#i would kill for more op (no pressure)

[strangerhands]

AAAAAAAAAAAA JUST THE IDEA OF THIS AU IS TOO GOOD. TOO AMAZING. IM GOING TO YELL SO LOUD.

Danger, danger! You didn’t even need your spidey-sense to tell you that; he wears the warning like a badge of honour. <-YEAAAAAA BABY

He makes it look easy, but a shudder crawls down your spine—you just know what he’s capable of. <-🤭😋😝

For all his snark and murderous tendencies (which you hope are just a joke), <-🤭😇😇😇

Something brushes up against your cheek, roughly textured but trying to be so, so gentle. <-OHHH... GOD.

He keeps his hand extended towards you, shaking it a little for emphasis, <-jake lockley i am going to kiss you.

With wet curls stuck to his forehead, <-

When you don’t respond, Jake’s expression softens, the lines of his face giving way to an understanding look that makes you feel smaller than his antagonism ever could. The fires have mostly died down now, but warm reds and oranges still flicker along the side of his jaw, in corners of his irises. His arms feel less like a cage and more like a lifeline, keeping you from drifting out to sea. <-im gonna scream this is so so beautiful…

Jake’s grinning when you pull back to look at him, all boyish confidence, and you nearly forget to breathe. <-yeah,

On the way out, he picks up your mask from where you discarded it, slapping it a few times against his leg to brush off the soot and ash. <-JAKE LOCKLEY I AM GOING TO KISS YOU.

Distantly, you wonder how his glowing white eyes would look in the dark. Probably a bit stupid, is your conclusion. <-😭😭😭

once you slip on your mask, he gives you a little pat on the head before you can bat him away. Jake leans away enough to avoid your attempts to tug at his hood, but at the next opportunity, he reaches over again, the little shit, hand drawing in close, and your spidey-sense, superhuman and extraordinary, it’s—

It’s never been quieter. <-

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH… OH... OUGH… THIS WAS SO INCREDIBLE. AS ALWAYS. OUGH. OH. OHMYGODDDDDDAAAAAAAAUUUGGGHHHH. I AM SO IN LOVE WITH HIM… AND THIS WORLD YOUVE CREATED… AND YOUR WRITING… JUST TOO GOOD… TOO AMAZING… TOO BEAUTIFUL... TOO PERFECT… GOD… the way you describe everything and anything… just so phenomenal. i am so in love with it all. always.<3

direction to perfection; j.l.

pairing: jake lockley x reader, marc and steven are briefly alluded to but do not make an appearance

summary: one day, your vigilante lifestyle leads to you to crossing paths with a moon-serving weirdo in white bandages. jake promises that he won't get in the way, but there's something about his smirk that has your spidey-sense tingling, and what do you know—

he sets a building on fire.

it's not supposed to be romantic.

warnings: depictions of fighting and violence, injuries, hurt and comfort, reader is a spider-person and thus has a spider-person sense of humour😭.

word count: 3.8k

notes: part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'bonfire”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You have a love-hate relationship with your spidey-sense—it’s useful enough to give you a heads-up, but it’s not exactly a get-out-of-danger-free card.

It kicks in as you’re soaring through the air, an errant pulse in your veins that tells you one thing: MOVE. But there’s no time—before you even manage to lift your web-shooter, one of Doc Ock’s mechanical arms whips around and collides hard against your torso. For a moment, you feel your ribs crack underneath the metal, the sharp pains accompanied by a real stupid thought, even by your standards: guess I’m going to call in sick tomorrow—

—and then you finally hit the brick wall behind you. The air is ripped from your lungs and your thoughts short-circuit into nothingness. New York’s evening rush hour is drowned out by high-pitched ringing. If it weren’t for your wallcrawling ability, you’d be falling forty stories down onto the traffic below. Instead, rooted into the small crater you’ve made into an office building, all you can do is languish in what surely must be multiple broken bones and a slightly bruised ego for not being able to dodge a hit that you saw coming.

Speaking of—there’s another one heading towards you right now.

You leap upwards without a second thought, just narrowly avoiding becoming a shitty claw-machine prize as the arm lodges into the wall where your head used to be. Spots dance across your vision and you groan—your body does not want to move.

Suspended between two buildings, Doc Ock’s mechanical arms dig into concrete and brick as she follows you up. Her voice is deceptively empathetic. “Down so soon, little spider? I expected more from you!”

One of the arms rears back again but distantly, there’s the clench of a trigger—and it gets pinned behind her by a golden grappling hook.

The wire grows taut then there he is, using the reeling mechanism to lunge upwards. All the momentum is channeled into his crescent blade as Jake jams it between the plates of the trapped arm; it jerks like a wounded animal, suddenly uncoordinated and stiff. When it lashes out again, he easily dodges and jumps across the buildings onto the fire escape next to you.

“Mierda! You okay?”

Glowing white eyes, wide with concern—the sight is enough to shake you out of your concussive stupor. Jake extends a hand, and you take it readily, allowing him to help you up onto the rickety platform.

“Just peachy,” you wheeze as you lean almost your entire body weight against him.

This was supposed to be a simple mission. It wasn’t even supposed to be a mission in the first place, but one detained drug dealer led to another, which led to a smuggler and a mercenary and a goddamn gym teacheruntil you were faced with a whole corrupt laboratory that tied back to Doc Ock’s operations.

Jake got looped in somewhere between the mercenary and the gym teacher, apparently answering some kind of divine calling of his own. Egyptian god of the moon? Protecting travelers of the night? You just call the people you save New Yorkers, no fancy labelling here.

But you’re not so prideful as to turn away help when you need it, especially when it comes gift-wrapped in superhuman strength and a bullet-proof cape. Even though you catch him giving himself these looks in the windows you pass by or having whole conversations to himself under his breath—you’ve seen weirder.

Like now: There’s a clear conflict happening in—on?—Doc Ock. The damaged arm flails wildly through the air, and the other three can’t seem to decide between trying to calm it down, retreat, or kill you.

Those white eyes turn to you. “Sure you don’t want me to shoot her?”

“No!” Now you remember why you were initially wary of him—because when you first met, he was holding one of his blades to a lackey’s throat. Danger, danger! You didn’t even need your spidey-sense to tell you that; he wears the warning like a badge of honour. “We just need to subdue her till the cops come. Follow my lead.”

Jake gives you a mock salute. Fortunately, Doc Ock’s lab was deserted—except for her—when you crashed the place. Whatever supersecret bioweapon she’s cooking up will still be waiting for you to destroy it after you capture her.

With just one press of a button, you’re soaring back into action. The arms seem to have coordinated themselves again—having decided to kill you, how lucky—but so have you and Jake. One lunges towards you, and you pull upwards on your web, going feet over head as you as you flip backwards out of the way.

In that split-second moment when you’re fully upside-down, your arm extends downwards and thwip!—your web attaches to the titanium plating. The world realigns itself, and your momentum carries you in an arc below the arm, dragging it behind you as you continue in your original direction.

As soon as you land on the side of the opposing building, you yank hard. Immediately, your other hand comes up to shoot a dozen or so webs to attach the claw onto the wall. It won’t last—the brick is already crumbling under the force—but it gives Jake enough time to shake off Doc Ock’s attention and join you.

Closer than you were before, you can see just how much force it takes for him to drive his blade through the circuitry. Sparks burst like little fireworks around his hand. He makes it look easy, but a shudder crawls down your spine—you just know what he’s capable of.

You both leap out of the way as the arm thrashes erratically; Doc Ock cries out in frustration. That’s two arms down, and two that are busy suspending her in the air. You’ll have to catch her once you take out another one, but that’s no biggie.

“Jake!” You gesture towards the nearest arm, and he nods in understanding. Despite the pain radiating through your limbs, you grin. For all his snark and murderous tendencies (which you hope are just a joke), he’s a half-decent partner.

It’s too bad, then, that Doc Ock doesn’t seem to care about how good of a time you’re having. Her mouth twists into a snarl, and in a blink of an eye, she’s scrambling away. Retreating? Your poor, bruised head is hopeful for the night to end.

In a way, it’s right—she is trying to get away from you. Unfortunately, it also recognizes that she’s retracing your steps, right back to the lab where you first found her.

“Oh, damn it!”

Your injuries and Jake’s limited modes of superhuman transport make it impossible to gain any real ground as you chase after her. Doc Ock climbs through her shattered window half a minute before you do, and even if your conscious mind doesn’t realize it, some part of you does—it’s an ambush.

You dive to the ground just as a mini fridge is thrown in your direction. Pain shoots down your side, your vision blurring with tears. The sheer wave of nausea that washes over you makes your mouth water and fuck, you might actually puke like this.

There’s something else coming but you can’t do anything other than half-heartedly roll behind the nearest object. The workbench shields you from—what, a chair? You aren’t afforded anymore time to think about it because she rips off the counter next, several important-looking valves raining down around you. Through the noise, you just barely manage to pick up a quiet hissing in the air as you try to gather your bearings.

A line of workbenches down the centre of the room, an aisle on either side.

On the right: sinks and fume hoods.

On the left: whiteboards.

Directly in front of you: the absolute bane of—and possible end to—your existence, holding up that chunk of black countertop as if it were a hammer and you are a nail.

You brace yourself for the hit, but it never comes. There’s a surprised yelp from above you, and your peer through your arms at just the right time to see Jake land a brutal kick into Doc Ock’s chest, sending her flying. You don’t see her land, but you do hearit; equipment crashes to the ground, glass shattering on the linoleum.

With a hand from Jake, you’re back on your feet. Doc Ock is reeling at the far end of the room. The walls are littered with long, deep gashes—some from your initial confrontation with her, some likely from her mechanical arms flailing from Jake’s hit. Several of the fume hoods are missing their windows entirely, which definitely bodes ill considering that there are still chemicals in some of them.

Gritting your teeth, you somehow manage to get the words out, “Just stand down, Olivia!”

A hand is clutched at her side, and some petty part of you hopes that her ribs are broken too. “This isn’t over.”

You gesture to her mechanical arms, two of which are still malfunctioning like headless chickens, then to yourselves, who are (mostly) in one piece. “Well, it sure is about to be.”

She raises her eyebrows at Jake. “You raid a Spirit Halloween and suddenly think you can defeat me?”

“Yeah, sure, let me just take fashion advice from someone cosplaying as an octopus.”

Jake leans towards you. “Do you always talk this much?”

At that, Doc Ock’s eyes narrow, filled with determination. She’s not backing down this time, which means neither can you.

You both ready yourselves like you have countless times before, straightening your stance and setting your shoulders back. But Jake doesn’t show the same patience. No—he sees the remaining mechanical arms twitch in preparation, and a blade is already leaving his hand with deadly-precise aim.

Wait, wait, the hissing sound—the gas—

“Get down!” You ram your body into Jake’s, bringing you both to the ground as the blade makes contact with the titanium, sparks flying out and—

BOOM.

It’s like your heart stops.

For several moments, you don’t register anything at all. You aren’t even sure if you’re still breathing.

Slowly, your senses return. The scent of burning plastic invades your nostrils—even the air tastes like it too. Something’s landed on top of you, pinning you down with a surprising amount of strength. Warm and sturdy and pressing into all the wrong places, but you can’t even hear your own whimpering—there’s nothing but ringing in your ears.

Are your eyes closed? You can’t bring yourself to check. All you can do is try to remember how to live, and figure out what the hell is happening.

Your spidey-sense has gone quiet. That’s—that’s good. Hopefully. Or maybe it’s just been knocked out of you by the blast. You let that last thought get washed away into the muddled mess of your head; you could probably use a bit of positive thinking right now.

Everything hurts. That’s been true for the past hour, really, but there’s no gut-wrenchingly painful burn anywhere on your body like what you expected from a lab explosion. The closest thing is just that warmth against your back, in a thick arm across your chest, and encircled around your wrist, where it lingers along your pulse point.

Something brushes up against your cheek, roughly textured but trying to be so, so gentle. Words start to pierce through the hearing damage. “—estás bien, te tengo. No te preocupes, estás bien.”

“Jake?” Your voice comes out small and tinny, unsure of how loud to speak when everything sounds like it’s underwater. You receive an affirmative rumble, and the tension seeps out of your limbs, just a tad.

Tentatively, you open your eyes. And there’s—nothing. Just a white sheet of fabric covering your entire field of view. Jake huffs out a laugh at your confusion before finally standing up, his cape pulling back from where it was draped on top of you.

“Oh.”

It’s like a bomb went off. Nearly every surface has been scorched black, save for the perfectly untouched flooring around you where Jake shielded you both from the blast. Any equipment in the room has been reduced to pieces—if not completely combusted into ash and soot—and fires still linger despite the efforts of what’s left of the sprinkler system.

No sign of Doc Ock anywhere—she must’ve gotten away. Jake lets out a long string of curses under his breath, then finishes it off with an eloquent: “Fuck.”

The fire alarm is incessant, and the sprinklers have all but drenched your suit. If you had half a working brain left, you’d feel the shivers wracking your body and realize that you’re still bleeding out in several different places, but the only thing that crosses your mind is how tired you are.

You throw your mask off with a groan. The sirens in the distance only add to your growing headache. So close, you were so close this time.

“Come on.” Jake’s stands over you, mask retracted, and you can see the grimace on his face from how the mission turned out. Wordlessly, he offers to help you up, and is promptly ignored. He keeps his hand extended towards you, shaking it a little for emphasis, but you refuse to budge.

That is, until your mind so helpfully strays and wonders—how big was the blast?

Your eyes widen, and your body jerks upright as though electrocuted. Oh, God—you didn’t see anyone else in the lab other than Doc Ock when you arrived, but what about the other floors? What about the pedestrians on the sidewalk below, who might’ve had glass and debris rained down upon them when the windows were blown out?

It takes several tries to get to your feet, none of which are entirely successful because Jake has to intervene halfway through to hold you upright. Your second wind catches him off-guard and his brows furrow as you try to leap back into action. “Whoa—talk to me, bug. What’s happening?”

“Need to—” You try to shrug him off. His grip loosens for all of a moment before you’re stumbling again, and then he returns, as firm and steady as ever. “Was anyone hurt?”

“You.”

“Not what I meant,” you scowl. It’s thoroughly ineffective. The only response you get is a subtle tilting of his head, then a loss of his undivided attention as he listens to something—someone—in the room that you aren’t privy to.

His gaze flickers back to you, marginally softer. “No one else was hurt. You need to rest.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. What’s the point of superhealing if you can’t bounce back after a fight? This time when you struggle against him, Jake lets you go, crossing his arms as you limp around the room.

Fortunately, most of the smoke is being pulled out the windows; what’s left is enough to burn and scrape down your larynx, but you push through it. Doc Ock has to have left some kind of trace—if not during her escape, then in the work she left behind. But kicking around in the ashes yields nothing. There’s no conveniently placed folder full of evil plans, or vial labelled SUPER SECRET BIOWEAPON (ONLY COPY - NO NEED TO SEARCH ANY FURTHER).

Jake sighs. “What are you looking for?”

What are you looking for? The building is still on fire, for Christ’s sake—you should have been gone ten minutes ago. Still, your stubbornness is steadfast. “There has to be—something.”

He sweeps out an arm, gesturing to the resounding nothing around you. With wet curls stuck to his forehead, his tone veers on sardonic. “Oh? Your little spider-sense tell you that?”

“Spidey, and—and it’s not a radar, I can’t just turn it on,” you bristle. His ensuing snicker lands all wrong, and your mouth twists into a scowl. “Funny, is it? Blowing up a building?”

“Hey.” The lightness disappears from his expression. “How was I supposed to know about the gas leak?”

It’s a valid question. Still, the anger in you can’t help but flare up anyways, running on his words as if they were diesel. You bite back a retort at the last second, which isn’t enough because the resulting silence is accusatory in and of itself.

He takes a step towards you, chin raised as water continues to rain down on you both. Solid, sturdy—unyielding. The sight twists your stomach into knots, but you stand your ground, placing your hands on your hips even though it pulls painfully at a handful of your muscles. “Shit happens, bug. It’s no one’s fault—well, maybe a bit my fault, but—”

“I had her.” It’s a blatant lie, but full of conviction as it leaves your lips.

He’s nothing short of incredulous. “Did you?”

“Yes—”

Faster than your hazy mind can register it, his hand shoves at your shoulder. Not hard, but it didn’t need to be—you practically crumple, hands scrambling to find something to hold on to before you land flat on your ass, but Jake wraps an arm around your waist, steadying you.

You swat at his chest. You hate that his warmth is familiar. “Let me go.”

He counters: “What’s wrong?”

“You, asshole.”

“’m the bad guy now? You want a fight that bad?” His eyebrows cock upwards, regarding you like some unruly child.

He’s being inflammatory on purpose and it’s working. You’re an elastic band in his fingers, one that he keeps stretching and stretching and stretching until you snap. “I don’t want a fight, I want a—”

Win, you almost admit. You wanted a win, after all this time you’ve spent chasing after Doc Ock. Countless sleepless nights and lackeys thrown behind bars, only to fail in the final moments when it really mattered. The realization is debilitating, even in the confines of your own head, and so you lash out again, distracting yourself from the bitterness on your tongue by spewing it out instead.

“We’re not all out for blood, you know.” Then, because you can’t help yourself— “I’m not you, Jake.”

“Is that what this is about?” His hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back, but you manage to catch it. Of course you do, with every sense on high alert, blood rushing in your ears. “You mad ‘cause I’m a killer?”

Something dangerous underlines his tone when he says the word and you flinch, trying to create some distance between the two of you on instinct. Jake doesn’t grant you that—his other arm comes to hold you as well, pulling you in even though you think you might suffocate in his presence.

“You knew this from the start. Don’t tell me you’re going to try to turn me in now.”

“Maybe I should,” you say in a rush, gaze steely as it meets his. For all your superhuman powers, none give you the ability to read what’s going on behind the storm in his eyes. You’re so close, you can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin, hear the words in his mouth before he even says them.

“You’re the one with the spidey-sense.” His voice is low. Somewhere in the back of your mind, through the shame and anger and desperation—you note that he’s called it by the right name this time. “You tell me. Am I a threat?”

Your heart is beating a mile a minute and your stomach is all fluttery and weird but—no. There’s no tingling at the back of your neck, no hair-raising along your arms. Petulance makes you want to lie and say yes anyways, but you can’t bring yourself to form the words. It just… isn’t true. And for some reason, you have feeling that this would be going too far, even as a rash potshot.

When you don’t respond, Jake’s expression softens, the lines of his face giving way to an understanding look that makes you feel smaller than his antagonism ever could. The fires have mostly died down now, but warm reds and oranges still flicker along the side of his jaw, in corners of his irises. His arms feel less like a cage and more like a lifeline, keeping you from drifting out to sea.

“Just—thought I finally caught her,” you mumble, and he pulls you the last few inches into a proper hug. Exhausted, you let yourself melt into his arms, the adrenaline beginning to seep away despite the cacophony of sirens in the background. “It’s been so long, Jake.”

“I know.” He doesn’t, not really—you haven’t divulged just how far this rivalry goes, but you don’t have to think very hard to realize that he’s speaking from experiences long before he ever met you. “We’ll get her next time.”

You snort softly into his suit. “What, you staying?”

It’s silly, the tinge of hopefulness that laces your voice just minutes after you’ve essentially accosted him. But Jake’s grinning when you pull back to look at him, all boyish confidence, and you nearly forget to breathe. “I could be convinced.”

Wait—what? He’s thrown you off-kilter. You—you didn’t think he’d actually— “Well—!”

At your stammering, he lets out a laugh, throwing back his head. It’s a wonderful sound, and when you flick his arm in response, there’s no real force to it.

“Well, you know what they say,” you sniff, trying to maintain your composure. “Friends close, enemies closer, and all that.”

“Right, right,” he nods gravely. The effect is severely diminished by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Keeping one arm around you, he starts to lead you towards an exit. “Don’t know how you’ll handle it—your spidey-sense going off all the time with me around.”

On the way out, he picks up your mask from where you discarded it, slapping it a few times against his leg to brush off the soot and ash. His own mask and hood come up to envelope his face as he hands it to you. Distantly, you wonder how his glowing white eyes would look in the dark. Probably a bit stupid, is your conclusion.

“I’m sure I can manage,” you sigh, and once you slip on your mask, he gives you a little pat on the head before you can bat him away. Jake leans away enough to avoid your attempts to tug at his hood, but at the next opportunity, he reaches over again, the little shit, hand drawing in close, and your spidey-sense, superhuman and extraordinary, it’s—

It’s never been quieter.

[scientia-rex]

I feel like disappointment in Biden is baffling to me because he was always a disappointment. He was the asshole who got to ride to power on the coattails of a better man. He told bizarre and repeated lies (despite getting caught at it and his team telling him not to) about having a Welsh coal miner dad when he did not and he stole that story from actual Welsh people. I read a profile of him years back that pointed this out and told the story of the time he straight up ignored good advice from an expert not to plant a certain kind of tree too close together and flew a bunch of them out to plant, at night because he was just too fucking excited about it, and they all died. He’s not a smart man! He’s charismatic ish and lacks principles and as far as I can tell doesn’t really care about abortion rights or a lot of things we’d consider pretty critical to preserving freedom. I sincerely thought he couldn’t become President because there were so many obviously better candidates in the pool. I underestimated the sexism and antisemitism in American politics, and when he became the candidate in 2020 I gritted my teeth and voted for him because the alternative was a man who is not only an idiot but also profoundly dangerous. Trump is not ha-ha crazy, he’s Mussolini crazy. He is not dangerous because he’s stupid, although that doesn’t help; he’s dangerous because he does not care about anyone except himself under any circumstances and if that means he lets the far right push us straight into forced birth for white women and sterilization for women of color he’s going to do that. If that means conversion therapy for queers and death penalty for homosexual acts he’s going to do that. He has literally no limits. If he gets back into power, a whole lot of people are going to die, again. It’s not a hypothetical because it happened the first time and he’s only going to get worse.

I am not, never have been, and never will be a fan of Biden. To pretend that he and Trump are in any way equivalent is wrong at best and another goddamn Russian psy-op at worst. To pretend that a third party candidacy is viable in the US is to completely ignore every election of your lifetime and your parents’ lifetimes, and to further ignore the lesson of Ross Perot.

You cannot save Palestinians by not voting for Biden in November; the best you can do is chip away at his margin, and the worst you can do is see Trump elected so he can decide to do the worst possible thing in ever circumstance. Biden has Palestinian blood on his hands and watching this when we could have had Bernie or Elizabeth Warren instead is maddening. (I would have preferred Hillary to Trump, but I don’t think she’d be any different than Biden here. They’re both old-school politicians.)

I hate everything about this, and I hate that saying “maybe don’t put the man who literally said he would kill his political enemies in power” is seen as supporting genocide. It’s acknowledging reality. Joe Biden as a person can eat rocks for all I care. I was kind of hoping he’d die sooner in his term so we’d have time to get used to and then vote for President Harris. (Remember when the line was “she’s a cop, don’t vote for her”? Funny how there’s always a reason not to vote for a woman or a person of color or someone you just “don’t like” and can’t put a finger on why except she “seems angry.” Oh does she. How would she not? When Michelle fucking Obama, the picture of grace , STILL got called angry for having the nerve to be a Black woman with an opinion? When Hillary Clinton lost to a man with no political experience to her decades and who openly discussed sexually assaulting women? Would you have voted for President Harris? Or would you let Trump win again because you don’t LIKE her personally and she’s made decisions and statements you disagree with?)

Biden has both less power than his critics give him credit for and more power than his fans give him credit for. He needs to do more to pressure Israel and although it’s a delicate diplomatic situation I’d rather see us fuck up our diplomatic relationship with Israel than watch more Palestinians get murdered for things like “wanting to eat” and “existing.” The line has been crossed, and he doesn’t see it. Because he wasn’t the best person for the job. Because they didn’t get elected, because of sexism/antisemitism/racism. Hell, I have no idea what bootlicker Pete Buttegieg would have done here, but I’d have given him a try. But no. We got Biden and we’re stuck with this reality where you can be as leftist as you want and still have to look at the situation and decide whether you’re comfortable contributing to a Trump victory through inaction. I want socialism—I want every single person on Earth to have clean drinking water, enough safe food, shelter, medical care, and education—and I’m going to vote for Biden, pissy as it makes me, because the only actual alternative is so, so much worse, for me personally as both a woman and a queer, and for everyone in America and the rest of the world who Trump would find reasons to hurt. What do you think the man who openly and repeatedly praises dictators is going to do when those dictators massacre their own people? Yes, we need to care about this genocide now. We also need to care about all of the other people who are at real risk, both at home and abroad. Would a Trump government agree to fund military intervention in Haiti without insisting on it being a colonial exercise in power? Would a Trump government roll back the restrictions on discriminating against transgender patients in healthcare? How would Trump respond if Orban started dragging people into the streets and shooting them en masse? How would Trump respond if China finally went for it and invaded Taiwan? There are more lives at stake here than mine or yours or even those of the Palestinians, who have deserved better for literally decades and are being mass killed in ways that should result in immediate sanctions, a war crimes trial, and the execution of Netanyahu.

The world deserves better from you than complicity in a Trump victory.

[memysoulandi]

Jason Grace, so much potential...

Actually this goes for the entire lost trio. The AMOUNT of TRAUMA these three had and the potential for character development they had too is UNREAL, yet nothing was done. Let us begin my personal beliefs

Leo:

-Delve into his trauma of his remaining family deciding he was the devil at age EIGHT and refusing to take him in-abandonment issues

-Have his constant feelings of invalid-ness and being the unneeded member of the seven be corrected by giving him CLOSE FRIENDS HE PIPER AND JASON NEED TO BE CLOSER AT THE VERY LEAST and conversations when he realizes he is wanted and needed

-Don't have Calypso storyline in there-he didn't need a girlfriend to solve his problems, if you have it, have it as good friends-another member of his support group

-Make him gay and have valgrace or slowburn/implied valgrace(the two of them pining then like kinda tragic as Leo dies)

Piper:

-Have her lesbian storyline occur in HoO where she's a main character-it's an important storyline for her character that deserves a spotlight and time that ToA couldn't give it

-No Jiper! This relationship was toxic and founded on fake memories-if you're going to do it, do it as a part of her LGBTQIA+ journey and Jason's as well

-Don't have her demonize femininity! She can wear dresses! She can wear makeup! She can present more feminine and still be the same character and her hatred of any and all things feminine is not good representation! Make her a feminist, please! Or at least make her less against femininity as a whole.

-No kaleidoscope eyes! Give her brown eyes and also have her rediscovering her culture storyline as a part of HoO too!

Jason:

-Make him a better fighter than Percy. He has been at Camp Jupiter since the age of three and spent a year with wolves before then. He has spent his entire life in a military setting training, he should be a better swordfighter than Percy 'I show up to summer camp at age 12 to 16 and only really use my sword then' Jackson.

-Give him more powers. Or Percy less. Children of the big three should be equal in potential power, not Percy being OP and the others having lightning or shadows powers some of the time. Percy needs less power and Jason, Thalia, Hazel, and Nico need more. Jason should have more power than Percy as he has had longer to train it.

-Give him a personality. His storyline in HoO should be a journey of self-discovery. He has always been another member of an army, with constant pressure on him to be the best at everything and a strong confident leader who doesn't make mistakes as a son of Jupiter. His entire life has been dictated by those around him. For the first time, he is free of that and he needs to be discovering things like how he likes to dress, his style, his sexuality, his likes and dislikes, and his personality. In my opinion he should be kinda shy with a feral edge, side effect of the wolves, who is always trying to people please. When he stops doing this, he becomes significantly happier and a greater use to the team. Plus valgrace;D.

-Also, make him despise Percy at the beginning. He worked his entire life to be an afterthought that nobody looked for when he went missing for months, while Percy was looked for by everyone after only a few days. Percy achieved everything he wanted in a matter of weeks in New Rome and he was happy and had friends and a life. Percy has everything Jason doesn't. They need to have a moment where they are locked together and Percy goes "why do you hate me" and Jason breaks down because "You have everything I want and you don't even have to try!". This would create a better relationship for them and be the turning point for Jason as Percy hears what he has to say and validates him. Also Jason personality.

-Don't kill him off and continue his self-discovery journey in ToA.

-Make him and Thalia have a closer relationship that in the months between TLH and TSoN, it is implied that they spend time together. He should feel safe with her and they needed more interactions as they are SIBLINGs, god damit.

-Make him and Reyna just friends-she wanted to look for him but couldn't 'cause Octavian(the bitch) and someone needed to be Praetor in his absence.

-Also give him history with Octavian-ex-friends or something give me drama.

[ann-atar]

Another observation re Sauron and Celebrimbor in ep. 7. (Yes, more. Op is a teacher and is posting while grading today.)

While Celebrimbor slowly, painfully made his way back to the tower, what did Sauron do? He stayed there.

He was tearing the place apart, pacing and fuming, but he stayed put for some time, almost as if he was waiting for Celebrimbor.

As if the fact that Celebrimbor escaped, even for a short time, was momentarily beyond his comprehension.

Like, where is he, where are the nine, I left him right here!?!

He was panicked and enraged, but when Celebrimbor returns, there is still this sense that Sauron expects him.

And then instead of killing everyone immediately and dragging Celebrimbor out to take him to the nine he pauses, makes a show of killing the guards, continues their back-and-forth, says, "you will place them in my hands."

It's showy and theatrical, such a performance of intimidation, is what I'm saying.

Now, maybe there is something essential to the creation of the rings that requires Celebrimbor to surrender them in their finished form to Sauron willingly, because even though the rings incorporate Sauron's blood they are still Celebrimbor's creation and until he gives them away, he remains their master, at least while he's alive. (Which is cool if true and I approve!)

But I think there's something psychological at work too. For months and weeks Sauron and Celebrimbor have been cohabitating in that tower. It's their enclosure, their habitat, their little dysfunctional home. And by leaving (and then returning as expected), from Sauron's perspective Celebrimbor is still playing by most of the rules that govern their relationship.

They're even at the stage where the abuser starts scrambling to justify their choices and tries to win over their victim again ("this too shall pass"). Sauron feels solidly in control of Celebrimbor and now that he knows his identity, Sauron is basking in the heady feeling of being known.

So their codependence is still very much a thing and even though Celebrimbor won this round the game is still very much on, and Sauron expects him to come back, to continue the battle of wills until the next round is settled, and the one after that, and the one after that.

Sauron expects to win, to have Celebrimbor place the finished rings in his hands, because the nine belong to him and so does Celebrimbor.

What Sauron doesn't quite get is that Celebrimbor understands all of this because he can see the pattern now. He went back to that tower not because, as Sauron might have thought, he was compelled by the guards or by fear or by his own complicity, but because he understands the clockwork horror of Sauron's mind.

Despite his show of emotion about their time together ending, Sauron still expects to be in control because he's fighting with might, but now that the veil has been lifted Celebrimbor is fighting with light.

We know that Celebrimbor doesn't have long to live, but if I had to make a prediction about how, exactly, he meets his end it would be this: after drawing out their game by provoking Sauron and slowly "breaking" under torture, he finds a way to end his own life. (Yeah.)

At which point Sauron's rage will be enormous, and destructive, and his version of grief might cause him to display Celebrimbor's body in the way we're all dreading.

Sauron is super powerful and like Celebrimbor told Galadriel there might be no one in Middle-earth who could resist him, but Sauron is not all-powerful. There are flaws in his design, weak points in his facade and Celebrimbor can see them now, he knows where to apply pressure so that cracks form, little by little. He might not deliver the killing blow but I believe he will weaken the form of Sauron's mind, so Sauron will not be in the right headspace to kill Galadriel during their inevitable confrontation.

[therealvinelle]

Would Carlisle/Alphard work? (Platonic or romantic)

... curse tumblr for I had drafted my reply to you. ALAS.

No.

Carlisle is not for Alphard

Alphard is an extremely cynical person who admires Tom Riddle for his strength and infallibility. Tom is the most extraordinary person in the room at any given time, and always true to himself. As far as Alphard is concerned Tom is a demigod among men, the sort of natural force who doesn't live by the same rules the rest of us do and wanting him to change is the last thing on Alphard's mind.

Would he admit this to Tom's face, never, Tom has enough of an ego. Alphard will call him a lunatic and ridiculous, and mean every syllable. Did he fall in love with a violent lunatic with impure blood who was beating up not just Alphard, but his closest relatives and all his friends in school, also yes.

It's the whole package of Tom that makes him appeal to Alphard, from the physical beauty to the uncompromising personality, to the way he can't ever be fully predicted, and the tragically romantic backstory. Being in love with him is just a point of fact for Alphard at this point.

Even becoming Lord Voldemort is something Tom never claims is anything but what it is, and while Alphard is horrified and heartbroken Tom remains the person he always was. Readers of The Man Who Would Be King will remember Alphard lasted one week before being married to Tom again.

Carlisle, by contrast, while unbelievably beautiful and just as extraordinary, is a man who has made self-delusion a cornerstone of his life. He loves his family and wants them to care about human life as much as he does, so he'll give them little nudges like going to their victims' funerals or have family votes where thankfully the majority voted against killing an innocent girl, and not think about what it says about Edward that he killed people for pleasure for four years because- well, he came back.

And he walks around talking about how great, how humane, how wonderful his family and their way of life is. While living among humans, thereby risking the deaths of innocents for no reason other than "it's our lifestyle!" (and the even worse, underlying reason of "if they don't live with humans they might forget humans aren't food...")

Loss of control isn't even a hypothetical, this happens to the Cullens semi-frequently.

Alphard would think he's a fool and a killer by proxy, and despise and pity him. To him, Carlisle is easily worse than Voldemort.

Alphard is not for Carlisle

The trouble with Alphard is that he is what Caius would be if Caius was worse. He's mean, he's judgmental, and he's cynical, all qualities Caius shares only Alphard is somehow worse. He's just so mean.

More troubling yet, he is very principled and harsh on himself but lives cease to matter to him where his loved ones are concerned. Had Aro said "Here is my Horcrux, it's a fifteen-year-old Aro who must be fed a soul to gain a body" Carlisle would have pressured him to either repair his soul, and left when Aro didn't do so. Alphard, by contrast, "Ope, guess we're finding him a soul then."

Alphard is a very ruthless person, he may be principled but should his line of reasoning lead him to murder being the solution to a problem a loved one is having then murder it is.

Alphard also reacts to Tom becoming Voldemort much the same way he would infidelity, as it's not really the suffering Tom inflicted that bothers him but the betrayal of his own character as Alphard knew it (and he'd have had a much harder time getting past actual infidelity. That would have been a crisis). His faith is restored because he sees enough of the goodness he fell in love with. His niece Bellatrix is much the same, of sure she's done bad things, Alphard is intellectually aware of this fact. It's getting hard to deny that she probably has tortured and killed people, and delights in it. Well, have you considered the fact that she's precious and perfect?

Andromeda's marriage to Ted is on par with Tom and Bellatrix's life choices in that Alphard's not thrilled with it, but he can look past it because he loves her that much.

To Carlisle this man is genuinely insane and terrifying. Carlisle can move past his friends killing to live because it's what they've always known and he sees the good in them in spite of that. Alphard would frighten him, there is plenty good in him but Carlisle would correctly put together that the man is one line of reasoning away from killing anybody at all.

Carlisle stays as far out of his way as he can, and warns others to keep their distance from this one.

Can these two even be in a room together?

I think if they meet in the library and only talk about books, they'll have a grand time. Just don't let them talk about anything personal, at all.

[fixielixie]

i’ve been thinking a lot about wei wuxians gui dao and the belief that it was corrupting him. mxtx said in an interview that wen ning killed jin zixuan bc wwx lost control and he lost control because of his cultivation style, and i think that makes a lot of sense!

cultivation of any type relies heavily on balance, having a clear mind and heart ect. a cultivation path invented during the worst period of wwxs life, used heavily during a war and then as a outcast, of course it would be unstable. and that doesn’t even take into account that resentful energy is dangerous, so without the utmost control of ur mind and body, it makes sense that it would start to corrupt ur judgment and ur ability to be rational.

any cultivator of any path is at risk of qi deviating, especially at times of high stress and constant hyper vigilance. i wouldn’t be surprised if wwx experienced some kind of qi deviation at qiongqi path, which eventually lead to the nightless city massacre.

it’s also why wwx using it without risk of losing control after he comes back makes sense too. bc without the pressure and threat of staying on the burial mounds, and the years he spent dead as a spirit/ghost just chilling, he was more sound of mind. plus with time he could refine the methods, to make sure that the effects of it are negligible.

anyway all this to say wei wuxian one in a lifetime genius who’s so OP he invented a cultivation path and managed to win a war and live for years with minor issue before landing into trouble with it. that’s kinda crazy of him.

[barefoothighlander]

absolution - to be alone

-simon ‘ghost’ riley x wife!reader

-warnings: mdni (18+) angst, canon typical violence, death, kidnapping, mentions of blood

-word count: 3.5k

-summary: the secret of your marriage gets out and you and Ghost have to deal with the consequences

prev chapter masterlist

a/n: fair bit of violence this chapter, apologies that it took so long to write I’m having insane writers block, not proofread

“What do you mean Price knows” His voice was calm, he never yelled at you but for some reason you wished he was. His stoic state making you even more nervous,

“I had to tell him Simon he knew something was up”

“He didn’t know shit”

“Whatever he did, or didn’t know, or thought he knew, it doesn’t matter. He knows now, he understands why we didn’t tell him but atleast that weights of our chest”

“It’s not off our chest, what happens when he had to put it in our files? When he accidentally let’s slip that we’re married?”

“He wouldn’t do that”

“And you know that how?”

“Because you trust him, you’ve trusted him for years”

“Yea well the people you trust can hurt you the most” He says, standing to leave the room,

“Simon please, I’m sorry”

“It doesn’t matter now”

He closes the door and your emotions hit you, you regret everything about your decision to go to Price, but the sinking feeling in your chest wouldn’t let up until you told him. He had been surprised at first, he just assumed that the two of you were hooking up, he had no idea that you were married let alone knew each other prior to the mission, your file had pages about your previous ops but none mentioned the Lieutenant. Price was understanding in your secrecy, a little offended that Simon didn’t trust him with the knowledge but understanding none the less, he promised to keep it from the team no matter what and that was good enough for you.

Simon on the other hand wanted to wring the Captains neck, he could try to threaten him into sworn secrecy but he knew it wouldn’t work, he was furious. His only rule for your relationship being that it stayed between the two of you, and now it was compromised, yes he trusted Price with his life, but not with yours.

Simon marched his way to Prices office, his hands clenched at him sides as he knocked on the door, opening it once he heard the Captains voice.

“Simon”

“Sir”

“I understand congratulations are in order”

“Don’t”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You know why”

“I’ve read everything in your file, i know about your past, your family”

Simon winces at the mention

“You can trust me with this son”

“You need to take her off the op”

“You know you can’t make that request”

“I’m not asking as her Lieutenant”

“She’s an imperative part to this op”

“Find another sniper”

Before Price can respond Simon breezes out of the room, a cloud of fury following behind him as he storms through the halls to his shacks. He releases a deep breath, pulling his mask from his head once he’s inside. He felt betrayed, a vow as sacred as the ones you made the day you got married and you had broken it, technically he understood why, you were never great under pressure from higher ranks, he knew you couldn’t keep a lot of things to yourself given all the gossip you had told him over the years, but he trusted you with this.

He feared for you mostly, he knew he was in danger everyday, he had enemies across the globe and if word got out that you were married, a big red target would paint itself on your back. He didn’t want to think of the things his enemies would do to you in order to get to him, it made his stomach churn.

You stand in your quarters, thinking of all the things you could say, how you could apologize, and nothing comes to mind. You understand the weight of your decision but you’ve had people trying to kill your for years, you’ve made enemies of your own, you huff a breath holding yourself high.

You walk down the halls to Simons quarters before Price calls you into his office,

“Yes sir?”

“I have a favour to ask”

“Sir if it’s anything about my private life I ask that you keep it to yourself”

“It’s nothing about that Strider, trust I’ll keep that information confidential”

You nod “What do you need”

“I need recon on the building, you’re the only one with training that suits the op”

“Are you sure”

“I need the others here, you’re my only option Sargent”

“When do you need me”

“You have 3 hours to prep, a car will drop you at your view point and you’re alone from there, it’s a 3 day op but you’ll have comms”

“You need me to watch for three days?”

“There’s intel stating a transfer will occur within the week, I need your eyes to track movement”

“So no engagement”

“You do not have execute authority”

You nod, “Okay”

You leave his office, your argument with Simon gone from your mind, replaced with the anxiety of your mission. You approach his door and knock, you hear shuffling in the room before he opens it.

“Hi”

He opens the door to let you in, his head leaking out to make sure the hallways were clear. You glance around the room, his desk is a mess with open pages,

“You’re writing again?”

“Just, had some stuff I needed to get out”

“Si”

“I don’t want to fight about it, what’s done is done”

“Okay.. I’m leaving for a few days”

“What do you mean? You’re going home?”

“No”

He raises an eyebrow in question,

“Solo recon”

“Absolutely not”

“Simon please”

“Is he trying to punish me for not telling him about us?”

“What are you talking about”

“He’s sending you out alone, to punish me”

“Simon no one’s punishing you, this is the reason Price asked for me”

“I don’t want you out there with no backup”

“I’ll have comms to the base, I won’t be close enough for them to get anywhere near me”

Simon’s skin heats with anger, you move toward him, hands holding his at his side as you try to calm him.

“I’ll do this, then i’ll go home” You say with a heavy breath. You feel his muscles loosen slightly, his head moving down so his eyes can stare into yours, those dark orbs so full of emotion.

“Three days” He says and you nod, bringing your cheek to rest against his chest, his hands moving to roam your back.

“Three days and i’m back home”

“Safe” He mutters, his arms holding you against him.

You leave Simons room a few minutes later, bidding your goodbyes before moving to your quarters to pack your gear. You have 20 minutes before you have to meet your car, you’re breathing deeply, the mission wasn’t rare to you, spending time alone peering from rooftops was practically half your job in your last team, but being there, knowing Simon was only so far away. You knew he risked his life every time he left, you never asked the details, you didn’t want to stress about every little thing, this felt different, you were so close yet so far apart, you throw your bag over your shoulder and walk towards the outer doors.

Ghost is standing beside the car, his arms crossed over his chest.

“What are you doing here”

“I’m driving you, Captain owed me a favour”

You scoff at him jokingly before loading into the vehicle, as the two of you drive off. Your position wasn’t that far, about a 40 minute drive till you got dropped off and had to walk the rest of the way.

“Keep channel 4 open, that’s where you’ll contact me”

“I’m only supposed to talk to Price”

“Keep it open” He says with a glare, his gloved hand moving to rest on your thigh. You watch the terrain pass you by as you keep driving, dry mountains breezing past your eyesight. You arrive at an dirt road and Ghost turns the engine off, he sits silently for a few minutes, his free hand roaming across the wheel before you turn your body, taking his hand in yours.

“It’ll be okay”

“I know”

“I’m very good at what I do”

“I know that too”

“I’ll see you in three days”

He huffs a breath and nods, hands moving to pull his mask up slightly before leaning in to kiss you, he holds your cheek deepening the kiss before pulling back and resting his forehead against yours.

“Just be careful”

You squeeze his hand tenderly before stepping out of the car and grabbing your gear.

“I love you” You say

“I love you too doll”

You begin walking away, while Ghosts sits in the car until your figure fades from view, there was nothing he could do now but leave, he had to trust you.

Your walk was harsh, the dry terrain mixed with the beaming sun doing damage to your lungs, huffing your way across the ground before you made it to the small city, navigating around back alleys. You locate your view point, climbing an outer ladder to reach the top, sneaking into an open window where you position yourself, your scope settling on the target building in the distance.

“Alpha leader this is Strider how copy?”

“Good copy Strider, are you in position”

“Affirm”

“Alright, keep eyes, take note of any movement in or out, I want a head count”

“Copy, out”

You settle in to your position, eyes locked onto the building for signs of movement. Hours pass without anyone going in or out, you’ve traded your scope for spotting binoculars as the sun went down slowly, the warm air encompassing you in the abandoned building. No movement anywhere that you could see, no cars, no people, you had no idea what you were looking for.

Night falls and you have to toss your visionary aids aside, relying on trying to spot lights from the building, there’s a single room illuminated, you can see through the window but you can’t make out any bodies. You return to your scope in hopes of recognizing someone in the room, watching but you see no shadows or movement.

“Strider how copy?” Ghosts voice rings through your comms.

“Hey babe”

“Keep it professional, may have prying ears”

“Copy”

“You alright”

“No movement, getting bored”

“Bored is better than dead”

You huff a laugh, “That’s true”

“How are things on base?”

“Price wants us shipping out in the morning”

“So you’ll be gone when I get back”

“Most likely”

“Alright” You try to hide the sadness in your voice

“He thinks the mission should be finished within the the next weeks”

“Oh”

“I’ll be home with you before you know it”

“I’ll be waiting”

“I have to go, be safe”

“I love you Simon”

“I’ll see you at home”

You smile, only a handful of days and you’d be back home, safe with your husband, not worrying about the state of his life, just enjoying being with eachother.

“Strider this is Price”

“Sir”

“Reports of a convoy moving near your position, do you have eyes”

You take a minute too look around, your scope landing on a group of trucks passing by a road.

“Copy, count 5 vehicles”

“Are they carrying anything”

“Negative, doesn’t look to be any cargo”

“What about people”

“Count maybe 17 men, all armed”

“Do you see our hostage”

“Sir I thought this was recon”

“Do you have eyes Strider”

You look around, “Sir is that?”

“Affirm, you see her?”

“Affirm Sir, I have eyes on the hostage, she’s bound, they’re moving her into the house”

“Copy, keep watch, do not engage under any circumstances”

“Copy Sir”

Your comms go silent as you watch the scene in front of you, a middle aged woman with blonde hair has her arms bound behind her, a cloth mask over her eyes as the group of men force her towards the building before disappearing inside. You aim your scope at the windows, trying to get a view but all the curtains are drawn, you can vaguely make out shadows passing by.

You watch as the figures look by the windows, they sit the women down in a chair, 3 men gathered around her. You can’t make anything out, adjusting your scope to get a closer look before your eyes sting from the light, one of the men had opened the curtains to look outside, leaving them that way, enough space for you to get a clear view.

They’re yelling something, speaking to each other, you watch the woman tremble and flinch every time one of them shouts. You know your orders but every bone in your body is urging you to help.

“Sir permission to assist”

“Negative, do not interfere”

“Captain they’re going to kill her”

“Your orders are to watch Sargent”

“Sir”

“Do not engage”

You think over your options, your instincts taking over, fuck it I’m off the team either way.

You race down the side of the building, disassembling your rifle for close range shots, your legs are moving faster than your mind as you sprint towards the building, you find a high point and settle into the grass. There’s atleast 15 hostiles in the building, you scope around, 7 outside scattered, you can pick them off.

“Strider, report”

“Sorry Sir”

You take your ear piece out, with a deep breath you push yourself from the ground, hastily moving through the darkness, advancing towards the house. You make your way around the back, pulling out your knife, one man turns the corner and you grab him, digging your knife into the side of his neck as his body drops.

You make your way around the perimeter, killing them one by one, your breath heavy for the exertion. You find the last man, your hand moving to cover his mouth as you slice his throat, the blood pouring from his wound coating your skin seven down, eight to go. Your whole body feels sticky, covered in a layer of blood, sweat and dirt as you wipe off your knife, putting it away in favour of your sidearm.

You attach the silencer and open the front doors, immediately firing off two rounds into the heads of the men.

six

You turn your body, peering around corners, there’s one in the kitchen.

five

You clear the bottom floor, slowly inching up the stairs, one at the top and you shoot him, his body falls down the steps, landing with a thud, you pray it wasn’t loud enough to alert anyone. You start upstairs, clearing the rooms, two are arguing in the office.

two left.

You clear the rest of the area, making your way to the large bedroom at the end of the hall, even through the men arguing you can hear Prices yells through your comms.

You take a breath, counting your bullets, you had three left. You open the door firing one off into the head of the man in front of you, the woman in the chair screaming as the shot rings through the air.

You move to fire at the other man but he grabs your hand, you miss. He pushes you to the ground, your bodies fighting for control as his weight pins you, your arms reach for your gun as his hands grasp around your throat. You’re thrashing under him trying to throw him off, choking for air as he tightens his grip.

Your vision spotty as you lose strength,

“Strider! Get out now!” Ghosts voice comes through your comms, enough to bring you back as your fingers feel for your weapon, grabbing it and hitting it against the man’s temple. He releases you, stumbling over your body as you brave yourself and shoot, his body falls onto you with a thud, his blood pooling around your head as you gasp for air.

You use all your strength to push him off, steadying yourself before stepping towards the woman, she’s writhing against her constraints.

“It’s okay, you’re safe, i’m gonna get you out”

You slowly pull the mask from her eyes, they’re bloodshot and pooled with tears.

“I’m with Captain Price, I’m gonna get you home”

She’s a wreck of choked sobs as you cut her constraints, her body falls against you as you hold her up, walking her out. She’s looking around as the mess of bodies, clinging to you as you descent the stairs.

You exit the building, walking slowly in tandem with her as you reach a patch of grass tall enough for cover.

“Here, sit down” You hand her a small bottle of water and she takes it with shaky hands, gulping down the liquid before settling.

“Thank you”

“Does she know you’re here” You ask

The woman nods, “She watched them take me”

Your hand moves to slowly caress her arm, a small attempt to comfort her.

“Price”

“Sergeant you better have a goddamn explanation”

“I have the hostage, she’s safe”

Price signs deeply, “Are you hurt”

“Negative”

“Get her to the city, we’ll extract from there”

“Copy Sir”

You sit for a while, allowing the woman to compose herself before you help her up, the two of you making your way back to the streets of Panama.

The noise was overwhelming, a stark contrast from the silence you kept the last 24 hours, you find an old building, smashing the window to access the door lock before guiding her in.

“Shouldn’t be long”

She nods

“Does she know I’m safe, does Kate know?”

“I don’t think so”

“Okay”

Ghosts voice calls through your earpiece, “Strider, what’s you position”

“In an old building, northeast end of the city, there’s a small restaurant across the street”

“Copy, closing in”

You wait in silence, the sound of tires passing over dirt grabs your attention, you move to the window to look outside. You see Price and Ghost exit the car, looking around for hostiles, you move back to settle at the woman’s side,

“Okay” You touch her shoulder

“Monica, my names Monica”

“Okay Monica, my team is here, they’re gonna bring you back to our base where the doctor will check you out, then we’ll get you home”

“You trust them?”

“With my life”

She nods, you lock your arms under her shoulders, helping her to stand as the two men enter the building, dropping their weapons when they spot you.

“Jesus christ Strider, did you kill then all yourself”

“Something like that”

Price takes over hold on Monica, helping her to the car as Simon stands in front of you, his eyes staring daggers.

“Si”

“I don’t want to hear it, you’ll go home tonight”

“What, I have to make sure she’s safe”

“The team will take over, you disobeyed direct orders. You’re going home Sargent”

You stand to argue but he just turns and leaves, you’re alone in your anger before you walk to the car, settling in beside Monica in the back as Price turns the engine on. The ride was dead silent, not a word exchanged between the four of you, Monica had stopped shaking by the time you arrived back at base.

You help her out of the car, moving to help her inside before Price stops you,

“Your flights in two hours, be on deck before then”

You stare at him, unable to hide the disappointment in your face as you walk to the medical wing. You get Monica settled in to the bed and she falls asleep almost instantly, the stress taking a toll on her body. You sit with her for a few minutes, ensuring that she was okay before you move to your room to shower.

The water runs red as you wash the blood from your skin, feeling like you could finally breath, you need to talk to Simon but you don’t know what to say. You know if you leave base angry it won’t do you any good, he didn’t do well with emotions, he’d bottle them up before even dating to expose himself.

You spend some time packing your things, making sure to grab everything, your hands toying with the ring around your neck making your way to the plane deck.

Simon is standing in front of your plane, you move to him with regret in your eyes, your arms wrapping to envelop him but he pushes you back.

“Keep it together”

“I’m sorry Si”

“No time for that now” His hand moves to grab yours, his thumb rubbing tender circles over the skin. “I’ll see you at home”

He leaves without another word, you watch his form recede before stepping into the plane, the sound of the engine drowning out anything else before you feel yourself lift into the air. You’re filled with dread as you watch the base get smaller, you won’t be able to contact your husband for upwards of a month, and your last memory is him mad at you, you hated arguing in any form.

You lean your head back, settling in as the plane reaches the clouds, closing your eyes in an attempt to dream of anything but your anxiety.

Taglist: @chloepluto1306 @thychuvaluswife @valdemarismynonbinarylove @simply-vulpecula @lostinsideourminds @pampeop @bloodandthestars @tomhollandisabae @copiasratscheese @giveme-gaskarth

[peachesofteal]

Sunlight

Part six of the Sassy series

Simon Riley/female reader 3.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI (no smut but this fic has mature themes), mentions of violence, blood/injury and bombs, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, PTSD, dissociation, fluff, little bit of angst, comfort, caretaking. Simon was due home four days ago.

The clock reads two in the morning. Your tea sits cold on the coffee table, television droning on mindlessly in the background at a low volume, so it doesn’t wake Theo. You’ve given up the incessant pacing for laying on the couch, the cushions sagging in the middle where Simon usually sits, the creak in the armrest on his side a surprisingly comforting sound compared to the repetitive tick of the clock's second hand.

His bag waits by the door. Theo sleeps in the wrap that has him tied to your chest, his face squished against your skin, long lashes laying flush against his cheeks. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” you whisper, notching your fingers into the crook of Simon’s elbow. You apply soft pressure, just enough to draw him closer to you, until he’s standing with an arm around your back, leaning down to nuzzle Theo. 

“I’m sure, Sass.” You swallow a rebuttal, the anxiety of him leaving for an op crawling up your throat, threatening to spill out in the form of unnecessary pleas for assurances that he’ll be coming back. 

Promises that he’ll be coming home. 

Promises that he’ll never be able to make. 

He pulls away with a sigh, cradling your face and tilting your chin upwards, before sealing his lips over yours, parting your mouth with his tongue and tasting you. 

“Only a few weeks, yeah?” his thumb strokes along your cheekbone while he presses a whisper soft kiss to the top of the baby’s head. You nod. 

“Only a few weeks.”

“Where are you, Si.” It’s the fourth night of this, the waiting. The overdue arrival bears down on you, reducing you to a nervous mess, something you’ve never been before Theo, before him.

You used to sit still, sit silent.

Now, you’re pacing holes into the floor of your house, waiting for the missing piece of your family to come home, four days overdue.

Four days overdue. The first night you tried not to let it eat at you. Things happen. Combat engagement, recon, overwatch, anything could take longer than initially planned or expected. The second night, your rational thought started to slip. Worst case scenarios started to play out in your mind, the stress of not knowing what’s going on keeping you awake, keeping you on edge. You’d cuddle Theo for hours, nose pressed to the crown of his head, hand softly patting his back as you rocked him, trying not to watch your phone as you waited for the text from the restricted number. By the third night, you were dread spiraling. Who would make the call? Would it be Price, knocking on your door with regret in his eyes, carrying the news that your son’s father, your partner, is dead? Would it be Kyle? Or Johnny? Fear spread through you like a virus. He can’t be gone. He can’t. He promised. 

Tonight, you were uncertain. It would take a lot to kill Simon Riley, would take even more to kill Ghost. But what if he’s been taken again? What if he’s being tortured? Or worse. What if he needs you? Your stomach flips violently as you freefall through all the possibilities.

“Where are you?”

“Yeah Johnny, I’ll tell him. Be safe.” You hang up the phone and look at Simon out of the corner of your eye. 

“Simon… why didn’t you tell me you took indefinite leave?”

“I told ya I took leave.”

“You didn’t want to mention that it’s indefinite? That you didn’t give him a return date?”

“Didn’t know when it’d be. Didn’t want to commit to anything.” You roll over slowly to where he’s lying on his back, propped up slightly with a pillow. Fingers drag under his sweatshirt and up his stomach, until your palm lays flat over his heart. 

“Are you planning on going back? To the 141?” 

“When he really needs me, he’ll call. ‘Til then, I want to be here. With you.” His fingertips stroke slowly over where your belly is covered by the blanket, until he’s moving it aside and the heat of his skin is against yours.

You’re not sure what time it is when you wake. You sit up, blanket pooling around your lap, blindly groping for your phone when the mass of a shadow shifts just at the very edge of your line of sight. Almost like it’s not there at all.

It takes you three, maybe four, seconds before you rationalize everything. Your eyes adjust, and you can make out the lines of his body, the extremely dim light from the hallway illuminating the balaclava, the way his shoulders are hunched forward, hands curled atop his knees.

“Simon?” your throat scratches. He doesn’t respond. You stretch to the side, pulling the chain on the end table lamp, and the light dances across his face. You blink in surprise.

He’s still wearing the paint. 

“Ghost.” The call sign comes out more like a command, but calm, and his muscles tense under his clothes, fingers digging into his legs. You reach for his hand, keeping your touch as light as possible.

“Don’t.” he snaps, jerking backwards. You can hear the harsh line of his breathing, the tense crackle between his lungs.

“Okay.” Your mind is cycling, your own memories gnawing at you until you refocus, and then your phone vibrates in the spot where it’s fallen between the couch cushions. He lurches. “It’s just my phone.” You keep your voice soft, nearly as gentle as when you sing to Theo. A beat passes, and then he nods. You breathe a very small sigh of relief. He’s in there. “Do you want to take the balaclava off?” you coax, and he grunts out the first words you’ve heard him say in weeks.

“The paint.”

“We can take that off too.” His eyes flick up towards yours, and you see him, Simon, for only a second before he’s shuttered again. “Will you come with me?” He doesn’t answer. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. “Okay. Wait here.” You instruct, pushing a little more authority behind your voice, and step away slowly.

After you dart to your room to grab some sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, both Simon sized, you plug the sink in the kitchen. This will be easier than trying to get him up the stairs. Your first step is to get the balaclava off, and then the paint, if he’ll let you touch his face. If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to get him out of his clothes and into the clean ones.

You’ve seen this before. Not often, not enough that it’s comfortable, but enough that you know more or less what to do, so when you duck back into the living room and see he hasn’t moved, you square your shoulders.

“I’m going to bring you into the kitchen. You’re going to take my hand and follow my lead.”

“On you.” He rasps, and tears smart at the corners of your eyes.

“On me. I’ve got you.”

“We’re moving on second location. Sassy, what’s your status?” 

“I’ve found the bombs.” You don’t elaborate, too busy studying the heap of melted plastic. You think it’s Semtex, or some form of it, but can’t be sure. It barely has the odor, the one you can usually smell nearly half a mile away, and the rubber casing is green, not red. “Captain, I’ve got a situation. Gonna need more time, over.” 

“Copy. We’ll give you all we can.” You pull the gun from your shoulder and put it on a table before crouching before the greenish blob. There’s a small cut in the casement, and you lift it with slow fingers to reveal a square piece of metal, blinking with a red light. Detonation. 

“Nice and easy,” You mutter, disconnecting it from its power supply and watch with satisfaction when the light dies. “No explosions here today, folks. All-“ There’s a click, and a hiss, and then yellow fog explodes directly into your face. “What the fuck.” You choke, hands shooting forward. Your eyes begin to burn, and you frantically try to pat away whatever it is with your sleeves. 

You blink a few times and try to focus, pushing past the stinging sensation and the tears that are dripping down your cheeks. Your body felt fine, you weren’t experiencing any major pain that could be associated with injury, and you still had feeling in all extremities. You could hear the rumble of the HVAC system in the building, and the echo of shots coming from both inside and outside, but your vision was still dark. Black, like someone had flicked the lights off. 

A blackout. It was like you were in a noxious, corrosive blackout. 

Your mind starting turning. Not good, this was not good. This was worse than not good. You were physically blinded. Alone, in hostile territory with no way to navigate an escape route. 

A sitting duck. Ripe for the picking. 

“Captain-“ your finger releases the button and you take a shaky breath. “Price. I need extraction. I’ve been hit with something. A chemical. It’s critical. I won’t make rendezvous on my own.” 

“Stay your position, Sassy.” The answer is immediate, and you breathe a very small sigh of relief. 

“Copy.” You hold your hands out in front of you, one high, one low, and walk slowly in what you think is the direction of your gun. One step, two step. Right, left. Your fingers slide along the edge of the table, moving across the top until you feel the cool metal of your weapon and take it into your hands. You try to remember the layout of the room, where the door was, how many tables and chairs, but your panic is starting to bear down on you, and your thoughts are growing more erratic, clouded with fear. 

The sound of metal on metal, the door banging open into the wall, startles you.

 You swing, unsure where it is you’re even looking or even pointing. 

“Sass! Lower your weapon.” A voice barks. His voice. 

“Ghost.” You croak. The word sounds broken. 

“Bloody hell. What’re you doing?” You can barely hear his footsteps, but his voice is moving closer. Damn stealth operators and their light feet. 

“I can’t see you.” you try to explain, try to make it make sense but even saying the words seem ludicrous. “I can’t see anything. The… the Semtex, it gassed me, or something.” 

“Let me see.” Big, gloved fingers hold your face, turning it from side to side. “Can’t see at all?” 

“Nothing.” You gulp. “I’ve never… I’ve never had this happen, it was a chemical, I don’t know what-“ Blind. Poisoned. It could be permanent. The air in the room suddenly feels thin, and then the gun is being pulled from your grip. 

“Simon.” You say his name with a gasp for the first time since Belize and he draws a sharp breath. Your own is coming in frantic gasps, the taste of panic souring on your tongue, compressing your spine until it hurts. Blind. You’ve been blinded. 

“Sass, hey. Sass! Listen to me.” The only thing you can hear is your harsh panting. Blind. Poison. Blind. Poison. “I’m right here with you. I’m going to get you out.”  

“You’re g-going to get me out.” 

“That’s right.” He pauses, and you hear fidgeting, the clink of metal and rustling of something you can’t place. “I’ve got you, Sass.” You sink into the grit and grain of his voice, settling your wildly thumping heart, and a rough, calloused hand takes yours, thumb stroking over your knuckles. “I’m going to take lead. You’re gonna hold onto my vest and stay right on my heel, yeah?” 

“O-okay… Hostiles?” 

“Negative. All clear.” He guides you to a strap at his side, and you grip as tight as you can. You hear him shifting and then the comm clicks. “Price. I found Sass. Making our way to exfil now. Out here.” Another pause. “Ready?” 

“Yeah.” A hand squeezes where you’re latched onto him, and you nod, even though you don’t have a clue if he’s looking at you or not. 

“On me. I’ve got you.” 

“On you.”

He sits stiffly in the kitchen chair that you’ve dragged over to the sink.

“I’m going to take the balaclava off.” He nods once, in acknowledgement, and your fingers find the edge of the fabric. It’s hard, crusted with something, blood, you assume, and you roll it upwards, careful not to make any sudden movements. When he doesn’t jerk away, you give him an encouraging smile, pulling it up past his mouth, and then over his head as gently as you can. “That’s good, Simon. You’re okay.” You tell him, and the corners of his eyes soften a fraction. You dip the washcloth into the sink, below the surface of the lukewarm, soapy water, before squeezing it out. “I’m going to try to get some of the paint off now.” You narrate every step, grounding him, guiding him through your actions so that he knows what’s coming, so he can prepare in all states of his mind. “You’re doing really well, Si. Really good.” You soothe, pressing the cloth gently to his skin, dabbing the paint away slowly and timing the pace of his breathing in your head.

“Have you seen LT?” Soap slings an arm your neck, pulling you in for a half hug, and you try to push him off. He’s still sweaty and gross, and a little bit bloody, while you’re freshly showered and bandaged. Why he waits so long to get cleaned up, you’ll never know. 

“Nah, haven’t. Did you check his room?” 

“Thought you might want to.” He raises an eyebrow and you cut him a glare. He’s been onto the two of you since the 141 left Belize two weeks ago, and he’s smug about it.

“Shut up, Soap.” You silence him, but unease gnaws at you like it’s burning a pit in your stomach. Where is he? “If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.” You assure the sergeant before he gives you a mock salute and takes off. 

He isn’t in his room after all, he’s in yours. Still in full tac gear, hard mask on over the balaclava, he sits like a stone on the edge of your bed. 

“Hey, Johnny was looking for you.” you say, kicking your shoes off. Your muscles scream when you bend to pick them up, your body sore from a forty-three-hour op that felt like it was never going to end. “Hello?” you push when he doesn’t answer you, turning to study him. His muscles are coiled, everything so tight that he looks like he’s a second from breaking apart, and he has his eyes trained on the wall, on the blank space between the closet and the bathroom. What is happening? 

“Simon?” you hedge, but he just stays shock still. “Hey…” you step a little closer, leaning down to get into his line of sight. He doesn’t even blink. “Ghost?” you try, and it ripples through him like a wave, his jaw shifting, molars grinding against one another slowly. Okay, you breathe deeply. Okay. Should you go get Johnny? You look at him again. Yeah. Johnny will know, Johnny will be able to-

“Sass.” His voice sounds different. It’s still the same, deep gravel that you dream about, but something about it is lighter. Unsure. “I… can’t get the paint off.” You frown and try to cover your confusion. The paint? He’s still in his combat gear. You study him again. His body is still frozen, like he’s stuck, and you chew on a lip. Something is very not right here. 

“Okay. Let’s take care of that then.” You keep your voice even and smooth, moving slowly. He closes his eyes when your fingers brush against the sleeve of his shirt. “I’ve got you.” you whisper, arm snaking around his back to unbuckle the pulley strap on his vest. He nods, nearly imperceivable to a civilian, but to you, someone who knows, who understands that every muscle, every fidget is accounted for in combat, it’s enough. After you get the vest free, you skate along the hem of his shirt to where the balaclava lays, and then up to the edge of the mask. “I’m going to take the mask off.” You release the clip that holds it in place, and let it fall into your waiting hand, revealing the black paint spread around his eyes and across his nose. He blinks, a harsh breath coming from his now shaking body and you still, fingers hovering in his line of sight. “It’s alright.” You voice wavers but you shove it down, adopting a firmer tone, something more commanding. “Let’s get the balaclava off, yeah?” His hands flex on your mattress, and you glance over the sight of the blood crusted in the creases of his knuckles. “I’m still right here. With you.” you remind him, pulling it up his face and then over in one movement, not eager to draw it out. The tendons in his forearms pulse, but he doesn’t move. “I’m going to go get a… cloth. Or something. For the paint. Okay? Everything’s… gonna be okay.” He gives you another miniscule nod, and his eyes flicker to yours for a brief second before returning to the spot on the wall.

“I’m right here, I’ve got you.” You smile, and he starts to relax more, the harsh lines at the corners of lips easing.

“The sunlight.” He says, and you glance at the window where the first rays of morning are peeking through the pane.

“Yeah, must be close to dawn.” You can feel his muscles turning soft underneath your hands, his shoulders gradually sinking lower and lower, the tension in his face melting away with every second.

Theo cries from his room.

Simon’s eyes flash, and his hand darts forward to wrap around your wrist, thumb pressing to where your pulse beats.

“It’s just Theo.” At the sound of the baby’s name, his stress decreases, but he doesn’t release you. You reach for your back pocket, where your phone is, thumbing the screen open to your photos, scrolling through the favorites until you find the dimly lit picture that the nurse snapped for you the night Theo was born. You turn it towards him, and his brows crease slightly, realization, recognition working its way through his mind. “It’s my favorite.” You insist, pressing the phone into his palm, while pulling free from his grasp. You watch his pupils contract and dilate, his lips parting when he sees himself, stiffly holding his newborn like Theo is actually a bomb. “I think we got all the paint.” He makes a noise in his throat, thumb swiping to another picture. It’s one from when Theo was three months old, and Simon is shirtless, asleep on his back in the bed, one arm propped behind his head. Theo is also asleep, snuggled in the crook of his dad’s arm, empty bottle discarded on the pillow. Your face is in it, tired eyes lit with mirth where you positioned yourself in the frame of the selfie, little grin tugging your mouth to the side.

“Yeah.” He’s still staring at the picture.

“Can you get undressed so I can wash those?” He doesn’t answer, just pulls you into him, pressing your palm to his lips and closing his eyes. You count to five, taking long deep breaths in sync with his, before you point to the clothes on the table. “Get changed. I’m going to go get Theo, okay?” You try another question, hoping you’ll be able to switch out commands and to your relief, he clears his throat and gives you another ‘yeah’ before you step away. He reaches for you one more time, face fixed towards the sunlight before turning his gaze back up into yours.

“I love you.” His voice breaks. Your eyes start to burn with tears again.

“I love you too, Si.”

[badaziraphaletakes]

It’s not necessarily a fully bad Aziraphale take but I feel like the ‘other who can’t admit their queer’ is pointed at him

Thanks for the submission @gretinternetllama

Well, they ain't talking about Crowley 💀 LMAO

This is the most privileged, out-of-touch Aziracrow take I have ever seen. If you think the most painful queer trope is “one of them’s scared to admit they’re queer”, then fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

The most painful queer “trope”, BY DEFINITION, is “one or both of them will be violently killed if they openly acknowledge their love”. Like Aziracrow. Like Castiel. (The tragedy of that isn’t that Dean didn’t love him that way. It’s that Castiel DIED for saying he loved him, lmao. It is so insulting to Castiel to suggest that the worst thing that happened to him is not having Dean’s love.) Like the overwhelming majority of queer people throughout human history. Because THAT IS THE DEFINITIVE TRAGEDY OF THE ENTIRE QUEER EXPERIENCE.

Fuck anyone who thinks that not being willing to openly acknowledge your love for your partner because you know it can never go anywhere BECAUSE YOU’LL BOTH BE KILLED FOR IT is internalized homophobia. (I can hear the gays in Russia laughing rn.)

Having said that, though, let’s take a look at the way OP analyzes “internalized homophobia”, because there is PLENTY to be concerned about there as well.

The “can’t *even* ‘bring themselves’ to admit they’re queer” is DISGUSTING. Fuck this person’s judgmental tone. God, the more I read this the angrier I get. (If they’d written a post saying “I feel so bad that Aziraphale is losing his chance at a relationship with Crowley because of his internalized homophobia; that must be so hard”, that would be one thing. They’d still be dead wrong, lol, but at least this take wouldn’t be bigoted crap. But that’s not, remotely, what they said. There is no sympathy or understanding on offer for Aziraphale whatsoever.) NO ONE has the right to judge someone for not being ready to accept that they’re queer. It is NEVER their fault. It is ALWAYS the fault of the disgusting homophobia and queer phobia of our society at large.

And also fuck anyone who judges someone for rejecting another person’s romantic advances. It’s literally never any of our business why they do that. (This is giving me flashbacks to the 2010’s Phantom of the Opera fandom. And that is NOT A GOOD THING, lmao.) Romantic rejection, even for a depressing reason like this, is not the tragedy people seem to think. No one needs to be with any one particular person in order to be happy. This whole thing is giving “oh, the poor person whose love interest won’t date them”.

Move on and find someone who will date you. Plenty more fish in the sea.

I'd say it's actually a lot more tragic for the closeted person, who has probably missed out on a lot of other relationships for the same reason and is hurting very deeply. But again, does OP have any compassion to spare for the characters they've labeled as closeted? Nah.

(Side note: If you can’t bear to date someone who’s in the closet, DON’T DATE THEM! It’s that simple. And for the love of GOD don’t pressure them to come out or blame them for not being willing to do so.)

Also. This whole thing is giving faint vibes of the putting-your-hands-over-your-ears, “la-la-la-if-I-ignore-your-problems-they’ll-just-go-away”, “if you come out, everything will be fine and everyone will magically accept you” trope, which is offensive, harmful, privileged, dangerous bullshit. Love does not always conquer all. Love does not always make everything magically okay.

(When it comes to Aziracrow in particular, it is also VERY MUCH reminiscent of the belief that once victims leave their ab*sers, their ab*sers will leave them alone, which is the POLAR OPPOSITE of what actually happens in those situations.)

The most ridiculous part out of all of this, though, has got to be mentioning Johnlock. 🤣🤣🤣 Um, which one of those two is supposed to be flamboyantly queer, exactly? Lol that’s just sad. We have better queer representation now. Come on.

Not to mention, Sherlock and John’s relationship/friendship/situationship/whatever the fuck we were supposed to think that was, was horrendously toxic. Nothing about the way they behave to each other is “loving”. Sherlock is a terrible person (and istg if I hear ONE SINGLE PERSON try to say it’s not his fault because of “mental illness” or some ableist bullshit like that, I will come after you with an axe) and not a suitable partner for anyone unless he does some seeeerious work on himself. Even supposing John is in love with Sherlcok, he has EVERY REASON IN THE WORLD not to want to date him - and it has fuck-all to do with shame (more flashbacks to the 2010’s Phantom of the Opera fandom lol).

Also... I thought we'd all collectively agreed to move on from Sherlock because it's horrendously anti-Autistic and queerbaity and Cummerbund Bumpersnatch is a vile ableist stain upon the face of humanity whose name I will not utter? Did I miss something lol?

To the next person to demean Good Omens and the precious, beautiful relationship between Aziracrow by lumping it in with crap like 'Sherlock' - we meet at the dueling grounds at dawn.

One final thing to add: Crowley doesn’t want to “scream their love from the rooftops”????? Because he also knows they’ll be killed or worse if they do that??? Canon Crowley is a FAR better person and a far more loving partner than willfully oblivious, damn-the-torpedos fanon Crowley. I wouldn't like this show if Crowley "wanted to scream their love from the rooftops".

There’s a LOT more that should probably be said about this, but my thumbs are tired and my heart is tireder still.

[blastaway2004]

As someone who really likes both A:TLA and The Dragon Prince, this take infuriates me so much because, I love both Aang and Ezran for different reasons:

“Watched season 6 of TDP recently and Ezran is a much better character than Aang.

Ezran is a kid too and he tends to be naive.

But where ATLA uses Aang's age as an excuse for his actions, TDP stresses that while Ezran is young, that's not a reason for him to never take responsibility. That's not a reason for him to cling to the past and never move forward. He needs to grow up and face chal-lenges.

I also feel like Ezran's vision of peace and Aang's vision of peace are very different.

Aang tries to push his own ideals on other people, and gets frustrated when they don't agree. But Ezran understands and acknowledges that people are in pain. He knows peace doesn't come easy which is why he uses his position to take the first steps.

And to be honest, Ezran just had more growth”.

People who say this stuff are morons with no media-literacy. And yes, they ship Zutara.

I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen The Dragon Prince. But I have heard it’s good, made by Aaron Ehasz and Sokka voices the main character. So I can’t really comment on Ezran, but as for Aang…

OP blatantly lies about Aang and just doesn’t understand or remember his character. For one the show NEVER uses his age as an excuse for his actions. His age is only really brought up in the context that he has so much pressure thrust upon him as the Avatar, something no 12 year old should be put through.

Aang is genuinely a kindhearted person, but whenever he does do something wrong, he’s either called out for it, apologizes or at the very least realizes his mistake. When he hides the letter from Hakoda, Sokka is pissed and Katara is disappointed, Aang doesn’t try to justify what he did, he knows it was wrong and accepts the consequences. When he burns Katara he swears off firebending, he feels remorse over giving into negativity and hatred when Appa was stolen and bottles up his emotions. In EIP he clearly realizes kissing Katara was stupid and the latter is rightfully annoyed.

The whole point of the show is Aang taking responsibility and actively seeking to save the world, which he does. He grows up and faces many challenges, in The Storm, he says

“I’m done dwelling on the past. I can't make guesses about what would have turned out if I hadn't run away. I'm here now and I'm going to make the most out of it”.

That’s precisely what Aang does during the series.

“Aang tries to push his own ideals on other people, and gets frustrated when they don't agree. But Ezran understands and acknowledges that people are in pain. He knows peace doesn't come easy which is why he uses his position to take the first steps.”

I am so sick of this notion that Aang tries to push his ideas on people. I know what episode they’re referring to, and Aang never tried to force his ideals on Katara. He actively acknowledges that Katara is in pain.

“Wait! Stop! I do understand. You're feeling unbelievable pain and rage. How do think I felt about the sandbenders when they stole Appa? How do you think I felt about the Fire Nation when I found out what happened to my people?”

He knows that peace doesn’t come easy, he urges Katara to face the killer, she doesn’t forgive him like Aang expected her to, but Aang takes no issue with this, he’s just proud she didn���t give into her hatred and chose to forgive Zuko, who need I mention, Aang had taken the first step by offering him friendship and saving his life.

The thing is, I and many other don’t take issue with criticism regarding Aang, for example I wish he was shown apologizing to Katara in EIP and I wish his conflict about killing Ozai was set up earlier. All Anti-Aang criticisms essentially have no merit to them, this one in particular actively fails to understand character and makes up elements that were never at play, the stuff they say Aang didn’t do, he actually did, you’d have to be blind not to notice.

[tetedurfarm]

can't remember if i ever really gave the full story here, but some of you may remember a couple years ago when i was constantly losing rabbits around around weaning age from a mystery disease and i'd like to talk about it to maybe help others. it has now been over a year of implementing the new weaning protocol and my losses have dropped from 90+% to almost zero.

obvious tw for animal death and discussion of disease.

symptoms: no appetite, severe grimace, bloating, dehydration, occasionally diarrhea. necropsy revealed discolouration of the kidneys on some animals but not all. symptoms would occur suddenly and kill within 48 hours. bodies were often found with legs extended and heads thrown back against the shoulders. some close to death animals would show neurological signs (shaking, stargazing, unable to stand,) attributed to bloating pressure on the nerves inside the body.

attempted treatments: force feeding with critical care mixed with electrolytes, probiotics, and sometimes caecotrope slurry. five days on five days off five days on treatments of toltrazuril dissolved in water; syringed to animals who would not willingly drink. treatment with corid on the five days off. multiple doses of simethicone oral suspension daily for bloating. banamine for pain. cleaning cages between growout groups with bleach, virkon, and torching.

lastly, i took a freshly dead rabbit (euthanised by me because it was near death anyway,) to a local exotics vet for professional necropsy. vet diagnoses: massive amounts of cocci. however, treatment with powerful coccidiostats were not having any significant impact on kit death, especially in winter, when conditions are wet.

i was genuinely at a loss. i spent about fourteen months (longer than i know i should have, and i still feel very guilty about it) trying to get a grip on this disease. i was at my breaking point. i was losing entire litters overnight, within two weeks of weaning them. coccidiostats helped a tiny bit but clearly it wasn't just the cocci that was the problem. however, no other disease i could find listed on any of the rabbit disease and treatment website or books sounded remotely close to what i was experiencing. the symptoms were so generic (rabbits love coming down with mysterious gut problems), and the necropsy done by the vet had basically found nothing else.

thoroughly cleaning the walls, floors, feeders, and water cups of each cage with bleach and a torch had a marginal but noticable affect not on how many kits became ill, but on how long it took them to become ill.

this was a disease that affected almost exclusively young rabbits. i have had four adult rabbits become infected with the disease; of those, two survived the above treatment regimen. all other deaths (and there were a lot,) were kits around 6-9 weeks of age.

but absolute chance i was having a little bit of a crisis on my rabbit breeder's discord server about how i was one more dead litter from getting out of rabbits entirely. which...if you've been here a while, you know is a huge fucking deal to me. it was not possible for me to go scorched-earth on cocci in my current barn, which is open-fronted with dirt floors, so my only remaining option was to cull or rehome my animals and try again once i had a new barn that i could clean more easily. in the midst of throwing around last-ditch effort treatments to look into, i offhandedly mentioned that bleaching cages helped a little.

and then @/bonefarm said 'well bleach doesn't touch cocci, so if bleach helps, it's probably bacterial.'

which led to: 'y'know it almost sounds like clostridial disease, like you vaccinate hoofstock for'

so i thought y'know what. fuck it. a vial of CDT vaccine is ten bucks at the co-op. it literally cannot make things worse. so when my next litters got to weaning age, i bought a vial, some 22 gauge needles, and jabbed them all on their way to the growout cage. in two weeks - the point in which normally, if they hadn't already started dying, they definitely would begin dropping - i revaccinated them.

and then none of them died.

when i tell you i nearly cried.

it took a few more months to really get a full hold on the situation, as the weather in washington in fall and spring is unpredictable and can put a lot of stress on a kit already dealing with leaving mom and being in a new group situation with other rabbits it may not know, but i was starting to get litters where i would maybe lose one or two, and most litters all kits lived to butcher age. i also learned that timely revaccination is ABSOLUTELY necessary as they can and will start dying again. as is cleaning out the cage after each group. but for ten dollars my rabbits were suddenly staying alive.

now the routine is, a week or so before i wean kits (around 4-6 weeks of age), i vaccinate kits with CDT. now i use insulin needles, as they are 1cc syringes (you typically won't need more than that,) and the tiny needles are easier on little baby bunnies, but the smallest gauge needles you can find (at my feed store the smallest they carry is 22 gauge) works just as well. in two weeks i buy a new vial and revaccinate.

the dosage is .1cc per pound (~0.5kg) of weight, so a vial goes a long way.

i still lose the occasional kit, and sometimes there'll be a couple that get icky but get over it in a couple days, and those are animals i don't keep back for breeding to try and build some sort of resistence to it. in the future i hope to not have to deal with this, but it will probably take years. hopefully the new barn with better climate control and concrete floors will cut down on the bacterial load in the animals by a lot.

i don't know why this is a problem i am dealing with, but i can't be the only one. if you're out there dealing with mystery GI disease in your rabbits that won't respond to other treatments...consider stopping by your local farm store and buying a little vial of CDT vaccine and some needles.

[bubble-popping]

day 10! more roleswap au :) this time c!dteam actually have good communication? crazy stuff

George followed the pacing netherborn with a bored gaze. Black hair was ablaze with tall flames, lighting up the entire ravine with its intensity. Even so far back, George could feel the heat, but he'd long grown accustomed to his friend's explosive outbursts.

"And he was totally clueless! He acted like he didn't just murder like ten people! Then he just-poof! Gone! What kind of coward does that?!"

"I think you're totally overthinking this, Sap-"

"And you!!" The panda hybrid abruptly spun around to point at him. "How are you so calm about this!? He just killed you!!"

"Me and several other people, yeah. That's kinda how firework rockets work."

"Aren't you mad? Aren't you pissed off?!"

"I mean, at first, yeah. I don't really care now though."

"WHAT?? How can you just let go of something like that?!"

George shrugged. "Look, Bad was being weird. He was pressuring Dream to do it, and Dream didn't even fire at me. Firework rockets are just that OP. And... Sapnap, c'mon. We know his past."

"That doesn't excuse the fact that-"

Heavy footsteps interrupted their argument, causing Sapnap's fire to cut out. They both looked up at the criss-crossing paths created to better traverse the two sides of the ravine. A familiar figure trudged down cobblestone steps and wooden bridges.

They watched as the hunched silhouette lumbered to the lowest level, cape and tail dragging along the ground. Green eyes seemed to glow in the torch light despite being half-lidded with exhaustion. "Hey, guys."

A tense silence followed.

Then, like a proper inferno, Sapnap blew up again. "THAT'S IT??? You kill George-you kill a bunch of people, actually, and that's all you can say!?"

Dream visibly flinched, grimacing. "I just, I wasn't sure what to say-"

"How about, oh I don't know, AN APOLOGY?"

"You're right." The ender hybrid nodded and glanced to the brunette before hesitantly approaching him. George watched him get closer, and tried not to let it show that the blood--his blood--staining his friend made him feel more put off than he expected. "George."

"Dream."

"I..." The taller tried, only to get promptly choked up. Tears started to build on his lashes, just when he thought he'd run out of those. He clenched his hands into fists, needing something to hold now more than ever. "I'm sorry. I didn't, you know I would never hurt you, or Sapnap, or Sam or-ya know, you guys are my friends and I-I love you guys, I just-" He had to stop again, throat closing as his tears started to run.

"Hey," a soft whisper came. Gentle hands slipped between his, and when he looked, George offered a warm smile. "It's okay, Dream. I forgive you."

"You-you do?"

The shorter nodded. "I could see something was off. You weren't yourself out there."

"Yeah, somethin'... something like that."

"This server tends to have that effect on people. Besides, I got more, ya know?" The Brit joked. Thankfully, it finally got Dream to smile.

"Yeah," he agreed, then looked to Sapnap who had his arms crossed and gaze downcast. Dream reluctantly pulled away from George to stand before the netherian. "Sapnap?"

"Why'd you do it?" Sapnap asked without looking up.

"I didn't want to. Bad was..." Dream sighed as he tried to find the words. "I dunno what he was trying to do, but he mentioned my past, Sap-"

"That's my dad you're talking about, ya know."

"I know. Your father, who exiled you from your own country, Sapnap." He didn't miss how Sapnap flinched, clearly wrestling with that knowledge himself.

"You promised you'd never hurt us, Dream. You said that life was behind you."

"And I felt terrible when I realized what I did. I killed George, I almost killed you, I... I felt like I'd betrayed you guys. That's not what I came here to do, and I'm sorry. I understand if you don't forgive me. Regardless, I'm going to do better. I'll be someone who protects you guys with my strength, not hurts you."

Finally, Sapnap looked up to meet Dream's gaze, and found only steely determination.

"I believe you, Dream. I know you can do good. I've seen it. And, honestly, some of it's my fault too. I should've stepped in sooner. I should've been there to back you up."

"What's done is done. Only thing we can do now is move forward."

"So, friends?" Sapnap held out his fist.

"Best friends." Dream grinned and bumped his own fist to Sapnap's.

"Great, now that we're all friends again, can you please take a bath, Dream?" George piped up from behind them, causing Dream to jolt and fluster with embarrassment.

"R-right. I'm gonna go do that."

[qedmirage]

Chapter 14 awaits! Let's go go go!!! As ever, gameplay thoughts first and then story thoughts below the cut. Which means...first off, disappointment!

Up until 13-5 instead of new mechanics you're dealing with Londinium Second Defence Artillery again, my least favorite arc 2 mechanic! At least I have a lot of practice dealing with it now. It was just kinda disappointing to see it come back...in my head I know it allows for a few interesting ways to handle things as you deliberately cause blue-on-blue incidents (for them) but I've never liked how it seems like the targeting can switch last second because a single scrimblo touched your defender. Once past that though we get a new mechanic, centered around these guys:

Bloodborn Spawn and Blood Ambers are hilariously tuned to be countered by Hoederer exactly. But enjoyably there's a bunch of ways past them. For those not familiar, the spawn deal arts damage and lifesteal; they also deal increased damage the more of them a single target is blocking. That makes them really good at chewing through defenders and really awful at fighting Crushers exactly; their enormous HP pools mean they're the best at tanking these guys. When defeated, Spawn turn into Ambers, which have enormous defences (3k Def, 90 Res) and negative taunt. If they're within the range of a Bloodcalling Altar, they'll die and spawn a Bloodborn Spawn at the altar when it activates its skill (every 20 seconds). So, many stages revolve around managing this endless tide of respawning arts-damage scrubs. And enjoyably, there's a ton of ways to deal with them! Some examples: - Hoederer's True damage to burn down Ambers - Virtuosa S3 to necrosis-> True damage Ambers - Ceobe S2 Mod3; with 3k defence she does enormous damage to Ambers - Manticore + Ascalon, who can infinitely stall the respawning horde - Pushers or Pullers to shove Spawn into holes, preventing respawning And I'm sure there's more. This was also the first episode I played entirely on its Hard (Adverse) mode, and it was a fun experience, with only 2 or 3 stages (13-5,13-15,13-21) giving me enough trouble that I felt the need to refer to a guide for ideas. The TF2 bomb-pushing mechanic is incredibly funny ('so then I rammed a VBIED into him') and gives Marksmen a day in the sun as the game's gradually inflating defences slowly leaves them behind. I suspect Exusiai would actually be good at killing phase 2 of the episode boss, if you could time it so her skill activates after a bomb hits him. The other new enemies are interesting enough; special mention to the Fluxcaster, which slowly grinds down my Ambusher Stall strat; and the Boneguard Torturer, who gets you thinking about splitting enemies up or using truly insane numbers of DPS. The Welfare op, Delphine, is cool and one of the few I've leveled, though I'm a known Mystic Caster partisan. I wish her last talent was just an anti-sarkaz one instead of a chapter 13 only one, but alas. Her animations and art are great though, 6* levels of glam on a free 5*. On to the story below the cut. Spoilers abound!

There's a lot that happens in this one, so much that it's kinda hard to pull out a specific overarching thread - it's an ensemble story alright - but I'm gonna be my boring self and start with the milhist portion. Which is, the Victorian Dukes get owned. This whole chapter is a gradually escalating military disaster that will be taught in Columbian war colleges to illustrate the perils of divided command.

For four goddamn years the Dukes have been locked in a stalemate with the KMC and each other. In that time they failed to stop enemy resupply, they failed to exert tactical and strategic pressure on their foe, and they failed to even begin to understand their opponent's strategic and political goals. In the earlier conversations the dukes and their staff are focused mostly on their future wars with each other, not the present war with the Sarkaz. They underestimated their foe and they paid dearly for it; because they gave Theresis time, time enough to build an airship that could blow them up at his leisure, time enough to construct the Shard, time enough to organize and then transport the Nachzeherer Legions via the Lifebone. This isn't actually unrealistic, imo, there are plenty of people IRL who have been way dumber - look up the battle of Bien Dien Phu. But it's striking how much their political infighting cripples them. Even with Caster's intelligence network penetrating Londinium, the Victorian Dukes didn't grasp that Theresis was going to go on the offensive and had the capability to do so. They didn't manage to find the Lifebone and its logistic network before an entire legion had appeared past their interdiction. They didn't even grasp the tactics of the Sarkaz military, until after Theresis's offensive started. The time factor is also truly unforgiveable when you keep in mind a remark that 75% of their armies are conscripts. For people who aren't huge nerds, that means they've been redlining their economies to support field armies full of workers who go and sit in trenches and stare at the Sarkaz while fields and factories go untended back home. For four years! Meanwhile Theresis has been conserving his strength, and only pulls a full mobilization of his best soldiers from Kazdel when he's ready for the decisive moment. And when that decisive moment comes at the end of the chapter, he commits all his forces in a singular thrust. If the Victorian Dukes had done the same at any point in the preceding four years, they'd have taken heavy losses, they may have lost their lives to the next duke to roll in - but they'd been able to win, instead of ceding the strategic initiative to Theresis and letting him choose to fight only when he's sure he can succeed.

They should have listened to Windmere. Anyways, on to other things - the Lifebone!

I love The Lifebone. It's kinda funny how each arc 2 chapter seems to have Theresis get a new mystical superweapon, but in a fun break from pattern the focus for this chapter is... a logistics vessel! It's weird and fantastical and somebody cared about logistics, I love it. Skeleton whale that dives through history to teleport cargo? fuck yeah. Other story bits... It's cool to see Siege step up and become a leader, though it's kinda sad to see the Self-Salvation Corps implode to make room for her to do so. Still, the Exemplars are cool and it's nice to see them fight. I like Amiya's final showdown with the Sanguinarch:

That's our king! She's very fierce!!

I also love the Logos Trans moment ('I thought all banshees were supposed to be girls?' 'correct.' 'oh ok'). But don't forget that in the same scene, Logos flashes back to the first time he used his bone whistle to mark a passing - for himself, and for the old identity of the Sarkaz, just before he left home. Symbolism!

The lives of the Brentwood civilians under occupation, and the Sarkaz officer's attempts to make it better, really ring to historical incidents for me. Alas, the KMC was not aiming for occupation so much as annihilation. The Reunion stuff this chapter was good to see too, their focus on being an all-hands liberation movement really gets to the core of the story past all the wizard nonsense. Not sure what Nowell's doing with them, I guess we'll deal with him later.

[danganronpa96]

chp 5 of dr96 ruined my life and i don't even know most of the source material. thanks op

also please consider a roleswap of mario and luigi in dr69. luigi killing mr krabs so he could leave and be a hero like his big brother. mario forced to convict his younger sibling.

I’m so happy to hear universal pain across the board 👍 /j

And regarding that AU, I've actually been asked about that before in this post here. However that posts touches more on how the story going forward would be affected with Mario's presence in comparison to Luigi, and not much on the trial itself.

For Luigi to even consider murder, I'd assume the stakes were much higher, especially this early on. He'd probably have a similar motivation to Mario in the canon story where he ends up snapping under pressure, and wants to make the sacrifice for everyone to go and find help. In that mental spiral, he somehow assumed Mr. Krabs was planning to kill his brother, and couldn't leave the feeling linger any longer. However, I feel like I'd want to make this one more psychologically damaging to Luigi to justify why someone like him would snap.

During the trial, it's interesting to think about when Mario would eventually catch on about the killer's identity. Would he be the first, or would someone else like Nagito or Ayano realise it before him? Does Luigi end up signalling hints out of guilt? It could be a mixture of a few things honestly, but no matter what, Mario would surely deny it. He'd protect his brother until he knew it was useless, until even Luigi told him to face the truth.

idk man mario brothers making me sad sigh

[catboydogma]

envie si grande et menaçante

grandiose - pomme

wc: 4,475

notes: the long-awaited vox fic for @meerlichtz :) this has been in my drafts for so long that i think it put me on (semi-unintentional) hiatus. yes, this fic is quite possibly the reason why i've written .2 fics for the last 32 years. regardless despite all the horrors i had a ton of fun writing this and hope u enjoy meer :)

summary: one Jedi Shadow Quinlan Vos gets stuck in the Coruscant Guard's medbay recovering from a mission gone meiloorun-shaped. This goes about as well as expected.

“You are not allowed to die on me,” Fox snarled, reining in the urge to shake the Jedi by the fronts of his tabards. For General Gallia to leave Fox to babysit this asshat and then have this asshat die on him was unconscionable. Fox had never failed a mission objective in his life, and he wasn’t about to let some muscle-headed Jedi change that. 

“Me?” Vos grinned. His teeth were stained pink with claret; Fox could see it foaming at the corners of his mouth, lips and tongue a ruddy crimson with it. “Why would I die when I have so many better things to be doing on you?”

Mission parameters could be flexible. Surely General Gallia wouldn’t mind that much if Vos disappeared—quietly—discreetly—

“Whoops. Now that’s a scary face.” Vos mimed zipping his lips shut. The effect was only partially ruined by the tremor in his hands, now getting worse.

“Shut up.” Fox leaned even more of his weight into the hands keeping pressure on Vos’ abdomen and ribs, ignoring Vos when he wheezed something about his ribs. A few cracked ribs wouldn’t kill the Jedi, but the hole in his chest would, even if the blaster shot had only just missed his lungs. “Medevac, ETA?”

“Closing in on your location now,” Thire reported. “Hold your position.”

“It’s worse than it looks,” Vos said airily.

“Commander Thire can be the judge of that.” Fox felt his lips draw back in a near-unconscious snarl but he kept his hands and voice steady. There was no telling how fragile a natborn could be, even one with Jedi capabilities and training.

“Commander Thire is calling bullshit on that, unless the blood loss is starting to affect the good General’s vision.” Thire arrived with two full squads of backup: he and another Corrie medic dropped to their knees beside Vos, ushering Fox out of the way as Fox started to direct cleanup efforts.

This Jedi had an uncanny ability for making situations devolve before Fox’s very HUD. General Gallia had left on a relief mission to the Outer Rim yesterday, at which point Fox had met her temporary replacement—one Knight Vos, Jedi Shadow and relentless flirt. From what limited intelligence Fox had managed to gather, Vos was conducting covert ops on Coruscant, which made it convenient for him to be stationed at the CGHQ with the Guard. He’d gone out at some point last night for what he’d cited to be “super top-secret party business,” missed his early morning check-in, and turned up two klicks from HQ mid-afternoon sans four pints of blood. Fox recalled the squads he’d sent out in search of Vos after he’d missed check-in, sent another to scour the area for traces of Vos’ attackers, and ignored the increasingly amused conversation Thire was having with the Jedi behind him.

more on ao3

[aoifereal]

Don't like venting about this stuff normally but I'm very frustrated by this, so. I saw a transfem butch complaining online about how being misgendered for being butch and the comments were sucks and the comments are full of people effectively saying "that's just how it is for butches, what did you expect?".

That's so rude on so many levels. Do you think this trans butch doesn't know that people assumptions about gender? It's the same condescension that happens whenever a trans woman talks about women's issues, the same deep-rooted cissexism. People don't view trans women's womanhoods to be as real as cis womens womanhoods so they assume we can't possibly understand what it's like to have an experience a (in this case, butch) woman would have. It's the same logic that leads people to say "welcome to being a woman" as if a trans woman is not aware of misogyny and has not faced any real examples of it, despite trans women facing misogyny and transmisogny well before people start to acknowledge us as women.

Additionally, why do you think any trans person would need it explained to them that strangers will make gendered assumptions about you. That's our whole lives! I'm sure most trans butches had a more feminine phase (in the same way many cis butches conform to femininity for some time due to the extreme pressures placed on all women to) and even in those phases we are very aware of gendered assumptions! Because we have to be to stay safe in public!

In this same forum there's a post from a day ago where a (presumably cis, but what matters is that people will assume that because she didn't say) butch complains about the exact same thing and everyone in the comments is being nice to her and saying they understand and they're sorry that it sucks she's being misgendered. It's such naked transmisogny to immediately dismiss and condescend to a trans woman in a way that you do not do when you're talking to cis women.

One cis woman was going on and on about how some trans women find it nice when people are misogynistic towards them because it affirms their gender and why doesnt op just take a similar approach to butchphobia :). Now I do get the latter part of this a bit because I will say "it is because of my masculine lesbian swag" in my head when I get misgendered but it pisses me off when people suggest trans women like experiencing misogyny. Sometimes particularly early transition women joke about it because if you don't laugh you'll cry but facing misogyny isn't fun for anyone. Cis people fucking love this stuff though because it allows them to continue thinking of trans women as acceptable targets for misogyny.

Also full of people saying "you should just assert your womanhood when you get misgendered" which is crazy to me because it's dangerous for cis butches let alone transfem butches! That's insane advice to give someone and just shows you're checked out of reality. Women get killed over this shit dude. Or people not getting how misgendering is used as a patriarchal tool of control. Not understanding that a misgendering has a threat of violence behind it a significant portion of the time when you're a trans woman.

It's just all wild, and no listening to the several trans women trying to explain why the things they were saying were lacking in understanding. Very disappointing to see lesbians say this stuff.