#i used to be less good at it when i was a child but i remember one time i was talking to my friends mom at her house

[witherby]

Sooooooo excited for a SickBed Part 2 for Mouse!!!! also i’m literally obsessed with your writing - i check for updates on any of ur series like all the time!! 💞💞

That's so sweet to hear! Have something considerably less sweet! Chef's been craving some serious angst for days 😈

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 2

Part one is Here!

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Content warning: Young sick child, descriptions of a seizure, descriptions of a hospital environment ⚠️

You're transported to the hospital after receiving several doses of anti-seizure medication for monitoring and tests. Unless he'd wanted to risk giving away their secret identities, Bruce has to act like he doesn't have access to an entire medical bay in the cave under his house, and lets them take you. Hal gets in the back of the ambulance and Bruce remains behind with his sons, shuffling tiredly into the kitchen and looking like the world is on his shoulders. It's rare that he wears his exhaustion so brazenly.

"They're stable," he announces to the room. Several pairs of shoulders un-tense, and Alfred offers him a mug of hot chocolate. His fingers curl around the handle, but he settles for cradling it while staring down into the liquid. "You can all go back to bed."

"Fuck off," Jason says, "you think any of us can go back to sleep after that?"

"Language," Alfred gently chides. "Master Bruce is right. There is little else we can do for the evening. Our young Flittermouse is in good hands, and Master Harold will alert us to any significant changes, if there are any."

"And Dick," Tim says. He's drained his cup. Bruce gives Tim his, and he takes it to keep his hands busy. "He texted me back. He's gonna meet Hal at Gotham Central."

"Thank you for telling him," Bruce says. He turns to Damian, who hasn't looked away from his own cup. "Damian? How are you fairing?"

"Fine," he says too quickly. He grimaces and tries again. "I am just fine. Merely surprised the illness turned this bad."

Surprised is the understatement of the century. You're alive, you're in good hands, but he can't get the image of you foaming out the mouth and jerking uncontrollably out of his mind. He can't stop hearing you choking and gasping for oxygen. He can't stop thinking about how you might be dead right now if he hadn't listened to his gut and checked on you.

You might be dead right now if he hadn't checked on you. Surrounded by a family of vigilantes who had been none the wiser.

"I want to go to the hospital," he says suddenly. "I know you won't permit me to drive, so someone else needs to take me there. Now, preferably."

Bruce rests a hand on Damian's shoulder. "You did your part, son. You got help and they're gonna be okay. You don't have to —"

"I'm sorry," Damian says, "I don't know why I phrased it like a request. I need to get to the hospital, so I can either be driven there or find my own way."

There's silence for a minute. Damian sits still while wordless conversation is exchanged with everyone else at the table. For a brief moment, he feels like the baby of the family again.

He almost would have reclaimed that title if he hadn't found you —

A hairline crack appears in his mug. He stands from his seat and Bruce's grip on his shoulder briefly gets tighter.

"I'll take you," Bruce says. "Pack a Go Bag and meet me in the driveway in ten minutes."

"I'll be there in four," Damian replies, heading off. He fetches a change of clothes, his sketchbook, a phone charger, and swings by your room to grab the plush bat you sleep with in your bed.

--

Dick is sitting in a stiff plastic chair in the emergency room lobby, dressed in a thick hoodie, sweats, and a baseball cap to avoid getting any excessive attention at three in the morning. He won't stop chewing on his thumbnail when Damian walks in and kicks his leg.

"Report," he demands.

"Hello to you, too, baby bird," Dick mumbles. He tips his head up just enough to be able to make eye contact under the lip of his hat.

"I'm growing very tired of repeating myself in this family," Damian hisses. Dick sits up fully at that and sighs.

"They stopped seizing," he explains. "Haven't woken up yet, so they're in an observation room getting some blood drawn and being prepped for an MRI. Only one family member's allowed back at a time, so Hal is with them."

"Tell him to switch me places," Damian demands. "I don't have his number."

"You're gonna put it in your contacts after this," Dick says. A statement, not a question. Damian nods solemnly. "Good. I'll text him."

Damian sinks into the chair beside Dick and sets his bag on the ground, digging out his cellphone. He takes a peek at the group chat he's in with his brothers, scrolling through more recent messages talking about your upcoming birthday, and whether or not you're turning old enough to get a cellphone of your own. Bruce insists a seven-year-old will not need one, but everyone has been collaborating on a PowerPoint presentation to show Bruce all the points in favor of it.

All of Dick's points have just been "I can ask for selfies any time," and all of Jason's have just been "I'll finally have a reason to use my own if I can call Mousey whenever I want," so it's largely been Damian and Tim coming up with points that might actually sway Bruce.

He scrolls further back in the chat history in lieu of anything else to do, stopping to look at any pictures each brother has exchanged. A new book series Jason took interest in. An article about high tension wires Tim shared. Lots and lots of selfies from Dick. God, his eldest brother's picture should be in the dictionary next to Vanity. An article featuring Dick on the cover of Vanity Fair.

He's about to close out of the chat when he spots a picture Jason sent about two weeks ago of you. You're outside in the Manor gardens and clearly asleep in a patch of sunflowers, likely having worn yourself out playing. The sky in the background is clear for once, and the sun is just starting to set, which means the flowers are starting to turn to the next brightest source of light.

They're all facing you.

The framing is impeccable. It's a beautifully-captured, candid moment, likely taken seconds before Jason descended and woke you up with a surprise tickle ambush, as he tends to do when he finds any sibling napping somewhere, the bastard.

Damian makes it his lock screen, then pockets his phone and waits there in silence with his brother.

--

You're sleeping when Damian finally gets to see you again. Hal relented to switching places with him, knowing he would find his way to you regardless of his answer, so he didn't put up any fight.

He stands quietly in the observation room the entire two hours it takes to run all your scans, then follows the nurses as you're wheeled into a room and hooked up to some fluids and a heart rate monitor. They tell him that you're not likely to wake for at least a few more hours, but he's adamant that he's to stay at your side.

When he's alone, he snags your charts and looks them over, using his limited medical knowledge to glean as much as he can from the report. As far as he can tell your brain is fine, which is the biggest relief, but he's still going to grab a nurse and make them explain the parts he doesn't understand to him so that he can get the whole picture.

Damian digs your bat plushy out of his bag and gingerly tucks it under one of your arms. Your skin is pale and clammy when he makes contact with it, and he scowls.

"If you get any worse, I'll be livid," he tells your unconscious body. "Stop scaring your family. It's unbecoming of a Wayne."

You, understandably, don't respond. Damian watches your chest move smoothly up and down, watches the monitor display your heart rate, but he still keeps a hand around your wrist to track himself. The tangible proof of life helps settle the deep anxiety in his chest.

"I mean it," he mutters, "if you develop some kind of complication, or seize again, or d —"

He grits his teeth and shoves away the surge of panic that threatens to overwhelm him. Breathes slowly and deeply. Moves his hand from your wrist to lace your fingers together with his, squeezing tightly.

"The thought should never have crossed my mind. You simply have to get better," he says, factual. "You don't have a choice, even if I have to give up my mantle to...hnn."

Damian falls silent as he looks at you. An idea forms in his mind, blooming quickly. Roots take shape and travel down his spine, until they find a home in his chest and curl around his heart. He's hit with a wave of certainty he's never felt before in his life.

He messages the group chat with his brothers, sending a singular text, then digs out his sketchbook and a pen with one hand while he continues to hold onto yours.

Damian to All: I want to go to medical school.

--

You awaken with a massive headache. It's bright and hot and you're terribly dizzy. You're confused, knowing you went to sleep last night in your large, dark bedroom, with silky sheets and your stuffy, but now you're lying in a tiny cot with one scratchy sheet and being blinded by the overhead light.

"Daddy," you try to call out, but your throat is hoarse and you start coughing. It feels like you've swallowed a box of knives. Something squeezes your hand and you feel a palm against your forehead. "D-...D..."

"You're safe. Breathe as slowly as you can. I'm going to sit the bed up."

The voice is familiar. You squint blearily in the light and can just barely make out your brother's face.

"D-Dami?" You croak, wheezing for breath.

"Yes, Flit, it's me," he says. Once you're more or less upright, he briefly leans across you. "Pardon the reach. I'm going to put a cup of water in your free hand. Drink it very slowly."

You fumble with the cup. Damian helps you hold it, and you take small sips. It doesn't soothe the stinging in your throat, but he looks so uncharacteristically worried for you that you just keep drinking the water until it's empty.

"How do you feel?" He asks.

"Bad," you mumble. "Where are we?"

"Gotham Central Hospital." Damian puts the empty cup aside and sits down in the chair next to your bed. He still hasn't let go of your hand. "Your illness took a bad turn, and you had a seizure last night. Doctors brought you here to make you better."

"Oh. Am I better now?"

"Not yet." Damian grabs the clipboard with your information on it and glances over it again. "We know that you have severe viral pneumonia, but it's not lobar or interstitial like I thought. I suspect your seizure isn't part of the original problem, just a manifestation...of...um."

Damian stops talking when he notices your confusion. You scrunch your nose and give him a helpless frown.

"I don't know what that means," you say softly. You look absolutely devastated. "Am I gonna die?"

Damian's heart leaps into his throat. He squeezes your hand almost painfully tight and stands from his chair, leaning over you with wide eyes. The green in his irises almost seem to flash, like Jason's when he's extremely angry.

"No," he says fiercely, saying your name with a shakiness you've never heard before. "You will not die. I won't let it come to that."

You stare back at him, sniffling.

"Promise?"

"I promise. I swear it."

You relax a little. "Okay. I trust you, Dami."

Your brother's face does a strange twist. It looks like his eyes start to get shiny, but he leans down and rests his head against your shoulder before you can really find out. He smells like home, instead of the weird, chemically-clean scent of the hospital room, which is comforting.

His arms come around you in a gentle hug. You lift your hands and reciprocate as best as you can, limbs feeling like jelly. It's nice. Damian doesn't hug you very often, so you do your best to savor it. When he pulls away, his expression is carefully neutral and closed off again. He sits back down and resumes holding your hand.

"Father and Timothy are in the waiting room, if you'd like to see them," he says, checking his phone. His notifications have been flooded with questions from his brothers (and demands for pictures from Dick, for some reason. You're sick, not posing for a photoshoot). He brings up his dial pad, ready to call whomever you want.

"Yeah," you nod, desperate for comfort from more of your family. You don't like the bright hospital room. You hope having more people around will make it less eerie.

Damian rings Bruce without fanfare and tells him your room number, then hangs up again. He goes to stand, about to leave the room, but you tighten your grip on his hand before he can slip away.

"Stay?" You ask quietly.

He sits back down instantly, brows raised. You don't spend much time with Damian, considerably less than you do with your other brothers, but he seems taken aback by you seeming to enjoy his company just as much as the others'.

"Yes," he says, voice whisper-soft, "I'll stay with you."

You give him a tired smile. Then your ears start ringing and your vision whites out. The last thing you hear before losing consciousness is Damian's frantic cry of your name.

[sunflower1experiment]

The Doctor, will See You

Risk

It was quiet, you were quiet, it made him uncomfortable when you would acknowledge him with a nod and then walk past. Tending to the children, was it the fact that you lost this child or maybe you had finally accepted your fate. Whatever the plan was it was also affecting the toys too, Leith was less strict and more patient but the knowledge that you weren't actively seeking any forms of social bond made him worry. "Can you talk to me?"

Stella begs while holding your hand, you chuckle sadly. "No, stop trying and just work. Please."

Work, silence, feed, care, work, silence.....feed...?

Doey's neck stretches across his cell and ate some of the fruit you placed down, "You're feeding us? Why?" This was Kevin talking, the children were weary. You simply shake your head, "I'm doing this to tell you to live, keep rebelling, you're all smart and I...I'm doing what I can before I accept everything."

The boys stare at you through Doey, "What do you mean? Your voice isn't gentle, so why?"

"Kevin, Matthew, Jack...Doey. I don't think Harley or Prototype are good. So, I want you to take care of the children if things get...tense, you don't have to do it if you don't want to. Every choice you make. Make sure to forgive yourself, okay? You're good kids." Doey flinches when you place one more food into his hand.

It was, colorful, like him a pretty fruit with colors and a variety of different tastes. "Peach..." He ate it curiously, relishing the different essences of sweetness.

Catnap was well difficult to speak with, you knew he held high expectations for Prototype and also didn't see you as anything other than a scientist, an adult. One that betrayed him, the food placed down was smacked away, "It's okay. You have every right to be angry."

He sneers at your words, just because you were "one of the good ones"

"You are no better, you are a scientist, you still stood beside him." Nodding at his words you sigh sadly.

"Maybe that was a signal, loving him and then getting attached to you all. That no matter how hard I try, I was more loyal to playtime than I was myself. I so badly wish to take your pain away. Sadly, the only thing I can do is this."

What did you mean!? Catnap watches you leave, Dogday stares in horror, "Catnap, did Prototype...." No, what did you mean!?

Were you leaving? No, you had a plan, something they wouldn't know about. Mommy places the fruits and vegetables aside when you returned. After everything, the truth, and now you and Harley were no more. What were you planning to do exactly? "Is there a reason you're so, quiet, planning in silence?"

"The plan is to give you all strength, and then, gather evidence." Mommy's eyes widen, she slinks over with a curious grin. "Evidence?"

"You are evidence, but the files are too." So that is why you were quiet and so obediently tame, of course this is merely as scary as any job with a corrupt background but to be on top and stay while hitting rock bottom. Yet here you are, giving food while ignoring Harley's calls.

Huggy leans in when your phone rings for the third time, you hold his cheek so he could remain still. His sharp teeth chew on the pears you feed him, sometimes he'd stand guard while you worked. Listening to the apologies or gentle words he wished to hear, when the experimentations happened. Did you even know of the pain? the anguish? The suffering everyone experienced at the hands of Harley, Eddie and Leith?

He could only smile while staring at you, your apologies meant something but in terms of actioner it would fall flat.

"tHe hOur oF jOy....yOu sHoUlD join..."

"I can't...I have to give the evidence to the public, you understand...I'm not sure what this hour will be but if you all plan to escape then I'll do everything I can to help."

Prototype envies your determined futility; him and Harley were alike that way. Harley loves your bleeding heart while Prototype's plan was meant to break you, turn you to hate humanity and maybe just maybe you could collaborate with him. Not out of love, or concern to commemorate you and him becoming allies, but because he needed eyes, ears, hands, and the ability to touch.

He then notes the ringing phone, that was once again in voicemail. Harley was growing more desperate.

Each one went straight to voicemail, or he'd find you in your office. Expecting coffee from you or a small smile of assurance, where did he go wrong? The day he truly went wrong was probably the last time you and him would share such warm embrace.

What happened? The files were placed down, evidence upon evidence and a video file to upload the truth to the world. Now all there is the door, but it was locked. Your body tenses, and in the back of your mind you prayed it wasn't what you thought it'd be. Whether you loved him or not, it was still...

It starts with a crash, a gunshot, yelling, what did Prototype do, words of who will cover this up fill your ears. How will he cover it up, then you ran in and knelt to Harley's side, holding him by the face.

Whether Harley wanted to or not, that was what made Leith, and you clash, he was usually bemused with your interaction with the toys.

Yet nothing bemused him more than seeing your teary-eyed face standing before him.

TW// Blood, gunshot, (Here we see his perspective of what happened. Meanwhile Leith gets his perception while the hour of joy is its own chapter), cursing, gore minors do not interact if you get weary at the mention of blood

Harley, Harley Sawyer, head scientist of the projects, facing betrayal, curiosity, discovery, love, failure, and isolation. Holding no sorts of humility and discipline as stated by Elliot, he struggles to reach the top of the ranks in playtime co. Striding to become better than those nobodies he called coworkers, the ones with bleeding hearts, soft like Elliot or not even capable to reach his intellect.

Many experiments, failure or not he knew he was the one carrying this company to success, then it was Quinn...

Quinn, he should've listened when he knew someone was opting to take this child in. Experiment 1166, aka Yarnaby. The obedience it displays....or he displays, was enough to make Sawyer "take" him in. That was his first mistake, "That boy Quinn, I really want to adopt him."

In one ear and out the other, this man was foolish. To even form a relationship with someone who held more humility, more humanity than him. How dare he ruin the concept of enamor for his partner to be or to not be.

He loved you, of course he did, that's why he kept you close. Someone needed to keep this family together, Harley, Quinn Yarnaby, you. His mind wanders to the baby, two months in...and to see your locked door, the fetus, the man wanted to yell at the scientist for not saving it. It could be of potential: What a sick twisted thought to have about your own child!

Harley breaths as he scraps the paperwork on the prototype, "sOmethiNg thE mATTER? DoCtor?"

"No, you and I both know that....So anything else you wish to express?" It chuckles, then taps the metallic fingers on the table. "You both loved each other so dearly, and you simply had to turn that boy into a toy....Criminals, sick, dying...Right? Potential toys. Or better yet Some sedation."

"Don't you ever use that voice against me! Damn it!" Harley slams his hands on the table, he hated that voice, because it belonged to you. Except you were crying, hugging his frame while he couldn't bear to see you making that pathetic sound. Even when the doctor had the audacity to find some sick amusement at Yarnaby's sounds....you were different.

It absolutely annoys Harley's soul knowing Stella held some form of kinship to you, the flowers expressed so many words. So, he tried as well, first it was a Clematis Jackmanii, you were enthralled by such beauty. Next the Iris, you returned this exchange with a Rosemary, so he got bolder, and he was before your office with a Tuberose. Your wide eyes and slightly startled demeanor rub him the wrong way until you show him a beautiful pink poppy. He holds it, silent....

That flower was now wilted, he was heartbroken or maybe he needed to try again. So, he foolishly offers a poppy flower. Your demeanor is unchanging, and your silence spoke so many words to him, truly the indifference you held to the doctor hurt more than any form of hatred.

All these puzzles and shifts to try and win you over again he simply moves onto work like you but not the way he'd expect. The incident, he simply had Boxy Boo cover his tracks, and he'd leave while everyone else was already home. Until he saw you, your eyes were wide the crashing, gunshots, what happened!?

But he could only focus on you, he tries to speak, then stops when you walk forward. Harley practically drops everything to hold you but then his eyes widen. There was blood on the floor, sounds of shouting and Leith's angry yelling while guards start to seize you.

"Harley! What did you bastards do!? What was that!?" Your voice fades as the guards move you towards the hallways, "Harley!!!"

Harley's breathing shortens, too much blood loss...he felt it track over his lab coat. It reminded him of your warmth, your lips and tender touch.

"Start the procedure."

Then the doctor awoke, calling for you, it made Leith tense with anger, Dr. Bruno White clears his throat. "Procedure complete....how, are you feeling?"

"White!? Where, what happened...I...Something is wrong, what did you do!? Which one of you higher up backstabbing traitors..."

"I gave the order." Leith cuts Sawyer off from his angry tangent, he sighs. "After so many chances and even a failed attempt of us nearly getting exposed. You really know how to handle your screw ups."

"Enough with your idle talk, why would we even get exposed?" Sawyer snarls at him, his patience wearing thin.

"Your partner had evidence, upon evidence! Everything was recorded, everything! You simply couldn't just leave it alone..." Leith sighs, "Luckily we dealt with him as per needed.

"You have no idea what you all are doing, you all need mine and my dear's intellect!"

"That is the exact reason why you're here and not food for Boxy Boo." Leith retorts while he looks at Leith's now isolated form. "Here's how we'll do this, you will give the other scientists answers when they need them, and to perform procedures as directed."

"You'll die for this Pierre! When I get my hands on you. You're a DEAD MAN!"

Harley wouldn't accept this, not when you were trapped somewhere, being treated with the same pain. Leith Pierre maybe, a greedy bastard but...would he hurt you.

He had to know, it was as if the world was against him for the final time. How many months went by is what he'd ask but he knew time was only relative in the eyes of the beholder.

That's when he hears him again, "Open the door!" Leith's angry voice fills his ears, you take some steps back. Holding your chest, he watches through the camera tapping on the screen. Anything to get your attention, Stella's cries fill his head. Why was everyone do damn loud!?

"I failed, for the final time." Your voice begins, he assumed you were crying, and he desperately hopes it was true. Yet when no tears shed, he was angry. At himself, those fools, you!

He notices you grabbing the lever, to release everyone, everything, even him. But that meant you would die too, "No matter how much I try to look, I was no better…if they kill me, I hope I can ease their pain…I’m so sorry children."

You can't be serious!? This had to be prototype's doing! Why didn't he see the signs sooner, damn it, damn everything to hell it was his fault! He held the blame, Leith Pierre held the blame, Stella, all of these scientists. Innocent, guilty....

"I really did love him." Harley stops moping with self-loath when you say those words, "I just wanted him to see that those orphans, the children. They were smarter than people realize..."

You pull the lever; closing the gate that guards the workers in the higher grounds. "Prototype wanted us to die but, not everyone deserves it. I tried to convince him and Sawyer..."

The doctor watches your determined glare towards the others, "I'm doing this for the sake of the children and the innocent. I don't care if this seems like some moral power play, it isn't, I'm no better."

Everything played out so slowly, the gates were vain as they transported Huggy to the upper floor. Killing everyone, Mommy long legs follow afterwards in the train station playground, death, blood, bodies. The sick sounds of someone's body being torn apart, it made Harley watch in awe how they practically turn this place to hell..

Because of him and those backstabbing scientists, what exactly did you do? Right, you never did them, you were the one who interrogated the children and toys.

Always being sweet, and caring for them, feeding those damned beasts. That was your downfall and biggest flaw, you had that bleeding heart...

"....Hello old friend." The prototype says in a mocking manner, "I see even after everything, your love for that scientist has not changed. So, will the doctor be seeing them?"

Harley chuckles bitterly at its words of mockery and amusement, those fools lost control god knows how much later after he was turned. Now this "Hour of Joy" happens, all of his work in shambles..

But you, his perfect experiment. You weren't in shambles, not yet that is, maybe if he made you into something like him the toys would be more accepting. Unlike that Thomas Clarke fellow, he could make you his perfect experiment, the perfect partner. Without that awful bleeding heart, he came to adore so much, you'd be safe from manipulation. From Prototype, he sighs once more as he finally clears his head, "Make sure my dear partner doesn't die.."

Your fate was sealed that day.

[wosospacegirl]

And they were roommates - part 3

Summary: Y/n gets injured and has to stay in recovery for 8 months. It's a good thing her friend and teammate Kyra is more than willing to move in with her. wink wink

Warnings: kissing, lots of kissing and sexual tension hehe

Word count: 4k

MASTERLIST

| PART 1 HERE | | PART 2 HERE |

Kyra’s legs felt like concrete and her brain was foggy as she watched Katie steal the ball from her—again. Kyra was tired and confused, and her exhaustion was reflected in her poor training today. She had lost possession of the ball to Katie at least 3 three times, and after the third time, Katie even stopped teasing her about it. The fact that Katie even felt sorry for her spoke volumes about how awful she was today.

When she failed to do well in the last drill, Renée had—gently—asked her to step that one out. Kyra hadn’t wanted to at first, but Renée hadn’t asked her to either, so she went to the bench and sat on the stiff surface, watching her teammates actually show why they were on the field, and she wasn’t.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Alessia said handing her a protein bar. Kyra did not even see her approaching, highlighting how absent-minded she was.

“No,” Kyra mumbled, taking the snack, and fiddling with it at first before taking a small bite. Strawberry and white chocolate flavour, Kyra’s favourite. Maybe she wouldn’t be so depressed today after all. “Did you get kicked out of the pitch too? Is this the ‘prodigy-child-who-can’t-seem-to-kick-a-ball’ corner?”

“Well—no.” Alessia laughed. “Renée asked me to come here and see, in her own words, ‘what the fuck happened to Cooney’, so here I am.”

“Oh, so you don’t really want to talk to me, I’m just another chore in your busy day,” Kyra joked, biting back her laugh as Alessia nudged her slightly with her shoulder.

“You’re being dramatic,” Alessia stated, accepting the half-eaten protein bar Kyra handed back to her.

Alessia finished the protein bar while she waited for Kyra to formulate whatever she was thinking. After a few moments, she finally spoke.

“I’m so confused. And when I’m confused, I get completely worn out from the among of neurons I’m using,” Kyra confessed suddenly.  “I don’t like when things are… I don’t know. Blurry, maybe?”

Alessia listened carefully with narrowed eyes, chin resting on her hand. “But what are you confused about, what’s blurry?” Alessia questioned, not really understanding what the girl was talking about.

Kyra’s cheek flushed. “Y/n has been acting weird lately, I’m not sure why.”

“What do you mean weird? Last time I spoke to her she sounded fine, happier even,” Alessia tilted her head.

“Maybe weird isn’t the right word—” Kyra continued with her mumbling. “She’s acting different, not in a bad way, though.”

“In what way then?” Alessia asked, pressing further.

“She’s being very nice to me,” Kyra blurted out. “Not that she wasn’t before, of course she was always very kind, but now it’s…”

“Different?” Alessia complete easily, given Kyra’s difficult relationship with, well, words today. “She’s being nicer to you, and that’s making you feel confused?”

“Exactly!” Kyra said, throwing her hands up in the air.

Alessia laughed quietly. “All right, tell me about it, let’s dissect it,” Alessia said, fake-serious tone that made Kyra roll her eyes.

“I’m serious, Less!” Kyra groaned,

“I’m too! Go on, I’m all ears,” Alessia encouraged.

So, Kyra told what had happened last night.

Y/n had begged Kyra to put a mattress in her living room. “It’ll be like when we used to have girl’s night!” Y/n had said cheerfully as she sat on the couch. Kyra didn’t match Y/n’s energy. It was late, and Y/n mattress was surprisingly heavy.

“We could keep having girl’s night in your room,” Kyra complained, finally letting the mattress hit the floor. The Australian let out a sigh of relief as her hand went to her shoulder and pressed against the skin.

“Just so you know I am not carrying this upstairs again,” Kyra pointed at the mattress as if it were a sentient being responsible for its weight.

“Too heavy?” Y/n smiled, spreading her legs and motioning for Kyra to sit in between them on the floor.

Kyra obeyed, though not without some complaining. “Yeah, I don’t know what it’s made of.  Aren’t mattresses supposed to be made of goose feathers or some shit?”

Y/n squeezed the spot on Kyra’s shoulder she was complaining about, her hands touching the rough texture of Kyra’s Matilda's hoodie.

“Wow, there, right there,” Kyra whispered as Y/n touched the spot more firmly.

“I think mattress are supposed to have a fair amount of foam, spring, polyurethane—” Y/n explained.

“You’re just making up words,” Kyra muttered, leaning into Y/n’s touches.

“Unfortunately, they’re real words that make up real mattress materials,”

“How do you even know that?” Kyra turned, her eyebrows furrowed as she looked up at Y/n.

“I read it in an article n the newspaper,” Y/n mumbled, tapping Kyra’s head. “And turn around, I’m trying to give you a massage.”

“Newspaper? How old are you? 99?” Kyra whined as Y/n pressed her acromion. “Ouch, don’t be so rough!”

“Sorry! It would be easier if you weren’t wearing this bulky hoodie, I can’t even feel where I’m touching.” Y/n bickered. “Plus, the colors on it aren’t even that good.”

“Those are literally the national colours of my country!” Kyra argued, rolling her eyes as she watched the smug smile on Y/n’s face. “Ok, you’re messing with me,” Kyra concluded.

“Just a little, you’ve been too tense lately, and normally you’re very relaxed.” Y/n said. “I’m just trying to do something nice for you.”

“Yeah, maybe if the derby wasn’t so close I could feel happiness and, you know, live life, but we can’t have everything we wish for.” Kyra said in a fake-sad-voice.

Y/n’s hand fell from Kyra’ shoulder as Kyra pulled out the hoodie in a sweeping motion and threw it casually on the love seat by the window. The other girl was wearing a black sport’s bra underneath the hoodie.

Y/n froze, hands in the mid-air. She hasn’t expecting to see Kyra’s very strong back today. Kyra’s trapezius and deltoid muscles were very defined, Kyra looked tough, but also soft. The dichotomy of it making was making y/n breath out loud.

Kyra turned back to Y/n again, confusion on her face. “Don’t you want to do it anymore?” She asked the girl.

“Do what?” Y/n swallowed, trying not to look at the skin on Kyra’s back, focusing instead on Kyra’s eyes. Eyes were safe. Eyes didn’t make Y/n feel hot in places she shouldn’t feel hot at the moment.

“—The massage? You said if I didn’t wear the..”

“Oh yeah, yeah, of course!” Y/n rumbled. “Sorry,” she whispered as she placed her thumb, forefinger and middle finger on Kyra’s skin, gently pressing the sore spots.

“You’re tense,” Y/n told Kyra, “Especially here…” Y/n placed her fingers on the back of Kyra’s neck.” Y/n applied more pressure, until she felt Kyra’s muscle relax. “Feels good, now?” Y/n asked, continuing to work with her fingers.

“Yeah, it feels great really,” Kyra replied, enjoying Y/n’s hand on her. Maybe Kyra was in a dry spell for months, or maybe Y/n’s finger were really out of this world.

Kyra shivered slightly as Y/n nails scratched gently through her neck. Kyra had to hold back a moan to keep her dignity.

The realisation hit Kyra like a cold winter breeze, she was wearing a sports bra and being massaged—in the most delicious way—by a very pretty girl, who also happened to be her friend.

And now she was supposed to suck it up and share a mattress with said friend because said friend didn’t want to sleep in her room alone anymore. ‘It’s too lonely, it makes me sad’ Y/n had said.

Kyra was hyperventilating slightly. She wasn’t sure if Y/n could notice it.

Y/n moved her leg—the good one—more to the left and touched Kyra’s arm. It was such an innocent touch, but it made Kyra feet like a teenager all over again. Kyra began squirming in her spot, her palms clammy. It was seriously humiliating to feel this hot and bothered by a fucking touch on the arm.

Y/n’s fingers were quicker now, going from the middle of her back to her neck.

Kyra had been with girls before. She knew how to flirt, how to tease, where to touch. She wasn’t inexperienced or innocent on that matter. But the way Y/n was making Kyra’s body shiver just barely felt almost overwhelming—in a good, but scary way.

“Why do you seem more tense than when we started?” Y/n asked, interrupting Kyra’s inner monologue.

“Oh, I’m not. I’m …you just overwhelmed me with your flawless technique!” Kyra said, trying to sound teasing, but failing.

“Oh well, thank you,” Y/n said smiling, but still tilting her head slightly, as if she did not believe Kyra’s word. “I’m trying to find new hobbies, like you said.”

“You should stick with it. Your fingers feel amazing,” Kyra breathed, and then stopped. Her eyes went wide as what she had just said sank in.

“My fingers are that good, huh” Y/n said smugly, enjoying seeing Kyra squirm a little.

“You’re making it dirty,” Kyra said sheepishly.

Y/n laughed and watched as Kyra stood up. “You made it dirty first! Come on, telling a fellow lesbian her fingers feel good?”

“I just really like massages,” Kyra tried to recover from the awkwardness, her hoodie now on. “And it seems like you really liked making me squirm, so I think we’re both even.”

“Oh, okay, you turned that around quickly, I’ll give you that” Yn said, a little taken back, cheeks warm.”

“Flirting.” Alessia stated. “She was flirting with you! And you flirted back.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“You just told me how you flirted with each other!” Alessia said enthusiastically, looking like a happy puppy.

“We weren’t flirting! We were teasing each other, we always do that,” Kyra argued, pointing at Alessia and then at herself. “We always do that.”

“We? Ky when was the last time I made a dirty joke on you?” Alessia questioned, crossing her arms.

“Never!” Alessia said without letting Kyra answer it. “And Y/n never teased me like that either.”

“I’m so sorry Ky but I can’t see where your confusion is coming from, it” Alessia got up, standing in front of Kyra, looking down at her. “It looks to me like you two have a little crush on each other?”

“A crush?” Kyra whined. “We aren’t seven!”

“Well, right now you’re acting like a seven-year-old who can’t see what’s happening right in front of her,” Alessias lectured softly. “What did you guys do after the massage? Please spare me any intimate details, though.”

Kyra rolled her eyes. “Nothing happened, we just got ready for bed and slept.”

“In the same mattress, right?” Alessia asked.

“…Yeah”

“I’m sorry baby, but you can’t be this naïve,” Alessia said softly, looking at Kyra as if she were a innocent child learning how the world works for the first time.

“What happened after the two of you woke up?” Alessia asked.

Kyra blushed as she remembered the position she was when she opened her eyes in the morning. Y/n couldn’t move much because of her cast, but Kyra was a very fussy sleeper and had changed positions during her sleep.

When Kyra’s alarm clock went off, she wasn’t only greeted by the usual and annoying noise, but also by Y/n’s breathing. Kyra had snuggled up to Y/n’s body for some reason. Her head on Y/n’s shoulder as the girl breathed softly into her ear.

“Don’t go,” Y/n said half asleep when Kyra tried to get up.

Kyra blushed, enjoying the way Y/n pulled at her shirt lazily.

“I have to get up and make us breakfast,” Kyra explained, taking Y/n’s hands from off her shirt. “And you have your first physical therapy session today, so we can’t be late.”

“5 more minutes? Please?” Y/n murmured

Kyra sighed, allowing Y/n to lie back on her chest. “Okay, but just 5 minutes.”

“Uhum okay,” Y/n mumbled, falling back asleep.

“Nothing much,” Kyra said, back to Alessia. “We just, I don’t know, cuddled?”

“You cuddled?” Alessias asked slowly.

“Yeah.”

“You are Y/n seemed to be in a pretty domestic bliss right now,” the blonde bent down to tie her boots. “Maybe the whole moving in together had made you realise that you have this chemistry going on?”

Kyra thought for a moment.

“I guess so? I’m not sure about chemistry, though,” she admitted. “I’m not even sure Y/n feels the same way I do.”

Kyra felt pathetic, really. Sure, perhaps she had feelings for her friends—and her roommate—but that didn’t mean that Y/n liked her back. There was always the possibility that Y/n was just lonely, and Kyra just happened to be there.

“I don’t think she’d give you a massage or cuddle up with you if she’s still saw you as just her friend,” Alessia pointed out. “Y/n isn’t the type to play hard to get—she’s very straightforward about how she feels.”

Alessia was right. Whenever the three girls went out to a bar or club, Y/n never played games with the women she wanted to take home. She was direct and confident.

“I guess I just don’t see her liking…me?” Kyra confessed, looking down. “I’m not going into a spiral of self-loathing or anything—I know I’m pretty and funny,” She half-joked.

“But Y/n’s also dealing with a lot right now. She’s focused on her recovery, getting better, starting physio… I don’t think she’s even aware of whatever this is,” Kyra added.

“Y/n’s recovering from a really bad injury, but she’s still Y/n,” Alessia countered, eyebrows furrowed. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders—I don’t think she’d be so oblivious about this whole situation.”

Before Kyra could respond, their conversation was cut short. Renée had called both players back to the pitch.

“I hope you got your mind off whatever was bothering you,” the coach said as she patted Kyra on the back.

Kyra thought of Y/n’s face.

“Yeah, I’m back now. Sorry,” Kyra said, slipping her practice vast on and jogging onto the field.

Hours later, the training was over, and Kyra was on her way to pick up Y/n from the physiotherapy clinic. Kyra parked in front of the white building, spotting Y/n already waiting with a smile on her face

“Hi, how was it?” Kyra asked as she stepped out of the car, opening the passenger door and helping Y/n inside.

“It was very good, actually,” Y/n said happily, handing Kyra her crutches so she could put them in the back seat. “Dr. Marta says my leg’s looking great and that haven’t lost too much muscle mass, so I won’t have too much trouble when we start doing the heavier exercises.”

“That’s great!” Kyra said, looking in between Y/n and the road as she drove away. “Has Dr. Marta said when you’ll be cleared to do the physio back at Arsenal?”

Y/n turned on the radio and Pink Pony Club by Chappell Roan filled the car. “Yeah, she said I could go in two weeks. She just wants to make sure my ligaments are strong enough first.”

Kyra put a hand on Y/n’s leg—the good one—and gave it a light squeeze. “Well, I bet your ligaments are already better than mine.”

Y/n stared at Kyra’s hand, enjoying the subtle touch.

Kyra noticed the silence realised where her hand was. “Sorry,” she mumbled, quickly pulling it back and placing both hands on the wheel.

“its’s okay,” Y/n said, taking Kyra’s hand and putting it back on her leg. “Your hand is warm; my leg is cold. You can keep it there,” y/n said casually.

Kyra swallowed. She wasn’t sure what to do, so she just left her hand where it was.

“But now tell me about the training—how was it?” Y/n asked, shifting the conversation. “And I saw you guys had media day! I was so bummed I missed it…I love media days”

Kyra raised an eyebrow, her thumb now gently caressing her skin now. Not a big deal.

“No, you don’t.” Kyra huffed. “Last season, you pretended to have cramps, so you wouldn’t have to film a TikTok.”

“I said I love media day, I didn’t say I like making a fool of myself dancing,” Y/n shot back, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, come on, you’re a good dancer,”

“Yeah, at parties! I don’t do well when I’m the only one dancing and everyone around me is watching,”

“Well, when you come back all healed up, I’ll do a TikTok dance with you, so you don’t have to dance alone.”

“Given your dancing skills I think we’d both be better off hiding in the changing room,” Y/n teased.

Kyra stuck her tongue out at Y/n before they both burst laughing.

..

Y/n felt like a like a caged animal whenever she was around Kyra, which was often, considering they lived together. She tried, really tried to control herself and her impulses around Kyra, not wanting her to feel uncomfortable in any way.

But every time Kyra got a little too close, Y/n had to remind herself to breath, to think straight and not to let her gaze linger for too long.

Y/n wanted to kiss Kyra, really kiss her.

That was all she could think about when Kyra slipped a pillow under her leg without her being asked, or when she cut apples and handed them to Y/n before she even realised, she wanted a snack.

Maybe Y/n’s love language was acts of service—after all, why was she horny just because Kyra put socks on her feet?

It had been months since Y/n had kissed anyone, maybe a month or two months before her injury. She couldn’t quite remember it. So it was unnecessary to say that she was desperate.

Y/n though she had more grace, more control in her, but it all went out the drain the moment Kyra plopped herself on her side on the mattress, fresh from the shower. Her hair was still damp, and the shampoo she used filled the room with a vanilla fragrance.

Pretty, pretty girl.

Y/n felt as if her entire brain had ben short-circuited, as if her neuronal network had been designed to think about Kyra and only Kyra.

Both girls had gone out to a restaurant an hour earlier, it was the first time Y/n had seen all her teammates together since her injury. It was lovely to see all of them together after such long time.

The arsenal players stayed until late, but when Kyra and Y/n had gone home, Y/n suggested a movie night, which Kyra had agreed to—under one condition—she was the on picking the film.

‘But I’m a cheerleader’ was in the final ark already when Megan crashed the graduation party to be with Graham.

Y/n wouldn’t say it was the film itself that influenced her to take that step. It was more the subtle brush of Kyra’s arm against her own that did the trick.

“Hey, Kyra?” Y/n said, her confidence rising.

“Hmm?” Kyra mumbled, not taking her eyes off the TV.

“I really wanna kiss you right now,” Y/n confessed bluntly. She didn’t stutter or stumble in her words—she knew what she wanted, and she’d be very happy if Kyra wanted It too.

Kyra gasped slightly and finally looked into Y/n’s eyes. “What?”

It felt as if there was no air in her lungs, as if her stomach was turning against itself. Was she dreaming?

No, she wasn’t. She was sure this was real.

“Kiss you. I really want to,” Y/n explained calmly. “But it’s alright If you don’t want,” She added, looking intensely at Kyra.

“I-I want to kiss you,” Kyra said, a hint of question in her voice.

“Yeah? You sure?” Y/n asked, slightly teasing.

“Uhum,” Kyra nodded eagerly.

“Ok,” Y/n whispered before leaning in and carefully kissing Kyra.

Y/n cupped Kyra's jaw gently, controlling the depth of their kiss with gentle confidence. Kyra's tongue slipped shyly into Y/n's mouth. Their bodies fit together in the best possible way.

The kiss was better than they had ever imagined. Y/n had kissed many women before, but Kyra was definitely her best kiss yet. Kyra’s softness and her slight hesitation to just let go in the kiss made Y/n feel hot.

It was like their bodies wanted each other for a long time.

Kyra sighed into the kiss; Y/n welcomed her breath. The kiss was slow, and deliberate, not rushed in any way—like they were savouring something they’ve been waiting for a long time.

Kyra broke the kiss, but didn't pull away, instead touching her forehead and looking into Y/n’ eyes. “I liked it,” Kyra said shyly.

Y/n smiled. “Me too, a lot.” She bit Kyra’s lip gently. “Can I kiss you again?” 

“You can kiss me whenever you want”, Kyra said, taking Y/n's mouth back into her own.

The position their bodies were currently in was a little odd. Kyra was sitting up on the mattress, but leaning slightly on Y/n, while Y/n was lying with a pile of pillows on her back so she could sit up straighter and still be comfortable with her cast.

They kissed once, then stopped to catch their breath. And then they kissed some more. Kyra's elbow resting next to Y/n’s face while Kyra held her body over Y/n with her forearm.

“That was a very good kiss,” Kyra said, kissing Y/n's mouth, then her cheeks, then her nose. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” she confessed.

"Yeah? Me too,” Y/n said, enjoying the feeling of Kyra’s lips on her face. “It was very hard not to kiss you before.”

“And I can see why, you're all flushed,” Kyra teased, now kissing the base of Y/n’s neck, sucking the skin gently, not enough to leave any mark.

“I’m not,” Y/n mumbled, very much appreciating what Kyra was doing.

“All for me” Kyra whispered, Y/n barely hearing it.

Unfortunately for Y/n, Kyra pulled away.

“No, come back,” Y/n whimpered, tugging at Kyra's oversized shirt, trying to bring her closer, but Kyra didn't give in. 

Kyra smiled softly, taking Y/n's cheeks in between her hands and puckering her lips. “It's almost two in the morning,” Kyra explained, getting out of bed. “You have to take your meds, and we need to go sleep.”

Kyra handed Y/n's prescription bottle, along a glass of water. Y/n took them, but not without making sure she was very disappointed at Kyra for ruining their snog session.

“Do you think I’m not mad at myself too?’ Kyra asked as she watched a pout form on Y/n’s face.

Kyra got back in bed and urged the girl to lay her head on her chest. “I’m having to be the responsible one! The ‘let's not move too fast’ one the ‘hey it's late and we should be sleeping.’”

Kyra continued with her rant while Y/n just enjoyed her voice and how soft her body was against her own. They weren’t kissing anymore, but they were cuddling. It was enough for Y/n.

Kyra’s fingers found themselves on Yn’s scalp massaging it.

“We really should be sleeping,” Y/n said. “I can’t barely keep my eyes closed.”

“I swear I could stay up late without a problem a few years ago,” Kyra said added.

Y/n patted Kyra's cheek patronisingly. “And that's because you're getting older, babe,” Y/n murmured.

“I don't like it.” 

“You'll get used to it.”

“You say it like you’re much older than me” Kyra said.

Y/n noticed her voice sounded more tired now.

“I am.” 

“Only 2 years.” 

“Enough to have a fully developed brain.”

Y/n waited for Kyra's familiar teasing remarks, but they didn't come. She was already fast asleep. And so was Y/n a few moments later.

..

Please like, share and let me know what you think! Feedback is important and makes me want to write even more. :D

Read more of my work here -> Masterlist

Tell me if you would like to read any special scene with Kyra and reader!

[whispsofwind]

I am probably (definitely) kicking the hornet's nest but... I feel like there's a disconnection in how people approach HP because I've seen so many people say "but aren't the books explicitly anti racism? How can the author be all those bad things if her books are explicitly anti racism?".

And the point is... they're not. At least they weren't intended to be: the whole pure blood thing is less about race, and more about the ridiculous "noble blood" classism that still exists in England. And once I got that I completely revaluated my interpretation of those books.

I loved those books as a child, and I am not going to sit here and tell they're all vad, because they're not. They ARE a cultural phenomenon that shaped both pop culture and Internet culture for the last 20 freaking years, though. And they will continue to do so, if nothing else because outside of the English speaking sphere, PEOPLE DON'T KNOW ABOUT JOANNE'S HATE CAMPAIGNS. Like I cannot emphasise enough, not English speaking people often don't know.

And therefore I feel it's important not only to speak up about the author, but also analyse where the books succeeded or failed, and why.

The elves were adapted from the brownies... with disastrous results, especially if you consider Hermione's campaign. The metaphor with licantropism is an absolute disaster. The way in which muggles are presented (either evil, stupid or both) is ... also not a good look, considering the context. The series is genuinely morally confused, I dare say. It professes the importance of Love TM while also refusing to take a critical look at its own dystopian world building.

Death of the author, or separating the art from the author, are also not supposed to be an absolute frame of reference. They are literary analysis tools that allow you to analyse a work without taking the will of the author into consideration (example: CS Lewis was deeply Catholic and intended Susan not going to Narnia in the end as a metaphor for loss of faith. However maybe I want to analyses Susan's arc in light of misogyny, and the correlation between sexuality and loss of innocence, rather than religion. I am literally ignoring authorial intent to do so, but it's a very valid reading).

However I feel like you cannot analyse any work of art in an absolute vacuum, and expurging the author from the art completely feels, to me, rather simplistic.

I am also not entirely comfortable with the idea of Death of the Author being used as a frame of reference for the relationship with the work AND the author, rather than being used as a simple literary tool.

I always felt like the better approach is to evaluate how to cause less damage and bring the most happiness all around. Does buying the work of Lovecraft cause any harm in this world? I would argue not, since the man is well enough dead. Does buying HP products, or Orson Scott Card's works, or Silvana de Mari's books, cause harm? I would argue yes, because these authors use they money and their platforms to attach real, vulnerable people in a systemic way right here right now. Does SPEAKING about those works cause harm? Does engaging with the fandom aspect of them cause harm? That's more complicated. Critical analysis of a work is, imo, always a net positive, and there's the very real fact that some people pour their hearts and souls into a fandom because it genuinely brings happiness to them and to people around them, and because it allows them to enhance the original world in order to ACTUALLY address the issues that were ignored. That cannot be discounted. However, at the same time it cannot be ignored that talking about a work keeps it alive, which keeps it marketable; then again, fandom's impact on ... anything large scale is negligible when compared to, again, thousands upon thousands of people across the world who don't look the author up, don't engage critically with the text, and just think the Hogwarts Lego Model looks super cute. Which is, like, 90% of the population.

I suppose the main conclusion is nuance: morality is complicated, and making the "morally right" choice is nuanced, deeply personal, and I am not going to judge anyone because they want to reread Harry Potter or want to watch Good Omens Season 3 or whatever, because the world and our impact in it is much more complicated than "person bad, therefore damnatio memoriae good".

hey do you think you could expand a bit on separating the art from the artist? clearly you’ve done it with jk rowling but what are your thoughts on it as a general idea?

okay, but you’re not going to like the answer.

here’s the truth: you can’t separate the art from the artist. not entirely. HP Lovecraft was an incredibly talented, but much more incredibly racist man. It would nice to say you don’t agree with his views but you can enjoy his works without that leaking in but…. well, I’m afraid that would be misunderstanding his books entirely.

Consider, for a second, that Lovecraft’s works were horror stories about extradimensional alien monsters having mutant children with humans, they were about invasions from distant monsters, they were about the purity of quaint European towns being tainted. Consider how this may have all been inflicted by the fact that he just simply despised anybody who wasn’t white. Consider how is opinions on “mixing the races” might fight into this; consider why being unable to maintain the “purity” of white Europe was the scariest thing of all to him.

This extends to Rowling too.

I would love to say we can just acknowledge that she is an awful, racist, antisemitic, transphobic person and then say “but at least her books are good,” because, well, they are, aren’t they? I would say so, for sure. But to suggest that one can separate her from them is…. ridiculous.

Consider why an antisemitic woman wrote about a species of goblins who live among us, but who for the most part keep to themselvesand are maybe a little bit oppressed by the institution, but also hold all the cards, all the money, run the banks.

Consider why a racist woman would write about a species of slaves who loved being enslaved, who enjoyed working for no pay, and cleaning up after humans, with the only small caveat of that they didn’t want to be beaten. Imagine that only the most radical of their species wanted to be free, and he still spent the rest of his life working for no pay and helping out a little white boy and his friends wherever he could. Consider why the only person in the story who thought they should be free, that they should have rights, was treated as an overzealous joke, who was acting against the wishes of those slaves who really LOVE being enslaved. Consider that Rowling went on to say that she kind of considers that girl to be black, now.

Consider why JK Rowling, an open and proud transphobe, wrote Rita Skeeter as having a large square jaw, thick “manly” hands, and dressing incredibly gaudily with the most obvious fake nails and fake teeth and fake hair and fake everything. Consider why a woman who tweets about how trans women are “foxes pretending to be hens to get in the hen house” might write this Rita Skeeter to then illegally transform her body in order to spy on children.

Harry Potter is full of Rowling’s bigotry, start to finish. Not even tangentially, like, “oh the goblins are bad, Rita Skeeter is bad, the house elves are bad, but most of it’s good!” because the deeper you dig and the longer you think the more you realise the entire story is based on her prejudices.

Harry Potter pretends to be an aracial story about found family, but if that were true, why are Harry’s distant ancestors important to who he is today even in the seventh book? Why does Harry have to live with his cousin and aunt and uncle? Because magic inherently prefers blood ties. Whilst Rowling was writing a story that seemed to say, “your heritage is not that important and doesn’t make you better than others” she was still writing a story about a boy who got all of his money through his bloodline, who was protected by living with his bloodline, no matter how evil, who was uniquely able to stop Voldemort because his bloodline passed down the invisibility cloak for generations and generations. Any step Harry takes he is compared to his perfect parents who were exactly like him — he looks just like his father, but he has his mother’s eyes, you know! — consider WHY a woman who is racist might’ve written a story like this. A story that on its surface, condemns a blood caste, but still in every step it takes, validates the idea that blood is thicker than water, and your geneological origin is what makes you special.

You can enjoy Harry Pottwr, of course you can. There are fantastic parts. I love a small group of teenagers deciding to become anarchies rebels and train to fight against fascism in secret. I love the murder mystery plots, I love how the series tells kids that it’s a good thing to be brave, and a good thing to fight injustice, and a good thing to challenge the government. But I cannot separate it from its author because it is such a product of its author. All of the structures of the world, the way things work in the universe, and drenched in Rowling’s beliefs, her bigotries. Of course they are: she made them.

Again. This doesn’t mean you cannot enjoy it. But I think we are past the day where we can pretend that disavowing a bigoted author is enough, and that that somehow separates the text from its bigotry. I think we are past the day where we can pretend that Harry Potter isn’t a deeply, inherently bigoted piece of media. Even the bits we love. I think we are beyond the day where we can truthfully pretend to separate it from her, because she is present through all of it. We MUST recognise its flaws. We MUST admit that she is in every part of it.

[elodieunderglass]

this feels like a strange question but in light of your info about how jockeys don't usually know or train with the horses they race on - what are jockeys..... for? what is the jockey doing that the horse couldn't be trained to do independently? does a good or bad jockey make a significant difference to how well a given horse does in a race?

Right?!

In a way, asking what the jockey’s for also asks the question of “why race horses?” Why do it at all, and why horses?

We sort of do it because horses are fast and exciting, and because they do what we tell them, even though it’s not in their nature. Because it’s not their nature, they have a jockey.

I’ve put this under a “Keep Reading” to save your dash.

Horses could be trained to race by themselves to some extent, but it wouldn’t be like greyhound racing - greyhounds are sighthounds, running perfectly reasonable dog software on top of ancient and serviceable dog hardware, practicing a variation of hunting behaviour. Horses wouldn’t do this; they have little desire to chase a mechanical rabbit. they have even less plan than a greyhound about what they’d do if they caught it. (Also, in terms of animal welfare, greyhound racing isn’t widely celebrated; loose animals running around aren’t better off than controlled ones.)

Racing-to-find-a-winner is not herding behaviour, even though some horses do seem to possess a natural interest in the topic. You could train some of them to understand better, and that’s what racehorse training is, but the way we have of training that is to put someone on their back to explain to them what their job is, so it all becomes circular anyway. Why do it? Why not? Why do humans race horses? Why race horses? We could just race snails; it’d be cheaper!

One answer is that when horses just Go, it isn’t super Fun. They mostly Go to pieces.

The jockey is the pilot, or software, who understands the situation and has a goal to achieve. The horse is not an engine, but a thinking animal; they have their own goals and interests, which are often satisfied by just running around in a predator-confusing fashion with their friends for 2 minutes, and then crashing into a car, eating hot chips and lying. Most of them do not really care how long 3 minutes is, what a mile means, what “pacing” is, or what “winning” is. They just have Go, and so they do that for a bit, and then fuck off.

I guess another metaphor would be Mario Kart. There are various combinations of automated and human players in a game of Mario Kart, and if racing was just about going fast, the fastest vehicle should always win. But a decent human player can beat the NPCs even if the human hasn’t bothered min/maxxing a vehicle, just because they can be moderately smart about how to race. An adult can often beat a child at Mario Kart, even if the adult takes a much worse vehicle, because in theory, brains/experience/strategy/planning factor into “who wins a race,” and we LIKE that.

Same with car racing. Why not just race autonomous vehicles? In F1, where they build their own cars, why not include the driving software in the design? Or why not remote-control them? Why bother strapping a poor driver into a flameproof suit? Fans will tell you it’s strategy. The human driver uses tactics and responsiveness and skill - but, below all this, the dark red thread of the human is risking their life and we like that.

In theory, jockeys are more intelligent than thoroughbreds, and have more of a plan: setting pace, knowing what time is, changing strategy, evaluating stamina, conducting the horse safely through traffic and over jumps, and adding a complicating element of human interest. In practice, it’s believed that they have relatively little influence on race outcomes - a bad jockey on a good horse can win or lose a race; a good jockey on a bad horse usually just loses; oh, what the hell, let’s just race snails instead - but without the jockeys, you’d have to change the name of the sport to Horses Wandering Around A Carpark Kicking Lumps Off Each Other.

Here is a bunch of baby steeplechasers practicing the concept of Go in such a way that nobody gets to Go at all. After the un-mounted Snow Dragon wipes out most of the other horses and jockeys, all of the loose horses go faster without the weight of their riders, but after an initial show of interest in the concept, the loose horses all lose interest and focus.

It was funny (because nobody was hurt) but it wasn’t what anyone really wanted. In theory, that’s what the jockey is for: they’re supposed to be the adult, in a game where you can win by doing that.

But none of it has to be happening, any more than Investments need to be Managed, you know? It would also be fine if we didn’t! Michael O’Sullivan, an Irish jockey, just died racing this very week and there’s the dark red thread again: the human is risking their life.

The consumption of animal and human in an ancient sport is fascinating and visceral and compelling; but you’re right to question it; none of it has to be that way.

As for the second half of your question: a bad jockey can make a good horse lose. A good jockey cannot make a bad horse win. But most people and most horses are not particularly exceptional, or particularly anything at all; they are just workers running in a circle.

Top jockeys on average horses win more often than other people on average horses. Top jockeys and champions exist, with year-on-year records and recorded material evidence of their decision-making and risks paying off, indicating that there’s consistency of winning across skill and experience that makes their success better-than/random; it would be worth doing a study controlling for the fact that top people are offered the best mounts.

It’s a test of horsemanship, too. Achieving flow - nonverbal command of an animal and fellow athlete, and sympathy together, such that they respect and trust you - having just met the animal - is an achievement of many skills, and if you broke a jockey’s skills down into different types, most ordinary people couldn’t do any of them. No core strength, no balance, bad hands, bad posture, no sense of body positioning, no internal timer, no ability to psychically mind-meld with an unhinged animal you don’t know personally… they’re all fairly rare, and it’s something else to make it complex and interesting for people who like that sort of thing.

Personally, I just like Killie’s little problems and the drama around them. The racing industry itself could collapse tomorrow, rendering Killie’s story historical fiction, and I’d be just as happy.

[jiangwanyinscatmom]

Is Jiang Cheng the last Jiang? I can't remember any other named character mentioned, but was there ever a hint of cousins and other Jiang family member being alive and around?

I've been thinking about certain characters' ending, after seeing the umpteenth complaining of why their fave antagonist didn't get a happily ever after, how it is so unfair that they are alone and sad, and they didn't get any closure yadda yadda, you know the type. And anyway, while MXTX keeps it realistic with gentry not facing real consequences for their actions, I feel like there is a sense of narrative justice to their ending. And that got me thinking whether he is the last Jiang alive because his future prospects aren't looking good either so the on-page ending of the character who led an ethnic cleansing being the last of his bloodline is very poetic, I think.

Good day, anon.

As far as we can infer, Jiang Cheng is the last of the immediate patriarchal line for Yunmeng Jiang. We are not told that Jiang Fengmian had any other siblings to say if Jiang Cheng or Jiang Yanli had any cousins in the event an heir was lost. This is also may be why Yunmeng Jiang was adamant that Jiang Fengmian marry as quickly as he did because he was the clan's only child with no fallback with close relatives to claim the seat if he died. We see the mess of the Jins own bids for political power with Jin Guangyao the unwanted son claiming succession as the only blood left of Jin Guangshan and Jin Ling at the end stuck with it after as the next blood heir.

If they did have relatives, more than likely they were generationally distant and not close enough to the major bloodline to be considered successor heirs even in a pinch. The only other relatives we see around Jiang Cheng, are the Yu's when it came to the audio drama extra regarding Jiang Cheng's marriage prospects. It was left to the family matriarchs to matchmake. If there were immediate Jiang aunties alive, they would have been organizing his marriage prospects as patriarchal family took precedence.

So there were no challenges to Jiang Cheng's inheritance at any point and why Madam Yu's claims were so ridiculously stupid by always saying Wei Wuxian was Jiang Fengmian's bastard. She all by her own self was undermining his rightful claim with that one (his own mother had no respect for him and what a slap in the face because she sure used him as a shield when convenient to claim rights).

And Jiang Cheng got the ending his karmic actions accumulated. Why then would he be awarded a kinder end when he enacted no kindness to grant him relationships and ties for a "happier end". MXTX as a writer does not reward happy ends to people that have done nothing deserving of it. He got what he deserved. Nothing less and nothing more as did everyone else in the novel based on their karmic consequences to their karmic action.

[lady-quen]

Places this in the sea of "Trahearne survives" AUs. Presenting Trahearne Inmorte, resident seething Firstborn plant bonded to a frankenstein bug. Alternatively, Trahearne if he picked ferocity in the character creator.

Anyway, finally posting about my version of the good ole Marshal, lovingly dubbed Crankhearne - aka Risen Lich Trahearne, revived immediately post-getting to know his sword too closely, courtesy of Morivitae, ( @commanderteag ) the Pact's pet Scion of Zhaitan. Having kept a dragon of dubious morals on a metaphorical leash, Trahy promptly gets UNO reversed. These two start toxic but get better over time, creating a fun contrast to the Commander of the verse, Aestus, who belongs to @mithosis.

Similarly to my own Commander, Mael, he keeps his condition as a lich secret from everyone aside from his closest circle. I swear I'm not collecting undead plants, the Zhaitan Scion Champion opportunity was just far too good to pass up. Have some more screenshots, and more (a lot more) lore ranting below the cut.

The very last thing the Pact Marshal expected when waging war against Zhaitan was to strike a bargain with Zhaitan's child. Information against his master and aid in cleansing Orr - in exchange for freedom once the Elder Dragon was slain. But, still, keeping a beast of that caliber on a leash proved a challenge, even when he could shapeshift more or less into mortal shape. After all, an ancient beast that subsisted on eating life force and grafting foreign body parts to itself did not take to Tyrian morals immediately. It wasn't a partnership by any means - a monster was a monster, but so was a promise. As long as the creature called "Morivitae" behaved, he could prove an asset against the other Dragons. A weapon. A wildcard. But then, awakened Mordremoth. The Maguuma disaster. His greatest failure, and, ultimately, his end. A final request for the Commander to take Caladbolg from his shaking hands and strike. But something within the Death Scion stirred at the sorrow. At the Commander's cries. An inkling of emotion, a faint flicker of something unfathomable. And gold eyes opened again. Welcome, O Champion of Shadow and Death. And now, the Marshal was on a leash of his own.

Trahearne went to the Domain of the Lost when he died, and time flowed differently there. So he spent "days" wandering and fighting the phantoms that took his name and face, just like the Commander. He met the Judge but there was no crisis in the Mists, so no offer to come back like during PoF, just gotta accept death but also have to process it first. Poor Trahearne was dissociated the whole time, thinking he was Mordremoth. He had to be given a second name to latch onto until he found his real one - and then he was ripped out of the Mists by Mori just before he could claim his rightful rest. Needless to say, waking back up a Risen of all things and cut off from the Dream did not do his mental health any favors.

"I don't remember my name but I was something horrible. You mustn't let me into the afterlife. I can't destroy it, too..." "You must find your name before you continue onward, wherever your final destination lies. If you fail, your soul will fade." "Good. I want to fade. I need to." "No, you must find the truth. That is the law of this place. Your spirit is noble, there is no malice in you. But there is suffering, and this isn't your final punishment." "I'm fading. I can't tell how - why - I can't move anymore. I need to... what am I..." "You are.. Inmorte, The Lost Wanderer. This name I give you now so you may continue. Hold onto it tightly and find your purpose. Your real name." "...I... I will."

Following his resurrection, he continues to lead the Pact as its Marshal, and is adamant on never using a mask nor mesmer illusions to cover his face - wearing his disfigurement openly in solidarity with all the other sylvari mutilated by Mordremoth's influence. There are questions as to why the Marshal was torn from the Dream and his glow changed to a necromantic green, but not many dare seek the truth of their own accord. Trahearne becomes a much more fearsome, decisive leader - going from scholar to truly formidable strategic mastermind, wanting nothing more than to ensure the tragedy of Maguuma never repeats.

"It's not mere confidence, it's pathological. As though everything stopped mattering back in that jungle, and yet I am ever more determined to see things through til the end. It's the only reason I can justify existing in this state."

The only instance where he does use illusions (excluding stealth missions, of course) is over his hands - due to an unfortunate incident where Caladbolg completely burned off the flesh from his fingers. As a result, his real hands are skeletal. This is due to his obsession with the sword, practically never letting it go, to the point he once fell asleep holding it. Since he no longer feels pain correctly, the damage was done before he woke back up - and Mori does not seem to possess the ability to mend, only animate that which should already be dead.

Trahearne's obsession with Caladbolg stems from the fact he initially believes the weapon to be the only thing keeping his soul from being fully corrupted by the Dragon he is bound to - clinging to a hope that the Thorn could purify the death magic in him just like it had once purified Orr. Alas, that is not the case, but also he eventually finds he is not as doomed as he had once believed - growing into a Champion of Death and Rebirth under his Scion patron as they both find their greater purpose - a balance to Aestus and Aurene's light. Still, his destiny remains irrevocably tied to the very land that haunted his Dream and cursed him with a seemingly impossible task.

"You're the First of the First, born in the garden of Eden and destined to purify a sunken hell risen from the depths on the other side of the sea. A task thought impossible, especially as your siblings begin to rise around you with destinies that seem more achievable. Compelled, you spend over twenty years studying the land of the walking dead, so much that the stench of it all is all but branded into your flesh. It's all you see when you sleep. The neverending expanse of bleak, gray-brown rock and twisting anemone and tide-torn ruins. Nothing living grows in Orr. It's all absolute desolation. There are none of your siblings there and you're so terribly lonely. ...In all your years, you never thought this could happen. With the Commander at your side and the son of Zhaitan mutinying against his father, Orr blooms again. The Artesian waters run clear, and life wanders slowly back into the land. It will take years, many more years than you'll be alive for, but the weight is lifted. You can leave. It's over. With hope in your heart, you feel like whatever comes next will only be easier. It's not. You die. And you rise. You never left Orr, because Orr never had the intention of leaving you."

Perhaps, just perhaps - one day, when the sunken kingdom heals completely, his soul will be allowed its due rest. Until then, he has some work to do.

[authorofthemoon]

I Was a Teenage Exocolonist: Genetic Augments being a metaphor for generational trauma

So a big theme in Exo is avoiding repeating humanity's mistakes in Earth. And I always found the idea of the kids being born with genetic enhancements interesting. But it wasn't until I learned about a certain someone's augment that I really thought about how messed up it is. And then it makes me question why they were given then in the first place. I've come to the conclusion that each augment is what each parent thinks their child needed to survive and thrive based on their experience in earth as they are the only ones to remember how awful it was. It also makes clear what expectations they have for their child. So I'm just going to go through everyone and explain further.

Vace and Rex: I think they fall under the category of 'social survival.' Vace is the one who made me realize the connection because why the hell would you want to enhance your child's genitals? Vace is a clear representation of the patriarchy instill by his pos father. A 'man who takes what he wants, builds a family, a tough guy' etc. I actually really like Vace though I get why people don't. But it can't be denied his father messed him up and constantly talked down to him. He developed an inferiority complex and his augment fed into that, making him feel the need to prove he's a man. He's proof the patriarchy causes men to suffer under it as well as he suppresses his emotions except anger and takes it out on other, finishing friendships not based on fear. He's probably the most 'earth' out of everyone. And all the intimidation he uses kind of assured that he leads and excels in a social setting. Rex is the opposite of this but serves a similar purpose. He's a dog, sweet and lovable. He's friendly and helpful and people are drawn to him. I think it's also important to recognize that Rex is a black or at least dark skinned male. With this in mind, I think this is why his family found it important to give him the dog augment. Under the light of racism and white supremacy, black men are seen as aggressive and dangerous. So, it makes sense that a black family that came from that earth would want to ensure their child would be seen as a non threat and thrive socially even if it drastically affected his personality and shortened his life span. Though it's unknown if they knew that. I think what makes Rex and Vace good foils is how they navigate social interactions. Vace through fear and Rex through charm.

Nem, and Tammy: Both fall under the category of survival. Tammy has sensitive hearing which allows her to pick up on a lot of things. More than likely this was for hearing predators, animals, etc. Or even things like a baby crying. Even though it's useful, we see it can also be a detriment as she gets anxious hearing what's outside the walls and loud noises hurt her ears. Nem has her scaly skin which seems to help her defensive capabilities and such though we don't really see it in action. It makes sense her mother who sees very coddling would want her to be tough so she doesn't really get hurt though it seemed to backfire in a way since she joined the defense force. They both seem to be augmented to survive and help others survive as well which makes sense since earth seemed to be at war when they left.

Cal and Tangent: I think they have a looser connection of 'thriving in career.' Cal doesn't need to sweat (which I still question if that is biologically healthy) which allows him to work in the fields and avoid heatstroke and can brave the cold as well. It makes sense his family would want this augment and it fits in to his farm life. But it does make you question if his augment affected him at all in that way. Tang needs much less sleep than other people. We know that her and Dys have a rough relationship with their parents, their mother taking her own life and they dealt with that in different ways. Her mother more than likely wanted her to not need as much sleep to just survive and maybe help her mentally. However, it's an obvious detriment as it causes her to overwork which damages her mental health more. It's tough to know what their mother was really thinking especially after she named one of her kids Dysthymia. I do believe the augments were a way of her trying to protect her kids in some way.

Dys and Marz: A couple of my fave characters and I think fall under 'mental health survival.' For Marz, I once again think it's important to recognize that she's a black woman which I think directly affects her lack of shame. A lot of black women right are shamed for anything they do. Their body, their attitude, their hair. All things Marz unapologetically displays. Her dads, also being gay men it seems, would probably want her to live her life without being oppressed by other people's opinions. She can be grating at times, but it's just because she unable to feel bad for her existence. This allows her to thrive and stare her opinion without feeling bad later. Obviously even if it sounds nice, there's some obvious downsides such as her bullying others when she was younger and doesn't really feel shame over hurting others. Dys doesn't feel fear and that causes him to do things without restraint. However, he has a soft heart so he can still feel bad and have hurt feelings. Similar to Tang, his mother probably tried to protect him, thinking getting rid of fear might help him mentally, but he can still be anxious. It really makes you question whether a lack of fear actually helps anything. Life on earth was probably dominated by fear. There's no confirmation on what exactly happened on earth before they left, but it obviously wasn't good considering Flula's attitude.

Edit: My dumbass forgot about Nomi. Even though Nomi's augment status is unconfirmed, their parents attitude towards it is telling. Based on dialogue, they feel like very hippie hands off parents who want their child to have the freedom to be themselves, but the problem is that they equally don't offer guidance so Nomi has a hard time knowing what they want and feel a bit stranded. Again it's probably a reaction to earth ebung very strict in some children and many people are forced to be something they didn't want. Including things like gender and career. So they try to give Nomi freedom but not the support they need.

All the kids in Exo and their augments are products of their parents trying to escape the late stage capitalism white supremacy authoritarian hellscape earth had becomes and have their kids protected against those dangers on the new planet. These have been the thoughts infesting my mind as of late. Might make a similar post about how the kids are each in danger of repeating the earths mistakes. If you wanna weigh in with anything you're more than welcome. Thanks for reading!

[visenyav]

The Brothel

TW:

Brothel Setting Humiliation, Degradation, Implied Sex: Dub-con, Underage Sex(Underage by our Standards, Of Age by Westerosi Standards)

Don't like, Don't read.

------

The next few weeks were awkward in Visenya’s transition from being a princess to becoming a bastard in a brothel. Mysaria, in truth, was not as debased as others in her craft, and was not one to keep girls who had not yet flowered in her establishment, much less children. However, the Lord Hand had commanded she keep the girl with her, and who was she to disobey?

“Girl,” Visenya’s eyes snapped to the woman, “Do you have any… talents? Do you sing? Dance? Play an instrument?”

Visenya’s eyes brightened, “I love to sing, and can play the lute as well as the harp!” Her eyes then turned downcast, “But my Septa said it is unbecoming for a lady of my station to play for other than her family and her Lord Husband,”

Mysaria’s lips twisted into a humorless smile, “You are no longer of such station,” Her voice turned mocking, “My lady.” When she saw the small smile drop from the girl’s face and she seemed to retreat inward once more, a twinge of pity crossed the elder woman’s face, soon replaced with a mask of stone. The girl had to learn sooner or later.

Sooner or later she learned indeed. Until she flowered, Mysaria had the girl play and sing for the men in the evening. Whatever worries anyone might of had regarding the perverse nature of the men disappeared, as no one wanted to debase Visenya. How could they? She was the jewel of the Keep and her kindness and general good-will in her childhood reached even the streets of silk. And it did help that the majority of those who went to Mysaria’s brothel were of noble blood, and their memories of the girl were even more vivid. 

And so the years passed with Visenya living in the brothel under Mysaria’s tutlege. She got a different type of education from Mysaria than before, but by the time of her first moonblood came, the girl was more woman than child.

“Am I dying?” She asked the older woman fearfully when she was helping her clean up the blood, “It hurts so bad, surely I am?

Mysaria chuckled, “No, girl. It was what we discussed, remember? You are now a woman in all ways that matter.” She looked away, eyes sad, “Your mother should be here to help you. But alas she is not.” She helped Visenya change into a new shift and brushed her hair. “Remember what I’ve taught you?” She nodded, “Once you stop bleeding you will serve. You are of age now. You will serve."

And so, when her blood ended, she was prepared. With dresses more revealing that what she was used to, and hair that would entice even the strongest willed of men. Mysaria had led her through the necessary lessons—how to move, how to speak in soft, seductive tones, how to use her body to her advantage.

The door creaked open, and Mysaria stepped inside, her eyes scanning Visenya with a mixture of approval and something else that might have been pity. "You are ready," Mysaria said, her tone unwavering.

And so, she was. For the first few months, she did nothing but serve drinks. For the truth was, everyone was too scared to touch Visenya, too honor bound. For she was the most gracious and kindest of all the souls in King’s Landing as a child, who would touch her then?

Aegon

 She served drinks and food, often moving from one room to the next with the practiced, unfeeling grace that was expected of her. Her dark hair had grown longer, cascading down her back in thick waves, and she had learned to hold her head high, no matter how low her heart sank. The men who came to the brothel saw her only as something to be looked at and not touched, and for that she was grateful.

However, one evening, Visenya was carrying a tray of wine, and entered one of the private rooms, to the noises of  clinking glasses and the murmur of laughter. It was a typical night, and she played her part well, serve, smile, leave.

However, as she moved across the room, her eyes briefly flicked to the far corner, where a lean figure leaned against the wall. His face was obscured by shadow, but something about the way he held himself made Visenya’s pulse quicken. She froze for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. Aegon. Her heart hammered as she set the tray down on the low table and stepped back, her hands trembling slightly. She had not seen him in years, not since she had been disowned, forgotten, and cast aside. But there was no mistaking the pale golden hair, the sharp features, and the deep-set eyes that now fixed on her with an unsettling intensity. Aegon, his expression lazy but curious, studied her for a moment before a slow smirk curled on his lips. The years that had passed since they last met hadn’t softened the cruelty in his gaze. He pushed himself off the wall and took a step toward her, his movements deliberate and predatory.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" His voice was drenched in mockery and contempt. There was no warmth in Aegon’s gaze, as it swept over her, lingering on the low-cut dress and the way it clung to her figure.  "You've certainly grown, Niece" he murmured, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "Though I must say, I never expected to see you in a place like this."

“My prince,” Visenya bowed, swallowing hard keeping her gaze on the floor in an effort to retain some dignity, as his eyes drilled into her form

Aegon reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek as he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. His touch was cold, cruel—just like everything about him. "Who’d known you’d become so much like your mother?," he said, his voice low, mocking. "But I wonder… does your mother know what you've become? Or perhaps it’s for the best that she doesn’t."

Her voice breath hitched with the mention of her mother. Oh, how she wanted to slap his hand away, to scream at him that she hadn’t chosen this life. But the words never left her throat as Aegon’s fingers trailed down her neck, getting closer than custom demanded. But this was a brothel, she reminded herself, custom was damned. "Tell me, Princess" he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, "How is this punishment of yours going? Perhaps you enjoy it? Is it in your bastard nature?"

Visenya’s pulse raced, as she said her practiced lines "I’m no princess, my prince" she said quietly, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "Not anymore."

Aegon chuckled darkly, his grip tightening around her wrist. "No, you're not." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, "But I’ll make sure to remind you what you are now.” Her body stiffened, and her heart raced as his hands wandered where they should have never. His friends, more like lackey’s, in the room, their eyes glinting with the same cruel amusement that flickered in Aegon’s. She could feel their lust, their hunger, but she wasn’t sure which terrified her more—Aegon’s hands on her, or the way he had come to claim her like a piece of property.

She held his gaze for a moment longer, her mind racing for a way out. She had survived worse than this, and she would survive him. But for now, she had no choice but to endure. “Please get your hands off of me, Aegon" she finally said, her voice pleading

The moment Aegon’s eyes locked with hers, Visenya felt her blood run cold. She froze, tray in hand, as he scrutinized her with amusement. “The bastard pleads,” His voice dripping with mockery, “Come, boys. The Princess has given an order, and we must obey,” The look on her face made him burst into laughter before continuing his pursuit. 

— — — —

Compared to the years before, the next few months passed slowly. As the seasons passed, it became harder to keep track of time, to remember happy days of her childhood, the warmth and love of her family, it was a distant memory. One that Aegon tainted every time as his visits became more frequent, always bringing his companions with him as well. Laughing at her discomfort, taking their turns in her company, making her do humiliating tasks. For, it felt as if her body no longer belonged to her. She missed the days of when she was made to be looked at and never touched, for now not only in mind, but in body, she belonged to the brothel, to them, to their whims and desires. But there was one thing Aegon was adamant about: No one would take her maidenhead.

His voice, often laden in dark humor and a need for pleasure, was often focused and cold in this demand, with a fervor that made her skin crawl, "She stays a maiden," his eyes lingering on her in a way that made her stomach twist with dread. "She remains untouched.” The others protested, made lewd suggestions, but Aegon was firm. "You can do whatever else you wish with her," he would say with a shrug, "but no one has her in that way. Not yet."

For Viseyna, this was no protection. No, it was a cruel reminder of what her life had become, a noose just waiting for the drop. It was simply another form of his cruelty, of control, a reminder of her sentence. It was as if she was a doll, living, but trapped in a perpetual state of submission. Owned and preserved for the pleasures of the flesh of men.

And every night, when she was finally alone in her room, the pain of her situation would resettle in her bones, her flesh, and her soul. There was no escape, no one would come for her, none would free her from this life. Her and abandonment were old friends, first her family, then the gods, then hope itself. Now, nothing but a broken shell of her former self, Visenya would retreat into herself when the moon was high. She would curl up in the bed, the covers too thin to provide comfort, and tried to remember her old life. A cherished daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece, and above all, Princess. She held onto those fragments as if they were lifelines, even though she knew they were slipping through her fingers, just like everything else.

Sometimes, when she was alone, she would whisper to herself, a prayer, a plea, to anyone who might hear: “I am still here. I am still Visenya. This will not be my end.” But the days wore on, and the darkness grew, as did despair. The silence between the moments of abuse became unbearable, each day another reminder that she was forgotten by the world, that her body and soul were no longer hers to command.

– – – – – 

One day Mysaria had entered Visenya’s room with a parcel and a pitying look. “A specific patron has requested your presence tonight, girl. They’ve also provided you a dress,” She placed the parcel on the bed and left without a word. 

Inside was a dress as blue as the sea, with a silvery glow. When she wore it, it particularly accentuated her figure with a plunging neckline and a long silver chain to pair. Leaving truly nothing to the imagination, she left and headed to the patron’s room. Nervous, she started pouring wine to the glasses until the door was unexpectedly opened. The nervousness turned to a pit of fear in her stomach when Aegon entered, perhaps he had come to claim what he always wanted. “My prince,” But the fear turned into terror when another figure entered the room. Longer silver hair, scarred face and an eyepatch. “Aemond?” The man in question met her eye with the same shock,

“Visenya?” 

“See, I told you, brother,” Aegon made is way over to her, fingers trailing down her neck and chest, “Visenya Velaryon, no Strong, no Waters,” He said in mock thought, laughing cruelly, “Is alive and well, in a brothel,” He smirked, pleased with himself, “You may have your retribution. That bastard took your eye,” Aemond’s jaw locked at that, “And you may have his bastard sister’s maidenhead.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder, and headed for the door, “I even had her all dolled up for you. Happy ten and six name day, brother.” With that Aegon had left the room, and the door closed with a quiet finality. Visenya’s body still trembled from the way Aemond had approached her, Aegon’s words lingering in the air like a dark fog. She had expected cruelty, punishment—she had braced herself for the worst. But what came next caught her completely off guard.

Visenya expected a cold, calculated feeling, but when Aemond reached out to cup her face, his touch was tender, reverent almost. "Visenya," his voice was soft, the bitterness she expected gone. "You must know, I never wanted this. Not for you, not for me." His gaze, now one-eyed, was full of something unexpected—regret, remorse, perhaps even fear. "I remember us. The little girl who would follow me around the castle with your wild questions and your fire. I remember the way you laughed." He paused, his thumb lightly brushing her cheek, barely touching her lips. Visenya’s mind struggled to keep up with this interaction. Aemond was not the same boy she had known in her youth. This Aemond was someone else entirely. "You don’t have to be afraid of me," he murmured, his voice breaking the silence between them. "I... I never wanted this life for you. I swear, I never thought it would come to this." Her heart felt heavy and painful in her chest. His soft words, tender touches, it all confused her. It was a sharp contrast to Aegon’s cruelty, the harshness of the brothel setting. She wondered, was this a game? Was he pretending to care, so he could further wound her? Were these emotions his words carried, truly real? She opened her mouth, but words failed her. 

 Aemond let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of their shared history finally dawned on him. "Aegon was wrong," he admitted, his gaze filled with sorrow. "He thought that if I could make you suffer, it would heal my wound... but it wasn’t you. It was never you." His voice cracked, and Visenya felt a pang of sympathy despite everything she had endured.

Despite her own pain, whether or not this was necessarily good, she was still the open-hearted girl from her youth. This wasn’t just about her. It was about him. His torment, his pain, his regrets. Aemond’s hand lingered on her cheek, his eyes searching her face as if looking for any sign of recognition, any trace of the girl he had known. "Do you remember me, Visenya? The boy, despite being our family, our relation, who once took you under his wing when you were lost in the Red Keep?" She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words. She had wanted to believe that the boy she once knew still existed under the surface of the man who stood before her. But she had learned so much since then—learned the cruelty of the world, the price of loyalty and betrayal. She wanted to remember him, the one who had held her hand when she was afraid, truly she did, but it felt so distant now.

Aemond stepped back, his expression unreadable as he searched her face for any response. "You may never forgive me," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "but I can’t undo the past. I just need you to know that, at least, in some small way... I still care for you.” He stood before Visenya, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed her trembling. His gaze softened, the cruel mockery that usually clouded Aegon’s features replaced by Aemond’s, one that held an undeniable sense of remorse. 

"You don’t have to be afraid of me," Aemond said quietly, his voice low. The calmness in his voice was somehow worse, like the calm before the storm. Visenya's heart raced, her thoughts a whirlwind as she processed the situation. Subjected to much cruelty, from the world, her family, Aegon, but now it was Aemond. He was not foreign to her, he was familiar, a familiarity that was painful but also soothing, "I never wanted it to be like this," Aemond continued, his hand reaching for her. "But I am what I am. And you... you are my retribution." Her body stiffened, but she made no move to resist. She had long ago learned that resistance brought only worse suffering. Aemond’s hand gently cupped her chin, his fingers warm and strangely tender, contrasting with the harshness of his words. He tilted her head up, his gaze focused on hers with an intensity she couldn’t avoid.

"I remember you," he whispered, his thumb brushing the tear from her cheek. "I remember when we were just children. I remember how you would follow me around, pestering me with questions, asking me things no child should know. But we both know the truth, you were never meant to be part of this world—our world. Not like this." The words stung, but they didn’t hurt as much as they should have. Perhaps, because of what she experienced, she knew that Aemond, for all his faults, was as much a victim of the game as she was. He was as trapped in this world as she was.

"I’m sorry," he said softly. "For everything." But, they both knew that warmth in his voice that could never make her forget what had been done to her in his name, what she had suffered in his absence. But she saw something in him—a vulnerability— perhaps it was guilt. Perhaps it was the guilt of what they were about to do. He was still the boy in who’s name she was wronged, yet now he was offering something she didn’t understand: kindness, but not forgiveness. 

Aemond slowly moved closer, brushing his lips against her forehead with an almost reverential softness. Then, his voice low, he murmured, “I won’t hurt you. I will make it... I will make it easier than you think.” Visenya’s breath hitched, her body tense as Aemond moved behind her, guiding her gently to the bed. She understood what he was doing, trying to soften the inevitable cruelty of the situation. Almost as if he was trying to redeem himself, not just for the years of cruelty, but also for the future, for this one act, this one moment. Visenya, too numb to protest, closed her eyes, the past and present merging into something she couldn’t fully comprehend. When he touched her, it was with an almost painful gentleness. His hands moved with precision, as though he were trying to undo the damage his family and his actions had caused. It wasn’t an act of kindness—she knew that—but the tenderness he offered felt like something more than mere punishment.

Aemond spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I will make this easier for you, Visenya. I never wanted you to be caught in this. But I can’t undo the past." The words were hollow, yet Visenya felt something stir inside her—a mixture of pity, anger, and sadness. This was not the moment she had imagined for herself, and certainly not the moment she had ever wanted to experience with Aemond. But it was happening, and it would shape her, just as much as it would shape him. She couldn’t resist—wouldn’t resist—and so, in the silence of the room, the act proceeded.

Afterwards, Aemond held her close, his touch soft against her skin, as if he were afraid to let go. The tenderness was there, but it was fleeting, overshadowed by the weight of what had just happened. It felt like a twisted form of atonement, but whether it would bring peace to either of them was uncertain. "I’m sorry," Aemond said again, this time with genuine sorrow in his voice. Visenya said nothing, the words lost in the fog of her own confusion and pain. She could feel the weight of his body beside her, the quietness of the room pressing in around them. She had been forced to endure much in her life, but this—this moment, this betrayal wrapped in kindness—was something she would never forget.

As the night stretched on, the emotions between them were left unsaid, and the future, uncertain. Aemond had left, and Visenya took that as a sign she could too. Visenya's body ached as she left the room, her mind swirling after what had just happened. She moved through the hallways of the brothel like a ghost, each step heavy with the weight of what had been done to her. The night had been dark, and the air felt colder than it ever had before. The tenderness in Aemond’s touch—however fleeting—was drowned by the overwhelming sense of betrayal that gnawed at her.

She returned to her room, the door creaking as she pushed it open. The flickering light of the candle illuminated the space, and she sank down onto the bed, her hands trembling. The silence in the room pressed in on her, suffocating her. 

She felt the blood. It was strange, the feeling of it—how something so deeply intimate could now be the marker of her loss. Her maidenhood had been taken, but it wasn’t just the physical act that cut deep. It was everything surrounding it—the circumstances, the history, the cruelty, and the complexity of the people who had brought her to this point.

Visenya gingerly touched her thighs, the blood staining her fingers. The reminder was sharp, painful, and inescapable. She closed her eyes and let out a breath that trembled through her chest. It wasn’t just the blood—it was the realization of what had happened. She had been a child when they first met. She had been innocent once. And now, that innocence was gone forever, consumed by the darkness of the Targaryen family, by the very people she had once loved.

The tears that came were not loud or violent—they were quiet, just as her sobs were subdued. The emotional weight of everything she had endured pressed down on her, and she allowed herself the release, her breath hitching as she wiped away the blood from her fingers. She had been used, broken, but somehow, she could never bring herself to feel regret for what had happened. It was just another part of the world that had shaped her.

Her body hurt, but there was something more painful in the depth of her soul. Aemond’s tenderness hadn’t been enough to erase the bitter taste of everything that had come before. She couldn’t reconcile the boy she remembered with the man he had become. The room felt small, oppressive, as though it were closing in on her. Visenya pulled the blanket around her, clutching it tightly as if it could shield her from the world outside, from the blood on her body, from the scars on her soul.

She knew she couldn’t stay here forever. The brothel had become a place of suffocating memories, a place where she had been reshaped and torn apart. But where would she go? What would be left for her, after everything? The thought of facing her past, her family, her brothers, seemed almost impossible now. They had left her, abandoned her. Visenya let her mind wander through the fragments of her memories—her childhood in the Keep, her family, the hopes she had once harbored. But those memories, too, felt distant and blurred now. Aemond had taken her maidenhead, but in many ways, she had already been taken long ago. Any hope she had of a future outside of the brothel were taken, for, even if she did catch a noble’s eye, her maidenhood was taken, and her aspirations of leaving this station through marriage were dashed.

Visenya barely moved as she lay on the bed, her body still aching from the night’s events. It wasn’t just the physical pain, but the suffocating weight of everything that had happened—her body violated, her trust shattered, and her innocence stolen in a way that would never be returned.

The door to her room creaked open quietly, and in walked Mysaria. Her expression was always unreadable, but there was a softness to her gaze that Visenya recognized. Mysaria had always been someone who understood the weight of pain, someone who had experienced cruelty herself. "Visenya," Mysaria's voice was gentle, yet firm, as she approached the bed. "Let me help you."

Visenya didn’t respond at first. Her chest felt tight, as if she couldn't bring herself to speak. The tears had dried, but the hurt remained in every part of her being. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge what had happened, but it was all too real now. Mysaria sat next to her on the bed, her hands warm and steady as she gently lifted Visenya’s dress. "We need to clean you up," she said softly, her voice a calm anchor in the storm of Visenya’s thoughts. She reached for a cloth, soaked it in water, and carefully began to clean the blood from Visenya's thighs, her movements tender and practiced. Visenya flinched at the touch, but Mysaria was patient. She didn’t rush. She simply cleaned her, making sure to be as gentle as possible. The older woman said nothing, but her presence was a quiet comfort amidst the chaos Visenya felt inside. When the worst of the blood had been cleaned away, Mysaria reached for the small vial of moon tea she had brought with her. "This will help you," she murmured, pouring the liquid into a small cup. "It will prevent any… unwanted consequences" Visenya’s eyes widened as she took the cup. Not wanting anything more than necessary of the night to stay with her.

She had known what the moon tea was, and a part of her didn’t want to believe she’d ever need it, she also knew it was now what she needed. Without saying anything, she drank it slowly, the bitter taste settling in her throat as she tried not to think of what had happened.

Mysaria watched her carefully, her eyes soft with understanding. "You are strong, Visenya," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You will survive this." Visenya closed her eyes, leaning back against the bed. Her mind swirled with too many thoughts to untangle, but for the first time since it had all begun, she allowed herself a small measure of comfort. She didn’t have to face this alone. Not yet. Mysaria remained by her side for a while, offering her quiet company as she drifted in and out of sleep. And though Visenya couldn't say it aloud, she knew that Mysaria was the only one who hadn’t abandoned her, and for that, she was grateful. In this cold, dark world she now found herself in, there was still a sliver of kindness. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to help her survive whatever came next.

[infinitelystrangemachinex]

massages forehead So Ambessa hid Mel away because she was a weapon in the literal sense, a mage. But Ambessa came to Piltover for Hextech? And Ambessa had nothing to say to Mel about her powers having visibly awakened? Even when Mel offered to go with Ambessa, giving her the ultimate opportunity to make Mel a weapon for real? And Ambessa made no attempt to find or retrieve Mel - not just her daughter and the remnants of the family Ambessa professes to love, but also her ultimate weapon - when she disappeared? And Ambessa trusted Singed and Viktor on their home turf - neither of them hiding how insane and self-serving they are with every reason to take over Ambessa's soldiers or just blatantly turn on her as soon as it benefits them - more than she trusted Mel? While Caitlyn (and by extension Piltover) was visibly and clearly falling away from Ambessa's teachings before Ambessa's eyes? (as if getting rid of certain people allows piltover to get rid of fascism but we won't get into All That)

Not only do I struggle to be hyped for Mel's powers beyond how amazing and beautiful she looks, but I can't help but feel like Mel is somehow less powerful in season 2 than she was in season 1, and not in an interesting way. As if Mel's ability to bend all of Piltover politics and economics to her will in season 1 now means nothing in season 2? You can argue that Jinx's attack led directly to Mel losing ground in Piltover - because I expected Mel to have to claw back that power without being able to rely on people who are too easily seduced by Ambessa and authoritarianism, and she would have to get creative to go toe to toe with her mother. I expected pushback to her mage identity that she would have to navigate. But instead this went either unwritten, or was ignored or discarded. Instead Mel is removed from the main plot, cutting her off from what made her the most interesting - only for all of Mel's very real talents, her very real powers and abilities, to be not only translated but REPLACED with magical powers she doesn't know how to control, and by the finale, those magic powers are the only powers that are considered real. Mel takes a backseat to Piltover's governing and decisions, a backseat to Jayce of all people who was not only new to politics mere months ago but made poor governing, strategic, and diplomatic decisions when he had that power. In season 1 Mel stayed off the "throne" but she did pull its strings one way or the other, and she makes no attempt at this in season 2

In my least generous suspicions, Mel was gentled and quieted to capitulate to an agenda for other characters who had to be correct and heroic - or wrong and villainous - no matter what the leadup narrative said, given her powers to help sell the game and set up future shows, and was effectively ejected from the Arcane story with faceless soldiers and a role she doesn't want because she was inconvenient there

[lotusxpop]

I am expanding on this.

Season 2 would follow Jason being sent to learn by all the different teachers Talia finds him.

He is a lot more mellow and uses a lot of his time reflecting on his life (where he went wrong or if he ever had a chance at being good at all) we still have the flashbacks but this time it shows him being a crime lord, how manic he was and how horrified he is at what he did (looking at you tim)

He struggles with his morals a lot in season 2, lacking the conviction he had in season 1. Trying to find purpose while he feels so detached to everything.

He finds it somewhere between getting his ass kicked by his first teacher for the umptenth time and finding evidence that his teacher is a scumbag.

Jason kills his teacher after he learned everything he could from the guy. It's a twisted sense of justice but it's one none the less and he clings to it, keeping at it as he travels the world going from teacher to teacher. Killing them all when he is done with them.

(I think that part would take up like 3-4 episodes maybe? I do think there should be a whole episode dedicated to when he meets Lady Shiva and how he lets her die in an honorable fight as she always wanted)

Then he moves back to Gotham, gets his crime empire under control again and plans the perfect murder of one Joker. If Bruce isn't gonna save him from his tormentor then Jason will gladly put a hundred bullets in the Joker's body himself.

While planning he has to dodge the others as they try to get him to redeem himself. (I do think he apologieses to Tim at some point but only after everything has gone down with Jk) also at this point Damian has become Robin and Tim Red robin.

Anyways he will have his big show down with Joker, do some big villain speech and then pull the gun at Joker's head only to not be able to shoot. Imagine he hears the Joker's voice from back when he was a child ("left or right little birdie? Option A or B? Ahahaha")

And Bam! Batman comes in incapcitate a hysterical Jason who keeps saying "I can't do it, I can't do it, I can't do it!"

Batman being the bitch he is would try to take the Joker into custody but he can't because while he was busy with Jason little demon heir Damian al fucking ghul have chopped off the head of the Joker.

"Damian" Bruce would say horrified but Damian isn't looking at him, no he is looking at Jason.

Damian hugs Jason and says "he won't hurt you anymore akhi"

(Because Jason always protected Damian while he was with the league, they became brothers far before Bruce had any idea Damian existed and Damian would do anything for Jason. If that means killing the Joker so his brother can finally rest easy at night then so be it)

The last episode would be a bit like an epilogue i think, where Jason reflects on gotham before packing up his shit to go travel the world again

(Season 3 perhaps featuring start of the outlaws or his time with the all-caste)

I need a whole tv show about Jason todd

It needs to follow him in his crime lord days like from the start all the way to his confrontation with Bruce

It also needs to have flashbacks to his life before (both on the street and at the manor) in like a manic way to emphasise his madness he got from the lazerus pit. (Just imagine him beating the shit out of tim while he has flashbacks to "Robin is magic" days)

And i need it to like be cut off very abrupt when Bruce throws the batarang at his neck, like the moment the blade hits his neck all the lazerus pit madness drains from his body and there is an echo of child Jason yelling "dad" at bruce.

Followed by the explosion and then you just see Jason choking on his blood once again all alone

That's how season 1 ends with perhaps a sneak peak to season 2 where you see Talia's feet walk up to jason

And maybe you here her say "you failed again" before it cuts to black.

Ugh i need this so much (I also need the show to not cut down of the brutality of Jason's life, it's very important😌)

[chekovsphaser]

I hate those "feel good" stories about new mums giving goodie bags on airplanes to preemptively apologize if their baby cries. I don't think anyone should be forced to apologize for their children existing -whether by peer pressure or otherwise. Maybe the adults who have a problem with babies crying can, you know, be adults, and have more maturity than the literal infants they are railing against.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Interesting. Don’t necessarily think I’m autistic but I have more going on than just ADHD and I’m not sure what that is.

[thatbitchsimone]

How to let yourself hate your mother even tho despite being horrible to you, she still cut her self to birth you and raised you even tho she was still young, she too had dreams and husband was abusive so she didn’t have a choice.

This feels very trauma dumpy but I am kind of hoping for some insight if someone else has felt this way

u can be grateful for her bringing u into this world and making sacrifices for u and hate what she became at the same time. u can understand why she did the things she did and treated u the way she did and have compassion for her while still also hating how she went about things and hating her actions. just bc theres an explanation and reason for why she turned out like she did and made the choices she made doesnt mean its justified or excuseable. being abused may be what led her to become abusive herself but that doesnt make it ok. u cant go around hurting ur child just bc ur husband hurts u. u cant let ur abuser turn u into someone elses abuser. she did have a choice, she could either treat u the way she wished to have been treated or she could treat u the same way her abuser treat her and she chose the latter and its only natural to resent her and feel hatred towards her for that. like would u treat ur child the way ur mother has treated u? or would u choose to break that cycle bc u just couldnt allow urself to hurt ur child like ur mother hurt u? exactly. theres always a choice

[dapurinthos]

it used to be on her wookieepedia page but is no longer there. putting some actual quotes behind the cut because i don't want to clutter up anyone's pages with a few receipts.

on the jedi:

Okay, you've been told they're the good guys. If you're a child, I'll cut you some slack. But if you're not, I have to ask if you believe everything you're told as obediently and unquestioningly as that in real life. Because if you do, you scare me. Because it's clear to me that you believe deep down in real life that some human lives are worth less than others, and so it's okay to end them. Whether you realise that or not. Because if you don't believe it at that fundamental level, then why do you get so damned angry with me when I rock the boat of your fictional beliefs? I'm sure you think you're a nice decent person who's kind to animals, recycles faithfully, and fills in tax returns honestly. Maybe you believe in God, too. But to me, you're someone who harbours a vile and degrading belief in the concept of Untermensch - the idea that some humans aren't human at all, and we can do as we like with them, for whatever arbitrary value we put on the words "real human." You're looking for ways to sift your kind of human from the humans who don't matter, and who can be consigned to the fate of animals. [...] it's Nazi-think.

and, of course,:

But then I see Vader as a tragic character who's been betrayed by everyone, and I can't help thinking of the Jedi as self-serving unelected elitist spoon-benders making whoopee on Republic taxpayers' credits. It's an iconoclastic journo world-view. Believe me, Order 66 was long overdue. I have a couple of Jedi that I don't want to shoot on sight, but they're my own creations, so I could make them a little humbler and more aware of the consequences they create for others. [...] Getting into Jedi heads was that much harder. But I swore I could get into the most repellent characters' heads and see them as they see themselves, so I had to. I still wouldn't trust the Jedi Council with my wallet, let alone with running my country, but you won't spot that in the books.

further quote collection at this link.

It’s tough being a clone-lover who is also a Karen Traviss hater. So many clone posters seem to gas up her additions to the old Expanded Universe in general, and the Republic Commando novels specifically. Makes me want to corner them and go “You know Traviss made up a guy to get mad at when it came to the Jedi Order, right? You know her characterization of the Mandalorians (who are so much cooler and more badass and more moral than the Jedi in her hands) has a lot of weird reactionary details, like the multiple women characters who find that domestic life on a remote compound is more satisfying and meaningful than a career outside the home, right? You know she compared EU fans who criticized her takes on Star Wars canon to the Taliban, right? Right?”

I will admit that her additions to the Mando’a conlang are cool though.

.

[amidnightqueery]

I don't hate my job or anything, but man, being a float educator is so fucking thankless