing the three of you, you might have been tempted to give in and grip their sleeves, or slip your hands into theirs. How would Ghost respond to such a bold move? The mental image of your body flying through the air as he punted you into next week almost makes you laugh. 

Price is already seated at a table frowning at his phone over a cup of coffee. Gaz and Soap load up your tray for you, something you’re getting used to rather quickly. It was expected from the alphas, or at least Price, to coddle you a bit, but it seemed the betas were more than happy to get in on it as well. 

The thought makes something flutter in your chest. 

You’re seated between Gaz and Price again once you reach the table, Price greeting you with a tired smile. “Morning. Sleep alright?” 

“Not really.” You say honestly. “New place and all. I’ll settle in eventually.” 

“Maybe the Omega Specialist can give you some ideas to help.” He glances at his watch before looking at you as you spoon a heaping spoonful of porridge into your mouth. “Take your time. We have until 8.” 

You listen to the conversation at the table as you eat, Gaz and Soap talking about a football game that’s on tonight. You feel eyes on you, your skin prickling a bit. You glance up, half expecting Ghost to be glowering at you again, but his gaze is focused on his eggs. You cast a quick glance around the mess, turning slightly to look behind you. 

Three tables over, you find the gaze of some soldier focused on you. You haven’t paid much attention to anyone else on the base, but then again you haven’t had much time or reason to yet. You can’t read the expression on his face as he stares at you, but you feel a shiver run down your spine as your eyes meet his. 

He stares at you for a few seconds before his gaze moves slightly past you, quickly dropping back to his plate. You turn around, finding Ghost staring just past your head. His eyes are narrowed, his scent coming off stronger than it had been. You can practically see his hackles raised, the warning clear in the air. You feel the urge to curl in on yourself, the threatening aura radiating from him makes you want to cower. 

It doesn't go unnoticed by those at the table either. 

“Easy, Ghost.” Price says calmly, Gaz turning to follow his line of sight. 

“Bloody wanker.” Ghost grumbles before rising from the table. 

You turn back around, but the soldier that had been staring at you is gone. 

You nervously pick at your sweatshirt sleeves as you sit in the plastic chair next to Price. You’re still on edge a bit from what happened at breakfast. It wasn’t so much being stared at that bothered you. After now three meals in the mess, you’ve almost come to expect it. It’s Ghost’s reaction that has your mind still reeling. 

“I’ve always hated the medical center.” Price says with a sigh as he leans his head back against the wall. “It smells too sterile. Makes my nose burn. Reminds me of too many close calls.” 

His words jar you a bit. You hadn’t even thought about that aspect of his job. He’s used to getting shot at, to getting into fights, running head first into danger that would send most running the other way. You wonder how many times he’s been the one with the close call, and how many others he’s had to watch have their own. 

You wonder how many times he’s had to make that trip to tell someone’s family. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts as the door across from you opens. Price pushes himself to his feet, and you follow as a kind looking woman steps out. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief. You don’t have anything against male Omega Specialists, but you were already surrounded by men. Sure you have Kate, but she’s half a world away. 

She’s tall, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Despite being a doctor she’s dressed casually, no white coat or gloves to be seen. Her eyes are light green and crease in the corners when she smiles. 

“Hello, I’m Dr. Keller.” She introduces herself, shaking Price’s hand. 

American. You think, silently breathing another sigh of relief. Kate really had pulled some strings with this one. 

“Captain John Price.” He says. 

You introduce yourself when she turns to you, shaking your hand. Her voice is soft and gentle, the scent of beta coming off her in waves. 

“Come on in,” She says, leading you into the office. “Sit anywhere you like. Make yourselves comfortable.” 

Her office isn’t what you expected either. Instead of the harsh fluorescents, the lighting is softer, warmer. There’s paintings and posters all over the walls, along with several plants. There’s a desk covered in books and paperwork in one corner and a bookshelf with several books packed into it in the other. There’s a couch on one wall, and a couple plush looking chairs on the other. 

You move to one of the chairs, sinking down onto it. It envelops you in softness, and you feel as if you might sink into it and never be able to get out. After a day of hard plastic and stiff blankets, it nearly makes you weep. 

Price takes the chair next to you, Dr. Keller sitting on the couch across from you. The office smells good, a light, neutral scent in the air aside from the pure almondy scent of beta. 

“Alright,” She says, holding a tablet and a stack of files in her lap. “I always like to start by introducing myself and telling you a bit about me, then we’ll get into the important stuff.” 

She jumps into telling you about herself. Where she grew up: California. Where she studied: UC Berkeley. What institute she did her residency at: West Coast Training Academy. Where she worked last before Kate called her in: some poor inner city institute in LA. 

“Now, on to the more important stuff.” She says, turning on the tablet. “I got your medical records yesterday. You’re quite the healthy girl.” 

“Yes ma'am. I have good genes. That’s what my mom used to say.” You respond. 

Dr. Keller smiles. “Hardly even been sick. Your heats are all normal, too, correct?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You say. “Except for a three month stretch two years ago.” 

“Yes, the heat sickness epidemic that hit America.” She says. 

You nod. “FIOT locked down completely and everyone was supposed to quarantine, but I heard a rumor that it was one of the beta food workers. She snuck out to see her alpha boyfriend and brought it in with her. We only think it was her because she disappeared not long after the first omega got sick.” 

Dr. Keller hums. “I know not everyone was so willing to take it seriously. You made a full recovery, though. No lasting side effects, I’m sure thanks to the state of the art medical facilities that FIOT keeps.” 

“Yes, ma’am. We were lucky it was just a mild case.” 

“That is lucky.” She flips through something on the tablet. “Your lab results all look phenomenal. I like to do checkups monthly, just to ensure everything is working as it should. I know the CIA gave you quite the cocktail of vaccines while you were with them.” She turns her gaze to Price. “Captain Price, I’ve sent in a request for your team’s vaccination records as well. I’m sure you’ve had everything under the sun, but I’d like to ensure there’s no risk of any accidental exposures.” 

“I don’t see a problem with that.” Price says. “If RAMC gives you any trouble, just let me know. I’ll get them for you myself.” 

“Thank you, Captain.” She says. “One last bit in this part and then we can move on. I see FIOT issued an implant before you left, as is standard practice.” 

You nod. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good. You’ve had more than enough time for it to take effect so we won’t have to worry about any accidental slip ups during your next heat.” 

Your cheeks warm at her words a bit. You’ve been trying to avoid thinking about that inevitable side of things. 

“And your next heat is roughly six weeks away.” She says, looking at the calendar. “Don't be surprised if it comes a little earlier now that you’re being exposed to alphas again.” 

Your stomach twists nervously at that thought. It was common for heats to be triggered early after exposure to alphas, especially after such a prolonged period without exposure to them. It wasn’t likely to start tomorrow, but you knew it could jump a week or two due to the natural pheromones alphas put off, and the instinctual call for the alpha/omega bond. 

“You’re planning for the claiming to take place during the heat?” Dr. Keller asks. 

“Yes, that’s the plan.” Price says. 

“That is the most natural time for it.” Dr. Keller says. “Of course, it is always up to omega preference in the end.” 

You don’t miss the way her eyes dart to you for a second. 

“Now that that’s over with,” She says, putting the tablet to the side. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to do this next part with just the two of us.” 

A beat of silence passes before you realize she’s asking you. Her eyes are on you, and so are Price’s. She’s asking you. She’s asking you what you want. 

“I-I guess...yeah.” You stutter over your words, not quite sure how to answer. Is there a wrong answer? Would Price be upset if you said yes? Would Dr. Keller be upset if you said no? Your eyes turn to Price, trying to gauge his reaction. 

“It’s up to you.” He says softly. “We’re here for you.” 

You sit up a little straighter at his words, nodding your head. “Y-Yes. That’s okay.”��

Price pushes himself to stand up. “I’ll be right outside.” 

The air inside the room seems to lighten as he leaves, Dr. Keller reclining back on the couch as the door clicks shut. She pulls out a stack of papers and a pen before she looks at you. Your palms are sweating, and you’re starting to think you’d like the chair to swallow you whole. 

“This next part can feel a bit personal, but I just want you to know that everything you say in here is as confidential as you’d like it to be. Captain Price is right. I am an Omega Specialist, I’m here for you. I’m not just a doctor, I’m here to help you in all aspects of being an omega. I know FIOT teaches a lot, mainly obedience and compliance. I want to make it clear that you can be honest with me.” She holds up the stack of papers. “No one is going to see these papers but me, alright?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You nod. 

“You don’t have to be so formal with me.” She smiles. “You can call me Dr. Keller, or Doc. You could even call me an evil bitch if you want, it won’t phase me any.” 

You can’t help the small smile that forms on your face. 

“I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you. They’re a sort of tracker to measure how well you’re settling in and bonding with your new pack. I’d like to meet once a week until your next heat just to see how well you’re settling in. After that we can meet as often as you’d like. Sound good?” 

You nod in approval. It sounds like a lot, but you also know you’re going to have a lot of downtime, even with your pack on base. 

“Alright, let’s get started. How are you settling in? I know it’s barely been a day, but I want to know how you feel here.” 

Your heart begins to pound in your chest. How do you feel here? How do you feel after being pulled from the institute and taken to a training facility where you found out you’d be moving halfway across the world to be a military pack’s omega. 

This wasn’t what you had expected when you reached the age where you became an available omega. Most omegas at FIOT came from rich, powerful, important families and your purpose there was to be groomed into the perfect omega to return right back to that world. 

You thought you would be chosen quickly. You had expected it. With your scores and your high ratings and your status, you were what most alphas dreamed of. Yet, the years had passed and though there was some interest, nothing had ever come of it. You weren’t alone in it. There were others like you, those who excelled at being an omega, but then seemed to stall in the selection once they came of age. 

Of course, now that you look back on it, you can’t help but think it might have been done on purpose. The Omega Initiative was new, you had been told during your first briefing explaining why you were taken to a remote building somewhere outside of D.C. and greeted not by your new pack, but swathes of CIA agents. Military packs were nothing new, but they wanted to utilize the naturally formed packs and make them stronger and more stable by adding in omegas. 

Only highly skilled omegas were considered for the program, but of course you had no say in whether you were going to partake or not. They chose the omegas and they decided where you would end up. 

It wasn’t that dissimilar from being chosen from an Institute. At FIOT there was a screening process packs had to go through to be determined eligible to have access to omega files. Then the pack would have to send a neutral emissary, usually a beta, to meet the omegas in person and choose on behalf of the alpha. Most institutes don’t have that strenuous of a process, and some don’t have a process at all. In some, alphas themselves could walk in and choose an omega without even so much as a background check. 

Omegas never got a say. As soon as you were handed over to an institute, the ability to choose was taken from you. Whoever your caretakers were as a pup signed over their rights to you and the institute became your legal guardian. They dictated your life up until you joined a new pack. 

You had hoped it would be someone rich. If nothing else, you’d get to live a cushy life and you’d never have to worry about anything. When they told you what was really going to happen to you, you had almost cried. You did cry, late at night curled up in your bunk after hours of training and briefings. 

Kate picked you for this pack specifically because she knew them and she knew you could handle them and their world. 

Maybe if you had been worse at being an omega, things would have been better for you. 

Or maybe they would have been worse. 

“It’s...different.” You finally say, picking at your sleeves again. “But in a lot of ways, it’s similar to The Institute. It always takes me time to settle somewhere new.” 

“Me too.” Dr. Keller says, writing some things down. “And with the time change, it’s just so much harder. I feel like I should be in bed right now, but it’s 8 AM. Have you started nesting?” 

You shake your head. “No. I don’t even feel the urge to.” 

“That’s fine.” She says, writing something else down. “In truth, I’d be more concerned if you were.” 

Your eyebrows raise a bit. “Why?” 

“During an adjustment period for an omega, especially in a new pack, there can be something that happens called false instincts. The sudden urge to nest, a drive to bond with pack members too soon, false heats. It’s usually brought on by a sudden change in environment, like when omegas are taken from a place where they’ve spent sometimes years with no exposure to alphas and are suddenly thrown into a space with a lot of alphas. It’s more common in larger packs where you have alphas, betas, and other omegas.” 

“Could it happen in smaller packs?” You ask. 

“It’s possible, though rare. It can cause some serious issues down the line when those instincts are actually supposed to begin to show up, like adjustment sickness. I’d say if you’re starting to feel the urge to nest or bond before the first week is up, then come talk to me, alright?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You nod. 

She smiles, turning the page. “How far have you gotten with the bonding process?” 

“Just the scenting yesterday.” You answer. 

“And how did that go?” 

You pick at the loose thread on your sweatshirt. “Fine. It was...overwhelming.” 

“They can be.” Dr. Keller says. “The new members of your pack, how are you getting along with them?” 

“Fine, I guess.” You shrug. “I like Soap and Gaz. Price, he’s...he’s nice, and Ghost...” You trail off, not sure how to answer. If she’d asked before breakfast you might have said he doesn't like you. He doesn’t want you to be part of his pack, but after what happened at breakfast...

You can’t be sure he did it for you. He could have thought that soldier was staring at Soap or Gaz or even Price. He could have thought the soldier was staring at him and was annoyed with it. He had scared off the stares at every meal you’d eaten together, but how often did they get stared at? You couldn’t know if that was a daily occurrence and he was just growing sick of it. 

He could be annoyed with you because you’re drawing in the stares. 

“I don’t know what to think about him yet.” You answer. 

She writes something else down, going through a few more questions with you. How is your appetite? How are you sleeping? Are you taking care of your needs? Do you have any concerns? 

Before you know it the hour has passed and you’re walking out the door into the fluorescent, sterile hallway of the medical center. 

“Remember, you have my number. If you need anything, I’m here for you.” Dr. Keller says as you part ways. 

You walk with Price out of the medical center, glad to be out in the fresh air. It’s not particularly warm, and the sun is hidden behind a layer of clouds, but it’s better than the medical center. 

“What do you think?” Price asks as you follow him back to the barracks. 

“I think it went well.” You say, mind still reeling from an eventful morning. You’re beginning to feel your restless night. 

“Do you like Dr. Keller?” He asks, probing a bit. 

You nod. “Yes, sir. She’s nice.” 

“Good.” He says, opening the door to the barracks for you. “I have to leave to oversee training for the next few hours.” He glances at his watch. “One of us will come get you for lunch.” 

You nod. Of course you’d find yourself alone again between meals. You’re beginning to notice a pattern. “Yes, sir.” 

His hand is warm as it settles on your shoulder, squeezing gently. You’re surprised by the touch, as small as it is. Were they too fighting the urge to get close to you, like you had this morning? 

You can still feel the warmth of his hand even after it’s disappeared and he’s gone. You head for the rec room, deciding to avoid the constricting feeling of being shut in your room for the time being. 

The TV is on when you enter, but the room is empty, playing some morning talk show. You move to the bookshelf against the wall, letting your eyes scan the titles. There's a surprising lack of military-based books shoved into the packed shelf. Of course there's a handful of old manuals and handbooks, nothing that you're particularly concerned about needing to read. You let out a sigh, standing on your toes to reach a Brandon Sanderson novel. 

You look around the room but the remote for the TV seems to be missing, and it’s too high on the wall for you to reach the power button, so you leave it on, curling up on one corner of the couch as you begin to read. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed when something moves in your peripheral. The sun has come out briefly, shining in through the windows. You look up from the book, suddenly feeling very small under Ghost’s gaze. His eyes are narrowed as he stares down at you, a thousand things flashing through your mind. Are you in his spot? Is this his book? Had he come to the rec room hoping to be alone and here you are infringing in his space? 

“Come on.” He says, his voice rougher than it had been this morning. “Lunch.” 

He’s already turned and heading out the door as you scramble up, leaving the book on the coffee table as you hurry to catch up to him. His steps are quick and wide, and you find yourself having to almost speedwalk to keep up with him. 

Your thoughts are jumbled as you follow him out of the barracks and off towards the mess. Why would they send him to get you? Was he the only one available? Yesterday they had time before lunch to return to the barracks, or had that only been because of you? Or were they perhaps hoping this might offer a chance for the two of you to bond a bit? 

Or were they entirely blind to Ghost’s disinterest in your existence? 

Perhaps they were used to it. After so long together, perhaps they just thought it was normal. If you were brave enough to bring it up, would you get a “oh that’s just how he is” in response? 

You can’t see the others as you enter the mess, Ghost leading you to the line. He stands behind you like a hulking shadow, his scent covered by the smell of gunpowder and sweat. You fill your own tray for the first time, grabbing things that look appetizing. You’ll have to get used to it eventually, even though the others insisted on doing it for the time being. When they’re not here, you’ll have to do it yourself. 

Ghost leads you to an empty table, and you opt to sit across from him. You begin to eat, taking big bites to avoid the need for conversation, not that you really thought Ghost would strike up a conversation with you. Your eyes flicker around the room nervously, glancing over the entrances time and time again, waiting for the others to arrive. 

“Stop twitching. They’re on their way.” 

The words cut straight through you and you snap your head around to face Ghost. He’s got his mask pulled up to his nose, your eyes immediately drawn to the exposed pale skin. There’s light stubble on his chin. You remember how that had felt on your own skin when he’d scented you. He’s blonde, you think, or at least has light hair judging by the color of the stubble. There’s a scar on his chin, almost hidden by the stubble. 

Your face warms as you realize you’ve been caught in your nervous fretting. Of course, you should have known he would take notice. There’s not a lot they don’t notice, you think. Though, when your survival depends on noticing even the smallest detail of anything or anyone...

You jump as a tray is set down next to yours, your eyes snapping up to see Gaz with a smile on his face. You turn back to look at Ghost, his mask pulled back down but you see a slight shake to his shoulders for a second.

Was he...laughing at you? 

Your attention is drawn from him as Gaz takes a seat next to you, sitting close enough his arm is almost brushing yours. Price and Soap taking their usual spots as well. You’re beginning to pick up on the patterns that existed around them, and their own patterns. Perhaps that will make it easier for you to fit yourself into their lives. You knew from the start they weren’t going to change to fit you into their lives. They couldn’t. You were going to have to find a way to fit into their lives. 

Gaz walks you back to the barracks after lunch, abnormally quiet as he watches you warily. He walks you to your door, leaning on the doorframe as you step inside. 

“You alright?” He asks, big brown eyes shining with worry as he looks you over. 

“Yeah.” You nod, shifting on your feet. “Just tired. I think I might take a nap.” 

He nods, and you’re sure he doesn't quite believe you, but he doesn’t press any. “Alright. Happy napping.” 

You close the door as he leaves, sinking down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. It’s been a long day and it’s only lunch. Between the probing questions from Dr. Keller and the few minutes you had spent alone with Ghost you feel exhausted. It was good to know you weren’t entirely broken in your lack of nesting instincts, and perhaps your turmoil with belonging in this place wasn’t quite as abnormal as you thought. 

What to do about Ghost.

He’s said more words to you today than he did in the entirety of the previous day. In fact, you think today might be the first time he’s spoken to you at all. You know he doesn’t approve of you, and you’d go so far as to say he doesn’t like you. You can imagine he fought the hardest against you being added to the pack. They were fine without you. It didn’t take a genius to see that. 

You’re an outsider. A civilian. A risk. 

An unneeded disruption to their lives. 

You pull your phone out of your pocket, staring at the dark screen. You know Ghost might never accept you. He won’t want to claim you, he won’t mate you, but...perhaps you might just get him to tolerate you. 

You unlock your phone, sending a quick text to Kate. 

“Can you get a book for me?”

You regret your decision momentarily as you step into the rec room. Gaz and Soap are lounged on the couch, beer bottles open on the coffee table. The TV is playing ads, their attention on each other. You almost feel as if you’re infringing upon a private moment as they laugh, half tempted to race back to your room and hide until your hunger draws you out or someone breaks down the door to get to you. 

“Hey!” Gaz’s face lights up when he sees you, Soap turning to look at you.

“Hey, bonny!” His face lights up with a smile. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. 

“Not at all.” Gaz says, patting the empty spot on the couch next to him. “You want a beer?” 

You shake your head. “No thank you. Never could get past the taste.” 

Soap throws his head back as he laughs, slapping Gaz’s shoulder. “I keep tellin’ ye!” 

“Yet you keep drinking it!” Gaz attempts to defend himself. 

“Cause it’s th’ only thing we got!” Soap argues, leaning around Gaz to stare at you. “So, ye a football fan, bonny?” 

“Well, I watched the World Cup a couple times as a kid.” You say. “My household was more of an American football and baseball household. Two of my older brothers played soccer, though they never were very serious about it. Mostly just did it to fulfill my dad’s physical activity extracurricular requirement.” 

“What did you do to fulfill that requirement?” Gaz asks as he takes a sip of his beer. 

“Softball. I was...not good at it.” You laugh. “I could catch and throw, but I don’t think I hit the ball a single time I was at bat.” 

Both of them chuckle, turning back to the TV as the ad ends. “Don’t worry, we’ll turn you into a proper football fan yet.” Gaz says. 

You watch the game with them, and it doesn’t take you long to realize they’re rooting for opposing teams. They explain things to you here and there in between yelling at the TV and each other. Despite how loud they are, you find yourself relaxing further and further, the tension from the last two days easing away, even as the two betas yell at each other over a soccer game. 

Gaz tenses for a second as he feels a sudden weight on his shoulder. He turns his head slightly, noticing you’ve fallen asleep, your head drooping onto his shoulder. His lips quirk up in a smile as he gently nudges Soap. 

“Wha?” Soap asks, turning to look at him. 

He jerks his head to the side, leaning back just slightly so Soap can see. A grin breaks out on the younger man’s face and he pulls out his phone. “Aww, look a’ that. Think we should wake ‘er and get ‘er tae bed?” 

“Nah.” Gaz says. “Let her sleep for now. She probably needs it.” 

You sleep soundly through overtime, Gaz not moving until the post game is over, letting you sleep as long as possible. He knows you have to be tired, after the last few days and the time difference. You looked tired today, with dark circles and droopy eyes. He hates to wake you, but he knows you can’t sleep on the couch. 

He nudges you gently, trying to rouse you. “Hey.” He nudges you again, your head finally lifting off his shoulder. 

You blink sleepily, rubbing at your eyes. You make a quiet sound in protest of being awake, eyes drooping closed again. 

“Come on, love.” He says, keeping you upright. “It’s time for bed.” 

You cover your yawn with your hand, blinking at him sleepily. “Bed?” You murmur sleepily, Gaz smiling softly at how adorable you are in this state. 

“Yeah, you’ll be more comfortable in bed.” He pushes himself to stand, hands on your arms to pull you up. 

You make another sound in protest, nearly falling against his chest when he gets you on your feet. He wraps an arm around you, letting you lean on him as he guides you back to bed, Soap cleaning up the mess they had made. 

You’re more awake once you get to your door, blinking up at him with bleary eyes. “‘S fun.” You murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Should do that more often.” 

“You’re always welcome to join us.” He says. “Get some rest. You’ve had a long week.” He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Night, love.” 

He waits until your door is closed before heading back down the hallway towards the rec room, a small smile on his face. 

NEXT ->

Taglist:

@bobaprint, @ashy-kit @anunintentionalwriter @mockerycrow @hayleybarnesx, @protokosmonaut @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @blue-blue0, @hindi-si-ikay @hanellokey, @thatonepupkai @redwites @kattiieee, @141trash @ghostlythots, @lothiriel9, @dillybuggg, @beebeechaos, @konigsmissedbeltloop, @kaoyamamegami, @thychuvaluswife, @idkkkkkkk8363, @wallwriterstuff, @bisky-business, @smile-child-13, @anomiatartle, @dangerkittenclaws, @bless-my-demons, @mystic60, @evolutionarry, @red-hydra @lunaetiicsaystuff, @cadotoast, @linaangel, @rancid-wasp, @codsunshine, @thriving-n-jiving, @slayerx147, @ferns-fics

(If you'd like to join the taglist, let me know!)

[saturngalore]

afrofuturism🪐

☆ one ~ solange hair by darknightt (tsr warning) ☆ two ~ loretta hair by @simtric ☆ three ~ bahati braids by @sheabuttyr ☆ four ~ isonoe hair by octetsica ☆ five ~ binah braids by @sheabuttyr ☆ six ~ cornrows & curls hair by @leeleesims1 ☆ seven ~ indie hair by @sashima ☆ eight ~ loc petals by @shespeakssimlish ☆ nine ~ mnemosyne hair by octetsica ☆

mini dedication essay to black simmers and ts4 creators below! pls read if you have the chance! <3

this edit is a small homage to afrofuturism and the various unique black hairstyles (and especially the black creators of most of these hairs) that i have downloaded and admired over the years! some of these are old and some of these are new.

to me, afrofuturism means constantly honoring/reclaiming/challenging the past while constantly creating/dreaming of a better society/world/future. a society/world/future that embraces and empowers all of our differences, ingenuity, aspirations, and unique lived/cultural experiences. a society/world/future that does not limit us through the various systems of marginalization and oppression (racism, homophobia, transphobia, fatphobia, sexism, xenophobia, ableism, classism, colorism, etc.) that often affects how we, as black people, live today.

blackness is so diverse and intricate yet it's always been a struggle to find my culture within a game that's known for being so limiting, bland, and extremely eurocentric when it comes to hairstyles, clothing, food traditions/events, etc. black simmers have always had to figure out how to make this game more inclusive and make it resemble either more like how our ancestors lived, how our current lives are, or how we would want our lives (and even our children's lives) to look like in the future no matter how dystopian the real world look and feel now. fortunately, these hairs and their uniqueness bring a huge sense of culture and style to this game. they have always inspired me and made me feel extremely proud to a part of the lovely african diaspora (and the ever-growing black simmer community).

in a way, being a black simmer and cc creator usually means that we are often digitally creating our own worlds as afrofuturists to varying degrees (whether we know it or not) every time we open our game, make our sims, make houses, and/or make black cultural cc. also, now i know that cc making is not easy to do and is extremely time-consuming so this post is also just me giving all black cc creators especially those who create for free their well-deserved flowers! here are some other black cc creators who created cc that have greatly impacted my game since i first started playing sims 4: @/leeleesims1 @/simtric @/hi-land @/yuyulie @/sims4bradshaw @/ebonixsims @/xmiramira @/sheabuttyr @/qwertysims @/oplerims @/sleepingsims @/shespeakssimlish and so many more im forgetting probably (im too shy rn to tag ppl but i greatly appreciate y’all fr i hope y’all telepathically get this message somehow 😭).

last but not least, i am hoping that this inspires somebody to keep creating or start creating regardless of what they think their skill level is! somebody will absolutely fall in love with your work and/or your art/work will 100% change someone's game forever <333

[hxzbinwrites]

So excited for the new blog! Can you please do some headcanons of Vox and imp! Partner in a cute soulmates AU?? Out of all places for Vox to meet his soulmate at last, it’d be in hell of all places! And his imp partner is super adorable and sweet and kinda polar opposite from him. At first he’s in denial but over time he starts falling in love anyway <<333

Vox x Imp! Soulmate! Gn! Reader | Savior |

(I didn’t know what gender you wanted (Y/n) to be, so I just went ahead and put gn! I hope that’s okay!)

Warnings ⚠️: Cussing, Violence, Classism, Imp racism

Vox sat down at his “desk” of sorts. Glancing at his various monitors over the lip of his coffee mug. His bored expression evident on his face. Voxtech was doing great, a little too great. Nothing needed fixed, reprogrammed, or anything. Not even that little radio demon was active in his business today. Just plain nothing.

Val was busy doing whatever freakish things he does and Velette was prepping for her next fashion show next week, so there’s nothing he can do with them. He’s burnt practically every bridge with all of the other Overlords, so it’s not like he can go prancing up to them asking for a play date, all he can do is just sit here, in boredom, and watch screens flicker by. Watching all of these other sinners revel in his technology, unknowingly being watch by a extremely bored Vox.

He sighed, setting down his coffee mug as he stood up to stretch, placing a hand on his lower back before someone, or something, jerked his hand in another direction.

His screen glitched in aggravation, who the hell dare tug him. He isn’t a rag doll, he’s an Overlord. He’s THE VEE, He’s VOX.

With his electronic brows furrowed, he whips his head around to see no one in sight, before looking down at a bright red string coiled around his wrist, tugging him towards his elevator.

His eyes widen in shock, a soulmate string?? He didn’t have a soulmate. Not when he was alive, not when he fell into Hell, not…until now apparently.

‘I have nothing better to do I suppose’ He thought, walking towards his elevator.

————

Wondering around the Pride Ring was something most Imps didn’t do. The Pride Ring was for sinners, not for Imps. Well, (Y/n) certainly didn’t care. They walked about, with their head high and their tail swishing behind them. Well, until they got jerked in the other direction.

“The hell?” They muttered, looking at the string coiled around their wrist. This can’t be, (Y/n) didn’t have a soulmate. Haven’t had one ever, and probably wasn’t supposed to. Chalked it up to bad luck.

‘Good thing I listened to my gut to come to the Pride Ring. Alright soulmate, I hope you’re worth the trouble….and a piece of eye candy.’

They marched ahead, ignoring glances from sinners as they walked towards some of the more taller buildings.

Looking up, they saw in the far distance a huge tower, adorned with three V’s, all with their respective colors. Their heart fluttered, indicating that was where their soulmate resided. The string pulled once more in that direction before (Y/n) began to walk once more, following it.

They walked what seemed like forever, about halfway from the point they saw the tower to the tower, before something pulled on the opposite wrist.

“You little Imp.” A man said,”What do you think you’re doing up here? You don’t belong with sinner-kind, go back down there to the Wrath Ring where you belong, rodent.”

(Y/n) was shoved against the wall, face pressed against the cold brick of an alleyway. Their heart was racing, what if they died before they could ever meet their soulmate?!

They looked down, seeing their string begin to flash between red and white, alerting their soulmate that (Y/n) was in danger.

‘Please’ They thought,’Please help me my soulmate.’

————

Vox was strolling along the streets of Hell, briskly walking towards whenever the string may take him. People fled the scene from where he walked, too scared to come face to face with an Overlord.

Still, no sign of his soulmate. Irritated that they weren’t close, he sighed, rolling his eyes before he felt a pull, not a tug. He almost fell to the ground, stumbling before regaining his balance. Glitching in annoyance, he looked at his string, flashing in colors. Signaling something.

He had a gut feeling, something in his very core alerting him as well as the string. Wrong. Something is terribly, awfully wrong.

He broke out into a full sprint, shoving anyone out of the way who didn’t move fast enough for his urgent pace. He stopped near an alleyway, seeing a sinner press a poor imp against the wall. The imp was quivering in fear, until they locked eyes with Vox. The string disappeared, and he felt…whole. Completed. He didn’t even realize he was missing a piece of himself until he found it. But an…imp? He’s with an imp. Him, and overlord, with a hellspawn? It can’t be possible. It shouldn’t be possible.

While internally he was having these thoughts, he acted on pure instinct and without even thinking he took the sinner’s head and smashed it into the brick wall, with a force so hard he created an indent in the brick itself and the sinner’s body fell to the ground.

Without exchanging a word, he lifted the smaller Imp into his arms, found the nearest Voxtech device and teleported through it, bringing him and his newfound soulmate back to his office.

“Who are you? Are you supposed to be my soulmate?” He sneered in disbelief, but stopped speaking whenever the Imp dove in to hug him. His heart rate sped up and his screen started glitching.

“Yeah…” They said,”thank you for saving me. I…I didn’t think I had a soulmate. What’s your name, sir?”

“Vox” He replied,” and yours?”

“(Y/n). I don’t know how you sinners live up here in the Pride Ring, it’s very scary.” They nervously chuckled,”I guess the soulmate string can’t find the other if you’re stuck in different rings.”

“Yeah” He said,”that makes a lot of sense. I want to ask you something, (Y/n). Why did that sinner attack you?”

“Ah, well he said it was because I’m an imp and that I need to return back to the Wrath Ring where I belong….” They said, looking at the floor.

Vox’s clawed fingers gently lifted their chin, locking eyes with the imp. His face seething with anger. His screen was glitching. Looking at his poor soulmate, with tears glistening in their eyes. Oh, these sinner’s who think like that are gonna PAY. He thought back on his earlier thoughts a few moments ago. Who really cares if they’re an imp. This imp is as sweet as can be, perfection incarnate if you will. But this…shoving them into the wall purely based on the fact that they’re an imp. This has to stop. He’s seen the light, his other half. He knows what must be home. His face starts glitching in anger, seething in the rage that someone hurt his precious love.

“If you’ll excuse me, my love, I n-n-need to make a f-few broadcastsss.” Vox said, his glitching making his voice stutter.

He snapped his fingers, making one of his various workers bring a comfy chair over for (Y/n) while he went to go sit at his desk.

He was no longer bored today, no, he had a mission. A mission to protect his precious soulmate at all costs.

————

Word Count: 1159

[avatorofthelonely]

Classism, Privilege, & TMA (synopsis)

Here’s a little content analysis for ya’ll because I think ya’ll missed some of the bigger points of tma.

It is absolutely a commentary on privilege and classism. Point blank.

There’s a reason all the major families that play a role in trying to bring about an apocalypse or have otherwise dedicated their entire blood lines to a specific entity are implicitly white and explicitly aristocratic and extremely privileged.

That includes Jonah, Peter, Simon, etc.

This is also made apparent with Leitner who — although wasn’t evil — did try to contain and control the books related to the entities. This is clear commentary on his old money and privilege and how that translated to his over inflated sense of importance and ability.

Mary Kaey is explicitly attempting to glorify her GERMAN heritage in order to hoist her own bloodline up in the esoteric community — other than saying it directly, JS cannot get more explicit about what that is about.

Just about every other avatar simply did not choose to become an avatar and often become one because of either the mistakes or desires of the aristocratic avatars (the most prominent case of this being Jonah with Jon).

JS even says that the changed world was meant to explore the horrors of our reality.

Both Selesa and Annabelle (canonically poc) fuck off on their own because of what can be summarized as “fucking with the entities too hard is rich white people shit”

This is also why I like the interpretation of Jon being Indian (which this post is getting long so I’ll summarize this) because it creates a much more fascinating interpretation on the intersection of race and classism in modern England that dates back to colonialism.

[pennyserenade]

the devil hath power

part two: the game

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!reader, coriolanus snow x you, coriolanus snow x nameless reader (no use of y/n) rating: m (mature, 18+) tags/warnings: talk of suicide, talk of death, talk of sex work, classism, a little bit of power play, power imbalance, food mention, alcohol mention, tigris snow cameo <3 word count: 3.6k+ summary: Coriolanus and his 'friend' begin to play a game neither of them are prepared to lose. a/n: the link to part one of this story can be found here (tumblr) or here (ao3). part three of this will follow very quickly after this one - maybe a day or two later - i promise. i've written a good chunk of it, as i intended to post this all one part, but it became much too lengthy. also, if you want to be tagged in the next part of this - or other stories like it - you can sign up to my taglist here or follow my updates blog @belovedinfidels and turn on the post notifications. thank you a ton for all your support and love. it's been lots of fun interacting with you all and writing for this fandom.

part one | part three

The money for what had conspired between her and Coriolanus came quickly, as he had promised it would. In the early hours of the next day a nondescript envelope, along with a sizable clothing bag, was delivered to her door by a nameless Avox. The amount was far more than she would’ve charged him, and yet not enough (as it always seemed to be).

However, it was the contents of the clothing bag that surprised her most of all. When she opened it she found a finely made pantsuit, feminine in its cut but masculine in its style, with wide shoulders and flared pant legs, but a more tapered, closely fitted waist. The fabric was not inexpensive either; it was a costly wool in a light burgundy shade, not unlike the color he had worn when he’d approached her in the club. She ran her fingers beneath the peaked lapels, admiring the work of what must’ve been his in-house tailor.

Though she enjoyed this gift—it was far more expensive than anything she’d purchased for herself in years—she did not feel particularly warm nor grateful towards its giver. She took the suit and hung it in the closet of the main bedroom, where she kept all her finest items, and did not think about it again until the next week.

To say Coriolanus filled her thoughts during this time would be a lie; he slipped in occasionally as she conducted business, but did not remain for more than a moment. Young men, with their heads full of ambition and tongues thick with Capital accents, brought her back to moments in that darkened bedroom, watching Coriolanus’ pupils blow wide, his lips twitching, his voice lower. The earnest clatter of teeth provided by Monday’s man reminded her of Coriolanus’ bruising intensity. The cool touch of Thursday’s regular brought her back to Coriolanus’ fingers beneath her chin. Saturday’s newcomer had blue eyes, which were infinitely kinder and much more open than Coriolanus’, but still filled her with a wave of repulsion. But it was nothing, harmless meanderings to make the time pass.

The only time she truly allowed him to invade her truly invade her thoughts was the following Sunday. The same Avox that had delivered the suit and the money returned with another envelope. Whereas the previous one had been free of design, of name, of anything that could mark it back to Coriolanus, this one bore all the signs of him, from the golden rose seal to the loopy script that read out his name.

The Avox stood at her door, staring down at the envelope in her hands with some urgency. She got the hint, opening it up without her usual regard for its design. Quickly her eyes scanned over the contents. She frowned softly; he was inviting her to a soirée at his apartment, asking if she would so kindly RSVP or decline and then send it back immediately. The date was not far away—only two short days. This, the invitation implored, was why the RVSP - or the decline - was so urgently needed.

Of course, she checked yes. How could she not? The previous envelope was evidence enough that Coriolanus followed through more than enough in terms of money, and wasn’t that all that mattered? When she handed Avox the invitation, the woman handed her another envelope. This time she did not stick around to watch her open it.

When the Avox left she sat down at her kitchen table, putting the envelope in front of her. Somehow she knew that whatever was inside its folds would impact her life in a way so few things had, and she was not yet prepared for it. Her eyes trailed over the details of the room, focused on the dampened quiet, the emptiness that lay in the elongated dining table with no guests to fill it.

As a child she had loved this room, perhaps more than any other, for it was a basin of social activity. Her mother had been a lively host and her father a jovial one at the head of the table. Wine had flown freely and their plates had been filled with food they had not known to appreciate but in retrospect. There had been nights when the guests got so drunk and so merry, and they found her innocence and her childishness compelling, cooing as she weaved her little body through their legs beneath the table. In the next room there used to be a grand piano on which she would sit with her mother after dinner concluded, and listen to her sing to the guests. Her father, a typically stoic man, would slouch against the piano and look at her mother and herself with a fondness she would never forget. How beautiful love feels when it's all gone, dried up except for the aching ghost of it rattling in the bones of a once beautiful home.

The truth of it was that her parents were dead and this home was all she had. When Coriolanus called it a museum, he wasn’t too far off. Not much had changed since her mother had died. So much had been taken before, as the Dark Days reached their peak and the hunger became unbearable. Everyone who had been beautiful and lively at those dinner parties became hollow, and thin, including her parents. It was her father who died first, but when he went it was as if her mother had died, too – it only took a little longer. Seconds, days, weeks, a total of two years until it was truly over.

It was a frightening thing to witness as a child, the destruction of something as sure and sturdy as one’s mother. She had not been told of the gruesome demise of her father, only that it had been attributed to the war. It was only later that she would find out that he had died by his own hand, that he had left what little funds they had with her mother, found an empty home, and did away with himself. His death had affected her but none so much as her mother’s had. She had to become a spectator of her mother’s failing health, watched as the rot of it filled their home, and sat idly beside her bed as it consumed her completely. Death was not delicate, not kind, not to her parents.

A better woman would’ve left this home behind as soon as she’d gotten enough funds to free herself from it, but she could not seem to. Somehow living in it felt like the greatest vengeance - or revenge, depending on the day - for her parents. Everything she did was to better this home, to restore it to the beauty she had witnessed in her once-grand childhood. That’s why the envelope was so daunting; she knew that whatever Coriolanus wrote her, even if it was inconsequential, would somehow tie to this dream. He was money and money was everything, the single stepping stone to life.

She took her time when it came to opening it, first finding a gold letter opener in the haunts of her father’s old office. The envelope was not thin but it was easy to open with the knife; she cut smoothly beneath the seal and peeled back the lip, running her fingers over the rose details that sat on the outside. She could see through the back of the folded paper that it was a letter, handwritten.

Everything is about winning, the letter began, but you know that, don’t you? I think you can see that I am not a man of unfulfilled promises now and you’re taking a step in the right direction – as any smart girl would. On the night of the party, I will send a car for you – the weather’s been rather cool for a walk – and it will take you to my apartment. Whether you choose to wear the clothing I sent is up to you, but I will say to you that the designer of the suit will be there, and she is very eager to meet you. Don’t fret too awfully much about keeping up with your appearances; it will be a small gathering, full of like-minded individuals such as yourself. They may ask what you do for a living and you may divulge the truth to them if you wish. I think I am no more ashamed of you than you are of me – what a thrilling dynamic we have.

Until then, Coriolanus Snow.

The letter remained open on the table until the night of the party. It was a reminder that she was a player in a game of her own making, but that she needed to tread carefully, lest it slip through her fingers.

She knew she could not afford to lose this; it meant far too much now that this kind of money had entered the equation.

— Even Coriolanus’ building gave the air of being self-important, large and foreboding.

Before she stepped out of the driver’s car and onto the sidewalk before the opulent apartment, she first took a wary glance upwards. The sky was a flurry of white, but even through the thicket of snow she could see the bright lights of the apartments shining ominously above her.

Her mind had been churning over the possible outcomes of this party all day. She had poured over his letter and dissected it until the individual words meant nothing and everything all at once. What she kept coming back to was the line about her occupation—how it meant very little to him whether she told the guests she was a prostitute or not. If she knew Coriolanus’ type the way she thought she did, she knew that her occupation would be of some worry to his acquaintances. Had he written that to throw her off? To make her embarrass herself the way she had him? If so, he’d have to work harder than that. She wrapped her black coat more tightly around herself and mounted the stone steps. Exhaling a deep sigh, she braced herself for whatever could come of this night.

The doorman greeted her with a curt nod as he opened the door for her. The lobby was an enormous space, full of stone columns and large potted trees. She admired the high ceilings and beautiful hanging chandeliers before another man, dressed smartly in a tuxedo and red bow tie, escorted her in the direction of the stairs. She wanted to request a walk up the large staircase but thought better of it. Now was no time to gawk over the fine housing of one of her clients. Because that’s what Coriolanus was: a client.

The elevator ride up did little to prepare her for what would come. What greeted her first was the warm sound of music and laughter. Not rich, honeyed laughter but real laughter, laughter that belonged to a time she had not been familiar with in far too long. It was feminine, rich, and pleasant. This, more than the intricate design of the apartment itself, excited her.

Before she knew it Coriolanus was standing in front of her. While another tuxedo-ed man took her coat, he walked up to her. “Welcome,” he greeted, his grin proud and wide. His eyes scanned over her and he was evidently pleased. “You wore the outfit.”

He acted as if she had said the correct answer.

Her smile was warm, and performative to a degree. “I’d be a fool not to,” she cooed.

He was pleased with her, showing it in the way he extended an elbow for her to take. She wrapped her hand around his bicep and he walked them through the long corridor, closer to the sounds of chatter. “Is there anything I should know?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing that I can think of,” he answered.

When they walked into the main room, everyone’s eyes turned in their direction. Coriolanus took to the attention, wearing a cordial grin. One of the women sitting on the multitude of cream chairs hopped up, eyes widening in excitement. “Oh Coryo!” she gushed, pushing through the small crowd to get to them.

She was a stunning woman, lithe, tall, her hair as fair as Coriolanus’ and cascading in loose curls down her shoulders. She reached her hand out in greeting. “I’m Tigris. Coriolanus told me wanted me to make an outfit for someone but he didn’t tell me how beautiful the model would be,” she gushed.

Her cheeks tinted, unused to be fawned over with such earnestness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she responded, smiling warmly. “Thank you for the outfit, it’s truly stunning.”

Coriolanus patted the hand she had on his bicep and beamed. He was showing her off like a prize, flaunting her. If she didn’t so much like the company of Tigris, she might ask him what he was getting at. But she did like Tigris, quite a lot even though this was their first meeting. Unlike Coriolanus, she was…kind. Nothing disingenuous, not so far as she could see. There was no air of haughtiness to her, no ulterior motive. She reminded her of her mother, in a way.

“I wanted her to be a surprise, Tigris. I knew you’d think she was lovely,” Coriolanus said softly. Tigris looked at him gratefully, cupping his cheek with a gloved hand affectionately.

“You’re sweet, Coryo,” she said. “Why don’t you go introduce her to the rest of the party, maybe feed her–” she looked down. “Sorry, I don’t mean to talk like you’re not here. There’s food in the kitchen and more drinks on the counter if you’re interested. I’m certain everyone else will be very excited to meet you. It’s not often Coriolanus brings someone to my parties.”

They both watched as Tigris returned into the mix of individuals. All of them were stunning, model good-looking—even the ones with more exotic appearances. Their bright hair colors and lavish makeup only accentuated their beauty. They were, to put it simply, ethereal. Not at all like the people she would expect Coriolanus to consort with.

“She’s my cousin,” he said as if reading her thoughts.

“And what does she think I am to you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A friend, I suppose.”

“That doesn’t make her curious?”

Coriolanus laughed. “No. Tigris stopped asking me questions long ago and it’s best that way. Now come.” He pointed to another open space across the room. “If I don’t get you something to eat she’ll be angry with me.”

“Is this all you wanted me here for?” she asked once they were secluded from the rest of the party. “To make your cousin happy?”

He handed her a plate and smiled his typical confounding grin. “If it was?” he taunted, tossing a berry in his mouth.

“I’d say I wasn’t an escort,” she responded.

This response made his grin stretch. “Of course you’re not,” he assured.

He followed her down the line of food, watching as she selected bits of fruits, meats, the fanciful little hor devours. Something about Coriolanus made her feel more transparent—like he knew the game she’d been playing and was waiting for her to acknowledge how clever he was for catching on. But of course he knew the game. Wasn’t he the one who sought her out?

“It’s no lie that I’m hungry, Coriolanus,” she finally submitted. Her admission made him hum delightedly around a grape.

“So eat,” he encouraged, taking a step forward. He raised a grape to her lips. When she didn’t take it from his fingers, he smirked. “Not a fan?” he teased, plopping it in his mouth. “Well, no worries. There's a lot of food here. And—“ he lowered his voice, “you can have as much as you like for as long as you like. That’s the nice thing about working with me: you don’t go hungry.”

Her eyes turned into slits. “I’m here, aren’t I?” she snapped.

He nodded, his carefully styled coif of hair bouncing. “You are, but there’s still more for you to decide. When we walk back out there, Tigris’ friends will grow interested even if she doesn’t. They’ve never seen you and you’re objectively good-looking—of course they’re going to want to know where I found you.”

She took a sip of the wine, not understanding where he was headed. This didn’t seem to bother him. He continued with a crooked grin. “When they ask you what you are, you're more than welcome to be honest. The future is what you make it.”

He took his own sip, his eyes full of meaning. She hated him. He was thrilled at her undoing, thrilled at the fact that he could control her in even the subtlest ways.

“And if I say I’m a whore?” she challenged.

He wetted his lips, setting the glass on the counter behind him. “Then a whore you shall be.”

“And if I tell them I’m your whore?”

He regarded her with an uneasy calm. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his unblinking gaze.

“Then my whore you’ll be,” he answered.

The finality of it sent her into a reflective quiet.

—

As Coriolanus predicted, Tigris’ friends were inquisitive.

After he’d let her eat in quiet, he’d guided her back out to the party where everyone was positioned in a circle. The room was made that way, adapting the Snowflake design of the house itself, each of the chairs orbiting one lone glass table in the middle. It was clever, helping facilitate conversation, but intimidating for whoever had the floor.

“Coriolanus, what does your little dove do? You’ve both spoken so little tonight and I think it’s safe to say we’re all dying to know,” one of them, who she thought was named Otho, said.

Tigris smiled ruefully. “I’m sure she speaks for herself, Otho.”

She smiled, having remembered the name correctly. It wasn’t until a second later that she realized they’d all turned their attention to her expectantly—including Coriolanus. They shared a glance before she eased back in the chair. He was nervous, perhaps just as much as she was.

“I don’t do much,” she evaded, bringing the glass of wine up to her lips.

Otho pressed on. “Oh, and how does one as young as yourself get on with doing nothing? Don’t tell me you’ve got one of those adoring Capital husbands. I mean, you’re pretty enough, but it’s just terribly unfair. I hate meeting them.”

It was a welcome lie. She didn’t look at Coriolanus as she eased her way into it. “I’m sorry to say I do,” she responded. They all leaned forward in their chairs, interested, so she continued. “He’s off in District 2 at the moment. I got one of the patriotic ones; he signed up to be a Peacekeeper not too shortly after our wedding.”

“Was he poor?” one inquired. Tigris poked them with her finger, shaking her head in disappointment.

“It’s quite alright, I don’t mind saying he wasn’t. He thought it was the right thing to do, being fit and young as he was—as he is.”

“Coriolanus was a Peacekeeper,” another one said. She didn’t remember their name either. “Is that how you met him?”

Coriolanus took hold of the conversation. “No. We go back a little farther than that,” he answered. Everyone’s eyes shifted to him.

“Do you?” Tigris asked. She seemed hurt by the idea of not knowing this. It struck her that Coriolanus and Tigris were rather close, like siblings, friends, maybe.

“As children we studied together.” Coriolanus shrugged his shoulders flippantly. Tigris nodded, but looked away.

“That’s true,” she added. She was hitting her stride. It was easy to perform, to be others, almost simpler than to be oneself most days. Coriolanus underestimated how much practice she’d had at that. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d known all along. It was hard to tell with him. “When Coriolanus and I were children I had such a massive crush on him. He was beautiful.”

She looked over at him. He wore a tight grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t you remember how I used to fawn over you?” Her fingers grazed his wrist, and she laughed. He did too. To an outsider, they made quite the jovial pair.

“I can’t say I do, but I’m flattered.” He took another sip of his drink, looking back out to their audience.

“Well, never mind that you don’t remember. I do.” She looked back at them, too. Even Tigris, who seemed wounded by what she didn’t know, stared longingly for more as she plunged into the story. She did remember Coriolanus as a little boy. It was easy enough to supply this information.

“Coriolanus was one of the more considerate boys in our grade. At that time boys made up terrible sing-songy rhymes about how girls were ugly and stinky or what have you, but not Coriolanus. Not that I heard at least.”

Everyone laughed and she looked wistfully at him. He did not look back. Instead, his eyes were captivated by the liquid in his cup. She didn’t let it bother her or take away from her story. “I remember on my sixth birthday I invited him and insisted he sit beside me. He got me a doll. I remember it very clearly. It looked a little bit like me and I thought it was very thoughtful.”

Tigris smiled softly. “That sounds like my Coriolanus.”

Coriolanus rose from his seat. He held up his glass, now empty. “I’m going for a refill,” he informed.

Everyone looked to Tigris as if searching for answers. She guided them towards another topic, smiling brightly as if unbothered. But it was in her eyes, the hurt, the confusion. After a little everyone seemed to forget the absence of him, though. Everyone almost seemed to blossom during it.

She was beginning to suspect that perhaps she’d bit off more than she could chew as she watched them all chattering away like that. Who was this man, she wondered, And why did he hold this much power even over people he seemed to love?

[babiebom]

Would I give them head?

A/N: I am so sorry for this I'm writing it at 3 am and I couldn't get it out of my head. I've been giggling for the past 10 minutes like a 7th grader. Also if you are reading this let me know if I should do something special for 50 followers. I know it's not a lot but I am so grateful! If yes let me know what I should do!

Tw: sexual content. Not explicit but it like look at the title. Cursing.

Genre: headcanons nsfw

Wc: idk it depends on which person. Probably 2+ for each.

This is including almost every male stardew character(obviously no kids) plus ridgeside plus expanded but not all because I cannot remember every single character and I don't wanna research rn.

Masterlist

Sebastian

Duh no doubt about it

He is the love of my life (well one of them)

I would give him the best head wymmmmm

Sam

Yes boy deserves it

Golden retriever coded guys deserve good head idc

Shane

Love sad men it's a yes

Kinda wanna make him cry because it's so good.

Maybe I can cure him

Elliott

No

Sorry it's not that I dislike him he's just not my favorite?

Maybe once as a treat but no other time than that

Harvey

Yeah he's the doctor for a small town

I gotta

Maybe he will stop billing me everytime I die

Alex

No

I am not attracted to this man he is more bestie coded to me

If he asked i would allow him a handjob I guess

Gus

Nope

Maybe he gets a Lil handjob as a treat because his food is good

Gunther

Maybe?

He kinda-

But not enough idk....

George

The reason I am writing this r n

The answer is no but the thought of doing it made me cackle

Lewis

Absolutely not

Fuck you old man

Pierre

NO

I hate this lying ass bitch I give you a kick

Willy

No sorry

He prolly smells like fish and salt and I am not fond

Love him tho stinky man

Kent

YES

would give him the sloppiest toppy known to man

He deserves it he needs it i want it pls bless me

I could beat Jodi's ass if it comes to it idc

Victor

Yes

I find him quite cute overlooking his slight classism.

Also for standing up to his mom for himself love that him

Demetrius

No

I'd rather give Robin head

He deserves no head for being crappy stepdad

Marlon

No

As much as I like him he probably does not shower

Also he is for the marnie's only

Clint

No

I wanna punch him so bad

Mr Qi

Maybe?

I don't find him attractive

But at the same time I find him mysterious and the might just be enough to convince me

Grandpa

HA

HAAAAAAA

no what is wrong with you

Andy

No

Prolly tastes like battery acid

He also gives off racist vibes

Wizard

Yeah

He's chill he can get some head

Morris

Maybe for a discount

Im equating Joja to Coke and I like coke

So only if he promises to give me a discount on stuff I want

Phillip

YES

Another love of my life

It was unexpected for me to love him but he is so cute to me

June

Yuperoni pepperoni

We love a man who is talented

Could easily convince me to give him head if he plays the piano for me ngl

Jeric

Maybe

I love but also hate him

He also gives off bestie vibes

Shiro

Yeah

I feel like he needs it:(

Ezekiel

No

I do however wanna smack his bald head

Not in a mean hateful kid of way I just wanna smack it

Lorenzo

Dilf Ngl

Maybe its because of his name idk

Answer is yes

Kimpoi

It was here where I started looking up characters bc i felt bad for leaving them out

No thank you I will not

Lance

Don't know much about him but I think hes cute so yes

His hair is cool

Isaac

Again don't know much about him hopefully he is not a child

But yeah he's cute so he gets a Lil head from me

Ian

If he takes a shower yes

Otherwise no

Kenneth

Yeah

I like his hair and I think he's cool for being an electrician

I know nothing else about him

Sean

Yeah he's cute so he can have some head

Im so sorry for not knowing im too busy simping over Seb and Phillip ngl

Anton

Uhhhhhh

Uhhhhhhhhhmaybe?

Im not attracted but unattracted to him so sure

Bryle

No

He reminds me of family

Like his face

Jio

Yea

As I have said before I love a mysterious man

Love a man with a sword

Zayne

I have no idea what this is

But I guess??

Have no reason to hate him so sure

Bert

No

He looks stinky :((

I also feel like his wife would beat my ass

Freddie

No

He is for the Lola's only

I also feel like he wouldn't be able to feel it

Mr Aguar

No

I do not enjoy his face

Pika

Simply because im assuming his food is good

I'll say sure simply for free food

Richard

No

So sorry

But no

Sonny

I will give him a platonic handjob

He deserves it bc he's a butler and probably does not get a day off with this family

[vergess]

It may be worse for others; but for him and you there is no dread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of men, that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to that room—ay, and going a second time—is not one to be injured in permanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right; this I swear, before I have even seen him; so be at rest.

This is another one of those weird fucking instances where Bram Stoker got to the "right" answer in the wrongest conceivable way.

The argument Van Helsing is making here is that Jonathan is too strong of character to be permanently traumatized.

Obviously that is not how PTSD works,

I'm not going to pretend otherwise, so be at ease, my friend.

Generally speaking, when PTSD alters your brain structure, those changes are permanent, or long enough lasting that they may as well be. However, as anyone who has undergone half-decent post-traumatic care can attest, the debilitating symptoms of PTSD can ease over time as you learn how better to avoid, control, and recover from triggers, and develop better coping skills.

One common (though far from universal) predictor of how severely an event will traumatize a person is related to autonomy. The freedom and ability to make your own choices. The less autonomy a person is able to exercise during and after an traumatic event (or, the more frequently their autonomy is overridden by the situation), the worse the trauma symptoms tend to be.

In contrast, a lot of early therapeutic steps in treating PTSD involve reclaiming autonomy. This looks different for different people, because it obviously has to be individualized. But, common examples of exercising autonomy after trauma include re-framing the trauma through art (writing, reading, painting, whatever) so that the victim can, in a sense, control the "story" of the traumatic event even though they could not control the event itself.

By sheer coincidence, Jonathan Harker has lucked into probably the best case scenario.

His autonomy during his imprisonment was constantly degraded in tiny and massive ways, from controlled sleep schedule changes to forced denial of grooming habits straight up through undressing and implied penetration without consent.

However, he persisted in making decisions and carrying them out, even in spite of these controls. And eventually one of those decisions saved his life. This can easily be turned into a coping skill. He seems not to have lost the ability to make decisions for himself, thus "that step" (as it were) can be "skipped." And since the "steps" had not been invented yet, that definitely puts Jonathan in a better position for recovery.

But let's loop back around to therapies for trauma. Jonathan also happens to have taken a critical step in enforcing his autonomy post-event, too. By entrusting Mina with his journal, he made the conscious decision to let her be his guide. That too is a type of reclamation of autonomy over the story of his trauma. Yes, it means he isn't "making the decisions" himself, but that is a choice he made and is continuing to make each day, safe in the knowledge that if he changes his mind, Mina will still trust him.

That right there combines both autonomy and stability, which also enable one to learn PTSD skills more quickly.

Combine that with the fact that his wife is probably the most competent caretaker short of Mary Poppins and you have a basically ideal candidate for recovery.

Not in any way because of the weird shit V.H. was saying. Just as a coincidence.

And I think to some degree, Stoker likely recognized that pattern, because it plays out pretty regularly in real life. Just, he blamed it on "inherent moral fortitude" rather than "the external support offered to middle-to-upper-class men is so robust and the freedom of choice offered to them so complete that a man in Jonathan's position is simply much more likely to recover than any working class or otherwise marginalized person in this situation."

(Surprise! It was a post about classism all along!)

[boyfridged]

You may have already mentioned this in some of your other metas, and I just missed it, so please ignore this if it's redundant.

Do you think Bruce is projecting onto Jason by pushing him as a Robin? Obviously, Jason wanted to be Robin and was excited about it, and Bruce let Jason do other things, but (if I'm not mistaken) before Tim came into play, solidifying the whole Batman needs a Robin/support to keep him upright, Bruce and Dick becoming Batman and Robin, in the beginning, was also sort of a coping mechanism.

I think there are a few examples of Bruce enabling this kind of mindset. Like in Gotham Knights #43–44 (sorry), every time Barbara brings up Jason's inner turmoil, Bruce refocuses on his ability as a Robin; similarly, when Jason finds out about Two-Face and his dad, he is hurt, and Bruce acknowledges that but then does the same thing, zeroing in on reassuring Jason that he made a mistake but is still a good Robin.

Like, Jason got it from Bruce, but he unintentionally encouraged that kind of thinking.

oh, i definitely think that bruce is projecting on jason and that it profoundly affected jay. and, while every single one of your observations is apt, i would add that what truly made it so tragic is that he projected his own worst traits on jason while being blind to the fact that jay already shared his best qualities.

tldr: bruce projects himself on jason in terms of grief (saying that jason needs vigilantism to work his grief through) and sees his own worst traits in jason (anger) but doesn't see his own best traits in jay (compassion, love, and sensitivity). ironically, jason does end up developing all of the (projected) worst characteristics of bruce (obsessiveness, and relentlessness in pursuit of the respective perceived idea of justice). this happens even though they were barely present in his early storylines, and only ever manifested when jason was scared or lost. later, they truly came to be because of his trauma relating to vigilantism.

and the long, long version, coming with panels and quotes: under the cut.

first i want to say that the following analysis focuses very specifically on bruce's mistakes, but i don't view the overall of jay's upbringing by bruce solely in these terms. from text it is also clear that bruce deeply loves and cares about jay, and that jay enjoys being robin. now that this is clear, let's get to particularities, and start with jay's origin story.

i truly never stop thinking about the significance of bruce meeting jay in the crime alley, the place of his parents' death. there's a lot to be said about it, but here the focus is, of course, on the fact that he sees a little boy, very much similar to himself, angry and hurt, in the same scenery that brought him so much grief. and jay in some ways does appear to be a mirror of bruce's own agonies, as well as a mirror of his own inclination for seeking justice; and somehow, bruce fixates on the first one, while almost completely dismissing the latter.

bruce looks at him and assumes that the remedy to jason's pain and anger is being robin; and he doesn't stop to think about it. (it has to be noted that there's also classism at play, classism that is mostly a result of writers' own beliefs – collins did state in a couple of interviews that that the motivation behind jason's background was to make his introduction into vigilantism seem less offensive, as jason has already been exposed to crime...)

i think, in this context, it's interesting to look at the two-face storyline even closer, and from the start too. in the beginning, bruce talks of jason's 'street' roots and assumes jay would go "down the same criminal road that took his father [willis] to an early death." he also talks of jason making a lot of progress. later, in batman #411, after jason learns that willis has been killed by two-face, bruce comments that jay "has never been like this...listless...almost pouting--"

this all, along with jay's cheerful and diligent behaviour from the previous issue builds an interesting picture for us: because we essentially learn that jay has been overall an unproblematic child. bruce, of course, attributes this "progress" to the training. however, for anyone else, the logical conclusion would be that jay's quick adjustment was simply a matter of finding himself in a safe and stable environment and receiving continuous support and attention from a parental figure. i find it rather questionable that jason's personality softened down because he had something to punch in the cave–– the more intuitive explanation is of course that he was angry and quick to fight when they first met because he couldn't afford anything else and because he was scared. but months later, in a loving home, he can allow himself to drop his guard; and his cocky attitude disappears until much later.

so the rather unsettling picture that we derive is that bruce is training jay to become a vigilante in order to "channel" his (nonvisible at this point) anger into something useful and just. and he clearly links this to his own trauma in batman #416 (that’s already starlin btw), in his conversation with dick, explaining why he took jay in: “he’s so full of anger and frustration… he reminds me of myself, just after my parents were killed.” bruce also mentions that soon after their first meeting, jason helped him and "handled himself well" in the fight, but he doesn't mention that jay has ran away from a crime "school" and intended to stop injustice on his own only because he was ignored.

the theme of bruce comparing jay to himself appears again in detective comics #574 (barr), where it is approached with a much more... critical look, thanks to leslie's presence and her skepticism of bruce's actions. after jason has suffered nearly fatal injuries at the hand of the mad hatter, bruce reminisces on his own trauma and motives. he tells leslie: "i didn't choose jason for my work. he was chosen by it...as i was chosen." leslie replies: "stop that! (...) you do this for yourself... you're still that little boy (...)" then, the conversation steers to the familiar ground and the topic of anger. in bruce's words, again: “i wanted to give jason an outlet for his rage…wanted him to expunge his anger and get on with his life…” and finishes "and instead, i may have killed him."

the recognition that bruce's projection on jason and involving him with his work might have fatal consequences is, as always, fast forgotten once jay wakes up and proclaims that he wants to continue his work as robin.

but to circle back, i think there's something else worth our attention, something deeply ironic, that is showcased in that issue: that bruce has no evidence for jay's "rage." when leslie talks of bruce's past, she recalls his tendencies to get into brutal fights at perceived injustice as early as in school; when bruce talks of jason, two pictures that are juxtaposed, are that of jason fighting as robin and jason... smiling, playing baseball.

so, in the early days of jason's training and work in the field, we see bruce talking of jason's anger a lot; but we barely see it.

that being said, jay is angry sometimes– and i think your observation about how bruce deals with it is incredibly interesting and accurate.

we first see jay truly and devastatingly angry in the two-face storyline. bruce focuses on jay's reaction as robin, which is, in fact, aggressive. but something that he barely addresses is that jason's first reaction is sleeping all day, and not beating anyone to a pulp; in fact, this vengeful instinct seems to arise only when he is put right in front of two-face. and his third instinct, once the rage (very quickly) dies down after the altercation with two-face, is crying, because bruce hid the truth about willis' death from him. jay, while crying, asks bruce: "you have taken me out into combat-- but you spare me this?" in response, bruce lectures jason about how grief inspires revenge, which is, again, deeply ironic, given that jay seeking out revenge seemed to be prompted and enabled solely by the role of robin. moreover, his question suggests that at this point he saw grief ("you spare me this") and fighting as two different things.

the final is, as you said, bruce focusing on making it into a lesson on vigilantism, or, in his own words, "tempering revenge into justice." personally, i think in this way bruce directs jason to bring his grief into the field as a powering force, something that he didn't necessarily have an own incentive to do. the flash of compartmentalisation between his ordinary life and being a sidekick that jay has shown by questioning bruce's decision is lost. emotions are now a robin thing, and they have an (informal) protocol, a moral code. and when jay is confronted with an emotionally exhausting case next – the garzonas case, i believe that the focus on "tempering revenge into justice" is exactly the problem– we don't see jay crying, we see him frantic about finding the solution. this, right there, is bruce's obsessiveness, that in my opinion, was developed in jay specifically as a result of how his engagement with vigilantism combines with his deep sensitivity.

and, needless to say, his sensitivity is all the same as that of bruce – they both can't stand looking at other people hurting, they both wear their hearts on their sleeve, caring way too much – the thing is, bruce never quite acknowledges how they are similar in this matter. instead, he focuses on his sparse bursts of anger, wanting to bring jason closure in his grief the only way he knows it – in a fight for a better world. so, as you said, he focuses on jason's ability as robin.

which just doesn't work for jason. at all. we know it from how his robin run comes to an end: in the first issue of a death in the family (batman #426) alfred informs: “i’ve come upon him, several times, looking at that battered old photograph of his mother and father, crying.”  to that, bruce contends: “in other words, i may have started jason as robin before he had a chance to come to grips with his parents deaths.” he also tells jay that the field is not a place for someone who is hurting; a message that is the opposite of what he's been saying for years now, and something that i imagine was difficult for bruce to conceptualise, because then he would have to question his own unhealthy tendencies. it's a bit late to come to this realisation; bruce's self-projection that caused him to worry so much about jay's anger has already turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy that will fully manifest itself in utrh, when jason does the only thing he was taught to do with grief: try to channel it into justice.

[herbofgraceandpeace]

Re: Flavian’s outburst to Christopher about how he (Christopher) has been an unfeeling, stuck-up brat—Flavian’s not exactly right or wrong here. I think Jones is demonstrating that Christopher is so caught up in his (very real) powerlessness to control his situation, he doesn’t realize that he DOES have the power to really and truly hurt others. He’s so caught up in his own misery that he (selfishly) forgets that others might be miserable too.

This is part of growing up! Christopher hasn’t really been taught empathy, and he hasn’t really had it modeled for him either, outside of Tacroy caring for him, but that doesn’t excuse his behavior. He’s so focused on how the people at the castle aren’t caring for his conscious wants that he entirely ignores the ways they ARE intentionally and deliberately attempting to care for him (I think at least a little classism privilege is at play in him ignoring the maids—he’s only ever known his parents’ mistreatment of servants, but presumably he should have been paying attention to how the castle folk treat the maids differently)

However, I think the adults at Chrestomanci Castle are guilty of the exact same kind of blindness and self-focus as Christopher. They HAVEN’T been meeting his needs emotionally (which has led to their inability to physically protect him either), and whatever their intentions throughout his stay, they did not try to get to know or understand Christopher as a person at his arrival, and they’re paying for that first impression. He’s a CHILD. a child from an unloving and neglectful home, who’s just been ripped away from his friends and his home at school, a child’s just DIED for the second time, and he’s a child with hopes and dreams and self-will, all of which have just been casually, thoughtlessly stripped from him. The castle folk are so focused on their OWN need of a successor for Gabriel that they treat Christopher as an object to be formed to meet their needs instead of a person with needs of his own. They’re so focused on their search for the Wraith and the hell he’s wreaking on others that they miss the very real hell they’re imposing on Christopher. All of their attempts at care are based solely on their perception of what he SHOULD need and want because! They never! Ask him! What he needs or wants!!!!!

What’s that post about how some people act like “if you don’t give me the respect I think I deserve as an authority figure, I won’t give you the respect you deserve as a person”? I think that’s basically how the otherwise decent and well-meaning adults of Chrestomanci Castle treat little Christopher Chant. Confident in their own virtue, they presume that of course this boy who doesn’t know them will trust them immediately. Confident in their work for the greater good, they are indifferent to the suffering of the individual before them. It’s clear that they care about him and his well-being, but without treating him like a real person at all, and it’s never more obvious than in the scene where Gabriel takes his spare life away. They are taking tangible, drastic steps to protect him because they are very worried on his behalf, but throughout the whole process they have no real knowledge of the horror and terror he is experiencing because they are too busy making choices for him to ask him why he’s making the choices he does (and again, Christopher doesn’t TRUST them. But they never empathize with him enough to realize that.) Another example is how Miss Rosalie and the others keep chasing Throgmorton away from Christopher when he’s laid up. They’re so focused on how uncomfortable Throgmorton makes them feel that they don’t care at all they’re isolating Christopher and depriving him of his only companionship.

But none of their bad conduct exonerates Christopher of Flavian’s charges of being rude and unfeeling towards them, even though Flavian is STILL presuming to know and understand Christopher’s motivations and choices despite being completely in the dark about them. The very personhood Christopher wants the others to acknowledge in him is the reason that Christopher is responsible for his own actions towards the castle folk.

And that’s the tea on human responsibility in The Lives of Christopher Chant. (thanks for coming to my ted talk)

[rjalker]

i feel like people should be able to care about literature without woobified yaoi. like nothing against shipping but idk its a bit odd that seems to be some folks only motivation to engage with flatland

Yeah it's just flat out refusing to actually engage with the story at all, because they literally just want to do the Roving M/M Ship of Fandoms Past.

I would rather these people just make up completely original characters to play with if they're not going to think about any of the morals and lessons of Flatland at all. Most of the story is taken up by political commentary criticizing systems of oppression. These people don't want to engage with any of those ideas at all. Not even in regards to their "shape yaoi". They just want to do the exact same Roving M/M Ship as any other fandom and it's infuriating.

@walks-the-ages has made many posts about this, specifically about the absolute absurdity of the way many people reacted to the movie Nope.

This is why I dread the day a series that I literally will not even mention by name here to help forestall the disaster, ever gets a movie adaptation, because I just know that shipping-obsessed people with no critical thinking skills will bulldoze past all of the horror to just pretend it's all super happy and cutesy and shippy.

Shipping is fine as long as you don't let it get in the way of actually engaging with the story that is being told. And that seems to be what is happening with most of the new people in the Flatland tag. They do not care about any of the politics or what the book has to say, they just want their shitpost shape yaoi and don't care about anything else.

It is insulting. Because this is a book literally advocating for equal rights and decrying systems of oppression, but people are just erasing all of that and just want to make shitposts instead.

When they could be doing that about any other fandom out there whose original book is not so strongly political. There's no reason for them to do it about Flatland if they don't care about the politics.

It's public domain, so you *can* ignore all of the politics and make it only about shipping if you really want to. But why in the absolute hell would you want to do that?

Why would you want to take a story that so strongly advocates for equal rights for women, intersex people, disabled people, people of color, and more, and get rid of all of that, to make it into nothing but shitposts about rich cis white guys?

It's very clear that most of the new people are still basing all of their thoughts of this book on the 2007 film, which erased all of the politics to make it purely about absurdist humor.

[ID: The “missing the point” meme, now with a picture of the original cover for the book Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions saying, “Racism, ableism, misogyny, and classism are bad.”, with the yellow A Sphere from the 2007 Flatland film staring at it in open-mouthed shock, exclaiming, “Wow!!! Shitpost shape yaoi!!!” while the point flies over his head. End ID.]

Ignoring the politics to make shitposts about shape yaoi is not actually a better reaction to this book than what Ladd Ehlinger, infamously racist and misogynistic conservative, did with the 2007 film when he erased all of the politics to make it purely about absurdist humor. Which is what shitposts are.

It would be great if people could actually think about that for a second and realize what the problem is with their behavior but I guess that's asking too much. It always is with the kind of people who don't care about a story at all, only how much shipping material they can get out of it.

This is one of the reasons I hate most fandoms. Most Fandom people do not actually care about the story they're supposedly in the fandom for, they just want to ship two white guys and ignore everything else, even when it means ignoring the actual female protagonist, even when it means whitewashing the protagonist and misgendering it and the guy they're shipping it with, even when it means they're woobifying, as you said earlier, a rich white guy who literally advocates for starving slaves to death while they are tortured in elementary schools.

It seems like these people do not actually give a shit about Flatland at all. They are only here to make shitposts about shape yaoi, even when it means they're woobifying the guy who's 100% pro slavery and pretending he's just a wet noodle silly guy who's never done anything wrong in his life.

Really, how do you read Flatland and come to the conclusion, "I love this misogynistic man?"

If you are glossing over all of the political themes of the book, and even the most basic characterization of the narrator as a raging bigot because it gets in the way of your shipping, that is in fact you being a bigot. If you take a story that is about fighting for equal rights for everyone and throw all of that away to focus solely on two white guys, that's just bigotry, plain and simple.

Especially when they're woobifying the guy who not only owns slaves, but thinks they should be starved to death to help reduce their numbers.

[reidsaurora]

"I Choose You" ~ S. Reid

Summary: What happens when the lowly stable boy, Spencer, and the royalist of princesses, Y/N, fall in love?

Pairing: Stable Boy!Spencer Reid x Royalty!Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,830

Content Warning: explicit language, slightly suggestive if you squint, minor character death sorta, mentions of food, time period appropriate sexism/classism i guess (Reader is expected to get married to a prince), a mild mention of ✨️manure✨️

Genre: Fluff, maybe a lil angsty in some parts buy mostly fluffy

Originally Written: 02/24/2023

Beta Read By: @dungeons-are-too-cold

Criminal Minds masterlist can be found here!

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"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞." - 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧

I knew it was a selfish, spoiled, first-world problem, but I needed to get out of that kingdom, and fast.

I sprinted through the halls, one thing on my mind—hopping on my horse and riding somewhere far away from this hell hole. I heard my father yelling, "Y/N! Get back here!" but I didn't care. The exit was in my sights. Freedom.

My heels dug into the mud, my dress surely had dirt on the ends, but I couldn't have cared less. I flung the door to the stable open, holding my breath as I tried to find Willow's saddle.

"Hey, slow down. It's not as if the castle is under siege," a familiar voice chuckled behind me.

I took a deep breath before turning to face him, slightly regretting it as I breathed in the horrid smell of manure. Though, I needed it in order to face him with proper composure "Hi, Spencer."

With the same soft eyes he always had, he looked me over, noticing my distress. "What's wrong?"

My shoulders settled as I realized it was just the two of us. I could be as honest as I wanted to with Spencer, and he'd always accept it. Much unlike my parents.

It was always like that with Spencer. Sure, he was just the stable boy and I was royalty, and if they ever found out I was the slightest bit kind to Spencer, they'd most likely put me on house arrest. But there was always something about him, something inviting, like you wanted to tell him your life story and let him analyze it for you.

So, I did what I always did when I heard that soft, inviting voice. I answered. "Father's brought in prospects again and he's angry that I haven't chosen anyone yet."

"Again?" he said, nearly laughing in disbelief. "You'd think His Majesty would figure out your plan by now."

"My plan?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow. "OK, stable boy, just what plan do you speak of?"

He tapped a finger against his chin, his eyebrows furrowing as he thought. "Hmm, your plan to hop on your horse and ride into the sunset, going to a faraway country and starting a bakery."

"A bakery?" I nearly choked in bewilderment. "I don't even know how to prepare my own tea! Could you imagine me attempting to bake breads and muffins?"

"Ooh, I got it!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together and playing up the satire. "You're going to start your own tailor shop!"

I giggled, shaking my head. "Who's going to teach me to sew? You?"

Deadpan, he answered, "I do know how to."

I scoffed, my hands flying to my waist. "You do not."

He nodded, looking away from my face and down at his twiddling fingers. "My mother taught me. Before she got too sick. That way I'd know how to fix my buttons after she was…"

I swallowed hard, a touch of sadness panging in my heart for him. I already knew about his mother, the way she'd gotten sick and left him orphaned. It was the whole reason he'd come to the castle, so he'd have just enough money for food on the table, or in his lunch pail rather.

The sound of my mother calling, "Y/N!" startled us from our thoughts, her sudden shouting frightening me to the point of an irregular heartbeat. She was approaching the stables fast, and by the tone in her voice, it was clear she wasn't happy.

"Come on!" I whispered, grabbing one of the saddles from where it hung and shoving it into Spencer's hands, our fingers brushing against each other's for only a millisecond.

His face might as well have had "panic" inked across it. "What are you doing?"

"Buying us time," I answered, struggling to hold my dress out of my way as I climbed onto Willow's back. "You can take Father's horse, since he's apparently getting too old to ride it anyway."

He tossed the saddle onto Copper's back, throwing himself up onto the stallion with ease. Curses upon all men and the fact that they don't have to wear these stupid dresses.

"Y/N, get down from there!" Mother called as she burst through the doors and saw us, but it was too late. Spencer and I had already started off, laughing as we raced away from the stables.

His hair blew in the wind, a wide smile sitting on his lips, the first I'd seen in a long time. "Where to first, M'lady?" he chuckled, speeding ahead of me.

I scoffed but couldn't help myself from giggling at his childish behavior. "Hey!" I shouted, racing to catch up to him. "I was thinking," I laughed as I passed him, watching as his eyes widened, "Paris! Or maybe Rome!"

"Don't you think it's a bit far for the horses?"

I took a deep breath of the fresh spring air, something I hadn't smelled in months, it seemed like. "We'll just have to find a way to manage."

Soon enough, we were all out of breath, deciding to stop in a beautiful field of wildflowers, overlooking lusciously green hills and valleys.

We hopped off our respective horses, tying their bridles to a nearby tree and collapsing into the flowers in a fit of giggles.

"We should do that more often," Spencer got out, his chest puffing with exasperated breaths.

"What? Run away from my parents? Believe me, if I could get away with it, I would."

"You could."

I rolled onto my side to face him, propping myself up with one arm. "What?"

"You could totally run away and do what you want. You could be a baker, a seamstress, a teacher, an author, or whatever you'd like. You could do it if you tried."

I looked him over, suddenly feeling the urge to kiss away the pout on his perfectly plump lips. I swallowed hard and shook away the thought immediately. "You sound like you speak from experience, stable boy."

He shook his head. "I'm just saying. You have the status. You could leave if you wanted."

"Believe me, I couldn't abdicate the throne if I were the last person on earth. Somehow, even if both my parents were gone, they'd still find a way to tell me all the things they expected of me."

I wanted to press on, to ask why exactly he was so passionate about the subject, but held my tongue. A proper lady always knows when to speak and when to bite her tongue, my mother's voice echoed in my mind.

Spencer turned onto his side to face me better, propping himself up on his surprisingly thick bicep. Why was I noticing it? "M'lady-"

"Y/N, it's Y/N. You of all people will never have to call me M'lady, Her Royal Highness, or any of those other stupid titles."

"Y/N," he clarified, looking a bit like he'd just licked a postage stamp. Must've felt strange falling out of his mouth. "I'm just a stable boy. It's all I'll ever be. But you can do whatever you'd like. You're royalty, for heaven's sakes! Anyone who didn't allow you to do what you want could be burned at the stake."

My face softened as I watched his expression change to one of grief. He was regretting his decision to become a stable boy after his mother died, I had realized. I sighed, lying down flat beside him and looking up at the cloudy sky. "Well, what do you really wish to do?"

He exhaled, lying down beside me. It was like that a lot, I'd noticed. When I moved, he moved. And when he moved, I moved. Like gravity. "I'd like to go to college. Learn how to read, specifically Latin. Oh, and learn about math. And rhetoric. And anything they'd teach me, really."

He let out a deep breath, basking in the afternoon air, I presumed. "What would you do?"

Kiss you. And hold your hands. And run away with you. "Um, I'm not quite sure."

"Come on. There has to be something in that beautiful brain."

My head shot up, my eyes widening in confusion at what he'd just said. "Beautiful?"

He blushed, his cheeks burning red. "Well, it doesn't take a scientist to see you're beautiful."

"You think I'm beautiful, Spencer?"

The heels of his hands dug into his eyes, hiding his embarrassment-ridden face. "And this why you can't go to college, Spencer," he mumbled. "Too stupid."

I slapped his dirt covered chest, realizing that it was the second time in one day that I'd touched him. I liked it. "You aren't stupid! You know how to keep the horses alive. I wouldn't even be able to keep myself alive if it weren't for maids and cooks."

I pulled his hands away from his face, his deep hazel eyes burning an ever so pleasant hole right through me. "Did you really mean it? Do you really think I'm beautiful?"

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and suddenly I could think of multiple other places I wanted his tongue to be. "I do. I think you're the prettiest girl in the whole kingdom. Possibly even the whole world if I knew what it was like."

Suddenly, the cool air of spring burned right through me and I found myself unable to resist the brunet stable boy I craved so much. "Do you really wish to know what I'd do if I could leave?"

He nodded, looking up at me through long, soft eyelashes.

I tossed myself over him, my dress falling around the both of us. "I'd grab your hand," I started, slotting my left hand in his right, "and I'd run away with you. Go wherever you want. We could sail to America and join Vaudeville. We could go to Greece and become olive farmers. We could go to China and study philosophy. I don't care. As long as I could be with you."

His face softened once again, his thumb swiping soft lines on the back of my hand. "Is that why you never say yes to any of your father's prospects?"

I nodded, thinking Fuck it, before leaning down, allowing my lips to glide into his. It was just as pleasant, just as sweet, as I'd always imagined. His hands moved to my waist, settling on the taut material of my now dirty, mud-spattered dress. I tried to pull away first, but his succulent lips chased mine for another kiss, his tongue slipping into my mouth for a split second. I already craved more of it as soon as his mouth pulled away from mine.

"I would never say yes to one of those pompous, pampered, pretty-haired pricks. I want you. Out of everyone in the world, you are the one I'd choose."

His hands darted to my cheeks, pulling me into his swollen, red lips once again. "You want to know something, M'lady? I choose you, too."

"𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐈 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞." - 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐤 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐫𝐚

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Aaaahh, I'm so excited to finally post this!!! Idk why it's taken me so long to post but I am so excited to finally be posting it! As always, a huge thank you to Georgia for beta reading this and helping it reach its fullest potential! I love you so so so much!!! 🫶🏻

This was written for @imagining-in-the-margins's monthly challenge, which was themed "Damsel/Dude in Distress" this month! I am so excited to finally be participating in another one of these! I obviously went with the Royalty!AU prompt, but it was actually quite hard to pick a prompt because they all intrigued me a lot!

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☆𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒☆

[bohemian-nights]

I can’t believe there’s excuses for what Rhaenyra says about Nettles, the only Black character in the Dance (“a common thing”, “low creature” and “you need only to look at her to know she has no drop of dragon’s blood in her”). Trying to pass it as her paranoia due to Mysaria and cheating doesn’t work. If you call a POC a racial slur, that’s racist regardless of whether that person did something to you. Rhaenyra isn’t Daenerys or Arya, she tried to murder a teenage Black girl. I am not here for any Rhaenyra’s stan trying to excuse or downplay a white woman’s misogynoir and classism because her sons died. Grief doesn’t make you suddenly racist, or compel you to say racist things. You were always that way. The grief just brought out the racism and supremacism that was always simmering beneath the surface.

Actually, Rhaenyra reminds me of the racist Southern plantation owner Mary Epps in the film 12 Years a Slave, who feels jealous and threatened by Patsey (played by Lupita Nyong’o) when her husband Ed constantly rapes Patsey and other female slaves. Mary hates and blames her and the other Black slaves for “seducing” her husband, while making excuses for his outbursts of rage, violence and lust.

And the fact that some of these people say that they like Nettles is what makes it worse.

(This also goes out to some of Team Green who any other time are capable of admitting that Miss Maegor is in the wrong, but suddenly when it’s a Black girl it’s all Missy Anne is a victim too).

If you actually liked Netty you wouldn’t downplay her hurt. You wouldn’t downplay how she was almost killed in her sleep by Missy Anne. You wouldn’t forget that she’s vulnerable. You wouldn’t forget that she is a too woman.

Any way you slice it, she being Black, homeless, a bastard, and the daughter of a whore, is the lowest person in the racial/social/class strata. You don’t like someone and ignore their identity and the role that plays in their treatment(both inside and outside the story).

Septon Eustace(the one who reported on what happened during the council meeting where Nettles death was given a death sentence) may be biased against Missy Anne, but remember who Nettles is.

Remember that even when he was defending her Corlys of all people still called her dirty and ill-favored.

Is it really so hard to believe that Missy Anne would call her a low creature without a drop of dragon’s blood?

Is the woman who ordered her head truly supposed to suddenly be a beacon of morality?

Murder is fine, but she wouldn’t stoop to racism. Eustace totally just threw in those lines for shits and giggles.

As if he needed to do such a thing when she was fine with breaking guests rights and murdering her in her sleep.

Missy Anne is in the wrong here. Not Daemon who was the one person(baring Maester Norren, shout-out to him, he seems nice) who didn’t have a thing to say against her and protected her with his life. Or Mysaria, who while is a conniving snake, she’s not the one who signed that letter.

Like it or not the moment Missy Anne ordered Nettles to be murdered she became the big bad wolf in her story.

The “mental breakdown” excuse is old. She was perfectly fine with Mysaria sleeping with her husband, but only flips out when a Black girl does it.

To not acknowledge that shows me that you value her feelings, personhood, and “suffering” over Nettles(and there are broader implications with that).

Rhaenyra is just like the women from old yonder. The only difference between she and a woman like Mrs. Epps is that she has more power yet she still chooses to punish Nettles rather than her husband. Point blank period she’s a racist.

Then again it’s not hard to see why these people don’t think Missy Anne is racist given how quick they are to say Nettles should be cut because she is Black, are comfortable with calling characters the N-word or comparing Black characters to monkeys, don’t see the problem with calling Dettles disgusting even though they ship an abusive incestuous relationship, yet somehow they aren’t racist a**holes.

Anyone taking these people remotely seriously, let alone viewing them as an authority on racial issues is out of their mind.

[amypihcs]

And today my favourite scene!! Well, let's see what our dear victorian husbands are up to.

Nu! Poor Holmes, a sprain! Well, at least there's an inn nearby! Better to ask for a carriage or... or a bike?

MAN! Watson must be FUMING. Beware, Mr Hayes. That kind-looking, distinguished doctor can ABSOLUTELY end you.

That is not courteous of you, man!

Also i'm sure Watson is confused and already suspecting something... What are you planning Holmes?

In LIVERPOOL, you say? Ah, sure. Oh, well, the horses will do. Now first some dinner.

Watson, is that a little dart to Holmes? The one on the ankle. And the one on eating. As if someone hadn't thought to the lunch! Well, at least you're eating something now... Holmes? What? GOT IT??

Aaaand here the explanation!

And some bit of theatre before, OF COURSE

IS all of this necessary? What's your conclusion DEAR BEETLE?

You mean they used cow-shaped horses- AND IT'S LIKE THIS! A little of snaking around... And there they are! (i could've done well without the classism too)

Well, landlord catches them and they decide to 'walk to the hall'

SURE.

Also Holmes' been picking up his irregulars' slang. Bet Watson finds that adorable, lol

DOWN!

Holmes threw them both on the ground and! the secretary! the super suspicious guy!

And if the walk of the morning hadn't been enough, now a pretty run...

They're having a lot of exercise today. Well, let's see a bit closer what happens.

(Is Holmes holding Watson's hand again?) Well, regardless he just climbed on his shoulders. Watson just held on very well. Bet he didn't feel much weight. Very strong Watson in this story!

Back to the school... and Holmes isn't speaking

Ah, back you are from talking to the headmaster, dear, come to bed! Holmes proceeds to kiss Watson, hug him and promise him that the following day all will be okay. Then they lie down <3

Following day, Holmes maybe made his Watson some spoilers and they are at the duke's!

And Holmes' playing with the duke like a cat with a mouse

And both Holmes and Watson are having fun in it!

Thin hand mention, there! Perfect, daily Holmes' hand appreciation satisfied. And Holmes why do you have the Pound sign in your eyes? Oh no, Watson, he's thinking to the children and to your future cottage.

Look, the duke is startled!

And this is a proper coup de théatre. And Watson leaves us with a cliffhanger again, but we can't grudge him for that!

[thickenmyblood]

hi maca. i was wondering if laurent and his friends are meant to seem a little hypocritical or if i’m misreading them? through damen’s pov we see him tackling various issues he’s been bigoted or ignorant about, and i got a sense that these were all topics he and laurent/laurent’s friends really disagreed on. but it doesn’t seem like laurent et al.’s philosophies match up with their actions? like damen’s issues around sexism and gender—laurent et al. also don’t seem to have any female friends, at least none that have been seen or mentioned as important. or mental health—damen had a lot of misconceptions that hurt laurent, but now laurent’s willing to put his friend in a treatment center against his will, really violating his bodily autonomy. or classism—laurent and ancel have experienced poverty, but now choose to surround themselves with wealthy people. they don’t really seem to have any middle class friends or anyone in their former positions. by contrast, laurent most recently brought maxime into their circle, an ultrarich person with an equestrian club/villa/etc. so overall i’m wondering if i’m being too harsh on them, or if laurent and his friends are more egalitarian in thought than in deed? even if they think or speak differently than damen, it doesn’t seem like they act much different

hello! this is a very interesting question. it has taken me a long, long time to reply but at last! here we are. my answer will be divided into three different sections.

1. gender

I agree that it comes across as hypocritical that Laurent is always quick to point out Damen's toxic views on masculinity and femininity when he himself doesn't have any female friends (at least not on page). you can 100% interpret this as hypocrisy because the text supports your analysis perfectly. this Laurent, as neo has already pointed out, has a lot of toxic traits that might be an echo of his own abuser's actions. I liked the fact that in canon the regent hated women, so I really wanted to keep that. I'm not saying hiuh Laurent hates women. on the contrary, I PERSONALLY think that because he grew up isolated and under his uncle's influence, he might not be the best when it comes to socializing/maintaining interpersonal relationships with women.

I also think there's a really interesting discussion to be had about how (in this case) men that are part of the LGBTQ group can sometimes think they are liberal and progressive simply bc they belong to said group. sadly, this exceeds the limits of the story, but it's still interesting to think about.

lastly, to be completely honest, the only reason why ancel is not shown with female friends is that I did not want to keep writing original characters. ancel feeling lonely and left behind was a huge plot point in his arch to become Damen's friend and so I benefited greatly from keeping things like that. as for aimeric, he has no friends other than ancel and Laurent because he is meant to be read as a deeply unlikeable and misunderstood character. once again, characterization limits the story quite a bit.

2. mental health and body autonomy

this is such a great point that you and other people have made both here and on AO3. I agree: Laurent playing Aimeric so that he gets committed is a violation on aimeric's rights and trust and overall dignity.

a. why then will this not be addressed?

because this is damen's pov. yes, he has grown a lot, his journey with mental health education has been long and hard and has had many rewards. BUT I do not think he is at a point in which he is THAT aware or educated on issues like this. when writing and editing this i did not feel it would be organic to have Damen contradict Laurent on this. however, other characters have pointed out that they do not agree with Laurent's views/intervention (ancel and jord -> remember Laurent and damen's conversation at the park).

I understand that a lot of people are very upset with how hiuh does not address some issues, and I want to take this opportunity to reply to those loud and valid complaints. a story cannot deal with everything. it can't solve everything. it can't address every problematic issue that arises within the narrative. why? because if it did, I believe it would read a lot like preaching. when you write something, you have a main plot (sometimes main plots that connect) and subplots. Aimeric is a side character and his story is quite literally a tiny brick in the wall that is hiuh. taking an interest in a subplot is great, but expecting the subplot to be too relevant is (TO ME) a bit of a reach.

b. does Laurent know this is wrong? why is he approaching this issue this way?

i believe there is a part of Laurent that knows this is the wrong approach, which is why he seeks to talk it out with Damen and does not simply act on his own/in secret. in some ways, damen's simplicity has acted as a good moral compass to him before.

Laurent's past institutionalization has been mentioned a couple of times, and I thought perhaps that would be clue enough to unlock that part of his reasoning. evidently, the feedback I've received from multiple people has made me realize I have an important task to complete as I'm editing the final chapters, which is to make this facet of Laurent more evident and on page. hopefully, when the story is over you will come to understand (KEY POINT: NOT APPROVE OF) his reasoning.

c. is Laurent lying when he tells Damen he didn't provoke Aimeric into using the knife on himself?

as usual, I'm not the reading police. I don't, generally speaking, care about how you read this as long as it's not... you know, in bad faith or purposefully poking around for weak spots (see: disingenuous reading). PERSONALLY, I wrote this fic with the intention of Laurent NOT being the reason Aimeric gets committed. Aimeric gets committed time and time again bc he is in desperate need of mental health aid. NOT bc of Laurent's interventions.

now, if you wish to read the scene where Laurent tells Damen that he didn't actually get to provoke Aimeric with some trauma baits (see: aimeric's brother) then it's not like I can stop you. if you feel like the text supports that analysis... be my guest.

3. economic class

I have spoken at length about this before in other asks but there is no reason why you or anyone reading this should know of my previous replies.

economic class is not well written in hiuh. this fic is not meant to be read in any way, shape or form as a study on class, classism, what my personal take on rich people is, etc. to answer your question, yes, ancel and Laurent have both experienced poverty, but they've done so in very different situations. ancel was born into poverty and struggled through it until well into his young adult years when he met berenger. on the other hand, Laurent was rich as a kid up until the moment he decided to go against his uncle and take him to court in a legal battle that lasted (roughly) around a year. this experience obviously changed and shaped Laurent as a person and it is a huge source of tension between him and Damen, but the story is told through damen's pov. Damen has NEVER experienced poverty, economic struggle, need, hunger, desperation... this story is not about this particular issue. I cannot make it about this or else there would be no story bc i believe people that have damen's kind of money would never, EVER, behave the way Damen behaves in this.

there is one character that is """"supposed"""" to represent a more middle class background: jord. HOWEVER, as I've said, this fic does NOT go into an analysis of class. it was not my goal as I wrote it nor is it now as I edit it.

to this day, hiuh is my longest and most intentionally layered work. it has gaps and holes and places where it falls short, as does every story. as does canon. if hiuh were, let's say, original fiction, then I am sure most of these issues would be the main point of many, many fanfics on AO3. fans wanting something different and better and edgier and softer and sadder is why I'm here in the first place. I wanted canon to be different, so I wrote fics. people want my fic to be different in some ways, but that's where fiction reaches a dead end. I cannot offer you, reading this and fuming over XYZ, any solution but to write another (better) version of this story.

what this doesn't mean: STOP COMMENTING YOUR OPINIONS!!! STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS!!!

what this does mean: a lot of criticism is valid, I am giving an explanation of my motives/limitations/creative choices. I am not "defending" myself bc for the most part I do not feel attacked.

final thoughts

i loved this question because as I read it and thought of an answer I could tell where you were coming from and that your wish to know more/understand the characters better was not malicious. yes, they are all hypocrites in some ways and you are very, very right to read the story that way. I am sorry that I sort of hijacked your ask as a way to reply to a lot of other people's comments and asks, but I am afraid that if I do not post this now as one single unified message that I will never have the chance to say this again.

thank you for your time and your careful (and critical!) reading of my story.

[probablyaseamonster]

part 2 of my Pirates SMP theory

So last time I ended off on the realization that if the People of the Yellow Ship are basing their choices off of the character's backgrounds, then Scott is probably going to be the next victim (sorry people who are already attached to the Denholm brothers).

But regarding my joke about hair colour being the reason it can also work because. You know.

But now here's where I start theorizing about the future. I think, that the Kestrels will be eliminated first, or at least targeted the most overall. If this is how it goes than it implies that there is monetary gain to turning innocent pirates (haha, there's no such thing) to stone. Much like real cultists, there be gold to be given if you can just persuade 'em. I assume that Scott also comes from money so it would make sense in that context too. Owen also comes from money but I doubt he'll be targeted until towards the end, due to his main character energy.

Actually, it would be a subversion of tropes if Owen was picked off early. It would be an opportunity to make like a true DM and control the world from the aether. Make like a Grian and become a god of spectators. I doubt it will go this way but it would be an interesting choice.

If my theory of the Kestrels being picked off first turns out to be true more or less, than it would honestly be a waste. Starkid taught me that leaving the more unlikeable characters alive closer to the end (hi Ted) tends to be the right call. I think. I don't actually consume much horror media, I don't know how this works as well as most people. But it is interesting to me that the Kestrels are the only faction to not have been given a more favourable, positive value.

The Kites may be brutish murderers (at least to some) but they have honour, and passion. The Nightingales were mentioned once to value family, which combined with adventure is a combination of values I've never seen before. And the Herons are already pretty appealing to the Ravenclaws of us (sorry to invoke the worldbuilding of Miss Rowling). The Kestrels are really only mentioned to value wealth which, especially with much of the mcyt community being young anti-capitalists, already gives us a reason to dislike them. Especially with Sausage, Kyle and Oli really playing into the greedy rich man archetype, and Scar committing crimes of the stealing and scamming variety (although let's be honest, we can't hate Scar for that, if anything. There's a reason why most of the fanart so far has been about him and not the lesbian couple whose deaths kickstarted the lore, I see you all).

I haven't seen Martyn's POV yet so I don't know where his character lies on the spectrum, but Guqqie seems to be the only good member of the Kestrels, though even she dabbled a little in the casual blatant joking classism. With her gone, and Sausage seeming to consider himself leader (getting indignant when someone suggested that Jellie lead the Kestrels), the Kestrels might have an opportunity to corrupt and become even more villainous. It would seem like a waste if they were eliminated before they had a chance to become memorable villains, though maybe there is a reason for that. After all, one of the easiest ways to make a villain scarier is to have them kill the lesser villain off (some good examples are Toffee from Star VS and The Mayor from Lego Monkie Kid, even though Toffee didn't really kill Ludo).

Now if the People of the Yellow Ship (YES, I'M TRYING TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN) were smart, the faction they'd target next would be the one that poses the biggest threat. This could be two, really. The Kites pose the stronger physical threat, of course. They're all fighters, and the Kites seem to have the least qualms about killing, if things come to that. If it comes down to a physical altercation between Kites and Yellows, the Kites would presumably win (unless we simply haven't seen the true force of the People yet. That would be interesting, if the faction set up as the most physically powerful was less than the villains (after all, a Kite was the first to die to the vines), though I wouldn't expect that from fictional cultists. Something about them just gives a d&d wizard vibe, if you know what I mean)

The other next best choice to attempt to eliminate (assuming, of course, that the villains are tactical like this) would be the Herons. Discovery is literally in their bio, and they seem like the most likely to play detective. If the Herons discover what the People of the Yellow Ship are up to, then they could rally the entire rest of the Faction Isles, and all the pirates from all the other branches across the archipelago, to take down the threat of presumably smaller numbers (unless some don't believe them, or the writers want to make a political allegory and have them not be able to all come together even in crisis (I watched Don't Look Up yesterday.)). The People have a branch (if abandoned-looking) on the Isle itself, which might even mean that they have a spy on the inside, pardon the paranoia. But this gives the Herons an opportunity to investigate without even leaving home, which honestly must be terrifying for them.

The Nightingales have some overlap with the Herons, but they seem to value adventure more for the thrill, for the personal experience rather than documentation. The type to judge a Heron for taking pictures while on vacation, if it were a modern setting. Combine that with the fact that I haven't seen many Nightingales so far, and this makes it seem like they'd be the least threatening to the cult. The cult might even view the Nightingales as distractable bleeding-heart losers who care about family, yuck. /j This puts them at the least risk.

Now, who does that leave to be, if all goes to plan, the last one standing? HeyGraecie (I've never heard of you before, sorry), the only character revealed yet to have been a Nightingale since before this year's Factioning. And... Acho. The one who left the Herons for the "family" faction. The one who has a brother who will probably be targeted next.

Damn... between you, Acho, and Olive... I hope you both at least are allowed to attempt to be heroes.