#my experience with a trump fan

[shotmrmiller]

Big man, Big mouth

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!reader (because demeaning girl usage) WC: 4.9k it's just gross smut and simon gets kinda mean sometimes nothing crazy :) ty to the brain to my pinky @xoxunhinged and precious beta @waves-against-a-cliff catching my errs

The smile you’d had on your face all morning is subsequently wiped once you’re told that you won’t, in fact, be spearheading a team meeting with air conditioning and a cup full of your favorite medium roast, but instead, you’re being sent somewhere where practical experience trumps theoretical, textbook knowledge. And alone, at that.

Guess your travel mug is about to make its big debut.

The construction site is alive with purpose— the buzzing of drills, raucous banter, and the low hum of music from a stereo. You run a hand down the back of your skirt that is more tourniquet than office attire you were forced into wearing, regretting not drawing the line at the heels pinching your toes. "Professional setting, professional appearance," your boss had said. Nothing here demands you to stand in ironed clothes with dust settling on your eyelashes and the taste of grit on your tongue.

You feel out of place, a white-collar worker surrounded by hard hats and steel-toe boots. Perhaps taking this job for a promotion was hasty on your part. But it’s too late now and the sun above you is wilting the starched collar of your blouse.

Best get this over and done with. (The bottle of barefoot wine at home will be your reward for your suffering.)

Walking to the home still in a semi-skeletal phase had been a bit uncomfortable, anxiety gnawing at your nerves and the polished shoes at the skin of your heel. But what made your shoulders tense and spine stiffen was the crew. You'd expected disgruntled workers, sure. A bit of grumbling here and there. No one likes to have someone with more authority and less experience trample all over your work, telling you what's what.

Not them eyeing you like you're a fish in a shark tank. A little minnow pulled out of her natural habitat and into the mix with dominant predators. The paper on your clipboard crinkles audibly as one of them— the leader, you gather— stops you before you can get any closer than he feels necessary. He plods over, hard hat tucked into his arm, wiping his sweaty brow with his sunbaked forearm, a few wood curls nestled into his beard.

"Ya lost?" he grunts.

There's a guy with a comb for hair and limpid blue eyes staring right at you from the back as he leans on a half-built wall with a smarmy grin on his thin lips.

"No! No, I, um—" you stammer, "I'm here as a temporary replacement for, um—"

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave, fingers thick as steel beams. "Right. Yeah, yeah." Bloody rude. "The inspector." His head tilts and spits on the cement, eyes giving you a once over, lingering on the bare skin of your calves. "John," he says then jerks his head behind him, to the shady inside of the home. "Let's get ya out this sun 'fore you melt like sugar on the driveway."

You keep your lips pressed in a line, swallowing down the retort sitting on your tongue with a hint of frustration, and follow him on swift feet. It is unforgivingly hot and at least there's a roof overhead. Most of the walls were still just wooden beams, the foundation concrete covered in dust. Rough-bristle brooms lean in corners, the stereo now sitting silently in the center of what’s to be the living room next to a man with a massive frame and a sweat-soaked wifebeater who didn't bother turning around as you made a beeline for the only fan feebly cutting through the muggy heat inside.

John from behind you grabs your attention. "So? What's the issue this time? We jus' had tha' muppet pass through a week ago." You turn around, the breeze now somewhat cooling the back of your neck.

"Just need to personally check what's left—" you clear your throat, giving the clipboard a waggle, "on this. Nothing too grand." The blonde one with shorn hair hasn't looked up once from the blue cooler between his legs.

John scratches his head. "Right." There's a drag of heavy boots behind you. "Temporary, eh?" His eyes are like cerulean rivets, pinning you in place.

Gruff Scottish cuts in, tone dripping with amusement. "Will ye look a' tha'," he mutters, accent thick and deliberate, "bosses up top sent a bonnie wee lass to keep an eye on things. Make sure ye pay good attention, aye?" The brute comes to stand in front of you, flexing one arm, bicep like a knotted tree trunk. "Would hate ye missin' the show."

Show ‘em your teeth, little fish. That promotion is already in your hands, don't let it slip through your fingers.

"Listen, you—" you snap back, cheeks burning hot but then his eyebrows raise to his hairline, the corner of his lip curling in challenge.

"It's Soap, hen."

“...Right.”

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

A third voice— crisp English just like John's— cuts through the air from the second floor. "Wipe the slobber off ya chin 'nd leave 'er alone, Soap! You still hav'ta sweep up 'ere!" A man with bronze skin and a cap adorned with the Union Jack in the center pokes his head out from over the wooden railing. His smile looks stiff.

"Miss." His eyes flash to Soap. "Move it. You can get your cock—" wow, mouth like a sailor, that one, "wet while on company's time." His gaze falls on you for a moment longer before disappearing back into the upper level.

Soap grumbles what sounds like a "fuckin' 'ell Kyle" but heads for the stairs anyway, steps creaking under his weight. "Ah'll be 'round if ye need me," he says with a wink.

Unlikely.

John absently shakes his head and turns to the grizzled, mountain of a man still hunched over that cursed cooler of his. "Simon." He suddenly moves then, rising smoothly to his feet for someone his size. He's a wall of muscle, a very clear force of nature, and he's now staring at your—

your shoes?

"Alrigh'," he gruffly says, "We'll get outta your way. The faster you can look for, whatever it is you're lookin' for, the faster you can get out o' my beard." He places his hard hat back on and gives Simon a nod. "To work, break time's over."

Simon walks past you without so much as a glance, his thick arm brushing roughly against your shoulder with enough strength to make you take a step back but then he speaks. "Don't trip on nothin', girl. I'd hate f'r our pretty mascot t'get injured on the," he emphasizes the last word, tone heavy with mockery, "job."

Your tongue is pressed firmly behind your clenched teeth as you straighten your skirt. Get this shit over with.

--

Their attitudes toward you had left some to be desired, but they had done their job seamlessly. Not a crack in place nor a bolt out of it meaning that ticking off the rest of the boxes on your clipboard had been a cinch, making the promotion even easier. By the time you were ready to go home— the thought of leaving behind the tangy scent of sweat and iron adding a pep to your painful step— the sun had already dipped, casting long shadows over the construction site.

Until John's unwelcome chivalrous gesture: sending one of his to accompany you to your car. "t's late out," he says, leaving no room for lip. Fine, whatever. The faster you get out of here the better. Saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of having a chilled glass of wine with chinese takeout for dinner.

Except the one waiting for you in the garage with a lit smoke between his chapped lips is Simon. He flicks it to the ground, smothering out the embers with the heel of his boot. "Move. Ain't got all day."

The last strand of your patience snaps and your mouth twists into a snarl. "Then leave off! I don't need a fucking chaperone. Believe it or not, I do know how to look both ways before crossing the street."

You'd only taken three irate, swift-footed steps away from him, clipboard trembling in your grip when the back of your shoe dug into raw skin; a sharp, sudden agony flaring out in a hot, thick wave and you stumble. The world spins for a second, colors blurring together until—

The relief is immediate. The hot needles on your raw nerves dulled down to a throb, vision blurring from the brief bite of intense pain. You breathe in a deep lungful of air, tasting salt and sawdust while you flex your feet, hissing when the blistered skin stretches. At least the damage to your toes is minimal.

But not to your pride. Tripping over your own feet, because the driveway while unfinished is still flat, now means you're being hauled over his shoulder, which is broad enough to be surprisingly comfortable, in the opposite direction of where your car is with your heels in hand. The fabric of his tank feels stiff under your sweaty palms.

"Is this kind of behavior normal for you? Or am I just lucky?" your voice is tinged with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. His arm tightens uncomfortably around the back of your bare thighs even though the office skirt you managed to squeeze into is knee-length.

"Only when I spot clumsy-footed birds like you. Can't 'ave ya splat on the concrete like a crime scene outline." A slow creeping flame spreads from your neck to the apple of your cheeks when you notice the guys staring at you from a window upstairs, Soap giving you a toothy smile. Even Kyle seems amused. Mortifying. Someone strike you down now. Actually, no. Then who'd feed your cat once you’re gone?

"'nd John would chew me out f'r lettin' ya break these," his long fingers circle your ankle, "in 'alf." You try to muster a response, but the words sit behind your teeth, your chagrin having tangled your tongue into knots.

Then he stops and the creaking of hinges reaches your ears. "Wait." Your eyes land on a black cargo bed, caked with dried mud. "Are you just going to sit me in your car?" He sets you down in the back seat anyway, tossing your shoes inside.

"Truck. I can drop ya on the patch of grass if ya like." Simon leaves you there, going to the driver's side rummaging through the middle compartment. His work truck is exactly what you'd expect from a man like him. The seats are covered in a thin layer of dust, you imagine he gives no one a ride, a well-worn visibility vest strewn about, an extra pair of work boots stained with splatters of white paint—the size difference of your shoes compared to his has you swallowing a lump the size of your fist down.

Simon pulls out a mid-sized red box and places it on the floor mat then props your leg up on his. His grip is firm but gentle as he inspects your open wounds and then sucks on his teeth. "A bit stupid, wearin' ankle breakers when out on a job." He prods around the inflamed skin, the pain making you tense.

"Don't worry about me and mi—" you hiss when he digs his thumb into the arch of your foot, "mine. Maybe I wanted to look nice." Fuck those shoes.

"'m sure ya did, though the skirt's all ya need." The warmth of his breath spreads through your toes and up your calf, raising gooseflesh.

You can't hold back a snort. "And now you're going to tell me that you prefer women in skirts and dresses?"

Simon switches legs, careful to not aggravate the blisters further. "I prefer my women with no clothes. But both of those make it f'r easier access. Like yours. Can see your knickers from 'ere." That has your heart skipping a beat, eyes widening with disbelief. Instinctively, you sit upright, back straightening with a pop.

"They're red."

You chuff out a breath. He's lying. You'd put on the only available pair you had at the time since you'd forgotten to dry your laundry the night prior. A simple, cotton grey. "You—! Fucking hell, I almost kicked you in the teeth." Simon's looking at you now, eyes dark and intense.

"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried," he says with a smirk, voice low. "White, then."

The first aid kit still lies on the floor mat. "Stop talking." Simon ignores you, instead grabbing your other leg and pulling you closer toward the edge of the seat. Toward him.

"Green," he rumbles, his hands cupping the bottom of your feet, thumb and pointer coming to gently tug on your toes before moving his way up. You feel like a young, dewy-eyed farm girl having her first tumble in the hay and he's only now stroking the protruding bone of your ankle. The motion is slow, deliberate, a tender caress that sends a shiver up your spine. Has it truly been that long since you've had your body shape imprinted into the mattress?

"How about," you swallow thickly, "you patch me up proper and I'll be on my way?" If anyone else had heard, they'd say you're trying to convince yourself that being here isn't what you really want. But the little garble in your voice gives you away.

Simon hums, a sound that vibrates in your chest, sinks into the marrow of your bones. "Little bird wants t’go home 'nd 'ave only a throw 'nd a cat t'warm 'er bed?" You feel a different kind of ache this time, pulsing sharp and deep in your core. "Eh? Y'wanna curl up on the couch with one o’ those sex books while playin’ with your pretty cunt?" 

The idea of having to use the blue bullet sitting inside the nightstand drawer sounds unappealing. And it’s probably out of battery too. Damn. 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and shake your head. He doesn’t accept that as your answer.

"Wha's tha'? You will speak when spoken to, pet. Do you," he emphasizes the last word as he begins to open your legs by the knees, "wanna go home with an empty pussy or let me fill it 'til you're leaking cum out ya ears?"

Can't say no to him serenading you like that. You clench around nothing, hesitance crumbling like sand. "B-but what about your job? Aren't you still working?"

Simon grabs you then, dinner plate-sized hands wrapping around the softer part of your waist. "'M on a break. I'd say I deserve it after all my 'ard work." He lifts you effortlessly, the hem of your skirt rolling as you widen your legs further.

He rolls his hips once, feeling the bulge in his jeans brush against your sex, feather-light, and you bite on the thickest part of your tongue to keep from moaning like a cat in heat. "And what about us being in the open?" you ask though the question is redundant. Besides the crew's work vehicles, there's not another car in sight. If anyone else had been working nearby, they've long since left.

He seems to share your sentiment. "If tha's all? 'm tryin' t'see if I got it righ'."

No, that'll just about do it. "Okay. Alright." God knows you need this. Even if it comes from a stranger you'll probably never see again. Simon doesn't wait any longer, pushing up the rest of your skirt to pool above your thighs.

He hisses long and low through his teeth. "Tight little thing, innit?" Yeah, well. You were going to tell him that while putting on your skirt that morning had been an absolute nightmare, it wasn't that small on you until the tips of his fingers glided along your clothed slit. Oh. He's not talking about that.

"I guess grey's my new favorite colour. Especially this—" he thumbs the darkened wet spot on the fabric, "shade." When he adds more pressure, you can't help but let a gasp out as you buck your hips in want of more. "Easy. 'aven't even started with you." Simon opens the front of your blouse with a single hand, coming undone easily. He goes for the clip of your bra that's serendipitously placed on the front.

"Gotta let the girls breathe," he says. Whatever his reasoning doesn't matter because all there is, is relief. No more underwire digging into your skin, no more suffocating restraint. You only wore the blasted thing because all of your sports bras would've been visible through the blouse.

Simon rolls a hardened bud with one hand while unbuttoning the front of his jeans with the other. "Eatin' this," he gives the mound of your pussy a mean tap, "gonna 'ave t'wait. I'll get ya off though, don't worry tha' little head o' yours."

You wonder if he says that to everybody he fucks in the back of his truck. "What? Why?"

His length sits hot and heavy over your cunt. And it's big enough to kill. Death by cock. That'll be on your epitaph. "'m a big geezer," he mutters, fingers toying with the side of your panties, "lyin' down so you can sit your cunt on my face isn't gonna work righ' now."

Definitely says that to everybody. "Doesn't matter. I'll take care o'ya 'nother way." Simon pulls the dampened gusset to the side and lowers his head to— "Pretty like I thought it was." A fat glob of spit lands on the puffy lips of your pussy and he smears it around with his cock, tip sliding right along your clit. He uses his thumb to press himself down harder, more friction, more sensation, each slow roll of his hips pricking neglected nerves awake, alive, and it feels good. Surprisingly good.

The way the scar on his lip whitens as he bites it tells you it's just as good for him too. "Thought about it much, did you?" He goes lower this time, ruddy tip catching on your entrance momentarily before returning up.

"Since you walked inside a place you 'ave no business bein' in. Birds like you shouldn't be minglin' in the trenches with us grunts." The tips of your ears are hot as he stares down at you. "Should be sittin' nice 'nd pretty in a cubicle with air conditionin' 'nd an oversized mug o' watered-down coffee."

Simon cups the swell of your arse, canting your hips to glide himself better. Every bump and ridge on the underside of his cock is rubbing slowly on you and the thought of licking a slick stripe on the vein only tightens the white-hot coil below your navel.

"Or better yet, sittin' at home doin' wha'ever else while waitin' f'r a man like me to come back from work with a ribeye 'nd redskin potatoes in the oven." He lets your panties fall back into place; the sodden front almost transparent as he rubs against your swollen clit at the same time. God, he's fucking. your. panties! And you're bloody letting him.

What a way to break this year-long dry spell.

He bends your legs so that your feet are now being held flat on the thick of his chest with his hands as he picks up the pace. The suspension springs on the truck begin to groan. "I like mine medium rare."

Your back's come off the seat, spine bowed. You're close, so fucking close, you've got slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping down to your arse, probably staining his polyester material underneath. This is torture and your pussy feels tender, raw, yet he's barely touching the focal point of your desire. If he doesn't make you come in the next minute, you're breaking that thick neck of his.

It's like he read your mind because he uses his cock to tap on your clit firmly, hard enough to hear a wet thwack and he does it once, thrice and—

And then your body gives, an intense climax that steals the breath in your very lungs, has you your blunt nails biting into the muscle of his forearms, his groan drowned out by the shrill ringing in your ears. Your face feels hot, probably is hot to the touch and there's a sting on the middle of your bottom lip and can taste iron on your tongue. Even the tips of your fingers tingle.

Through your half-lidded gaze, you see Simon holding onto the top of the truck while his breath comes in ragged gasps. Did he come? You curiously touch the expanse of your stomach. Not sticky.

"No. I didn't come. You," he takes in a deep, steadying breath then reaches to squeeze the sides of your face, cheeks plumping under the pressure. "You almost 'ad me, though. I don't remember the last time I 'ad to think tha' 'ard of London t'not finish. But I'm not done with you."

Simon hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and takes them off with urgency only to stuff them in his back pocket. "Better with no clothes on, remember." You can feel his twitching cock leak onto your heated skin.

"If ya need, use this." A black bundle of fabric lands on your chest, what is— It's a mask? If he means to hide your identity from his coworkers, you're not sure this skull mask is going to work. He drags you to him roughly until your arse is hanging off the seat. And then there's a hot, dull pressure pushing against your entrance that's followed by a searing sting, and it, it's so much, it's too m-

"Tight fucking-, Ya need t-, fuck, to relax," he grunts, fingers dimpling your thighs. Simon's thrusts are jerky, short, as he wrenches your walls apart. Even with your creamy cum and his spit it's still a struggle. "'Alf way there," and a rattled breath escapes you. You're being split right down the middle and there's still some left?

For the next few moments only your squeaks and mewls can be heard as he makes room for him, your hand flat on his lower stomach— feeling the coarse, thick patch of hair on it— as if you're trying to keep him away, out, something but then he snarls and snaps his hips. You've heard of a ring of fire some women experience at some point in their life and you think this is yours. The thin skin of your entrance burns, most likely stretched to its limit, like a rubber band about to snap.

"Easy," he drawls out, "The worst's over. Took me like you're made f'r me. G'mme ya 'and." He takes your clammy hand and has you touch where the two of you meet. His eyes are glued to your fingers that are split into a v, pads feeling your cunt soaked in viscous slick.

The groan he lets out at the sight makes the world around you spin. "Stay jus' like tha'." Sure, not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Not with his hands tight around you like metal cuffs. Simon holds nothing back, not even in the very first minute. Doesn't warm you up to it, don't let you try to get used to him turning you inside out. His thrusts are long, firm, hungry— bottoming out every single time until he sits snugly at the plug of your womb. Grinds up when he meets resistance, eyeing your features in case there's discomfort.

The only ache you've got is the one he's fucking into you. (And you also might be partly lying on his tape measurer.)

But then he hitches your legs up, hands around the back of your thighs as they're pushed toward your chest and that pulls a whine out of you that you're sure John and the crew heard. "There she is, bird's got a healthy set o' lungs on 'er." He keeps the same, unforgiving angle and doubles down, using the bulk of his weight to pin you in place, forced to do nothing but take and take and take.

Until Simon's strikes the side of your arse with an open palm. "D'ya hear 'em?" Wha? What? Hear who?

And then you hear it. Him. The handsome one with the hat from upstairs. "Ghost?" he sounds right across the street and Simon hasn't stopped rocking the truck as he fucks you right through it. "Wha's tha' Kyle?" His voice is steady even though there are beads of sweat rolling down the side of his temple.

"I said good job on all your 'ard work 'nd we'll see ya tomorrow. You 'ave a good night too, Miss." There's a crude whistle followed by a pained grunt and a quick mumbled apology. Maybe if you don't respond they'll just get in their car and go home.

But then John calls out to you too.

"Simon must’ve missed you, sweetheart. “Wow. He barks out a laugh. " 'ave yourself a good night, Miss.” Then, sternly says, “Tomorrow at 6, Simon.”

Simon, though, has no intention of letting you take the easy way out. He smacks your arse again, right in the same— already tender— spot from just moments before. "Answer 'em, pet. Or 'ave I fucked all the manners outta ya?" He accentuates the last three words with thrusts so sharp that if he hadn't been holding you in place, you would've been sent sprawling back.

Whatever words you're supposed to say are snagged in your throat like hooks, only whimpers and high-pitched gasps falling past your trembling lips. He drags his thumb over your bottom one, the calloused pad of it tough. "Go on. Be good 'nd tell 'em to 'ave a good night too. And no names. Only one comin’ outta you should be mine."

When you open your mouth, he weaves a hand down to your clit, jerking it in fast little circles that have you forgetting where you even are. "Mf- g-good," he gives you just a second of respite to spit on it. "Good night-," his fingers are almost torture, and god, you're going to come in front of all of them. You warble out the words hastily, feeling your impending orgasm come at you with the speed of a freight train.

"Tha's a good bird, singin' when I tell ya to." There's no stopping this, not with all of his focus on the little bundle of nerves and every drag of his cock making your spine arch as if he were winding it. "Squeeze my cock, tha's it."

Your legs shake violently, toes curled, and you can feel a cramp begin in your calf but none of it matters, not when you're seeing bright lights behind your scrunched eyelids, not when you feel fingers in your mouth to stifle the scream that's viciously wrenched from your throat nor when Simon growls out a "Fuckin' 'ell."

"I told ya, if ya needed somethin' t'bite on, use tha'," he jerks his head toward the mask that's tight in your fist. Your soul is still floating adrift in the wind and he's already trying to make conversation. And he did not say to bite on it.

"I'm not puttin' this unwashed thing in my mouth." You languidly watch him inspect his hand, looking at the deep purple teeth imprints on his fingers. Whoops.

"But you'll 'ave me after sweatin' under the bloody sun for 'ours." His hand slides behind your nape, lifting your head a bit as he lowers his chest to meet your sweat-slick one. Your hands come to claw at the shifting muscles of his back when he begins anew, this time his pace is relentless, sharp, predatory. He's a shark that has scented blood and is now on the hunt.

The prickling bristles of his facial hair scratch against your temple. "This," the hand around your neck tightens, your rapid pulse now roaring in your ears, "is the best pussy I've ever had." His thrusts are jarring, make your teeth clack together hard enough to hurt, and after a dozen of them, he comes with a cruel bite to the junction of your shoulder, snarl animalistic.

Hopefully, the guys drove off a while ago otherwise you're re-dressing and driving home with that mask Simon tossed your way.

Your blouse is unfortunately beyond saving. Your skirt isn’t faring any better if that massive tear in the front has anything to say about it and your shoulder will require at least half a bottle of concealer plus a couple of bandaids, which the first aid kit is completely empty of. Not even the first aid guide is inside. 

You sluggishly begin to button up one of Simon's spare flannel shirts when he asks you if you're hungry.

"No." Not really. Hard to feel much when most of your nerves from the ribs down are shot.

"Get in the front, I'd like t'eat my dinner soon." He's staring right at the apex of your legs, your cunt still throbbing from the abuse."'m 'ungry." There’s no tow car sign on the street, actually, there’s not even a simple stop sign here. 

It better not get towed. You’re not paying a dime if it does.

(Are your feet still hurting or can he fuck those too? No? Next time, then.)

[scientia-rex]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。look my way, you’re what i crave | gojo satoru

wc: 2.6k

summary: you and gojo made a promise to yuuji.

contains: f!reader in mind but no pronouns used, food trip/taste-testing, many food descriptions, a little bit of (playful) jealousy, pouty gojo, yuuji calls reader sensei, established relationship (but no label).

a/n: a small extra scene that takes place some time between col 2.5 and col 3! not a food expert nor am i japanese, so food descriptions are just based off first-hand experience and some research i’ve managed to do! there are some switches in povs (gojo-reader-gojo) but i tried to keep it as distinct as possible! this is also my birthday gift for you, niku @stellamancer!! thank you for sharing this idea with me and for loving the col couple as much as i do!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love 2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours) <- you are here -> 03. so this is what it means to be in love + (extended scene) too good to be mine

‘Losing’ isn’t a word in Gojo’s vocabulary. 

If it is, it’s usually addressed to the other party. 

He’s been a winner ever since he was born, two blue eyes and an extra four hidden, holding power that manifests itself only once every few centuries. Some argue that he was born for that reason: to win, without doubt, incontestably. 

And he supposes, most of it is true—which is why he can’t believe the loss he’s feeling right now, standing in front of the Daifuku stall across from you. 

Never in his entire life did Gojo ever anticipate himself losing to anything. But with the way you’d casually nodded off, signaled so nonchalantly that you’d follow him but clearly didn’t—it has his head turning, finding you midbite a singular, shared stick of Yakitori.

He thinks he might have just experienced his first loss. 

And the victor is none other than Itadori Yuuji. 

.

You made a promise to Yuuji. 

Back when he was still up for execution by virtue of being Sukuna’s vessel, you’d laid your confidence in Gojo. 

“Sensei, do you really think it’s possible?” he asks, voice hesitant but eyes tinged with hope. You were discussing the ways his execution could go down—if it even will go down. 

Shoko’s always pointed out that the most dangerous thing about you is hope, and how you hold onto it so deeply that you pass it onto others like a disease, spreading it to seep into skin and bones.

Gojo calls it your hidden technique, the trump card you pull out when everyone’s knocked down, spirits low. It’s what sets you apart, he thinks, how you’re able to survive in a world that serves as an antithesis to the values you hold. 

“If Satoru said to leave it up to him, he’ll find a way,” you answer immediately, like you’ve known it all this time, experienced it first-hand—a memory. Then you add, an affirmation that sounds so close to fact, it reassures him, “he always does.” 

“Let’s go to Osaka and eat all the street food when everything’s done.”  

You made a promise to Yuuji, and here you are now, with Gojo, keeping it. 

The streets of Osaka are bustling, crowded pretty much any time of the year—carts of all sorts of street food lined up with restaurants hidden in every corner. Neon banners and LED signs light up overhead, a twinkling food heaven reflected in Yuuji’s eyes. 

It must be his first time here, you surmise, because he’s looking at every food stall like he’s ready to devour. You glance at Gojo, hands tucked in his pockets with his blindfold sitting snugly on his face. His presence is bright, blending in with the light, and he turns his head to you slightly, flashing you a small smile. 

You tell yourself the warmth you feel is because of the heat radiating from all the vendors’ stoves. 

“Sensei, what do you want to try first?” Yuuji interrupts your train of thought, but you’re sure he doesn’t mean to. He’s just excited, and his energy has always been infectious, spreading to both Gojo and you. 

Gojo isn’t too big a fan of savory things, so you know you’re going to end up having to choose. You take a look around you to survey each stall, before turning back to Yuuji with a plan on how exactly you’re going to eat and conquer. 

.

Gojo watches—the way you zig-zag across the street, following Yuuji as he walks up to each vendor. It’s both amusing and endearing seeing you being just as, if not more, enthralled at all the savory options in front of you. 

Between the two of you, he’s always had the sweet tooth, so it tickles something in him that even when you don’t, your food-tasting game plan still consists of alternating savory-sweet-savory food.

Yuuji’s first pick is of course, Okonomiyaki, an iconic must-have in Osaka. He orders one piece at first, but you insist on two, knowing that the boy is more than capable of finishing a single one on his own. On the frying sheet lie columns of the pancakes–a simple mixture of flour, eggs, and cabbage–fried and coated in flavors bursting of sweet, savory, and smoky. The lady vendor is generous with the toppings and sauce she pours over it, packing the two pancakes in separate plastic containers before handing one to you and the other to Yuuji.

You turn back to find Gojo a few steps behind you, so you beckon him closer.

“Let’s share,” you whisper, once he sidles up next to you. The plastic crinkles in your hand as you try to slice a piece, Yuuji’s muffled ‘whoah’ heard from the side. 

You blow on the slice, lips shaped into a small ‘o’; he doesn’t want to stare, not with Yuuji right there and neither of you having made anything official yet—

��but this is really tempting him to kiss you. 

He doesn’t know if you can tell—any hint of his desire concealed by his blindfold, but you shove the slice right to his lips. And while it isn’t graceful at all, with the sauce probably smeared all over his mouth, it’s a good distraction from how much he wants you instead of the food right now. 

The texture of the Okonomiyaki hits right every time, the crunchy and creamy combination providing a great contrast that complements how sweet and savory it is. The bite you take after his has your expression mirroring Yuuji’s, and he takes out his phone to capture this memory.

“Gowo-shunsheh! Tek a shulfeh!” Yuuji shouts, mouth still full as he lifts his fingers up into a peace sign. You grin, ear-to-ear, evidence of your happy tummy; he wants to pinch your cheeks. 

“Okay, copy!” he raises his phone up at an angle, fingers hovering over the volume button as he grips the edges, “ready! 1…2…3… say Okonomiyaki!” 

Only Yuuji shouts it, and when Gojo reviews the photo, you’re halfway through a fallen smile—face contorting into disbelief that he said something that cringey, in typical, loud, Gojo fashion too.

“Hey!” he points out, zooming into your face in the photo, “Again! You’re not smiling!” 

You shoot him a look. 

“We can try it with a .5 this time, the kids love it these days.” he suggests, flipping the phone and gathering you and Yuuji closer. 

He takes two photos: one with flash and one without, and the moment he counts down, you mumble right by his ear to please not say ‘Okonomiyaki’ when you have to smile—he chuckles. 

And he says it again. Both times. 

You expected no less, but at least you tried. 

“You should be our human tripod next time,” you tell him, letting Yuuji go ahead. 

The photos look good, with you tiptoeing as you balance a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, Yuuji at the back with his hands raised, holding the empty plastic that used to house his Okonomiyaki.

“Knew you were just using me,” he pouts, hand reaching behind to rest at your lower back. 

It’s been the subtleties with him this trip, tonight especially. 

“Yep,” you play along, smiling oh-so-sweetly, “I knew those freakishly long arms were good for something.” 

Before he can retort with something cheesy, along the lines of: ‘to hold you’ or ‘to hug you in your sleep’, you move away, catching up to Yuuji. 

Your pick, for Gojo, is Taiyaki. It’s not his favorite thing to eat, but it’s sweet, and is still a good, nostalgic dessert, you’d like to think. Batter is poured all over the fish molds before being filled with the red bean filling. Then, after a few minutes of waiting, it pops out perfectly, ready to be eaten by the three of you. You ask for two again, only because this time, you know Gojo can finish one whole. 

But when his eyes land on the Taiyaki you’re biting from and he realizes very quickly that it isn’t his, he feels a pinch. 

It's a good thing the crunchy outside and soft, full inside of the Taiyaki is enough to make him shrug off the feeling. For now.

As the food trip goes on, you end up in many more stalls—

—a Takoyaki one, where Yuuji’s ‘ooo’s’ and ‘aaa’s’ are heard every time the balls are flipped and formed. The cooking on it is perfect, the pieces of octopus sitting just right with enough bite as flavors of soy and Worcestershire come through in its glaze. Gojo only eats one from the set of six that you ordered, and he wishes he just waited, because now Yuuji is eating half of the last one you couldn't finish. 

—a Kushikatsu one, deep fried beef and vegetables coated in crispy, crunchy breadcrumbs and dipped in Tonkatsu sauce. Yuuji ends up finishing three whole sticks, while you manage to eat one. It’s an animated conversation between the two of you that Gojo can’t seem to insert himself into. A part of him feels a little pathetic now, tailing you both like a dog, but he just wants a little bit more of your attention. 

—a Soba shop (not so much a stall) that serves amazing Cold Soba he definitely isn’t missing out on. Yuuji is practically buzzing, excited for anything noodles; it’s the main reason you’d suggested Osaka in the first place. He ducks in the shop last, Yuuji first with you in the middle, and when you settle in your seat right beside him, he snickers endearingly. Gojo can see everything, you’re reminded of that everyday and in moments like this especially. Right now, it's the way you sigh as soon as you release the top button of your pants immediately.

You pout at him as you’re served an order each, the dipping sauce in small ceramic as the noodles lie in bamboo boxes. It’s refreshing and light, just the right balance of sweet and savory; the buckwheat noodles have a lovely bite to them, not at all mushy. When he glances at you, halfway through your bowl, he can tell that you’re already full. 

But just as he offers to finish yours—

“Sensei, are you going to finish that?” 

—there’s Yuuji.

You shake your head, pushing your bowl towards him; Gojo feels that pinch returning. 

A few good minutes of walking find you on the way to another stall—

—a Yakitori one that Yuuji practically skips to, as if he didn’t just finish a bowl and a half of Cold Soba, three sticks of Kushikatsu, three and a half pieces of Takoyaki, a half of one Taiyaki, and a whole order of Okonomiyaki.

Gojo decides to sit this one out, eyeing the Daifuku stand across the street. He’s gone here plenty of times before, but never with you—and if there's anything he wants you to try out here, it's fresh, special mochi, all soft and delectable, delicate in the way its decorated.

He takes off his blindfold, ruffling his hair. With Yuuji having gone ahead, it’s just the two of you. 

“I’m going to buy Daifuku, there’s a special one I want you to taste,” he whispers excitedly, wiggling his eyebrows. 

The expression on your face is the last thing he was expecting. 

Your eyes are dazed, half-lidded, almost like you’re sleepy, and you blink at him twice before you’re able to fully process what he just said. You could be having a food coma right now, just standing. 

“Oh, okay,” you hum, nodding as you smile, dopey, “I’ll follow.” 

He considers just waiting for a bit, because he wants you to go with him. But you insist and shoo him away, telling him that the Daifuku might run out by the time Yuuji reaches the front of the Yakitori line.

So he goes, and maybe it’s a little petty, and immature, and stupid-silly, but he hates how this entire food trip has felt like a battle for your attention between him and Yuuji. 

Even though he’s probably the only one who feels it.

So it’s one-sided. Definitely. 

And he’s losing. Terribly. 

Each individual piece of Daifuku looks majestic, pink mochi with red bean filling, sliced in the middle to leave room for a whole syrup-glazed strawberry. He orders two boxes to bring back home and an extra two pieces, one for the two of you to share and the other for Yuuji. 

Gojo’s mouth is watering and he really wants to take a bite already, but you aren’t anywhere near him. So when he turns around and spots you, mid-chew on the last few bites your stomach can take from that shared Yakitori stick—he feels that pinch again. Because throughout this trip, all you’d done was split savory food with Yuuji, and all he wanted was a bit more attention, sharing half-bites with you. 

When you finally meet his eyes across the street, signature blue amidst bright reds and neon greens, he’s pouting, and he hopes he’s making it very obvious that he wants (needs) you to go to him. 

Your eyes widen before crossing the street, Yuuji right on your heel. 

“Whoah, Gojo Sensei! That looks good!” Yuuji’s voice booms, earning a few looks.

Gojo holds one Daifuku on each hand, the other two boxes tucked in a plastic bag hanging by his elbow. 

“It’s their special one!” He smiles at Yuuji, handing it over. 

You look at him curiously, head tilted to the side as you watch him closely—how his smile doesn’t really reach his eyes. 

Once Yuuji moves out of earshot, his series of ‘mmm’s’ blending in with the bustle of market chatter, you face Gojo and open your mouth wide, “Aaaah,” 

Gojo doesn’t move for the first few seconds, but you meet in the middle eventually, his hand inching towards feeding you while you move your head closer. He keeps his palm open under your chin, cupping it to serve as a catch tray for any filling that might spill out. 

There’s something about the look of you, half-sleepy and asking to be fed, that makes him feel warm and fuzzy—like that pinching feeling earlier never existed. Like he’d gladly do this everyday if you asked for it. 

The soft, plush exterior of the mochi touches your lips, and you bite, the filling oozing out just enough for you to get a good portion of it. Flavors of red bean and strawberry hit your palate, and the filling doesn’t leak, but the syrup coating the strawberry catches onto your nose when you move away. 

At the tip of your nose is a shiny red spot, glistening under the busy lights. The expression on your face is pleased, content—your head doing that side-to-side sway whenever you like the taste of something. 

“Mmm,” you smile at him, “it’s yummy.” 

And he doesn’t know what it is, if it’s the look you’re giving him, or if it's something in the air tonight, but he feels warm and full and still very much like he wants to kiss you. 

So he decides, damn all the passersby.

He does one quick scan around him, making sure that Yuuji, at the very least, is away from the immediate vicinity. And when it’s all clear, he leans in. 

Gojo kisses you on the nose in the middle of a busy street food road, and his lips are soft, almost feather-light, swooping in quickly before anyone can notice. You’re stunned into silence, but the moment you come to, he’s already swiped the strawberry syrup off you. 

His cheeks are starting to turn pink, the sides of his neck already as red as the signs on the food stalls. And he can tell you feel it too, with the way your sleepiness seems to have faded into what now looks like surprise.

Still cute though.

(Always will be, in his eyes). 

So, ‘losing’ isn’t really a word in Gojo’s vocabulary. 

But if it is, he thinks he’d gladly lose to you. 

(Still not to Yuuji though. He maybe still has to keep an eye out for that one).

thank you notes: to niku for being there always!! from answering my questions, brainstorming together, and just all-around everything!! col wouldn't be what it is now without you!! i love u, i hope i gave your love for food justice, niku!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[theoi-crow]

The humans in Greek Mythology are the mega rich and powerful:

In my college classes people are often shocked when I tell them my favorite part of Greek mythology is the gods themselves and I'm not a big fan of the humans.

99% of my classmates prefer the humans in mythos, especially the ones that stick it to the gods like Sisyphus and feel bad for humans like Kassandra and Helen who have been wronged by the gods because "they're just like us." My classmates and teachers hate the gods and don't understand why anyone in modern times would want to worship such violent and selfish beings whenever I point out there are still people who worship them. They hold onto the idea that people in mythology embody the human experience of being oppressed by terrible gods and fate and we should feel bad for them because "they're human just like us" but they forget that the people in Greek Mythology are NOT just like us. They are more relatable to medieval royalty, colonizers and ultra rich politicians who make laws and decisions on wars and the fates of others, especially the poor and the very vulnerable.

Every hero or important human in Greek Mythology is either some form of royalty or mega rich politician/priest-priestess (of course this is with the exception of people who are explicitly stated to be poor like the old married couple in the myth where Zeus and Hermes pretend to be panhandlers). All of them have an ancient Greek lifestyle more relatable to Vladimir Putin, Donald Trump, and especially to British royalty during the British empire, than the average person.

All of them.

Odysseus, Patroclus, Theseus, Helen of Troy, Kassandra, Diomedes, Agamemnon, Perseus, Hercules, Aeneas, Paris, Any human who has a divine parent or is related to one, etc. Although sometimes the story omits it, it is heavily implied that these are people who own hundreds or even thousands of slaves, very poor farmers and the tiny barely there working class as royal subjects.

They are the ones who make laws and whose decisions massively affect the fates of so many people. So no, they can't just be forgiven for some little whim, because that little whim affects the literal lives of everyone under their rule. By being spoiled they've just risked the lives of thousands of people and possibly even gotten them killed like when Odysseus' audacity got every single slave and soldier in his ships killed or when Patroclus as a kid got upset and killed another kid for beating him at a game. (A normal person wouldn't kill another person just for winning a game but royalty and those who think they're above the law do it all the time, plus the class status of the child wasn't mentioned but the way he didn't think he'd get in trouble implies the kid was of lower class, possibly the child of a slave or a foreign merchant.)

The gods get a bad reputation for punishing the humans in mythology but, if not them, who else is going to keep them accountable when they are the law?

And whose to say the humans beneath them weren't praying to the gods in order to keep their masters in check?

Apollo is the god in charge of freeing slaves, Zeus is the god of refugees, immigrants and homeless people, Ares is the protector of women, Artemis protects children, Aphrodite is the goddess of the LGBT community, Hephaestus takes care of the disabled, etc. It wouldn't be surprising if the gods are punishing the ultra rich and powerful in these myths because the humans under their rulership prayed and sent them as they did historically.

Every time someone asks me if I feel bad for a human character in a myth, I think about the many lives affected by the decision that one human character made and if I'm being completely honest, I too would pray to the gods and ask them to please punish them so they can make more careful decisions in the future because:

They are not just like us.

We are the farmers, a lot of our ancestors were slaves, we are the vulnerable being eaten by capitalism and destroyed by the violence colonialism created. We are the poor subjects that can only pray and hope the gods will come and correct whatever selfish behavior the royal house and mega rich politicians are doing above us.

And that's why I pray to the gods, because in modern times I'm dealing with modern Agamemnons who would kill whatever family members they have to in order to reach their end goal, I'm dealing with everyday modern Achilles who would rather see their own side die because they couldn't keep their favorite toy and would gladly watch their subjects die if it means they eventually get their way. The ones that let capitalism eat their country and it's citizens alive so long as it makes them more money. These are our modern "demigods," politicians who swear they are so close to God that they know what he wants and so they pass laws that benefit only them and claim these laws are ordained by God due to their close connection just like how Achilles can speak to the gods because of his demigod status via his mother.

Look at the news, these are humans that would be mythical characters getting punished by Greek gods which is why anything Greco-Roman is jealousy guarded by the rich and powerful and is inaccessible to modern worshippers because Ivy League schools like Harvard and Cambridge make sure to keep it that way. That's what we're dealing with. These are the humans these mythical beings would be because:

In our modern times the humans in mythos would be the politicians and mega rich that are currently ruining our society and trying to turn it into a world where only the rich can manipulate wars and laws, just like they do in mythology.

Fuck them.

I literally have so much more to add about my disdain for them and I didn't even touch on the obvious ancient Greek propaganda.

[contemplatingoutlander]

Yoel Roth, PhD used to be in charge of the trust and safety team at Twitter. This is a must-read article to better understand how the far right is attacking anyone who wants to guard against disinformation being shared on social media. Consequently, the link above is a gift 🎁 link, so anyone can read the entire article, even if they do not subscribe to the NY Times.

Below are some excerpts:

When I worked at Twitter, I led the team that placed a fact-checking label on one of Donald Trump’s tweets for the first time. Following the violence of Jan. 6, I helped make the call to ban his account from Twitter altogether. Nothing prepared me for what would happen next. Backed by fans on social media, Mr. Trump publicly attacked me. Two years later, following his acquisition of Twitter and after I resigned my role as the company’s head of trust and safety, Elon Musk added fuel to the fire. I’ve lived with armed guards outside my home and have had to upend my family, go into hiding for months and repeatedly move. This isn’t a story I relish revisiting. But I’ve learned that what happened to me wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t just personal vindictiveness or “cancel culture.” It was a strategy — one that affects not just targeted individuals like me, but all of us, as it is rapidly changing what we see online. Private individuals — from academic researchers to employees of tech companies — are increasingly the targets of lawsuits, congressional hearings and vicious online attacks. These efforts, staged largely by the right, are having their desired effect: Universities are cutting back on efforts to quantify abusive and misleading information spreading online. Social media companies are shying away from making the kind of difficult decisions my team did when we intervened against Mr. Trump’s lies about the 2020 election. Platforms had finally begun taking these risks seriously only after the 2016 election. Now, faced with the prospect of disproportionate attacks on their employees, companies seem increasingly reluctant to make controversial decisions, letting misinformation and abuse fester in order to avoid provoking public retaliation.

I encourage you to use the gift link above and read the entire article. It is worth your time.

[mightyflamethrower]

15 Facts About E. Jean Carroll’s Allegations Against Trump the Media Don’t Want You to Know

1.  Bergdorf Goodman has no surveillance video of the alleged incident.

2.  There are zero witnesses to the alleged sexual attack.

3.  Carroll first came forward — conveniently — with the allegations while promoting her book What Do We Need Men For? in 2019, which featured a list of “The Most Hideous Men of My Life.”

4.  Carroll was unable to remember when this alleged attack even occurred. She told her lawyer in 2023, “This question, the when, the when, the date, has been something I’ve [been] constantly trying to pin down.” She has jumped years — originally beginning with 1994, then moving to 1995, and even floating to 1996. She cannot remember the season in which the alleged attack occurred either.

5.  The Donna Karan blazer dress she claims to have worn during the alleged incident was not even available at the time of her claims. Trump Attorney Boris Epshteyn told reporters, “She said, ‘This is the dress I wore in 1994.’ They went back, they checked. The dress wasn’t even made in 1994.”

“And that’s why the date’s moved around. This is the 80s. Is it the 90s? Is it the 2000s? President Trump has consistently stated that he was falsely accused, and he has the right to defend himself,” he added.

6.  She never came forward with these allegations over the years despite constantly being open about sexuality, posting things that were very sexual in nature on social media — many of which Trump has shared. They include remarks such as “How do you know your ‘unwanted sexual advance’ is unwanted, until you advance it?” and “Sex Tip I Learned From My Dog: When in heat, chase the male until he collapses with exhaustion … then jump him!”

7.  She said she was never raped, telling the New York Times’ podcast, The Daily,“Every woman gets to choose her word. Every woman gets to choose how she describes it. This is my way of saying it. This is my word. My word is ‘fight.’ My word is not the ‘victim’ word. I have not — I have not been raped,” she continued. “I have — something has not been done to me. I fought. That’s the thing.”

8.  She named her cat “Vagina.” “Her dog, or her cat, was named ‘Vagina.’ The judge wouldn’t allow us to put that in — all of these things — but with her, they could put in anything: Access Hollywood,” Trump told CNN.

9.  Joe Tacopina, an attorney for Trump, pointed out in May 2023 that Carroll’s entire story has incredible similarities to a 2012 episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. In that episode, titled “Theatre and Tricks,” an individual talks about a rape fantasy in Bergdorf Goodman — the same department store where Carroll claims the incident took place.

10.  Speaking of shows, Carroll loved Trump’s show The Apprentice.

“I was a big fan of the show. Very impressed by it,” Carroll said on the witness stand, adding that she “had never seen such a witty competition on TV, and it was about something worthwhile, competing.”

11.  Carroll made a joke associating sex with Bergdorf Goodman in a November 1993 edition of Elle, which was before the alleged Trump attack took place. As Breitbart News detailed:

Carroll was responding to a letter from a female reader concerned that she was having trouble achieving orgasm through sexual intercourse alone while the reader said that she could climax through foreplay. “Is there any way I could learn to reach orgasm through sex?” asked the reader in the November 1993 edition. “Maybe books I could read?” Carroll replied with the following advice (emphasis added): Dear Snowed Under: Stop flagellating yourself. Gadzooks! At least you have orgasms. And if that isn’t spontaneous sex I don’t know what is. Most women (about 70 percent) experience difficulties climaxing through intercourse alone. So you’re perfectly normal. Begin by reading For Yourself by Dr. Lonnie Barbach. She’ll give you excellent instructions on how to have an orgasm during intercourse. Then after 313 queenhell love-wiggles, move on to Gretta Garbo’s favorite love position – the top. (In erotic scenes, Garbo is always above the man. So are Sharon Stone, Bette Midler and Katherine Hepburn). Indeed, this location works better for women than the fourth floor of Bergdorf’s.

12.  Carroll is financially backed by anti-Trump Democrat megadonor Reid Hoffman, who has openly admitted to visiting convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein’s private island.

13.  Democrat party activists back her as well, as Breitbart News detailed:

Indeed, one of Carroll’s attorneys is Roberta Kaplan — a Democrat Party activist who led the group Time’s Up. She left the activist group after it was revealed she was aiding former New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo in attempting to discredit the Democrat’s accusers. It served as a great irony as Time’s Up seeks to defend women from what it claims is discrimination and harassment. This fact has led to mounting speculation that Kaplan only gets involved in cases that she views as politically expedient. Further, Federal District Judge Lewis Kaplan is overseeing the process and has connections to Carroll’s other attorney, Shawn Crowley. She was actually a law clerk for Judge Kaplan, and he officiated her wedding. That aside, Trump has denied knowing the left-wing activist as the only evidence of any contact is a single picture with Carroll greeting Trump and his ex-wife Ivana at an event greeting line over 35 years ago. Carroll has yet to provide solid evidence of this alleged encounter and will not use the dress that she claims had DNA on it from this alleged incident. Even Trump publicly said the dress should be part of the case. Further, there are no eyewitnesses of this alleged incident, which supposedly occurred at the popular New York City department store.

14.  The lawsuit was only able to proceed after Democrats created the Adult Survivors Act in 2022. She conveniently pursued this suit in November following the law going into effect, which allowed her to avoid the statute of limitations for this case.

15.  Carroll once said, “Most people think of rape as sexy.”

Donald Trump Jr. also retweeted a list of facts about Carroll, urging others to take a look:

- She couldn't recall the date, month, season, or year the incident happened -

She never told anyone about it, despite being publicly obsessed with her own sexuality -

The dress she claims to have been wearing didn't exist at the time -

Her description of the dressing room at Bergdorf Goodman was inaccurate, making her sequence of events impossible -

Her lawsuit was bankrolled by Jeffrey Epstein pal and Democrat (and Nikki Haley) mega-donor Reid Hoffman -

Democrats created a law (The Adult Survivors Act in 2022) to enable her lawsuit to proceed - Her accusation is the exact plotline of an episode of Law & Order (one of her "favorite shows") -

Trump's Apprentice was also one of her favorite shows -

She has a history of falsely accusing men of r*pe, including Les Moonves - She told Anderson Cooper, "most people think of r*pe as being sexy. Think of the fantasies." -

She made a career promoting promiscuity, even writing glowingly of sexual assault and naming her cat Vagina

We owe Stalin and Hitler a huge apology. We are ever so bad as they ever were. This isn't Justice. Its punishment for for disobeying the deep state elites.

[eugenedebs1920]

I’ve been a political junkie since before I could vote. I remember, I was in 3rd or 4th grade, listening to the radio when my mom was driving me somewhere. A news brief comes on and it’s about George H.W. Bush and Desert Storm. When the segment ended I said, “George bush sucks!” My mom got mad at me, not because of the statement, but because of the word suck, saying, “where did you learn that word Eugene?! Do you even know what suck means?” Honestly I really didn’t, but I knew it was an insult.

I have never! Not once, bailed on my civic duty to vote since turning 18. Presidential election, midterm election, special election, local. If I was given the opportunity to voice my opinion, I was about it.

I’ve always stayed pretty informed. Sometimes, like the current moment, far too much. The whole process fascinates me. Both the campaigning and the idea behind a representative , democratic election. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not wearing a light up, goofy hat. Although I did attend a Democratic National Convention once. Not the convention itself but I saw Rage Against the Machine perform for my second time, and the DNC time was free!

My first election I voted for Al Gore. I liked him. I thought he was smart. I liked his stance on the environment. I liked that he had the experience under Clinton that he had. I will also tell you, I didn’t then, nor have I ever, repped hats, or shirts, or flags of ANY president or presidential candidate. A pin or two the day I received em, or on my backpack maybe. Never though have I walked around with my political affiliation, or my affliction to a politician on full display. There were times when it wasn’t hard to tell with long hair, patchwork pants, big beard but.

That’s what has me so perplexed, not the hair and beard thing, but the devotion. I don’t get it. It would be different if it was, I don’t know, not Donald Trump! I mean, who really is that guy?

I saw him on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, a couple times as a kid, thought he seemed smug even then, I missed the whole Apprentice thing, didn’t even own a tv during that time. Was too busy living life. Is that where this follow derives from? I never saw one episode. I heard it wasn’t that good, nor did it have that high of ratings.

He isn’t a very elegant speaker. Go read a quote of his. When he says it, it kinda makes sense, but when you read one, it’s nothing. He says a bunch of words but he doesn’t say anything. It’s actually embarrassing that Trump quotes will forever be part of American history. Here’s an example from a rally when talking about Kamala Harris “back home to mommy. And she goes back home to mommy. ‘Was that you darlling?’ And then she gets the hell knocked out of her. Her mothers a big fan of ours. You know that, right? Her father, her mother. No, you always have that.” Mind you a couple things here. Right before this little snippet I clipped, he was talking about California and “whether you’re a Democrat, Republican, or independent this election is your chance to send a message”. Directly before, the next words are the mommy thing. It doesn’t piece together at all! Also. Kamala’s mom passed away quite a while ago from cancer. What is he even talking about!?

Now compare that to an Obama quote from 2004. “Yet even as we speak, there are those who are preparing to divide us, the spin masters and negative ad peddlers who embrace the politics of anything goes. Well, I say to them tonight, there's not a liberal America and a conservative America - there's the United States of America. There's not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there's the United States of America. The pundits like to slice-and-dice our country into Red States and Blue States; Red States for Republicans, Blue States for Democrats.”

See. It’s coherent, it has a driven message, it’s passionate. I can get behind that. Not talks about Hannibal Lecter, and electric boats. I don’t get it.

Moving forward.

Let’s talk about his presidency. What bills did he pass? There’s the massive corporate and wealthy tax cut that did very little for 98% of Americans. What else? Anybody? “Well, he built the wall and Mexico payed for it” that is false. There have been small sections built, but scattered, not even one long area. He increased the national debt by over $7.5 trillion. His policies, or lack there of with Covid caused hundreds of thousands of avoidable deaths. Those stimulus checks to keep Americans afloat are the cause of the inflation that we just now got back to normal. When he had to “print” money to give us so we could survive, the value of the dollar went down because there was more capital with no transaction, so with less value the dollar represents, the more things cost in relation to it. Economics is some weird, complicated, almost dogmatic stuff, but it kinda makes sense.

Then there’s the whole not accepting the election results thing. I’ve written and talked about over and over again. It’s exhausting! This is BY FAR the worst thing potentially ANYONE has done to America. More so than the 9/11 terror attacks, Pearl Harbor, Boston marathon, that’s a bold statement. Yet, through his narcissism not allowing him to concede to defeat, and claiming the election was rigged, it is an immensely damaging assault on the very foundation of this whole American democratic experiment. His words have sown doubt into the fabric of democracy with his baseless lies. He absolutely had the right to contest the results, do investigations, recounts, audits, and file suit with the evidence he had supporting his claims. The thing is, he had no evidence, there was no proof of any fraud because, there was none. Thats the end of the behavior that was acceptable. When all those court cases were dismissed for lack of evidence, that should have been it, but no.

All the tweets, all the interviews, all the scheming and plotting, after the court cases and recounts and whatnot, that’s sedition! Thats purposely conspiring against the United States. He knowingly pushed false information to Americans, who believed their commander in chief, and perpetrated the worst assault on our nation’s capital since the Civil War. Thats treason!!

The fact that that wasn’t the end is flabbergasting! The fact he is still in the public eye, let alone running for the seat he so immensely betrayed blows my f*cking mind!!

I don’t care about party affiliation, first and foremost we are Americans. First and foremost our allegiance is to the constitution. First and foremost we abide by the law. This sycophantic groveling to this guy is disgusting! It’s saddening. It’s unamerican.

This upcoming election will, and is saying a lot about us as Americans. The outcome will reflect who we are. I’m not sure I can say with confidence what that is. In the words of 4th grade Eugene, It sucks.

[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: Vol3E1 "Round One"

Hello, everyone, and welcome to a new collection of RWBY Recaps!!

This is a unique project in that instead of writing purely for my own entertainment, these recaps are part of the Fandom Trumps Hate auction (you can check them out here if you're interested in learning more). Specifically, these recaps are a gift for the lovely Kae who requested some meta on the earlier Volumes, or work that focused on Ozpin and/or Ironwood. I figured that Volume Three would touch on all those requests and, frankly, it's an era of RWBY that I was already interested in covering. Volume 3 was a turning point for RWBY's tone and overall mythology and I'm eager to see what I think of it in 2024, after six additional seasons and a rather chaotic overhaul.

(If anyone is reading this from the future, one of the reasons why it took me so damn long to get the first recap out is because finding official streams of RWBY has become a fool's errand as it changes ownership. Fun!)

Anyway, the game plan is simple: cover all of Volume Three at an undetermined, though hopefully steady-ish pace from here on out. Technically, the deadline for our FTH fandowrks is at the end of 2024, however, I absolutely plan to continue this series past my 5k promise. As always, this will be a RWDE-focused meta (though I'm eager to see how much nostalgia carries me through the season), so if you Don't Like; Don't Read.

Everyone got that? Great!

Now, indulge me for a moment and cast your mind back. It's October of 2015. Pizza Rat is a tumblr icon, Left Shark still reigns, and everyone is arguing over whether a dress is gold and white, or blue and black (it's the former FYI ;). Amidst such quality memes RWBY begins airing again on the 24th, presumably bringing with it another season of stellar choreography and simple, if entertaining conflict. Team RWBY has just helped contain a massive breach courtesy of Cinder's machinations, Torchewick is in Ironwood's custody, the White Fang is falling under Salem's puppeteering, Penny has revealed her android identity as well as her supposed fate to save the world, the girls are beginning to acknowledge the responsibility of their chosen career path, and the mysterious Raven has been identified as Yang's birth mother. All in all, RWBY has a lot to play with going into its third season.

It's notable then that we open peacefully. The viewer is treated to a number of environmental shots to set the scene, including one of the forest with its iconic falling Fall leaves. Ruby is positioned at the edge of a cliff with her signature rose petals drifting behind her. Stylistically it fits the scene, though from a literal standpoint it also implies that she used her semblance speed to get here. Given the momentary reveal that she's speaking to her mom, that's a rather heartwarming detail.

Sidenote: has anyone given any thought to cliffs in this series? It only occurred to me recently how often they show up, often during character milestones. Here we have Ruby talking to Summer for the first time, her (bodiless) grave situated at the end of a cliff. The Beacon initiation involves chucking the kids off a cliff and seeing how they fare, an action that is the catalyst for the group's introductions/growing dynamics. Shooting Oscar off the edge of Atlas solidifies Ironwood's turn from anti-hero to outright villain. Though I'm far from a fan of this scene, Ruby's (ridiculous) near-fall off the cliff during the fight with Cordovin preludes her (supposed) growth in leadership as she stands up to Qrow. Penny lets herself fall from Amity after sacrificing herself to get it up into the air. Then, of course, we've got the girls falling off of Ambrosius' bridge, taking them to a world where - execution aside - the intention was for them all to go through major developments: Ruby is literally reborn, Jaune experiences a lifetime of struggle, Yang and Blake finally admit their feelings, and Weiss... gets over her whole country being destroyed?

Idk, we'll have to come back to that one.

I clearly don't have a big takeaway here, just the acknowledgement that this is a visual RWBY gravitates towards. Might do a whole side meta on it some day...

Anyway, as said we realize quickly this is Summer's grave with her name carved into the headstone along with "Thus kindly I scatter." Notably, she also has her rose motif there and it's likewise prominent on Ruby's belt in this scene. Looking back, we can see how RWBY did a better job at the start of sprinkling in these significant character details before, you know, dropping them completely and then attempting a rapid-fire resurrection. Meaning, I would have bought into the emotion of Ruby giving her pendant up in Volume 9 if we'd gotten these moments consistently throughout the story's run. It wouldn't take much, just a reminder every couple of episodes to maintain the momentum. Give Ruby a scene where she explains that this rose was left by Summer before she disappeared and she's treasured it ever since. Show a flashback where we learn that it was really left behind for both girls and Yang handed it down to Ruby when she was old enough to keep track of it. Give us a minor conflict where it's lost during battle and Ruby unnecessarily endangers herself in an attempt to retrieve it (perhaps in Volume 8, setting up that the object itself is not as important as the intangible love it represents). Hell, keep it lighthearted where Yang gets Ruby something rose related at the gift shop, Nora tucks a Rose into her hair while wandering the wilderness, Qrow gives the pendant a cheeky flick while talking about how Ruby's as stubborn as her mom. My point is there are a million ways the show could have built towards that scene in Volume 9 - ways like showing us that rose on Summer's gravestone - but the show dropped the ball halfway through.

Here and now though, Ruby begins catching Summer up on everything that's happened to her since she started Beacon, which serves as a useful way to catch the viewer up too - both those who, for whatever reason, may have started RWBY with Volume 3, and those who just need a hiatus refresher.

Ruby is delightfully awkward here, a personality trait that I think becomes more forced as the series goes on. She jokes that she hasn't gotten kicked out of Beacon yet - while doing that cute little rock on her heels thing - and says that she's able to "keep [Yang] in line" by being on the same team. She follows that up with, "...that was a joke" which is just quintessential Ruby to me. Love it.

She recaps that Yang has grown a lot as a fighter since Summer left, the rest of their team is made up of Blake and Weiss, together they form Team RWBY and yes, that's as confusing as it sounds. She's stopped bad guys and met some "odd" teachers, including Ozpin.

(THAT'S MY BOY!!!)

Looking back, this is actually a fascinating couple of lines. At least, I think they have the potential to be fascinating if RT had followed a clear writing path. Ruby wonders again why Ozpin let her into Beacon early, but shrugs it off under the assumption that he'll tell her one day. "You know how he is."

Yeah, I do, Ruby. Do you?

We already knew from their initial interaction that Ruby knew who Ozpin was - she recognizes him on sight - though him posing the question implies that he never visited Patch post-her birth. At least, not recently enough for Ruby to have formed a memory of them meeting. I can only assume then that she's heard enough about him from Tai and Qrow to a) be sure of his identity (any promotional material/news about Beacon would have helped with that too) and b) believes strongly that her impression of him formed since entering Beacon aligns with what her parents presumably said about him: "You know how he is." The fact that this is in reference to Ozpin's secret keeping makes me wonder how often that came up around the dinner table. Did Tai ever express frustration, a la Ironwood, that they're clearly being kept in the dark about things? Did Qrow ever dodge the girls' questions about where he's been because he can't be honest about his spy activities, aligning Ozpin's reputation with secrecy by virtue of working for him? The casualness with which Ruby shrugs off Ozpin's secrets to Summer heavily implies that Ozpin's cagey history is both well known to the family and accepted.

Honestly, I would have loved to see this woven into Ruby's core characterization, perhaps even an extension of her "simple soul." Give me a girl who is intrinsically accepting of people, including their need to keep certain things close to the chest. Teammate deliberately kept her faunus identity under wraps? Friend hides the fact that she's an android from the whole world? Ruby accepts them. Ruby gets it. The fact that Ruby does, canonically, accept their duplicity without so much as a blink is, I think, one of the reasons why I expected her of all people to be more sympathetic towards Ozpin's hidden identity. We can argue about the girls' right to the truth via participating in this war till the cows come home, but at the end of the day Ozpin's secrets are intrinsically tied up in his family, his history, and the trauma surrounding both. Let the others get mad, prioritizing information over personal motivations (that does fit their characterizations well, with Blake perhaps being an exception), but Ruby? The show has never been willing to commit to the kind of dark story that would result in a 180 character growth - endlessly forgiving protagonist becomes jaded and cynical as she experiences The Horrors - and little moments like this one further emphasize to me that Ruby, specifically Ruby, is uniquely suited to helping Ozpin not just fight, but finally finish this war. It should never have been (just) about her talent with a scythe, or even the rarity of Silver Eyes. The Gods wanted Ozpin to unite humanity and here's a young woman who unabashedly loves everyone that the world tends to despise: secret keepers and drunk uncles and faunus and Schnees and scary androids. Ruby should have been the emotional bridge!!

Okay, I swear I'm not going to make this series a rehash of my issues with the later Volumes lol. Inevitably some things are going to crop up though.

Moving on, Ruby mentions that Tai is here too and the viewer gets to see his avatar for the first time, albeit from a distance. In keeping Summer updated on her... husband? Wait, were they married? Well, in keeping her updated on her partner, Ruby says that, "He's, you know... Dad," which, unlike the Ozpin line, is just plain funny. Sure, most of her talk is very exposition-y and absolutely functions as a soft lead-in to new content, but that's not to say a story should ever put absurd dialogue in a character's mouth simply for the sake of the viewer. That is, Ruby should never say, 'Oh, Tai is here! You know, my Dad?' because the person she's talking to, Summer, knows damn well who Tai is. Television has actually gotten better about this as a whole. Once upon a time a medical drama would have the doctor yelling, 'Her skin is turning yellow - she's jaundiced! Her liver is failing!' to ensure that the viewer understood precisely what 'jaundiced' meant, never mind how absurd it was for a professional to be shouting that among their peers. (Granted, medical dramas as a whole are absurd. I say that with love.) Despite RT's general inexperience, RWBY belongs to an era of televised storytelling where leaving certain things unsaid is par for the course.

Here, the unspoken information is what it means for Tai to be, you know, Tai. We don't really know who Tai is yet- personality-wise, I mean - so Ruby's comment functions more as a way to set up our expectations rather than to connect with us in agreement. We now expect Tai to be the kind of guy who does things to make his teenage daughter sigh and go, 'That's Dad...' and we, presumably, look forward to seeing that.

Granted, the three things we do know about Tai at this point in the story consist of:

He's a fellow Huntsmen (which is an insane job)

He let his daughter join Beacon two years early to also become a Huntress (also kinda insane but I support him)

He maintains a relationship with said daughter and daughter Sr by sending them their dog in the mail (do I really need to say it?)

Based on that I suppose we can guess as to what Tai is like lol.

He calls Ruby away so they're not late for the match and she sends a last message to Summer over her shoulder: "It was good to talk." As we transition, a murder of crows flies across the sky. Or is it an unkindness of ravens? I can barely tell in real life, let alone when they're animated blobs, but either option works well enough given the upcoming revelation about the Branwen twins.

Cutting to the arena a little time in the future, the viewer is treated to some establishing shots that, while simple, are honestly pretty cool. I believe this is our first introduction to Atlas' floating environments and showing a bit of Beacon Academy in the background helps give us a sense of scale.

This event is clearly popular, with the stadium absolutely packed with people (even more are trickling in from ferrying ships) and, to RT's credit, they did a bit of work to convey diversity in this world. We see a decent variety of skin tones as well as faunus characteristics, to say nothing of the cool designs many of the competitors will get. Beyond the main cast still being overwhelmingly white, I'd say the biggest issue here is the lack of body diversity, what with everyone having the same, stick-thin figure. Yeah, RT is clearly using the same base model copied a hundred times and I'm very aware of their previous status as a small, independent company, but such visuals nevertheless stand out in a series that's been pushing a minority plotline for three seasons.

The camera swoops down to follow Team RWBY in the midst of a battle which, again, is staged in a way that's clearly meant to catch up/invite in new viewers. It's very trailer-esque as each shot lingers on Weiss, Blake, and Yang for a moment before finishing with Ruby, complete with a twirl of Crescent Rose. This is the show visually reminding you of what it's really about. Sure, we might have started with Ruby speaking peacefully by a grave, but at the end of the day RWBY is the story of a team engaging in combat situations.

Oobleck and Port are announcing the event and Oobleck throws out his standard "Doctor" when his title goes unacknowledged.

You know, I started RWBY nearly a decade ago. Four years ago I secured a PhD, so I feel that now.

Port provides another handy info dump for those "just now joining us." AKA the viewer who has no idea what a Vytal Festival is, but this is as good an excuse as any given that people are still entering the stadium. Simply put, all the Kingdoms' huntsmen schools are competing as teams first, then as duos, then as individuals to determine the final winner who will have achieved "victory for their kingdom!" Age and year are irrelevant, which makes perfect sense given the nature of RWBY's combat. You've got young prodigies like Ruby and people who sneak into Beacon like Jaune, and though the other schools/years probably don't have as much drama going on, the variety of semblances, weapons, dust use, and personal experience really makes this anyone's game. A first year might easily beat a fourth year if they won the genetic lottery with their semblance, or a student from School A might trounce someone their age from School B, depending on how much their school has sent them into real combat situations.

Given all that, I kinda wish the Festival had developed the other Kingdoms more, given that it's the perfect opportunity for the cultures to learn from one another and/or butt heads. In a perfect world, one where RT had some sense of where their story was going, I would have loved to see:

Strong development of Vacuo's citizens, especially given that it will be the focal point of Volume 10 and possibly the end of the series (if we ever get that...).

Though the gag that Weiss excepts strict, militaristic fighters from Atlas only to get Neon is funny, that 'Don't judge a book by its cover' lesson really doesn't align well with what Volume 7 and 8 try to push. Better, perhaps, to set up Atlas' dictatorship tendencies before swinging hard in that direction (and I'll get into how what we do see doesn't make the cut).

How Remnant's racism gets displayed in a highly public competition. Do Blake and the other faunus face more discrimination now that they're in the public eye? Do asshole citizens challenge wins because no way did a faunus beat that human?

How different schools approach training their huntsmen. Specifically, everyone seems to abide by the four-person team structure, so why would this competition eventually highlight duos and individuals? It seems counter to what Beacon, and by extension all the other schools, are trying to promote. This setup would make more sense if we were shown that different schools have radically different curriculum. Maybe it's eventually 1v1 because Vacuo's individualist, survival-based culture teaches huntsmen to fend for themselves; teammates are just another liability. Maybe Atlas, being militaristic, prizes safety in numbers and has students train in groups of six rather than four. Maybe Mistral is incredibly semblance-focused (a way to develop Neptune's phobia rather than just making it a gag; a fighter who can't or won't use their semblance is considered effectively useless) and if you can negate that aspect of their style somehow, you find they're lacking severely in weapon-based combat.

Again, I know that RWBY, particularly early RWBY, only had so much time per episode, but looking back it feels like there are a lot of missed opportunities in this world-watched event. None of this is even taking into account Cinder sneaking into the school, or Penny being outed as an android. If any RWBY rewriters are reading this, the Festival is a potential goldmine of characterization and cultural development. If you're going to write random RWBY books, write some about that!

One moment of cultural significance that is shown though is the Atlas security hovering around the arena. They mostly keep to the background, without any single appearance being obtrusive (yet). This is one of those moments where (some) fans look back and say, "See? Ironwood was always a controlling, military-obsessed bastard," but the reality is that this is incredibly tame by real world standards, to say nothing of the realities of RWBY's fantasy world. Regardless of how you feel about the, uh... motivations behind the security in your country (because that's a whole other conversation), you expect there to be some level of professional oversight when that many people are meeting in one place. That's a reality we have to work with, which includes all the potential pitfalls, biases, manipulations, and accidents that come with any large-scale endeavor. Toss in the fact that RWBY's security is designed to defend against man-eating monsters and I'm honestly surprised it isn't presented as dystopian here. Meaning, we easily could have been given a story where people are comparatively safe from grimm in modern day Remnant and the security functions primarily as outside control and/or a fear-mongering tactic. It's not that security is inherently unnecessary, but those walls have done a damn good job for the last generation or so, so why is James so insistent on populating this festival with his probably not-needed robots? Seems sus 🤔.

As it stands, grimm DO attack people on the regular (that was kind of a big part of last Volume's finale), security IS necessary (according to many other council professionals once James raises the issue), and it's arguably MORE necessary now - during the festival - because there are so many potentially negative emotions just waiting to crop up. Instead of "Seems sus," the reaction to having defensive robots around is more, "No duh." At the very least RWBY might have had the characters react to the security with suspicion/fear, even if that doesn't totally track with the rest of the worldbuilding, or better yet, demonstrate that there are major issues with AI leading the charge (robot mistakes kid in grimm mask for real grimm and fires a shot!). Granted, we get that through the hacking at the very end of the Volume, but here and now the Atlas ships seem to be used primarily for transporting viewers, the crowd is fully at ease with these guys, and — as we'll see later — the prospect of additional security in the form of AI is greeted with enthusiasm, not wariness, simply because it will keep real, breathing people off the front lines. Those are all important things to keep in mind when you consider whether a) The show took a very sharp turn in Volumes 7-8 or b) The show capitalized on a long established, slow burn plotline.

(Psst the answer is 'B')

ANYWAY, Oobleck is yelling about the "Spectacular spectacles on which to speculate on!" and I love him all the more. While he and Port narrate we get some non-animated shots of people viewing the Festival from around the world, though frankly it doesn't do much to help RWBY's worldbuilding. Some people watch the fights from a camper outside, others are in a minimalist apartment, still others are in what's basically a bar... if you're looking for intriguing backgrounds to drum up interest in the world outside of Beacon, you're not going to find it here. The presence of various faunus individuals is really the only thing that distinguishes these settings from a show based in the real world.

Onto the fighting! (It's about time :p) The girls are facing off against Team ABRN (pronounced "Auburn") from Haven and they're decent for a couple of one-off characters. I like the design of the girl with the skateboard - Reese - and how her weapon, the board itself, gives her a lot of flexibility in battle. Since it functions as a hoverboard she has a lot of maneuverability, she can use the board as a shield, a projectile, adapt its abilities via Dust, and - of course - she can pull both sides apart to duel wield the guns. Looking at all that flexibility, it is a little lame that she 'loses' that particular encounter with Blake by slipping on the ice, but then we're not really supposed to care about these characters. They exist solely to get us hyped for the battles to come and give a quick primer on how those battles will work. AKA, now we've learned that the battlefield itself has hazards the girls must circumvent.

Blake is cute here though. She's so concerned and I'm like yeah, girl, that looked like it hurt 😬

This whole exchange has that same vibe: one of casual playfulness, which makes perfect sense given that this is supposed to be a fun competition. They're exhibition matches, not real attempts to take the other team out (which is why Yang's supposed act later in the tournament will be seen as so heinous). The guy with the pink hair (Nadir) full on pouts when Ruby successfully traps him in a block of ice and, of course, we have the classic "Got your back!"/"My BFF!" lines in response. The girls are enjoying themselves and that's so damn wholesome to see after all the tragedies - plot and writing-wise - of the later Volumes.

Team ABRN are able to make a bit of a comeback and - *gasp* - the girls have to actually think creatively/combine techniques in order to get the upper-hand. Blake successfully tricks Reese with a clone and catches her in the midriff with a quickly timed ribbon, cleanly knocking her out of the ring. It's here that we learn a team member can be eliminated via leaving the bounds, or having their aura dip too low (remember when that was a thing?) I know I just said there's teamwork, and there absolutely is here, but it did stand out to me how Blake just like... disappears after this moment? I mean she comes back, but it's clear RT wanted each girl to have her moment in this battle, despite the fact that any member who successfully defeated their opponent would be rushing off to help the others. That should be a near defining win condition - defeat one opponent and suddenly it's a 2 vs 1 situation for someone else - but that expectation falls by the wayside until the fight's final moments.

It's a good fight though. Not the greatest by RWBY standards, but it was no hardship to rewatch for this recap either. Weiss pulls out an epic ice hand that ensnares two of the members, now rolling chaotically across the arena, and clearly she thinks this is the end of the fight. However, Arslan — the monk-type who favors hand-to-hand combat (or the one with the "Eastern martial arts influence" according to the RWBY wiki...)— simply rolls her eyes, plants her feet, and shatters the ball with a single hit. Gotta admit, it's pretty cool.

Of course, Team RWBY still comes out victorious in the end. With all of Team ABRN now in one place, the girls have one of those lovely mind-reading moments and pull off a coordinated attack, allowing Yang to sucker-punch them all out of the ring. Again, it's nice to see that kind of teamwork, as well as the adorable way they all stand there, mildly shocked that they won.

I'll take that over the brazen, cocky confidence they've gained any day.

The only thing I'm kinda iffy about regarding this fight is how Team ABRN feels a little less like a full-fledged team to me, and more like a faint Team RWBY echo. It's most noticeable in the Yang vs. Arslan sections where you've got two yellow-coded, hand-to-hand snarkers facing off. Blake and Reese both feel like the cool, alternative style members of their teams, and then you've got the Weiss-Ruby duo trying to overtake the Bolin-Nadir duo. It's admittedly a subtle familiarity that lessens with each example, but it stood out to me in the re-watch; like Team ABRN only exists to give Team RWBY someone vaguely similar to overcome. Which, granted, they do. These are not characters we're going to follow as the series progresses, so in most respects they've done precisely what they needed to do and in a way that looks cool and feels entertaining. So this isn't a criticism, really. More an acknowledgment that RWBY is a series with limits and if we want to know more about these characters/flesh them out beyond their paralleling characteristics, we'll have to do that ourselves in the fanfic.

As Ruby jumps into the air in a victory celebration, we PowerPoint slide cut to the festival later that day where she nearly collapses, asking if anyone else is starving.

Yeah, child. You just made it through a physically intensive battle in front of an audience while existing as a teenager. Of course you're hungry. Blake's stomach gives a giant, embarrassing growl in response and Weiss sarcastically bemoans the fact that there's nowhere to eat at the food-focused festival. Good times, good times.

Ruby: "It's okay, Weiss. I forget about the fair grounds too."

Before they can grab lunch though Weiss declines a call from her father and an old 'acquaintance' suddenly shows up.

Emerald.

You know, kudos to Katie here because Emerald's laugh and, "Good to see you, Ruby" sounds so fake to me now. It just oozes, 'I secretly hate you but am pulling out all my acting skills to convince you otherwise' energy. Obviously RWBY has a host of villains/antagonists that have done a plethora of heinous things, but there's something particularly skin-crawling to me about seeing Emerald in retrospect. Part of it is the deception. I don't know about anyone else, but I personally would prefer a villain who's upfront about their nature from the get-go, rather than one who pretends to be my friend before stabbing me in the back. The first scenario just lacks the same emotional punch, you know? Though the other part of it is, of course, knowing where everyone ends up. Beacon will fall. Ozpin will "die." Pyrrha will actually die, and our heroes will be sent out into a war they're in no way ready for. Yes, Salem is our ultimate Big Bad, yes Emerald has her sympathetic moments and does a heel-turn into "good guy" territory four Volumes from now... but I think the fandom often forgets that she willingly and actively participated in this horror show. This isn't someone just along for the ride because their crush manipulated them, this is someone with a working brain between their ears who has PLENTY of time to consider the ramifications of this and still went, "Yeah, I'll lie my way into orchestrating a massacre."

All this hindsight angst is interrupted by the joke (and I use that term with great reservation) that Ruby must have dropped her wallet because "Girl pockets are the worst!" Sorry, but that has such cis-guy-trying-to-relate-to-women-and-failing-miserably energy to me. Like yeah, I also hate the super small/outright fake pockets that they often sew into women's clothing and I too have smiled at women promoting pockets as part of their independent brands... but somehow hearing the RWBY writers reference it just doesn't land. It's not #problematic, just cringy.

Emerald butters them up a bit by complimenting their fighting and Weiss notes that they haven't seen Emerald's teammates in action yet. We cut to their battle where they dominate the other team, complete with a disguised Neo showing her real eye color before she knocks the competitor out. "[They did] really well," says Emerald in the fakest humble tone ever heard.

Ruby invites them all to lunch and Emerald - clearly horrified by the prospect - dodges by claiming that her teammates are too socially awkward for a meetup. In her defense, Mercury is in the process of randomly sniffing a boot, so although this is absolutely just an excuse, she's also not wrong. Like, at all lol.

Fishing for more info, Emerald asks who's moving onto the doubles round and it turns out that Team RWBY voted for Weiss and Yang. There are three things that I love about this moment:

They voted. Yes, Ruby cheekily tries to make it sound like this is all coming from her genius as team leader, but at the end of the day they decided as a team who would represent them. It's a small detail, but those stand out so much more now that we have Ruby vocally and angrily calling the shots.

(This is a ridiculous side-note I'm 99.9% sure I've mentioned before, but every time I talk about Ruby's intense form of "leadership" in the latter Volumes, I'm reminded of Rick's, "This is not a democracy!" in The Walking Dead. If you know, you know.)

They chose Weiss and Yang. From both an in-world and meta perspective, it's actually a little surprising that Ruby isn't representing them. As established, she's team leader. The team is named after her. She's the protagonist of the show. She's also, canonically, a prodigy wielding an insanely deadly weapon. Yet it's refreshing as a viewer to have a new duo taking the spotlight and within the story-world this choice reinforces Point #1: They're a team and no matter how individually talented any one member may be - or even what titles they hold - they are, at the end of the day, all on equal footing. Why shouldn't Yang and Weiss represent?

The way they both respond to this reveal is dang cute. Weiss' "I will happily represent Team RWBY" while curtseying to Emerald vs. Yang's "Yeah! We're gonna kick some butt!" while slamming her fists together. It's a great contrast and shows why these two might have been chosen. Though powerful on their own, their styles and personality are different enough to compensate for any flaws.

With all that out of the way Emerald rejoins Mercury and her smile immediately drops. She's disgusted at having to get all buddy-buddy with them, but "Orders are orders." She has this classic villain moment where she expresses shock over how they're just so happy all the time and I'm like oh, honey. Darling. Morally misaligned baby girl. Just give it a few Volumes.

We cut to Team RWBY at lunch and aRE THE BOWLS SUPPOSED TO BE THAT BIG?

I recalled that they were big as a visual gag, but not half the girls' size. Honestly? Great choice. I too want to live in a world where you can get insanely giant noodles a millisecond after you order them.

Deviating from the others, Blake nods at the seller dude and receives an equally giant bowl filled with fish. You know, I really wish RWBY had done something with the faunus' animal traits rather than turning them into an endless joke. The concept of a god merging humans with literal animals and then, generations down the line, cat-people being influenced by cat instincts as well as human instincts (because remember, we're animals too) is actually really interesting to me... but navigating the racial implications of that takes a level of nuance that RWBY was never interested in exploring. So we're just left with a Blake who is fish obsessed and chases laser pointers and hates dogs and we're supposed to laugh at all that, rather than buying into her teachings that many people use these traits to dehumanize the faunus.

Anyway, Weiss shows off a bit and pays for all their food. At least, she tries to. Turns out her card has been declined, which is more than a little confusing to her given that she was "barely into [her] monthly allowance." Hmm, could that possibly have anything to do with her ignoring her father's phone calls? Surely no one knows.

Luckily, Pyrrha shows up and offers to pay instead (it's nice having a famous BFF, huh?), but like... what were the girls' initial plans? None of them were expecting Weiss to pay, yet they act like Pyrrha is saving the day by showing up, implying that they don't have the money to cover their meal. The shop guy even takes Blake's fish away, leaving her despondent. So what? Were they planning to eat and just worry about the bill later? Actually, that sounds exactly like something these chaotic preteens would do lol. Yang especially. She was introduced while "buying" a drink before destroying the whole dang bar.

Speaking of teenagers, they all finish their bowls with the kind of appetite only seen in 14-71yos. Although, it was a near thing for Jaune. He's very close to barfing (callback!) and Nora encourages him to "aim it at the enemy!"

She continues ragging on him for a bit, failing to come up with any compliments while hyping up her team. Pyrrha is a world-renowned fighter, Ren is basically a ninja, she can bench five of herself, and Jaune is... Jaune. Nora also doesn't include him in her secondary list which implies that Jaune a) hasn't trained as much (or, more realistically, hasn't gotten as much out of it) as the others, b) doesn't possess an "awesome" weapon, and c) is still frequently yelled at by Glynda.

Poor Jaune. I don't say that very often anymore, but he's going through it here lol.

All of this leads to Nora spiraling at the possibility of them losing. This includes the oh-so-causal drop that she and Ren "have no parents and no home left to go to" which is a HELL of a thing to throw out in a comedically framed breakdown. I mean, being orphans is sad enough, but "no home left to go to" won't be explained until we learn that their town was basically wiped off the map, so damn.

Team RWBY reassures them that a fight with actual rules is nothing compared to what they've already been through. You know, the murderers, extremists, and sociopaths. "Oh," gushes Ruby, "imagine what it'll be like when we graduate!"

As Port and Oobleck call Team JNPR to the arena for their match we cut to Emerald and Mercury settling in to enjoy the festivities. In retrospect, this right here is a really nicely composed shot:

It tells us that Emerald is serious about going through with this destruction (again, she's no manipulated damsel), but she's not getting the same personal enjoyment out of it like Mercury is, as showcased by the smirk. The focus remains on them with Team RWBY framed in between. This is the villains' Volume. They're going to win. Our eyes follow the soon-to-be champions not of the festival, but the battle, while our heroes are literally and metaphorically trapped between them. Finally, Yang is the only one who looks back. We won't know this for several episodes, but she's at the heart of their plan and has every reason to cast the almost-but-not-quite-worried glance over her shoulder. Subtle foreshadowing, how I love thee.

It's shit like this that makes my brain go, "It used to be good! RWBY used to be fun AND occasionally insightful! Those overworked animators were uplifting a mediocre story and the result was good!!!"

As they take their seats who should show up but Cinder, casually using her semblance to pop a kernel of popcorn (power move). "Even if you know how a story ends," she says, "that doesn't make it any less fun to watch." True that! I mean, she's talking about knowing that Team JNPR will be moving on because they need Pyrrha to murder Penny, but I agree with the sentiment outside of that context.

Actually, do they ever explain how they manipulated the fights? I mean, they obviously entered and are winning their own battles and we know that Mercury will be staging his injury with Yang... but here Cinder makes it sound like she's pulling strings in every match. Toss that onto the list of development I would have liked for this Volume: what precisely are they doing behind the scenes? I'll have to pay careful attention going forward to make sure I don't miss anything because right now all I can recall is them looking at Penny's blueprints (presumably obtained via Watts).

Team JNPR's area is randomized into a forest and mountainous land before the battle commences. We end on that cliffhanger, complete with the superhero-esque freeze shot.

And that concludes the first episode of Volume 3! As well as my first recap in a long while. If you've followed me at all you'll know that work has been my personal Big Bad the last two-ish years. Given the scope of my responsibilities and the energy they extract, I simply don't have the time or means to write the way I used to. However, I feel like if I can muster up the willpower to finish this on tonight of all nights (people reading from the future: check the posting date and you'll understand), then I must be getting a little better at carving out writing time in my hectic schedule. All hail self-improvement!

On that positive note, everyone have a wonderful night. Or at least try to. Seriously. Text a loved one, treat yourself to a favored snack, do something that feels fulfilling. Take some deep breaths and I'll see you for the next one.

~Clyde❤️

[simply-ivanka]

If Taylor Swift Had Endorsed Donald Trump

Democrats would scorn her business savvy, cap her ticket prices, and fret over her huge carbon footprint.

Wall Street Journal

By Allysia Finley

Forbes estimates Taylor Swift’s net worth at $1.3 billion. Despite her liberal leanings, the singer-songwriter has amassed her wealth the old-fashioned way: through hard work, talent and business savvy. Her endorsement of Kamala Harris last week is rich considering she owes her success to the capitalist system the vice president wants to tear down.

“The way I see it, fans view music the way they view their relationships,” Ms. Swift wrote in a 2014 piece for the Journal. “Some music is just for fun, a passing fling. . . . Some songs and albums represent seasons of our lives, like relationships that we hold dear in our memories but had their time and place in the past. However, some artists will be like finding ‘the one.’ ” She has become “the one” for hundreds of millions of fans worldwide with lyrics that chronicle relationship woes women commonly experience.

Ms. Swift took advantage of her ardent fan base in 2014 by removing her catalog from Spotify in a bid for higher royalties. “Valuable things should be paid for. It’s my opinion that music should not be free,” she explained. “My hope for the future, not just in the music industry, but in every young girl I meet, . . . is that they all realize their worth and ask for it.”

She also criticized Apple Music for not paying artists during the streaming service’s free trial, prompting the company to change its policy. As she jeers in a hit song, “Who’s afraid of little old me?” Apparently, Big Tech companies.

Last year she reportedly raked in $200 million from streaming royalties on top of the estimated $15.8 million she grossed per performance during her recent “Eras” tour. Some fans have shelled out thousands of dollars on the resale market to see Ms. Swift perform. Americans have even traveled to Europe when they couldn’t get tickets in the U.S.

Her fan base may be more loyal and enthusiastic than Donald Trump’s. JD Vance scoffed at the idea that the star’s endorsement of Ms. Harris could influence the outcome of the election. The “billionaire celebrity,” he said, is “fundamentally disconnected from the interests and the problems of most Americans.” Maybe, but she certainly taps into the problems of young women.

Democrats hope to use Ms. Swift’s endorsement to drive them to the polls. But it isn’t difficult to imagine what the left would be saying about her had she endorsed the Republican antihero. It might go something like this:

The billionaire has gotten rich by ripping off fans, avoiding taxes and harming competitors. Time for the government to break her up. Unlike rival artists, Ms. Swift writes, performs and owns her compositions. This vertical integration allows her to charge exorbitant royalties and ticket prices.

Tickets for her “Eras” tour on average cost about $240. That’s merely the price for admission—not including food, drink or Swiftie swag. VIP passes that include memorabilia go for $899. How dare she make young women choose between paying for groceries or rent and going to a concert.

The Federal Trade Commission must cap Ms. Swift’s ticket prices at a reasonable price—say, $20—and ban her junk fees. Concertgoers shouldn’t have to pay $65 for an “I Love You It’s Ruining My Life” sweatshirt.

Her romance with Kansas City Chiefs tight end Travis Kelce also unfairly boosts their star power, letting them charge more for endorsements. As Ms. Swift writes in one song, “two is better than one.” Mr. Kelce reportedly signed a $100 million podcast deal with Amazon’s Wonderly. By breaking up the couple, the government could reduce their royalties and ticket prices.

Ms. Swift, the self-described “mastermind,” also dodges taxes on her “full income,” which includes some $125 million in real estate and a music catalog worth an estimated $600 million. “They said I was a cheat, I guess it must be true,” Ms. Swift acknowledges in her song “Florida!!!”

Under the Biden-Harris administration’s proposed billionaire’s tax, she would have to pay a 25% levy on the $1 billion increase in her fortune since 2017. But that isn’t enough. Ms. Swift should also have to pay taxes on the appreciating value of her “name, image and likeness,” which the Internal Revenue Service considers an asset.

How much is her brand worth? Easily billions. She might say, as she does in a song, that her “reputation has never been worse.” True, Miss Americana’s image took a hit after reports that her private-jet travel in 2022 emitted 576 times as much CO2 as the average American in a year. When Ms. Swift sings, “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me,” she’s correct. She and her fat-cat friends are what’s wrong with America.

Appeared in the September 16, 2024, print edition as 'If Taylor Swift Had Endorsed Donald Trump'.

[zoeys-ksbd-fan-blog]

Book 1 First Impressions

Part 1

Hiya, so as a kinda fresh ksbd fan I feel like other fans would enjoy hearing what it's like for a newcomer to read it for the first time. Maybe give them a little taste of what it was like to read it the first time themselves.

So, my first impression...

...was oh my god holy shit the art is so good wow wow wow cool oh my god wow

Also, as of writing I'm a decent chunk into book 3. When I first saw this panel I was actually overwhelmed. Which I feel like is the intended affect since the leading up pages are pretty typical. I didn't even notice the center figure got fucking beheaded until my 2nd reread.

But also it's fun seeing this panel now and being, like, hey I know what all these characters are

On that note, I am excited to eventually learn exactly what's happening here. Is that bird significant? I know what this area is called but is there anything more significant going on here? Is it all metaphorical.

Which i dont think it is, because in the description of many pages there is supplemental stories. They mimic ancient poems, and other historical texts.

And birds are mentioned pretty frequently, as small creatures made by old gods that are small enough to travel through holes in reality to other realms.

White Chain is a trans king. A male person stuck in the shell of someone who looks feminine. Based.

Although the more I read an angels gender seems to be pretty fluid, which would make sense.

I'm not trying to summarize the comics, but I guess for context. Angels can only affect the physical world through one of these sets of armors. Their real forms are less human, usually.

And I guess this is a good place to compliment the visual design. Holy shit the aesthetic of these cities being built on these corpses is extraordinarily fucking cool.

And in the description the author left an I-Spy sort of puzzle in the description which is an excellent way to get a reader to look at a panel longer.

And shoutouts to the commentor who told me to read the description and comics, there is so much extra content there I've re-read book 1 four times and have had new experiences each time.

The world building is so intricate it completely trumps most other media I've seen. I dunno what to tell you, its just great. You can just taste how long the author has been cooking this world for. And it all paid off.

Cool background character is cool.

In gonna talk about the extra description content again, they're cool and are mandatory to read. Although maybe leave it to your second or third reread because the world building already present is still very dense.

Some of them involve a figure who is talking to their birds and asking questions to the reader. Which people answer in the comments.

Those same answers are then mentioned later as conversations had by people in Yisun's hall.

Don't know who Yisun is? Read the comic.

But things get confusing, the figure asks the readers where they believe Allison is traveling right when she is pulled from her own world. Someone says that she is going to the future, and Yisun likes it and makes it true.

But she isn't going to the future? Like she just isn't? We know later that this is all taking place linearly.

It's all very meta.

On page 16 we get some wild lore. It seems to be a background on Pree Ashma. Who's name I definitely recognize but deadass cannot remember who they are.

I'm probably not gonna mention the description again, but I wanted to yap so there you go.

No clue who this person is but I thought she was cool enough to make my pfp. We know her last name from the description though.

Later clues tell us she's a knight. That and people call her The Beggar Knight.

Boy would I love to pick the authors brain about where his mind goes when he creates these characters. Because they are so consistently unique and impressive. Praman Nand is a more important character so I would expect his design to be more striking. But the effort in his design is present in even the most insignificant background characters.

I imagine the dialect Cio is speaking here vs how she speaks to Allison and White Chain is the devil equivalent of code-switching.

I really love the action scenes. The author packs in so much detail that one panel feels fast paced. While giving the important events time to breath.

And this is where I learned tumblr has a 10 image per post limit i didn't know about. Continued in part 2!

[yellowocaballero]

a while back you mentioned having written ~40k of a steven moon knight fic as well as some of a frenchie fic? i was just wondering if those would ever be posted/shared or if they will stay in google docs superhell forever (also love your work!! your star wars swap au i particularly enjoyed as well as the tma evilcon + associated fics) best of days to you !!

Look at this evilcon fan over here. Deep fucking cut.

Ah, yes I have. The 40k fic was written for Marvel Trumps Hate, and I didn't post it due to some vaguely complicated but not altogether important reasons. The Frenchie fic was the unfortunate victim towards me very abruptly falling out of MK, lmfao. I think all of my fandoms have The One Abandoned Fic that I was working on when I just Got Over the fandom (Human Relations sequel, so cruelly abandoned....).

Kind of a shame, since the Frenchie fic was not bad and just got kinda roadblocked at the end. I've tossed around maybe finishing it when MKS2 comes out and I inevitably get sucked back in. I don't want to post the MTH fic on AO3 right now (maybe in the future when MKS2 comes out and I get sucked back in etc) but there's honestly no reason not to show you...I think...looking back over this, I think I may have decided that the fic's sense of humor was just too insane. It's very.......uh.....

Uh, ok, just between you and me and other people reading this then. It's a fic about a normal guy who thinks that schizophrenia makes you immortal and autism gives you superpowers.

I'll put it in a follow-up post. In the meantime here's the first few scenes from the Frenchie fic. I really do wanna finish this one day....

“A phone call?”

The jackal barked in elderly confusion.

Steven leaned back in his chair, scratching his stubble. Jake was insisting that they experiment with facial hair and it was best to let him have these little victories. “Well, under the human American law each citizen is entitled to a phone call if they get arrested. That’s probably what he means.” The jackal barked dismissively. “Have you tried telling him that?” The jackal barked again, aggravated. “I see. Quite a pickle. Well, I don’t see any harm in giving him the call. We’d have to warn him that this is a faux legal system and that he’s not entitled to any lawyers, but perhaps he could tell his wife he won’t be home for dinner? That would be nice.”

The jackal growled. 

“We could be nice,” Steven said reproachfully. 

The jackal barked again.

“If you really think about it, nothing’s stopping us. Masters of our own fates and whatnot, right? Well - yes, yes, I know the gods are the masters of our fates, that’s not quite - look, sir, there’s no point in worrying a man’s wife unnecessarily, is there? How would your wife feel if you disappeared off the mortal plane?” The jackal hung its head, and Steven sighed as he stood up. “I’ll lend him my mobile.” The courthouse only had landlines, and even then that was iffy. Magical ancient Egyptian constructs still struggled with 4G. “But if he messes about with my Twitter then we’re adding another thousand years onto his sentence.”

Situations like this were why Steven still showed up to work. This zoo often struggled at little things like this without him. The place had gone to the jackals while he was gone - literally, they had taken over many administrative positions - and it would take months just to clean up the wreckage. Steven didn’t mind - nothing made him happier than a good little routine. Ten to two, that was his preference. Downright inhumane to make a man work any longer than four hours a day. He had even scheduled a deli or restaurant to visit for lunch each day of the week. And Marc and Jake were not allowed. Steven only zone. A man’s office was his castle. Besides - if they knew what he got up to all day they might complain about it. 

The two were deeply asleep - Jake because he found Steven’s entire life dull as dirt and Marc because all of the mandated socialization they were doing lately really took it out of him. Steven found it delightful. Jake’s friends were really nice once you got to know them, and you could reliably get a pained expression out of any of them once you told them so. Marc found their whole thing exhausting and if Jake wasn’t entertained he wanted to die, so around noon the two slept like Alexander the Great’s mummy. Might as well build them little tombs. That was cute. Steven knew exactly what his own tomb would look like. He was practically a pharaoh and everything - maybe Khonshu would make sure he got one? No, Khonshu didn’t care about them nearly that much. Boy, but wouldn’t that be nice.

He gave the Bast statue guarding the elevator its usual nose pat, he smiled and waved at the lumbering shabtis, and he stopped and said his usual ‘hello how are you how’s Nephthys Osiris talking to you again yet’ to the Set statue as the jackal gave him the stink eye for holding them up. Kindness was key, Mr. Jackal. Steven believed in positive Steven-god relations. He lived in hope that the other gods would model good behavior for Khonshu and eventually sway him into becoming less of a dick. 

The ibis perched adorably in a little booth checked his identity as it picked up a little visitor’s badge with his beak and dropped it into Steven’s outstretched hand. It pecked at the computer keyboard a few times, accomplishing nothing other than mangling the G and H keys, and a series of papers ground out of the ancient fax machine. Steven cautiously reached over and fetched the papers, scanning them. They were details of the prisoner’s case, which made Steven feel a bit like one of the Forbidden Lawyers. The jackal led him down the winding paths of the jail as Steven fumbled in his pocket for his glasses, squinting down at the pages. 

“Well, this doesn’t seem too nasty,” Steven announced. “I’m sure we can get this sorted out. Certainly not a problem for our Jake, eh?” He looked at the jackal out of the corner of his eye. “Eh?” The jackal did not respond. “Right?”

Steven made the executive decision that this was a bureaucratic issue and therefore not a Marc or Jake issue. They’d just over-involve themselves and pretend they knew anything about the fake legal system. Marc and Jake were like baby brothers playing video games with you on an unplugged controller. They needed to feel like they were doing something or they’d throw a hissy fit. 

The jackal didn’t have to stop and point out the prisoner. Steven could hear him from all the way down the hall: empathetic, pointed, and incessant French patter. The man sounded like he was arguing against a parking ticket, which displayed a disappointing lack of cognizance as to the severity of his situation and the high likelihood that he was about to experience extrajudicial horrors beyond his imagining. 

Poor guy. Imagine being from France. 

For the first time in Steven’s life his shaky French that he could not actually remember learning but that Marc and Jake did not know actually came in handy. As he got closer he could more or less puzzle out what the fast talking man was saying to the two unamused and unswayed jackals. Could the jackals speak French? It had to be some magic thing. The only animals around here who could actually talk to the humans and explain to them what was happening were the baboons, and they were never polite about it.

“ - one little call! That is it! I will never darken your doorstep again, I swear it. One phone call - and, maybe, letting me go! We can talk about it, let’s talk about it! You and I, we are reasonable men - jackal, I am a reasonable man and you are a reasonable jackal - unless you are a woman? Are you a woman? You are still a jackal at any rate. You are a very reasonable gendered jackal, and I am innocent of all crimes - and even if you are a nongendered jackal, I do not judge, I have friends of all kinds - if you give me one phone call I may call one of my friends and he can help, I am certain he is friends with very many of you people -”

The man cut off the second Steven walked into view of his cell. The cells were very basic, with only a cot and a toilet and one wall of metal bars. He was standing up against the bars, fighting with the two unamused jackals standing against the cement wall in the hallway. The man’s head jolted away from the jackals and fixed on Steven, forgetting his captive audience entirely. His slicked back hair was frayed and mussed, gelled strands sticking up every which way, and his blonde mustache twitching in surprise as his eyes widened.

Steven was sympathetic. Human prisoners were always shocked to find a real bloke around the place. 

He waved a bit awkwardly, his reading glasses flopping in the air. In shaky and awkward French, he said, “Bonjour! My name is Steven Grant. And you are…” He shoved his glasses on, squinting down at the intake form. “Jean-Paul Duchamp?” He pronounced it ‘Jean Paul Dew-Champ’, and judging from the man’s twitch he had mangled it. Oh well. “Right. Do not worry, everything will be fine. You wanted a phone call? I have a phone for you.”

The man stared at him. Steven silently suffered this. He knew he was attractive. 

Finally, the man said in accented but thankfully perfect English, “I have changed my mind. May I speak with you in private, Monsieur Grant?”

The three jackals barked simultaneously. Steven rolled his eyes. Honestly! He knew he was the Avatar of Khonshu now, they didn’t need to be like that! “I don’t think that’s allowed. For security reasons and all. Not that there’s anything you could possibly do to me.” A grizzled jackal with one eye barked. “Emotional - hey! I would have you know that my Myers Briggs said I was the resilient type!” Steven considered the matter for a second. “Oh, but I did have a bad horoscope today. Maybe you’re onto something. Do we have any augurers on staff?”

“Excuse me,” Jean-Paul butted in, increasingly wild eyed, “Do you care to explain what is going on, Monsieur Grant? Because the only explanation I’ve received so far was from paperwork on papyrus and a rude baboon.”

Why was he saying his name like that? The French were so weird.  Steven leaned down slightly to whisper in the nearest jackal’s ear. “And he must have been really bad if a French guy is calling him rude.” The jackals cackled. Jean-Paul’s eye twitched. “Never fear, Mr. Duchamp. I’m sure we can get this whole thing sorted out before supper. Let’s review the details of your case, shall we?” 

“What case?”

“Oh, you’re in an ancient Egyptian courthouse for ancient Egyptian crimes,” Steven said vaguely, sliding on his reading glasses and flipping through the pages again. “Yes, the Egyptian gods are real, no they are not aliens, you better believe in ghost stories Ms. Swan you’re in one, etcetera. Alright, alright…I see…ah! There we are! Charged as accessory to one count of tomb raiding…oh, just a little asterisk here, let’s see what that’s all about…you stole from a children’s hospital!?”

“I did not know that is what we were doing!” Jean-Paul cried. “Someone tells me to fly a medical helicopter, I do not ask questions! If I made a habit of interrogating every one of my clients I would not have a great deal of clients, monsieur!”

“Organs from a -”

“It is called professionalism!” 

“It’s called evil!” Steven said, appalled. The jackals barked in agreement. “I have to say, Mr. Duchamp -”

“It’s doo-shamp. And John-Paul. Mon frere.”

Oh wow, oh no, sorry for the French microaggression. Honestly. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you betrayed your clients the second you discovered what they were stealing and refused to pilot them away you would be facing the same punishment they are. It’s quite karmic. Do you  know what Egyptian canopic jars are used for?” Jean-Paul looked a little queasy. “Exactly. Do you still want that phone call, Mr. Duchamp? You’ll receive your sentence from Thoth with or without it.”

“Then why give it to me?” Jean-Paul asked waspishly.

Steven shrugged. “I wouldn’t want your husband to worry.”

“Rest assured, I am quite single.” Jean-Paul stuck his hand out through the bars. “Give it here.”

Steven pulled up the phone function on his mobile and passed it to Jean-Paul, ignoring his thoughtful expression. He tried to convey ‘mess with my phone and I’ll mess with you’ through rigorous eyebrow tilting, but he knew he was very bad at it. 

Jean-Paul stepped back, swiping on the mobile. It did not look like he was punching in a number. Steven abruptly became anxious that he was snooping on Steven’s mobile. He had remembered to delete his text history with Layla, right? Right?!

He typed something on it before looking up, holding it up oddly to show Steven the screen before passing it back to him. “I changed my mind. No need for a call. Thank you for lending me your phone, monsieur, but it was unnecessary.”

The screen was open to the notes app. Steven abruptly felt like they were passing notes in class. Except not quite, because Steven was the Avatar of an Egyptian god and the other party was in jail for magic crimes. The note read -

marc what is the plan

Oh. Oh!

Steven looked up, and now he could clearly read the man’s irritated ‘why are you looking surprised, this is a matter of utmost secrecy’ eyebrow twitch. “Goodness, I’m so sorry. The egg is really on my face here, I’m so embarrassed.” He looked down at the jackal next to him, who twitched its ears attentively. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. It seems -”

Steven stopped short. 

This man knew Marc. He now knew Steven. Marc really, really, really hated it when this happened.

Marc had spent the vast majority of his life masking. His family had been big believers in the ‘never talk about it and pretend it doesn’t exist’ school of mental illness, which had resulted in a great deal of very terrible problems. Marc did not learn from any of these problems and continued to hide the DID from everybody he had ever met up to and including his own wife for a depressing yet impressive length of time. Steven hadn’t really agreed with the wife decision, because it was a slightly huge aspect of their lives that was very much Layla’s business, but Marc believed in privacy. Steven couldn’t fault him for that. 

It wasn’t anybody’s business if Marc didn’t want it to be their business and they were not Marc’s actual wife. Jake spouted off about shame and internalized ableism, which was undoubtedly true, but nobody was really entitled to his health information. He had the right to self-disclose when he wanted and to who he wanted. Steven only wished that this reasonable desire did not lead to sitcom-esque hijinks as they all switched mustaches and pretended to be each other. Sometimes literally. Jake had his whims.

Marc wouldn’t want this random pilot knowing personal stuff about him. He was probably just some colleague he had worked with one time and never saw again. And Steven was very dedicated to helping Marc and making his life easier, just like Marc was dedicated to helping Steven and making his life harder. Jake was dedicated to being a bully. 

Being involuntarily outed was traumatic for Marc. The last time it happened he fell asleep for four weeks and plunged Steven into a Jake induced nightmare. What if he went back to sleep? What if he never woke up this time? What if he left Steven alone with Jake forever? He couldn’t take that chance.

Marc didn’t have to find out about any of this. No point in stressing him out over nothing. 

In a stunning show of cunning, cleverness, and subtlety, Steven looked down at the jackal next to him. “Actually, can I talk with Mr. Duchamp in private? There’s some things we need to discuss.” The jackal asked what. “Human things.” The jackal asked why it had to be private. “They’re private human things.” Steven paused a beat. “Like periods. We’re going to talk about our periods.”

The jackals knew enough about humans to know that periods were private human things and not enough to know that cisgender men did not get periods. They gave him dubious looks anyway, but when Steven mimed yanking a crescent knife from his chest they obligingly filed out. The grizzled one-eyed jackal turned around and gave John-Paul a gimlet ‘I’m watching you’ eye, but John-Paul just sniffed and looked above it all. French people sure were good at looking snooty.

The second the jackals turned the corner and disappeared from sight Steven took a deep breath and changed. 

He straightened, folding his expression into a deep scowl. He tilted his head forward in Marc’s faux intimidating fashion and affected Marc’s terrible Chicago accent - which was just as fake as Steven’s very real to him British accent, thank you very much! Jean-Paul straightened too, eyes widening again.

“What the hell?” Steven demanded. Ugh. It was hell on the throat to talk like this. “How did you even get yourself into this mess?”

“Me? I am the one in the mess?” Jean-Paul stabbed a finger at Steven, who scowled deeper. “What was that? What is this? Why are you working for an ancient Egyptian courthouse under a false identity?”

“It’s a long story,” Steven snapped. It was really easy to avoid questions as Marc. You just had to be mean. “And it’s none of your business.”

“At this point I think it is very much my business! Jesus, Marc!” Jean-Paul exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead in a forcible attempt at zen. “What is this, some sort of op? Are you undercover?”

“I said it was none of your business!”

“This is why you don’t run the ops,” Jean-Paul said. Steven was offended on Marc’s behalf. “I am impressed at your acting skills but not at your subtlety.”

“The usual, then,” Steven said wryly. “I’m impressed with your talent at getting arrested.”

“I get it, I get it. Marc Spector twenty, Jean-Paul fifteen. I swear, Marc, only you would get yourself in these predicaments.”

“You’re the one in the predicament. I’m doing fine.”

“My predicament is your predicament.” Why would that be true? He said it so casually, as if it was a given fact. Quite presumptuous of him, in Steven’s opinion. “At least now I don’t have to waste a hope and a prayer that you would pick up your phone this time. How are you going to get me out of this one? They have a giant baboon! Have you seen the baboon!”

“The baboon’s very understanding about my medical needs, so watch it.” Wait - had he wanted to spend his one phone call on Marc? Why? They were talented, cool, and altruistic, but… “Look, I’ll do what I can. But the gods aren’t exactly easy to argue with. I’ve tried to get them to overturn a sentence before and it failed miserably.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard my friend try to do things the legal way.” Jean-Paul folded his arms. “Just bust me out. Isn’t that more your style?”

What a suck-up. Marc didn’t have friends. Steven smiled anyway, brittle and thin. “Don’t worry, Jean-Paul. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Just please try and understand the position I’m in.”

Jean-Paul stared at him. Steven forced himself to look the other man in the eyes even though it made him uncomfortable. Marc always stared down people he didn’t trust. 

“So, uh,” Steven said, “I better call the jackals back -”

“Please admit you do not know who I am.”

Steven froze. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Jean-Paul sighed. He kneaded his forehead again, shoulders slumped, but something about the gesture had changed. My predicament is your predicament - what did that mean? “Why didn’t you say - non, non, you would have no reason. Marc, please listen to me.” He looked solidly at Steven, and Steven found himself looking away. “It’s Frenchie. I’m your friend. We met in Afghanistan and we’ve worked together ever since. You’re having another amnesiac episode. This happens to you sometimes and it is nothing to worry about. Do you believe me about this?”

Steven opened his mouth. He closed it.

He couldn’t help it - he hunched his shoulders, clutching at his sleeve and drawing away. “I don’t have friends. You’re lying.”

“Call up Layla and ask,” Jean-Paul said. His voice was even and steady, and it struck Steven oddly. The man was literally in a jail cell about to be Egyptian tortured and he was comforting Steven? Looking out for him in a mental health episode? Did the world contain two Lukes? “Do you know Layla? Your wife? Now there’s a thief for you. I am but a humble pilot in comparison.”

That cinched it. Marc would never tell anybody he didn’t trust about Layla. Much less about what Layla really did for a living.

But Marc didn’t trust anybody. Marc wasn’t supposed to trust anybody. That was Marc’s whole thing. He only trusted Steven and Layla. He only trusted Steven and Layla and - Frenchie? What kind of nickname was that? That was so stupid.

Marc was really bad at naming things. Movie poster, pilfered ID. Frenchie. Jeez.

Steven put it down. He let his shoulders hunch back into their natural slouch, bent his voice back towards its natural tilt, and dropped the mean expression. Despite himself, he groaned. 

“Marc’s going to kill me!” Steven wailed. “He’s going to go to sleep again and leave me with Jake!”

Jean-Paul recoiled, surprise turning into shock. Wow, wow, big surprise. Marc or Jake’s friends freaking out over Steven. Stop the presses.

“He’s gonna blame me for this, you know,” Steven cried. Not whined. Nope. “This is why he doesn’t trust me with anything. As if it’s my fault that his friends keep getting arrested? Maybe I should get a little more recognition for being the only one without delinquent friends. Honestly, I don’t know why we can’t keep better company sometimes. A book club? A Dungeons and Dragons group? Anybody who doesn’t punch people for a living? Is that too much to ask?”

“Hm,” Jean-Paul said. “Your dissociative episodes have grown stranger.”

“What were they like in the military?” Steven asked, morbidly curious. “Marc didn’t even mention amnesia episodes. He can be right frustrating, you know.”

Slowly and carefully, Jean-Paul said, “Do you remember the manic episodes?”

“We’re bipolar?” Steven asked blankly.

“That is what I thought. I do not think I was correct.”

Wait. “Did you think Jake was a manic episode?”

“Jake?”

“The other one,” Steven said helpfully.

“Ah. Yes, I think so.” Jean-Paul paused - not as if he was uncertain, but as if he wasn’t sure how the words would be received. “I understand DID is a very difficult disorder.”

Something tugged at the back of Steven’s mind, then yanked. Steven felt himself fall backwards, and something else surged in him -

*

Frenchie stood in front of Marc, right in every way, wrong only in the eyes - only in the way he was looking at Marc - 

Cautiously, he said, “Steven? You look dazed.”

Dazed. That was what he’d always call it. Whenever Marc zoned out and left his body, whenever Frenchie caught him wandering listlessly around camp with no memory of having even left bed - you look dazed, Marc -

“Do you ever get tired of your front row seat?” Marc asked hoarsely.

But Frenchie just smiled - a little cockily, a little kindly. “The view is quite good.”

Marc couldn’t do this. He never could, he could never do anything - but he couldn’t do this. Humiliation crushed him, Frenchie’s affection and acceptance its strange shadow. The shadow was worse than the weight. It was the shadow he couldn’t handle. He couldn’t handle this. 

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Frenchie alone in the cell with no promise of rescue and no aid given, and he found himself walking faster until he turned the corner. The jackals were still huddled like a football team growling thoughtfully at each other, and they perked up when they recognized Marc. He ignored them, walking through the crowd until they leapt away.

Marc’s walk turned into a run. A drum beat rocked his head, pushing hard at his heart. The beat threw him forward, turning his run into a sprint down the winding cement halls. His desperation reached out and thought of a word, and once he thought it he just couldn’t stop.

Jake. Jake. Jake! Jake, I can’t do it again - Jake - !

*

Marc woke up face first in Jessica Jones’ hair clutching a bottle of Jack.

He yelped, jerking away automatically and falling off the couch with a heavy jolt. The bottle jumped out of its hands, landing on the stained wood coffee table with a heavy thump and rolling against a bulwark of beer bottles. 

Marc bolted upright, ignoring his pounding head to take inventory of his surroundings. He relaxed the second he registered where he was. Heroes For Hire apartment. Morning. Luke Cage was passed out in an armchair, sawing wood. Colleen’s bra was draped across the back of a couch. Did these people do anything other than party?

Jessica flopped over, squinting blearily at him in the morning light. Cars honked outside and traffic blared, the sound cutting harshly into his throbbing head. Jessica waved a hand limply at him. She mumbled something that Marc could somehow translate into ‘what’s your problem?’. 

Nothing. No problem. Not right now, not here. Marc climbed back onto the couch, pushing Jessica aside to reclaim his spot. Amazingly, they were barely even cuddling - their couch was one of those IKEA types that you could just keep adding onto, it was fucking ginormous. He left the bottle of Jack on the table, whiskey slowly sloshing in the glass. Jessica went back to sleep immediately, her warm breaths pressed against his back.

The sunlight faded into night, then nothing. 

*

“ - and that’s why I wouldn’t fuck Mr. Fantastic unless Sue Storm was watching.”

Marc bolted upright.

“I left Frenchie in prison!” Marc cried. 

“Man, what kind of weird dreams are you having?” Danny asked. Marc could hear his voice from behind the couch, accompanied by the rattle of silverware and the hefty scent of bacon. “I can interpret it for you if you want. The prison’s probably a metaphor for -”

“Your psyche,” Colleen intoned. 

“That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Luke said.

Marc rolled off the couch again, slouching his way to the breakfast table and collapsing in his chair. Somebody put a bowl of cereal in front of him and began shoving it in his mouth. Everybody went back to ignoring him and resumed their conversation about the most fuckable superheroes. 

“Monica Rambeau at the top,” Misty said, for what sounded like the five hundredth time. “Very top. Except my girlfriend.”

“I’m the last heir of a samurai clan, not a superhero.”

“Very top. Monica Rambeau.”

“Do you think the Avengers have these conversations about us?” Danny asked Luke. “Like, they have to, right? I don’t think they’re above it.”

“They have mimosa brunches. Man, you know they do. I don’t want to know what the hell they say about me.”

“One time Hawkeye flirted with me and I snapped his bow over my knee,” Jessica reported. “It’s about controlling the narrative, Luke.” Marc’s hand reached out and swiped bacon off her plate, cramming it into his mouth. “Watch it, asshole!”

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Luke told him, half-amused. “Who do we got today?” Marc glared at him balefully, but he held up the ASL finger sign ‘M’ anyway. “Good to see you, Marc. You’re the early bird, huh?”

“Jake was complaining about you yesterday,” Jessica told him gleefully, as if she was snitching on her classmate to the teacher for saying the b word. “He told us all about your intimacy issues. Is it true that you yearn for acceptance, yet are terrified of receiving it?”

“And why,” Marc gritted out between clenched teeth, holding his spoon at a vicious angle, “is Jake always telling you my goddamn business?”

“He likes to vent.”

“Then tell him to shut up next time.”

Misty scraped up eggs with her knife primly. “Five times a day seven days a week. Never listens.”

“Five people live in this apartment, there is no such thing as your own business,” Colleen said, dead-eyed. “I haven’t had privacy in a year.”

“It’s not that different from the monastery,” Danny said philosophically. “Smaller, though.”

“Drunker?” Misty asked.

“Not really.”

“Damn. Guess you had to do something without television.”

Marc’s grip on his spoon tightened so hard that his bones creaked. “Then you can just go tell Jake -”

Tell me yourself. 

“Shut up, Jake! You can all tell Jake that next time he decides to overshare -” Hissy fit ten minutes after waking up, new record. “I wouldn’t throw a hissy fit if you stopped doing shit just to piss me off!” You are an egomaniac. “That is so rich.”

“Still weird,” Misty decreed. 

“Yeah, still weird,” Colleen said.

Luke cut into his hash brown. “I’m just glad that they’re all talking again.”

“Totally glad that Jake’s back to his healthy, regular state of talking to himself,” Colleen said. “Maybe soon he’ll become normal and only serial kill on weekends.”

“I know none of you care about my personal drama,” Jake said flatly, “but would a little respect be so outta line for youse?” Jessica mumbled something around her egg. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, woman, have some self-respect.”

“Steven and I were talking about going to the zoo and looking at the sloths,” Danny said brightly. “Do you still want to do that? I want to see them so bad. All we have back home are sloth bears but I don’t think they’re the same animal.”

“Sloth bears?” Misty asked.

“They mostly eat termites and ants, really,” Steven told her, “not nearly as scary as you’re imagining. Quite adorable. But nothing really beats sloths on the cuteness factor.”

“Steven! Good to catch you. When do you want to go to the zoo?”

“Oh, boy, maybe Sunday? Do we have anything on Sunday?”

I was going to get drunk.

Same. 

“Looks like Sunday’s free!” Steven paused a beat, a smile fixed on his face. “You know, fellas, I can’t help but feel as if we’ve forgotten something.”

We forget stuff incessantly, Marc said, tired. Frenchie was always dragging me out of bars I didn’t remember walking inside. 

There’s an alternate explanation for that one.

See, that’s what I thought, but Frenchie never thought so.

“Frenchie!” Steven cried. He jerked onto his feet, sending his plate rattling. “We left Frenchie in prison!”

Danny reached out and patted Steven on the forearm. “It’s okay, Steven. It was just a dream. The French can’t hurt you.”

“Not if they’re in prison, anyway,” Misty said.

Luke, the only one who ever remotely was on topic, put down his fork and looked at Steven. “Who’s Frenchie? Since when do you know other people?”

“He’s my best friend,” Marc said. He scrambled away from the table, faintly registering that he was wearing Jake’s outfit. He and Steven had their own changes of clothes in the guest bedroom, he’d have to take a minute and change. They hated wearing each other’s clothing. It felt so invasive. Jake hated polyester, Marc hated wool, and Steven hated layers in non-freezing temperatures. “Damn it, what kind of friend am I!”

Jessica squinted at him, sipping her orange juice. “Wait, you have other friends? I thought we were your only friends.”

“He’s my friend, not Jake’s. You’re Jake’s friends.”

“I’m not Jake’s friend,” Misty said.

“Jake’s my friend but I don’t like him,” Colleen said. 

“Jake’s my friend and I like him,” Danny said eagerly.

“No comment,” Luke said.

But Jessica just continued squinting at him - as if she could read something between their three faces, unremarkable individually but painting a clear picture together. “This is what stressed you out so bad yesterday, yeah?” Marc shoved the chair back into the table, averting his eyes. “Why don’t I come with you? Like, buffer zone?”

A part of Marc did want her to come. He didn’t know if that part was Jake or Steven or himself. He never knew where to put himself anymore, how to partition out his life into the good and bad. How to fit together Jake and Layla, how to give Steven the reins on the courthouse work, how to fit into the Heroes For Hire in a space carved for Jake yet welcoming of anybody. 

It was so easy. It scared Marc. 

“I can handle my own army buddy,” Marc said gruffly. He bent down and kissed Jessica on the cheek. “I’ll call.”

Marc swept out the door, ignoring Jessica calling “You better!” behind him.

[wgat-fr]

i may be insane (ignore me if i am) but its so poetic to me or maybe ironic that the vulcans, the TOUCH TELEPATH RACE who can SHARE MEMORIES, THOUGHTS, AND EMOTIONS through touch (...and potentially outside of that range, up for debate) and even SENSE certain emotions in a radius SUPPRESS them. like they are among The Ultimate Empaths, able to see and live through others' experiences to truly UNDERSTAND that individual, and be understood, understand WHY they think, feel, do as they do, and yet even with that, there was STILL violence and conflict (selfishness/individuality trumps all?). so, they turn to LOGIC, despite their EMPATHETIC NATURE (which is a whole other can of worms bc logic is also not the best to prevail/propagate and it also depends what logic u r using, which could lead to the same violent situation that Surak was trying to divert from. and, it IS logical to take into account emotions in certain contexts if you want to do the most Good which gets into philosophy what is Good, blah blah blah ANYWAYS) and yet when using their gift of telepathy, cannot help but FEEL through whoever they r melding to. its like forbidden fruit in the sense that if they let themselves feel at all or as openly as other species do (i.e. humans) it opens a pandora's box of possibilities of hurt and strife, to oneself and others, but it also allows connection and knowing and understanding, which, combined with logic, couldve made vulcans The Diplomats Ever, and peaceful asf. like i get that a utopia could never exist bc of differing opinions and theres ALWAYS bad apples but like. idk man. understanding. also "we vulcans do not feel emotions nyenyenye" is such an excuse and a false sense of security cuz like for one thing, spock is literally like... sorta discriminated against (but ig its "logical" bc vulcans have superior intellect/emotional regulation or wtvr and therefore spock is inferior but STILL, different faucets of skills and knowledge/usefulness) which is why he joins the 'fleet in the first place and not VSA. SECONDLY, they r also xenophobic which takes emotion, and in some fan (or other) interpretations, have corruption/nepotism n shit in governmental/VSA offices. thank u for listening to my mindless ramblings ☺️☺️

[ladykettlechips]

It's Not That Deep

Being kind is a choice. Sadly, so is being a dick.

I absolutely adore being part of a community where I can share my passion with others, be it as a writer of fanfic or simply a bystander. However, there are also downsides to being within a community, and sadly, it is other people who can ruin that joy and our experience of creating something for other fans, who want to devour content while a series is still being created, or has come to an end.

It seems like it is a frequent thing for a handful of people to ruin the fandom experience for others. They become anonymous or hide behind a name in order to actively go out of their way to harass creators within the community. There have been threats and vile accusations thrown about, and for what? To scare people off of AO3 and tumblr, just because you don't like something they created for a FICTIONAL character within a FICTIONAL setting?

Loves, it's not that deep.

Sadly, these kinds of people have run creators off of various apps and websites with their continued harassment. They have gone above and beyond to act horrible towards people they don't know, for a story or a piece of artwork they could have clicked the back button on. For something THEY can actively turn their back on and ignore.

If they had as much passion and energy for real world issues, their time would be much better spent. Instead, they have chosen to take a cowards route and harass other people online for something that is, in truth, insignificant to them. It is as if these people are consciously ignoring tags or warnings, because they WANT to start a fight and act in such a disgusting manner.

I can't understand it, really. Your time is much better spent doing things you enjoy, rather than coming after people who are doing the things that they enjoy.

Now, if the creators were actively promoting bad things, then yes, call them out on it or report them. Half the time though, these creators put disclaimers about how they don't promote certain things, but it is there for fictional purposes.

Our time and energy is precious, and for those taking time out of their hectic schedules to share their passion with us is a wonderful gift. Yet there are those who want to destroy that passion, and it is a sad thing when they win; sadly, cruelty often trumps kindness, and I have seen one too many creators fall to the whims of people who prefer to be dicks over being kind.

I would hope these people eventually see some sense and stop what they are doing, but trolls don't always see reason or see the light. I just hope that someday they get the hug they have been craving, or perhaps the talk they need to understand why they act like this. Until then:

It's not that deep.

It's not that serious.

It is FICTION, not reality.

Your favourites won't notice you regardless of how hostile you become.

You are not making the internet a better place with your harassment.

Have a hug, eat a snickers. I highly doubt you'd act like this in real life to people you know, or to someone else's face, so go have a nap and chill a bit. Don't make a mountain of a molehill, and remember that these fictional characters you are getting into a tizzy over are not real.

Thanks. Peace out.

Edit to add: I have yet to be harassed. I know it will happen one day, because it is inevitable at this point, but I am speaking out for my friends and fellow writers who have sadly experienced it.

[centrally-unplanned]

Since I am discussing anime academia today, I was reading another paper that was equally frustrating, along a different axis:

“Do female anime fans exist?” The impact of women-exclusionary discourses on rec.arts.anime

This as a premise is a good concept; someone mining the 90's Usenet anime communities for how the fandom saw female fans back then (the article title is quoting one such thread). So of course, the opening line of this article about the anime fandom in the 90's is....sigh....a reference to Donald Trump:

Commenting on the 2016 American presidential elections, multiple news reporters noted that a relationship could be found between Donald Trump supporters and online anime fans

It of course goes on to discuss Gamergate, 8chan, online right-wing radicalization, references to the "Fascist" themes of Attack on Titan, and on and on. The obvious problem with this is that it is irrelevant; the "methodology" section involves this aside about how they pulled this data from Google Archives but Google is an advertising firm and not a replacement for a real archive and we need to Fight The System and buddy my dude that is not germane to your sample size!!! But more importantly, it is backwards. I don't need to explain the argument here in detail; the article is positing a throughline from 90's anime discourse to modern right-wing internet politics through a sort of 'lock-in' effect of built culture norms around misogyny. Which is fine, you can make that argument - but why is all this future stuff in the first section? You haven't really presented the argument yet! This isn't a book, its not the intro chapter - literally 30% of the text of this article is stating a conclusion upfront, justified not through the text itself but citations to other articles about its truth.

This is something media studies pulled from traditional science - traditional science states "established facts" up front that the paper is building on. But that is because - a thousand caveats aside - in chemistry those facts are....facts. They may be wrong facts, but they can, ostensibly, be objective descriptors. This paper cites "anime is still synonymous with far-right ideologies of white and male supremacy, and events of anti-Blackness" like its citing the covalent bond count of carbon. That is not and never will be a fact one can cite, that is an argument; and its not one that is important for understanding this analysis of Usenet groups. This structure is pulled from other sciences, but it flourishes because it lets you pad the citation count of your peers. Its embarrassing how often you can skip the first 1/3rd of a paper in this field - really the worst possible thing to copy from economics (ding!)

This paper also does the insane thing of jumping between citations from 1992 and events in the 2010's like anime culture is continuous between those time periods. Its an extremely bold claim it just does in the background... but lets set that aside.

This hyper-politicization & hyper-theorizing leads to the second issue of extreme under-analysis. This is the actual value-add of this paper:

From this search, I was able to find the discussion threads “How many females read r.a.a.?” (135 messages; opened on July 13, 1993), “Question: Girls on r.a.a?” (23 messages; opened on February 25, 1994), “Female Otakus” (221 messages; opened on June 25, 1994), “Women watching anime” (72 messages; opened on October 4, 1994), and “Female fans - Do they exist?” (61 messages; opened on October 26, 1995). While these discussions may seem like they were spaces for marginalized users to discuss their experiences, they were often started and overwhelmingly occupied by identified male users. In total, I extracted 252 messages from 1992 to 1996 that were relevant to the gendering of anime fandom, and among those, I classified them as 7 kinds of negative networking discursive practices: (e.g. Table 1. Negative networking practices on rec.arts.anime).

252 messages, five threads - later on it will name other threads, so its more than this, but you get it. It has a bunch of data. And from that data, the article quotes...less than half a dozen examples. There are no quantitative metrics, no threads are presented or discussed in detail from this data set. Some other event is discussed in detail, but again it quotes essentially one person once. The provided "Table 1", the only Table, is a list of the author's categorizations of the data; the data itself is not present. Its file format is a CSV, presumably to mock me for clicking it.

There is, from top to bottom, a complete lack of engagement with the data in question. This would fail an intro anthropology seminar; the conclusion is simply presumed from 1% of the sample size while the rest of the messages are left on read. I just don't think there is any value in that, a handful of messages from 1996 divorced from their context and stapled onto modern politics as a wrap-up. What did the people on this Usenet value? How did they think of women collectively? As anime fans, as outsiders, as romantic partners, as friends? What subfactions existed? Questions like those would presumably be the point of this investigation, but they are treated as distractions.

And this article was, in anime academic circles, a pretty well-trumpeted one. I'm not cherry-picking a bad one here, it was the "hot paper" of the month when it came out. Its just that the standards can be so low, its a field that simply lacks rigor. Which doesn't stop a ton of great work from being done btw, that isn't my point at all. My point is that the great work is not selected for; it goes unrewarded, bogged down by academic standards divorced from discovering real insights.

(I do not think the question "why are they misogynist" ever crossed the author's mind. That should be your literal thesis, and its a ghost. Just ugh.)

[hologramcowboy]

Since the end of the election many SPN fans have been online (X) saying they’re cutting anyone who voted for Trump/Vance out of their lives.

They also have been biting at Misha after he posted on X about not engaging in hate towards others. Never ceases to amuse me when his beloved fans lose their minds on him if he doesn’t think and act the exact way they do.

https://x.com/mishacollins/status/1854554551493296194?s=46&t=wx4CnlP_QMqkNn_0DvA9HQ

My question is how likely do you think it is that Jensen faces backlash from fans? He appeared in that Lynda Carter hosted event to support Harris/Walz, it looked like a shit show and he seemed somewhat uninterested in being there, and he hasn’t posted anything since the election. He was also at Steve Carlson’s gig in LA last night and Steve is supposedly a Trumper.

I personally think cutting people from your life because of their political leanings is the wrong way to go. Civil, open dialogue is better but that’s just me.

I just wonder if you think Jensen will get any hate, especially from Hellers, about his lacklustre reaction and his friendship with a conservative. Then there’s Danneel who retweeted one of Misha’s pre-election tweets… that was the extent of her online “activism”. Does she qualify for hate from the ultra engaged, politically active and aware set?

#jensencritical #antidanneel

I agree. Cutting people out of your life due to political leanings is unnecessary, however, I do get that at the moment it's coming from a place of helplessness and horror over the future. People are lashing out due to feeling powerless. Jensen is Jensen, he is a beyond privileged man who gets away with a ton of things simply because women fall at his feet. Due to this, he always does the bare minimum, just to check boxes. I seem to recall a comment he made "Just give them a picture with my face one it" (there is video of this, he was in an Impala at a CW event where Lucy Hale and others were present). In other words, I don't mean to be mean, but I don't expect much from him. He runs from anything that has to do with responsibility and only does things for clout ONLY if they are easy for him. Lazy and self centered, again, I don't mean to be mean but that's how he comes off. I hope I'm 150% wrong. I doubt he will get a lot of hate because he can do no wrong. Infatuation beats reality when it comes to Jensen.

Danneel, as always, follows whatever is trendy for clout, on her own she has no personality and no opinions, she can barely form sentences. What can we expect from a woman whose entire career rested solely on her fake bosom? Now that being said, no matter which side you belong to, I hope we all find ways to reach harmony and balance our perceptions. There are severe repercussions coming our way due to the result of the election and those who voted for Trump didn't do any research into any of that. They will learn from experience. We need to be united not divided, education is power. It's lack of education that has landed America in the position of voting for someone like Trump. I could go on and on but this blog is not the place for my critical thinking on this subject. To answer your question, I believe a certain part of fandom is set on hatred and will look for any reason to justify tearing into others. I'm not referring exclusively to hellers but to a general trend within fandom. People will do horrible things and hide behind their fandom loves. Let's just come out and admit it's not your ship that's driving you but your own instincts and desires. Don't use your love of X or Z as an excuse to tear into other people and be cruel. Civil discussion is more than possible, in fact, it can be enriching for both sides. Fanaticism is dangerous and we're about to learn just how dangerous it is thanks to our new President.

I'll stop here because this blog is not meant to be political in any way, it's merely a fandom blog. Thank you for the beautiful question.

[rabbiteclair]

I think this opinion is not a big surprise to anybody who's talked to me about Otherside Picnic for any real length of time, but I feel like the first book is pretty rough, and the series doesn't really hit its stride until the kotoribako. (Which, of course, makes the anime even more of a tragedy.) I don't dislike the first book and a half, but I do think that section is relatively weak compared to most of the later installments, especially if you are not spending the entire time nodding and going 'wow Sorawo is so relatable, I too am an antisocial nerd with few redeeming qualities who would risk drowning in a marsh just to have a quiet, secluded hangout spot'. Trying to explain just why I feel like the opening parts are weaker has always been a pain though, so I wanna try listing the reasons.

Roughly in order from biggest -> smallest issues -

Sorawo + Toriko's powers and the fights: Early on, their eye/hand feel very... isekai protagonist power, where they've got a cool trump card ability that counters every enemy. The kunekune is defeated by Sorawo looking at it and Toriko shooting it. The big monster at Kisaragi is defeated by Sorawo looking at it and shooting it. The windmill lady is defeated by Sorawo looking at it and shooting it. Book 2 starts introducing more variations on the formula, and by 3 the 'look at it and shoot it' approach is rarely a meaningful solution. Even when their abilities are key to defeating something, like with the yamanoke, it isn't so straightforward. This is very much an improvement, because I think the fights start feeling same-y pretty fast.

the variety of threats: This is kind of unavoidable for a few reasons, but the threats from the Otherside are very straightforward this early on. In between the kunekune and the kotoribako, basically every enemy is a big scary thing that chases them or tries to abduct them. The variety of threats diversifies a whole lot past that point, and by books 4-5 the Otherside is basically conducting sociological experiments on them instead. (The anime exacerbates this by adding two more episodes of 'a scary thing chases them' encounters.)

the vibe of the monster encounters: Later on, the series gets pretty good at working the netlore stuff in more naturally, and a lot of them aren't even fully explained outside of the author's notes at the end. The earlier in the series you are, the more likely it is that each monster is introduced with two paragraphs of "'wow, it's Hasshaku-sama, just like in my favorite 2008 2chan horror story. You see, Hasshaku-sama is a ghost who is eight shaku tall and-". Part of this is just Sorawo being Sorawo, but the earlier ones feel pretty... fanservice-y to me, in the traditional sense of pandering to fans. And I say this as somebody who fucking loves kunekune.

the Otherside feeling arbitrary: The Otherside's rules and mechanics are still being established that early on, and a lot of the time it crosses over from feeling 'mysterious' to 'arbitrary' to me. I think the big culprit here is all the times they get sucked into the Otherside without warning. That happens like every other chapter in the first two books, and I feel like it's the kind of thing you need to use really sparingly lest it lose its impact (which I think it does here.) File 4 in particular is a whole series of arbitrary-feeling stuff imo and some of it, like the glitch village, doesn't feel like it fits very well with the mechanics of the Otherside as we understand them in newer books.

relationship/character development: Their relationship just isn't in as interesting of a place early on, and their characters aren't as fleshed out. Sorawo is always good, but at times early on she can feel like a genderswapped 'complete loser lucks into powers' LN protag. She gets a lot more nuanced past the first few files. The speed/degree with which Sorawo falls for Toriko also feels a little forced to me. This last part isn't a major complaint, because Sorawo barely comprehends her own emotions and spends the whole time bewildered by it, herself.

supporting cast: Similar to the previous one, the series just hadn't had time to build up the supporting cast by this point. It's just Kozakura until file 7. I can hardly call this a flaw, since it can't introduce everyone in chapter 1, but I feel like the expanded cast has made things more interesting. In book 1 you gotta wait five more whole books to meet Benimori. Tragic.