#my hatred for that douchebag knows no limits

[moreespressoformydepresso]

Another FlintWood story idea!!

The only explanation for how this happened is that my brain is all the chaos all the time.

It’s the fourth book but Marcus and Oliver are still in school and Oliver is a muggleborn Beauxbatons student (I have a version of this where he attends Castelobruxo so if you want that imagine that) with his house being Bellefeuille (Bravery, sensitivity, compassion. Hard workers, skilled academics, and they have an affinity towards nature). Since Beauxbatons is confirmed to take students from most of western europe, I’m making Oliver Spanish with one parent originally being from Scotland so he fits the sexy native language and the sexy Scottish accent tropes. He’s still quidditch captain, just not at Hogwarts.

Personally I like a smaller build for Oliver, which I think fits more with the whole thing about every Beauxbatons student seeming to be good looking, so Oliver is the dreamy pretty boy instead of being burly like he was described to be in the book. Marcus is tall and built, but he’s not pretty or even handsome in any conventional way because I’m dedicated to destroying the idea that conventionally attractive people should only date other conventionally attractive people.

While exploring the castle, Oliver gets severely lost. He bumps into Marcus and asks for help getting back to wherever the Beauxbatons carriage is since I think that’s where they stayed. Marcus isn’t usually one for helping people but not only is this person not from Hogwarts (and thus not part of the inter-house conflict), he is also very pretty, so Marcus decides to help like the useless gay disaster that he is. They talk and once they figure out they both love quidditch, they strike up a friendship. Although, thanks to their positions and the healthy rivalry between the schools, there is an element of “I’m better than you and my team could beat yours” but it isn’t active hatred. They have one-on-one’s, creating a pair of hoops with transfiguration because the pitch is off-limits and slowly develop feelings for each other.

Then the Yule Ball comes, and an uncharacteristically shy Marcus asks Oliver to be his date. They have an amazing time, Ron doesn’t ruin Hermione’s night by being a jealous prick because he and Harry went to the ball together (because I like Ron, Krumione is adorable, and I think Ron and Harry had great chemistry outside of the instances where either or both of them were acting like a douchebag), and everyone has a great time. Marcus and Oliver officially become a couple.

Now to drastically change canon, I need you to know I headcanon Oliver as someone with a natural talent for legilimency because I think it’s a cool power, I like Oliver, and it’s plot convenient. Because of his skill with legilimency, when Crouch is doing the ferret thing with Draco, Oliver accidentally catches glimpses of thoughts and memories from “Moody” in relation to his hatred for the Malfoys and their betrayal of Voldemort. This is, obviously, a bit worrying, and after some agonizing he asks Marcus about who Moody is. When Marcus answers he’s an auror, Oliver wonders out loud why he’d despise Draco so much for his family’s betrayal of the dark lord, since that should be something he’d be neutral about at worst. This starts a domino effect that ends with Crouch being revealed earlier. Crouch still manages to get Harry’s blood so Voldemort is still resurrected and Harry knows this through visions so his whole thing with Umbridge in the fifth book still happens, but Cedric survives and there’s a different final task.

Later, just before Oliver returns to Europe, the two promise each other to owl, which they do frequently. Flint chooses to go against the death eater side of his family, as do his parents because despite their previous beliefs they get to know Oliver and realize that what they were doing was terrible. Oliver helps out during the war by helping smuggle muggleborns to mainland Europe. At some point they start living together, alternating between Spain and England, and after the war they get married.

Should I write this or nah? I kinda wanna write this.

[blackbatpurplecat]

@doc-scarecrow replied to your post “Oh God. I can’t wait for the current season of Supergirl to be over so...”

Tell us how you really feel about the show.

That’s... actually kinda it. I’m annoyed by it. Or annoyed by what is has become.

It started out so promising, season 1 was fun. It had great characters that developed, it had action, charm, the cast had chemistry, Kara was the actual main character, a kickass woman who didn’t need her cousin’s help, her sister was a badass, her boss was a badass, Lucy Lane was a badass - we got many awesome women - and the love between two sisters was a main focus. Okay, we had to endure a will-they-won’t-they starring Kara and Jimmy but it was bearable. I don’t say it was good but it didn’t make me want to put my head through the monitor.

Season 2 is garbage. For example, they immediately introduced Superman and had him in 2 episodes because the female lead isn’t enough to pull in viewers, she’s only a woman after all. After one entire season of pining, Kara and Jimmy finally got together but she immediately left him again because INSERT REASON HERE. She dumps him out of the blue and I am convinced it’s because he’s black. The writers don’t want an interracial love story, nope, can’t do that. Let’s introduce a horrendous bland, white pretty boy who abuses the female lead, that’s what people want to see.

And so far we’ve had TWO storylines that weren’t even covered in the show! Oh no, you wanna know how they end? Watch The Flash, a mediocre DC TV show. No one watches it so they had to plug it. I hate that in comic books and I despise it even more in TV shows. Your show’s called Supergirl, I want to watch Supergirl and her adventures. I don’t give a fuck about The Flash or Arrow, those cliffhangers won’t make me watch those shows but they will make me hate yours.

The gay subplot with Alex is by far the best development in this season. It showed us a realistic coming-out for a both badass and vulnerable character and now she’s in a loving relationship with another badass woman without any major drama or death. (btw if they kill off Maggie or break them up, I will set their studio on fire) But(!!!) that relationship a) doesn’t have enough screentime (remember when they said the Valentine’s episode would be about the lesbians? and then they got like 3min of screentime?! WTF?!) and b) robs us of Kara-Alex scenes which were kinda the soul of season 1. Both women barely spend any time together anymore and I miss it.

Another relationship that has HIGH potential to become a gay subplot is that “friendship” between Lena Luthor and Kara. Holy shit, could it be any more obvious that Lena is interested in Kara? She sends her flowers, she adores her, she respects her, she praises her - and man, are those some serious heart eyes, motherfucker! 

How amazing would it be if not only Alex but also Kara realised that she’s into girls?! Two amazing female role models, one gay and the other bi! Think of the representation, think of the queer fans who would jump with joy! BUT NO, one same sex plot is already almost too much. We can’t have that.

Then we had that conflict between J’onn and M'gann which was extremely interesting! Their races have a brutal history, they went from foes to allies to almost-lovers. Watching them was precious. I mean that one flashback scene with the Green Martian holocaust, that was dark and deep! It also made us feel sympathy for both characters. They had a fascinating relationship but nope, J’onn doesn’t deserve a personal life and we don’t need another woman, let’s have her move back to space for no reason. (you also knew that they would fall in love because SURPRISE SURPRISE she was played by a black actress, as I said before NO interracial love stories here, we can’t have that!)

In general, the theme of family got lost. The sisters are barely together, J’onn only spits out expositions, Jimmy doesn’t even show up in several episodes and his STEEL alter ego constantly gets his ass handed to him, Winn’s just... there to fuck aliens, I dunno. Where are the strong bonds from the first season?!

And as I said, the biggest shitpile of a disgrace is the entire Mon-El plot, a disgustingly arrogant character that took the show away from Kara and is now the lead himself. He’s constantly acting like an apocalyptic fuck head without facing any consequences. Even worse, he gets rewarded for being a douche! Sometimes, they call him out on his shit but in the end, he’s the good guy we’re supposed to like. Oh haha, he’s so funny and charming and totally learns from his mistakes and is a better person now.

Even the Supergirl actress, Melissa Benoist, does not like the pairing but can’t say anything out loud because of her contract.

The Valentine’s Day episode was the worst thing I’ve seen on a TV show for a while, I felt like puking. They keep introducing guys who are in love with Kara but this time, two abusive douche canoes fought over her. Was that an attempt at making Mon-El look good? If that was the case, then it epically failed! It just proved how alike he and Mxyzptlk (who’s an attractive mid-twen man now... okay...?!) are! Both are overbearing, possessive fucks who don’t respect Kara, ignore any boundaries, don’t give a shit about her feelings, her wishes, her thoughts, and see her as an object to possess. Kara even pointed out over and over and over again what a self-centered cockwomble Mon-El is and that they do not match!!! YET SHE GOT INVOLVED WITH HIM BECAUSE HE’S AS STRONG AS HER SO THEY CAN FUCK WITHOUT ANY DANGER, the same piss poor reason people keep pairing up Superman and Wonder Woman!

And we shouldn’t forget that Kara gave up her dream job and her life as Kara for him because he told her she’d be better off that way! WHAT THE FLYING FUCK??? 

The message is clear: boys, you can be assholes but girls will love you for it and girls, it’s okay for a boy to lie to you and disrespect you as long as he is pretty and claims he loves you. Your boyfriend is abusive and always tells you what to do? You better forgive him and realise he’s right because he’s a good person behind all the crap.

Gimme a fucking break!

Oh and what’s even better!!! Kara FINALLY dumped his abusive ass in the last episode - BUT HE COMPLETELY IGNORES IT! He does NOT accept the fact that she dumped him for lying to her! Yet again, he does not respect what Kara says and does, and continues to live in his own little world. After breaking into her apartment to wait for her there in the dark, this is another trait that reminds me of the behavior of a stalker. He sickens me, he disgusts me, he makes me so fucking mad. If they don’t kill him off in a horrific, bloody, gruesome rated-R fashion in the season’s finale, I’ll quit the show.

If only Cat Grant was here... She would know how to treat a peckerface like Mon-El and straighten out Kara for falling for his shit!

I MISS SEASON ONE SUPERGIRL!!!

[spn-fanfic-reblog-writes]

Day 10: Fire

Crack. Angst.

Characters: MOC!Dean, Sam, Castiel, Witch!Reader

Warning: a ton of cursing and name calling. Panicking.

Author’s Note: this just came to me. Not Beta’d. Mistakes my own. Enjoy!

Author Note 2: italics are thoughts.

Feedback is gold!

What do you do when you realize you made a huge mistake?

Because I’m tied up in a chair watching the Winchester brothers get tortured until I (or possibly Sam but not sure they knew that) say yes to casting an apocalyptic-level spell. They want to summon their god and I’m like fuck that shit. I don’t wanna die.

There are a lot of factors here, such as

Dean has the Mark of Cain and I’m pretty sure has a time limit or level of damage until he loses control (I sound like a fucking gamer but not sure how else to think about it);

Sam surprisingly seems to be tolerating this situation well (?) (Dean is too but still amazed);

the asshole knows what he is doing because there are angel blocking sigils everywhere so Castiel can’t even find us even if I did pray to him which I have a lot; and

the spell requires a human sacrifice which means there is potentially another person to save.

I’m dying (sobbing) here hearing their screams and groans watching these two douchebags torture my friends.

I’m a fucking witch and they put a ball gag in my mouth to make sure I don’t speak. I have TMJ disorder. My jaw is screaming at me. I have a fucking tension headache from the sobbing, screaming, and general hatred of the assholes.

The question is what can I do? I know somatic spells but they are like trying to communicate in sign language that requires larger and wider movements than my tied-to-the-chair arms can do right now. Alternatively, I pray and wait out until Dean loses his shit with The Mark taking over. The question is can Sam and I get out of here and bring him back? I don’t know.

It’s all calculated risks. Being terrified makes things that much harder to think and reason.

So, I’m gonna take a breath, despite all the drool that’s poured down my face and soaked my clothes, and calm down a little, despite the screams and yells from my friends.

I’m gonna attempt the fucking somatic elemental spells. Maybe, just maybe I can get them free. Fuck, it fizzled. Both hands, ha! Froze the ropes next to their feet. Yes. Sam looked at me for half a second then glared at the assholes trying to keep their attention off of me.

Ok, another deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. Concentrate, Y/N. You can do this. I can do this. Yes! Froze the floor beneath the dickwades. Hahaha! They fell. Aim fire at their wrist ropes. Please don’t get burned and sorry if you do. Please work! Please work. Yes! I rock. Ooo, rocks.

Shit. Now they fight. Ugh. I’m stuck here, tied up, and not able to do anything to get me out. I wonder if I fell over if it’ll break this shitty chair. I can help them. Though bringing the building down is a bad idea but maybe I can crack the wards to get Castiel here.

Take off shoes, not wearing socks. Shut up, Mom. I don’t care. Plant feet, check. Relax, trying. Ground self, draw energy. I got this. Don’t bring down the building, Y/N. Crack the walls. Crack the walls.

Oh my god! I think I just dislocated my jaw. Fuck! Shit, too much shaking. Too much shaking. I don’t want to see this. Ah, ow, my head. I hate how unstable chairs are during earthquakes.

Castiel, get your feathery butt here and save us from these pagan-god-worshipping assholes and fix my god damned jaw.

I’m crying from my jaw. I’m so pathetic. I can cut myself as many times as needed for any spell (Yea, it has been a lot before) and deal with a lot of magical torture, but my jaw is dislocated and I’m crying.

Y/N gasped and opened her eyes. I did heart wings. Yay! He’s here. Oh, fuck. I’m about to be squished. Wiggle away. Wiggle away. God damned chair. Wiggle—.

“Y/N? Y/N! Come on, Sweetheart, wake up.”

I know that voice. Mmm, his hand feels nice on my face.

Y/N eyes fluttered open and looked up at the giant hole in the ceiling revealing the night sky. “That’s pretty. Kind of like Van Gogh’s work but not as whirly.”

“She’s fine,” said Sam with a smirk.

“Shut up,” Y/N said. She sat up and looked around, “Where were the dickwads?”

Sam tsked and motioned his head towards a very large, very heavy piece of concrete with a hand sticking out.

Y/N grimaced. “Oops?” She asked. “Are they dead?”

“Yes,” stated Castiel.

Y/N remembered, “Fuck! Castiel, you need to see if there is something else here. The spell required a human sacrifice.”

Dean and Sam exchanged a questioning look.

Castiel disappeared then reappeared seconds later shaking his head. “There is no one else here,” he advised in his gravely voice.

She exhaled, not realizing she was holding her breath. “Assholes thought I’d sacrifice one of you? Seriously? Dead idiots.”

She stood up and looked at the floor. “Anyone seen my shoes?” Y/N asked and then looked at her bare feet with dark blue sparkling toenails.

“Nice toes,” said Dean with a grin.

“Like the night sky,” she stuck her tongue out at him and then bit her lip.

“I don’t see your shoes anywhere,” said Sam.

Castiel shook his head in agreement.

“Well shit. Oh well. I can get more shoes. Let’s go. Dead bodies creep me out,” Y/N stated and carefully walked over to Castiel.

The brothers head over to Castiel as well.

“How did you do those spells?” asked Sam.

“I have a deaf cousin who is also a witch and they taught them to me. They’re somatic spells but not the easiest since hand movements need precision and accuracy or they backfire, which is really hard to do when you’re tied up,” she explained.

Castiel chuckled at her and flew back to the bunker.

Y/N sat down then thought about the spell. “Um, guys, should we have collected all the spell stuff before leaving?”

Sam and Dean groaned.

Tag list: @deancaskiss

@riley-phoenix

@myloversgone

Graphics: @firefly-graphics

[darkamor37]

I Hate Facebook

Social Media was created to connect to people, but not to disconnect with someone in real life. In within the modern, I don’t think anyone knows the word: Respect and Control. I see a lot people swearing on a normal conversation, especially when you’re talking any toxic related stuff, because they’re bunch of bigoted a-holes. Now, I could see this as an influence to raps, and probably the person who type this is an internet hooker who thinks that swearing rabidly are so cool when they technically don’t understand that word, either that the person who posted it is a kid traps in an adult’s body.

And don’t even start with Facebook. For me, there’s two type of Facebook user, the normal ones, and the techno cavemen. My life was once never disturbed by anyone, I barely even have the interest in our social media because I was busy playing Contra, then some lolicon came to my life and yet... I actually hate Facebook because of what happened between someone I like and our pissing contest.

Facebook or any social media site, in definition, are made as a medium for people to be socialized, but to be decivilized. While my initial hatred was tempt when someone in Facebook were posting too indecent picture without thinking on who will be his audiences. And some of them were minors actually.

But how- on Earth that this things are allowed to be post, just because it is not a link that social media could blocked. 

I was never the biggest fan of Facebook, I admit that everything that’s new is so mundane to me. The only reason I made an FB account because of this guy who’s keeping my blood boiling. Facebook is basically the gateway to ruin your relationship to your love ones. That time, I was using someone’s name to spy this guy, who I’m just gonna call him Captain N.

I had once a friend who I end up being my second love interest and thanks to Captain N, I broke it and now she’s initially afraid me, she doesn’t want to talk to me because I was such an asshole to her and deriding the fact that that Captain N was stabbing me at the back. There’s three reason why I occasionally tried to delete my account for the third time.

One, the Hentais, it’s these type of people that are completely persistent than me that it’s utterly kind of annoying. These “Perarbs” who constantly sending friend request and just begging to send nude pictures of you. For what purpose, because there bunch of bigoted asshole who thinks some Filipina are that dumb when this “Perarbs” are just way too determine to score someone. Well, that’s technically kind of racist but I don’t think there’s anything far worse than being engaged in a scandal.

Now, just think about it for a sec. Facebook is designed for the people around the globe to be socialized, not to be decivilized like some kind of an animal. I don’t understand why they didn’t include them as animal and chained them.

And why is that downloading image from a non-friend is allowed? Like look at this stolen pic and then edited in Photoshop, are you mad?

But the biggest flaw on the design in Facebook is the inability to control friend request and messages whether putting it to your friends only especially in Messenger. Sure you have the option for friend request but what about your messenger.

Now, on my second reason, I confessed that I’m guilty as well about how I went from a raving madman on a rampage because I was so pissed from my second reason. Too much freedom. Because a lot of people in Facebook are just bunch of douchebag who thinks that what they are posting are completely free from technical limitation, this is something that’s violating the Facebook policy, there’s like something so indecent and almost kind of offensive about this kind of people like Captain N and the people are far from immature than me.

Why not stop whining about that and just shut the f up. Sure, you can keep posting this, but don’t you own Facebook to make your rampage as if you’re the greatest human being ever exist.

And it’s kind of bothersome when people like Captain N are using someone’s image and use it to make a dummy account which by the way an ingenious plan to make me suffer for the rest of my life.

And don’t you think that people who went overboard shouldn’t be allow to use Facebook. FB users may have the freedom of speech, but since when the use of freedom of speech turn into abused.

Fake new is nothing new to me, but sending me this pornographic image and claiming that her virginity is my first priority is just the next level of sexual harassment to the person I respect the most. I hate people like Captain N who are essentially a half ass bastard. Because people like you don’t deserve to the right for the freedom of speech. And which is my final reason, the lack of Facebook action in terms of bullying, sexual harassment, and the used of scam and fake news.

Facebook might have been spying on you, but do they do something when a person like him ruins something that’s important to me. My whole life crumbles to depression when he started on taking his revenge on me, making fun at me, making me an egotistic narcissistic who is now rejected by society. Does he even understand what he has done to me?

People think that these kind of joke are funny, well... I hope he laughs at me, because at the end, I will be the one to laugh when he realized that I am still a better person than him. Sure, that’s sound like kind of a hypocritical, but yeah... I’m evil. Because at the end, I asked God since when did I have the right to feel happiness?

I feel like the primitive nature of our past is far from updated and our future is so outdated. Sound so confusing, me either. But I’m a SJW or something, I just need a voice to chance Facebook’s policy in terms of privacy and equality.

But nevertheless, I pondered within my mind and soul that the immorality in social media has becoming far worst, it’s the most complex nature of mankind. You can’t controlled fate, fate controls you, and you by any means is fate itself.

[scarlet-star-witch]

Fade Into You - Part 1 (Mandalorian/OC)

Summary: Din has spent a year grieving the love of his life. While he thinks he has lost her forever, she lingers in the darkness, her mind twisted and manipulated, with no memory of him or the love they shared. What will it take for Din to help her remember?

Warnings: Angst, which will probably be in every chapter, but I promise we will get to the smut later ;)

Next Part

Sleep was a rarity for the Mandalorian. The moments when he could finally relax and shed his armour was a comfort he didn’t get often, but he cherished it when he did. He groaned in annoyance as he was nudged awake, still feeling as though he could use an extra hour or two of sleep.

A huff of laughter had the frown slipping from his face instantly. He rolled over onto his stomach, his eyes cracking open and the sight in front of him had his bad mood dissipating as if it had never been there in the first place.

“Good morning. Get enough beauty sleep?”

That accented voice had an involuntary smile inching its way onto his usually hardened features. Din rolled his eyes, his hand reaching out to grab hers and he gently pulled her forward. She got the hint and sat on the edge of the bed, her hand moving to run through his messy hair, almost as an instinctive act.

“Could’ve used more.” He said quietly, his voice still raspy with sleep.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You get any more handsome and I won’t be able to fight off all the women in the galaxy.” 

Din rolled his eyes again, a light scoff escaping him. She was the only one who had seen him, the real him, since he was a child. No one else in the galaxy would ever compare. 

His hand began to gently run a path over her thigh that her sleeping shorts barely covered. She became distracted by his touch, her mind forgetting why she had disturbed his sleep in the first place. 

“What time is it?”

“Early. Got a message from Karga, he wants to meet with us. Apparently it’s a big job, he wants as many hunters as he can get.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” Din replied, sitting up in the small bunk.

“No, it doesn’t. But we need the credits. We can’t afford to turn down jobs.”

Din nodded in agreement, his hand never ceasing their motions on her skin, a comfort to them both. She could tell he was more than a little annoyed that they had to get back to work. The three days they’d had off weren’t long enough. They both would’ve loved to have all the time in the galaxy to spend just the two of them.

“Honeymoon had to end sometime, right?”

“No it didn’t.” Din argued plainly, causing her to laugh, a sound that never failed to make his insides flip. 

“It’ll take a few days to get to Nevarro.” She said coyly, her hands moving from his hair and down his bare chest, the implication of her words not lost on him. 

He smiled up at her and reached for her waist, guiding her to straddle his lap. The feeling of her touch on his bare skin was one he never wanted to forget, one he never wanted to go without for the rest of his life.

Having been deprived of touch for most of his life, he knew there was no way he could go back now that he’d gotten a taste of something so good.

Having his wife wrapped in his arms was the epitome of bliss and he was never letting it go.

“I’m sure we can find a way to fill the time.” His voice husked in her ear, causing her to smirk devilishly. 

“Cheeky bastard.” She muttered, leaning down to bring her forehead to rest on his. The act was so different now that he wasn’t wearing his helmet. He much preferred it this way.

Din leaned forward, aching to have her lips on his, to have her as close as possible. She leaned down at the same moment, their lips barely an inch apart.

A heavy gasp escaped his lips as he jerked awake. He looked around the room, his hand instinctively moving to the blaster at his side. His tense body relaxed when he realized he was alone.

It had only been a dream. That same damn dream that wouldn’t leave his head. He couldn’t ever get her out of his head.

Iella. His Iella. His wife. His everything. 

It had been over a year since he’d lost her. Since those gangsters had gotten their hands on her, since that fiery crash that decimated every part of his heart and soul. 

He ripped the helmet off his head, his chest heaving with each of his strained breaths. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he began to feel lightheaded at the memory that would play on a loop, as if just to torture him.

He almost couldn’t believe that he’d made it this far, this long, without her. Having been partners for years before ever getting to the point of a life-long commitment, Din was at a loss as to how he was supposed to function without her, the one constant in his life.

Don’t think about it. Move on.

The words he would speak to himself daily were useless. No matter how hard he tried to keep moving, to keep working and bury everything he was feeling deep down, he knew he would eventually crack. It was only a matter of time before the weight of her loss destroyed him completely.

He sighed heavily, self-hatred settling deep within his gut, like it had been since the crash, and he forced himself to put his helmet back on and make his way to the weapon’s locker to finally get going on the job he’d been avoiding.

He walked through the crowded streets of some over-populated, poor planet purposefully. His wide stature and firm gait brought stares of apprehension and people quickly moved out of his way to avoid any potential trouble. The reputation of the Mandalorian was not understated and people knew not to cross him.

Din entered the seedy cantina, avoiding the stares of the many men who shifted in their seats at the sight of him, worried that they were the reason he was there. He avoided the gazes of the aggressive men that would love nothing more than to brawl to prove their status and the scantily clad women who sat upon their laps.

He shouldered his way to the back of the room, not worrying about nudging others out of his way. A woman, who was much too young to be wearing what she was wearing and even be in the dingy cantina, blocked his path, a sultry smile on her lips.

“Hey big boy. You want some company?” She purred, placing her hands on his arms, as if to try and pull him to her side. He knew she wasn’t actually looking for his company, she most likely just wanted his credits.

Din didn’t spare her a second glance as he shrugged off her hands and kept walking. He felt as though his skin was crawling. He felt a wave of guilt hit him, even though he hadn’t done anything. The thought that other people didn’t know that his heart belonged to someone else. The fact that she wasn’t there by his side to let people know he was off limits left him feeling empty.

He almost sighed in relief when he saw the client he was looking for waiting at a table for him. That meant he was one step closer to getting out of this hell hole. 

“You’re late.” The client told him as soon as he had taken his seat across from him.

“You want the job done or not?” Din argued back, his tone impatient.

The client sighed and handed over a tracking fob. “Joran Suul. Worked as a smuggler for the Empire. When everything went to shit, he had no jobs left to do, and wasn't making money anymore. He stole credits from the few Imperial officers that are left. They want his head on a pike. Think you’re up for it?”

Din wasn’t overly fond of working for Imperial douchebags, but credits were credits and he had to make a living somehow. He knew if Iella was around there was no way he would be taking this job. Her moral code had rubbed off on him over the years they’d been together.

“I’ll get it done.” Din stated simply, grabbing the fob and making a quick exit before another word could be said. 

~~~

“This is a bad idea.”

Voros rolled his eyes and turned to face the nervous technician. The young man had been getting on his nerves throughout this whole process.

“She’s been out in the field plenty of times. Your machine worked wonders, she’s ready for this.” Voros assured him, trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt.

“She’s been on missions before, yes, but never for bounties. What if other hunters have a fob? What if the Mandalorian is on the job? What if he’s looking for her, we can’t risk him finding her.”

“The Mandalorian thinks she’s dead, he won’t be looking for her.” Voros spoke through gritted teeth, his fists clenching with the effort it took to not strangle the man in front of him. “If you question me again you won’t live long enough to beg for mercy.” 

With that, Voros walked away from the technician who was left shaking in his boots. His angry expression fell and a smile overtook him as he approached the containment area where his greatest asset was kept. 

Iella Yazir was brought to him half dead, crying out for her Mandalorian husband. It really wasn’t hard at all to subdue her, to get her in chains. The machine that wiped her mind forced her into submission far better than he could have ever imagined. 

She was already a valiant warrior and training her to be a cold blooded killer was no weary feat. With a kill count approaching triple digits, she had earned a name for herself at the hidden Imperial base. People knew not to cross her.

“Hello, my darling.” Voros smiled sweetly as he approached her padded room. 

His assassin got to her feet and approached the window in her room that looked out towards him. Her blank expression only assured him that he had done his job right.

“Voros.” She greeted him stiffly, eyeing him up and down, looking for any weapons on him. He had taught her well.

“I have another job for you.” He started, opening the bounty puck so she could get a look at the wanted man’s face. “He was last seen on Taris. He stole from us, now you know how I feel about someone taking what belongs to me.” He spoke darkly as he typed on the keypad to open her padlocked door.

Iella stepped out of the cell, keeping her eyes trained on her master as she was taught to do.

“I need him dead and I know there’s no one else here I trust to get the job done but you, my darling.”

The assassin smiled maliciously.The blood on her hands didn’t bother her, at least it didn’t bother the person she was now. 

“I won’t fail you, master.” She said, bowing her head slightly to the man in front of her, whose smile only grew at the sight of her submission.

“Who are you?”

“No one.” She answered monotonously, the question having been asked more times than she could count.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Master.”

“And what is your job?”

“To kill.”

Voros smiled and leaned forward, his hand gently caressing her cheek, his smile growing wider when she didn’t flinch like she used to. He used the machine on her enough times to wipe that response from her.

“Good girl.” He whispered. “Remember, leave no survivors.”

~~

Well, there’s the first chapter. I hope you guys like it! I have a lot planned for this story so let me know if you want me to continue xx

[ahgaseda]

two can keep a secret || chapter 06

⇥ synopsis : when your father reveals his intention to remarry, you find an unlikely confidant in Mark, your soon-to-be stepbrother, but what began as a revenge fling ironically becomes far more complicated...

⇥ warnings : this story in its entirety includes but is not limited to strong language and dialogue, recurring alcohol and drug use, and explicit sexual content, and is intended for an adult audience only!

It wasn’t a trick. You weren’t trying to manipulate him. Nor were you being malicious. You panicked, plain and simple.

Your relationship with Mark was twisted, but feelings were there. Feelings of trust and…

Love?

That was the problem. Did you love Mark? Was there a chance in hell he loved you?

Despite all of the sex, there was certainly friendship. He was the one that made you laugh until your ribs ached. He was the one there for late-night pillow talks, where the two of you talked about all the mysteries of the universe until one of you fell asleep.

But love was a novel concept. You didn’t believe in it anymore, courtesy of your father.

So you peed on three pregnancy tests and hid them from view, then ran another three under the sink. Obviously, those came back negative and Mark would see them. He would be relieved, as you would have been if they were the real result.

If Mark knew you were pregnant, he would derail his and your life to make things right. That was the kind of person you knew him to be. He would march right to your father and tell him what happened. Of course, that would be the exact fodder needed to set fire to the upcoming nuptials.

And meanwhile, you would spend your entire life wondering if Mark stayed with you for the baby or because he loved you.

You had to be sure.

That night, your father took his mother to dinner and Mark decided to celebrate the negative pregnancy tests the best way he knew how.

You raked your fingers through his hair and arched your back, moaning his name for all to hear. Mark sucked on your clit like a man starved. His rough hands kneaded the juicy flesh of your hips, reeling a hand back and sending a sharp slap reverberating through the room.

“Mm,” Mark growled between your legs, lips wet against your pussy. Shit, you were gushing. Fuck, he had missed your body.

You lifted up on your elbows, head thrown back as you cried out for mercy in choked off moans and whimpers.

Mark glanced up, fire in his eyes at the way your breasts shuddered with your rapid breaths. You were jolting under his ministrations, twitching with the anticipation of a third release. One of these days he would happily make you orgasm until you passed out. And then he would never let you live it down.

“Dammit, I love this pussy,” Mark growled, licking between your folds.

There was that four-letter word. Heat flushed your cheeks. Your heart beat violently against your chest.

“What else… do you love… about me?” you stammered, shaking with the way he rolled your bundle of nerves with his tongue.

“I love this ass,” Mark retorted, pulling both hands back and slapping as best he could with you on your back in his bed.

You hid your face in your arm, biting down on a mouthful of those black, silk sheets. For fuck's sake, he knew how to pleasure you. He took such pride in it. The man ate you out like it was his goal in life to suck the soul out of you.

But of course, he only loved your body.

“I love the way you say my name.”

Your eyes flickered open.

Mark slowly rolled his hips, grinding his dick against the mattress for friction. His cock twitched each time you moaned or keened at the heat of his tongue working you to ecstasy. “I love the way you kiss my neck when I come,” he finally added, biting the inside of your thigh.

Hell, you loved that too.

But still, it seemed his love began and ended each time he was between your legs.

Mark kissed his way up your body, propping himself over you and staring deep into your eyes. You felt naked, exposed, wholly vulnerable underneath him. When he moved forward, impaling you slowly on his hard cock, your lips parted and you whimpered his name.

He clenched his jaw, grit his teeth. The lines of tension were hard on his face.

Your focus was his pleasure. You let out a noise he would love every time he bottomed out inside you. Your nails scraped down his spine, his back arching beneath them.

“Where can I come, baby?” he managed to say. His tone was shaky, overwhelmed. He was so close to the edge he could taste it. Bringing you to climax over and over had worked him up too well.

You felt a prickle of guilt, but you quickly locked your ankles over his ass, rocking yourself in tandem with his movements. Tightening your grip in his hair, you purred against his ear, “Deep inside, so I can kiss your pretty neck.”

Mark cried out your name, losing himself to climax the moment you whispered those words. You kissed a hot path up the side of his throat, anchoring him to you with all of your might as he shook above you and emptied himself inside your velvet walls.

His hot release was all you could think about as you were reminded of the baby growing in your womb. The baby you had made together. Mark was sheathed to the hilt inside you and had no idea. You kissed and sucked his neck with abandon, pushing your boobs against the expanse of his chest.

Damn it, he would definitely notice if your breasts swelled. You would have to get the most powerful sports bra ever made. Oh crap, when would they fill with milk?

Your amorous mood promptly vaporized and when Mark finally collapsed on top of you, you were relieved. You stroked your hands up and down his bare back, murmuring little nothings in your softest tone as he came down from his high.

Mark finally roused enough energy and brought his lips to the corner of your mouth, saying, “Not gonna lie, I would have loved to watch you swell with my baby.”

He was high. Of course, he would say shit like that.

You rolled your eyes. “What would you have done, Mark? Used it as a weapon to stop the wedding?”

Mark pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His brows furrowed, stiffening with annoyance. “The fuck does that mean?”

The harshness of his voice made you rethink an argument and you quickly deflected, turning your head, “Just forget it.”

Mark didn’t relent. It wasn’t in his nature. “No, I won’t.”

“I would be the stepsister turned baby mama,” you murmured, looking toward the window and avoiding his gaze altogether.

Mark watched you, not sure what to make of this line of conversation. Pride wounded - and maybe his heart too - he asked, “Would having a baby with me be the worst thing that ever happened on the face of the earth?”

You couldn’t have this discussion with him while he was under the influence, although any post-coital bliss had clearly evaporated. Scoffing, you retorted, “Are you saying you would rather I was pregnant?”

“No,” he replied, hesitant for words. “But I’m saying it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. Which is what you’re saying.”

Rounding on him, you braced your hands on his chest and snapped, “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Mark moved back when you pushed him away, standing alongside the bed and watching you gather your clothes impatiently. He was angry. Of course, he was relieved that you weren’t pregnant, but your same sense of relief stung. You didn’t have a problem fucking him, but anything beyond that was unacceptable?

Rage reared its ugly head.

“No, I’m only good at putting a dick in your mouth, right?”

Having just pulled up your shorts, you turned to face him, eyes wide.

“I’m not the guy for you. I’m the one that stays fucked up and drunk and between your legs, but god forbid I could be more than that,” Mark shouted, cheeks flushing with wrath.

You had never seen him this enraged. Sure, Mark’s temper was not uncommon when it chose to flare, but never had it been directed towards you.

It was downright terrifying.

"Mark, stop,” you spoke meekly, standing opposite him on the other side of the bed.

The same bed where you had just made love only moments ago. Moments that felt long gone. Fire had been coursing between your bodies, but now ice, cold and unforgiving, had fallen over the room.

“No, I won’t,” Mark hissed. “You think I don’t know that’s why you only you want me for sex? Your Daddy wants you to marry a rich douchebag so you can be a trophy wife. That’s why he’s making you get that dumb degree. He doesn’t want you to have your own career.”

That pushed your buttons in the worst of ways. You felt tears filling in your eyes as panic swiftly quelled in favor of hatred. “Stop talking about my life like you know anything of what it’s like!”

Mark riled all the more when you raised your voice at him. This being your first fight with him, it was going to be fucking memorable.

“The worst thing that could happen would be me knocking you up, right? I’m the worthless piece of shit kid that gets by on his mom’s money. I could never be good enough for you and I obviously could never be a good father!”

Oh, god... the baby, you thought. Blood drained from your face. Every fiber of the fight response left your body and you froze. You were pregnant. You couldn’t fight. You couldn’t think about how your life was officially over.

Your father would disown you. You wouldn’t be able to graduate. Mark would be cut off from his mother and her endless money. The two of you would have nothing. And Mark would resent you until the day he died for stealing everything he had from him.

You surrendered and said softly, “Mark, seriously. I can’t do this right now.”

Mark stilled. He could see now that he had scared you and he already regretted letting it escalate this far. Too much was said in the heat of the moment. His deepest insecurities had taken hold.

Seeing him quiet down, you bent down to gather your shirt, making for his bedroom door.

Mark stepped into your path and whispered, “Tell me I’m more than sex to you.”

You pinched your lips shut.

Mark felt the threat of tears behind his eyes and he hated himself for making you into one of his weaknesses. “Tell me!”

You replied calmly, “Tell me I’m more than just revenge to you.”

Mark stopped. And he said nothing.

You laughed; an empty, pitiful laugh wholly devoid of mirth. “Exactly,” you sneered.

The world came crashing down around you. Mark didn’t love you. You were the means to an end, only a release. And in that moment, you realized you were going to carry, birth and raise a baby all on your own.

Mark let you brush past him, his eyes on the floor.

“I’m locking my door from now on,” you told him bitterly. “Don’t even think about sneaking into my room anymore.”

“Fine,” Mark huffed.

No sooner had you slammed the door shut in your wake, Mark grabbed the only thing in range - a framed photo of him with his mother and father - and chucked it across the room.

You heard the glass shatter into a thousand pieces and the sound was all too fitting for the state of your heart.

chapter 05 ⇤ chapter 06 ⇥ chapter 07

Hey there, beautiful! If you enjoyed this, please leave a like or reblog or follow me! Or maybe buy me a coffee so I can keep writing? Or check out my masterlist here for more stories! Thanks for reading :) - Katya

This work is fictional and for entertainment purposes only, but is licensed and protected under a creative commons attribution-noncommercial-noderivatives 4.0 international license. Any instances of plagiarism will be dealt with accordingly. Do not re-post or translate without my permission.

{ copyright 2018-2020 © ahgaseda // all rights reserved }

[ghostcaterwaul-old]

Misty Sawyer: 💤😊?

TW for some mentions of abuse, torture, and trauma though nothing super graphic, just mentioned to give context.

This is kinda long so I’m putting this under a read more thingy.

💤 What was your OC like as a baby, a child and as a teen? (if your OC is a teen or a child, what will they be like as an adult?). How have they changed since then? What lessons have they learned and what things about their youth do they miss the most? Do they have any general regrets?

Baby: Super clingy. Was one of those babies that didn’t like being left alone and had to be held all the time. Like, the minute she was put down, she’d start crying.

Child: Curious. Wanted to learn everything and explore everywhere. Became fascinated with plants and nature at an early age and read everything she could about it, including symbolism of flowers, herbs, and trees. She found out Liam (my other OC) also liked learning about nature and they bonded over this, eventually becoming inseparable. Her dad had started getting abusive when she was about 5, disguising it as discipline. Her mother wasn’t aware of how bad things had gotten until it was far too late. This affected her pretty severely. She started to become very quiet and withdrawn. She was very emotional all the time. Throughout her childhood, she was constantly dislocating her joints and pulling and tearing her muscles doing the most mundane things. She attributed this to her father‘s beatings.

Teen: At 14, she was diagnosed with Classical-Like Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (clEDS). This was the cause of her constant injuries. Her father used this as an excuse to isolate her, saying he was afraid of her getting hurt and didn’t want her out of his sight. At 15, she stumbled across her father’s porn collection and realized he was essentially using porn scenarios as blueprints for the punishments he administered to her. She confronted him in front of her mother and he claimed she was lying and that she’d been trying to seduce him and was accusing him of abuse because the seduction didn’t work. He still sticks to this story. Misty lost her shit and attacked her dad, then ran to Liam for help after realizing what she’d done. Liam tried to help her hide and both of them ended up getting locked up because her father’s a manipulative douchebag and got council to side with him. It was at this point that Misty started lashing out at everyone over everything (though she always felt terrible afterwards and tried to make amends). At 16, she started to sort of level out a bit, though she was still extremely emotional, all of her emotions were extreme. She would never just be happy, she’d be ecstatic, she wouldn’t just be sad, she’d be overwhelmingly depressed and suicidal, she wouldn’t just be angry, she’d be fucking livid. After being sent to the ground at 17, she started sleeping around and being very hypersexual as a way to reclaim her body from the abuse she endured. She feels useless due to her limitations from clEDS since she can’t do much manual labor or much of anything physical. She eventually teaches herself how to make flower garland and flower jewelry (crowns, necklaces, bracelets) and finds that this is calming to her. The braiding techniques she uses for this end up being useful with other materials. She also makes flower accessories for literally everyone all the time, and they usually don’t know it, but the flowers almost always mean something and are carefully selected for each person. She eventually is captured and tortured by grounders and comes back a total mess. She can barely form complete coherent sentences and often babbles nonsense, sometimes slipping into Trigedasleng and muttering things that she had overheard under her breath. She freaks out at every sudden movement or loud noise. She experiences flashbacks, nightmares and episodes of dissociation. She becomes terrified of grounders though she never holds any hatred towards them as a group, just the ones who tortured her.

Adult: She eventually starts to recover from all her trauma, and though still often over-emotional, she doesn’t get angry quite as often anymore. Becomes more of a hippy/free spirit type. Wants to make everyone happy and wants to make sure everyone feels loved. Becomes the mom friend.

She’s learned how to cope with her trauma, how to love herself, and how to cope with her emotions. There’s not a lot she misses about her childhood. She regrets not trying to speak up about her father’s abuse sooner even though she didn’t quite comprehend what was happening for a long time and he also blackmailed her with a flash drive of photos and videos that looked as if she took them to give to him.

😊 What can make your OC smile even when they’re feeling down? What cheers them up and makes everything feel better for them? Is your OC generally a happy person and do they enjoy making others smile? What about your OC makes others happy?

She loves flowers and animals. She could be in the middle of a meltdown and a bunny could hop by and she’ll go from sobbing hysterically to “AWWW DID YOU SEE THE BUNNY?!”, then probably cry over how cute bunnies are. Her best friend, Liam, always knows how to make her smile with lame jokes or by being totally sappy and telling her whatever she needs to hear to feel better.

She’s not a generally happy person for a long time, but even when she’s at her worst, she’ll try and make others happy. She figures just because she feels terrible doesn’t mean anyone else has to.

Others find her love for nature endearing and most recognize generally soft heart even if she’s flipping out and yelling. Her flower jewelry usually brings a smile to people’s faces. She genuinely believes that most people aren’t bad people, but are good people who do bad things sometimes and that most people generally have good intentions. After everything she’s been through, she still has hope for humanity as a whole and believes that someday, everyone will be able to live together happily and peacefully and while some people find this belief childish and naive, some truly admire her for sticking to it after all she’s been through and witnessed.

[spectraspecs-writes]

Original writing incoming!

Hey, @luzillaaddicted and @averruncushd - I love that you’re so eager for this, this feels so good to be validated. So here is a chapter of backstory I wrote for my villains in my time traveller book series. Then I’ll post some background stories I wrote with them. 

Also I tried to add all the trigger warnings I could think of - if someone thinks of any others I should add, just hit me up.

Kodali is a homosexual aromantic alien called a Theta Reysian. I’d tell you more but this backstory actually gives you a great picture of him.

Gideon Starkhill is a pansexual aromantic, also a Theta Reysian. You get a good picture of him, too.

Thomas Crane is... actually just a manipulative douchebag, which is not a term I use lightly. And he is a Bellatrix, the race that possesses time travel. Allen Carpenter is the hero of the time travel story.

Chapter 3.3.1 - Roots

Kodali It was no surprise to the State that Kodali found it so easy to not feel. Their genetic engineering techniques had improved in the last 200 years, since “the incident.” In that case, perhaps there was an anomaly within the brain, an issue with the amygdala, or maybe it was a flaw in the technique. They honestly didn’t know. But the techniques had improved since then. They still could not remove emotions altogether, and in fact they did not want to. The effects would be too great on that being’s psyche. But while they could not remove emotions, they had gotten as close as possible, through suppressing them. Kodali still felt fear, sadness, anger, rage, and hatred, but they were tempered with a cool rationale. He did not hate blindly, but could channel his hatred to make himself a better fighter. When he was afraid, as of course all soldiers become, he allowed his instincts to protect him when he so chose, and ignored them when he chose. Every emotion was backed by logic.

It was no surprise to Kodali, either, that he was so good at not feeling. It wasn’t just their techniques that gave him this ability. That only made it easier. For as far back as he could remember, Kodali had been an orphan. Nobody loved him. Did people care for him? Yes, he knew that; of course they did. But care did not mean love. He knew that, too. Care meant responsibility. Care meant that someone felt an obligation to make sure you stayed out of trouble and didn’t die. Love was about your reasons for care. Love was about why you felt responsible. He was a ward of the state. They felt responsible for him because it was their job. That wasn’t love. They didn’t want to care for him, necessarily; they just had to. Kodali had felt genuinely happy when the genetics board asked for him because it meant that someone genuinely wanted him.

But then came the endless poking and prodding, the countless procedures, the nonstop questions. All he wanted was to make them happy. All he ever wanted was to make them happy, to make them love him. But they didn’t.

He certainly made plenty of people happy. His test scores in every subject were off the charts - cognitive reasoning, visual acuity, hearing, tactile processing, eyesight, image processing, mathematical reasoning, language skills, fitness tests, you name it. But none of it was ever enough for them. There was always one more test, one more procedure. From the evening-out of his toes to changing the color of his eyes to switching his dominant hand to the heightening of his senses. They made him almost perfect.

He didn’t feel perfect. After all, if he was so perfect, why did they keep changing him? Why did he feel this emptiness inside? Why did no one want him? Those people who were bought - they must have been perfect. Someone wanted them.

What is the meaning of life, anyway? What’s the point of it if no one wants you? Was there something he hadn’t done yet? What was it? He would do it, of course. Would someone want him then? That had to be it. It wasn’t that no one wanted him - it was that he wasn’t good enough yet. So he just had to get better.

Admittedly that was quite a task he had set for himself. If his scores were already the highest, getting them to go even higher would likely prove impossible. For anyone else, that is. But Kodali nevertheless did his absolute best, pushed himself to his limits trying to be the best he could possibly be. And he succeeded. His already high aptitude test scores went even higher. He wasn’t just good. He was beyond good. He wasn’t just excellent. He was beyond excellent. He was the utmost best.

When he caught the eye of the state militia, he thought that everything was finally going his way. Someone wanted him. He was finally enough. Maybe it wasn’t love, as such, but it was a family. Someone who would be there for him, no matter what.

And then… and then they put that thing on his arm.

No, not on his arm. In his arm.

He’d never been trusted with a weapon before, never even seen one. After “the incident,” they’d kept all weapons out of the facility, including the non-lethal pellet guns the guards used to use. It was just too risky. This was his first weapon - a plasma-charged blade that would cascade out of his left arm with a single thought, an impulse. It was tied to instinct. If something triggered his fight-or-flight response, if his adrenaline levels went up from his normal level, if he was startled, or if he sent the impulse for it to activated, the blade would charge with plasma and come out of his arm. It was a bit awkward at first. He’d sneeze unexpectedly and the blade would come out. And he wasn’t quite sure how to use it. Was he supposed to slice with it? Was it like a sword, except the sword was his arm? The last thing he wanted to do was use it wrong, but they didn’t exactly tell him how to use it. They told him to experiment with it.

Oh, the training dummies he went through. He tried stabbing through them at first, going for maximum damage. Cotton batting fell out everywhere. But he found that too awkward to do all the time. What if he needed his hand back right away? There would be blood everywhere and it would get too messy. He didn’t like messy. When things got messy people got upset with him, they liked him less. So he tried slicing with it. He’d memorized the locations of major arteries for at least a dozen species and could cause a lot of damage that way. Plus, it was faster than going straight through…

Wait…

Wait a minute…

Why was all this so natural to him? Here he was, casually thinking about the most efficient way to kill someone with this weapon in his arm. What about helping people? A knife of any kind is, after all, a tool. What could he do with it besides hurt people?

… Nothing came to mind.

He knew other uses existed, but for some reason he couldn’t think of any.

When his formal training began, Kodali was told that it was really for the best that he abandon the notion of helping anyone at all. Sentimentality and attachment were better off left alone, better off avoided. So even though he didn’t want to, he would do his best to not get attached to anyone at all. Anyone. No one.

What was the point?

The question he’d asked himself when he was younger seemed to be even more pressing in his mind. Then, he’d asked what was the point if no one wanted you. Now he asked himself - What was the point if he couldn’t feel anything? What was the point of having enemies if one had no friends? How would one know they were their enemies? What would one fight for if they felt nothing for any cause? How could one be effective at anything without feeling?

No matter how much he trained, how much he learned, he kept asking himself these same questions. What. Was. The point?

Then, one day, they put Kodali in a different training group. Most of the Reysians in this new group, he had never met before. And that day, out of nowhere, there was a man. Watching him. Watching him train. Watching him fight. Watching him run. Not any type of Reysian, that was certain. His stance was different than any Kodali had ever seen before, and the way he carried himself was with confidence and pride. The Theta Reysians had not felt that type of pride in centuries, living in the shadow of the Gamma Reysians. And the Gamma Reysians had not had any use for the Theta Reysians in years. The man watched all the trainings, but when he was watching Kodali, he smiled. And at the end of his maneuver, he clapped. Kodali was very suspicious of him, but he didn’t say anything to the man, or to anyone else. This was an investigation that, should he need to, he would have to conduct on his own.

He was returned to his room after maneuvers, a peculiarity. Usually he and the other trainees were fed after rigorous training. But of course that was his old group. Were things done differently with this new group? Or did it all have to do with that man? Who was he? What was going on? Kodali had been trained to react to uncertainty with caution. To, when the situation turned abnormal, prepare for attack. His blade pulsed patiently in his arm, still sheathed but only for now. Ready to be withdrawn. The plasma vent in his forearm pulsing blue. Then the door to his room was opened. It was the man who had watched him.

“Good afternoon, Kodali,” the man said nicely, “My name is Thomas Crane.” He held out his hand for Kodali to shake. Kodali did not shake it. Crane chuckled uncomfortably, retracting his hand and scratching his eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I’m a little uncomfortable. I’m used to calling people by their surnames. As I understand, you don’t have one. No family, no family name.”

Kodali stood cautious of this man, not saying anything. So Crane continued on his own. “This is my first time doing it like this. Through all of time and space, I’ve never seen, never found, anyone quite like you.” Still uncertain, Kodali cocked his eyebrow, surveying the room carefully. Was this going to lead to an attack? He would be ready if it did. “I have need for a second-in-command, someone who understands what needs to be done, who can follow orders without question. I also need someone who’s very skilled in hand-to-hand combat, with high dexterity. Someone I can trust, someone with an eye for the little details that I can’t focus on all the time.” Kodali stopped surveying the room. “Need” - that was like “want”, he knew that. Was this stranger proposing what he thought he was? “I was here today to look at all the potential candidates. I saw them all. I want you.”

Want. Someone wanted him. Kodali was speechless with joy that he could not express. Uncertainly, Crane said, “You’re being very quiet. I’ve looked at your psychological profile. It said that you felt a desire to be wanted, for family.” Crane scratched his nose. “I’m purchasing you. You’re going to leave this place with me. Do you understand me?”

Kodali reached around Crane, hugging him. The gesture felt odd, childlike. But he was happy. This man could be his family. He was his commander. His Master.

Gideon Starkhill There was something wrong.

That’s what everyone said.

There was something wrong with him.

If you went to the Theta Reysian outposts, ask anyone and they’d tell you, “Oh, yeah, there was something wrong with that Starkhill boy.”

They called it “the incident.” They never ever said his name again. It was taboo.

There was something wrong with him.

Maybe it was a preexisting neurological condition. Maybe his parents had sold him to the wrong dealer before he ended up with the newly organized genetics board. Maybe it had been a part of his reengineering, quite intentional. Maybe it was a mistake in the reengineering. Whatever the case, Gideon Starkhill was perpetually angry, and the most vicious reengineered subject ever produced by the Theta Reysians.

He was certainly difficult to resell. The Theta Reysian government had considered terminating him even before “the incident” — he was a drain on their already stretched-thin resources. After all, they weren’t much of a government. They, combined with a private business interest, had spent eighteen years and thousands of credits on his reengineering. It included not only reworking of his neurobiology and genetics, but also social conditioning. And whenever he did something wrong, something they didn’t like, or they were going to start a procedure of whatever sort, they would tell him the same lie: “It won’t hurt. Don’t be scared. This is good for you.” It always hurt. Every time. No matter how much anesthetic they gave him, he could still feel it and it still hurt. Of course he was scared - they were changing his brain with big, scary-looking machines, they would strap him in, hold him down, come at him with masks covering their faces looking like the monsters from his nightmares. And it didn’t feel good for him. It felt like they were changing him, doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing.

Gideon hated being alone, and was tired of it. When he came to the facility at age 4, no one left him alone, ever, but from age 6 to age 20, they would put him in a room for hours, alone, and tell him to wait. There were no windows, no chairs or tables. Just a metal bed, and a hard, thin mattress through which he could feel the frame. He’d tried doing all he could to occupy himself, occupy his mind. He counted the tiles in the ceiling, until one day they took the tiles away, leaving a textureless surface as the ceiling. He’d tell himself stories, until one day he was unable to. He’d play back his memories, until one day they held no joy for him. He tried sleeping, but they never turned the lights off. They buzzed, quiet at first but soon it was all he could hear. He tried talking aloud to himself but all the talking could not drown out the noise. It made him feel worse. And when it was quiet, completely quiet, he would feel even worse, like something was gnawing at him from the inside. He hated quiet, even more than he hated the buzzing. The silence made him feel paralyzed, deaf, dumb, and blind, feeling like he couldn’t breathe, trapped inside himself, looking out at the world around him and screaming a silent scream of insanity. It was in the quiet and alone that the thoughts he didn’t dare tell anyone about would turn to himself.

Sometimes they would turn the lights out, just to see what he did. He hated them for that. Hated that woman, that sadistic woman who always had her fingers on the buttons that were used to manipulate him. His secret thoughts turned to her many times. And he knew she was watching him out of the dark and silence and alone, watching him sit straight as the walls, tense, like a puppet being held by taut strings. Watched him with his teeth clenched, at first trying to listen to the sound in his own breathing but that would never help that would make everything worse. Watched him close his eyes and shudder in terror? Some sort of seizure? They were never sure. Gideon was never certain of it either. Watched him as he started to cry, silently. That was when Gideon felt the most hatred for all of them. More than once, they watched as Gideon fainted, from the tension, from the dehydration because his mouth and throat would dry up almost instantaneously even though there was water in the room but he couldn’t get to it because he couldn’t move, from exhaustion. Watching him. Studying him. The sadistic bastards.

But then they would turn the lights back on and there was that damn buzzing!

So he exercised. When the sound was back he could move again, and so move he did. He did pushups, jumping jacks, sit-ups, stretches, calisthenics, and anything else he could think of to distract himself from the noise and sometimes his own thoughts, the thoughts he didn’t dare tell. If he didn’t get those thoughts out of his head, they would do it again. “It won’t hurt. Don’t be scared. This is good for you.” But even if he didn’t tell anyone, they would find out. They always found out somehow. And he made up imaginary friends who would talk to him to try to make himself less lonely.

Until one day they went away.

It was the same day he stopped smiling, too. Stopped smiling due to happiness, anyway. It all became work then, hard work, work he loved doing because it distracted him from his thoughts and from the quiet, but work he hated doing at the same time. He could retain the paradox in his head, but only by not thinking about it, which made more thoughts he had to distract himself from.

People liked to talk about him behind his back. He could hear them whisper, especially after they’d improved his hearing — they were studying him, staring at him, laughing at him. He was twenty-one when “the incident” occurred, when someone decided to talk about him like he wasn’t a person, like he was… not. He was eating his lunch, alone, when a group of people came in with a man. They were talking. The man was showing the group how the processes of bio-reengineering improved people. “This is one of our specimens,” he said to them, gesturing to Gideon, “It came to us as a pitiful, malnourished child, and due to our program it’s a fit and healthy member of society.” (A bold-faced lie; Gideon had never been allowed outside of the facility. He wasn’t a part of society. He knew nothing about society.) The man wrapped his hand around Gideon’s arm, showing the people how strong he was. It fired a spark in his brain. A panic. He was being attacked. This man was attacking him.

Before he realized what he was doing, Gideon’s arm was wrapped around the man’s neck. He had a dull plastic knife in his hand and pushed the serrated edge as hard as he could into the man’s face, drawing blood from his cheek. The warm, coppery, metallic smell of his blood entered his nose. (Did he like that? What was he feeling?) People screamed as Gideon choked the man to death. He bared his teeth at the man and growled softly at him, the beast of the primal past emerging strong from his heart and mind. He continued to strangle the man even after he was dead, and then it got worse.

Armed men came in and pointed guns at him. Gideon grabbed one of the guns by the barrel and punched the man who held it in the face, breaking not only his nose but also, thanks to his genetically heightened muscle force, his skull, killing him. It took 10 men to finally restrain him, and suddenly he realized what he’d done. “I’m sorry!” he cried.

But it genuinely surprised him, because he knew what he’d done. He was fully aware of it. And he wasn’t sorry.

The case against him was open and shut, and Starkhill offered no words in his own defense. He had no words, not for the courts nor for himself. He was sentenced to execution for his two murders, with his execution scheduled, incidentally, for his twenty-second birthday. How fitting for him. For Reysians in his position, in the facility, you received your billing on your twenty-second birthday, if not before. When you received your position, be it the state or independent militia, the concubines, labor district, whatever - if you hadn’t yet been sold, you were sent to your permanent position. If you were bought after that, you would still be doing that job, no other. Twenty-two was when a Reysian officially became an adult, and when the facility got rid of you. So death was his billing now.  He was locked away, alone, with only a buzzing light to fill the space with sound, until that day. And it was during this time of solitary waiting that he began to understand himself. Not only did he not regret killing that man, but he liked it. He hadn’t taken joy from anything in years, but felt its unfamiliar rush when he crushed the life from that man’s body. Not only that, but, hell, it was the only thing he’d been good at. The doctors and specialists in the facility had been testing him since the dealer his parents sold him to sold him to them for food and medicine. They tested his initial skills, and then tested for increases as they engineered and reengineered him. He hadn’t gotten all that better at anything, no more than anyone else his age who was normal would have. They hadn’t tested how well he killed. They tested how well he responded to orders - probably they intended for his increase in muscle force to make him an excellent laborer - and it wasn’t that he couldn’t follow orders, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to stack the blocks so that all the blues were together and all the reds were together and so that the blue tower was higher than the red tower. He didn’t want to measure the water so that he got exactly 12 centiliters every time. He wanted to do something that interested him. That certainly didn’t.

He also realized that he hated everyone. Not just anyone who attacked him, or anyone who told him to do anything, but everyone. But he also didn’t want to be alone. Within the adult and past the face of an unconcerned man was the sad and lonely child who still missed his mommy, who wanted to go home, who wanted friends. But who was fitting if he hated everyone? Especially when he wanted and loved to kill people. When he wanted to feel the warm flesh within his hands and squeeze the blood from his victim and feel the flesh turn cold, watch the life leave their eyes and their bodies. Who was safe from him? Who was enough?

The answer to this was unfortunately very clear: No one. No one was suitable to be his friend. They were all his enemies. And since they were all his enemies, he wanted to kill them all. And as much as he knew that it was just and right for him to want to kill people, he also knew deep in his heart that it was not, that it was wrong! Killing people is wrong. He’d been told that forever. Because this was not the first time he’d felt this. These were his secret thoughts that he didn’t dare tell anyone. When he was alone in that room, in the buzzing and in the silence both, he would imagine people he’d seen. He would imagine killing them. They had done nothing to him, but he wanted to kill them. And as part of his testing when he was littler, they would ask him questions. “How would you deal with someone who was mean to you?” he’d been asked by one of the doctors, for the first time when he was eight. Gideon had said quite honestly, “I’d be mean back, and I’d kill them.”

“No,” they’d said, and they smacked him and wrote something on their clipboards, “Killing people is wrong.” And Gideon sighed anxiously and wrung his hands nervously, because this had happened before. He would say something they didn’t like and they would dig in his brain. It wouldn’t hurt, they’d say. Don’t be scared, they’d say. This is good for you, they’d say. But it hurt. And it was scary. And it didn’t feel good for him. They’d strap him down. And no matter how many sedatives they put into him, no matter how deep a sleep he was in, he could still feel it. He still cried. He still had the same dream. A man with a pale face, his own face, glaring out of the nothingness, saying, “Never, damn it. I’m coming. This is me.” And it was scary, too. Who was he? When was he coming? What was he? What did he mean? So Gideon learned after countless times of reengineering and countless appearances of the dream, of the man’s words, he would swallow their truth. Yes, of course killing is bad. He didn’t have to believe it, so long as they believed him and never hurt him again, so long as he never had to have that dream again. But he still did sometimes, but this time the man was smiling, not scary, feeling familiar and safe, a part of himself. Of course, killing people is wrong. That’s what they said.

Was killing wrong? How could it be when it was the only thing that felt right? If it was wrong, maybe he was wrong, too. How much real person was left in him, after everything but his name had been changed? Maybe it was for the best that he died. Then maybe the wrong would be gone, and at least in death he’d be a real person.

When the men came and removed him from his cell, he went willingly, resisting the urge to strangle the both of them. Because he hated them. He hated everyone. He hated himself. Everything was wrong.

But they didn’t take him to his death. They took him to a room with a man. A quick survey told Gideon that he would be easy to kill. His fancy suit showed that he was pampered and spoiled. His relaxed posture meant that he was not used to attacks. There were no callouses on his hands, he wasn’t used to hard work. But, no, don’t kill him. Don’t kill people. You’re going to die soon, don’t kill anyone. The man was suddenly shaking his hand. Don’t kill him, don’t kill him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Starkhill, my name is Thomas Crane. I have purchased you and your services,” he said as the other men left.

“You… you know I killed a man, right?” Gideon asked, confused.

“With your bare hands, yes, I know,” Crane said, “Two of them. That’s why I want you. Someone with your skills is very difficult to find. I’m glad I found you before your execution.”

“I- I don’t understand,” Gideon stammered, “You- you want me because I killed someone?”

“Precisely. I find myself in need of someone with no qualms about killing. You seem to be the man for the job,” Crane said.

“No, but… I apologized.”

Crane chuckled. “Mr. Starkhill, I did my research on you before I came here. This was not your first incident, or the first time you expressed an interest in killing a man. We both know any apology you gave was not meant,” he said confidently.

Gideon was silent. “I have another one of your kind already in my employ. He was engineered to be the perfect soldier. He’s a fine leader for my command squadrons. Unfortunately, however, he simply does not have it in him to kill another. Every time he’s failed me in that respect. This is where you would come in. You like killing, don’t you?” Crane asked. Gideon was hesitant to answer, but he nodded, almost looking ashamed of himself, like he felt he was supposed to be. “I understand. I would like to put your skills and services to use. You’ll be given the opportunity to kill people regularly, but it must be on my command. There are some that I simply can’t have you kill. They’re too valuable.”

Gideon held in a smile, suspicious of this man. It all seemed too good to be true. “Should you agree to this, you will be cleared of all charges and you will come with me and receive comprehensive weapons training, as well as payment in addition to a suitable place to live on a planet far from here. But if not, there are two men outside who would be more than happy to escort you to your death. It’s entirely up to you. But please decide now. Time is short and things are starting to come together.”

But killing is wrong, Gideon thought. This man actually wants me to kill people?

Maybe killing isn’t wrong. After all, he’s going to pay me to do it.

But I’m wrong, because I want to kill, and killing is wrong, right? So I should die.

Killing isn’t wrong if he’s going to pay you. Putting money into making sure you’re good at it.

I don’t want to die.

“Okay,” Gideon said resolutely.

Gideon Starkhill arrived in Chicago, Illinois, on January 2nd, 2018.

That was also the last day anyone saw a waitress named Tammy St. Martin alive.

Thomas Crane The Bellatrix High Council refused to even speak of him again. They passed a motion, the likes of which had only been passed six other times, most recently with respect to Alex Tobias Carpenter. This was final, and backed by all sects of the Bellatrix High Council, something which had never happened before. Most often the Kaellatrix objected. The artists tended to have a different perspective on matters than the legal-minded Trillatrix or the science-minded Bellatrix. But in this case even they could not condone the actions of this man. Even they could not forgive him. Even they could not stomach his rationale. The motion was unanimously passed, and Thomas Ishmael Crane was exiled.

When the Bellatrix exile someone, they send them to a period of galactic history where they will not be able to return or do harm to that planet's history or people. When they'd sent Alex Carpenter to Earth in the early 1930s, for example, they had intended for him to die from the polio outbreak. Those human diseases can be quite dangerous, you know. But he got smart, quickly discovering his immunity and fleeing to the West Coast. As for Thomas Crane, they sent him to Germany in the late 1870s, in the German Empire. Perhaps he’d be executed for his homosexuality. Perhaps he’d survive until the first World War and perish as a result of that, or maybe afterwards as a result of the following economic problems. And if he survived all of that, then he’d most definitely be taken care of in the Holocaust. But the unpredictable happened - He found his way to America. Perhaps he’d snuck over on a boat. Maybe he’d crossed the border into France and found another way out of Europe. Whatever the case, he found a way out of Germany.

Back on Bellatrix, he’d been a scientist. He’d been assigned to work on Project Infinity, a top-secret initiative to unlock the secret to immortality. He was one of the brightest and the best, even earning a large number of grants and awards for his work. At one point he was the leading scientist on the project.

One day he went into the office of the research supervisor. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, “I think it might be a breakthrough in the project. It ought to solve the whole thing.” The research supervisor was more than happy to grant the funding, without even hearing the idea. It was Thomas Crane, after all, the genius. Whatever his plan, it would be great. Why would he need to hear it?

He regretted that soon after.

A team of visitors had come to observe his work on the project. Having been approved, Crane had no qualms about showing them his work.

Lying beside his work table was an Earth squirrel hanging on to life by its teeth, and Theta Reysian in just as pitiful shape, with diodes attached to his head. “I needed a bipedal, sub-Bellatrix test subject,” he said, justifying it. But the Theta Reysian, who’d been blinded by the procedure, looked at them, pleading with his eyes. And then he died, his look of agony forever frozen on his face and in their minds.

An investigation into Crane and his work was carried out immediately. His lab was closed. His notes were seized. His license was revoked, at first only temporarily. But upon review of his notes, it was discovered that he had been studying the Alpha-7 gene, which he’d discovered was necessary for life. His theory was to extract Alpha-7, to synthesize it as a drug to make whoever took it immortal. It was a plan that would require the mass genocide of countless species to mass produce, and require massive amounts of testing on Bellatrix and other anthropoid species to perfect, killing hundreds, if not thousands, in the process. When asked about this, Crane expressed no problems with it. If he achieved his goal, well, that was enough. What was the significance of a few sub-Bellatrix species in the grand scheme of things compared with the prospect of being immortal? In his mind, the ends more than justified the means.

The case was then made for his exile, and to classify his research. Not a single vote was cast in opposition, a landslide majority of thirty to none. With nothing but period clothing on his back, Crane was banished to 1870s Germany.

They kept an eye on him, mostly checking whether or not he’d died yet. But when they found him in America, it became harder and harder to keep track of him. And after a while, they lost track of him altogether.

Crane, meanwhile, tried to continue his research, all of it. His Alpha-7 work was put on hold due to lack of appropriate data and equipment, but that did nothing to stop his development of some type of time travel device. He had the formulas memorized. He had the capability of generating the power, but only once. So he formulated a plan that would force the Bellatrix to send a device to him. If he stirred up history enough, they would come to investigate the anomaly.

But could he kill two birds with one stone? Was there a way for him to get some of the biological information he needed as well as a time machine? With a smile on his face, he knew that he could, and he input the coordinates on his time travel device for the 27th of December, 1831, Devonport, England. He could certainly afford to spend a few years on the HMS Beagle waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack Charles Darwin.

It was a simple enough strategy. The pampered biologist had no idea he was being stalked and hunted like the animals he studied, killed, and ate, had no idea that Crane was developing a poison that could kill him, and the antidote that he might or might not use. It wasn’t until about two years into the voyage that Crane was perfectly poised to attack Darwin. He put the poison into his evening tea, and in no time the scientist was collapsed face down on his desk. Crane and whoever the Bellatrix High Council, and, by extension, the Councilum Temporis Motus, decided to send had about an hour before the poison stopped Darwin’s heart. Crane wasn’t concerned though. If the Bellatrix didn’t come, so “The Origin of the Species” didn’t get published in its entirety. Darwin wasn’t the only person working on this. It had been discovered by a geologist, for crying out loud. And so maybe they cast someone else in the role of Edmund Pevensie in the “Narnia” movies. So maybe the world would lose a poet and a screenwriter and an artist. So what? But the Bellatrix would detect the anomaly, he had no doubt. They would investigate. They’d find Crane there, but before they would arrest him, he would take them out, too, revive Darwin, and he’d be on his way.

Sure enough, an agent of the Time Council was around with a half hour left until Darwin died, and Crane dispatched of him with all haste. He gave Darwin the antidote and left in his new Chrono-traverser.

Even though he was a scientist, Crane had always had a knack for business. And it appeared to him that the only way to get forward in America, or Earth as a whole, was to know and understand business. So Crane plunged himself headfirst into the world of business and capitalism. He invested a heavy sum of money in a bank in the eighteenth century, so that no matter what era he chose to live in, he would be able to live comfortably. And he liked to live comfortably. Fine fabrics. Exquisite furniture. Elaborately designed houses. Oh, yes, he liked these things. And Crane was a very rich man. Rich enough, even, to, after a time, begin development of his immortality theories once again. And America wouldn’t banish him the way the Bellatrix had. America was built on commerce. America was built upon the backbone of cruelty. America was made for people like him. And even better, none of those primitive apes were smart enough to understand what he was doing. None of them were powerful enough to stop him. The Bellatrix wouldn’t, couldn’t. They couldn’t find him.

The only one who could was Allen.

But Crane had a plan for that.

And it was going beautifully.

[kuriquinn]

Hm.

Unless you’re Stalin or someone like that making multiple accounts on here I highly doubt it’s possible to be worse than Hitler himself.

However.

I have seen plenty of discriminatory posts against straight cis people. Mostly I shrug them off because you know what, where else do we have to complain or vent about them being douchebags? Not all of us have a community of fellow queers around us who “get” it. Does that make this behavior right? No, but it does make us human.

And the difference is, a member of the queer community isn’t about to go on an anti straight cis rant and then go shoot up a school or something in a fit of pique. Which is a very straight cis (usually male) thing to do.

And every so often you do get someone in the queer community who can be just as hateful, who thinks that because they have been through the wringer that makes it okay to be just as vile and insulting and discriminatory against cis and/or straight people. My best friend of ten years became more and more like this as he transitioned, to the point where I was uncomfortable being around him because he couldn’t go a sentence without saying something degrading or vicious about the cis/straight community even when we were in the company of active allies who happened to be both cis and straight. And whenever I brought it up, I was the asshole because “THEY should feel what it’s like / it’s just a joke / who cares they’re the majority, bitching about them won’t actually do any harm /you don’t get it, you’re cis and bi and can pass if you need to, etc.”

Needless to say that friendship’s been over for a few years now, because while I understand the feeling of wanting to be a jerk back to someone who has been a jerk to you (which is like the most human emotion every), this tit-for-tat treatment of the OTHER never works out and just perpetuates the cycle of hatred and discrimination.

Listen, I grew up in a linguistic minority where discriminating against us in the workplace and in terms of government services has been pretty much legal since my dad was a kid. I’m a woman in a male dominated, patriarchal system that pretends to be forward thinking but has a glass ceiling that I probably won’t live to see eradicated. I’m a bi woman in a world that sees me either as a fake lesbian or a slut who can’t make up her mind. I’m a religious minority that’s forbidden to wear any symbol of my religion if I want to get a job in public. I have chronic illness that I have to constantly fight with the government over to receive the care and curtesy that an abled person takes for granted.

And I won’t lie, I do get frustrated and angry at the linguistic majority (especially their politicians), and male privledge and bi-erasure and religious intolerance and abled privledge. And I do post about those things as a means of complaining, as a means of sharing my issues with a community of people that “get it”.

But “canceling” a majority community that happens to be oppressing me is not going to change their behaviour or actions. It just puts me on the path to become set or limited in my way of thinking to the point where I could become just as bad. History shows this to be true: it’s rare for an oppressed group to rise up and overthrow the oppressor without becoming the oppressor in turn.

(Note: it can happen, sure, but it’s just not as likely.)

Winning this fight, or rather winning a better world, doesn’t come from one group defeating another and taking its place. It’s getting each side to understand the differences we all have which make us us and make us human. And getting them to understand that just because someone lives a different life than you or according to different principles or within a different gender binery or whatever doesn’t decrease their right to be treated human.

And it’s a long game, one that is so much harder than simply rising up, knocking down the “old regime” and setting up a new one which eventually morphs into a version of the old one just with a new set of values.

It’s a game of changing one heart and mind at a time, and it’s potentially endless. But in the long run, it is the better option.

The only exception to anything I’ve said above are the groups that are so far gone into ideologies that actively target or harm their fellow human beings that getting rid of them would be like cutting out a cancer (ie Nazis, white supremacists, incels, taliban, radical religious groups/cults, etc.).

Unpopular opinion

You know in the eyes of Tumblr you’re either: LGBT or a homophobe like your either the person that Tumblr fucking loves or you’re the lowest scum on earth because you’re not gay I get that people want to Help the LGBT community on here but calling all straight and cis people in an area around you a nazi will just make people hate you more instead of helping the cause. And it’s not just that right, Tumblr loves diversity but if you’re one of the groups they don’t like they’ll shut you down like you’re worse than hitler himself. Ironically even though Tumblr is such a place where people try to make a diverse society people do really see things in black and white.

[perpetually-jungshook]

How to Change a Fuqboi (Namjoon)

Word Count: 2,967

Loosely inspired by the song “Fuqboi” by Hey Violet

Rated M (language and suggestive content)

How To Change A Fuqboi

Volume 1: Happenstance (Jungkook) Volume 2: For-Getting His Attention (Jimin) Volume 3: Bonding and Binding (Taehyung) Volume 4: One and Done (Yoongi) Volume 5: Unintentional Liar (Seokjin) Volume 6: To Be Loved (Namjoon) Volume 7: Checklist (Hoseok)

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

Step 1) Do NOT engage- WAIT ARE YOU SERIOUSLY STILL HERE?

Have you REALLY not learned your lesson? After five volumes, FIVE, WHY are you STILL confused on this topic? What else can I SAY about it? FOR FUCK’S SAKE I’VE EVEN TAUGHT YOU HOW TO AVOID FUCKBOYS. And you seemed to be doing so well too…

Are you just here for the angst? FINE! Bet your bottom dollar, euro, yen, won, or whatever currency you use…I’ll give you angst.

You stare at the cart full of clothes that you know will eventually have to go back out on the sales floor, dismay, irritation, and hatred for your job pumping through your veins like blood itself. There’s supposed to be an item limit per dressing room, but does anyone ever enforce or adhere to it? Nope.

Of course not.

You let out a heavy sigh, resting your hand on the first hanger of many. The least you could do would be to start sorting- yeah, now sounds like a great time for a break.

“Minji,” you call out as soon as you see her, texting behind a display of graphic tees, “Can you do me a favor and cover my calls?”

“Ah babe, you know I love you and you know I would, but I was just about to go too… HEY! Let’s go on break together!” she weaves her way into the aisle to give you a hug.

“Yeah, sounds good,” you smile, running your fingers affectionately through her hair as she crushes you. Dumping the responsibility of your calls onto the woman in the men’s department, both you and Minji make your way to the break room, spending your meager fifteen minutes catching up and hastily scarfing down food.

Just as you manage to find the bottom of your cup-noodles and Minji’s tone indicates she’s nearing the end of her “this one douchebag almost ran me over” story, the door opens behind you.

“Oh, hello! Well, if it isn’t my two favorite ladies!” his deep voice is one you easily recognize and despite its smooth nature, it grates on your nerves immediately.

Minji’s expression brightens, but as soon as she sees you stiffen, there’s a subtle change in her body language. You’re simply too distraught to read it.

She reaches across the table and grabs one of your hands, but addresses Namjoon over your shoulder, “Yah! Ladies? What are you calling me? An ajumma?”

“Aigo! No!” laughter laces his undertones, making your lip twitch in annoyance. “Did you want me to call you ‘girls’ instead?”

“You’re younger than both of us!” Minji teases, throwing a crumpled napkin in his direction. “I expect some respect around here!”

“Yes sunbae,” Namjoon sounds more amused than anything, “Noona, why are YOU so quiet?”

You bristle at the honorific, standing, “Minji, we should go back.”

“Do we really have to?” she sighs, pouting as you throw away the trash from both meals.

“Yeah, we’re being paid to be professional,” you chastise humorously, purposefully angling your body away from Namjoon so you don’t have to look at him.

Minji laughs, “Wait what? No one told ME we were getting paid.”

You force a giggle, “C’mon kiddo, back to work.”

“Yes unnie,” she stresses the unnecessary honorific with a roll of her eyes, “Or maybe I should start calling you EOMMA.”

After sending a wink her way, both of you burst out in genuine laughter while making your way toward the door. You’re almost in the clear, away from the pinnacle of your stress, but you can still hear him, ultimately confused and hurt because of your lack of acknowledgment, whisper:

“Noona…?”

As soon as Minji and you are alone, well as alone as two people can be in a department store full of customers, she turns to you and whispers, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but you looked upset at him. Is everything okay?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug, trying very hard to maintain her gaze.

Her eyes tell you that she knows you’re lying, but she only replies with, “Alright, you know you can talk to me, babe.”

You nod, grateful, and go your separate ways.

It’s true, you’ve been avoiding Namjoon like the plague since you found out what he did. And the funny thing is, technically, you weren’t even supposed to be involved in the first place.

From the moment you met him, you had been completely infatuated with him. His height and muscular build lent to a stoic image, but the most prominent feature of his person definitely had to be his smile in all its dimpled glory. It gave him a softness, a friendliness, an approachable quality that the customers (and in turn the store manager) loved. And it didn’t stop there.

Namjoon genuinely cared about people. He never missed an opportunity to make someone laugh; he was shy, blushing at everything, yet confident enough to strike up a conversation with whomever he wanted; and best of all, he cared about YOU.

He remembered small things from prior conversations, sought out your company during “team huddles” in which the supervisor went over things like sales statistic, but most importantly, he called you “noona,” a title he had not yet bestowed upon anyone else in the store and you were so in love it hurt.

But then he fucked your friend.

Oddly enough, you aren’t furious at him for doing that. He’s an adult, so he can do whatever he wants in his spare time. See? It’s not like you’re NOT a generous, forgiving person.

People are human, they make mistakes, and should be forgiven as long as they learn from them.

However, Namjoon crossed a very specific, hard line BECAUSE of his actions and you don’t know if you’re quite ready to forgive him.

Side Note: This is where I should be congratulating you on a job well done. You’ve paid attention to red flags, you’ve come to terms with what kind of person he is, and have stuck firmly behind your moral line. But for some reason, I feel like you’re not getting the point. You’re still friends with him and possibly infected with this nasty little parasite called “hope.”

It was two weeks ago, when he first approached you about the issue. You had been hidden amongst a line of displays, dutifully folding shirts when you spotted his familiar figure approaching.

“Noona,” he greeted you quietly, conspiratorially, knowing that he shouldn’t be talking to you while you’re on the clock and he’s not. “Hello.”

“Hey,” you blushed, trying to remember your recent resolution think of him platonically because, no matter how delusional you are, you know he never did and still doesn’t like you romantically. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just looking for a pair of dress shoes, but I heard you were working so I thought I’d come find you,” he beamed, taking a seat at the base of the display. “How’s life?”

“Alright,” you shrugged, shoving a newly folded shirt on top of the over-stuffed pile of its comrades. “Still hate my job. Still painfully single. What about you? Doing okay?”

At first, Namjoon looked like he was going to respond with a socially acceptable “yeah everything’s great” or something of the sort. However, at that point, it was common knowledge that he trusted you. As he should.

“Being honest, I’m a little conflicted,” he ran his fingers through his hair, “Can I-? Noona, can I ask you a question about relationships?”

Smothering a laugh, you picked up the next shirt to avoid eye contact, “Well, considering I’m the LEAST qualified person for that type of question…”

“Okay, so you haven’t been in a ton of relationships-”

“I’ve been in one.”

“So you’ve only been in ONE relationship. Noona, you’re good with people and introspection.”

You basked in the compliment, “Fair point. What’s bothering you?”

Namjoon sighed deeply, closing his eyes, “You know Gyuri?”

“Yeah, she works in kids,” you continued folding, unsure about where this was going. Was he going to break your heart again? Granted, Namjoon never knew about the first time so it’s not really his fault. You just found out he had a girlfriend and decided to smother your feelings. Even when they broke up… you knew it would never work.

“You’re friends with her, right?”

“Kind of,” you admitted, “But we’re not super close. She’s nice, but we’ve never hung out.”

Namjoon cleared his throat awkwardly, “Well, Gyuri said she likes me.”

“Oh?” the sound left your mouth before you could stop it. Your recovery was less than eloquent, but it had to be fast, “That’s… interesting.”

“But see, I’m not sure if I want to date her,” he leaned his head back, trapping your gaze as you paused mid-fold.

You let out a low, thoughtful hum, “Because I am the queen of unsolicited advice, do you want to know what I have to say? Or do you just need to vent?”

He chuckled, “I’m the one who asked, advise away.”

“Technically, hon, you haven’t ASKED anything,” you smiled, giving his shoulder a playful slap, inadvertently letting go of the shirt and causing it to fall open again. You continued as you fixed your error, “But here’s my question to you. Do YOU like HER?”

Namjoon blanched slightly, eyebrows knitting, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I… never really asked myself that. I just date people who want to date me.”

His words sent a sharp needle through your heart, namely because you COULD have fallen under that category. Whether or not the pain comes from the failure of his spoken, self-fulfilling prophecy or just the fact that Gyuri is a possibility OVER you, you’re not sure.

“Joonie,” you sighed, rubbing at your temples, “Do you like her? It’s a yes or no question you HAVE to answer.”

“I don’t think so-”

“Namjoon!”

“No! I don’t, araso? Like you said, she’s nice. But she smokes and drinks and I’m just not into that kind of thing,” he pulled his knees closer to his chest, a subconscious effort to make himself smaller, “But what do I tell her? We’re friends too and I don’t want to lose that.”

Again, something pricked in your chest, but you ignored it, “Gyuri will probably understand if you tell her you’re not ready for another relationship so soon.”

For some reason, he laughed, “I don’t think she will.”

You didn’t understand what he meant at the time, but now you do. You understand ALL too well. Namjoon LIED to you-

Kind of.

Side Note: He lied by omission. He made you believe HE was the VICTIM, but eventually you had the displeasure of finding out how WRONG your impression of him had been.

You spend your lunch alone, staring at messages you’ve already read and pictures you’ve already seen. There has to be SOME way to free up about a gigabyte of storage…

The break room smells vaguely of burnt toast and kimchi, an awful combination, but hey, both you and I know it’s not the worst this place has ever reeked. A variety show plays in the background, keeping you out of pure silence, but by no means does it obscure the sound of the door opening.

You look up, prepared to greet the person who enters, but instead of a smile, your entire body stiffens from the force of a grimace.

Before Namjoon sees you, you force a neutral expression, compressing, repressing the anger that builds inside like rising steam pressure. You need to leave the room before you burst.

“Noona,” his expression instantly relaxes into a smile, “Are you on lunch?”

You get out of your seat, gaze locking on the time clock. All you have to do is punch in your I.D. number and you can flee back to the sales floor, running from this problem just like everything else. But of course he has to get in your way.

“Are you alright?” he asks, probably referring to your silence, walking around the table toward you.

“Yeah,” your reply is tart, something that Namjoon catches onto immediately because he opens his arms for a “comforting” embrace.

Usually, you would’ve jumped at the opportunity to be physically close, but how can you trust him? With anything? What happened between Gyuri and him is THEIR problem. I agree that you shouldn’t let it impact your friendship with him. She doesn’t need to be defended. They are both adults and made their own choices.

But then you found out about what happened with his ex girlfriend, how he had slept with Gyuri DAYS after they had broken up. And it’s not just that, but yesterday your coworker, one of your best friends, Eunsook, told you about the messages Namjoon had been sending her; the fact that he had showed up at her house at two in the morning to pester her until she answered the door; and after she got in the car with him, he had tried to convince her to give him a blowjob.

All the while dodging Gyuri and in the process of making up with his ex.

And he played the VICTIM card. The FUCKING victim card.

“If you’re upset-” his sentence gets cut off as his arms start to close around your frame, your hand coming up to rest a stiff centimeter from his chest.

“Not now,” the words are clipped, harsh, and cause him to instinctively take a step away to let you go.

“Noona, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you-?”

“I’m FINE.”

You punch out and walk back onto the floor, practically steaming. At least all of that built up anger could now come out in a scalding, pressurized hiss of metaphorical water vapor.

Ultimately, you’re not sure whether you’re angry at Namjoon for being such a fuckboy or yourself for falling for it. And on top of that, though you’d never admit it, at least half of this red hot rage comes from the burning question: why aren’t YOU good enough for him…?

By the time your shift is over, one hour before the store closes, you’ve cooled down enough to know that what you did was wrong. You shouldn’t have snapped. Granted, this does not dismiss what he did, but the fact that he took advantage of your kindness gave you no right to snap at him for what he probably perceived as “no reason.”

Your feet feel heavy as you make your way toward the exit, like dragging stones behind you with every step. You can see his head just above the shoe displays. He’s focused on straightening boxes and has no idea you’re approaching until you’re directly behind him.

“Noona!” he startles, jumping away and holding up his hands as if you’re a cornered animal he’s trying to sooth.

“Namjoon,” you take a deep breath, steadying yourself, “I just want to say I’m sorry for earlier.”

These words have an immediate impact on him, his shoulders relaxing, his lips sliding into a relieved smile, “It’s alright! I thought you were mad at me-”

“I AM mad at you.”

“Oh?” the sound he lets out is short, surprised, and SCARED, “Noona, did I do something wrong?”

“This is not the time to talk about it. Not while you’re on the clock,” you warn him sternly. “I simply wanted to say that what I did earlier was immature and unwarranted. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“Oh-okay,” he nods, eyes wide. “Can you at least tell me what happened? I almost cried after you left and…”

“Cried?”

You’re taken aback, unsure whether or not to believe him.

“Yeah, just ask Minji,” he laughs, scratching at the back of his neck, “It was really embarrassing.”

This jolt of hope that he actually cares about you stings more than his indirect rejections.

You loved him so much that it HURT. But now that you know what he really is, a stupid closet fuckboy, one that hides his true self from others, maybe even himself… it’s difficult to even keep his gaze.

“We’ll talk later, Namjoon,” you start backing away, attention dropping to his feet.

“Noona, whatever I did, I’m sorry-”

“Later,” the affirmation, the hurried promise is shouted as you turn away, sights fixed on the door.

Apparently, he has other ideas.

Namjoon’s long fingers wrap around your wrist and before you can fight the hold, he pulls you against his chest. You only struggle for a moment before he lets you break the embrace and you manage to leave the store without exchanging another word.

He gave you an apology. Did you… not want it?

Once you’re in the safety of your car, the dark night weighing down upon you, a blanket only broken by the harsh beams of street lamps and the sterile glow of the department store sign, you let yourself collapse. Forehead against the steering wheel, your shoulders begin to shake, but you refuse to let the tears break through your defenses.

You won’t give him the satisfaction, not even when he can’t see it.

Do you understand now? Over and over I’ve presented scenarios, lessons hidden under the guise of satire, behind the mask of a compromised “victory.” This is a battle in which everyone will always lose. I’ve been trying to get you out of these situations as painlessly as possible.

But I am losing steam and running out of excuses. Please, love yourself as much as I love you, dearest reader. And do NOT give them the satisfaction of breaking your heart.

You want to forgive Namjoon. You really do, but each time you blink, you only see the ugly scars he’s left behind.

End Note: Sometimes, the only thing you must consider is…does he even deserve to change?

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

A/N: Well... that took a sadder turn than I expected. Whoops.

EOPQ 2: What kind of fuckboy do you think Hobi will be hmm? 😉

Send me your thoughts here. Or just come say hi ;) feedback is appreciated 

Support me/Donate and get some super rad 😎 rewards

Much love ~🐰 xx

[blackbatpurplecat]

Oh God.

I can’t wait for the current season of Supergirl to be over so I can finally quit the show. Why I haven’t already? I kinda like to finish what I’ve started; the same reason why I forced myself through Daredevil and Luke Cage.

The show’s writing is so fucking atrocious, I can’t stand it! It’s either out-of-character, pointless and boring, or completely predictable. Every time there’s a new twist, I’m like “wait, they didn’t know that? why is this a surprise?”

And every time that abusive, sexist, lying, slave owning, arrogant, possessive, jealous, encroaching, disrespectful asshole Mon-El is on the screen, I’m THIS close to skipping to the next scene. I can’t stand his smug jackass face and I hate that I can’t give him the Neagan/Lucille treatment. He’d look great with his head being red goo.

Seriously, I want him to die. Painfully. Slowly dip him into lead acid, feet first so he feels his skin and bones and flesh being corroded. Toes, shins, knees, and going further up. Really slow. I want it to be hellish torture for him. I want him to suffer endlessly. Hang him upside down, legs spred, and saw through him from anus to head. There’s not a big difference between those two anyway. There’s probably more shit coming out of his mouth than his ass.

It’s disgusting how TheCW completely fucked up a cute, funny series and is now leaving it to die and rot in a dirty ditch by the road.

[eightarmsnohands]

Peace In Time

Martin David Sellers sat in his car with the radio on low, but he wasn’t listening.  It was just noise beneath his thoughts.  He watched as people exited the gym in groups of two or three.  A woman would occasionally leave alone, but she wouldn’t be his type.  The solitary men were too big for Martin.  It began to get frustrating.  It had been almost two years and his urges were becoming unmanageable.  His leg began to shake and he instinctively began to pat himself for his pack of smokes.  Nothing.  He’d quit...almost two years ago.  

His mind conjured the stink of smoke, and when he looked at his hand on the steering wheel, yellow-brown rot creeped from his fingernails down to his wrist.  He looked to his ashtray yearning; a thin layer of cigarette ash, like bone dust, still clung to the black plastic.  Martin pushed out a big sigh and ran his hands down his face, trying to pull himself together.  He covered his mouth and let out a loud groan.

Refocusing his attention, he saw him.  Medium height, slightly in shape but wearing gym clothes meant for men way more muscular, heavily pomaded hair, neck tattoos…

Fucking douchebag.  He’s perfect.

Martin started his car and waited for Douchebag to get in his car and drive away.  He noted the details of the car and whispered the plate number to himself a few times as he pulled out and began to follow.  He kept the music low, and tried to sing along to appear normal but too soon did the music on the radio devolve into the warped droning in Martin’s ears, goading him to keep his eyes on Douchebag’s car.

It was less than a fifteen minute drive from the gym to his house.  Martin noted the time.  Douchebag pulled into his driveway.  Martin parked his car a few houses down and lightly jogged toward the open garage.  He unfolded the knife and barked the same words he’s barked several times before:

“Stop what you’re doing and turn around.  If you don’t comply I will cut your throat.”

Douchebag was bent over the trunk of his car, getting his gym bag.  His body went rigid.  He awkwardly “put his hands up” while still bent over.  His voice was muffled as he yelled into his trunk.

“Okay man, okay.  I’m gonna turn around.  Just don’t do anything okay?”

Martin didn’t respond.  Douchebag slowly but steadily backed out of the trunk and turned to face Martin.  Martin’s mind filled first with hatred, as he was even more of a dick when up close, then the thrill of knowing he’d picked a perfect one.

“My name is Brent, okay?  You can have my wallet, the car, whatever just don’t-”

Martin charged forward with the knife pointed low toward Brent.  Brent backed into the garage, his hands still up.

“We are going inside, Brent.  You’re going to do as I say, Brent.”

Brent sighed and whimpered as Martin shoved him through the door into the house, being sure to close the garage behind him.  The moment they were in the living room, Brent turned and started swinging wildly at Martin.  Martin shielded himself and charged forward, tackling Brent to the ground.  Martin hated doing it when they were fighting back.  He actually lost the desire to do it, but there really was no choice, no going back, once they’d cross that certain threshold.  Trespassing, assault, attempted murder.  It was all the same so may as well keep going.  But he enjoyed it the most when he was able to do it at leisure.

As the two men fought, Martin swore he heard Brent mutter, “Just fucking do it already.”

Martin was struck with an overwhelming sense of familiarity.  He stopped holding Brent down and popped up.  His hands were covered in smeared ink.  Below him, a blonde wig lay torn half off and Brent’s neck tattoo was completely smeared.   “Brent” was something Martin always dreaded in the back of his mind every time he did it.

“Larry fucking Coleman.  Larry FUCKING Coleman.  LARRY FUCKING COLEMAN!!!”  Martin screamed.  He got up off Larry.

“Hey Marty,” he huffed, out of breath.

Martin was stomping around the living room, screaming gibberish at the top of his lungs.  “I’m insane, I’m insane, I’m insane.  Of course I’m insane, I’m a fucking sociopath, but no I am honestly full on schizo fucking phrenic.”  

Larry began trying to calm Martin, because even though no murder was going to take place anymore, they still did not want to arouse suspicion.  

“Marty, calm down.  Marty.  MARTY!”  Larry reached for Martin but Martin shrugged away from his every attempt.  “HEY I DON’T FUCKIN’ LIKE IT EITHER OKAY?” Larry shouted.  

Martin stopped pacing and looked at Larry, whose breathlessness was becoming sobbing.  “I’ve been 37 for 300 years, you know how many wars that is?  Do you know how many famines and diseases that is?  Do you know how many lovers and wives and children and dead children that is?  Do you know how lonely that is?  You know, Marty, you’re the only person I’ve met that might have a concept of how lonely that is.  The first time you tried this I looked in your eyes and I saw what I see in the mirror.  Eyes that have seen more years than they can count.”

Martin stood there, unsure of what to say, or if to even say anything.  He folded his knife back up,  the bite of frustration receding, the droning beginning to quiet.  And now an impossible reality was blinking at him, waiting for his response.

“I’m sorry, Larry.  I’m sorry it doesn’t work.  I’m sorry it hasn’t worked.”

“No, I’m sorry.  Luring you out like this.  You were doing really good, weren’t you?  It’s been a few years since that couple in Tahoe, eh?  Looked like you were done.”

Martin shook his head, dumbfounded but amused.  He chuckled.  “I was.  I was.  But work’s been rough.  They’ve been promoting people that have been there for way less time than I have, and I’m always explaining shit to them.  Real dumb jock types.  You can’t escape the hierarchy...”

“Hence,” Larry began but Martin shooed him quiet.  “You always hated that type of man,” Larry snuck in.

“The husband in Tahoe was a college football star, actually, fuckin’ dick.  But I’m sure you knew that.  Man, thank god you’re not the cops.”

“Marty, if the cops had as much time on their hands as I do, there would be no unsolved crime.  There might not even be crime.”

“But I stabbed you the first time, in ‘90.  Like, a lot.”

“I know, and I’ve bled out before.  I just, I dunno, I thought as time went on I became...less immortal?  You know, like it would take me longer and longer to wake up again and eventually I’d just stay dead.  I needed to test the theory but it’s actually pretty hard to die on your own.  Like, without causing an accident that would hurt or kill someone else?  And it’s not like I could call you and say ‘Hey wanna come over and murder me?’  I don’t even have your phone number!  Plus I figure it would take the fun or pleasure or whatever out of it for you.”

Martin shrugged in admittance.  His head was swimming but he began to breathe like they told him to, and he stayed in the moment, taking tenuous grasps on the implications of what he was hearing and seeing.

“What about suicide?”

“I’m still scared of dying, Martin.  It can be painful, but I don’t need to tell you that.  The closest I’ve come is alcohol poisoning.  And jumping into traffic and stuff like that is out too.  Even if I don’t get someone killed or injured, they still have to live with whatever they see.  That’s pretty traumatic for most people, ya know?”

“Most people.  Hence…?”  Martin raised an inquisitive hand.

Larry nodded.

“So you just what, go to sleep for a while?”

“Pretty much.  Four or five hours.  Never six.  Never even a minute over five.  I’ve timed it.”

“And do you note when it’s five hours and when it’s four?”

“Yes but that’s a weird thing to fixate on.  The more violent deaths are usually the five hour cycle.  USUALLY.  But that’s what got me thinking about you.  The only thing I haven’t tried is being dismembered and having my parts separated by great distances but that’s a tall order for one person, and dangerous.  I’d rather not try it than have it fail because you got caught along the way.”

“I have my limits too, you know,” Martin stammered.  “I’m not a monster.”

“I know, Martin, I know.  I know more than you think I know.  I understand it, believe me.  But I didn’t mean you.”

“Ah.  Yeah.  It wasn’t so easy this time.  You’ll never see 40 but I’m looking down the barrel of 50 these days.  I won’t be around forever if you want to keep trying this.”

The men had been standing in the living room face to face, but Larry finally let out a sigh and sat on the couch.  He pulled off his wig and tossed it on the floor.  He smoothed back jet black hair, he rubbed unwrinkled blue eyes.  The older man, all thin blonde hair and scruff, sat beside him.

“I go through phases.  Stretches of years, decades even, when life is beautiful.  I travel, I drink, I fuck, I go places most people will never see in their lifetime.  It’s just, it’s a magnificent time and place to be.  Then sometimes I get so low and sick of people that I don’t leave or even get out of bed until I am absolutely unable to tolerate my own filth.  Better that than be out in the world.  It’s not a fair world though, and it never was.  But, again, I think you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.  But fairness is a strange thing to be fixated on, I’m told.  I don’t see it though.  An unfair world is a pointless world.”

“I’ll drink to that.  I’ll dedicate a toast to you if I ever see it.  To Martin David Sellers, and a world he could have been normal in.  A shame it came a few centuries too late.”

The two men burst out laughing, tones of humor and sad irony emanated from both for a few odd moments before they both fell silent, both fixated at the wall in front of them.

“I wasn’t gonna tell you this,” Larry began.  “But I’m not the only one.”

“Please shut up.  Are you shitting me?”

“No man, I’m not the only one I swear it.  I’ve met tons like me.  Maybe not tons, but enough, ya know?  We just keep away from each other because we’re all intolerable fucks.”

“So it’s luck of the draw then?  You don’t know until you know?”

“No...no, Martin.  It happens to everybody.  It just depends on how long you stay dead.  For me and a few other unlucky bastards it’s only a few hours.  Other people, it’s longer.  Years, decades, millenia.  The ones that can time it still remember the details of their lives but the ones that die for more than a couple years, it’s fuzzy.  Some are totally different people.  But everyone wakes up again...eventually.”

“I’m gonna fucking puke.”

“I did, when I found out.”

“What about people who stay dead for longer?  Like eons or whatever?”

“No clue.  Humanity has only been around for so long, right?  The theory is that humanity exists somewhere else way way down the line, and that’s where those folks wake up.  But all that shit makes it hard to sleep so I try not to think about it.  The hardest thing for me has been accepting that death is not permanent.  I’m stuck being me for eternity.  Four hours is not enough time to forget 300 years of bullshit.”

The two men sat alone for another long moment.  Martin spoke.

“I need a drink.”

“You want company?”

Martin turned to Larry.  “Probably not right now.”

“Yeah you got a lot to think about, probably better you chew on it alone for a bit.”

“Yeah,” Martin sighed.  “Someday though.”

“Someday.  Hey Martin, are you...gonna try again after this?”

Martin stood up and began walking toward the door.  “I don’t know.  Probably not, or maybe I will.  It doesn’t really matter does it?”

“Sure it does.  If they wake up and remember what happened, it fucks them up.  For way longer than you think it would.  That might not matter to you, but you struck me as more of a fear guy than a suffering guy.  Suffering isn’t fair, after all.”

“And what about the others, what about that unfairness?”

“Well, now you know you have time to atone.  It won’t be fun either.”

“Oh I’m counting on that.  And you, are you gonna stop trying to die?”  Martin reached in his pocket and pulled out his knife.  The handle was wooden and burnt into the wood was the phrase ‘Time the avenger.’

“No clue.  Tomorrow might be a great day or it might not.  Only one way to find out though.”

“Yeah, well.”  Martin tossed the knife to Larry.  “When I get to the bar I’ll drink to Larry, neither alive nor dead, may he find peace in time.”  The two men laughed one more time.

And Martin left.

Martin David Sellers sat in his car with the radio on low, but he wasn’t listening.  It was just noise beneath his thoughts.  He watched as people exited the gym in groups of two or three.  A woman would occasionally leave alone, but she wouldn’t be his type.  The solitary men were too big for Martin.  It began to get frustrating.  It had been almost two years and his urges were becoming unmanageable.  His leg began to shake and he instinctively began to pat himself for his pack of smokes.  Nothing.  He’d quit...almost two years ago.  

His mind conjured the stink of smoke, and when he looked at his hand on the steering wheel, yellow-brown rot creeped from his fingernails down to his wrist.  He looked to his ashtray yearning; a thin layer of cigarette ash, like bone dust, still clung to the black plastic.  Martin pushed out a big sigh and ran his hands down his face, trying to pull himself together.  He covered his mouth and let out a loud groan.

Refocusing his attention, he saw him.  Medium height, slightly in shape but wearing gym clothes meant for men way more muscular, heavily pomaded hair, neck tattoos…

Fucking douchebag.  He’s perfect.

Martin started his car and waited for Douchebag to get in his car and drive away.  He noted the details of the car and whispered the plate number to himself a few times as he pulled out and began to follow.  He kept the music low, and tried to sing along to appear normal but too soon did the music on the radio devolve into the warped droning in Martin’s ears, goading him to keep his eyes on Douchebag’s car.

It was less than a fifteen minute drive from the gym to his house.  Martin noted the time.  Douchebag pulled into his driveway.  Martin parked his car a few houses down and lightly jogged toward the open garage.  He unfolded the knife and barked the same words he’s barked several times before:

“Stop what you’re doing and turn around.  If you don’t comply I will cut your throat.”

Douchebag was bent over the trunk of his car, getting his gym bag.  His body went rigid.  He awkwardly “put his hands up” while still bent over.  His voice was muffled as he yelled into his trunk.

“Okay man, okay.  I’m gonna turn around.  Just don’t do anything okay?”

Martin didn’t respond.  Douchebag slowly but steadily backed out of the trunk and turned to face Martin.  Martin’s mind filled first with hatred, as he was even more of a dick when up close, then the thrill of knowing he’d picked a perfect one.

“My name is Brent, okay?  You can have my wallet, the car, whatever just don’t-”

Martin charged forward with the knife pointed low toward Brent.  Brent backed into the garage, his hands still up.

“We are going inside, Brent.  You’re going to do as I say, Brent.”

Brent sighed and whimpered as Martin shoved him through the door into the house, being sure to close the garage behind him.  The moment they were in the living room, Brent turned and started swinging wildly at Martin.  Martin shielded himself and charged forward, tackling Brent to the ground.  Martin hated doing it when they were fighting back.  He actually lost the desire to do it, but there really was no choice, no going back, once they’d cross that certain threshold.  Trespassing, assault, attempted murder.  It was all the same so may as well keep going.  But he enjoyed it the most when he was able to do it at leisure.

As the two men fought, Martin swore he heard Brent mutter, “Just fucking do it already.”

Martin was struck with an overwhelming sense of familiarity.  He stopped holding Brent down and popped up.  His hands were covered in smeared ink.  Below him, a blonde wig lay torn half off and Brent’s neck tattoo was completely smeared.   “Brent” was something Martin always dreaded in the back of his mind every time he did it.

“Larry fucking Coleman.  Larry FUCKING Coleman.  LARRY FUCKING COLEMAN!!!”  Martin screamed.  He got up off Larry.

“Hey Marty,” he huffed, out of breath.

Martin was stomping around the living room, screaming gibberish at the top of his lungs.  “I’m insane, I’m insane, I’m insane.  Of course I’m insane, I’m a fucking sociopath, but no I am honestly full on schizo fucking phrenic.”  

Larry began trying to calm Martin, because even though no murder was going to take place anymore, they still did not want to arouse suspicion.  

“Marty, calm down.  Marty.  MARTY!”  Larry reached for Martin but Martin shrugged away from his every attempt.  “HEY I DON’T FUCKIN’ LIKE IT EITHER OKAY?” Larry shouted.  

Martin stopped pacing and looked at Larry, whose breathlessness was becoming sobbing.  “I’ve been 37 for 300 years, you know how many wars that is?  Do you know how many famines and diseases that is?  Do you know how many lovers and wives and children and dead children that is?  Do you know how lonely that is?  You know, Marty, you’re the only person I’ve met that might have a concept of how lonely that is.  The first time you tried this I looked in your eyes and I saw what I see in the mirror.  Eyes that have seen more years than they can count.”

Martin stood there, unsure of what to say, or if to even say anything.  He folded his knife back up,  the bite of frustration receding, the droning beginning to quiet.  And now an impossible reality was blinking at him, waiting for his response.

“I’m sorry, Larry.  I’m sorry it doesn’t work.  I’m sorry it hasn’t worked.”

“No, I’m sorry.  Luring you out like this.  You were doing really good, weren’t you?  It’s been a few years since that couple in Tahoe, eh?  Looked like you were done.”

Martin shook his head, dumbfounded but amused.  He chuckled.  “I was.  I was.  But work’s been rough.  They’ve been promoting people that have been there for way less time than I have, and I’m always explaining shit to them.  Real dumb jock types.  You can’t escape the hierarchy...”

“Hence,” Larry began but Martin shooed him quiet.  “You always hated that type of man,” Larry snuck in.

“The husband in Tahoe was a college football star, actually, fuckin’ dick.  But I’m sure you knew that.  Man, thank god you’re not the cops.”

“Marty, if the cops had as much time on their hands as I do, there would be no unsolved crime.  There might not even be crime.”

“But I stabbed you the first time, in ‘90.  Like, a lot.”

“I know, and I’ve bled out before.  I just, I dunno, I thought as time went on I became...less immortal?  You know, like it would take me longer and longer to wake up again and eventually I’d just stay dead.  I needed to test the theory but it’s actually pretty hard to die on your own.  Like, without causing an accident that would hurt or kill someone else?  And it’s not like I could call you and say ‘Hey wanna come over and murder me?’  I don’t even have your phone number!  Plus I figure it would take the fun or pleasure or whatever out of it for you.”

Martin shrugged in admittance.  His head was swimming but he began to breathe like they told him to, and he stayed in the moment, taking tenuous grasps on the implications of what he was hearing and seeing.

“What about suicide?”

“I’m still scared of dying, Martin.  It can be painful, but I don’t need to tell you that.  The closest I’ve come is alcohol poisoning.  And jumping into traffic and stuff like that is out too.  Even if I don’t get someone killed or injured, they still have to live with whatever they see.  That’s pretty traumatic for most people, ya know?”

“Most people.  Hence…?”  Martin raised an inquisitive hand.

Larry nodded.

“So you just what, go to sleep for a while?”

“Pretty much.  Four or five hours.  Never six.  Never even a minute over five.  I’ve timed it.”

“And do you note when it’s five hours and when it’s four?”

“Yes but that’s a weird thing to fixate on.  The more violent deaths are usually the five hour cycle.  USUALLY.  But that’s what got me thinking about you.  The only thing I haven’t tried is being dismembered and having my parts separated by great distances but that’s a tall order for one person, and dangerous.  I’d rather not try it than have it fail because you got caught along the way.”

“I have my limits too, you know,” Martin stammered.  “I’m not a monster.”

“I know, Martin, I know.  I know more than you think I know.  I understand it, believe me.  But I didn’t mean you.”

“Ah.  Yeah.  It wasn’t so easy this time.  You’ll never see 40 but I’m looking down the barrel of 50 these days.  I won’t be around forever if you want to keep trying this.”

The men had been standing in the living room face to face, but Larry finally let out a sigh and sat on the couch.  He pulled off his wig and tossed it on the floor.  He smoothed back jet black hair, he rubbed unwrinkled blue eyes.  The older man, all thin blonde hair and scruff, sat beside him.

“I go through phases.  Stretches of years, decades even, when life is beautiful.  I travel, I drink, I fuck, I go places most people will never see in their lifetime.  It’s just, it’s a magnificent time and place to be.  Then sometimes I get so low and sick of people that I don’t leave or even get out of bed until I am absolutely unable to tolerate my own filth.  Better that than be out in the world.  It’s not a fair world though, and it never was.  But, again, I think you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.  But fairness is a strange thing to be fixated on, I’m told.  I don’t see it though.  An unfair world is a pointless world.”

“I’ll drink to that.  I’ll dedicate a toast to you if I ever see it.  To Martin David Sellers, and a world he could have been normal in.  A shame it came a few centuries too late.”

The two men burst out laughing, tones of humor and sad irony emanated from both for a few odd moments before they both fell silent, both fixated at the wall in front of them.

“I wasn’t gonna tell you this,” Larry began.  “But I’m not the only one.”

“Please shut up.  Are you shitting me?”

“No man, I’m not the only one I swear it.  I’ve met tons like me.  Maybe not tons, but enough, ya know?  We just keep away from each other because we’re all intolerable fucks.”

“So it’s luck of the draw then?  You don’t know until you know?”

“No...no, Martin.  It happens to everybody.  It just depends on how long you stay dead.  For me and a few other unlucky bastards it’s only a few hours.  Other people, it’s longer.  Years, decades, millenia.  The ones that can time it still remember the details of their lives but the ones that die for more than a couple years, it’s fuzzy.  Some are totally different people.  But everyone wakes up again...eventually.”

“I’m gonna fucking puke.”

“I did, when I found out.”

“What about people who stay dead for longer?  Like eons or whatever?”

“No clue.  Humanity has only been around for so long, right?  The theory is that humanity exists somewhere else way way down the line, and that’s where those folks wake up.  But all that shit makes it hard to sleep so I try not to think about it.  The hardest thing for me has been accepting that death is not permanent.  I’m stuck being me for eternity.  Four hours is not enough time to forget 300 years of bullshit.”

The two men sat alone for another long moment.  Martin spoke.

“I need a drink.”

“You want company?”

Martin turned to Larry.  “Probably not right now.”

“Yeah you got a lot to think about, probably better you chew on it alone for a bit.”

“Yeah,” Martin sighed.  “Someday though.”

“Someday.  Hey Martin, are you...gonna try again after this?”

Martin stood up and began walking toward the door.  “I don’t know.  Probably not, or maybe I will.  It doesn’t really matter does it?”

“Sure it does.  If they wake up and remember what happened, it fucks them up.  For way longer than you think it would.  That might not matter to you, but you struck me as more of a fear guy than a suffering guy.  Suffering isn’t fair, after all.”

“And what about the others, what about that unfairness?”

“Well, now you know you have time to atone.  It won’t be fun either.”

“Oh I’m counting on that.  And you, are you gonna stop trying to die?”  Martin reached in his pocket and pulled out his knife.  The handle was wooden and burnt into the wood was the phrase ‘Time the avenger.’

“No clue.  Tomorrow might be a great day or it might not.  Only one way to find out though.”

“Yeah, well.”  Martin tossed the knife to Larry.  “When I get to the bar I’ll drink to Larry, neither alive nor dead, may he find peace in time.”  The two men laughed one more time.

And Martin left.

Thank you for reading!  This story was inspired by the Reddit writing prompt,  “You are a murderer. You can't help but notice that you keep killing this one guy over and over and over again. Unbeknownst to you, they're an immortal, constantly checking if they can die yet by deliberately making themselves a target.”

[kidsviral-blog]

My Boyfriend Loves Fat Women

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/my-boyfriend-loves-fat-women/

My Boyfriend Loves Fat Women

As a fat woman myself, I’m still struggling with how I feel about it.

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Jenny Chang / BuzzFeed

Ironically enough, I met my boyfriend during the thinnest month of my life.

I was at a friend’s birthday party at a bar when I saw my future boyfriend Brian from across the room, talking to the birthday boy. Brian was the type of guy I spent most of high school and college and my entire adult life pining after and never getting: slim, with dark hair and glasses, his jeans torn in all the best places. He had a beautiful mouth that was excitedly saying things I couldn’t hear, but was making everyone around him laugh.

If I had still been at my heaviest weight, I never would have approached Brian. As a fat woman, I have been taught that there is an order of operations for love: First, you get thin; then, you can date who you want. Until you do the first thing, the second thing is impossible. So for many women who struggle with their weight, it becomes a fight not just for their health or well-being, but a struggle to just be worthy of the love so many people take for granted.

Most of my life, my weight has felt like a search light from above that continually hounds me, putting the spotlight on my body even when I just want to hide. My third-grade class unofficially voted me “class pig” — a title I embraced with great gusto, because the alternative meant no friends. When I was 10, my dad ripped a box of Apple Jacks out of my hand while I was pouring myself a second bowl of cereal, and told me that I was “going to turn into a goddamn pumpkin.” The summer I turned 14, I was sweating my life out every day for an hour during swim team practice. Still, when I put on a bikini one day, my mother wouldn’t stop talking about my belly fat until I just wanted to throw the bikini away and never wear one again. I have always hated my body, and in retrospect, I’m not sure I was ever given the chance to love it.

But on the day I met Brian, I had just spent the previous year slowly winnowing off 50 pounds, almost entirely due to unemployment. I wasn’t buying a lot of food, and was spending much of my free time developing a nervous running habit that led me to spend hours every day trotting in circles around my neighborhood, trying to go somewhere even as my career was jogging in place.

So I was feeling brave, the stupid kind of courage that comes from unexpectedly having a body you never thought you’d inhabit, and wondering what kinds of things it might let you get away with. And I walked that crazy all the way over to the other side of the bar, and introduced myself to him.

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There was a three-hour period — between the moment Brian first kissed me, and the moment when I learned that Brian was predominantly attracted to bigger women — when I felt like I could do anything. In my mind, I had done the impossible. Seducing a thin and attractive person was like taking bronze, silver, and gold in the Former Fat Girl Olympics.

At some point that night, I remember lying next to him, still feeling unbelievably cocky from my victory, when Brian mentioned that I wasn’t normally his type.

My inner Douchebag Alert went off. Oh god, I thought. Is this the part where he lets me know how nice he is for throwing my chubby ass a bone?

“What’s normally your type?” I asked him, bracing myself for the part where he not-so-subtly intimated that he can usually do better than me.

I did not get the response I expected.

“I like bigger ladies,” Brian replied. “Very big ladies, actually.” He sounded as calm and as normal as if he were telling me the weather. He was not ashamed. I suddenly realized that this was not an attempt to put me down, but rather just a thing (a completely normal thing, to him) that he was disclosing about himself. In other words: It was conversation.

But the little part of me inside that had been cheering for hours suddenly got very quiet. But I am your type, I thought sadly. In that moment, I know that Brian had been saying that he didn’t consider me to be big, but I know as well as anyone that people can’t fundamentally change who they are attracted to. Brian was still attracted to fat girls, and I was one of them.

This, of course, did not take away from how into Brian I was. We started dating almost immediately, and became inseparable. When I described him to people, I would tend to use celebrities who I was currently in love with as a frame of reference:

“He’s exactly like a dark-haired Ben Folds, but younger, and with better skin.”

“He looks just like an American version of John Oliver, but with better teeth, and a more attractive nose.”

“Brian looks like Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters,” I said once during a Halloween party, apropos of absolutely nothing. “But, like, even better looking.”

It was during this time that I started slowly putting the weight back on. Not because Brian was doing anything to sabotage me — he was and is supportive of my wanting to eat well and exercise. It was just a result of being in a happy relationship, suddenly having a full-time job, and life getting in the way. Normal things.

Six months into our relationship, I found myself in a very desperate laundry situation. I put on a sundress that I thought might be a little too backless for my current weight.

“I figure if worst comes to worst, I can just find a wall to stand against, or walk backward a lot,” I said to Brian as I put it on, trying to preemptively apologize for an outfit that I was pretty sure was riding the line between flattering and gross.

Brian, however, loved the dress. Maybe even a little too much — I spent a lot of time while wearing it swatting his hands away from the open back. I felt happy wearing it, beautiful. Soon, I was wearing it all the time.

Then, I wore it to a party. Late in the evening, Brian turned to a mutual friend of ours, and eagerly, drunkenly opined: “Doesn’t Kristin look amazing in that dress?”

The silence that followed felt like the moment before someone hits the button on a dunk tank, and you know that you are about to tumble, helpless, into a frosty tub of punishment. I realized, belatedly, obviously, that to Brian, I did look amazing in that dress. Because I looked fat.

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When you are a fat person who is losing weight, people will come out of the woodwork to let you know how “amazing” you look — even my psychiatrist called me “the incredible shrinking woman” at nearly every appointment. Well-meaning people felt this constant need to make it plain that I was somehow better once I had lost weight, and it only made it that much more painful when people stop telling you how good you look, and stop saying anything at all.

For the first time since I had started dating Brian, I looked at myself and realized that my body, almost without my realizing it, was reverting to back to its former fat state. This is the real you, I thought. The other you was just a disguise. But you couldn’t fool everyone forever.

And the fewer compliments about my body that I got from other people, the more I would get from Brian. It got to the point where compliments from Brian were actually painful to hear — every time he said “You look beautiful,” all I could hear was “You look fat.”

I started trying on outfits in front of Brian in order to get his opinion. It was a good system. Anything he liked, I wouldn’t wear.

It was during this time that I started being mean to myself — really, truly unkind. I looked at myself for hours in the mirror the way a child might gawk at an ugly person on the street. I would push and pull the rolls of fat on my stomach with my hands as flat as I could, and try to imagine what my lower half would look like, unencumbered by what I had done to it. I’d meet every compliment Brian gave me with something equally cruel about myself. It was like my self-image was in a tennis match, and it was more important for me to be right than for me to feel good.

Brian’s expressions when I would rip myself to shreds eventually moved from sympathy to frustration.

“I love your body,” Brian would say, carefully. “Because Kristin lives in your body.”

Even though I was and am loved, I still didn’t feel that way — because in my mind, I had not earned it. You won, I would try to tell myself. You still earned love while gaining weight.

Then I went to an appointment with my psychiatrist, and for the first time in years, she said nothing about my body. Nothing at all.

No, I didn’t win, I would tell myself instead. I got what I wanted, but I didn’t do the work. That’s cheating. I cheated.

And though Brian is and has always been open and confident with his preferences, they started to embarrass me. Once at a party, he mentioned that Rebel Wilson was hot to a group of people we were talking to. A short silence followed, during which I actually moonwalked away from the conversation, as though trying to physically escape before a comparison between Rebel Wilson and myself could catch up to me.

Which is ridiculous. Rebel Wilson is fabulous. Why would I not want that for myself?

And what would happen if I lost all this weight? I would wonder to myself bitterly. Would Brian still feel the same way? Was I doomed to either be conventionally attractive or someone’s fetish object?

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Brian gets tired of my self-hatred. He has limits, he’s human, and more important, he’s a human who loves me and finds me attractive, and is frustrated with having to defend those choices to me, of all people.

Once, we were at a bar, and I saw a very large woman sitting at the edge of the bar. “Do you think she’s cute?” I asked Brian, in a way that clearly indicated she was not. It was a petty, mean question, and one I already knew the answer to. But I found myself wanting to hear him say it, like I could trick Brian into openly admitting that his idea of beautiful — and that his ideas about me — were so obviously, incredibly wrong.

“Yes, I do.” Brian said, not taking the bait. “She’s very pretty. What is your problem? Do you want another beer?”

One of the things I’ve come to understand is that, when you’re single, hating your body is more or less a victimless crime, if you don’t count yourself. When you get into a relationship, however, it becomes a constant referendum on the tastes and judgment of the person who loves you.

The other problem was that, the more that I poke at myself, the more Brian pokes at himself as well. While he is objectively not a very big person, he’s succumed a little bit to the 10 to 15 pounds everyone gains when they are happy and in love. But one morning, I saw him looking at himself in the mirror, grabbing the small pudge from his stomach, and agonizing about how much he felt it made him into a terrible person.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. Because it so obviously was — he was trying to grab handfuls of his tummy for emphasis, but was struggling to even get one hand full.

“No, it isn’t,” he shot back, in that angry, desperate tone of voice I have so often used. “I am just a fat person, now.”

No, you’re not, I thought, and I wondered how many times Brian had felt like this: frustrated, annoyed, and helpless as he watched me tear down a thing he loved.

The thing that I have struggled the most with understanding is that, just like I am not just a fat girl, Brian is not just someone who likes fat girls. He is someone who has made it through this life, one that is inundated with social mores about what is OK and not OK in terms of physical attraction, and he is unmoved by any of it. How he handles this attraction is actually one of the most attractive things about him. He knows that his is not a popular opinion, and wastes no time caring about that fact.

I wish I could say that I am 100% OK with myself. I still do the thing where, when people compliment pictures of myself that I hate, I will wonder just how bad I look in all the other photos they aren’t complimenting.

But I do little things. When a couple of co-workers and I published this post about “one size fits all” clothing last December, I was terrified at the types of things people would say about my body. But when people were so overwhelmingly positive toward me, it reminded me of how important it is not to be your own biggest censor. I let myself believe the nice things people said.

Two years ago, I didn’t even realize they made bikinis in a size 18 — turns out that they do. Lots of cute ones. And this year, I intend to buy one, and wear it to the beach. And I will enjoy that no one will be able to complain to me about my belly fat (without looking like a crazy person). I will enjoy how excited that makes Brian, to see me happy in my own skin. I will let him enjoy the thing he loves without tearing it down. But more importantly, I will work to earn love from me, who is the person who will always play the hardest to get. I will flirt as hard as I can, and I will win myself back.

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/kristinchirico/my-boyfriend-loves-fat-women

[nirah10]

From Jill,

A Christian cousin of mine who is a ‘heterosexual awareness activist’ (yes, he actually calls himself that)   shared the following extract from a blog post of a gay male bartender, who goes unnamed in his blog. (Yes, my homophobic cousin spends his free him trolling gay bloggers and then flaming them.)

Now my cousin claimed this bartender was heterophonic and according to my cousin’s rant was ‘bashing on straight people and traditional marriage and shaming any straight woman who dared to be happy about marrying a man.’

I personally think my cousin is insane and reading into things. But as a lesbian sometimes I may be a bit of a bias judge.

I remember ages ago a debate on here about heterophobia potentially actually existing and of problems with creating LGTB only streets and communities.

So below is the extract my cousin posted.

Do you think my cousin is right? Or is the bartender being reasonable?

I think the bartender is being reasonable. Although to be fair I feel a bit jilted by bachelorette parties. I was at a gay night club a while ago and a pretty young girl started dancing with me. We started making out and she started giggling. I broke off the kiss and saw another girl filming it. Turns out she was straight and had been dared at the bachlorlette party to make out a lesbian. So yeah. I felt humiliated and like they were making light of my sexuality. And thought I never met him, I kinda get where this bartender is coming from.

Does that make both him and I hetrophobic?

So here is what my cousin shared, which was written by a bartender:

‘In Australia same sex couples can’t get married yet. Homophobia continues to be a problem with same-sex couples still risking getting dirty looks and lewd comments by some members of the public. The saturation of heterosexual culture and straight couples  can also make you feel alien, isolated and lonely.

So there is a reason LGTB people want safe spaces like Gay Bars; not just for hooking up and dating but also to be in a space that you know is free of homophobia and full of people who get you, and  get the feeling of being an alien sometimes and are there embrace the chance to be together and feel like part of a community. Community spirit is important and we are stronger together. With LTGB suicide so high, having a space where you are surrounded by people who know what you are going through is important and after a hard day, say after a flight with homophobic relatives, walking into the pub can be like a breath of fresh air and the sense of community and not being alone is mood altering to the extreme.

In other words, I love where I work. I am a bartender at a LGTBQ pub. And despite working there forty-eight hours a week (six nights a week, with 5pm starts and 1 am finishes) I can’t get enough of it. While I work nights, sometimes I will even go to the pub for lunch with friends and I don’t mind it at all. I love the community, the locals and the atmosphere and am honestly one of the people who love going to work.

Sometimes we even get straight people coming into the bar, and they are more than welcome to. A lot of the time straight friends will come as a show of support to help their friend who may be questioning their sexuality or just recently come out and have never been to a LGTB pub before and don’t have any LGTB friends.

I also love when parents will come in with their LGTB kids, the mum and dad will sit eating lunch with their young adult kid to show they are learning, adapting and supportive of their child’s sexuality.

There is only one problematic thing about some of the heterosexual guests (only some, the majority are lovely, supportive and very respectful) and that is hen’s nights/bachelorette parties, one or two of which seem to find their way to the pub every weekend.

We are obviously happy that they are getting married.

But to celebrate getting married in a pub that caters  to LGTB people who legally can’t get married is a bit insensitive.

For example, more than half of our customers as in loving, committed and long-term relationships and  if they could would have been married years ago. And so to come in to a LGTB safe space and remind a lot of the couples who are trying to enjoy a peaceful Friday night that they can’t get married yet is a touch insensitive.

Another problem with bachelorette parties is the lewd comments and sometimes even attempting groping. Women like to let loose and have fun on their friend’s last night of freedom. But if you want to flirt with men, go to a straight club or a strip show as lewd comments and groping makes many of the men feel awkward and like they are pieces of meat. LGTB spaces are a space for gay men where they can be open about their sexuality and so to come into the pub for that peace of mind and then to be suddenly hit on by partying women can be uncomfortable.  If you want to get down and party with someone at a gay club ladies, I’m sure some of our lovely lesbians will be willing to oblige you on the dance floor.’

I will share that blog post but I won’t share what my cousin wrote as it was ugly and contained offensive and foul language.

So what is your opinion on the bartender’s opinion?

Dear Jill,

It’s a very interesting and a very complex topic to discuss. It’s the kind of thing that I’m sure could be a conversation that lasted hours, but I’ll try to keep my response fairly simple. Please keep in mind that this is all simply my opinion, born from what limited knowledge and experience I have.

1) I have met people who are clearly heterophobic, so I would definitely say that it’s real. It’s quite rare but it’s out there. I have met a few people who just make little remarks about “breeders” being gross, making faces at straight couples, or not respecting a straight person refusing their advances because “everyone’s a little bit gay”. But then there are some, like one woman in particular that I used to see semi-regularly and even stayed in my home (a relative of an old roommate) who was extremely rude and could actually get violent because she disliked heterosexuals so much. She was very confrontational and had a blind hatred for anyone that wasn’t obviously gay.

2) In my opinion, as tempting as it is to create communities and safe places for certain types of people, I believe it is ultimately volunteered segregation and I think it doesn’t help things in the long run. This is, of course, an opinion and one that I am quite open about because I’ve not had many discussions with people who have spent large amounts of time in such communities. My main reason for this belief is because of what I see happening in my own country between the First Nations people and pretty much everyone else, or with the Chinese communities in some of the big cities. There are reservations for First Nations people to live in so that they can be with their own people and live in their own culture--a lovely idea. I’m not going to debate all the pros and cons and he-said-she-saids of it, because it is a sensitive subject, but I can tell you that that segregation leads to tension, hatred, and a lack of empathy from both sides. It creates an Us and Them mentality and divides us both mentally and physically based on nothing other than our races. My boyfriend has been verbally attacked and called a traitor by other First Nations people (yes, he is First Nations himself) because he disagrees with the idea of living on a reservation. In bigger cities, the same thing is sometimes seen with the China Town areas. I fully understand the desire to be surrounded by people just like you in order to feel comfortable, but I’ve never seen isolation lead to anything good.

3) That all being said, I give Australia more leeway with this particular situation because there is not yet real equality for the LGBT community. In Canada, we have equality and it’s quite rare to see open homophobia (at least in my province anyway-- I can’t speak for the whole country). Here, I think creating LGBT exclusive communities or bars would only serve to needlessly deepen a divide that has been slowly disappearing over the years. In countries or areas where homophobia is still common and there are not yet laws in place to give the same protections and rights to LGBT people and everyone else, I think the need for safe places is very understandable and I support it.

4) Sure, it’s insensitive to celebrate a marriage around people who can’t get married yet, but I really think that making a fuss about it isn’t going to help. If you want straight allies, you don’t make them by ruining something beautiful for them because you can’t have it too. Instead of getting mad that I can’t get married too (which is something that particular person can’t change for me), I would just try to be happy that they’ve found someone to love. Isn’t that what’s it’s supposed to be about anyway? Worry about hatred and discrimination, not someone just being thoughtlessly insensitive or else people stop listening to what you have to say.

5) I don’t really think what this bartender is talking about is necessarily an LGBT problem. Bachelorette parties go to straight bars and get out of hand too. I used to work in a Chinese restaurant and experienced a bachelorette party come through that were rowdy, inappropriately sexual for a family restaurant, and harassed the male staff and other customers. I’ve seen women be too pushy with their advances (married, gay, simply not interested, etc) and disrespectful of men’s right to their own body in many different situations as well. While the events discussed in the article occurred in a gay bar, I think it’s more of a problem with the double-standards our society has created regarding women’s sexual behaviour (primarily that it doesn’t count as sexual assault if a woman does it and women sexually assaulting people is considered “funny”) and people just being douchebags in general. It’s the kind of thing that pops up everywhere and it just so happens that this particular bar that experiences it is one for LGBT people (though the woman who wanted video of her making out with another woman was clearly LGBT targeted).

Finally, I suppose I do agree with the bartender, just with a couple of footnotes added in. I think safe places for LGBT people in Australia are appropriate as equality and acceptance has not yet been established. Celebrating a marriage in a gay bar is definitely insensitive, but I think getting upset about it will hurt the cause more than help it. And I absolutely agree that the behaviour described is incredibly offensive and inappropriate, but I don’t think it’s necessarily a gay club problem so much as it is people who would probably be just as offensive and inappropriate if they went somewhere else. Douchebags are gonna be douchebags no matter where they are.