#it makes me fucking furious to think that society views those things as needing to be ‘fixed’

[rayvern-sheep]

I think out of spite of all tooth whitening & straightening products im gonna give all my characters yellow and wonky teeth, unless they’re vain assholes where it makes sense for them to shill out all the money for it

[pb-dot]

I should state my bias here. I'm a workaholic from a long family line of workaholics. When I write or do something else I'm passionate about, I will knuckle down and just go nuts on it, often working both harder and longer than I probably should. So in short, pushing myself isn't a thing I need to worry about since the turbocharged mustelid that runs around in my brain will have me do that quite naturally without any assistance.

That said, here's some general tips I try to follow re: taking breaks.

1: Take breaks early and often.

Ok, this sounds like a joke, but hear me out. Breaks are natural parts of working, whether it's working with your body, your brain, or your social presence, humans have a natural instinct to stop what they're doing for a little bit and then resuming. Taking a little bit to recover your energy can help you break out of ruts, avoid mistakes born out of exhaustion, and you'll often find yourself working at a better pace after taking a break.

2: Clean Breaks

Breaks are more efficient at rejuvenating you if you make what I call a clean break. I.E. don't just stop writing. Get up. Stretch, get some more water or a cup of coffee/tea, walk around a little maybe. If it's a longer break, consider getting some fresh air. I love a good doomscroll as much as the next millennial (i.e. I hate it and love it like Gollum loves and hates the One Ring,) but letting the writing/reading part of your brain truly rest is important for the exercise of resting

3: The longer view

I came to a point where I realized my working habits wasn't serving me the way I wanted them to. For The Clockwork Boy I wrote the entirety of the first draft in one furious writing marathon in November, and while that worked, I was unable to touch the thing for months at a time afterward. It was while writing the first draft of His Impossible Brushstrokes that I realized two things. 1: This thing was just too goddamn long to sprint, and 2: I'm way happier when I'm writing than when I'm not.

As such, I wrote most of the third act at a slower pace, at most 1k words a day while I did somewhere closer to 2,5k/day at peak frenzy pace. As such, I was able to get back to editing almost right away, and I could even start up my ongoing project, Thereafter with little to no delay. This, I realized, was what I could do when I didn't habitually burn myself out. I also think my writing's better now, but that could admittedly be the practice.

4: Boss Makes A Dollar

One little trick I've picked up from networking with various kind of freelancers is this: You should never accept more pressure from yourself than you'd expect from a boss at a "regular job." Now this is hard because your boss is a real living person who can be wrong about stuff (and has a vested interest in extracting more value out of you than the company pays you, but let's not get into that) and the voice in your head that urges you to Do More is just one of those annoying ways in which you've internalized the deeply unhealthy view society has of work. You gotta unlearn that shit, and it takes time, but it is very important. That little voice in your head when you feel you haven't worked enough? That bitch is a scab and a shill and frankly? Fuck them.

5: Cost/Benefit

So far I've been... let's say solidly on team Take Breaks, but I do believe there are times when it's a fully legitimate option to take off the training weights and do some serious kung fu writing. You have to look at what positive result you can expect from pushing yourself , and I mean concretely. There's way too much abstract reward "protestant work ethic" bullshit to this kind of thing to be left up to vibes. Also, keep in mind that not all costs are paid upfront. Stress and pushing through without breaks do cost the body. Stress, in particular, is insidious because it weakens the body's ability to repair itself, in addition to fucking with your digestion and a whole lot of other things that makes the cost scale in a rather exponential way. If you're anything like me, you'll probably find yourself on the tail-end of a stressful period entirely unaware that you've been stressing until things calm down a skootch, at which time burnout hits you like a sledgehammer, and probably a flu or something as well. At this point there's not much to do but to take the lengthy recovery time that you could have avoided by taking breaks and not just riding that stress dragon to OhFuckhalla.

So, when to push? If you have a deadline, obviously, it would behoove you to up the pace a bit if you're in danger of missing it. If you're on a particularly ripe piece of inspiration and you want to get it out of your system before it all fades away it's fine to go a little harder in my opinion (just don't forget to take a break afterwards, and do not expect lightning to strike twice.)

Lately I've been struggling with knowing when I need to push myself and when I need to take a break.

I really can't tell the difference. Anyone experience this as well and/or have any advice?

[transhawks]

do u feel the reaction to hawks supposedly sticking to endeavor is warranted? idk i feel like no one is giving hawks a bit of understanding like his approach is wrong, but its not as if his own abuse hasnt lead him to idolize endeavor

Here are my thoughts, and I don’t think there’s gonna be any validation for either argument here. 

For one thing, I’ve seen far more people saying that Hawks’s feelings towards Endeavor are warranted due to him being an abuse victim and that it’s wrong to call him an apologist than I’ve seen people calling him an abuse apologist. That might be me looking at the tags. My own views are these: much like with Dabi, things are simply, “this explains it”. It does not ‘excuse’ - what excuses actions are things we find moral. 

Now, as anyone following me knows, I have extreme leftist sympathies and do not believe in non-violent tactics being upheld as more moral than violent ones. Thus, some of the disruptive actions of the league are well in line with my moral values. So, let’s say, Dabi throwing all that stuff in the open during his video? I approved of it. Him burning Shouto to upset his father? Fucked and I hope there’s narrative punishment for it (probably him causing damage to himself).  Similarly, my feelings on Hawks are this: I understand why he idolizes ‘Endeavor’, or the idea of ‘Endeavor’. My whole meta this morning was to explain that his feelings are mostly about himself, in the end. The shining hero Endeavor in his origins is crucial to Hawks’s current of self, and to break that is break him.

BUT.

Hawks is his colleague in a very powerful industry with a lot of social capital. He is not a regular person, but a person with reach and influence and power (though it might be waning). 

Let’s take a different look at this: Endeavor is a powerful public figure exposed for what amounts to forced marriage and domestic violence and child abuse. His whole role in society is to inspire and provide feelings of security and yet in his private life, under the justification of heroism, Endeavor terrorized a woman and her children for twenty years. 

Please understand - if an actor had this much against him, and a colleague of that actor defended them with the reasoning of, “this man means so much to me and has saved my life”, we’d be furious. Or some of us, because the discussions we have in fandom mirror the same ones we have outside fandom when people we like are exposed and accused.  The thing is, the “ideal” of Endeavor has saved Hawks. Endeavor as a person, Enji as a person, has terrorized Rei Todoroki and his children for decades. These are both real things. Where it gets tricky is... does Hawks’s idolization truly outweigh the crimes Enji has committed? Does Endeavor being good in one rather impersonal, honestly parasocial (if we’re talking about him as a kid) relationship with Hawks, outweigh what’s pretty much domestic violence, abuse, likely marital rape? 

Ultimately, I think this discussion is worth it. For years people writing about him have made parallels to the #Metoo movement and Dabi really made the connection by exposing him through social media. When you sit and think about Enji and Hawks and Dabi, fighting past those first impulses to defend your fave, you have to think about what stance you’d take morally.

Do victims deserve to be heard?

Does it matter if the victim is not a good person? 

In fact if the victim later becomes awful, is the abuse justified? 

Or does it really matter if someone terrible was abused?

Do abusers deserve to given chances at power?

If someone is saved from abuse by someone who is an abuser, how is there an reconciliation of those deeds?

Can you admire someone’s work when they’re a terrible person?

Is there a way to still find comfort in that work while acknowledging the harm that person has committed? 

What does it mean for someone to have justice?

We need to ask these questions. They’re important in the world we live in, and through BNHA, we can start thinking about our reactions to when people we admire are exposed to be not good people in real life. 

For my final point, Keigo’s defense, of course, makes sense because Keigo is ... honestly heavily mentally ill. I think his compartmentalization and lack of outward regret for Twice’s murder and lack of reaction to his mother’s circumstances is clear that there’s a lot of issues with Keigo. 

His way of thinking is not healthy; so his reaction to Endeavor is not healthy. I think we can have sympathy for Keigo’s need to keep Endeavor as an inspiration to himself but also agree that the Endeavor Keigo idolizes is a lie, and that it’s unhealthy for Hawks to keep doing so. 

Someone can be wrong and yet very justified in their own terms for that behavior. We can also say that Hawks has a vested interest in keeping the status quo that allows Enji to be a hero, too. And that should be critiqued. Hawks should be criticized for supporting Enji as a hero, even if it makes sense that he does so out of his own trauma which should be acknowledged as the source of his problems. We can say Hawks is wrong for supporting Enji but also acknowledge he’s someone who needs therapy. 

We should stop being afraid over having these discussions. Sometimes people are wrong, and their behavior is wrong, even with a lot of justifications, but you can’t leave it at them being wrong - because before they can be right, they have to be in a better place to understand why they are wrong.  

[tropicalfreckles]

I've been trying to forget a stupid commercial I saw yesterday but it's been bothering me a lot. And it's not even so much the commercial itself, it's mostly how society in general views autism and the ableism that comes with it for how folks think it "effects your children".

So. I saw an ad, for some shit law firm offering legal consultations to parents whose children were born autistic after a pregnant mother ate tylenol while pregnant. Some shit study or something was claimed that it could make your baby autistic.

They framed it as "children with autism have a difficult time connecting with others" and really uped the ableism and ignorance painting it as a bad thing.

I saw red. I was furious. As an adult who would've benefited if my parents had understood and known more about autism and how to be sensitive with an autistic child when I was a kid (got diagnosed right before I hit highschool, dad started calling me forest Gump and r*tard "jokingly" after that but that's besides the point), I think it would've helped me a lot. But unfortunately thanks to hate organizations like Autism Speaks, people on the autism spectrum have so much burnout and depression since only in recent years people have been trying to be better at not spouting stereotypes about it.

Many parents treat it as a horrible thing, some of those parents also were definitely people that had kids to take care of THEM in old age(btw you shouldn't be a parent if that's your mentality), and now they're throwing a dramatic victim tantrum that they can't have that now depending how high functional their kid is. Like the dumbass anti-vaxxers that like to cling to misinformation for example.

And it's just. It hurts to watch. It makes me so fucking sad. Autistic people are seen as those that need to be coddled or seen as an easy insult to people. It's shit, and like, the autism spectrum is such a big scale with how people are very different in their hyperfixations, what stimulates and overstimulates them, whether they're high functioning or low, super empathetic or someone who's struggles with social connection.

A lot of high functioning autistic people have learned how to mask hard that we get written off too.

It sucks that autism is seen as a negative monolith and it hurts many children and teens especially and I wish there was more pushback on ignorance around it.

[darknessisafriend]

You should kneel to your Empress Commodus x Reader

Here it is @beatlebabe1996 I hope you will enjoy it^^ 

Request:  Commodus' Empress is mixed race and she overhears people at the palace making remarks about her and her family even though without her, they wouldn't have trade or peaceful relations with a prominent tribe in Africa. Commodus hears it and defends her.

You had been the wife of Commodus and Empress for a few months now, and you were getting used to your life in Rome, far from your home and your people in Africa. It was different, the Roman society, senators were much different, often dangerous…but Commodus had very soon taught you all you had to know to survive in that rude world. And you knew from the start it wouldn’t be easy, even if you were hopeful. Commodus had fallen in love with you as you visited Rome and discussed with him the possibility of a partnership with his powerful Empire. Later, many had been against your union, an Emperor who doesn’t marry a roman woman of noble blood, it was unusual and disgraceful to the eyes of the senatorial elite.

Tonight, was one of the usual dinner nights were a few senators and nobles had been honored with an invitation to dine with the emperor. And of course you were there, you would never miss an occasion to support your husband and then Commodus got bored without your presence, licking the boots of senators and nobles to get their loyalty was mentally exhausting to him, he suffered enough from paranoia already. You wore a beautiful cobalt dress, your neck and ears ornated with golden jewels, and Commodus couldn’t take his eyes off you, even when you were not standing by his side, you felt him eyes on you, you were beautiful, he loved your chocolate skin and clear orbs, a goddess to his eyes. “I will be back in a minute, love. I am going to get fresh air.” You told him, briefly squeezing his arm, excusing yourself to the guests and heading to one of the balconies of the palace.

“Come on it’s a political choice obviously. The Emperor needs too much the resources of Africa, we need more grain, and lands. She doesn’t have the stand of an Empress; she has a just a pretty face he can exhibit to everyone and a body he can enjoy in his bed.” You suddenly heard a senator say to another guest, thinking they were out of earshot from you. You tried to hide your hurt and took a drink, still heading to the balcony and putting yourself in a corner where you could still hear them talk.

“Ah! Yeah, she is lucky to have this position. From a lost kingdom in Africa and a family so naïve to give us all their resources. How ungraceful…to mix her with roman blood…” another said with disdain. It hurt you more than you expected; you thought you would be used to roman arrogance, but you didn’t…even as empress they dared to speak bad of you.

Tears came into your eyes, threatening to come out, your vision becoming blurry, pained not to be appreciated at your true value, you did everything to fit among them…your grip on your cup of wine tightened, anger rising in your chest, you did everything they expected of you and more, and you were their empress! How dare they disrespect you, insult you, your family and kingdom!?

“Senators. You should think twice before speaking or keep your mouth shut. I feel deeply insulted.” You were startled by the voice of Commodus, strong, commanding…threatening. He stood in the middle of room, any trace of amusement gone; he looked at the two senators that had spoken ill of you, he had heard them, and he was furious.

“Your Highness?”

He instantly silenced him with a gesture from his hand “You deeply insulted me by disrespecting my wife, your empress. Have we not offered you hospitality, gifts and rewards for your good service? And this is how you repay your souverains?” You could feel the room getting cold, fear filling the guests, especially those two senators.

“Look at your emperor in the eyes if you are not a coward!” Commodus raised his voice as he noticed the senators had a hard time looking at him in the eyes and making them jump in fear.

“You deserve the worst punishment for your offense inside my house. However, the most wounded of us all will choose it. But first…” He extended his arm towards you to invite you to join him, his eyes softening as he looked at you, full of devotion. “You should kneel before her, because it is thanks to my wife and her kingdom that you can feed your wives and children. Rome owes her the food you are putting in your mouths. She is saving us from the famine.” he growled, his eyes filled with pure anger, romans were arrogant and thought of themselves as the best, clearly they had a few things to learn. And in fear but also shame, all the guests kneeled before you, you lifted your chin, tears disappearing from your eyes, thankful to Commodus for this intervention, this was how they should be with you, respectful and grateful.  

“The Senate will choose a fitting sentence.” You declared fiercely, democracy first, you would not lower yourself because of your emotions. You were the Empress, and you would show them. “Escort those senators to the entrance.” You ordered the guards who instantly obeyed, humiliating the senators even more, they shouldn’t have been so disrespectful.

“I shall have the Senate deal with their behavior tomorrow. If it was only up to me, I would have you exiled to the worse and most isolated parts of the Empire.” Commented Commodus, not even looking at them, he was disgusted by their behavior and even thought of having them executed. The room remained silent, people not knowing what to do…but suddenly Commodus made a gesture towards the musicians, indicating them to start playing again, everything was to go back as normal.

“Thank you.” You said in a murmur, looking up at your husband who gave you a small smile, he was upset about what happened.

“Anything for you Y/N. I would never accept my wife to be insulted.” He replied, offering you his arm and leading you to the balcony again, giving you two some intimacy. You looked at the gardens, lit by the moonlight, that view appeased you and the pale light on Commodus’ skin had always fascinated you. You looked at him as his put his hand on yours, his fingers gently caressing your skin; he always did that when he was upset, he wanted you to be safe, and happy…

“My love…” you murmured and came closer, burying your face in his neck, feeling his strong arms protectively wrap around you. “I’m happy with you. It’s all that matters to me. With the wellbeing of our people.” Just like him you had a strong sense of duty and devotion; you would do anything for them.

“I’m sorry Y/N. For the way they treat you. I shall make sure it doesn’t happen again.” He vowed, keeping his voice down and yet it radiated anger. “I will make it laws if necessary.”

You chuckled “I really appreciate Commodus. But I have to do this on my own, show that I am your equal and not hiding behind you. I’m not afraid of making heads fall.” You spoke with determination, making him smile, it was so you to say that and he loved that strong spirit of yours, he wouldn’t like to be your enemy, he knew you could be subtlety ferocious.

“Alright, I will let you do, my queen.” He cooed, kissing your forehead. But deep down, he was going to get rid of anyone who would speak ill of you, to his eyes it was a crime. And hurting his love was the worst crime that existed, he will all slay them down, he was the emperor, the judge on who could live and who deserved to die.

Commodus harem: @skaravile @lyoongx @weirdflecksbutok @charlie-sisters @stardancerluv @sgtsavoytruffle @ohcarlesmycarles @rajacero @niniitah-ah @morrisonmercurryphoenix @fly-like-a-phoenix @hopelessdisasterr @stellargirlie​ @rosebloodstuffandthangss​ @clowndaddyfleck​ @jaylovesbats @dreamingmaria​ @sagyunaro​ @just-a-fucking-comedy​ @spaceinvader​ @radio-hoo-ha @lady-carnivals-stuff @sierraclegane​ @legojorny @lemondedeniname​ @hvproductions​ @syvellsworld @papercut-paranoia​ @jokerflecker​ @beautifulyoungprospect​ @bring-your-holy-water @five-miles-over​ @yukis-writing​ @fawnsing @beatlebabe1996​

[refriedweeb]

TAKE WHAT I WANT AND I WANT IT (Katsuki Bakugo + Fem! Reader) 18+!

A/N: @bagel-bee said she wanted a bratty sub!bakugo so they’re gonna get a bratty sub bakugo

Prompt: 18+AU!Bakugo can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but that’s nothing new to you. What the world doesn’t know is that outside of that hard exterior he presents to the world, Bakugo is the definition of power bottom and sub and needs to be put in his place.

Warnings: kinky sex, degradation, after care, edging, oral, and a bunch of other sin to follow

Word Count: 3,881

There were a whole lot of people in the great big world that were terrified of Katsuki Bakugo. You couldn’t say that you blamed any of them for the fear that they felt when the current love of your life spouted off, ever the hothead he’d been since his youth. His quirk was powerful, and dominated his spot in the hero charts. Of course, it’d been no surprise that he’d made his way into the top ten of the hero charts relatively quick, despite his nasty attitude towards others who he viewed were beneath him. He did good work, held himself to a high and impossible standard compared to others, and genuinely just wanted to make a difference despite his arrogant, dominant, asshole nature that put so many people off of him.

But you knew a different side of Bakugo. You knew a great deal more than the public would ever get to know and the truth of the matter was that gave you a feeling of power. The same sort of level you imagined Katsuki felt whenever he used his quirk and asserted dominance. Sure, in the public image and the hero society around him, he might have come off as the sort of guy who would be dominant in all aspects of his life. And this was true, for the most part. Except when it came to acts of intimacy in or out of the bedroom.

In that aspect, Katsuki Bakugo loved begging you to let him do just about anything. He loved giving all the power over to you, was unable to resist the thrill that rose in his chest when you bossed him around. 

At the same time, however, Katsuki was a brat.

He’d come home in a mood from patrol, and immediately tracked you down in the apartment you shared. It’d been a shitty day at the hero agency he worked for, nothing but petty crimes one after another and the general public had been so ungrateful that day particularly. No one was ever really happy about being inconvenienced by crime and fear, he understood that. But they’d been exceptionally vocal about it that day for no reason and it’d really gotten to him. He wanted you. Wanted the comfort and love that came with just being in your presence. Yet, most importantly, he wanted to relinquish all aspect of control about the rest of the day. He wanted you in control, as you always were, when the end of the night came around. 

Bakugo found you in the bathroom, looking as if you were about to get a shower. A makeup remover sat on the sink and you swept a cotton pad over your eyes, removing whatever makeup you’d worn on your face that day. He Let out an exhale that sounded like it had some smoke to it, and you opened your eyes, the two of you looking at one another through the reflection of the mirror while you set the pad down. “Hey hon, you’re home.” You could tell by the look on his face that he’d been through the wringer that day, and your heart tugged seeing him look so tired. As someone with a quirk who had opted out of the route of pro hero, you couldn’t imagine the pressure he dealt with each day. 

Katsuki didn’t say anything, simply shrugged off the sweatshirt he’d been wearing and letting it hit the tiled floor unceremoniously. He drifted over to you, hands needy as they pawed and pulled at the cloth robe you were wearing. “H-Hey!” you said, brows furrowed in momentary confusion as he laid an assault of kisses and nips at your neck, your jaw, you're collarbone. “Katsuki, I’m about to shower can’t this wait-” a hand slipped under the front of the robe, Bakugo messily groping at your breast. Your cheeks were flushed, and you suddenly understood what he was out for. He wanted to egg you on. Wanted to press boundaries. There was neediness in the way he suckled and pulled at your skin, little flowers of pinks and reds blossoming where his mouth attacked. His head was dipped against your collarbone, pulling at the skin there with hungry teeth, but you didn't need to see his expression to know you were right. “Bakugo, stop.”

He didn’t, his thumb rolling over your hardened nipple. You bit back on the sigh of pleasure, knowing this wasn’t something meant to be about you despite how greedy his hands were. “Katsuki,” you sighed, head propped against his as you leaned back. “Katsuki, stop.”

Not even a full breath had passed between your words before he replied with the infamous and tantalizing “Make me.”

It’d been the bratty statement that told you everything you needed to know. You opened your eyes and tipped your head to the side, meeting his. Make me. Such an overrated statement dealing with a brat, but it didn’t cease to make thrills run up and down your spine all the same. “Make you?” You repeated, Katsuki giving a nod of confirmation, that defiant look still in his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” His voice was gruff, tougher than usual as if he’d done quite a lot of screaming that day.

You sighed, shaking your head from side to side. “Get on your knees.” Bakugo’s pupils widened, the contrast against the bright red of those eyes mesmerizing. He didn’t listen, naturally, continuing to toy with your nipple and the sharp tug he gave to it almost blanked your train of thought. Yet, you held fast. Your hand slapped his away and yanked it from its place in your robe, turning from the sink so that you were face to face. “I said, get on your knees.” Nails latched at his chin, drawing in and pushing him to his knees with minor struggle. Despite the bratty attitude, Bakugo wanted this. He lived for this. Relinquishing control to you set him on a new high he’d never been able to reach before. His knees hit the tiled floor, and he looked up at you with narrowed eyes. Anyone who didn’t know Bakugo might have thought he looked furious, angry. But there was something behind those eyes that told you he wanted this.

And you were going to make him beg for it.

Your hand wrenched through the blond length of his hair, yanking it back so the column of his neck was exposed to you. “You’re such a shit, you know that?” You asked, tugging his head from side to side. “Had such a bad day at work and now you come home and expect everyone to lay themselves out for you whenever however, hm?” Your eyebrow was arched, you leaned in closer to him. “That’s not how it works, Katsuki.” You snapped. You released your hold on his hair and gave him a shove backwards, one he was happy to embrace as he leaned back on long, muscled legs. While he adjusted to the new position, you took the chance to undo the cloth belt that kept your robe tied together. It fell open, exposing the curves of your body and smooth, naked skin. The robe fell unceremoniously around your ankles as you hopped up onto the bathroom sink, legs spreading as you kept your eyes focused on Bakugo’s. “If you want to get what you think you deserve, then work for it.”

His eyes trailed with carnal hunger down the curve of your body. From the fullness of your breasts, nipples piqued where he’d been playing with them moments ago, to the curve of your naval, to your thighs and in towards lips that were spread and sticky already, your cunt looking so fucking delicious. Katsuki licked his lips, not needing to be told what to do as he leaned forward. It almost looked like a home free buffet for him, until the ball of your foot pressed in against his forehead, stopping him from his path to your cunt. He growled, upper lip curled in distaste. There was need in his eyes, to get lost in the distraction and comfort of you from such a shit day, and you saw it so clearly your heart tugged. On the other hand, you simply clicked your tongue. “What are you forgetting to ask, brat?”

Your eyes met and his lips pulled down in a frown. Defiant. This wasn’t news to you, and you moved your foot from his forehead to his chest and pushed harder. “Bad boys don’t get rewarded.” 

This was what got Katsuki talking, because he wanted to be rewarded. He needed to be rewarded and he needed to unwind from everything that had happened that day. Letting you take the reins meant that he’d get it, even if he had to swallow some of his bratty tendencies. “Please,” he started, cheeks flushed. “Please, will you let me taste your pussy?”

That was more your speed. A smile on your face, your foot dropped away from his chest and you resumed your former position of spread legs, all for Bakugo to see. He swallowed the thickness in his throat and leaned forward, callused and roughened hands spreading you even further as he drew closer. “Thank you,” he whispered, breath coming hot against your inner thigh. “Itadakimasu,” he purred before pressing in against the heat between your legs.

As he did, your hands settled into the blond of his hair, fingers nestling in as he kissed your inner most thighs, pulling at the supple skin found there. Katsuki was submissive to you, especially when things went awry at work, but that didn’t mean he didn’t like to take his time. Bakugo kissed at the other side of your thighs, pulling the skin between his teeth in a show that was sure to leave a mark. His lips were rough, desperate. And as you leaned your back against the mirror of the bathroom vanity, your mouth dropped into the smallest of o’s as he leaned in to lick a hot strip up the core between your thighs. He wanted to make you feel good, he wanted to be rewarded for doing a good job, and it showed in how he devoured you. Soon enough, the wet sounds of him slurping, nuzzling, lapping up the wetness that he urged on filled the bathroom. Your pants and moans paired nicely with it, he had to say. “Such a good boy,” your breath hitched as he lazily rolled his tongue around your clit. “So hungry for me,” you cooed, hips bucking into his as your own high mounted. Katsuki’s hands pulled your thighs further apart, desperate to get more of a taste of you despite the obvious strain against his pants. He was hard and could feel the slickness of his pre-cum leaking through his boxers. His nose nuzzled in against your flesh, tongue narrowed in on your clit as he slowly pushed two fingers beneath your soaked lips, a thrill racing up his spine at the sound that fell from you lips. He was doing good, you were pleased with him. Katsuki was meticulous as he pumped in and out of you, fingers curled against your walls.

You were barely holding it together, muscles of your legs spamming as he picked up his speed. It was bliss, the sound of him moaning against your sopping cunt enough to send you on a marathon sprint to your orgasm. Any other night you might have done just that, but that desperate look in Katsuki’s eyes when he’d first looked at you told you tonight wasn’t the night to be selfish. Your boyfriend needed you to reassure him in a love language he understood, that you spoke so well. Instead, you threaded your fingers through Katsuki’s hair and gave a hard yank, the void of his mouth and fingers detached from pleasuring you sending a shiver down your spine.

“Such a good little brat,” you cooed, knees shaking as you stood. “Time for your reward.” With gentler hands than before you pushed Katsuki back onto the bathroom floor, kneeling between his legs. Lithe fingers reached for the buckle of his belt, undoing it and the buttons of his pants underneath. His cock was swollen already, strained against the deep burgundy of his boxers. “So needy aren’t you? So desperate to get fucked...” came your idle words as you traced a single finger against the thickness of him, feeling a particularly protrusive vein under the pad of your finger. Bakugo moaned, hips instinctively rutting up against your finger. Truthfully you loved seeing the reaction you could get out of him with the smallest of touches, but you gripped his cock hard as he settled back on the floor. “Behave or you’ll get nothing.”

Bakugo’s expression twisted as he worked to restrain himself, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he fought back on a bratty remark. “Yes ma’am.” He groaned just as you pulled the waistband of his underwear down, swollen length slapping against the muscled plains of his stomach. The head of his cock was swollen, leaking pre-fun as it seemed to throb with a rhythm of its own. He watched with baited breath as you leaned over the head of him, letting a long glob of spit fall from your lips and onto his length.

Katsuki swore he almost came right then and there from the image of it alone.

A shuddering moan found itself in the back of his throat once more as your hand spread the spit around, fisting the angry colored cock in your hand as Bakugo braced his hands against the wall of the bath, the door of the cabinets. You twisted your hands up and down the length of him, watching the pained expression as he fought to keep control of his need to spill into your hands. A wicked smirk touched your lips and you leaned down, lips brushed against the protruding vein of his cock as you spoke. “You’re gonna be good and not cum until I say so, right Katsuki?”

You watched the defined muscles of his Adonis belt flex and contort as he fought back the urge to fuck himself into your hand, push into your mouth. “Yes,” he shuddered, gasping at the pain that followed a moment later from a particularly harsh grip from you. “Yes ma’am!”

Bakugo’s reward came when you lowered your mouth over his cock, cheeks sucking inwards as you bobbed your head up and down with a slow, tantalizing rhythm. Your tongue traced over the violent vein that ran on his underside, pushing his control over his hips to the breaking point. He refrained, however, wanting to keep you happy and keep you sucking him off. The moan that escaped his mouth once your nose brushed over the soft tangle of hair at his base sent a thrill through you, quickening your pace as you felt the muscles of Bakugo’s thighs tighten, the pulse of his cock hammering against the back of your throat. He was close to his orgasm, and you both knew it. 

And just as Katsuki was about to tumble over the cliff of his high, you released him from your mouth with a silent pop - one that was lost in the sound of his cry of dismay. His thighs spasmed, flexing as he tried to rut up into anything to get that final brush of friction he was desperately after. You sat back on your feet, wiping your wet, drool covered mouth with the back of your mouth. “Such a needy little slut,” you groaned, on a bit of a power trip from how close you’d had him to unraveling with just your mouth alone.  For the arrogance that he put on during his professional hours, you were the only one who could get Katsuki so weak. “You want to cum, brat?”

His forehead and body were slick with a thin layer of sweat, and he nodded. “Please, please let me cum, I need it. I need you.” The amount of desperation in his voice sent a thrill through you and you moaned as you started to crawl into his lap, wet lips dragging against his cock as you settled down. White dripped from the tip of his cock and onto the well defined planes of his stomach, and it took an incredible amount of restraint not to just start bouncing on him then and there.

“Do you?” Your voice was bored, languid, as if there were a million better things you could be doing at that moment. Your fingertips trailed over his stomach, causing him to shudder. They raked up and down his chest, moved to trail up your own stomach, to cradle and pinch at your own breasts while Bakugo struggled not to touch you greedily as he had before. He ached for it, could have very well started crying for it.

And when you put out what you wanted into the world...

“Please, baby, please, please, please!”

You took his throbbing length into your hand, lining it up with your entrance. Bakugo watched with hungry eyes as the tip of his cock started to disappear between your folds, the way you sat on him so slow and teasing he could have swore you wanted to kill him. Eventually, you sheathed yourself full of him, your opening settled against the curve of his hips into thighs. Yet, you didn’t move. You clenched around him, relaxed, and reclenched yourself as you sat poised and flushed over his dick. Your hands were braced against his chest, tips of your fingers biting into the hardened skin of his muscles. You felt impossibly full of him, wanting to savor that moment despite the feral whines coming from beneath you. “Beg me,” you breathed, eyes opening as you tilted your head to lock eyes with him. “Beg me to fuck you stupid.”

Tears prickled in the corner of his eyes, and he threw his head back, panting and you hadn’t even done anything. “I need it,” he groaned, fingers twitching to get at your skin. “I need to touch you. I need you to fuck me, I’m fucking losing it, please fuck me. Please, I’m-” His voice cut short as you leaned in, lifting over his cock with your pussy clenched as you moved against him. He wouldn’t last much longer if you teased at him like that, Bakugo knew that for sure.  “Ah, rrrnng, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

It was the last little bit of torture you would put him through for that night. You smiled, small and curt and it was the last string of resistance that snapped that would set the game on the ground and running. You adjusted your knees, pulling them inward as you started to ride Bakugo, hips slamming down into his as you bounced up and down. Meanwhile, Katsuki went wild. His hands found purchase in your skin in the most violent way. Grabbing at the plush skin of your hips, your thighs, pulling and clawing like a man desperate to find salvation. He cupped your breasts, the painful pulls of your hardened nipples only egging you on to fuck him harder, to get him to his high faster. The sound that filled the bathroom was wet, the squelches of your pussy as you sank around him over and over mingled with your desperate moans. 

A hand slipped up to Bakugo’s neck and squeezed there while you rocked back and forth against him. His mouth was hanging open, his panting feverish, and you swore he could have gone cross-eyed. “You don’t cum until I cum, slut.” your thumb brushed over his swollen lower lip as you leaned forward to pull it in with your teeth. “Make me cum.”

That was all the encouragement that Bakugo needed. His hips snapped against yours with enough feverish need you cried out in pain. He was sloppy, how his thrusts were ill-timed and desperate, pounding into you with reckless abandon. Your nails found themselves back in his chest, dug in as he held you down against his hips. Katsuki drove himself up into you, enough to carve you in half with the power behind them. Your mouth dropped open, unable to do anything but mewl, whine, and cry out. His thumb rubbed circles against your clit, equally as feverish in speed as he rushed to get you to your orgasm because he didn’t think he’d last much longer himself. He tossed his head back, listening to the sounds of you calling out his name, growing more and more desperate as you came closer to your own mounting high.

It was a specifically hard drive that sheathed itself right against the back of your spongy walls that undid you, your glaze tumbling around Bakugo’s length, coming undone once more as he continued to tease your clit and fuck you simultaneously. Always such a good boy, you groaned as you rode out the last of your high. “Cum for me, Katsuki. Fill me with your cum.” Those words, spoken breathlessly and of wrecked tone, sent Bakugo spiraling as he shot his load into you. Your hand slipped behind you to fondle his balls, milking him dry as he emptied himself into you until he was spent and shooting blanks. Even when he was spent, Katsuki remained inside of you, flexing his hips against you. Both of your breathing was labored, spent, unable to form coherent words for a moment of time.

You collapsed against his chest, soothed by the feeling of his chest rising and falling. Your sweet, loving, Katsuki Bakugo. Once you found you could still speak, you tipped your head so you could look up at him. “Are you okay, ‘suki?” A hand moved to push some matted blond hair out of his face. 

Bakugo’s hands wrapped around your waist, giving you a squeeze before he answered. “I was frustrated,” he started, voice gravelly and still thick with lust. “Today was one of those days where it seemed no one cared about what we were doing. Ungrateful dumbasses, tch.”

Your expression softened, and you pressed a kiss against his chest. “You know that’s not true. You do important work, my brave hero.” His thumbs ran circles over your lower back as you continued on. “I can’t imagine the pressure you’re under sometimes, doing what you do.” Bakugo turned to look at you, burgundy eyes tired, drained. You kissed the spot on his chest again. “You did so good, such a good job listening today.” You kissed him again, this time closer to his neck.  “You’ll always be appreciated and loved with me, Katsuki, you know that, right?” 

A blush pulled over his features, and he ducked his head with a roll of his eyes. Despite the reaction that would have had anyone assuming the sentiment wasn’t appreciated, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m not a dumbass, you know.”

You laughed, kissing him gently on the lips for a few moments. The desperation from before no longer present, the only thing left behind the deep rooted love you held for one another. Slowly, you pulled away and smiled down at him. “Come on, lets get cleaned up and order in. Your favorite.”

[whalesfallmoved]

hand over wound

round two. 

chargestep, rated t. 1.9k.

a brief, helpless attempt at ortega’s point of view. the shameless flirty banter and back and forth of pre-heartbreak ricardo, whose main goal is being an absolute menace to society- population, sidestep. horribly self-indulgent in every way, but she lets herself get helped in this one, so what can I say.  

ao3 link.

—

She’s got a hard grip and a bite sharp as her bark, and when you finally get her to put her hand in yours it’s not without the same sensation of coaxing a street cat out of hiding, flinching at the first sudden movement. 

Not this time, though. This time, she lets you catch her wrist, lets you turn it over, and— oh boy— this is the most skin you’ve ever seen, sleeve pushed up almost to her elbow, wrists on display, never would’ve thought they’d look this dainty, crisscrossed as they are by scar tissue and branching blue veins and solid as birdbone.

She squeezes that small, angry little fist in your hand and the tendons flex, the knuckles split raw and furious, scabs already coagulating where the damage runs reddest. Her trophies for that blitz quick punch she packs, armorless and fast (but not as fast— not as fast as you— lightning striking twice.)

Fidgeting, antsy, she kicks her feet against your chair, knock-knock-knock, squeezing her mask in her other pink, exposed fist. Jittery, and you bite back something wry and flustering, something that’ll earn you a freeze and an idiot and a blush and oh, you love that even more, how you can watch it bloom freely now, worth the wait and the coaxing to get her to finally tug Sidestep off the rest of the way, leave just Noa and her big, big eyes (deep brown as a hound’s and you weren’t expecting that, for her to be so warm underneath the hard, cold turquoise) and how she desperately needs the mask, they’d never be scared of her otherwise—and with your other hand you loosen her curled fingers free. 

Toss her a grin, tap her leg with yours, pretend you aren’t surprised by how soft her skin is when it’s not covered in skinsuit and blood, the way it’s never seen the Los Diablos sun—at least, not long enough to match the freckles on her doughy cheeks (freckles down her shoulder? her back?) Layers and layers and here she is, in your apartment, hand in hand, and fuck, you can say something about that too. Something about that kiss something about— later.

“So, I was thinking.”

“Wow. Did you hurt yourself?” Reflex, but she straightens up, watches, waits, and you like that too— the way she can’t hear, the way she has to ask.

“A little, yeah,” medkits and rags and clean water, you dab at the cuts and earn yourself a hiss.

“Out of practice, huh?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You wink and that gets you a scowl, a twist of her mouth, and you’re pretty sure if you weren’t you you’d get her teeth, too. Not even Themmy would get away with that, much as she likes them, they can’t cross the hard line of her last name yet, and you’ve earned smug, you think, you grin, you drag the antiseptic across her knuckles while she’s still glaring and pink at the ears—her hand jerks in yours and you squeeze tighter, gentle. “I was thinking about your suit.”

“Trying to give some fashion advice? Pass.”

“First of all, if anyone here’s in desperate need of it—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, not this again.”

“Don’t get me wrong, you make the unwashed seventeen year old boy look work for you, somehow—”

“Asshole.”

“Sorry, would you prefer sexily disheveled?”

“You— shut up,” there it is, her averting gaze, her grooving brow, her pretty cheeks— ow, fuck— her foot ramming into your calf. “You are such a dick.”

“You love it,” wink, sly grin, she glares harder but doesn’t argue, you’ve got her there and you both know it. “And that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

The split cuts are worse than you thought, wounds wiped clean revealing the deep and the raw all laden on top of each other, opened again and again, her smarting palms scratched and torn, not so different from yours when you try hard enough but it’s different (because it’s her?) and fuck, how long has she been doing this?  

Still can’t win her over with the blue and the white and big capital R and the promise of solid health benefits. Too bad. Can’t blame her though, even if it makes your job twice as hard to let her into the systems, to let her put her darting fingers all over the Rangers’ files, to let her anywhere near the missions you need her most. 

“Well?”

Look up, and she’s watching and waiting still, and you must’ve gone quiet for a moment, turning her knuckles over.

“Your suit’s crap.” Homemade and spliced together, practically sportswear these days, riddled with seams and stitches she’s mended. Not bad for a third-rate vigilante, but that’s not her, not Sidestep, not your—

Not your anything, and she’d eat you alive if she ever caught the tail-end of a thought like that. But she’s going to get herself hurt all the same. More hurt than usual.

“It’s just lightweight. Yours isn’t any different.”

“Mine’s definitely different,” fresh white bandages over red, swollen bruises. You wind them around once, twice, taking care. “The material’s outdated. Where’d you get it, anyway?” 

“None of your business,” she snaps, and you half expect her to rip away, pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t. “And it’s not like I can just hit Uncle Sam up for some brand new state of the art gear.”

“I mean, you could.”

“Don’t.”

“I think you’d look good in blue.”

“Ugh.”

“Just think about it. You. Me. Matching uniforms. We could get you a little lightning bolt, right here,” hand over your heart and she’s definitely going to hit you for that one. “I don’t mind sharing the brand with you.”

“Go die in a hole.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Please go die in a hole.”

“Will you join me?”

“Fuck no. I’m putting you there myself. Can’t stand your ass.”

“Good thing you’re sitting down then. Also, thinking about my ass, hmm? Good to know.” 

“Ugh.” 

“Bad time to ask about what other sounds your mouth can make?”

“Try it and I’ll feed you your own eyeballs.”

“Ohh, promises, promises.”

She wants to laugh, catching it quick between her teeth, a soft indent in her softer cheeks, and if you try a little harder you might be able to shake that grin from her, earn yourself a glimmer in her dark, dark eyes—and she’s running out of bark, out of bite, so the first round goes to you as you set her fist down, wrapped, clean and new in bandages that won’t last the next fight.

You reach for the other and she goes willingly, fingertips settling butterfly-light on you, her thumb to the heel of your hand, scars and nicks aligned. There’s something about it, about the skin, about the colder palm that rests quietly in yours, the mods sticking to your bones, and— yes, you like this the most; the way she lets you touch her, even if it’s just this, one kiss in the aftermath of violence and her wrists on display. 

She breaks the silence not with a laugh or a sigh but a shake of her head, a suspicious cant of her eyes to yours, then away; blushed, accepting defeat. You smile, wash her wounds again with the slow repetition of old, small ritual and she knocks her ankle against yours, knee to knee. 

“You’re a deeply troubled and troubling man, Ricardo Ortega.” She finally says, low and almost sweet, and there it is; a dimple beside her mouth, unwillingly surrendered, and the sight unfurls something achy and bruise-deep in your chest. 

And the truth is, you can’t help yourself. “I love the way you say my name.” 

“I swear—” a gasp, an exhale, her bandaged hand meeting her forehead, fissuring that barbed facade of sneers and razor-edged tongues. “You’re so fucking weird. Can’t you just take an insult like a normal person?”

“Oh, those were insults? But they sounded so sweet coming from you.” You reach for the bandages again. Repeat. Gauzy, featherlight loops around her flinching knuckles. 

“God…”

“No need for that. Ricardo works just fine.” 

“How about idiot?” And oh, you’ve got her soft, how’d you manage that? She’s red from her ears down her neck, flush disappearing beneath the black nanomesh, and you wait for her to smack your knee or bring a little teeth but all she does is squeeze your hand, nose scrunched jaw dimpled, melting, and your heart’s tattooing itself to the ribs—maybe you can get her to let you kiss her again, just to see what her lips feel like when they’re not red-slick with iron and sweat and fear. They were softer than you thought. Desperate, too. Almost as desperate as you, and fear’s a thrill a rush a jump but when you thought she’d ended up mashed on the pavement it—

“Only for you.” A tease or a confession and the most honest lie to cross your lips, you tuck the gauze but keep her hand, and she lets you, thumbs over the boundary line of your wrist. Strange. Almost intimate.

She pulls back just enough to trade places, snaring your hand between her own wounded ones, running circles around the emitter, fearless, unflinching, trusting, waiting. Always waiting and never staying long enough for an answer, like you could give her a straight one either way, like you even know what it is beyond aches and bruises and the pained gasp pressed to your lips when you pried her loose and held her tight, Psychopather gone on the ground, victory in the shape of her mouth.

Still, a skip runs down your spine as she massages down, down into the calloused meat of your hand, not even jumping at the kick of electricity, spiteful as blanket static. 

“What, nothing stupid about kissing it better?” She mutters—disappointed?—and of course, how could you miss that chance—but she’s always been better about the plans, a thousand little ways to sidestep dancing around in that lovely skull of hers when all you want to do is charge right in, and as she pulls away you pull back, catch her gauzy, angry fists in your open palm.

She waits. Waits to see what you’ll do. 

You watch, hold your breath, the biting grin gone now, mask shucked loose for a moment when she looks like that, soft and vulnerable in the white-gold light of your kitchen, and she could pull away if she wants, or careen forward, turn it into a punch, into a throttle. 

But she doesn’t.

Her eyes really are pretty, warm brown like the slow burn of whiskey down your throat, and you keep them as you draw her hands up, bring those softened knuckles to your lips, feel the first twitches of a smile that you press lightly against her and— kissing— 

And she raps the back of her fingers against your cheek, barely more than a tap, a reprimand and hey—! She jerks away, stands up, darts from your grasp, gone again. Moved too fast. You sigh, catch yourself, remember to smile. 

“Idiot.” She scoffs, grabs her mask off the table, ducks her head like she’s expecting that soft hair to make a curtain, a shield, but it’s twisted back at the nape and you chuckle, lean back, because it looks like round two is yours again, and you want— you want—

She’s on the other side of the kitchen, working that mask back, turned away, and you don’t ask her to stay, you already know the answer, but fuck if you don’t love to watch her leave, if you can’t wait for round three.

[twilightofthe]

Ohhhhh Nonny do I have an IDEA for this one, thank you so much. I’m going off of your Separatists idea, thanks!

(You also sent me that second Obikin prompt which I shall also answer boy howdy!)

(OTP prompts list found here)

Obianidala 4 - Enemies to lovers AU: Which one switches sides?

In this universe, Dooku tries to catch more flies with honey than vinegar at first. When Padmé Amidala starts stirring up a fuss in the Senate about things that could interfere with Sidious’s plans, Dooku sees an opportunity arise. That formidable personality Amidala uses to command attention to her cause, something like that could be useful to him, to have on his side. His Master will certainly disagree, but Dooku knows that his Master cannot be his Master forever. At some point, Sidious will have to be dealt with; why not have the girl who took down the last Chancellor as an ally?

Count Dooku arranges a meeting with Senator Amidala. He tells her the truth about Sheev Palpatine. He shows her the datapad painstakingly compiled with over a decade of evidence of the Chancellor’s high treason. The entire sordid affair that was invasion of Naboo and Palpatine’s role in it is displayed in full. The truth is undeniable.

Padmé has never been so furious in her life. If what is in these documents is true, everything up to and including her own election as Queen, what she prided herself on for achieving through her own success and talent and by the grace of a democratic society, all of it, was his doing. He chose her. He groomed her. Eight fucking years of her life as a civil servant unknowingly dancing on his strings like a puppet, enacting his will, causing her planet and the galaxy irreparable damage. Gods, he chose her because she was weak-minded enough to hand him the Chancellorship on a silver platter.

Dooku tells her of Palpatine’s plan, of the war he’s been cultivating— too late in the proceedings now for Padmé to do anything to stop it, gods, he’s thought of everything, and his ultimate goal of complete galactic domination. He believes Dooku is his servant, on his side, but, Dooku says, he does not plan to follow him forever. He wants to take Palpatine down, and he thinks Padmé could help him.

She learned all of her political prowess from the man who betrayed her. She knows he has left nothing to chance and that there is no way civil law and political action could knock him off his throne, no matter what evidence she gathers. She doesn’t trust Dooku, thinks he’s just as bad.

But Padmé was a tool in Palpatine’s rise. Anything bad that happens because of him is now blood on her hands by proxy.

Padmé Amidala commits herself to an alliance with Count Dooku.

A slightly less detailed version of the evidence shown to Queen Jamillia is enough to commit Naboo as well.

They can’t tell Palpatine yet, don’t want to alert him to their plan, so for a year they plan in private. Dooku is certain his Master is unaware. During that year, Padmé is told of what Darth Sidious really is, how the Sith factor into everything. She really didn’t sign up for this. This is Jedi-level danger that she has no experience in handling and gods, the Jedi don’t even know about any of this, and while Sidious is awful and Padmé Will bring that bastard down, she doesn’t like or trust Dooku in the slightest. Does not want his ideas of how the galaxy should be run.

But what should she do?

The answer comes when Dooku tells her that he is being ordered by his Master to make attempts on her life due to her rabble rousing in the Senate. He won’t actually kill her, he promises, and she knows he needs her enough that she believes him.

And then the sack of utter shit kills Cordé accompanied by a completely unrepentant message to her saying that it was necessary, and Padmé despises him too and maybe that’s why she’s so eager to lightly push him into the fire when Palpatine pulls her into a meeting with the Jedi about it. Maybe the Jedi can help her, do something, maybe—

The Jedi is the same one who was sent to protect her a decade ago, the one Dooku’s mentioned by name from time to time when he’s humored her questions on the Sith and Jedi, his former grand-apprentice Padmé swears he might still be fond of.

And that apprentice’s current apprentice, and damn, Little Ani has certainly grown up...

Obi Wan is truly brilliant, Padmé didn’t appreciate that enough the first time they met. She’d appreciate it more now, if not for the light suspicion she starts picking up from him near the moment the investigation into her attackers starts. She supposes it could just be dislike of how his apprentice is blatantly, adorably enamored with her— which, doesn’t quite bother Padmé like it should, and no, she is not going down that road right now, nope —and it’s easy enough to tell Obi Wan cares very deeply for Anakin, but she suspects it’s more, that he’s caught on that there’s something she might not be telling them.

Having his intense focus on her though? Not entirely bad. His eyes staring into hers and his smooth voice as he asks her questions? Padmé can accept that. She can accept Anakin tripping over himself, being genuine and kind and so eager to help her. Even if she doesn’t want to tell herself why.

After the second assassin attempt— bugs, Dooku, really? —she can tell Obi Wan definitely knows something is up and says so to Dooku, who had promised her he’d handle it.

Her and Anakin are sent off to Naboo and she knows that bothers Obi Wan— though again, is that more his suspicions about her or his worry over Anakin —and she dearly hopes Dooku doesn’t kill him

During the time on Naboo, she learns much more about Anakin Skywalker, his humor, his brightness, his complication, his anger. He’s mad at the government too, and he feels pressure and upset at who he answers to. He’s ridiculously gone on his own Master even if he doesn’t know it, and Padmé has seen Obi Wan with her own eyes so she understands that completely. He’s beautiful and she’s unable to look away from him, especially not when he’s looking right back at her, kisses her, and no, this is a problem, a Major problem because the crux of the entire issue is that he is far, far too close to Palpatine.

Padmé has spent enough time reflecting back on just how exactly Palpatine groomed her, she recognizes it now in Anakin. He, wine flushed over dinner, tells her of the supposed prophecy he doesn’t quite believe in, how he is very powerful in the Force. She remembers all Dooku told her of the Sith, and while she’s sure he didn’t tell her close to all of it, she knows far more than enough to know that Anakin Skywalker is in grave danger

She sees even more of it when Tatooine and his mother come into play

She needs to pull away from this.

The updates Dooku’s sending on Obi Wan, how he’s being lured, her concern, no, none of this is good.

These are good men, bright men, people who just want to help, and she can’t have them around her because they’ll mess up the purpose she’s gambled her entire life for

So when Anakin gets a distress call from Obi Wan on Geonosis, Padmé grits her jaw, shoves down her feelings, and leads Anakin straight into Dooku’s trap.

The look of utter heartbreak and betrayal on his face once they arrive and are captured, when the droids let Padmé go and she walks away from him, the pain in his voice as he says her name, only her name, nothing else, it breaks her.

But this is it, Obi Wan discovered the clones and the game is put in motion, and Padmé can no longer hide in the shadows, has to sit and watch as the two Jedi are put in the arena to die, looks at Dooku who’s watching them with a troubled expression— she knows he made Obi Wan an offer and was turned down, knows he too sees something in Obi Wan like he did in her, and Padmé has an idea because she sensed a likeness in Obi Wan that resides in herself, that he wouldn’t listen to a shady figure like Dooku, but if she could make him see her view, tell him what was controlling them— controlling Anakin...

Anakin, she thinks, would come too. For his Master, if anything, but she knew they had something and if she hadn’t managed to completely kill it by betraying him.

She tells Dooku she might be able to convince the Jedi one more time to see things their way, and he narrows his eyes suspiciously but keeps the other newly-Separatist leaders from going after her when she tosses two blasters into the arena for the unarmed Jedi.

Obi Wan’s glare at her is pure acid and no, that one will not be easy, she very well might fail, and something in her both winces at the disdain but also ignites at the challenge, he is a challenge and she is good at challenges, but she catches Anakin’s eyes and sees confusion, remnants of that awful pain that makes her faint with guilt, and hope, hope in those eyes as he handles the blaster with the ease of a lightsaber— Obi Wan’s even better at it, Padmé notes with amusement, remembering him expressing distaste for them —she feels her heart jump. Maybe she hasn’t destroyed what she and Anakin had, maybe she hasn’t lost him, maybe there’s a chance to explain—

The Jedi show up and they bring the clones, and now it’s a full out battle, the other leaders are fleeing, but Padmé can’t go, not yet, though she is shameless enough to duck behind Jango Fett and let him handle things when she sees Mace Windu headed in her direction with a look like death on his face, which, fair, very fair, Padmé does kind of deserve it, she did lie to everyone

She’s trying to follow Obi Wan and Anakin, catches a swoopbike and gets a small cluster of droids to follow her when she sees them headed on carrier ships.

This time, when one ship is struck, Obi Wan and Anakin are in different transports, so it is Obi Wan who is knocked out of it and tumbles into a sand dune, and Anakin on his way to get Dooku without even noticing his Master fell.

Padmé is ready to use her droid squad to capture him again so she can explain, but now clones are headed his way too, and her droids and the clones engage in a firefight across the sands, so it is Padmé alone who goes across the sand to offer him a hand up

Her getting flipped onto her back and a lightsaber at her chest reminds her that right, he’s a bit peeved with her at the moment

Wait, she tells him, raising her hands complacently. Listen to her, she says, Anakin is in danger.

His hair is unkempt and there’s dirt on his face and his stare seems more intense than ever. His voice is icy as he replies, and who’s fault is that?

She winces. He is mad that she hurt Anakin on top of everything else, which is also fair, she’s mad at herself too. Not from her, she explains, from the Sith Lord, the one Dooku told you about, did he tell you their name?

His eyes narrow, says Dooku said the Sith controls the Senate

Padmé tells him she’s met the Sith, Dooku is right, and that the Sith not only controls the Senate, they control Anakin, have had their eye on him for a very long time

And there’s that flash of protective fire in his eyes, she has his attention, though he’s trying to act like she doesn’t. She likes his attention, is glad he cares for Anakin as much as she does. He asks her, tone dangerous, what the hell she’s talking about.

Padmé takes a breath. You’re in danger of losing him to the Dark Side.

He reels back ever so slightly, snarls, you don’t know what you’re talking about.

Ask him what we did on Tatooine, she counters, watches as he takes that entirely the wrong way, the flush of cheeks, the second once-over of her, and she can’t help but be amused.

No, she stresses though, because they don’t have the time, not like that. Ask him what he did. He did something awful and if you don’t help him with that, it will get worse and he will deliver himself right into the Sith’s hands

She can see him paling. He knows she’s not lying. What did he do? Who is this Sith?

She shakes her head, tells him that he will not believe her, and that Anakin must tell him himself, and he must still be there for him. You are what’s keeping him where he is. Don’t drive him away. You can’t lose him.

His eyes narrow, he wants to argue with her and the lightsaber is still at her chest and he’s staring at her just as intensely and her heart is tight, but he’s getting a report on his commlink, and she hears something about Anakin about to engage Dooku, and he swears sharply and is pulling out the blaster she gave him and she doesn’t have time to move before he shoots her with it—

And he stunned her, thank the gods, she wakes up handcuffed in a transport ship with a few clones still milling around, she sees the entrance to the cave system Dooku was using off at a distance, she knows exactly where he would be and knows in her heart that Obi Wan and Anakin are fighting him.

The clones, bless them, are still a little new, and her cuffs are in the front and aren’t exactly chained to anything, and she’s in white just like them so it doesn’t take much to pull her wrap cowl up over her head, wait until one isn’t looking, and take off out of the ship at a run, somehow avoiding getting shot until she’s deep in the cave and has time to pull a pick out of her boot and undo the cuffs with her mouth. She can hear fighting in the distance and she may be unarmed, but she feels she was finally breaking through to Obi Wan and she needs something she can control, not Dooku, not Sidious, her, and she bursts out—

And there’s Dooku, fighting what looks like Master Yoda, and there are both of her men, collapsed on the floor, and obviously there is history between Dooku and his old master so neither of them even pay her any mind as she darts across the ground to where Obi Wan is laying slightly over Anakin— who, gods, is missing an entire arm, Dooku you bastard —and is surprisingly, still awake.

She meets Anakin’s bleary, pain-filled eyes, runs a hand soothingly over his forehead and croons softly at him, melts at how quickly he leans in to her touch despite what she’s done, what side she’s on. It’s okay, shhh, it’s okay, rest.

Did you mean it? he asks her, and her heart shatters. Any of it, did you mean-?

I didn’t want to lie, she tells him, completely honest. You weren’t part of the plan, you never were, hurting you wasn’t—

He makes a confused, sad little noise as she leans closer and oh, she can’t help it, she leans down and she kisses him and he presses into it eagerly, she can taste blood in his mouth, before slumping back to the floor, asleep.

What are you doing? She turns to see Obi Wan struggling to wake, glare back on his face, and oh, these two need to have a serious conversation, but that’s not the now. She wipes Anakin’s blood off her lip.

She tells him she is gaining an ally, and when he flares up, adds that she does truly care for him, and wants him safe, and the only way she can do that is if she takes out the Sith who is after him

Why side with Dooku then, Obi Wan challenges, and she smiles, tells him that Dooku too is a threat, and in this position she can try to bring down the both of them—

With help, she emphasizes. I don’t know the Force, there are things they don’t tell me and I am far from strong enough. If you were to help me...

Obi Wan snaps that he is loyal to the Republic, and Padmé counters, is he to Anakin? Padmé catches the break in his façade for but a second as he glances at his broken apprentice still curled up beside him, and she knows she isn’t wrong.

She dares to reach out, brush a loose strand of shiny auburn hair out of his face while he’s incapacitated, tells him, she is willing to help them. They should consider helping her. He stays still while she brushes his hair, watching her hand. Maybe she hasn’t misjudged him either.

Obi Wan is once more cut off by louder noises and the sound of clones approaching, and Padmé sees Dooku getting ready to flee, so she pats both men on the head once more, tells Obi Wan, commands him, keep him safe. We will meet again.

And she’s off, dodging Yoda who’s running back for the Jedi, catching a swoopbike of her own and tearing off after Dooku to escape the planet.

Naboo has a declaration of secession to make, and a war is starting, and for the first time, Padmé feels like she has options.

[cowboisadness]

Hang ‘Em High {Arthur Morgan x F!OC} Chapter 17

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC

Summery: Belle Hawthorne is high society looking to escape her mean husband. A robbery by the Van Der Linde gang could be her chance. Can she escape his cluches and possibly discover what love should feel like?

Warnings: Swearing. It’s that mission y’all.

.....

Chapter 17

Despite the warm and comforting words from the girls, I couldn’t bring myself to speak with him. A part of me wanted him to approach me first seeing as he was the one that kissed me even if we were both thinking it. But that wasn’t going to happen it seemed, given that he hasn’t even so much as looked in my direction the last few days.

Playing dominoes with Hosea was a welcome distraction and a grand change from the mundane chores. He asked me to share a few more stories from my childhood and younger days. He was always pleasantly surprised that despite growing up with more wealth than most and taking part in yearly spring and summer balls with everything that came with that lifestyle I was still a farmers daughter. Getting my hands dirty, not shying from a fight with the neighbouring farms’ boys and my girlfriends and I discussing such vulgar topics that would make any old dame practically recoil in disgust and disappointment. Young women had the same impure thoughts and desires just as much as men, we just had to keep that fact a secret. Sneaking out of our homes in the dead of night to share drinks with the local working girls as they shared stories of the many types of men and even women that paid for their company. Answering any questions we may have and even a few tips that would have us blushing. Hosea was winning, two rounds to him and one to me. I guess he could tell something happened after leaving me and Arthur to walk back to camp. He didn't ask, he didn’t need to.

As we sat, Dutch passed us calling out to those standing around his tent nearby. 

“You tell him, fat man” Micah called out to Pearson as they all congregated.

“It’s peace, Dutch. The O’Driscolls. I mean, I think there’s a way.” Pearson replied, ignoring Micah’s insult. 

This had both Hosea and I’s attention, both of us halting our game to listen in from the sidelines. Pearson continued, how he met a few O’Driscolls on the road and something about being a cornered Tiger when in a fight. Pearson couldn’t even win against a pot of meat and potatoes nevermind a group of rival gang members. He said they are willing to come to some sort of agreement, a parley...yeah right, like that would happen. Hosea seemed to have the same idea, “They want a parley?” He intervened, turning in his chair to give them his full attention. “It’s a trap.”

“Well of course, it’s probably a trap but what have we got to lose finding out.” Micah said, turning back to Dutch and stepping closer to him.

“Get shot.” It was Arthur's turn to air his views on the situation

“We ain’t getting shot because you’ll be protecting us. It’s a trap, you shoot the lot of them. If it ain’t a trap, that slim chance…” Micah put his hands in the air, trying to get them to listen to his sound reasoning no doubt. 

Dutch pushed past them, making his way over to where we were seated, “I don’t see the point in any of this.” The others followed behind before coming to stop around us. Dutch leaned on Hosea for his reasoning but Micah wouldn’t let up in trying to persuade him to seek peace. It didn't sit right with me, Micah enjoyed a good fight so I didn't understand why he wanted this feud to end. And as much as I wanted the O’Driscolls to be a distant memory after what they had done to me I could only see this as hopeless.

“It’s a chance we gotta take.” 

“I killed Colm’s bother, long time ago…” Dutch started, hesitating to continue, pain etched upon his face like he was trying to keep emotions at bay. “Then he killed...a woman I loved dear.” 

It was quiet around the table at that, Hosea standing so I did too regardless of me not needing to be part of this. But I needed to see if Micah could convince Dutch. The former leaned into the table “As you say, it's a long time ago, Dutch.” His voice was low and each word spoken slowly. Everyone looked to Dutch, but he had a faraway look to him, contemplating. And it didn't take long for him to make up his mind. With a slight nod and his brows furrowed he spoke.

“Let’s go. You and me, with Arthur protecting us no one else.” He stated as he walked off

Minutes ago it was the stupidest idea he heard with no doubt it would be a trap, but now, after only a few carefully selected words from Micah it seemed like he believed there could be a chance even after their history and burning hatred for each other. 

I looked at Hosea, I could tell he didn't feel hopeful about this, then I turned to Dutch, speaking without thinking. 

“I’ll come too.”

“No, just the three of us.”

“I want to make sure it's done either way,” I stepped closer to Dutch “After what they did to me...what they were planning on doing.” Before Dutch could speak Arthur appeared beside us, acknowledging me for the first time in days. “Not ‘appening. You’re staying here.”

“But - “

“I said no.” He scolded as he looked down at me with anger bubbling up in his eyes, just waiting for me to retaliate. I clenched my fists at my side, wanting to stand my corner but I knew it would be fruitless. What he says goes, it doesn’t matter what I want. 

Giving him one last look I huffed in irritation at being refused and scolded like a child. Pushing past Arthur to be anywhere else. 

I didn’t watch them as they left.

…..

It wasn't long until the thundering of hooves could be heard coming into camp. Helping to prepare the stew with Pearson in silence as we both awaited their return. 

Two horses came back with their riders. Both of them looking furious as they made their way to the main tent with speed. 

Hosea and Pearson made their way over, all of us realising it didn't go well. What a surprise. I followed behind them, but not before looking out to the direction they came in waiting for the third rider. No sight or beating hooves to be heard. 

“It was a goddamn trap!” I heard Dutch bellow, sat upon a chair in his tent, cigar in hand. Micah was hovering around him as usual, trying to calm the man. Hosea telling them he told them so. All of them arguing while Pearson couldn’t stop apologising from the sidelines, not being heard over the others voices. The volume and tone began to attract others, stopping whatever they were doing to watch and listen. 

During all this, I didn’t realise my feet took me to the centre of it all until I was there before them. 

“Where's Arthur?” 

Neither of them knew. He was set up as a lookout and after the meeting with Colm gave way to nothing but he failed to meet them at the agreed-upon spot. Micah said they couldn’t wait around in case any of them were hanging around to ambush them. So they left. They made no effort to check. 

I just looked at them, dumbfounded. 

“He's a big lad, he can handle himself. He will be fine.” Micah lectured, taking the few steps needed to stand in front of me. Uncomfortably close, his hands on his gun belt and a mocking tone as he spoke. I turned away from him, looking beyond the horses like he was to show up any second. But this didn't feel right. If they had a plan he would stick to it. Turning back the men diverted their attention away from me, expecting me to take it as my dismissal. 

“Are you not going to look for him? What if something happened?” 

It was Dutch’s turn to address me, standing to loom over me. “He’s fine. Probably taking a long route making sure he’s not followed here.”

“But you -”

“Enough. I’ve got more important things to deal with at present.” He turned his back to me

“More important? What the fuck are -” I strode over to follow. Anger present in my voice as I hissed out every word in disbelief. But I didn't get far, a hand gripping onto my arm and pulling me back. Turning to see Abigail. I didn’t even know she was nearby. 

Her grip holding steady as she pulled me further away from the tent. I could hear Dutch and Micah speaking again but I was too irate at this point to listen. 

She didn't speak, she just took me to my tent and waited for me to sit. Once I did I noticed the others watching. Some of them obviously worried. This didn’t feel right. 

@kashasenpai​ @fallout-cowgirl​

[zynart]

stop complaining about sjws and get a little empathy

Here’s my hot take: people dismissing social justice folks for being angry need to get some empathy

This might sound harsh but don’t get defensive and stick with me. If you value calm and civility and reasoned debate, you can live with that

The thing is, it’s understandable to be angry or even overreact sometimes when society’s constantly shit to you.

Being able to either be unaffected by an issue, or have the fortitude to be calm no matter how much it upsets you, shouldn’t be a prerequisite for your thoughts to be valid. If anything, shouldn’t it be the other way around: if “SJWs” are angry, why not try to understand what about society is that upsetting for a given person? Why not try to understand why they might be angry?

Why not have approach it with generosity, thinking of them as people as fully human as you are, as people who collectively have similar human thresholds for bearing suffering or injustice, who rightly have anxieties and fears and resentments about the state of the world?

Why not think of them as people who deserve the same respect and empathy, where we don’t demand that every single one stay perfectly calm and be perfectly informed and study up on the details and have the rhetorical fluency to be on fair playing ground against some 36-year-old conservative doing tours on campus

Why not listen—in good faith, with a fair representation of their concerns, instead of Weissian strawmen or cherry-picked examples—to the angry, period?

If you’re actually trying to understand a social phenomenon, and not just nursing some generational resentment about how the kids these days listen to too much rap music, or bitterness at the idea of being challenged, or if you’re not just making a public spectacle of your own process of resolving the cognitive dissonance between your view of yourself as a brilliant defender of liberal and updated social norms—which I honestly realize can be a psychologically distressing experience, with how much a central thesis of this file may be that so much of the dysfunction of Online is that we’re all flawed human beings lashing out at each other over our discomfort with resolving cognitive dissonances, which I can see particularly stings if you’re thin-skinned and take it very personally—where you’re taking the idea that you may be less relevant or valuable or correct as ideas march on, or just opposed to change, or even just in deliberate bad-faith instead of self-deluding bad-faith

Instead of all this, why not be constructive. Why not try listening to the hurt, to people who feel oppressed, to try to understand what’s causing it and trying to find a way to make it better?

People don’t like being angry. It might feel cathartic sometimes, and that might feel good sometimes, but nobody likes being angry and the idea that people passionate and furious about social injustice just like being angry is condescending and dehumanizing, just a little bit, isn’t it?

People don’t like being mad! Being angry doesn’t generally feel good. It sucks. It’s draining. People aren’t doing it for fun. People aren’t just having a lark when they speak up about things that, more often than not, will get them flooded with both well-meaning condescension and outright harassment. There may be a few exceptions, but assuming that everyone that’s upset about the way things are is just that is an extremely uncharitable view of humankind: odds are, for any group of people, they’re fundamentally just like you, and that includes the vocally angry and the outspoken.

If a group of people in society is upset about something that they experience, it’s just a bit callous to demand that every one of them meet a certain standard of calm and respectable. People that can remain calm are the exceptionally reserved. People who remain calm are going above and beyond what we should expect of them so they can try to politely convince everyone else. That shouldn’t be the expected standard, that should be seen as a gesture of politeness

Even within movements, even among people who share the same goals, there seems to be this expectation: the idea that those in a movement that are angry or upset are embarrassing and counterproductive and a hindrance to achieving your goals, that they are people you need to quickly disavow so that the people you’re trying to convince will take you seriously.

I understand that impulse. It can be frustrating. But it’s still kind of a shitty thing to do

Abandoning the parts of your movement that express themselves in less “acceptable” ways is starting from weakness, already ceding ground.

You shouldn’t play along in invalidating your movement. You should demand that their anger be taken seriously, explain that it’s a valid response. You should view yourself as a representative or an ambassador for that justified anger, and for all those folks that are justifiably angry

If I’m part of a movement and I’m calm enough to be identified as a “reasonable” social justice person, why the fuck would I embrace being used as a bludgeon to discredit the valid anger and reasoning of people who believe the same things? My calmness doesn’t refute their anger, it complements it.

[back to home]

[kinetic-elaboration]

December 2: 1x26 Errand of Mercy

Errand of Mercy is truly a trip. I’m swiftly losing my ability to be coherent because I need to go to sleep but here are some attempts:

First of all this is, of course, a straight-up, pure, unfiltered Kirk/Spock episode with a tiny bit of unrequited Kor/Kirk on the side. Like, we’re not even going to pretend to find stuff for the rest of the crew today. I see you, Gene Coon.

This is the first Klingon ep. I just... the actual Klingon-centric episodes ARE good, but the Klingons in general are pretty boring and I legit don’t understand why they became the standard Star Trek villain. (DC Fontana apparently thought that it was because their make up was simpler v. the Romulans, acc. to Amazon trivia and....I’ll buy that.)

Is the “cultural scale” called the Richter cultural scale? I seem to recall another scale with the exact same name....

I get why there would be such a scale but they are dead wrong about where the Organians fall on it.

Anyway not to harp on this yet again but @ fanom this isn’t the military right?? Lol

Oh, no, it’s Code One! No idea what that means but the music tells me it’s a big deal and it’s bad!

“Curious how often you humans manage to obtain that which you do not want.” He’s talking about war but I can think of some other things that fall into this category.

I think it’s pretty funny that Kirk records his Captain’s logs in public.

CAPTAIN SULU.

“There’s a war happening, so Mr. Spock and I will just leave the ship... together.”

“You’ll get out of here, Sulu, and leave Spock and I... alone.”

“You’ll fall back to rendezvous with the rest of the Fleet in the Laurentian system.”

Why do these people show no interest in us beaming down into their village? Hmmm, I wonder. If the Organians really were what K and S think they are, beaming down in that way would be uh a bad idea.

Spock seems much less awkward at gesturing than Kirk does.

Finally, by the end of the season, they’ve figured out the context for the Enterprise: Starfleet, the Federation, etc.

I wish the Organians were our alien overlords and taylor.

So the Klingons are a military dictatorship.

Kirk finds them so frustrating. I feel like this ep falls into the genre “Kirk is frustrated by hippies.” All this generic peace talk and faultlessly chill attitudes are just not him.

“I’m a soldier, not a diplomat.” That’s why Spock likes him so much.

The Organians are trying to follow the Prime Directive but Kirk is making it SO HARD.

“Space vehicles.”

I know the Klingons are actually supposed to be in yellow face but you know what it looks like black face to me and I RE-ALLY wish they had not done that.

They look good in those Organian outfits. Love that they kept their command and science colors lol. I feel like this is the sort of outfit AOS Kirk wishes he had in that boring ass closet of his.

Mr. Spock does not look like an Organian.

I MUST know more about these “not uncommon” Vulcan merchants. “Dealing in kevas and trillium.”

KOR IS SO INTO KIRK. This flirting is the least subtle. “You’ll be taught to use your tongue.” “Where is your smile?” “You’re a ram among sheep.” “I need your obedience.” “You seem to be in command.” Is all of this supposed to sound sexual or...?

Right up there with “a stallion must first be broken.”

Whereas Kirk is so not into this. That expression says, “Don’t even think about talking about Spock’s tongue.”

The mind sifter is actually a crazy advanced sci fi machine and STID wanted us to think Klingons don’t have warp usdfsf go fuck yourself.

Kirk is so turned on by Spock’s mental strength.

Every spare moment of this ep is given over to K/S flirting. They legit act like an old married couple. “I thought you were going to fight that guy.” “I just might.” Or whatever.

I love that Kirk’s method of fighting is to literally launch his WHOLE BODY at enemies.

Whereas Spock’s there just running awkwardly in the background. He is Not coordinated friends.

Kirk’s speeches ARE admirable. He is lacking context here but in general if they WERE an oppressed people, this should be inspiring.

“For some reason, he feels as though he must destroy you.”

This Kor and Kirk scene... Kirk literally canNOT stop himself from flirting. His default smile is Charming. “Nothing...inconsequential [was destroyed] I hope...” Flirty smile, wink.

GO CLIMB A TREE I MEAN WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT.

We are the same species...tigers...hunters

Is this not the same cell they always use?

I feel an “and there was only one cell” fic coming on...

The Organians are actually kind of hilarious. They’ll basically let these rando aliens do whatever they want, as long as they do no violence. That’s it, that’s the one rule.”Your captors planned to do violence to you, and to that I said...naw.”

THIS is real Pacifism @ Commander Spock.

Kirk ready to go out in a blaze of fire for a bunch of annoying hippies like “I’m going to white savior you now, ungrateful Organians.”(I say this with love; I love him.)

Can you believe Kirk and Spock are about to die in an unwinnable fight of 2 against Lots of Klingons, and they’re using their last moments to FLIRT AGAIN?

Gene Coon loves writing dialogue in which Spock calculates statistics and Kirk is turned on.

Also can you BELIEVE he just pulls Spock along by the arm? Any excuse to touch him.

Okay the Organians are officially tired of your bullshit.

Too hot! Hot damn!

“We find interference in others’ affairs most disgusting.” Prime Directive! Like I said!

This is basically the plot of A Taste of Armageddon except in that ep Kirk was the Organians.

“People have the right to handle their own affairs.” Is he wrong though??

The Organians are like “okay, we all had our fun here, now get out. Seriously.”

Can you imagine how fucking weird it would be to just randomly see this alien dude materialize in the White House, or, like, Starfleet San Francisco HQ, or wherever the “home world” of the Federation is supposed to be? Just a little throwaway line in there.

By the end Kor is just straight up hilarious. He’s giving off real Ian McKellan in Vicious vibes when he says “I can handle them.”

“I guess that takes care of the war.” Yep! Very efficient!

The “it” in “It would have been glorious” is DEFINITELY not the war lol.

Good game, good game.

“I was furious with the Organians for stopping a war I didn’t want.” I’m sorry but could not THAT have been the plot of STID?

“Spock, your math was wrong the whole time.” And now Spock and Kirk can BOTH sulk lol.

Those were all of my liveblog thoughts and it’s late but.... I had so many additional thoughts on this episode... Like a lot more.

First, I love when humanoids turn out to not be humanoids, that’s one of the best things.

Second, I think this is a very gutsy episode to air at the time, and that it would still be a gutsy episode to air now. I feel like it’s one of the peanut gallery’s favorite criticisms of ST nowadays to say it’s “colonialist” but this ep makes it pretty clear it’s not--that’s the opposite of the lesson of this story.

To attempt to explain better: I completely and unironically love Kirk but I do recognize that like all 3 dimensional characters he has flaws. In this ep, I thought that while his speeches and general point of view and strategic plan were definitely right for situations a population is oppressed--that people do have the power to fight back against dictatorships, even when the odds are bad, and that it is worth it to have the courage to fight back against such oppression--he was ultimately shown to be wrong in this instance because he wasn’t actually coming into that situation. He didn’t understand as much as he thought he did. He thought he was going to be the savior here: taking control for peoples who didn't know better, saving them from oppression, and then gifting them with technology and advancement as he understood it. The Federation wouldn't have enslaved them, but the Federation did want to use them. But the Organians really truly didn't need help--the native people understood their own needs better than the outside people. That's the lesson I took from the episode. Your intentions can be good but if you're coming into a foreign situation looking to control it, without understanding the actual people involved, you’re not being a true friend or ally, and you're likely to do no more harm than good. Opposition to tyranny has to come from the source, the oppressed peoples themselves.

When he refers to “weak, innocent people” standing in the way of superpowers in the beginning--he’s not attempting to derogatory, but that is a pretty demeaning characterization.

I also thought it interesting that the Organians can take any form they want and put their society at any stage of "advancement" they want and they chose a basic agrarian aesthetic. Cottagecore rights.

Kirk really had a confirmation bias when it came to the Organians. He had an image of them--innocent, weak, oppressed--and he only took information that fit with that characterization, rather than listening to them and what they were saying.

My mom and I also discussed whether this was IC or OOC of Kirk. I’m of two minds, myself. I think Kirk at his best is much more open-minded than this. His core morality is good faith, peace, friendliness, and care for all life forms, and there are plenty of examples of this (Charlie X, Mud’s Women, and The Corbomite Maneuver all immediately come to mind.) But he does have a blind spot that I think comes up often enough to be canonically part of his character: if something is threatening or killing his crew, or his people more broadly (the Federation), then ALL he cares about is neutralizing the threat. Rare alien? Possible scientific discovery? Might not have the full details of the situation? Doesn’t matter. I’m thinking The Man Trap, The Devil in the Dark, Arena. He wants to protect aliens, but not if the alien is killing his crew. He wants to make overtures of friendship, but not if the new being has already been aggressive.

I mean like I said... a part of me is like "no he is better than this!" but another part is like... well he does have that 'soldier' side of him, he is intensely loyal to his people. The “evil” Kirk of The Enemy Within. I think he just sometimes gets these blinders in certain situations when he's just sure he's right, which is very human.

Also although he's between McCoy and Spock on the continuum of "an objective right thing exists for all people and in all situations and we should always follow that morality" and "morality itself is relative, we should be respectful of alien ways of living even when we don’t understand them" I think in general Kirk and the show is more like McCoy. There IS a right morality here. (I’m thinking of The Apple or even A Taste of Armageddon.)

I also maintain that to say in 1967 "the very personality trait of being warlike is a common denominator between enemies at war" is a dramatic statement.

My mother suggested that Kirk was “strangely appealing” in his desire to save the Organians, with or without their help, and I do agree... I think that’s the complexity of the episode. The overall thrust of the plot is that Kirk was wrong--he’s left embarrassed at the end. I stand by what I said above. And they certainly go out of their way to show that the Klingons and Federation have something in common--namely, as I said, their very capacity to wage war, and interest in waging war.

BUT, as much as I get the point that they have certain similarities with the Federation--and I think this concept of 'these war-worthy disagreements seem trivial to an advanced and neutral species' is interesting, and even more so in comparison with A Taste of Armageddon which, as I said, is this same scenario from the Organians' POV essentially--at the same time it's a bit irritating to hear the democratic Federation compared to the oppressive dictatorship of the Klingons. Like yeah, okay, none of them are light beings and they both wanted to destroy each other--point taken. But would the Federation park itself on a random planet and kill 200 people the first day? I think not. So in this sense Kirk IS right. The Klingons are an adversary worth fighting, just not over the Organians.

I don’t know what I would think of his position if the Organians were being harmed but were also just...actually sheep. Like I guess I would say "well they have to have a reason.” And in fact they did--their bodies cannot be harmed, so they really don't care if the Klingons pretend to harm them. But I just can't comprehend people being like really honestly okay with that level of oppression, as opposed to too scared or too beaten down or too brainwashed to fight it, which is different.

...And from there we went into a discussion of curative v transformative fandom and yet more on what’s wrong with AOS sdfasfjsaldf it’s past 1 am I can’t be stopped BUT I SHOULD BE STOPPED.

[badacts]

eyes on me (pt.4)

This fic is about Gotham’s revenant problem.

(part one) (part two) (part three)

Gotham is a stinking, ratshit city sulking in a sickly combination of sea fog and smoke. Goddamn, Jason missed it.

Things he didn’t miss so much: being in the same locale as his own headstone. 

He’s aiming for the grave of Marc Rand, recently undeceased, but his feet move of their own accord to a spot on the northern side of the cemetery. He’s been here once before - it was raining, and he’d been sick when his boots stirred the smell of wet soil underfoot, spent the night shaking and sleepless in the dingy studio apartment he’d been squatting in.

Now, his helmet filters that out. He takes in the smooth white marble of the twin headstones, one for Catherine and one for him. A memento to his old life, still bedecked with a bouquet of white carnations. 

He’s not sure what possesses him to look closer at the flowers. They’re fresh white, unstained by smog and age so far, with a card on the tie binding the stems. He’s expecting the name of one of Bruce’s society pals, looking to make nice by dropping flowers on some dead Crime Alley kid’s grave, or maybe some stalker Wayne fan. 

Instead, the card says: I am the soft stars that shine at night.

“I am not there,” Jason murmurs, words falling like stones into the silence, “I do not sleep.” 

He always loved that poem. It’s either a particularly on-the-nose joke on Bruce’s part, or something else entirely. And he knows it’s Bruce - even in the florist’s typography, the ‘- B’ is instantly recognisable to a child who grew up in Wayne Manor.

So that’s why he follows Tim back to the Cave from the hospital. That, and the fact that his replacement may or may not fall off his bike on the way without supervision.

Of course, Timmy doesn’t seem particularly pleased to have his help. If looks could kill, Jason would be dead for the second time right about now.

“Just sit there and don’t touch anything,” he tells Jason, pressing an ice pack to the back of his head with his left hand while typing at the computer with his right. He sounds grumpy. Not angry, as such, but still low-key pissed that Jason dared give him a teeny, tiny concussion.

Really, he should have caught himself. Jason is good, but so is Red Robin, and Red Robin can’t afford to be taken out by an (admittedly ably assisted) tumble on a rooftop.

Jason is going to keep putting down the fact that Tim did get him in a chokehold to his brief moment of mistaken sympathy. He’s going to have a bruise in the shape of Robin’s shinguard on his throat to remind him of that, too.

“Here,” Tim says, files folding out across the largest screen. “This is everything I have on Rand. I’d read it to you, but I’m still seeing double.” Because he’s dramatic as hell.

“I didn’t grow up on the same street as you, but I can still fucking read,” Jason snaps, waiting for Tim to vacate his personal space before he steps closer to the computer. There’s a discarded batarang there, gleaming black against the table, and Jason can’t resist picking it up to feel the familiar weight. Tim isn’t watching, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Probably.

Of course, before Jason can start the aforementioned reading, the Batmobile pulls into its spot, its familiar snarl cutting to silence. 

It’s not like Jason didn’t know there was a decent chance of running into Bruce when he came here. It’s just that he’s never as prepared for it when it actually happens as he thinks he will be beforehand.

Batman is hard to read in the cowl, but Jason can tell he isn’t surprised to find the two of them here. His attention jumps to Tim, still holding the ice pack, and he demands, “What happened?”

“Hit my head,” Tim replies, surly, with another of those killer looks at Jason. “It’s fine. We’re going over the Rand case.”

“Let me look,” Bruce replies, pulling back the cowl and letting it hang down his back. Tim, sighing, allows it with bad grace. “Were you knocked out?”

“No. It’s a mild concussion.” 

“They just don’t make Robins like they used to,” Jason says lightly, because he doesn’t want to watch this - the Bat clucking over his newest chick.

“I’m not the one that died,” Tim points out. He’s a shithead, and any regret Jason might have felt over giving him a head injury evaporates.

“Not yet,” he says, and even he isn’t sure whether it’s a threat or not.

Bruce pulls away from Tim, pressing the ice pack in Tim’s hand back into place. “We’ll get Leslie to check you.”

“I’m fine!” Tim exclaims, waving his free hand in exasperation. 

“We don’t take risks with head injuries,” Bruce says, like it’s a lesson learned by rote, right before he turns his gaze onto Jason. “Did you do this?”

Jason shrugs. “I maintain he did it to himself. Turns out he’s clumsy as hell.”

“Fuck you,” Tim mutters at him. Jason would have gotten a double swear jar penalty for that one, but Tim doesn’t even get a look.

“You injured him. Again.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “It was an accident, Bruce. I’m fine.”

“This,” Bruce points at Tim, like he’s pointing at a little cuddly bunny rabbit, and not a buck-sixty of highly-trained muscle and creepy, canny brain, “Cannot happen again.”

Jason leans back against the desk, casual. “Well, that’s it, Timmers. You had a good run, but Dad says no head injuries ever again. Time you retired.”

Bruce is scowling. “That’s not-”

“Or I can lend you a helmet,” Jason cuts him off, smiling. “The colour’s right and everything.”

“This isn’t a joking matter,” Bruce snaps. “You nearly killed him.”

It’s an atomic bomb of a comment. Just like he meant it to be. Tim looks surprised, but he shouldn’t. Or maybe Bats doesn’t talk to him that way, saves it all up special for Jason.

“Yeah,” Jason says, stripped bare of anything but the truth - no attitude, no humour, nothing, “I did. I hurt him. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill you.”

There’s plenty he doesn’t regret. Plenty of blood on his hands he’d happily get all over again. But there are also things he would take back, starting with the sick bite of a chainsaw between the vertebrae of drug pushers and ending with his bullet in Tim Drake’s shoulder. 

Doing what he does is a necessity. He believes that to the core. The taste for violence, the pleasure in it, the crack and wavering of his control - that’s dangerous for him. It’s an addiction that he needs to kick. 

He’s not sure if his words are offering that up as supplication, or just rubbing what he’s done in Bruce’s face. Bruce doesn’t give anything away. He never really does; not for free.

“And every time you did, you took yourself further and further from what that represents,” he says, and points at the thing Jason has been trying to ignore this whole time.

His old uniform, enshrined and adorned with the worst inscription Jason has ever fucking seen. It’s certainly no do not stand at my grave and weep.

Because Jason isn’t dead, but the kid he was? The kid that Bruce claimed as his own, the one he claimed to love? That kid is. And this is the grave.

A good soldier. A good fucking soldier.

“Bruce,” Tim says, and he sounds tentative. He’s watching Jason’s hand, while Bruce is looking him dead in the eye.

“Every time you do, you prove me wrong for ever letting you wear it,” Bruce continues.

“Fuck you,” Jason rasps, and throws.

It’s a direct hit. The glass cracks and falls in a cacophony, echoing in a roll across the cave to the point it compounds on itself. The batarang lodges directly into the armour over where Jason’s fifteen-year-old heart would have been.

“Fuck you,” Jason’s mouth says. “I was never your soldier.” His brain, that part of him that has been getting quieter and quieter since he left this place, the useless part that screams you replaced me over and over, is deafening. All he can hear is that, and the insistent thrum of his own heart.

There are hands in the front of his jacket. He and Bruce are eye-to-eye, and it gives Jason a great view of his rage. In that moment, Jason has never been surer that he’s about to be hit, and that’s saying something, considering his entire life.

He’s holding the front of Batman’s uniform so tight that his nails are breaking on the kevlar weave. 

“Stop.” That’s Tim, probably not for the first time either. But this time he prises himself into the space between them, unignorable. 

Bruce leans back immediately, letting Jason go. Unfortunately, Jason can’t quite convince his hands to release, or his brain to stop screaming.

Tim is holding his wrists, face very series. He whispers, “Breathe.” Jason wants to break him in half, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t, and he doesn’t.

His fingers relax.

“Gentlemen. What on earth is the meaning of this?”

It’s Alfred. He looks furious.

All three of them freeze. Then Tim lets go of Jason like he’s on fire. It would be funny, if it weren’t for Alfred’s gimlet gaze bearing down on them. Or if the entire preceding five minutes hadn’t happened.

“Master Tim,” Alfred says after a long moment where none of them move, “I believe you have some homework to finish.”

Tim opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, and then sees the escape route for what it is and takes it like the scuttling schoolboy he is. 

Once he’s gone, Alfred turns. “Master Bruce.”

There’s a very long silence. Then Bruce says, “Hrn,” and turns away in the direction of the showers.

That just leaves Jason, still taut with adrenaline to the point his hands shake, standing below, and Alfred like an avenging angel above him, and a pile of glittering glass shards in the corner.

“Master Jason,” Alfred says, and then smiles. “Welcome home.”

[txchikaze]

@viciousvizard​

Hiyori sensed his reiatsu before she actually heard his voice or even saw him. Once again, Kensei just bulldozed past all of her evil looks and her STAY‌‌ THE‌ HELL‌ AWAY FROM ME reiatsu waves she was sending his way. Seriously, he breezed in, looking all muscled and mildly tanned like he’d just been on holiday and not the fact that he had willingly marched straight into that hellhole and serve it again. She had never thought Kensei would bend at the knee for those fuckers.

Her eyes narrowed. Sulking was putting it very nicely. Hiyori had not only thrown a massive hissy fit when she had heard the news, but she had been so enraged that she had refused to say goodbye to any of them. And in typical Hiyori fashion, immediately regretted it the moment her friends’ reiatsu signatures vanished. She might have cried in her room a little but not a single soul knew that.

They had left Hiyori. Just like Hikifune. She knew she would never hear from them again. They had their brand new lives. Their brand new starts.

Love often consoled her about it- respect their decision. If you love someone, then you respect their choices. Even if that choice was dead fucking WRONG.

… But she did suck it up. Not enough to make any sort of contact with them or ever bother attending her follow-up appointments back in the Soul Society… but just enough to… admit that she really, really… missed them.

Her heart lurched at the sight of Kensei in that captain’s haori. Like she had stepped in a room of clocks and gone back in time when Kensei had been that no-nonsense captain of 9th Division. Ordering Kasaki and Eishima around again…

“Ya smellin’ and lookin’ like a damn shinigami, some nerve ‘ta show up here. This place-” Hiyori gestured towards the dilapidated warehouse, “don’t welcome no scummy shinigami! Whoever let ya in is also a damn traitor and‌ I’ll kick their ass!”

“Uhuh… and weren’t you the one refusing to eat for weeks because you missed Kensei shouting for dinner to be ready?” Love pointed out unhelpfully from a ledge above them. He turned the page of his manga, the expression behind his glasses was inscrutable but he didn’t want Kensei to feel unwelcome. And it was obvious Hiyori needed to heal in more than just physical ways.

“Oi, LOVE!”“

She threw Love a rude hand gesture before glowering back at Kensei. “Where’s the rest?‌ Too good ‘ta be seen with us now? Is that it, huh? Ya tell all them damn baldies that we’re doing just fine without any of ya! Look, still in one piece!”

Seriously. If they were just going to go back to Soul Society, they should have just left her to die. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with losing her family.

--- “We were shinigami when we got here,” he countered coolly. “We didn’t stop being shinigami. We fell from grace, but that does not change our very code..” Kensei had never shaken off that dutiful feeling, nor his habits, drilled into him as an officer and captain of the gotei. He had proven it time an time again, and especially when he chose to fight in the humans’ war in the fourties. 

      He knows this is where their views differ immensely. He and hiyori had always seen eye to eye on most things. Their temperaments were the same. And beside Shinji { and maybe Rose }, he likes to think he got along best with her. He could at least recognise that she viewed this as a betrayal, but she had viewed his helping the humans as the same, and for that she had eventually forgiven him too.

      He shot a glance up at Love, seemingly unperturbed. Good old love. Voice of reason and calm. What would they have done without him? He battled high emotion with calmness, or logic, and the numbness with humour. At the moment he gave him a slight nod, as if encouraging him. Kensei crossed his arms over his chest and focused his attention back on Hiyori. “’S just me right now. I wanted to come alone.” But he is sure the others will follow soon, now that they are getting more settled, back in the Seireitei. 

      Kensei smiled a little at Hiyori’s furious declaration. That girl had always been fire, bravado, and angry justice, which was probably why they got along. “I can see that.” He concurred. “Wouldn’t have left if we didn’t think you’d all be fine.” Love shifts, and when Kensei instinctively looks up he can just catch a scowl before it is hidden behind the pages of the man’s manga. Ah.. Had he said something insensitive? Every second thing that came out of his mouth seemed to earn that distinction. 

      His own brow furrowed. “We’re not gone forever, you know. I’m here, aren’t I? Stop being so damn sensitive and accept this new reality just like you’ve done a century ago.”

[srwestvikwrites]

Privilege is the Haven of Thorns

I wrote this post the week George Floyd was murdered. I was angry, and tired, and confused, and increasingly more apprehensive in my capacity as a person and as a writer as I was drawn in to the immense whirlpool of the zeitgeist gripping the internet and society. 

It was such a complicated and emotional time. I was wracked with guilt at not going to the BLM protest in Madrid because we had just opened up into Phase 2 of the desescalada and I was scared of COVID. I was furious at the denial of individuals in my home country of Singapore who refused to believe that just because our race riots were in 1964 and not 2020 that it meant we had no more issues of systemic discrimination or privilege to challenge. I was exasperated and uneasy and inspired at having been drawn into a massive shitshow about race that rocked the Tolkien fandom within the same timeframe.

All of this made me question my place and my purpose as an author writing a story like Haven of Thorns. It doesn’t dwell on these issues, but it draws on them, in the same way that my life doesn’t linger on the colonisation of my home country or the country of my ancestors (India) and yet is irrevocably shaped by this history. 

Haven of Thorns was always going to be a story taking place in the strange rivers of colonial legacy. It is a story of drowned histories and ghosts that reside in the very stones of a city and demons that linger inside people who were happy enough to let them back in. All of it is pushed along by the current of time, where history is not stagnant but forces change. It is about war, and it is about subtle discrimination, and it is about what we choose to do when we’re so hung up on our independence story that we refuse to acknowledge the rot in our roots.

I’m reproducing the post as I wrote it all those weeks ago, even though there are better ways I could have expressed my thoughts, and indeed some of these thoughts have new nuances now as I have drafted pivotal scenes in the story. There are other things I’d rather have focused on. The haven of thorns is more than mere privilege now. And perhaps one day I’ll expand on that.

But for now, this is a historical record of what I was thinking as it was all going down and I was trying to decide what sort of story I wanted to tell in the world I lived in as the person I am.

_________________________________________________

I’m not going to be coy about the metaphor anymore. This book was always going to be highly political. It has just become even more political. I cannot begin to describe how apt and how heartbreaking it is to be drafting my novel right now.

Some context should perhaps be given as to the kinds of politics that are informing this story. I began outlining the earliest iterations of Haven of Thorns at the height of the European migration crisis. While migration itself is not a main theme of the story – and where it does feature, it’s from a rather inverted historical power dynamic – the backlash against it was always present in the telling of the tale. The rise of the European right terrified me. I had never experienced open racism before until one incident when I moved to Norway in late 2015, where I was lucky enough to have an ally at the time, though I never learned her name. I have seen far too many swastikas misappropriated from their holiness to represent hatred, spraypainted on neighbourhood walls in Trondheim, London, and Madrid.

For many years, I likened racism and xenophobia and white supremacy to a contagion, even to possession (which may have been down to the title of this book I read during high school). My view on this has changed, now. For those raised into these ideas, sure, the demon metaphor may still apply. But for many, these corrupted values take root and fester because we allow them to.

The old first draft of Haven of Thorns was begun in the first week of November, 2016. I feel I have no need to elaborate on why this timing is significant. Globally, the sense of the triumph of ignorance and vitriol was palpable. Over the next few years, partially because I became more active on social media and partially because of the degree I was studying for, every day required exposure to injustices very often predicated on culture, ethnicity, language, and/or race.

Then in 2019 Singapore commemorated the bicentennial – our 200 year anniversary of being colonised. And once again I was confronted with the bizarre lack of acknowledgment of how blatantly race relations had been directed and segmented by the British, and how whatever the government line says, we have not bounced back from the wounds that gouged in our society. I interned at an NGO dealing with race relations, and it only illuminated what we’d rather cover up – the value judgements we make of people based off their skin colour, the god(s) the pray to, or the language they speak. When COVID-19 reared its head Singapore was lauded for their response, until it hit the migrant worker dormitories. That was a powder keg waiting to explode. And it is false and unjust to pretend that the conditions they are living in do not have their own origins in the petulant protests of those who unfairly profiled and characterised the workers and robbed them of better conditions, resulting in the tragedy that has taken place now.

Even climate justice and its link to ethnicity began to seep into the story, particularly during the early 2020 fires in Australia and how severely the Aboriginal peoples were affected.

As I write this post Minneapolis is up in arms, and Americans are out in the thousands across the country protesting for justice for George Floyd and the countless other black Americans who have been victims of the system and of police violence.

Growing from childhood to adulthood in the 2000s-2010s has meant growing up in a time when discussions about race, ethnicity, culture, and the legacies of our most backward perceptions and prejudiced notions have come to the forefront, both of activism and of violent action taken against others. How could I not be impacted, for example, by the horror of the massacre in Norway on 22 July? How could I not have felt the shadow of the War on Terror through the rampant Islamophobia in the media and in society?

The extent to which all these disparate ideas of politics and power and race and xenophobia and colonialism actually manifest in Haven of Thorns isn’t perhaps measurable in the amount I’ve discussed them here. But the core of this book is that the haven is privilege, and thorns are both the barrier of our ignorance and the spears upon which we sacrifice those who challenge it.  White privilege in the West. Chinese privilege in Singapore. Yes I fucking said it. To refuse to see that is privilege, in and of itself. One can feel hurt, to be associated with the violent ways these ideas manifest. Or, one can choose to acknowledge that feeling implicated by despicable acts is perhaps the spark to challenge one’s own biases.

This story is about breaking that thorn barrier and letting in the light, in all its unbridled blinding glory, to burn away the festering hatred we’ve allowed to take root in our flesh.

In the end an important theme in Haven of Thorns – perhaps the most important – is the power structures and prejudices that prevail when colonisation has ended, along with its associated forms of exploitation, and a state becomes self-governing. It’s about who remains in power, why they remain there, and what it means for those who do not have an equal share in that power. I’m not just talking about physical force. I’m talking about value judgments that disenfranchise people based on their inherent qualities. Things like language, religion, or skin colour. Having a voice and having the power to exercise and sustain what you advocate for are all very different things, and this is why these stories cannot be apolitical. A person’s life, their right to life, and their rights to liberty and equality should not be a matter of politics – and yet they are. Because politics is about power. And power is far too often exercised unjustly.

Blaming the old oppressor only works up to a point. At some stage, a country has to face what it has done and continues to do to itself, and whether they are going to choose to make collective, powerful, and perhaps jarring value changes for the sake of basic human rights and justice. After all, prejudice is learned. It can be unlearned.

While this tale focuses on the legacy of colonisation, these same principles lie behind the abuse of authority and the untended wounds of what has happened to the black community in America for centuries, itself founded upon ideas of racial superiority. The police brutality coupled with endorsement from the highest offices in the land is a horrific ugliness – but worse, is those who choose not to see it for what it is. Those who tweet #alllivesmatter. Those who say they don’t see colour. Those who question why race has to be dragged into everything. To quote Moses in Dreamworks’s The Prince of Egypt: “I did not see because I did not wish to see.” This is privilege. This is us inviting contagion into our societies and refusing to mask up and letting it kill us from the inside out. But unlike a contagion, this is discriminatory. That is the essence of it. The differential treatment is the point. If you question why people are burning and looting, why they aren’t being “peaceful”, why they don’t comply (they do – it doesn’t work, as anyone who watched the clip of the CNN reporter would know), why they are so angry – then you are in the haven of thorns. You just refuse to acknowledge it, because the only light seeping into your little puddle is filtered, screened, and you’d rather ignore the shadows cast by the thorns.

So many of the choices in Haven of Thorns hinge upon deciding whether to preserve or whether to overturn these vicious cycles of hatred. It’s so painful to see these struggles continue to be mirrored in the real world, happening to real communities at this very moment. Part of me wants to stop writing this, because I cannot begin to capture the true agony of what is happening, no matter how much I empathise. But another part of me knows that I am in a position of great privilege, and perhaps it is time I put my voice to something that truly matters. Add another line to the anthem that advocates for these deep-set value changes that we need to make on a domestic and an international scale.

In the first very first chapter of this story, the royal palace burns. It may just as well have been a police station.

[uhnoodles]

Stobin Shipping (ST3)

Hello all!

I’ve been debating whether or not to post this because conflict and confrontation make me physically ill and I’m not usually one to start anything of any sort that would invite such a thing.

I’m not writing this post to invite such a thing either, but unfortunately, I don’t think I can post this opinion without getting a lot of hate. I wouldn’t even be putting my voice out here unless something big happened, which has.

So, here goes.

Stobin is a ship from the 3rd season of Stranger Things featuring Steve Harrington, a character from every season, and Robin, a character introduced this season.

Steve and Robin work together at Scoops Ahoy and seem to be warily civil with each other in the beginning of the season. Various plot points drag them together, and eventually they bond and begin to grow warmer and friendlier with each other, a classic enemies to friends trope that is seen in many a fiction story. What usually comes next in this line of relationships is lovers or something synonymous. And we got a taste of it when Steve admitted his growing romantic feelings for Robin. Robin, however, turns him down because she is a lesbian. Steve is oblivious, then accepting and friendly with her from then on. There is absolutely no hope for them to ever be together in the show because she is a lesbian. I don’t want them to be together in the show because She. Is. A. Lesbian.

...Having said that, I feel slightly more comfortable approaching the purpose of this post.

A lot of people feel that it is homophobic/lesbophobic to still ship Stobin even after Robin came out to Steve, turning down his romantic advances. And I’m not going to tell you how to feel. I’m not in the business of doing that, because I’m not you and I don’t dictate your emotions or reactions. And honestly, if someone does still ship Stobin because they think it’s stupid that Robin is a lesbian and that she doesn’t “fit the bill” or they are just fucking homophobic, then fuck that guy. Because that’s not cool.

But. In my opinion, which is an opinion and not a fact, Fanfiction and shipping were made so fans can live out their non canon dreams.

I ship Stobin. Not because I think Robin being a lesbian is dumb or disgusting, or even because I wish she wasn’t a lesbian. Because I don’t wish that. I’m a lesbian. I was so fucking ecstatic when she turned out to be a lesbian! She is a cool, funny, complex character and she’s ours! Holy shit! YES! I honestly can’t wait for the writers to explore this in season 4 and give us all the sweet lesbian content I want.

Representation matters. I know that, and I feel that. I’m white- so I have had the privilege of being represented in the media my whole life. Hell, I remember when I first saw Beauty and the Beast, Belle immediately became my favorite princess because she had brown hair like me. I’ve also been lucky enough to grow up in an era where the LGBTQA+ community is slowly being accepted by society. I’ve also been lucky enough to have absolutely no issues in that area of my life. I’ve never been faced with prejudice in any way regarding my sexuality. I’m lucky, and I know I’m one of the few. So maybe Robin isn’t hitting me as hard as she is a lot of lesbians.

Don’t get me wrong, please, don’t get me wrong! She is a lesbian, I know this, and I never want that to change! If she and Steve got together in the show, I would be fuckin pissed! That is erasure! That is queer baiting! (I think that’s the term?) Her presence as a lesbian in this show is important because Stranger Things is set in the 80s, a very homophobic period in American history (which is true for all of American history through pretty much now for a lot of people). The fact that we have not just Robin but also Will- and both are accepted and still loved by their friends- is amazing and I have cried multiple times over it! If their presence in the show is of the utmost important to me, a lesbian who has faced zero kicks in the ass in her life, I can’t imagine how important she is to a lesbian who has faced every struggle in the world.

I believe, as I’ve stated, that fanfiction exists so fans may live out their non canon dreams. I ship Stobin because I thought their warm and fuzzy moments slowly building up throughout the season were very believable and they lit up the fan girl in me so fuckin quickly. “Yes!” I thought, “Steve is getting a romance again, and with arguably the coolest girl in the show!” And then she came out as a lesbian, which didn’t even phase me because I knew I could read fanfiction of Stobin to satisfy that whirlwind of fangirling emotions inside me that would never be satisfied canonically, which is completely okay with me.

That’s what fanfiction and shipping is to me. Satisfying my unmet fangirling needs. Am I mad about any of my unfulfilled ships? No! Absolutely not! Every fandom I am part of, I ship most ships in existence. I also ship Steve with Billy, Jonathan, Nancy, I’ve even read Steve and Kali (008) and enjoyed it! The thing about Robin is that, in season three, she only interacted with Steve and 2 children, and her and Steve had many faux romantic moments. I’ve read RobinxOFC and shipped the two! Hell, there’s this Haringrove fic with an OFC that I think she would be really cute with! I guarantee that as soon as she interacts with literally any female character, I will go buck fuckin wild. However, the in-depth character connection she has is Steve.

I know to a lot of you guys, these are just excuses, and I’m honestly very very sorry if I am hurting you in any way by continuing to ship them, completely apart from the canon, in the fics I read a write. I definitely would have kept my fuckin mouth to myself, but I noticed something quite alarming.

“Kill yourself”. Two words. Both simple words. Put together, they could destroy a life. They have many a time. I’ve been the target many times when I write a fic with a ship people don’t like. So alarming. So fucking alarming. Those words can do real damage. In real life. Not a fictional universe, such as the Stranger Things universe. But in real life. Now, I know that representation is so very fucking important, and I know that Robin is a lesbian. I support her as a lesbian and will accept no less in canon. Threatening another human’s life over respresentation in media isn’t okay, not in my books. Even if I didn’t ship Stobin and was as affected by it than a lot of you guys are, I would still be writing this post, just minus the explaining my view of Stobin and fanfiction in general. Because death threats, disturbing messages, and mocking one-off comments won’t get your point across. They’ll just root tour subject of hate more firmly into the ground and harm their psyche along the way.

It’s not worth it. Stranger Things is not worth it. Someone, a human being, in real life, could be hurt by careless, aggressive words. Over something that you could ignore so easily if you don’t support it. And I know that ignoring something you find abhorrent and a violation of human rights can be downright near impossible sometimes, but resorting to such terrible words just isn’t okay. Explain your side, debate, argue, don’t berate, don’t get furious. Or at least don’t let your fury turn you into a monster who threatens another human being’s life. Because doing that, saying those things? It’s monstrous.

I know this will get replies, and I’m not looking forward to it because confrontation, again, makes me hate my life. But you have the right to express your opinion to me if my own displeases you, but know that I will definitely ignore threats and furious massages that I’ve seen circulating around this particular ship.

I don’t know if I properly expressed myself or if this came across at all how I wanted it to. Bottom line:

-Robin is a lesbian, I support her

-I got attached to the teased romance between her and Steve, so I will be reading fanfiction and imagining scenarios myself to satisfy my hunger

- I, personally, don’t think that makes me a bad person or a homophobe/lesbophobe for reasons I’ve listed above

- I sincerely apologize to anyone who is offended or hurt, that is truly not my intention

-I only opened my fat mouth about this because death threats and hostile behavior have been circling this ship and it crossed a line in my head

I’m sorry this is so long. @pelegringo is a blog I know has been experiencing a lot of these threats and I don’t know how many others have been dealing with it. I’m so sorry if my opinion is unwelcome, but I saw someone being hurt and couldn’t ignore it.

I wish you all the best, and I hope you have enjoyed my Ted Talk.

[shaanks]

So I was getting ready for school today, idly thinking about how to explain privilege and equity to obtuse republican morons who pretend they’ve never heard of the former and think the latter is communism, and this is what I’ve arrived at. Feel free to share with the obtuse republican morons in your life:

Say you’re renting an apartment with three other people, who just so happen to be MBA basketball players. The shortest one of the bunch (outside of yourself) is 6′11″, the next is 7′4″, and the tallest one is 7′7″. For the purposes of this example, lets say the shortest of your roommates is a full foot taller than you. Now, in your own IRL household, things are probably arranged so you can reach them, right? The dishes are on shelves you can reach, the bookshelves are accessible, the things in your shower are where you can get to them, your belongings in general are arranged so they’re compatible with your stature, yes? 

Not so in this house. You come home one day to find that your roommates have totally transformed the house. The dishes  are all on shelves a good foot and a half over your head, the fridge is on a stand that puts the bottom of it at your waist and the food on the top shelf out of reach, the showers have all been affixed with stilted shelves so that the soap is much higher than you would feel safe reaching to, etc. In short (haha) the house where you live has been made very inaccessible and in some ways unsafe for you to live in.

So you think, okay. I’ll talk to them about it, see if there’s some compromise to be had here. When you bring up to them that you, as a person who lives in the house, no longer have access to a lot of the basic necessities and functions IN your house, they balk at you.

“I can reach everything just fine,” says one of them dismissively. The others nod in agreement. 

“Have you even tried reaching for things on your own?” the second asks.

“Just what the FUCK is wrong with having things where I can reach them???? This is what makes ME comfortable and it really seems to me like you want me to give up my safety and prioritize yours. :/”

You argue that you’re not trying to make them feel unsafe or uncomfortable, you just also want to be able to participate in the amenities of the house you live in and are helping to pay for. 

“Well why are your needs the only ones that are important? Shouldn’t ALL our needs matter?” One of them asks, disgruntled and angry. 

“All of our needs DO matter, the problem is that right now the ENTIRE HOUSE is only designed to facilitate YOURS.” 

The argument makes no headway. Nothing you say seems to make them understand that you’re not trying to take away the taller shelves, you’d just like it if some of the things--your own things!!--were on shelves you could actually reach. 

In the end, you decide to just buy a stepladder. That’s going to make the shower an interesting adventure, but it seems to be the only option. This works well for one day, but the next day you go looking for it to get down a cereal bowl and its gone. 

“Hey, where’s my stepladder?” You call out to no one in particular. One of your roommates responds. “Oh, I converted it into a neat little side table, its the perfect height!” 

You come around the corner and explain that you needed that in order to reach things, and ask if you can have it back. Your roommate is affronted. “Why do you get something special to reach things, I don’t have anything special and what’s more, I don’t NEED it. I took it because it doesn’t make any sense, I see you pick things up all the time, this was just something you bought to be petty and now it’s actually making the house better.”

You try to explain that, again, you literally can’t reach anything in the house, and that they don’t have a “special” thing to help them reach things because they already CAN reach things, but again, it just doesn’t seem to connect. All they hear is that you’re purchasing special treatment for yourself for something that they don’t personally need any help with, and they refuse to return it even though its something you need to participate in daily house life with.

In desperation, you ask another tall friend to come home with you sometimes and get things down off shelves for you. For some reason, this makes your roommates absolutely furious.

“Why are you letting someone else use things in this house when they don’t live here??” “This is theft!!! You don’t even need help, you’re just trying to scam us out of our dishes!!!!!!!!” “Why do you have to keep making such a fuss, this house is so comfortable and easy to live in!!!!!!! You’re bothering me by constantly bringing this up and making it an issue!!!!! If you keep bringing your little “aid” friend here, we’re going to kick you out!!!!!!!” 

You don’t have enough money to move out anywhere else, nor the time to search for other roommates. You’re trapped. You have no choice but to stop getting aid from outside sources. You’re climbing on counters trying to get the basic necessities that you need, which hurts your knees and is tiresome, all while your tall roommates, who have no issues using the house safely, berate you for being lazy, for making up problems, and for bothering them with your lack of ability to reach things.

THAT’S what privilege is. Privilege is living in a world that is built to cater to your needs.

“All lives matter!!!!” yes, they do!!! the problem is, only SOME lives are being treasured and prioritized and protected right now, and the ones being cared for are constantly throwing literally everyone else under the bus, either because they don’t personally face discrimination, or because they think other people wanting to be safe means THEY won’t personally be safe anymore.

“Why do YOU get a special parking space, I want one of those!! You’re going into the store, clearly you can walk!!” Well, you have a special parking space if you’re not handicapped, its literally the entire rest of the parking lot. Many people who are disabled can do things you can do in short bursts, but to do so for a prolonged time would be incredibly harmful to them. They need that so that they can participate in the store the same way you can. Nobody but you parks in those spots just to give the finger to people who have to walk farther. 

“You’re just using food stamps/housing vouchers/other forms of financial aid because you’re lazy!!! Those are taxpayer dollars going to your laziness, that’s theft!!!! You’re just trying to fraud the system!!!!!!!” 0.0009% of people on income assistance were found to be fraudulent cases last year. People who are disabled, who are mentally ill, who are currently unemployed, who are single parents trying to care for their families, people who aren’t straight white cis men, face a TON of issues coming up with the money necessary to live a stable and safe life. The fact that you do NOT face those types of issues does not mean they don’t exist. It’s not that you worked hard and they didn’t. Its that they’re working EQUALLY as hard as you with severely limited opportunities, or they are physically UNABLE to do the same work as you. Being able to do/find work =/= right to live. You shouldn’t have to prove yourself to be profitable to deserve to eat.

People are born with certain privileges based on their race, their gender, their sexuality, their family’s history of wealth, and like...its not a good or bad trait simply to have privilege, it’s just a thing that exists. I’m 5′6″, I have hazel eyes, I have white privilege because...I’m white. Being part of a privileged group doesn’t make you a bad person, but refusing to see the issues that others are facing because you don’t personally experience them, and eschewing all evidence that negates your personal world view does.  

Stating that we live in a world that was built by and caters to rich, christian, cis straight white men is not a political statement. It’s just a fact. Saying that people deserve to be able to eat, to have the medicines they need to live, to have access to the types of aid they need to function in our society is not a political statement. Its not “the snowflake SJWs coming for our freedom” it’s just other human beings who are not you that would like to be able to live in the house too.