#instead of forcing it on people who don't want it

[concretejunglefm]

So human error had me accidentally posting this instead of drafting; however, I hope this fits even remotely what you were hoping for, anon 💕 I hope you don't mind that I added a little angst at the end for something extra 🫣

CW: mentions of grinding, nipple play, light choking.

WC: 2.5k.

NSFW below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

Truthfully, Noah doesn't want to be here.

The moment he stepped through the door and realized this place was a strip club, he should’ve turned and walked back out immediately. But unfortunately, he didn’t.

Now, he’s stuck entertaining his friend, one he mentally chooses to exclude from his list of people to hang out with the next time he’s feeling stressed out and needs to unwind.

“Just a club soda for me, thanks,” he tells the waitress who happens to pass by them, which prompts his friend to roll his eyes and reach across, slapping him playfully on the chest.

“Come on, you’re here to have fun tonight.”

Noah grimaces at the thought. Watching girls dance half-naked and having a private lap dance isn’t exactly what he calls ‘fun.’ Even though the place is considered a high-end establishment, it’s simply not his scene, something obvious in the way his eyes constantly avoid looking at any of the dancers, offering only a brief nod and a forced smile of acknowledgement when they glance down at him when walking past.

“I think maybe I'm going to—”

“Ah, there she is!” Noah’s friend interrupts him as you approach, and all his plans about leaving vanish instantly when he locks eyes with you.

Like most of the dancers, you’re wearing something lacy, though it covers you enough to leave some areas to the imagination. Half of your face is obscured by a mask, like some of the others, presumably to conceal your identity and enhance the club’s allure. However, his eyes momentarily flicker to your lips and the shade of lipstick. Suddenly, he’s consumed by an intense desire to smudge it, to witness how your lips would appear plump and kiss-swollen.

He shakes his head, pushing those thoughts aside. After spending too much time in the studio, neglecting most of his needs, sexualizing the first woman he sees isn’t how he intends to resolve that issue. However, he can’t help but allow his eyes to wander back to you, this time more shyly, when he catches you actually moving towards him, your hand extending and resting upon his shoulder.

“Who’s your friend?”

Noah hadn’t caught the conversation between you and his friend, but his eyes widen almost comically when he raises his gaze to meet yours through the eye holes of your mask. “Noah…” he swallows, managing to utter the syllables of his name through a tightening throat.

“He’s been quite overworked lately. It seems he’s forgotten all about how to have some fun, if you know what I mean.” Noah shoots his friend a disapproving look, but your quick reach for his hand silences any protest.

“Well, I know a thing or two about helping with that,” you giggle, and it sounds smooth like honey, making his chest burst a little. He hesitates to follow you as you tug on his hand, a gentle indication for him to stand. He doesn’t want to slip away into some private room, which would make this encounter feel more seedy than it should be. Yet, he finds himself already completely enamored by you. Whether it’s the mystery of you hidden beneath the mask or the allure you generally radiate, he’s drawn to you as if there’s a magnetic pull keeping him from straying away.

“Have fun,” his friend calls out after him. Noah briefly glances back, finding himself almost on autopilot as he obediently follows you towards a private area near the club’s back.

When you’re alone in one of the private rooms, he falls into the seat you push him down into and slightly shifts, his nerves settling as he realizes you’re the only person he can now focus on.

“You don't have to do this.” Noah attempts to dismiss the offer, the dance, the opportunity to relax, or whatever is being presented to him at this moment, but your response is simply a scoff.

“Is this where you tell me that my dad loved me?” You roll your eyes, bracing yourself for the usual charade from a guy who expects to swoop in and ‘save’ you from this life. “Surprisingly, I have a great relationship with my family.” You move towards him, intending to settle down on his lap by straddling him, but pause before doing so.

“No, I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant… I’ve never done this before,” Noah confesses, feeling the tip of his ears turn red. He lifts a hand to his neck, rubbing his palm against it, and shifts in his seat.

“Wait, really?” You don’t mean for the surprise to escape in your voice as it does, and you step back a little, placing your hands on your hips as you observe his awkward shifts and continued avoidance of your gaze.

“Yes, does that really surprise you?” He chuckles, but it’s slightly forced, and his eyes finally meet yours once more. He’s once again captivated by the allure that seems to draw him in. There’s an odd sense of familiarity that sends a warmth through his chest, though he can’t quite place it. The way you’re looking at him now certainly makes his stomach flip. He can’t tell if you’re pitying him or ready to make him prey, but he doesn’t care either way.

“No, it’s just… I’ve noticed your friend here quite frequently.” You chuckle and shake your head. “I suppose I anticipated the same from anyone he brings here.”

“So, this is your first time? I suppose that implies I should be gentle with you.” You purr, leaning forward, your hands returning to his shoulders as you squeeze them for stability before moving closer and twisting yourself to position your back to him.

Reaching behind you, you place your hands on his thighs, spreading them as you use them to maintain your balance. Slowly, you lower your ass down to meet his lap. “Let me know if you need me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” Noah says, his voice strained.

As you lower yourself and rub your covered ass against his crotch, he feels his cock instantly harden within his pants. He’s already worked up, but the proximity of you to him, the intoxicating scent, and the magnetic pull all combine to send his head spinning with arousal. Instinctively, his hands reach out and grasp you at your waist, stopping you.

“It happens to every guy you know,” you say with a laugh, making him realize that you felt it. In your line of work, it’s more of a compliment than a form of harassment.

“I know it’s just... it’s been a while.” he says, his voice tinged with embarrassment. You imagine that if you turned to look at him now, he might have a beetroot-colored face. Instead, you take his hands and begin to gently guide them up your sides.

“Well, we do offer other services here.” While your clientele has always been those who come for either a show or a personal release, you rarely cater to the latter. However, you can’t help but feel compelled when you have a man as handsome as Noah beneath you, as you do right now.

“No that’s... wait really?”

“Mhm,” you nod, a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth as you feel his fingers gently caress your skin in circular motions.

Suddenly, he pulls you down onto his lap.

“You mentioned it’s been a while. Could I ask why?” you ask, allowing him to take the initiative slightly as his fingers delicately traced the contours of your bare stomach.

“Work.” He responds with a single word, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. You deliberately press your hips down and grind your ass against his crotch.

“What do you do?”

“Music.” Another one-word answer, but you hear the groan he’s trying to suppress and choose to interpret it as a triumph. “I’ve been spending a lot of time in the studio and…” he gasps as you roll your hips, brushing against his bulge and feeling the outline of his cock against you. Suddenly, you feel the heat rising in your own stomach, especially when his hands shift to your thighs, gripping you almost possessively to hold you against him. It makes you tremble and as you try to move, you hear him growl, “Don’t.”

He can’t release you yet, not when he’s already been feeling worked up and touch-starved. You’ve barely touched him, yet he’s experiencing an entirely new surge of desire.

Instead of moving, you gently rock your hips, circling them as your ass drags and grinds against his crotch. You listen to the change in his breath and feel how his cock twitches beneath you, confined within his pants. “Please?” you almost plead, and it results in a strained whimper from him, his fingers only pressing harder against your thighs.

“Noah, tell me what you need.” Your voice lowers, becoming soft and alluring as you lean back against his chest, turning your head and gently brushing your cherry red painted lips against the apple tattoo that covers his Adam’s apple.

Your breath, warm against his skin, sends a wave of goosebumps across him, causing his breath to catch in his throat. He can’t possibly be contemplating asking and accepting your offer, can he? It feels selfish to request anything from you, especially since you’re just a stranger. Nevertheless, he can’t deny that you’ve somehow worked your way beneath his skin, a mysterious stranger who calls themselves honey, or perhaps cherry, or pixie? He can’t quite recall the exchange between you and his friend during introductions, but he’s certain he feels an overwhelming desire to have you.

“You…” he whispers, his fingers finally releasing their grip on your thighs before they begin to slide, gliding along your inner thighs before ascending, stroking across your stomach and further up the exposed area of your torso, before slipping beneath the lace that covers your chest.

Your back arches against him as his hand palms at your breast, his fingers playfully teasing your nipples and producing a faint sound from you. Normally, you’d swiftly slap away a client who dared to behave this boldly, yet you find yourself leaning into his touch, yearning for more of it, more of him. His name slips from your lips as a soft whisper as you begin to grind against him once more, and your head rests on his shoulder, savoring the sensation of his fingers twisting your nipple.

Noah’s other hand raises higher, fingers light against your skin as they close around your neck and gently press, causing you to gasp; “Harder.” Your eyes roll back at the faint pressure he adds, his fingers pinching harder at your nipples as your hips rock and grind, almost desperately trying to soothe the ache between your thighs instead of focusing solely on relieving him. However, Noah doesn’t seem to mind; you hear the encouraging whispers from him against the side of your head.

“Show me how needy you are.”, “Do you like being touched like this?”, “Do you like your nipples being toyed with?”

The only sounds you make are soft moans, accompanied by faint “yeses” that gradually fade into breathless gasps as you intensify your grinding and whines steadily increase the closer you feel yourself approaching the edge.

Beneath you, Noah can feel his cock straining against the restrictive fabric of his pants, yearning for freedom and an even greater desire to be inside you. However, he knows that he can’t bring himself to request that of you, instead choosing to accept this arrangement, allowing you to satisfy him in exchange for your own pleasure.

As your soft pleas continue to fall from your lips, you feel the intense heat of your climax building up in your stomach, causing you to buck your hips desperately on Noah. In response, he lifts himself to meet you, and your bodies collide, sending a wave of pleasure over you, leaving your body trembling against him as he presses you firmly onto his lap. Grinding himself right against your ass, he emits a guttural sound, holding you tightly against him as his own body trembles, and his cock twitches in his pants beneath you.

“Did you just...?”

“Yes,” he says with a voice devoid of shame, which makes you laugh. It’s not a mocking laugh, and Noah feels the wave of embarrassment that had threatened to overwhelm him dissipate.

“I can’t deny that you’re not the first, but I must admit, I’m flattered.” You whisper, tilting your head and brushing your nose against the column of his neck. You’re almost reluctant to move, savoring the warmth of his presence against you and the delicate scent of his cologne that tickles your senses.

Unbeknownst to you, Noah shares your sentiments. He’s completely intoxicated and makes no effort to move you from his lap or even release his possessive grip on your throat and chest. When one of them sinks away, it’s the one on your chest, slowly descending to rest on your stomach, his thumb moving in gentle circles against your skin.

If any post-nut clarity should prompt him to leave, it hasn’t manifested yet.

You’re the first one to shift, reluctantly pulling yourself away from his chest and bending forward to adjust the strap of your heel. As you do, the lace from the lingerie you’re wearing rises up, which hangs further down your back than your front. Noah’s eyes briefly flicker down to the newly exposed skin, and a breath catches in his throat at the sight of a familiar tattoo.

You hear him say your name, your real name—not the stage name you use in this club—and it makes your head turn and your brow perk up.

Standing, you look down at him, taking him in properly as you begin to scan his familiar facial features. Granted, he was much younger when you knew him—a lot younger, with much longer hair—but a closer look reveals that his features still look the same—that same familiar Virginia boy you once knew.

“Noah?” You utter his name as if it’s your first realization, as if you hadn’t mentioned it just moments ago while grinding against him.

As he stands, you notice his height—he appears even taller and more imposing now, having grown out of his skinny boyhood.

Reaching out a hand towards your face, he hesitantly grasps the corner of the mask that obscures half of your face and lifts it, revealing the rest of it to him and recognition flashes across his eyes. “It’s you…” his voice softens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, threatening to break out into a smile as he feels the familiar thumping in his chest.

“Yes, it’s me,” you softly laugh, feeling the gentle touch of his knuckles against your cheek.

To Noah, everything becomes clear; the irresistible attraction, the magnetic pull, the way his mind constantly revolved around thoughts centered around you—a once mysterious stranger, when no one else here had caught his attention in that manner, it was because there was something profound, something that had always been there; you were the one who got away.

“Perhaps we should consider taking this reunion somewhere else.” You suggest, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“Oh, Absolutely.”

[vi-gilante-1010]

The big thing about the ending of Arcane is that it tries so hard to be a hopeful ending and a tragic ending at the same time, and they end up canceling each other out to create the most stagnated and frustrating ending instead, because none of it feels genuinely earned.

On the one hand, the audience is expected to think Caitvi being together again at this point is a good thing, and we get that vague implication of Jinx being alive, and the briefest glimpse of Sevika at the table. All that is very much trying to convey some semblance of hope for the future, that change is slow but that things are moving forward. The thing is, every part of this presentation at the end falls flat because of the lack of satisfying build here.

The Caitvi reconciliation is rushed, Caitlyn's redemption even moreso, and the actual weight of her actions has gone ignored by the narrative in favor of servicing a happy ending for the writers' pet. Vi's so-called "happy ending" being her declaring herself dirt in her lover's nails is oddly self-deprecating for what's meant to be an ending in her putting herself and her happiness first.

Sevika not so much as getting a speaking role in act 3 severely diminishes any impact her character may have had here, and she's still very obviously outnumbered among the council. She doesn't get to speak to Jinx. She doesn't get to reconcile with Vi. She doesn't even get a diplomatic word in. For all intents and purposes, she's become the council's diversity hire, because the council operates on majority vote, and Sevika isn't a diplomat. Who's to say she won't be spoken over and voted against at every turn?

The hints to Jinx being alive being subtle but shown are, in and of themselves, not the problem. The problem is just how much time is spent with her character in s2 glorifying the idea of her killing herself. Suicidal ideation within a mentally ill character isn't shocking, but it is something that shouldn't be overtly glorified within the text, and Jinx's decision to fake her death immediately following an actual suicide attempt and every chance that she could actually die, without the audience actually seeing Jinx for herself post-escape, leads to the worst possible depiction of a martyr- one who wanted to kill herself, and is celebrated for doing so. Show-don't-tell isn't useful when you do it for every major arc, and it makes Jinx's escape cheapen because, for all intents and purposes, she did kill herself. She killed Powder and Jinx, and while, yes, it was to break the cycle and free herself from identities prescribed by others, it's done in a way that's seriously damaging for real people who struggle with the same ideation.

Then, on the backhand, we have the tragedy part of the ending. Mel having to return to Noxus, Jayvik dying in the Arcane, and Ekko being left alone in Zaun. All of this is adequately tragic, yes, but it's also deeply unsatisfying, and also kind of racist.

Mel's character as a clever politician and manipulator being tossed aside in favor of a setup for the Black Rose setup is already disappointing as-is, but she loses everyone. Literally everyone. That mattered to her. Ambessa succeeds in forcing her hand to violence, and then dies. Her brother is dangled in front of her face, and then taken away. Jayce goes missing, comes back jaded to her, and then dies with Viktor and leaves her alone. She's forced to become 'the wolf', shifting her story into one of brute-force power, and makes her become the strong one that survives everything and the one to take down Ambessa with power. Gone are the days of diplomatic power struggles and investigation. No, she must embrace her inner warrior goddess power to be effective here.

Similarly, Ekko loses everyone. He'd already lost most of his family, and led the Firelights out of necessity for the people of Zaun because of how quickly he was forced to grow up. But now, Vi, who returned to him after years, lives in Piltover with her cop girlfriend, and the two don't interact once in the entire season. It's like their entire friendship was forgotten. He loses Heimerdinger to the alternate timeline, who, like Jinx, appears to die, but as an immortal being, is actually just reforming in that timeline again. He's abandoned by his supposed mentor because he didn't feel like going back to the timeline he'd failed to help despite his age and supposed responsibility, leaving Ekko to be the responsible one. And of course, Ekko also loses Powder and Jinx again, being sent into an alternate timeline just to be teased about what could've been with Powder, wrench himself back to reality and save Jinx, only for her to supposedly die succeeding in blowing herself up anyways. He's the only important character from Zaun that stays in Zaun, and he has to bear the burden of taking care of Zaun alone because, as stated previously, Sevika is now on the council and has to operate through the council.

Both of the leading black characters are forced to bear the responsibility of constant perseverance and survival, looking over the rest of the cast and getting things done but losing everything and everyone they love. It's Mel and Ekko who must bear the cross of parentification, being denied their safe places or loved ones in service of being the Strong Ones. In season 1, this was a role that Vi once played back when the show still cared about her, being the older sister that couldn't be the role model she needed to be no matter how hard she tried, while Mel had her diplomatic strengths and wasn't expected to bear the brunt of war against Noxus, and that felt more natural, because Ekko's responsibilities in the face of Silco's Zaun felt like an actual critique of the parentification of young black people in marginalized communities. Season 2 takes that and makes it unironic. No, Ekko is just strong like that, but it's so tragic. Look, we're gonna build an entire timeline about it. No, Mel must be Strong Badass Woman With Powerful Magic Power. Uhh, the show's called Arcane, she has to have magic, right? Can't have a main character with no big fat weapon, so let's take that protective golden shield she can make and make her have Secret Wolf Powers.

Jayce and Viktor's entire story for the second season sucks. Jayce had so much setup as a political figure, and was completely primed to be taken advantage of by Ambessa after the first season. His almost losing Viktor to Jinx's attack should've made him angrier to ever before. Instead, he just quits his councilman position offscreen and becomes the one to discover that the arcane is actually just inherently evil. Oopsies! His and Viktor's life's work has been degraded into doomed to fail territory. No good intentions would've ever saved any part of their work, and the arcane itself is now the villain, rather than Piltover's greed and the desire to weaponize it and exert control over others. No, this is just an inherent part of the worldbuilding, like any good eeeeeeevil magic that's evil because the author needs it to be.

Viktor, meanwhile, is punished for becoming a eugenicist, despite the fact his so-called 'eugenics' from the first season was him wanting to not slowly die. He was hacking up blood on the hexcore! But searching for a way to cure the sick and eugenics got conflated in season 2, so his becoming a jesus figure that healed the sick and injured and addicted had to be villainized to match his LoL persona somehow. So everyone he turned became servants he could puppet at will, and became a eugenics metaphor, playing on a self-hatred that Viktor did have, but bastardized it with 'ooooo eeeevil arcaaaaane' and absolves Viktor himself of any responsibility for it. When Jayce does reach him, it's a speech about imperfections, even though the reason Viktor began in the first place was because he was DYING, and the reason he continued was because he got infected with the Arcane instead of his own complex urging him forward after a near-death experience.

There's no hope in the ending, because anything meant to illicit hope has a bad buildup, or no buildup at all. The tragedy of the ending feels unearned because it ignores who the characters were in the first season outright; it's not a matter of them having just changed after their arcs in season 1. They're just unrecognizable, and/or poorly utilized. It's a bad ending to a shitty sequel season that only makes you feel frustrated for having watched it in the first place.

[the-cats-noodles]

Everytime I see this, everytime, someone brings up marriage as an exception and I can't help but think, really?

I get it, promises are important (to death do us part, which is in and of itself an unrealistic standard but whatever i dont have time to talk abt that) but I feel like people forget that marriage for love is relatively recent? The point of marriage being to join households and pass on property is much older (and the origin of the whole "only death can make us separate" bc property and inheritance) like, the reason people stayed together was bc of duty not love and that was a very different environment than the one now (which is good) but it still means we're talking about a standard that is unrealistic in our current environment (not to mention the insane amount of murder over not being able to get divorced in the past, like it's a very good thing we can end marriages now)

There's nothing wrong with marrying someone and wanting to stay with them forever (we chose to do this for love and that was good actually), but can we stop pretending this idea is universal?

Making a promise is all well and good, but people change and their promises do too.

Like, yes you keep growing as you get older and yes you might grow closer with your partner (and that's perfectly normal and okay) BUT you might also grow apart and that is ALSO PERFECTLY OKAY

Saying that marriage is something to exclude from the idea of decentering permanence is kinda ignoring all the people who really shouldn't be staying together but "have" to (for the kids, reputation, etc) and anybody involved definitely feels that dynamic shift...

Just, yeah "keep your promises" but also know that breaking them is a part of life and its much better for both parties if you break a promise instead of wither away trying to uphold it for some perceived sense of duty or obligation to people whose opinions literally DO NOT matter

(If you wanna be with one person forever? great! If they don't agree bc they don't love you anymore? Oh well, tough luck, I guarantee you'll be better off letting them go then forcing them to stay in a legal contract, which is what marriage becomes when you don't feel love for the other party anymore)

Also I get most people don't want to force someone to stay in a situation that makes them miserable, at least I really hope they don't, but when (as a society) we place more importance on the whole 'till death do us part' bit and less on the 'I love you and want to show it' (or even say the only way to show it is to hold onto that person forever) then it kinda forces people into this idea of "having" to stay

And look, counseling is great, it can work wonders, but it is NOT a miracle worker. It can't fix everything and it doesn't have to bc A LOT of marriages aren't broken they're just fizzling out

Am I making any sense? Who knows, but I was raised in a community where ending a marriage or relationship was worse than cheating bc "marriages are work"

They are, but you also retire from work when it becomes a strain and you can't do it anymore. You can quit a job if it doesn't fit. I'm not saying marriage is a job, but I am saying that if we expect marriage to involve work we can expect it to reach the point where people just DONT WANT TO DO THAT ANYMORE and that's okay

I'm begging: please stop insisting marriage is different from other relationships in this regard bc it isn't. It's sweet and a wonderful experience but it's still just a love between two people and we can't expect that to be magically enough to stop the natural progression all relationships go through.

You lose friends over time but some stay around. You lose family over time (like, no contact in this case not necessarily through death) but some stay around. You lose lovers and partners over time but some stay around. And that's okay, u just don't see how the last one is somehow expected to have more weight.

(Which I believe was op's point? That they're all temporary and that's a good thing actually)

Like everything is temporary, it's just sometimes that temporary lines up with our lives bc we ourselves are temporary beings, and it's okay if it does and it's okay if it doesn't.

I think a lot about how we as a culture have turned “forever” into the only acceptable definition of success.

Like… if you open a coffee shop and run it for a while and it makes you happy but then stuff gets too expensive and stressful and you want to do something else so you close it, it’s a “failed” business. If you write a book or two, then decide that you don’t actually want to keep doing that, you’re a “failed” writer. If you marry someone, and that marriage is good for a while, and then stops working and you get divorced, it’s a “failed” marriage.

The only acceptable “win condition” is “you keep doing that thing forever”. A friendship that lasts for a few years but then its time is done and you move on is considered less valuable or not a “real” friendship. A hobby that you do for a while and then are done with is a “phase” - or, alternatively, a “pity” that you don’t do that thing any more. A fandom is “dying” because people have had a lot of fun with it but are now moving on to other things.

I just think that something can be good, and also end, and that thing was still good. And it’s okay to be sad that it ended, too. But the idea that anything that ends is automatically less than this hypothetical eternal state of success… I don’t think that’s doing us any good at all.

[wernerherzogs]

the thing is. i can't even fully make fun of bucktommies for their tommy takes given what continues to be done to my man eddie diaz. like at least tommy's a canvas blank enough that even batshit insane headcanons with zero basis in show's canon are like. eyeroll worthy to me at most. because that man does not matter longterm at all. but with eddie it's like some of you can't envision gayness if it doesn't fit a Recognizable Media Stereotype. so he's been repressed his whole life and hasn't lived a single genuine experience ever yet and everything he does is a performance and he doesn't know how to be A Man because he's secretly an elder sister. despite nothing in canon even remotely indicating that as he's been perfectly normal about being a man who's a single parent all this time. he literally only worries about the emotional side of him not meeting the societal/parental standards of Being A Man Who's A Single Father. his ptsd is a not mental or canon enough a canon mental illness you guys are now forcing an entire dsm-5 on him. he secretly longs to be a weho fag who wears cashmere sweaters and has a purse dog or a cat and he's only overcompensating with his truck because god forbid his fashion sense or current hobbies were genuine. meeting kim was a psychotic break instead of a network procedural character dealing with seeing a dead copy of his late wife in a genuinely the most normal way possible under the circumstances. like why are you twisting this guy into shapes he's not because otherwise you just can't buy him being queer/gay like... do you only know bi sluts and formerly repressed broadway gays in real life with no in between? is that it. because buck is another fascinating part of this. his characterization seems fairly consistent no matter where on the top-bottom spectrum people put him. is it because bisexuality has a smaller amount of stereotypes associated with it so you don't feel the need of implying he's been performing everything his entire life like what's going on. and being a Bi Slut has actually canon room to exist here, so it's naturally never been an issue. but he can be a late bloomer bi and yet no one accuses him of only overcompensating with his truck or being a passenger princess despite tommy driving him around and he can be your dom top while still regularly displaying an affinity for things stereotypically viewed as female-coded (as cooking/baking, even for his girlfriend taylor, or cooing after newborn babies like a fic-worthy omega in heat). those specific things either get ignored or dialed up to eleven in fic but he's still ol' good fun buck who aches and wants to be loved and has his abandonment issues and sex issues and so on and so forth but remains fairly recognizable and mostly true to canon every time in the eyes of bajillion different writers. why is he immune while eddie isn't why are you respectful of canon when it comes to buck but eddie's suddenly in a hbo show and not a network procedural when transported into the fic realm can someone explain this.

[tabiito]

PRESCIENCE — OLIVER AIKU part one: INEVITABILITY

You're not one to get nervous before classes, but this presentation of your paper has you pacing up and down the cramped hall of your apartment. Your way of dealing with particularly scrutinising conferences was running through your slides, reciting them to someone you know to ward off the nervousness, but tonight you're a wreck all by yourself. Shuffling through papers desperately trying to gather your thoughts, you spend a minute wallowing in pity, cursing the hundreds of expectant faces who'll be staring up at you tomorrow.

It's been two years since Geneva, and as you've aged and your career has expanded, your apartment has not. You bump into the corner of the low-lying table and hiss softly in pain.

Breaking you out of your haze, your phone rings, Oliver's number flashing. Ideally, he'd be your guinea pig (who'd fall asleep after you make it past your introductory remarks), but he did say he'd be out tonight.

"You better be on your way here. I'm freaking the fuck out."

The voice that greets you isn't his. It's, instead, a soft murmur that can just barely be heard after an initial few seconds of silence.

"So you're the side piece, huh?"

You pause, contemplating your next course of action. You can't even fathom who, what or how you've been dialled, though you have an inkling of an idea.

"You have the wrong number," you sigh, hanging up. You didn't have the mental capacity to engage with whoever was on the other side of the phone tonight, being more than swamped by your own shit. Still, the phone rings again, and this time you toss it on your couch with more force than necessary, grateful it doesn't crash onto the floor as you sigh.

To make full use of your available force, though, you throw the marker in your pocket against the whiteboard for good measure. It squeaks miserably, making a curve and falls to the ground.

You're in that animated state of flow of talking when Oliver enters the large room. He's about 15 minutes late, and he blames the cab driver that stopped him for a selfie. Your hands are moving rapidly as you explain (what he assumes are hieroglyphs) behind you, making a joke about something called the Kuiper Belt that has everyone laughing. He supposes that it must be a very expensive belt. As he settles into an empty chair at the back of the hall, he tips the cap he's wearing a little lower, and pushes his facemask a bit higher. Selfishly, and subconsciously, he hopes that his motion distracts you for even a mere nanosecond, to recognise his presence, but he's imperceptible in the crowd of people furiously taking notes or nodding in agreement.

"...And though I don't claim to be prescient like those on Arrakis, but the similarity I have found with Dune is fact that the temperatures in Kolhar, just like...."

Oliver's doing the thing again. He catches himself before his train of thought leaves the room entirely.

He's never claimed to understand your work. He stopped trying after you tried to explain calculus to him in high school, but inadvertently overcomplicated the whole endeavour by quoting some axioms you were learning about in your dual enrolment course. Needless to say, though your teaching had become much better, Oliver would still find himself zoning out when you slipped into the jargon-y, super-science-nerd-y side of yourself. His mind would latch onto the words he would understand from the litany of complicated terms you'd use and play around with them instead.

Prescience.

He always thought that time travelling and the ability to look into the future led to an overcomplicated, never-ending loop of things. (He's watched enough in Avengers: Infinity War to realise that only a fool would want to look into the future). What good would warning your future self be when you had to come back and warn your younger self and so on and so forth. It hurt his head to think about this, and considering Avengers was one of the milder watches on your LSD-trip-esque watchlist of scientific nonsense, he's had to think about this quite a lot.

As you drone on about planets whose names, frankly, seem made up, Oliver takes a peek into his own future, dabbling in a bit of prescience himself. He's approaching his peak, his golden age, according to the pundits. A season more and he could be the most valuable defender in the world according to his agent. He'd be captaining the Japanese team for the fifth year straight, hopefully to Worlds once again. Finances were no issue for him. His agent was going to get a sneaker line customised after him from Nike, maybe a sports water he didn't necessarily believe in (he'd find a fine whiskey or vodka collaboration more tasteful), probably buy his mother her second summer home in the Swedish countryside for 55th birthday.

Though he knows about the call you'd got yesterday, a stupid slip-up by him, leaving his phone unattended and unlocked as he'd gone to fetch Yoko (one of his longer indulgences), he can still see you in his future.

You'd be there at Worlds, cheering for him from the friends and family box seats. You'd be the first person to make fun of his fraudulent brand deals. You'd advise him on the location of the summer house. Whether he was in Spain or Italy, you'd take the time out to make your stops on your increasingly frequent research-driven travels, and he would collect trinkets from the cities each away game was hosted in that would remind him of you.

He, never, of course imagines a future where you're not there. His mother might protest about the unnecessary luxury that is a second house, Nike might drop the deal given his sordid PR record, Sae Itoshi could finally ascend to captaincy — and Oliver would let him do so gracefully, because there was nothing more satisfying than a story coming full circle, and a new blossom of talent in a bleak landscape. He was just that kind of guy — but you were there, through it all, in your graphic printed longsleeves, low rise jeans and scuffed trainers.

Though he questioned the legitimacy of prescience, it was clear: all paths led to you. You'd forced him to sit through Dune 2, which ended up being less torturous than he'd expected, enough for him to ask you what happens next as he reversed out of the cinema's parking lot, and you'd propped a leg under your thigh, and turned to him with a moony sort of expression you reserved for very few things in your life.

You'd mentioned the Golden Path that Paul saw, a prescient interpretation for the universe that could lead it to salvation, even if it came at the cost of great difficulty, and Oliver now smirks into his mask as you wrap up your presentation with a polite "thank you."

Your energy has now simmered, leaving in its place a more nervous, hesitant force. He knew just how bad he fucked up yesterday by letting Yoko call you, because he knew how anxious you'd get before big events. In ordinary circumstances, it'd be him who'd be the guinea pig for your public speaking ministrations. You were not as charming as him, not as easy and comfortable under pressure in front of a large group, and he remembers you initially struggled to take your everyday classes, a burden that's eased with time. The words that you'd painstakingly chosen, the equations you'd solved with intentionality would turn to cardboard in your mouth when presented with the option of actually articulating your findings in a lucid manner.

Still, you manage tight-lipped, but genuine smiles at the students who file out and thank you for your insights, as well as your peers who'd occupied the front rows.

You've got your back to him when the midsized lecture hall has emptied itself out, and are busying yourself with packing up your laptop when he pads down towards you.

"That joke about the Kewpie Belt was hilarious," he drawls, and he expects to see you fall into familiar ways; your half-smile, a light punch to his shoulder, and a hopeless shake of your head. Then, you'd let him carry your bag and take you out to lunch.

You do no such thing. You stiffen, and turn around with a grimace. He knows your ashen face when he sees the circles under your eyes, a rare sight despite your friendship of nearly a decade.

You were hungover and pissed. Clearly, in no mood to entertain him.

All the more reason for him to press on, then. You beat him to it.

"Fuck off," you groan, and you sling your bag before he can protest. Apologies and grovelling are a part of his Circadian rhythmn at this point: he excels when he's on his knees.

"At least hear me out, I'm sorry," he says pointedly, taking an easy, loping stride to keep up with you where you have to make the effort of walking faster. You can't help the physical feeling of disgust that crawls up your spine, that makes you want to burrow inwards at the way the word rolls off his tongue so smoothly, as if it were completely weightless.

"It was a mistake! I broke up with her as soon as I figured it out. And your presentation was great, right? No harm, no foul," he blabbers, throwing his hands in the air sheepishly when you dignify him with a withering look. Oliver is a mediocre liar and a decent gambler at best, but what keeps him on the tables despite his losses is not just the cash he has to blow, but the excitement he attracts. Excitement is short-lived, however, and if anyone bothered staying past the party that was Oliver's lifestyle ended, they'd figure out his trade secrets.

Oliver's tells were as clear as day. You just had to want to look.

The exaggerated lilt in his voice, the cloying sweetness in his words as if he were explaining himself to his mother rather than a friend, the way his eyes flashed when he exclaims. This is a practiced routine, and you congratulate him on adding another feather to his cap: footballer, womaniser and actor.

"No harm, no foul?", you mimic, scoffing. Now he was just being obtuse. He knows you like the back of his hand, he knows you'd been up drinking to stave off the humiliation that had burnt through you from the call, coupled with your nerves about the presentation. (What he doesn't know is that you'd slept through three alarms and woke up drooling on the floor by your RA, who'd swung by to pick you up. Hot with embarrassment, you did not acknowledge the empty bottle of Merlot that had gotten you through the night. You'd barely made it in time for your lecture, and were a wreck for the first five minutes. You refuse to, however, divulge this information to him, lest he gains verbal confirmation to what he already knew in his gut: he had you hopelessly besotted.)

"All's well that ends well?", he counters mildly, breaking out his Sunday best smile. You treat him contemptuously, but he can hear the exhaustion in your tone.

"I'm tired, Oliver. Leave me alone," you said quietly, stepping out of the room.

You're staring at your miso soup petulantly, like a child peering into a mirror displeased by their reflection. Oliver prods it towards you gently. The soup is a metaphor for your heart's betrayal towards your head, a heady concoction that weaves together your weaknesses for this man in a salty, broth-y mixture. How you were persuaded to lunch was beyond you (You lie, you gave into his pathetic demands too easily), and as he fans himself with a laminated menu at this sidewalk cafe, you finally find it in you to glare at him rather than the poor hangover cure.

"How'd she figure out who I was?", you ask, glacially calm, though your expression betrays you.

"You and ma are the only two women on my call log. Most frequented, too," he says. It's simple. It's the truth.

"Did she go through our texts?"

"Nah. Face ID lock on the app."

You place your palms on the plastic tablecloth, a gaudy red with flowers. Your hands are sweaty. They stick. You're considering his words carefully, and he savours the way you look when the cogs in your brain are at work, doing what they do best.

"Dumped her, in case I didn't make it clear," he adds. He thinks he's being helpful.

You inhale sharply, and take a drink of the ice-cold water in front of you.

"Oliver," you begin, your voice controlled. "You do realise that Yoko wasn't in the wrong here? Objectively," you speak.

You love that word. Objectively. Factually. Logically. Empirically. Any part of the English language that gave you the illusion of control in this moment over the whirling shitstorm that Oliver is, the maelstrom of your life.

"If I were her, I'd also be pissed that my boyfriend was spending more time talking to some lab rat than me," you intone, and you hate the way your brain fires all synapses when you say the word boyfriend.

"I'm not her boyfriend. And you know I'm not good at this shit," he shrugs, and you feel the visceral, primal urge to reach over and strangle him.

Circles. That was how each one of these interactions went. You knew your place in Oliver's life, but many of his passing attractions did not. Some revered you, others envied you, while others still viewed you as a threat to eliminate. All perceptions were thoroughly embarrassing, since how could a lowly, unsexy, unfunny late-teen equivalent of a childhood best friend live up to the perfection of each woman that came tottering her way into Oliver's life?

Of all perceptions, though, you hated the last one because you felt that it was true. The word "side piece" is reductive, but the truth is at its finest when it is bare. You're no better than the any other person who's got their eyes set on Oliver, debauched and eligible bachelor Oliver, with his scruff and baritone and deep pockets and even deeper, more generous heart.

For someone who'd have a body count in the double digits, you find it baffling how all these years later, he hasn't developed some tact, some response other than "I'm not good at this shit."

"That's a fucked up response and you know it."

He shrugs.

"Would you rather have me lie and say that I'll cut you off every time I start a new fling? 'Cause you know you'll be getting whiplash every two business days."

You sigh, clenching the tablecloth again.

"That's not what I meant, Oliver," you seethe. For all his looks, his expensive taste and rationality, he behaved like the seventeen year old at the club more often than one would expect.

"You're an adult now. I'm an adult. Do you seriously still think you're going to be going into your thirties with this shithousery?", you say exasperatedly. "The calls, the lies, the embarrassment for everyone but you, your inability to be accountable and slide everything off with this stupid 'no harm no foul' attitude," you say, and before you can realise it your voice is gaining in pitch, in frustration.

"You can't fix me," is the only response Oliver deigns you worthy of, and you half expect him to leave.

"Get your head out of your ass. You don't need fixing, least of all from me. You need to," and you once again, grab at thin air for the words from every language that you knew, "treat yourself better," you sigh at the end, and the corner of his lips quiver up into a tentative smile.

"Look at you, telling me to treat myself better," he says, tilting back his chair smugly. You burn at his words, painfully reminded of your college days, punctuated with him forcing you out of your stuffy dorms to take a walk, grab takeout, do something other than kill yourself over differential equations.

"Ugh. This would be so much easier if I were a sentient superior species with mind control that could take over your brain and just force you to do what I tell you."

"Are we talking Ratatouille or Attack of the Brainsucker here?", he asks, and you roll your eyes in response.

Circles, squares, everything eventually came back to its beginnings with you. But in a distant yet near future he was inching closer to, Oliver could see the golden threads of fate winding in funny ways, taking him on his prescient path. He was sure of it.

"Brainsuckers. Duh."

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

How did you like her interview in People? I wonder, when this attempt fails, what mask will she put on next time...

I'm reading the article now...typing my thoughts here in real time.

People was on site when Harry was still in Vancouver for the Invictus Games - meaning that Meghan 1,000% lined up this article after she forced Netflix to postpone the release from January 15th, along with the NYC billboard and her NYC trip. Meaning she had ZERO PR planned for the original launch date because there's no way - with how much this article cost and the price of billboards in Time Square - Netflix would've just eaten the cost.

"Mama, don't work too hard" -> The real Prince Charles: Future king is a workaholic who 'falls asleep at his desk and wakes up with paper stuck to his face' says Harry (November 2018)

“I love that that is something that Archie, Lili, H and I all have together. It means a lot to me.” -> Devaluing phase!

The Sussex name, she adds, “is part of our love story." -> just say yessssssssssssssss AGREE WITH ME DAMMIT. Seriously - aside from Taylor Swift (who is contractually obligated by her fans to keep singing Love Story), is there any woman over the age of 19 who keeps bleating on about her love story the way Meghan does?

“As a woman, a mom and a wife, to be able to find yourself again...is a wonderful feeling.” -> Too bad instead of finding this grace towards another woman, mom, and wife, you went for the jugular and talked about her hormones.

this time there’s no mention of anything royal -> Reading between the lines: they're completely cut off and don't have anything to share but they're going to make you think it's their choice.

“Whenever Harry visited set, he was always super polite and friendly,” -> tracks with Vanity Fair. Also this is not Meghan saying Harry's name; it's a Netflix staffer.

“My husband met me when I had The Tig, and I see this spark in his eye when he sees me doing the thing that I was doing when he first met me,” she says. -> Sounds more like "thank God now she'll leave me alone" relief

Chinese food delivery is a favorite, “but even when I get takeout, I will try to plate it beautifully,” -> “It’s so beautifully arranged on the plate, you know someone’s fingers have been all over it.” -Julia Child...aka keep your filthy paws off my food unless you wash your hands (with soap) in front of me.

In the process, Meghan says, Montecito has become protective of the Sussexes: “Once you know us, I think you want us to have the same normalcy as parents and for our children as they do, despite however unique our situation is.” -> Royal expert reveals how 'protective' Norfolk locals help Kate and William enjoy date nights (September 2021)

The family’s sprawling estate is their sanctuary, which is why Meghan chose to film her show in a nearby rental that echoes their own space. -> But she has noooooooooooo problem inviting People Magazine into her bedroom where her child is sleeping.

so I’m normally up at 6:30 -> So much for that 5am go-getter lifestyle, huh?

“My husband and Archie both love fried eggs," -> in this economy?!

I want my kids to have those same formative memories of things that I cook. We call them Mama Meals...[a]nd it’s the same roast chicken I’ve been making since they were little.” -> Reading between the lines again...it sounds like a blink-and-miss-it confession that she doesn't cook as much as she claims to. Are they ordering takeout that much? Do they have their own chef or meal kit service? No shame if they do, but if you have a special name for the meals your mom cooks...she's not cooking that much. Also this would've been much better if she said she was making roast chicken since before they were born, you know, considering how it's their engagement story. Well, one of them. She probably forgot that, let's be honest. It's hard to keep them all straight.

They would also come with my husband -> still can't bear to say his name.

“Being able to have my own little girl, as I’ve spent so much of my life championing the rights of girls and women, and to be able to see this as a multigenerational story — Archie is of course included in that, my husband is of course included in that — but I love the heritage feeling of it and knowing this is something that I can create in front of my daughter and teach her what it’s like to be a working mom,” she says. “This is something that hopefully can be part of her legacy too.” -> Maaaaaaaaaaybe if you want her to have ownership...name something after her? You named your charity organization, production company, and podcast company after her brother. What does she get? A name scandal.

rinse and repeat,” -> Hey, remember when she had this phrase in nearly every single PR article? Remember when this was her username in the DM comments section?

“Anyone who has children will tell you, it’s a huge evolution as a woman during that time.” -> Hey, you know what would be really cool to show your evolution as a woman? Apologizing to Kate for insulting her because you didn't know how exhausting a motherhood journey could be.

“And my gosh, in 10 years, Archie will be driving!” -> Really? That's what you think of? Your kid being your chauffeur in 10 years?

Why are all the photos exclusive from June 2024?

So overall thoughts: This is a classic People story. Someone launches a new chapter of their lives, and they sit down for a "my life now" intimate tell-all interview. Like so:

I did a google search of "People magazine my life now", clicked over to Images, and these are the top results. That's 12 People covers of "my life now" intimate tell-alls. This is not groundbreaking in any way, shape, or form. Well, the amount of photoshopping on the cover photo is probably groundbreaking.

And lastly, once again proving there's never an original bone in Meghan's body:

Kate wears a hat on the cover, so Meghan wears a hat on the cover.

Kate brings her dog to the photoshoot, Meghan brings her dog to the photoshoot.

I'm honestly shocked Meghan didn't bring out her bike for this one too.

[bouncypickle]

here's a Roach drabble AU where he joins tf 141

Cockroaches are basically indestructible. They can eat anything, live through some serious radiation, and even survive getting their heads chopped off! Cockroaches are cool even if some people think they’re pests.

Gary doesn’t mind being Roach. His team gave him that moniker after surviving a grenade being thrown at his helmet. It bounced off and blew up the building he was in which then collapsed on top of him. Gary came crawling out of the rubble like a cockroach, alive and unharmed. He’d had a few close calls before so the guys in his squad coined him Roach–an indestructible little fucker, they’d said.

Sometimes, Gary wonders if that’s the only reason his squad decided on that name. Gary is the perpetual weird one, the freak, the guy who always says too much. So he feels like a pest sometimes too.

Ever since he was a kid, Gary has learned to stay quiet and keep to himself. He wears his helmet and balaclava and goggles–to keep his expressive face hidden–and lets himself be a mystery to his squadmates. They don’t ever care about him enough to ask Gary about himself though. So maybe Gary is less of a mystery and more of a background character.

It doesn’t matter anyway because Gary gets passed from team to team, completing missions with one team only to be transferred to a different team in need of more bodies. Gary is basically target practice for the enemy, an extra hand to hold a gun, another nameless G.I. Joe to be killed for his country.

Then Gary is transferred to Task Force 141 to serve under Captain John Price. The squad he’s to join is small with a focus on infiltration. Not usually Gary’s type of assignment. More often than not, Gary is put in front of a bunch of people with guns and told to shoot. This new team might be a refreshing change, honestly.

Gary is surprised to be greeted upon landing on the new base. His welcoming party actually looks welcoming. Usually, Gary is greeted by a grunt or two who bitterly show him the mess, the dorms, the gym and then leave him alone. This evening, two men who are clearly not recruits are waiting for him.

Gary has to do a double take, making sure some admiral isn’t landing instead of him. But the men approach and greet him with kindness.

“Sergeant Gary Sanderson, welcome. I’m Sergeant Kyle Garrick but you can call me Gaz.”

Gaz extends a hand in greeting and Gary shakes it eagerly. Then the other man reaches out and Gary shakes his hand too.

“Aye, welcome. Yer a bit shorter than I was expecting. Ghost made ya sound like a bleedin’ tank but that's alright. We short kings stick together, aye? Name's John MacTavish, call sign Soap.”

Gary has no idea what Soap is talking about but he nods anyway. Better to just agree than ask all the annoying questions on his mind. Like: Who is Ghost? Why are you two greeting me instead of some recruit? Don't you know to call me Roach? Do you like bugs?

Gary frowns at himself under his balaclava. Of course they don't like bugs; no one in their right mind likes bugs.

“Ghost really did talk you up though, mate. We're expecting to see some moves out of you.”

Gary just nods again.

Soap folds his arms, frowning, “Not much of a talker are ye? No wonder Ghost likes ye so much.”

Gaz elbows Soap playfully, “Jealousy is a bad look on you, mate.”

“Roach,” Gary pipes in, unsure whether or not he should interrupt but wanting to get his introduction out of the way, “That's what everyone calls me.”

“Cause of yer helmet?” Soap asks, flicking one of the radio antennas on Gary's helmet.

Gary ducks away from the teasing a bit.

“I'm an indestructible little fucker.”

The other two men burst out laughing. Gary hopes they're laughing with him, not at him. Well, he's not laughing. Anyway, he tries not to read into it too much. People laugh all the time, Gary doesn't always have to get the joke.

“Oh, Simon was right about you,” Soap tells him and suddenly Gary knows who Ghost is.

Only Gary didn't know him as Ghost, he knew him as Simon Riley. Si, actually. Si was his only friend back in the day. He liked Gary, actually listened when he talked about annoying shit like bugs.

What do you call an anxious bug?

A nervous tick.

Si used to make jokes like that over the radio. Then one day Si went MIA and Gary was transferred to another squad and he never heard from or about the man again. He knows this Ghost must be Simon Riley because no one else is weird enough to actually enjoy Gary's company.

[atheostic]

@ray-moo

1. Okay, let's assume for the sake of argument that we all agree that embryos are humans.

What about the rights of the pregnant human to decide who can have access to their body? Why do their rights cease to matter?

Why does the embryo have special rights a born human doesn't? A born human does not have the right to use another human's body without their consent. Even if it's a life or death situation. Even parents can't be compelled to give organs or blood to their child if they don't want to.

Even corpses have to have previous authorization to be used. So by taking away a person's right to an abortion you're literally giving people with uteruses less rights than a corpse.

2. Basic math is on the side of abortions being legal being a net positive, even if you're pro-life.

a) Less people die when abortion is legal.

We know for a fact, based on both modern and historical stats, that abortions will happen regardless of legality. The only difference is that, when illegal, people getting abortions are far more likely to die (and die in horrifically painful ways at that).

Illegal abortions are so deadly that in Zambia  69% of the respondents of a study on the topic knew one or more women who had died from an unsafe illegal abortion.

Leading causes of death are haemorrhage, infection, and poisoning from substances used to induce abortion.

In contrast, modern legal abortion is one of the safest procedures in contemporary medical practice, with case-fatality rates less than one patient death per 100,000 procedures.

So if we assume an embryo is a person and knowing abortions will happen, the choice is between two people dying or one person dying.

If you're pro-life, the choice where less people die should be a no-brainer.

But let's say you don't care about the people getting abortions because they're "murderers"...

b) Studies find that abortion numbers go down when abortion is legalized.

So if even if we were to agree that embryos are babies, infant death numbers go down when abortion is legalized.

In fact, maternal mortality rates also go down significantly when abortion is legalized. The year after abortion was legalized in New York State, the maternal-mortality rate there dropped by 45%. This is likely because people who are too young to safely carry a baby to term or who have medical issues that make pregnancy dangerous can get an abortion instead of being forced to become a parent, meaning that dangerous pregnancies aren't forced to continue.

3. If people truly cared about the would-be babies they'd be pro things that help make children thrive, like free school lunches.

Yet most of them aren't.

I think all pro-lifers should be raped, forced to have the baby (no exceptions), and become forced to raise it for 18-20 years just to see how it feels

[andhumanslovedstories]

I'll play the 500-word ask game! Your Tortall fanfic, please - I was thinking of this segment, but really anything you want to comment on in the fic! (Also thank you for writing it; the voice works very well and the text feels very true-to-source!)

Kel may never have forgiven the king for putting her through a probation period—a life’s first major disappointment cuts deep and leaves a scar—but her issues to him as a man did not blind her to his success as a king. “He’s formed alliances with the Bazhir, the Yamani, and Tusaine for the first time in our history. He controls the Dominion Jewel, the most powerful mage in the world is loyal to him, and our training school produces the finest knights in the world.”

Don’t forget our excellent spy operations,” Alanna added. “But people’s memories get short, especially in times of hardship. A short war unites a nation; a long one wearies it. And our war with Scanra has lasted far longer than we expected, even after your contribution.”

Kel grimaced. It was true. Even after Kel had slain the creator of the Scanran war machines, the forces of King Maggur fought bitterly for every inch of land. They had no reasonable hope of winning, not with Scanra’s weak harvest and weaker tribal alliances, but they were determined to make Tortall’s victory costly. They’d turned to guerilla tactics in the mountainous border region between the two nations, and they were willing to lay down their lives for every square inch.

Still, the gaudiness of the Midwinter’s Festival felt tasteless to Kel, a slap in the face to the soldiers who died and the ones who were still there fighting in the bleakest of conditions. “If everyone could put some trust in each other and go without the things they don’t need, we could redirect all this wealth to ending the war.”

“If people could trust each other and go without, we wouldn’t be fighting this war. We’d be living in some happy utopia that would be very boring for people like you and me.”

Oh my god, I wrote this Tortall fic in 2011. Sometimes the passage of time just hits. Especially because of the time I remember Kel has always been my favorite of Pierce's leads. It would be difficult to overstate the impact Kel as a character has had on me over the years. I wrote this fic in October 2011--that was during my first semester of college, when I was 18 years old. I'd brought The Protector of the Small books with me to college for emotional support. There was a hurricane on the east coast during our freshman orientation that knocked out the power in my dorm. I remember reading all four books by a window while it was raining like crazy, and then thinking ruefully that I should have saved them for later when I needed a pick me up.

That makes it an extra pleasant surprise when I reread it and really liked it! (I even had the very odd feeling of being inspired by my own ending.) I remembered the broad strokes of it--Kel and Alanna talking at a banquet while on the lookout for Tortall's second openly female page--and absolutely none of the details. I can't believe the only relationship tag I had in there was Kel/Dom. I'll be honest, I don't even really remember who Dom is. I went back and added Kel & Alanna as the main relationship because, like, duh. Yeah.

It's doubly weird to me I tagged the barely mentioned romantic pairing considering the story was written for a livejournal community challenge to specific write gen fic about women outside of the context of romance and shipping. This was a weird transition time in fandom where lj communities were still very prominent, but more and more fic was getting posted on AO3 instead of in a community or on a personal journal. I remember some debate about what female characters counted for femgenficathon (the community/challenge I wrote this for). It might have been a debate about trans women, but I remember more specifically discussions of whether genderswapped male characters counted.

Anyway, back to this fic specifically, it's funny the author's note is me talking about the difficulties of writing fanfic for a book because I want to match the author's style when that's something that I've been thinking about a lot lately writing for Scum Villain. What I remember most about this fic is specifically the work I put in studying Tamora Pierce's writing style so I could ape it. A sentence early--"Her closest tablemate, a small but sturdy red-headed woman Kel regarded with equal parts affection and awe, chuckled at Kel’s distress."--is the direct result of me studying Pierce's first paragraphs in her work to see how she reintroduces the reader to characters they have met before. There's also a simplicity and directness to the language that isn't my default. I can get pretty flowery. In my default state, I love a paragraph long metaphor.

These two women have this shared experience but also could not be more different. When I was a kid, I really wanted Alanna and Kel to be best friends, and I was disappointed when they weren't, but I understood why. They are very different people, almost in different genres. Alanna and Kel are two very different takes on the lady knight. Having to pretend to be a boy versus openly being a girl leads to such different dynamics. Alanna's story is so much about identity and self-definition, but also about being extraordinary. She's gifted with magic, she's touched by the goddess, she has a magic cat. She's a fantasy heroine. She's indisputably extraordinary.

Kel meanwhile has no magic. Her story emphasizes continual, endless practice, discipline, training. Her adventures are human-sized. Alanna's book one ends with defeating magical monsters in a cursed city. Kel's involves helping a bunch of other pages fight off bandits. She doesn't deal with gods; she gets put in charge of a refuge camp. Her story involves a lot of practical logistics in a way Alanna's doesn't. So she ends up being this character that's such a mix of realism and idealism, seeing the world the way it could and should be while also seeing the work and frustration of getting there. That was what made her such a huge inspiration to me as a kid--god, between her and Tiffany Aching, I have gotten so much from the tales of hard working girls.

That's why Kel in this fic looks to everyday and mundane examples of female fighters. Because she works so close to the ground, she appreciates the grassroots. I thought that hit a good balance of her faith in the future without making it sound like she thought gender equality would be easy. Actually, to be honest, I got...comforted, I guess, by my own ending. (Again, a very pleasant surprise.) Kel's hope always feels earned. That's what I was aiming for.

[andromeda-pleiades]

Just Trust Me

WORD COUNT: 3,536

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Hi sorry it took me a little more than a month to come out with the next chapter I was writing another story and broke up with my boyfriend. ●﹏●

Also someone has the strongest accent in this chapter sorry

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

You tried calling your sister first, then an old friend, but no one answered. Your calls went straight to voicemail, leaving you staring at the screen in frustration. It only reinforced what you already knew—there was no one else to turn to. With a reluctant sigh, you pull up Kyle's contact.

You: I need help. I don't know who else to turn to.

The dots appear and disappear for what feels like an eternity before his response finally comes.

Kyle: What's going on?

Your fingers tremble over the keyboard. You don't know how much to say. If you tell him everything, will he even believe you?

You: I think he's tracking everything I do. I feel trapped.

A longer pause. Your stomach churns. Maybe he's trying to find the right words. Maybe he doesn't believe you.

Kyle: Are you sure? Simon wouldn't just do that without a reason. Maybe you're overthinking.

Your breath catches. Doubt creeps in, but you shove it down. No. You know what you saw.

You: I'm sure.

Kyle doesn't immediately agree to meet. Instead, he hesitates, his messages measured and deliberate.

Kyle: Look, I get that things might feel off, but maybe you're just stressed? Simon cares about you.

Your fingers tighten around your phone. Gaslighting. Whether intentional or not, that's what it feels like.

You: Kyle, please. I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't sure.

A long pause.

Then, suddenly—

Kyle: Let's meet. We'll talk in person.

Kyle suggests meeting at a diner just outside town. The drive there is nerve-wracking, each passing car a potential threat. When you finally see his familiar face—casual, steady, a tether to the past before everything fell apart—relief washes over you.

"You look like you haven't slept for days," he murmurs as you slide into the booth across from him.

You let out a dry laugh. "Haven't had much reason to."

He signals for the waitress, ordering coffee for both of you before leaning forward, voice dropping. "Tell me everything."

You do. Carefully at first, testing the waters, but soon the words tumble out faster than you can contain them. You tell him about the tracking software you discovered, the notes detailing your daily movements, the control tightening around you like a noose.

Kyle listens, his expression shifting between concern and something unreadable. "You were right to reach out," he says when you finish. "Simon... he's always been intense, even before all this."

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know what he's capable of, but you have to understand, it's not just about control for him. Simon was made into what he is. Task Force 141 doesn't recruit soft men. It shapes you, sometimes into something you never wanted to be."

You shift in your seat. "That doesn't excuse any of this."

"No, it doesn't," Kyle agrees, his eyes meeting yours. "But it explains it. His past, everything he's been through—it broke him in ways neither of us will understand. And Price..." He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. "Price was like a father to him. More than that. He was a guide. Simon respected him more than anyone. And what Price taught him? Control means safety. For himself. For the people he cares about."

You frown, stirring your coffee absently. "You make it sound like he's protecting me."

Kyle gives you a small, sad smile. "Maybe, in his mind, he is. That doesn't make it right."

A strange pity coils in your stomach, unwanted but undeniable. Simon—ruthless, obsessive Simon—was once just a man looking for structure, for someone to follow.

You shake the thought away. It doesn't change what you need to do.

"When the ten days are up, I have a place," Kyle says suddenly, lowering his voice further. "A safe house. You can come there. No strings. No Simon."

Hope flares in your chest, but something nags at you. Kyle's hands are steady, his words reassuring, but there's something about his delivery that feels... rehearsed. Too perfect.

You ignore it. You have to. He's your only chance.

"Okay," you whisper. "I'll come."

Kyle smiles, a little too quickly. "Good. You won't regret it."

You stand at the doorway, watching as Simon secures the last of his gear. His movements are methodical, efficient—just as they always are. The weight of his presence lingers in the air, suffocating even as he prepares to leave.

"I'll be back before you know it," he says, pulling on his jacket. He steps toward you, cupping your face with a gentleness that still makes something inside you ache. "I love you."

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to nod. "I love you too."

The words taste like ash now. You watch from the window as Simon's car turns the corner and disappears. But you don't move yet. 

Instead, you pull out the small leather-bound notebook you bought three days ago, flipping to a fresh page. Your handwriting is tight and cramped as you note down the time of Simon's departure and what he said about his return. *"Six days until Simon returns from alleged conference. Will prepare to leave on day four, heading to Aunt Marie's cabin in Vermont."* This last part is a lie—Aunt Marie doesn't exist, and you have no plans to go to Vermont. But if Simon or anyone else finds this journal, the false trail might buy you precious time.

You list each suspicious detail methodically: Kyle's hesitation when you first contacted him. His immediate attempt to rationalize Simon's behavior. The way he knew so much about Price without you telling him. The convenient timing of the safe house offer.

Closing the journal, you tuck it into the hidden pocket you've sewn into your jacket lining, then double-check the locks, leaving the front door bolted as you slip out the back. You take the long route through side streets, keeping to the shadows, doubling back twice just to be sure. Only when you're certain no one is following do you head toward the meeting spot where Kyle waits.

Kyle's safe house is tucked away in a remote area, but the moment you step inside, unease prickles at your skin. It's too exposed. The windows aren't reinforced, and the locks seem flimsy—if Simon wanted to, he could be here in minutes.

"Not what you expected?" Kyle asks, watching you closely.

You force a tight smile. "Just... getting used to it."

But the lie sits heavy. Every instinct screams that this isn't far enough, isn't safe enough. You need to disappear completely.

You notice dark clouds gathering on the horizon as Kyle shows you around. "Looks like a storm's coming," he comments casually, glancing out the window. "Cell reception gets spotty out here when it rains. Power too, sometimes."

The words send a chill through you. Isolated. No communication. No witnesses.

That night, when Kyle steps out to take a call, you see your chance. His laptop sits on the table, screen dark. He's always cautious with it, rarely leaving it unattended. This might be your only shot.

Hands shaking, you ease into his chair and lift the screen. Locked. Of course. But when you press a key, it flickers to life. He must've forgotten to log out.

Your pulse hammers as you scan the desktop. Most files mean nothing to you—until you see it.

Price_OpSec

A chill rushes through you. Price. That name again. You click on the file, but a password prompt stops you cold.

You're about to give up when you notice a folder labeled "Surveillance." Your fingers hover over the trackpad, hesitant, then click.

The breath leaves your lungs as images fill the screen. Photos. Dozens of them.

You. Going to work. Shopping at the grocery store. Meeting friends for coffee.

And then—your heart nearly stops—Simon and Kyle. Together. Not in old photos from their military days, but recent ones. In one, they're sitting at a café, heads bent close in conversation. The date stamp is from just two weeks ago. In another, they're standing outside your apartment building. Kyle is pointing toward your window.

Before you can think, your phone buzzes.

Simon: I love you.

A second message follows.

Simon: Don't forget to double-lock the back door. It sticks sometimes.

Ice floods your veins. That's something Kyle told you about the safe house. The house Simon shouldn't know you're at.

Your breath quickens. The room spins. Your fingers dig into the table as the walls close in. Was this all planned? Is Kyle feeding Simon information? Are you running in circles, trapped no matter what you do?

You quickly take photos of the screen with your phone, hands trembling so badly you have to try three times to get a clear shot. You close the folders, returning the laptop exactly as you found it just as the first raindrops begin to hit the windows.

You clamp a hand over your mouth, stifling a sob as your chest tightens. The air feels too thick, your lungs too small. Panic claws at your throat, sending you spiraling. You trusted Kyle. You needed to trust him. But now... now you don't know if you can trust anyone.

Your mind races, desperate for a foothold. What if Simon has been ahead of you this whole time? What if every move you've made was predicted and accounted for? Your vision blurs at the edges. The betrayal you feared most wasn't from Simon—it was from the one person who was supposed to help you escape him.

You press your forehead against the cool surface of the table, forcing yourself to count. One. Two. Three. Your fingers dig into your arms, grounding yourself. But the tremors in your chest refuse to subside. Every interaction with Kyle replays in your mind, now tainted with suspicion. Every reassuring word, every careful gesture—was it all an act?

A sob threatens to break free, but you swallow it down. Kyle wouldn't betray you. He couldn't. You remind yourself of the boy you once knew, the friend who had your back when no one else did. If he's acting strangely, it must be because of what he's seen, what he's done—they've changed him, made him cautious, secretive.

You shake your head. The evidence is right there. The photos don't lie.

You can't afford to break. Not here. Not now. Not when you might be running out of time.

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe through it. Think. Think.

There's still a way out.

There has to be.

The storm arrives in full force, rain lashing against the windows as thunder rolls overhead. The lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely. The safe house plunges into darkness.

"Power's out," Kyle calls from another room. "Stay put. I'll find the flashlights."

You sit frozen, your mind racing. This is it—your chance. In the darkness, with the storm masking any sound, you might be able to slip away.

Pulling out your journal, you scribble one last entry by the light of your phone. *"Kyle definitely working with Simon. Found photos. Heading to Vermont tonight. No other choice."* You leave it on the table, open to that page—your final decoy.

You don't sleep.

The hours drag by, your mind cycling through every interaction, every misplaced word, every look Kyle has given you since this began. You should have been more careful. But now, standing in the dim light of the safe house, phone clutched tight in your trembling hands, you have only one option left.

You confront him.

"How did Simon know about the back door?" Your voice is steadier than you expected, but the weight of the question hangs between you like a drawn blade.

Kyle looks up from his seat at the small kitchen table, brow furrowed. "What?"

You hold up your phone, screen illuminating your face. "Simon texted me about locking it. That's something you told me, not him. So how did he know?"

Kyle leans back, exhaling slowly. "Come on, you know how he is. He gets in your head. He's probably trying to mess with you, make you doubt everything." He gestures at your phone. "You think he wouldn't guess how paranoid you'd be about the locks? He's playing you."

You shake your head. "No. This isn't a guess. This is something specific, Kyle. Something only you mentioned."

His expression hardens. "So what, you think I told him? You think I sold you out to Simon? After everything he's done? After everything I've risked to help you?"

Your stomach churns at the way he flips the accusation back onto you. Doubt creeps in, whispering that maybe you are overreacting. That maybe Simon really is just messing with you. Kyle's been your friend since childhood. If you can't trust him, then who?

"I don't know what to think anymore," you admit, voice cracking. "I just—I need the truth."

Kyle runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "The truth? The truth is Simon's got his hooks so deep in you that you're seeing shadows where there aren't any. He's always done this, hasn't he? Made you question yourself? And now you're doing his work for him." He leans forward, tone softening. "Look, I get it. You're scared. But you have to trust me."

The words scrape against your raw nerves. Trust him. Like you trusted Simon?

You sit down slowly, trying to steady your breathing. "Then tell me about Price."

Kyle freezes. It's barely perceptible, but you catch it.

"What about him?"

"Simon listens to him. I keep hearing his name, but I don't know who he is."

Kyle exhales, rubbing his hands together. "Price is... not what you think. He's just some old war dog Simon admires, someone he learned from. But he's not pulling strings here." He looks at you, eyes careful. "That's why you need to stop panicking. If Price is involved, it's just another layer to this, not the end of the world. We need to be smart."

You hesitate. Everything in you screams that this isn't right, that you should leave. But Kyle is so convincing, so steady. And deep down, there's still that part of you that doesn't want to believe he'd betray you.

"So what do we do?" The words taste like surrender.

Kyle relaxes slightly. "I have a contact. Someone outside Simon's reach. They can keep you safe, but we need to move."

Every alarm in your mind blares at once. Another move. Another safe house. Another place where Simon might already be waiting.

Kyle offers you a small, reassuring smile. "I promise, this time, it'll be safe."

You swallow your fear and nod. You want to believe him.

But as you gather your few belongings, you slip a kitchen knife into your pocket. This time, you won't be caught unprepared.

The storm intensifies throughout the night. Rain hammers against the roof, and wind howls through the trees, enclosing the safe house in a wall of water and sound. The power remains out.

Kyle's restlessness grows as the hours pass. He paces, checks his phone repeatedly despite the lack of signal, and keeps glancing out the windows into the darkness. The small space forces you to remain in close proximity, every movement amplified in your hypervigilant state.

"We should get some sleep," he says eventually. "Big day tomorrow. I'll take the couch. You can have the bedroom."

You nod but have no intention of sleeping. As soon as Kyle settles on the couch, you begin your wait, counting the minutes until his breathing deepens.

Three hours later, with the storm still raging, you make your move. The journal sits conspicuously on the kitchen table, your false plan clearly visible. Your real bag—small, containing only essentials—is hidden under your jacket.

You ease the back door open, wincing at the soft creak. The rain is instant and merciless, soaking you within seconds. But the downpour masks any sound you might make as you slip into the darkness.

The forest behind the safe house is dense and unfamiliar, branches whipping your face as you push forward. Your phone's flashlight offers minimal guidance, the beam swallowed by the thickness of the storm. You know there's a road about a mile east—if you can reach it, maybe flag down a passing car...

A flash of lightning illuminates the trees ahead, and in that split-second burst of light, your blood freezes. A figure stands twenty yards away—tall, muscular, with a distinctive mohawk now plastered to his scalp by the rain. He hasn't seen you yet, but he's scanning the woods methodically, one hand holding a flashlight, the other clutching a walkie-talkie.

You duck behind a large tree, heart hammering against your ribs. Through the sound of rainfall, you catch fragments of his voice:

"Na visual yit... Grid search in progress... She coudnae hae gaen far... "

The walkie-talkie crackles with a response too distorted to make out, but the mohawked man nods, then changes direction, moving across your path rather than toward you.

"Copy that. Circling back tae th' creek. Over. "

They're watching you. Tracking you. How many cameras are out here? How many eyes?

You wait until the beam of his flashlight disappears among the trees before moving again, this time in the opposite direction. The undergrowth tears at your clothes, mud sucking at your shoes, but fear drives you forward.

Another lightning flash reveals a steep embankment ahead. You slide down it, half-controlled, half-falling, coming to rest in a shallow ravine. Above you, the storm continues its assault, but here, partially sheltered by the high banks, you have a moment to catch your breath.

The respite is brief. A beam of light sweeps the ravine, and you press yourself against the muddy wall, praying the shadows are deep enough.

"Ah ken ye'r doon thare ," a voice calls out, eerily calm despite having to shout over the storm. "Thir's nowhere tae go. Th' road's blocked. Th' river's flooded. Juist come oot noo, 'n' no one haes tae git hurt."

You remain motionless, one hand gripping the kitchen knife in your pocket. The beam sweeps back and forth, methodically searching every inch of the ravine.

"Simon's worried aboot you," the voice continues. "He juist wants ye safe. Ye ken how dangerous it's oot 'ere." 

The light stops moving, fixed on a point just feet from where you hide.

"Last chance."

You hold your breath.

Footsteps approach, sliding down the embankment. The mohawked man lands heavily in the mud, his flashlight beam dancing wildly before steadying again. He's close now—close enough that you can see that he is Soap the man Simon brought to your home a few weeks prior, the same soap from the texts.

"There ye are," he says, spotting you at last. His lips curl into a smirk as he raises the walkie-talkie. "Target located. Southeast ravine. Movin` tae secur”.

Your fingers tighten around the knife.

He reaches for you, confident, unhurried. "Let's nae mak' this difficult."

You don't think. You move.

The knife flashes in the beam of his dropped flashlight as you lunge forward. He reacts with military precision, blocking your arm, but your momentum carries you both backward. You fall together, landing hard in the mud, his greater weight driving the air from your lungs.

His hand clamps around your wrist, squeezing until your fingers go numb. The knife slips, embedding itself in the soft ground beside you.

"Stupid move," he grunts, pinning you with one arm while reaching for the walkie-talkie with the other.

Desperation lends you strength. You twist violently, driving your knee upward. It connects, and his grip loosens for just a second—enough for you to wrench free and scramble for the knife.

Your fingers close around the handle just as he lunges for you again. You roll to the side, and in one fluid motion, slash outward blindly.

A howl of pain tears through the night. Soap staggers backward, hands pressed to his face. Blood seeps between his fingers—dark, almost black in the dim light. You've caught him across his left eye.

"Ye bitch!" he screams, lunging forward blindly. But his footing is compromised, his vision obscured by blood and rain.

You don't wait. You clamber up the ravine, soil and rocks giving way beneath your desperate grasp. Behind you, the man is still shouting into his walkie-talkie, his voice ragged with pain.

"She's armed! left th' ravine heading wast! a'm needin' backup! A’M NEEDIN’ BACKUP!"

His voice fades as you reach the top, replaced by the relentless drumming of rain and your own ragged breathing. You sprint through the forest, no longer caring about stealth, only distance. Every flash of lightning guides you forward until finally, miraculously, you see it—an access road cutting through the trees.

You have no idea where it leads, but away is all that matters now. Away from the safe house. Away from Kyle's betrayal. Away from Simon's control.

Behind you, distant voices call out, but they're growing fainter with each stumbling step you take. Soap won't be following—not with that eye. And whoever else is out there, they're too far behind.

For the first time since this began, you feel something close to hope. You're still running, but no longer in circles.

You're finally breaking free.

[beautifullilacsky]

I remember my garden. The way the path was always cleared for everyone who wanted to pass and spend some time together. The explosions of color from different flowers and greenery, waiting to happily greet anybody who walked by. I still have a clear vision of my garden; how I felt so peaceful and happy in it, and how it welcomed the occasional visiter. I used to also visit other people's garden, and see all of their beautiful fields, appreciating every bit of it.

My garden has changed. The sun hid behind the clouds, and the flowers bloom less grand and bright. The flowers are still there though, but they are turned to one another instead of to the paths, not allowing anyone to see and smell their magic. Most of the time, the flowers were forgiving. Though now, when someone accidentally steps on a leaf or leaves behind a hint of trash, the flowers don't just show understandment and forgiveness. They grow bitter, and their focus on the negative things grows. Instead of focusing on how blessed we are to have a visitor, the flowers are constantly on guard, seeing when the visitor slips up. Every single mistake, even if so minor, gets noticed and amplified. The weeds seem to take over, and grow all over the paths and around the flowers. They want to keep people away. They aren't welcoming and kind, they are disruptive and full of disgust. They have also taken over the main gate, trying to keep it closed. Anyone who tries to enter, is seen as an intruder. Also, I am kept here into my own garden. The garden that seems to have lost its magic. The gardener, aka me, doesn't want to visit anybody else's garden. She sees how her own garden needs tending, and doesn't have any time nor patience for any other gardens. When other gardens are visited, the gardeners eyes no longer instantly go to the beauty of the garden. It sees all of the things that are off, the things that hold less beauty. There might be a whole bunch of stunning flowers bundled up together, but her focus gets drawn to this one stump of wood that lays on the path. "If you knew I was visiting, why did you not bother to clean up before I came?" Especially in their shared garden, she doesn't even want to take care of the garden, knowing the other will either not clean up, or will leave a new mess once the gardener has cleaned. "I don't want to tend to this shared garden, because you don't seem to feel the need to show it the same respect. Though, it also works on my nerves and hurts my feelings that the garden isn't cared for." Her own lack of care hurts, but she also wonders; why should I?

Is my garden something I need to fix? I miss my old garden. Though, should I just close my eyes and accept it again if somebody steps on my flowers? Even if it is an accident, or if that person has a different garden culture and finds that perfectly normal. I am honestly tired of trying to understand and accept others and their actions. I want to keep others out, and stay away from other gardens too. I wish to focus on my own, though I have seemed to have lost some green color on my fingers. My garden can't thrive by itself, even if we have seen it do so in the past. Just like trees connect with one another, the connection to other gardens makes mine shine and makes it stronger. Though, I do not want it. The more it's forced, the more resistance I show.

marigold

2024/06/29

[gender-critical-analytical]

the way some of you clearly think bisexuals don't experience actual attraction and feelings for people, but rather decide ahead of time if they want a man or a woman this time and then just go and pick whoever comes into their line of sight next is so obvious and definitely makes me think you all don't need to speak on things you don't know about

[sarcasticchaosbitch]

Rudy, who's been practicing his tea-making skills: I'm making you tea, and you'll drink it whether you want it or not!

Every single Brit in the surrounding area: *horrified gasps*

[azure-enechelon]

I think you're on to something here! I might add that the RCM offers Kim several things that he really wants. One is a chance to prove his patriotism in a safe way: he's serving the city as the only armed force it has, but he's also operating under MI auspices. Another is the chance to be a small part of a large organization, which means that instead of representing Seolites, he's representing a group that he's chosen to belong to. And I think the Authority checks are partly an outgrowth of that. He frames his dancing as something he learned from being a juvie cop for 15 years. And the way to get him to wear the piss jacket is to appeal to your bond as cops. It's easier to be silly when it's an RCM thing, not a personal thing. The RCM is a framework through which to define and defend his Revacholian-ness.

But I also think Kim is just wary of forming any sort of personal attachment. He's way more open about sharing personal details when he's angry with Harry. You only learn that he can sew if you tell him that you're not taking style tips from a bino. If you pester him about the Seolite conspiracy he says "I was born and raised Revacholian. So was my mother. As for my father, I didn't know him, I don't know who he was. And I don't care. From what I've heard, he wasn't a very pleasant person to be around." And of course there's the whole conversation you get if you fail the authority check to dance. The man is more comfortable revealing personal details to win arguments than to make friends. He's really uncomfortable with intimacy! Some of this is probably the result of performing model minority status his whole life, but I imagine that the burnout from fifteen years of juvie work doesn't help.

So I absolutely agree that boringness is a tool of model minoritization, but I think boringness also serves to keep people at arm's length for other reasons as well.

god, im obsessed with just how loaded kim's relationship with being "boring" is in disco elysium. it's simultaneously a form of internalized bigotry (particularly 1. the pressure to conform to what is "normal," AKA normative, and therefore desirably boring and 2. a need-turned-internalized desire to prove himself approachable/acceptable to a bigoted society), and a shield against potentially-destructive prying

it's a small but consistent way throughout the game that we see kim being not-quite able to fully process the irony of his role as a marginalized police officer--he seems to realize prying/gazing (the primary goal of the officer/detective) is especially dangerous for marginalized people and avoids receiving any of it himself, but is simultaneously very comfortable doing it to others

it's also very interesting to me that a lot of your chances to see past kim's "boring" side are hidden behind authority checks (the dance-off, "tell me a secret," the gunner behind him, etc.), suggesting, ironically, that your ability to command an establishment power he seems to partially distrust dictates his willingness to be vulnerable. i havent come to a confident conclusion on that information, but i suspect there might be a knee-jerk reaction to authority going on where the survival/comfort need to pass for "a normal revacholian" (AKA, keep one's head down by not rocking the white- and straight-centric boat) has turned into a desire to do so, and despite himself part of his complicated relationship with an oppressive establishment is comfort and trust in it?

in short—boringness is a quiet and insidious tool of model minoritization and it’s very interesting how the game gets into that

im still working on this one--feel free to share thoughts!

[uniiiquehecrt]

Voice actors are NOT the same as actors.

It takes a specific kind of skill-set and training to be able to warp and meld the voice. It takes a certain kind of talent and dedication to hone that talent into the ability to meld the voice and invoke emotion with one's voice alone. Actors are used to using their voice secondarily to their body language and their facial expressions. It's all mirrored back on camera. They do have nuance. But it's a different kind of nuance and a different kind of training to produce that nuance.

Voice actors might get their likeness transposed on their character's design, and maybe their mannerisms might seep into the character's animation. But when it's all said and done: their presence is in their voice. They are bringing a character to life, showing that emotion in their voice, trying to keep a specific accent, drawl, pitch, tone in that voice and keep it consistent for their recording sessions.

The voice actor is like a classically trained musician who can play first chair in a competitive, world-renown orchestra. The actor (who fills the voice actor's role) is like a moot who played violin in beginner and intermediate high school orchestra and thinks they can get into Juilliard with that 2-4 years of experience.

This doesn't mean that the HS orchestra moot can't play. They can even be really good at it. Maybe they won competitions and sat first chair. But they are not in the same league as the person who's been training their whole lives and lives and breathes to hone their craft using the instrument and all of the training they've ever acquired to perfect it. They are not meant for the same roles. They are not in the same caliber. You do not hire the HS equivalent when you want to play complex music in a competitive orchestra.

Actors are not the same as voice actors.

And furthermore, actors - especially big name actors - taking the roles of animated characters for big budget films or TV pilots makes no sense anyways when - at least in the case of TV pilots - there's not a point to hiring a big budget actors anyways. That money could be used elsewhere (like paying your animators), and the talent that is brought onto the screen for X character could then be hired on to voice said character no recasting required.

I wouldn't say voice acting as a profession is in danger exactly, but it's certainly being disrespected and overlooked for celebrity clout, and this has ALWAYS been an issue. Shoot, even Robin Williams knew that much - which is why he tried so hard not to be used as a marketing chess piece for Aladdin and got royally pissed off when it happened anyways. People shouldn't go to any movie (but especially not animated films) because "oh famous actor is in it". People should go because it's a good movie and the voice acting is good.

People who honest to god think that voice actors are replaceable because "oh well anyone can voice act" or "I like xyz celebrity so naturally it'll be good" ... Honestly I just wish you'd reassess your priorities because you're missing the point and are part of the problem.

Voice Actors ≠ Actors.

[firendgold]

I always block the Manipulative Albus tag obviously but I also always want to block the Good Albus tag because I mean… isn’t that a given? That’s like having a Good Harry Potter tag… like, no shit. Fork found in kitchen.

Like yeah he made some tough decisions but his intentions were good. And, imo, if the information, skills and power were placed in anyone else’s hands - whether it be McGonagall or Kingsley or even Harry himself (as Inverse elucidates)- they would have struggled and failed to do better.

Also like… the Grindelwald stuff was literally a century ago when Dumbledore was practically a child. Why are we so generous towards Regulus Black who probably literally butchered muggles and muggleborns but we can’t forgive Albus who was lower-class, had an insanely difficult homelife and likely faced otherization and racism for having a Native American, muggleborn mother. I think if you can forgive anyone for being radicalised against muggles, you can forgive the teenage boy who eventually lost his mother, his father and his sister because of an anti-Wizard/Witch hate crime.

Ugh.

Most people don't bother to look into Albus' deeper history—and by that I mean the stuff we knew even before Pottermore and Fantastic Beasts and the outside interviews. All of the information about Albus' past is in Deathly Hallows, his race and social status and circumstances—all right there for people to read. But that cements Albus's status as a good but complex character so bashers ignore it or downplay it. And I in turn ignore them.

To your point about the 'good Albus' tag, I think you have to consider what you said first about the manipulative Albus tag. It is so ubiquitous. In just the six years or so since I got back into HP fanfic and fandom, the amount of dumb people who think Albus is manipulative/evil/shady has not decreased. It has quadrupled if anything. Even when using the tag that's supposed to be about Albus and Harry's positive relationship, there are at least 80 fics right now on AO3 that have that tag or similar. You have to block it all to stay sane.

But EVEN if you block the manipulative/evil/greater good tags, lots of other people will write fics about Albus with neither a good nor manipulative tag, but then their Albus Dumbledore will still be wrong. He will be manipulative and want to control everyone, will be untrustworthy for "some" reason not ever quite explained to the reader, will still be pining after Grindelwald and worshipping at the altar of the 'Greater Good' even after age 17. So unfortunately no, 'Albus is a good person' is still not a given in this fandom. The incorrect takes have so deeply permeated the meta discussions that it is very easy to find fics without any labels that honestly need the manipulative tag, even though the authors would probably argue you down about how "problematic" Albus is if you engaged them in dialogue.

(Example necessary probably, but just try to find a Harry/Hermione fic where Hermione doesn't randomly bash Dumbledore and act like she, a teenager or twenty-something, knows better than him, even though canon Hermione had the correct takes about Dumbledore the entire series. Check and I guarantee you that a good portion of them won't even tag manipulative Dumbledore, especially if it's a post-war fic and he's not alive. Incorrect takes abound. :'/)

I think the people who use the Good Albus tag know that water is wet just like you and I do. They know Albus is—well, really morally gray in many aspects, but a good person overall. But these authors are saying, "there has to be some counterbalance. People reading my fics should know that I am presenting the character as he is, and not as I presume him to be".

I personally haven't used the Good!Albus tag because my fics are meant to counter those many false-advertising fics out there that don't tag "I think Albus is as evil and/or controlling as Voldemort" but say that anyway when I try to read them.

As for Regulus Black... don't look at me lol. I think he's an intriguing character—or was before the 'marauders fandom' got their hands on him—but he's not moving any mountains in my fanverse just because his elf was threatened and his feelings got hurt. I'll stick to focusing on Albus.