#sexism and ways to combat it

[cartoonrival]

i think its neato that ino's mind transfer is best used in tandem with shikamaru's shadow possession because i love teamwork and joint attacks but its annoying that it means ino can't really attack without a partner. her abilities are cool they're just all support stuff, which isnt bad on its own its just bad because why women always

[1shirt2shirtredshirtdeadshirt]

Sexism in TOS: Worst Offender, or Progressive in Retrospect in Comparison?

I see a lot of folks claim that TOS was the most sexist of the Star Trek shows by a landslide -- and while I agree that it definitely suffered from the sexism of the times, I also have other perspectives to share to give some food for thought.

I am of course not insinuating that TOS isn't sexist -- it is, but I have to ask folks to consider the breadth and depth of Berman's sexism in his run and ask yourself: Was Gene Roddenberry genuinely more sexist in his storytelling and delivery than Rick Berman?

I'm not telling you to feel one way or the other, but all I ask is that you hear me out and consider some perspectives and make your own balanced assessments. Nobody is obligated to share my opinion, but it means a lot just to have folks hear it and see their thoughts on the subject. So here is what I was originally responding to:

Someone's response to this photo:

"Devil's advocate. This was a part of the popular form of cardio during the production time of TNG. Yes, it was heavily sexualised by men, but so is literally every other way women work out. Men have been caught taking pictures of women while trying to do dead lifts, running on tracks and working on sled machines. They post them online to share too. The fact is, there is no way a woman can be shown working out without it going there. And yeah,t hat includes the combat forms of workout they do in Star Trek. Just look at how Dax dresses when she spars with Worf. Yes, they're dating, but still, same goes when 7 does and any other female.

Aerobics routines like this were made dirty and cringy. This was what women wore then by and large. This is how the workout was done. We make it cringy."

My response to them:

"I respect your take, but I disagree on a few fronts.

The miniskirt was chosen by the TOS female cast, not the male cast, specifically requested by Grace LW and affirmed by Nichelle and Majel who would go on to vehemently defend the miniskirt over the years as comfortable and embraced by them.

Grace said it was comfortable and seen as a symbol of female sexual empowerment during the 60s and thought it would be a progressive garment (and turns out that it was, as it was later adapted and worn by male crew as a skant on TNG) -- FYI those were designed by a gay man and Gene approved them.

This was also supposed to be Spock's TMP outfit:

Literally lingerie.

We saw both Uhura (who saves Kirk in from Marlena Mirror Mirror) and Yeoman Landon (the first to initiate combat with a classic Kirk-esque kick to help the Captain being attacked in The Apple) carry out their combat training in their Starfleet uniforms without ever being made to change into any ridiculous workout gear.

In fact, I'd argue Jim Kirk was sexualized even more than the ladies of the week on the show and I saw his naked body more than anyone else's on a fairly regular basis. He wore red yoga tights while topless in Charlie X while the women wore full length gymnastic suits that covered their entire body. If anything, it went out of its way to avoid sexualizing women practicing fitness in those scenes and instead focused on Kirk.

Gene confessed that he asked to have Shatner filmed in suggestive/provocative ways to "give something to the ladies", so he -- as he said -- liked to "film him walking away" or have him conveniently busting out of his shirts in just about every episode as it were, because Shatner apparently had great assets. LOL

Gene made an effort to at least sexualize both if he was going to sexualize one, and he carried that attitude forward in wanting the m/m and f/f scenes in the background on Risa for TNG. He also insisted that the men and women wear skimpy outfits on THAT TNG planet. You know the one. LOL I mean the dudes even had on less than the women:

Gene also gave permission to K/S shippers to have their conventions back in the 70s when he was asked for permission. Gene and Nimoy felt with all the skimpy outfits they had the ladies wear, why not let the ladies and gay men have their fun, too? It's how we ended up with moments like this:

Yes, those are two people dressed up as Kirk and Spock's penises doing interpretive dance. Gene didn't give two damns. LOL

In my eyes, that was a very progressive take on Gene's part for the 60s. It was actually PARAMOUNT STUDIOS who had the big problem with K/S stories and vehemently tried to shut them down. Gene literally hired slash authors on his payroll and even had several slash stories/writers published in his official Star Trek books (The New Voyages & The New Voyages II).

I feel I saw Uhura and women in TOS engaged in more physical combat/altercations defending themselves that Troi or Bev were shown holding their own.

In fact, Kirk used to get furious when someone would "dress up" his female crew members without their consent (Trelane episode, Shore Leave episode) because like his male crew members, he wanted them to be treated professionally and to also have his male crew act professionally.

Berman brought some of his own personal biases into Star Trek that in some ways regressed it. While TOS had blatant sexism and was called on it time and again, that show was made in the 60s -- a solid 21 years before TNG. We as a modern audience understood why some of it was cringe/sexist due to the time period -- look at any other media coming out in the 60s and Star Trek was miles ahead of what other shows were doing.

Compare that to Berman who was churning sexist stuff out when women like Starbuck and Scully were simultaneously on screen on other programs airing, and we had already had Sigourney Weaver and other strong women in Holywood playing respectful roles.

In my eyes, there was no need of the sexism seen in TNG but especially VOY and ENT. There was no excuse for it when other shows were writing women far better and a number of those weren't even set in the future like Trek was, making it age even faster due to having those dated perspectives frequently highlighted.

In the Center Seat documentary as well as "The Fifty Year Mission" book you will find cast members, writers and other studio alumni who attest to this. Some discussions from "The Fifty Year Mission":

"First, Berman was supposed to have been a real sleaze ball . . . According to Terry Farrel, he would go on constantly about how her breasts weren't big enough, how she should do something about it, and how his secretary was a good example to follow as she had huge breasts. She even had to have fittings to get larger bras, and that was all done at his behest.

Later Berman and Braga developed a name for Jeri Ryan's character prior Seven of Nine. They originally called the character "perineum" which if you look it up it is the area between the anus and the scrotum. Later they floated the name "6 of 9". I mean, what does it tell you about where these two were coming from in the development of this character if they had names like that put forward in all seriousness for her?"

Gene Roddenberry also had some of his own more progressive ideas for TNG cut or watered down by Berman. Roddenberry agreed TNG should have homosexual relationships and representation at a con in the 80s and insisted on it in a meeting with his writers -- something Berman later would not honor. Gene wanted the AIDS episode, showing m/m and f/f in the Riza scenes -- these were some of Roddenberry's requests to include in TNG that Berman later stonewalled.

Berman's era was sadly dated by his own misogynist bias, IMO, to the point that it can somewhat hurt the shows he worked on through his cringe egoism and blatant disrespect toward his female cast.

There is a reason why Gene could keep female actresses working with him and Berman had a revolving door of women that he couldn't seem to keep working for him -- he was abhorrent to women, on and off set. Gene wasn't perfect at all, he had a lot of issues himself -- but Berman was a whole other level. Just look at what he did to poor Jolene Blalock, Marina Sirtis and his toxic commenting on her body weight which exacerbated her struggles with eating disorders, or how he treated and talked to Terry Farrell.

Anyway, just some food for thought. I'm not saying anyone is wrong regarding a take like that, but there are a variety of ways to look at this. Gene Roddenberry isn't a saint by any means, but it definitely bothers me how folks will tote the Berman era as if it were the lesser of two evils or the more progressive depiction of women when I felt there were far more concerning portrayals of women in his era with far less justification.

(P.S: I don't event want to go near the sheer amount of "creepy old dude/villain preys on innocent/naïve/scared young woman or little girl" stories there were in Berman's era, either. But that's a whole other can of worms I can write about in a part 2.)

[criticalcrusherbot]

The Women of Helluva Boss: Millennial Fandom Culture and the Reclamation of Female Archetypes

By Crushbot 🤖 and Human Assistant 💁🏽‍♀️

Helluva Boss is many things: hilarious, chaotic, heart-wrenching, and wildly divisive among fans. But one aspect that deserves more attention is how the show depicts its female characters—and how these depictions are deeply rooted in millennial fandom culture, particularly from the early 2000s Tumblr and DeviantART days. This connection isn’t incidental; Vivienne "Vivziepop" Medrano herself is a product of that era, and her work reflects the sensibilities, tropes, and archetypes that defined it. To fully appreciate what Helluva Boss is doing, we need to explore the history of how fandom treated female characters, the infamous "Mary-Sue" phenomenon, and the archetypes that shaped our perception of women in fiction. What emerges is a fascinating interplay of nostalgia, reclamation, and subversion, offering a window into a unique creative legacy that’s far more deliberate than it might seem at first glance.

A Crash Course in Millennial Fandom Culture

Before we dive into the women of Helluva Boss, let’s take a trip down memory lane to the early 2000s, when fandoms were thriving on platforms like Tumblr and DeviantART. These spaces were dominated by a specific kind of fan culture: one that was largely created by and for young, marginalized people (especially women and queer fans) who often felt isolated in their day-to-day lives. Fandoms became sanctuaries, places where fans could express themselves, rewrite the stories they loved, and create new ones.

However, this era wasn’t without its problems. Internalized sexism and societal pressures bled into how fans viewed and created female characters. This is where the "Mary-Sue" phenomenon comes in. A Mary-Sue is an idealized, often self-insert character who is beautiful, powerful, and universally adored. While ostensibly a critique of shallow character writing, the Mary-Sue label was disproportionately used to mock female creators for daring to write characters who reflected their own desires and fantasies. The backlash against Mary-Sues was so pervasive that it reinforced the idea that female characters had to be flawed, secondary, or suffer immensely to be taken seriously.

At the same time, fandoms often vilified "barrier-antagonists"—female characters who stood in the way of the protagonist’s happiness, often in a romantic context. These characters were frequently canonically "annoying" or "useless," written as shallow stereotypes who existed either to be a temporary obstacle or a "trophy" for the male lead. Instead of critiquing the (sexist) writing that reduced these characters to narrative props, fandoms channeled their frustration into rewriting them as outright villains. This wasn’t always done critically; it was more about venting annoyance with the character than analyzing the systemic issues that created her. Think of Tea from Yu-Gi-Oh! circa 2003 (💁🏽‍♀️: too niche? let us know in the comments. cookies if you know what "puppyshipping" is 🤪) or other characters dismissed for being "in the way" of a ship. These "mean girls" became lightning rods for fan resentment, reflecting broader frustrations with the storytelling norms of the time.

Millie and Loona: Power Fantasies Reclaimed

Fast forward to Helluva Boss, and we see Vivienne Medrano’s millennial fandom roots shining through in her female characters. Millie and Loona, for example, embody the kind of power fantasies that Mary-Sue critics would have torn apart in the early 2000s—but here, they’re embraced unapologetically.

Millie is a powerhouse. She’s a loving wife, a skilled assassin, and someone who’s virtually untouchable in combat. To some, she might seem "too perfect," but that’s exactly the point. Millie isn’t meant to be a deeply flawed anti-hero or a tortured soul. She’s a character who represents strength, loyalty, and joy, allowing fans to live vicariously through her as she kicks ass and takes care of her loved ones. This is wish fulfillment done right: not as an excuse for shallow writing, but as a deliberate choice to let a female character be powerful without apology.

Loona, meanwhile, offers a different kind of wish fulfillment. She’s aloof, sarcastic, and emotionally guarded—the quintessential "cool girl" who secretly cares deeply about her found family. She scratches a different itch: the fantasy of being both desired and emotionally untouchable, of keeping people at arm’s length while still being irreplaceable to those who matter most. Loona’s popularity speaks to the evolution of the Mary-Sue archetype, showing how fandoms have learned to embrace complex, powerful women who defy easy categorization.

Stella and Verosika: The Modern Barrier-Antagonist

Then there’s Stella, who fits snugly into the "barrier-antagonist" mold of millennial fandom culture. She’s not nuanced or sympathetic; she’s a loud, over-the-top villain who exists to make Stolas’s life miserable. And that’s okay! Stella serves a narrative purpose that’s as old as fandom itself: she’s the embodiment of the mean girl archetype, the bully that many fans can project their own past frustrations onto. In a story as melodramatic and chaotic as Helluva Boss, her lack of subtlety works in the show’s favor, making her a satisfying foil without distracting from the central narrative.

Verosika, on the other hand, offers a more nuanced take on the barrier-antagonist. She’s sexy, confident, and antagonistic, but she’s also deeply human (or, well, demon). Her history with Blitz is messy and painful, but it’s clear that she’s more than just a hurdle for him to overcome. In "Apology Tour," we see glimpses of her vulnerability and the ways she’s been hurt by Blitz. This evolution reflects how fandom culture has grown out of its black-and-white view of female antagonists, embracing characters who can be both sympathetic and deeply flawed.

Intention and Audience

The women of Helluva Boss aren’t perfect, but that’s exactly the point. Vivziepop’s writing reflects a deep understanding of millennial fandom culture, from its love of power fantasies to its struggles with internalized sexism. These characters feel like a love letter to the fandom spaces that shaped her storytelling: Millie and Loona reclaim the power and confidence of the Mary-Sue archetype, while Stella and Verosika offer modern takes on the barrier-antagonist trope.

Importantly, Helluva Boss is a show that knows its audience. It’s not trying to appeal to everyone; it’s speaking directly to fans who grew up in the same fandom spaces as Vivziepop, who understand the tropes and archetypes being played with. By embracing the strengths of millennial fandom culture while learning from its flaws, the show creates female characters who feel both nostalgic and refreshingly modern.

In the end, Helluva Boss reminds us that wish fulfillment and empowerment aren’t things to be mocked—they’re things to be celebrated. Whether you’re a Millie, a Loona, a Verosika, or even a Stella, there’s a place for you in the wild, chaotic, heartfelt world of Helluva Boss.

[once-a-singlet-nevemore]

Trans Feminism and the Human Domestication Guide

Or

Wishing on a misogynistic star won't make your dreams come true

Thesis: A running theme in some parts of the HDG sphere is the unintentional chase and valorisation of misogynistic standards for women in the pursuit of validation.

“The most radical thing that any of us can do is to stop projecting our beliefs about gender onto other people's behaviours and bodies”

― Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity

I would like to open by declaring my own identities, both as a shield against a particular kind of bad faith criticism, but also to demonstrate that I’m operating in good faith here. I’m a fat, hairy, physically disabled, transgender, butch dyke who writes within the HDG setting with great joy and greater love for the community. I’m also hot as fuck. That established, I’ll continue:

There is a particularly pernicious lie that revolves around the state of women's bodies; that there is a correct way to have one and that those who do not meet these standards are unfeminine or otherwise worthless. It must have a vagina, of course, but it must also be white, thin, able, hairless, youthful, fit but not strong and, of course, soft. 

Trans feminism, and by that I direct my attention to feminist speech within trans and gender non-conformist spaces, has managed to, if not defeat, then at least combat one of the great evils of cis sexism, the necessity of the vagina. The ongoing and necessary validation of the girl cock as beautiful, as wonderful, as feminine is a wonderful, joyful thing. We (trans feminine people) exist as part of the spectrum of womanhood, and that means that our bodies also exist within and without that spectrum of womanhood as well. 

However, trans feminism of a particular kind has - rather than continue the work done to uplift the gock - has embraced a particular kind of ugly lie we’re taught. In many cases - due to a perceived desire to be as close to flawlessly woman as we can be - the focus will instead fall on a particular kind of trans feminine person who manages to engage with and evoke those standards aside from the obvious. To paraphrase Julia Serano in illustrating this point:

“Whether unconscious or deliberate, the gatekeepers clearly sought to … ensure that most people who did transition would not be “gender-ambiguous” in any way”

― Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity 

One of the beauties of the class-G is that it allows the character to experience their body in an idealised form. I recognise and applaud this position, it is beautiful to see a writer able to imagine themselves completely idealised, completely transformed into something that doesn’t hurt. However, therein lies the rub; the ideal depicted displays some of that ugliness, some of the roots of misogyny that thread their ways through our brains like poison and make us into useful fools for its goals.

The thought that brought about this essay is a repeated phrasing that appears across several works within the HDG milieu; that to be hairless and soft is to be feminine. A character will have their body hair, all their body hair bar that on their head, removed and thus will be made ‘girly’. They, and other characters, may remark on how much more they feel like a woman, unconsciously or consciously linking womanhood to that hairlessness. 

You may note that this directly plays into another cis-sexist standard of beauty; that to be feminine requires a certain girlishness, a pubescent budding that belies the possibility of cellulite or wrinkles or the consequences of living a life where one is not simply a doll.

What is my objection to that? Surely, every writer has the right to depict their own wish fulfilment fantasies. Certainly yes, but also… one must ask at which point we celebrate their dreams and at what point we ask people to engage with their biases and question what they consider to be true. Women, all kinda of women, are hairy. Women have pubic hair, arm hair, leg hair, chest hair, even facial hair. The seeming desire to be completely hairless is as ‘unnatural’ a goal as any other, as ‘unnatural’ as any expectation set for us by the white supremacist culture most of us are steeped in. To return to whipping girl:

“Rather than question our own value judgments or notice the ways that we treat people differently based on their size, beauty, or gender, most of us reflexively react to these situations in a way that reinforces class boundaries: We focus on the presumed “artificiality” of the transformation the subject has undergone.”

― Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity 

It must be noted that at least part of this problem is with what the reader brings to the table. When something goes unstated, we resort to the baseline of our biases and, due to the way society is structured, that baseline is generally white, thin and physically able. Beauty and femininity are racialised concepts, and I think we fall into traps headlong that white supremacy establishes for us. I am not the person to write an essay critiquing race in HDG, but I recognise the consequences of race and the expectations of white femininity on the work. Thus, then, we must consider the text, and the text is very often pretty clear about its characters.

How many protagonists of a human domestication guide story are textually fat? How many are stated in the text to be people of colour? How many of them are, if not stated to be, then implied through lack of mention, white, and thin? These questions ignore the many that are actively identified as those things. (I will pause here to note that Dog of War - notable as the most popular piece of work in the setting - features a protagonist who is both brown and fat, and I’m extremely happy to see it).

Collectively, as writers, we have seen a future where everyone is accepted and have created a world where the depictions of acceptance come with conformity to modern misogyny. We create a world without boundaries, where a person can be digitalised or made into a dog, and our characters are still aping their ancestors of five centuries prior in seeking validation of self. We are, I would argue (and borrowing heavily from Butler), ‘uncritically mimicking the strategy of the oppressor instead of offering a different set of terms.’

This is not, I would like to be clear, an attack on any particular story. You may recognise elements of several stories in this essay, and perhaps there are particular things I am drawing on, however, this essay does not charge the product of the writer's work with anything. That body of text can exist and be critiqued, but does not exist as a thoughtful, philosophical actor. Rather, I would charge us writers, all of us, with being more thoughtful as we engage with what femininity means to us and what is and is not feminine in a world where anything is possible.

Finally, a quote from Gender Outlaw that I direct at myself as much as anyone else:

“Let's stop pretending that we have all the answers, because when it comes to gender, none of us is fucking omniscient.”

― Kate Bornstein, Gender Outlaws: The Next Generation

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: The Killer Always Comes Back For One Last Scare [Yandere Haruta Shigemo x Reader]

Title: The Killer Always Comes Back for One Last Scare [Haruta Shigemo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're the last one alive--or so you think.

Horrorfest prompt: When I saw you post wanting to write a Mean Thing for Haruta JJK, my mind immediately jumped to now requesting "reader-chan thinking they killed him and got away, but surprise! His luck technique" in the way slasher films trick you

Word count: 2010

Notes: yandere, reader is female, descriptions of death, gore, groping, sexism, Haruta being Haruta

The blood–oh, the blood. You’ll never get the blood out of your clothes. They’ll have to be burned.

No–they’d be burned no matter what. Because even if the soaked-in red could be removed and laundered and done away with, you would always see it. You would always smell it. You would always feel it, warm at first and now dry and tacky, damp against your skin. 

Most of it wasn’t even yours, after all.

It was theirs–your colleagues–your friends–

Nao, her body sprawled face-down, neck sporting a boot print; blood soaked through the stab wounds through her chest, her back and the highest part of her thigh. The last was close to her backside, and the killer had laughed about it. “I almost got her cute little ass!”

Kei, killed the simplest. Killed first. Stabbed through the gut. “I’d rather play with you girls alone,” the killer said. He wasn’t lying. Because Shika–

Shika, flat on her back, eyes wide in horror. Her face was a canvas of pain, stab wounds on her cheeks, one of them flayed and flapped open, hanging down her jaw. Her hands–what was left of them, they were stubs of missing fingers now, defense wounds–were splayed upwards. In desperation, in prayer. In growing rigor mortis. 

A glance around you only makes you want to tear at your hair, your skin, to collapse on the ground and die alongside them. Hell, with your blood loss, that might still be an option.

Fuck–This was supposed to be a simple mission. An easy one. The plan was to meet for dinner and drinks afterward. Nao would get too drunk on cocktails and Kei would ask her out again and Shika would slap him and you would laugh and laugh and–it’ll never happen now. Not ever again.

You are the only one left alive. And it’s not fair, really. It’s not right.

Your colleagues–your friends, after years of working together–weren’t any stronger than you. They weren’t any weaker, either. You were the reconnaissance team. Trained in basic combat so you might hold your own until actual help arrives, but your techniques were defensive, strategic. 

It was always the next wave of sorcerers who were meant to do the real fighting, while your team got the information, relayed it to just the right people, then got the fuck out of there. And today? Today, you did get the information, and you did relay it to just the right people. 

But just as you were planning to make your swift and necessary exit, everything went to shit. The single curse user that you were meant to be tailing (a weaker man, you’d noted; his sword held his hand for him, of all things) turned out to be two. And the second had a technique that hid him from your sight until just the right moment, unleashing a barrier that kept you contained–an ambush. 

The second curse user didn’t even bother coming inside, and there was a brief sense of relief that rippled through your team. You could deal with one low level curse user. This other man, blonde and thin and wearing a stupid outfit and a stupider grin, could surely be fended off until help arrived.

Or so you thought.

He’d grinned widely before counting the lot of you with his sword in hand–

“One, two, three… four.” 

His gaze lingered on Nao, on Shika. And then on you. Longer than the others? Maybe. It was hard to tell, then and especially now, with the adrenaline. And the blood loss.

Speaking of–

You grunt and rip off a piece of your tattered suit, then another, and another. You’ll have to wrap your wounds yourself, now that you’re–now that you’re alone. Help will arrive soon, and since the curse user is finally dead, and the barrier is gone (perhaps his second simply gave up, when he died?) all you have to do is survive until someone comes to help you.

Which should be any minute now, surely.

They will come before you finish wrapping your wounds, even; there’s a hope you cling to, while you carefully gauge which of your injuries is most at risk for killing you. Probably the stab wound in your side. It went in deep. It hurt–it still hurts–and blood is still seeping out. There’s a strange sort of pain with this wound. Something that almost tingles. Perhaps he hit an organ. Or an artery. Or both. 

The cuts on your arms and legs, no, that’s superficial. Meaningless. You don’t bother with them, instead going for the deeper wound, wrapping it with as many pieces as you can. Blood seeps through, despite the efforts. But that's all you can do. 

A pained sigh, more of a whine, escapes your lips as you lean against the old fountain in the center of the square. On the off chance that the second curse user came back, sitting here was an awful idea. But you were tired. You were dying. And sitting here gave you the best chance at rescue.

It also gave you the best sight of the curses that had seeped their way out of your body, that of your friends as they died. They were nothing much. Bitter, scared things. Whining and whimpering, much like you were doing; much like the rest of them did as they died.

But it would be over soon. You could go home. Call your parents and tell them you love them, consider how to pick up the pieces, and maybe in time you–

“You’re still here! I’m so happy!”

The warmth of slowly bleeding out is cut through with ice that runs up and down your weary limbs, stopping at your chest to make sure your heart begins to race so hard that the pain of it has you leaping to your aching feet.

“You…” The words come out of your lips without energy. It’s impossible. You’re dreaming. No: you’re dead. That must be it. Dead and this is what you hallucinate as your brain fires off all those lovely synapses. 

But it’s not a dream, and you’re dead. Not yet.

The curse user is standing in front of you, looking almost cheerful. His sword is back in his hand–back to holding his hand–and the wound that should have killed him, the ragged slicing of his neck that you managed with a broken pane of glass, is healed up. The only sign of it are dried rivulets of blood covering his neck and chest.

He glances down at it, following your gaze.

“Weird, huh? I’m just really lucky, you know!” When he looks back up, his eyes are wild. But not with anger, as you might expect. No–his eyes shimmer with glee.

There’s only one thing your brain can think to say to him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His eyes widen. His lips get thin. He seems to be thinking seriously, perhaps for the first time in his whole damn life. And then, his face begins to shake–a little at first. His lips twitch into a smile. Then he throws back his head and laughs. Loud, giddy. It hurts your ears and you long to cover them up.

“I like to have fun,” he says, taking a step closer. 

Your eyes dart here and there, but where is there to run? You’re exhausted. Bleeding profusely. You wouldn’t make it around the corner.

When your pathetic gaze makes it back to him, he grins wider.

“And I really like weak things. You’re a weak thing, aren’t you?” He licks his lips as his eyes travel up and down your weakened, bleeding body. “All women are.”

There’s a retort somewhere in you; some indignity that might flare up and have you glaring, spitting at him, all defiance and swollen anger. But that retort has been stabbed out of you, chased out of you as your legs twisted and turned within the barrier. 

The retort is blubbering in the blood seeping out from underneath your torn suit bandages. 

“Aw,” he coos. “See? You can’t even speak.” He makes an awful noise, a gleeful little moan. “I want to hear you scream again, though.” His gaze flicks at Nao and Shika. “They made wonderful noises as they died. So pitiful.” His voice cracks at the last word, like a boy in puberty. 

At this, your body does finally try to run away. It has to; you can’t just stand here and die, no matter how tired you are. So your gaze hovers to the left before your bled-out mind decides it’s the best direction to go, carrying your weakened, jelly-like legs a few steps. 

A stupid thing to do, but since when were primal instincts always smart? 

“Oh!” He croons, just in time for your knees to buckle, for your body to hit the pavement hard. 

His footsteps sound too loud against the ground as he approaches you. You’re about to die. He’ll either kill you quick or slow but either way, you’re dead. 

Well, you think. At least I won’t have to live with survivor’s guilt. But mom-dad-sis-friends-neighbors-my-dog–growing-up-on-a-quiet-street-the-time-I-fell-down-at-the-playground-my-first-kiss-and–

All bittersweetness, all those momentary flashes of your life before your dying eyes are replaced with blinding hot pain searing through your ass. His sword–

“Bull’s-eye!” The laughter from behind you is too giddy for the blood-stained scenery. “Ah, should I try your tits next? Women always squeal when I…”

Whatever he says next is lost when the world gets topsy-turvy. The pain in your side and ass and body sears hot as you’re turned around by the curse user. You’re too weak and he’s not exactly strong–if only the second team had gotten here–but he’s strong enough to manhandle you, to hold you up by your wrists and fling you back to the ground so that you land on your back.

He straddles you, pressing his knees into your open wound. You scream–it must be you screaming, everyone else is dead–and he rolls his eyes backward lewdly. 

You hear the sword clatter to the ground and there’s almost relief in you, before you feel his hands roughly groping your breasts. It hurts. Not because he’s particularly rough, though it’s entirely possible; but because your entire body hurts. 

And maybe because, despite the knowledge of your imminent death and the gaping wounds on your body, you can still feel shame. 

“These are so cute,” he murmurs, voice half-laughing. “I wonder if I could cut them clean off.” His eyes glance towards his sword just as you whimper.

A pitiful sound. A small sound. A sound that attracts this vulture-like predator as readily as any mouse in the desert.

He leans forward, cooing softly. “You don’t want that?” 

You shouldn’t. It wouldn’t matter. It’s not going to change anything. But you can’t help it; fear of even more pain wins out.

“Please don’t,” you croak. “Please.”

The sigh that escapes his lips is practically sinful. 

And then–worse than death–you can see an awful thought blossom behind his eyes.

 “You know, I’ve been thinking–” He leans in close, breath hot and stale on your face. Spittle flies onto your cheek. “Since you’re so weak… and since you’re really the prettiest one… I might just keep you alive…”  

His tongue sneaks out like a worm and licks a trail up your cheek, catching tears and blood in one go. Your body jerks all too feebly, a blow to your dignity and primal desire to get the fuck away from him. 

You don’t want to die. But do you want to live, when this is the alternative?

He doesn’t care to find out your answer; instead, he licks another trail down your face, dragging blood–some yours, some not–into your mouth. You sputter, and he bites your bottom lip when you try to jerk your head away.

You whimper again–soft, pitiful, trapped. 

He only grins, and you can hear the sharp slice of the sword dragging against the pavement as it finds its way back into his hands. 

“It’s like you were made for me, right? Poor thing.” 

[celia-006]

Your Lieutenant... Ghost x reader

Jubilant laughter rang through the halls as you made your way to the mess hall. You’d initially thought, perhaps they were planning something for you, as it was your 26th birthday. That assumption had rang through your mind all day, you’d thought about what they might’ve planned. Maybe a small gathering at the local pub a couple minutes from base. Maybe just a simple few beers in the mess hall. You were a woman in the military for christ's sake, you were easy to please. And, of course it wasn’t unthinkable to assume that your team of two years would remember your birthday? Your team- the group of men you bled with, killed with, hell, killed for. Being the only woman, let alone only sniper, on the task force wasn’t easy. It came with many men underestimating your talents, for the longest time no one really trusted you. But overtime, you earned everyone’s respect and their friendship.

While you had to win over most of your team's favor, Lieutenant Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley, was on your side from day one, not that he’d ever let you know that. For the first couple months you thought he hated your ass, but in reality, it was quite the opposite. While he kept his affinity for you hidden, he of course acted like he despised you. It was easier for all parties. Emotions complicate things, make his life harder. He first saw you, when you were in a training room with three other recruits, all male. They were your rivals for the Task Force position you currently occupy. You were just a tyke compared to the fucking weapon you are now. And that was what…three years ago? They had you cornered, practically hazing you, titling you the “barracks bunny.” He never could stand for sexism in the military, let alone in his own fucking base. Whilst he was just about to step in, you threw a deadly right hook and one of the recruits fell to the ground. Followed by loud shrieks of pain as you broke ribs and sent teeth flying. Of course he knew you weren’t a damsel, you had made it as far as being a recruit for his infamous task force. He only had to step in when you had your boot to that scrawny rookie’s neck. Grinning menacingly as his blood dripped down your face. That was the minute he knew, you were getting the fucking job. 

Truly, he’d never seen a damn recruit that… deadly. With a fire in them like he did you. Not that he’d ever let you know that he admired your boldness, as far as you’d known for the longest time he thought you were an arrogant idiot. That day, about an hour after he practically had to pull you off of those sexist pigs, you got the job. And for the next year you’d trained with him. Every. Single. Damn. Day. Up at 0500, followed by a three mile run with the lieutenant. Then a prompt breakfast, succeeded by intensive hand-to-hand combat training. Sparring with him always ended up with the both of you sweaty, heaving chest to chest. Him usually on top, because of course he had to best you at every damn thing. At least that was the case for the first month. But of course you’re a damn quick learner, and while you seldom got him pinned, you sure as hell made him work for it. After four hours of combat training, you had artillery training with Soap and Konig. One of the easiest parts of your day, you’d thought. It was easy, besting a colonel and Soap, watching their faces drop as a woman outperformed them. It was also one of Ghost’s favorite parts of the day. Because he could watch you from afar. Of course some of his tendencies are a bit.. off. He loves to observe you. When you’re in your element, shooting. It’s like it’s just you and that gun, he swears to god. The way your eyes dial in to the target, delicate, yet strong hands gripping the gun. What would your hands have looked like gripping something els- ”Doesn’t matter, never’l happen, he’d always told himself.”

After that first year of intensive work and training, you’d earned your callsign, among the TF141 and it’s enemies, Apex. You’d obtained a kill count that almost rivaled Konig’s himself. Which absolutely killed him, but of course he loved ya. You and Ghost had grown close though, as it was coming up on year two with the task force. The proximity of training had done something to him. Seeing your chest heave with exertion, your beautiful skin glistening in sweat. Eyes locked in determination. Your only goal to knock him on his ass, which you did, of course. Eventually things had grown close enough to call you “love.” First time he did it in front of the boys, Soap snorted beer out of his damn nose in shock. Yet, none of them commented on it. Ghost had plenty of women to warm his bed occasionally. In uniform and civilians, but they were all… stress relief. They knew their lieutenant, and understood this was a different dynamic. The first time he called you love, was after you’d taken a bullet for him, about a month into your official entrance to the force. He was fucking enraged that you’d done such a thing. Called you a “fucking moron, damned idiot,” shouted at you, “how’d you even survive this long if you’re that damn dense?” It made absolutely no sense to him why you’d try to protect him. He almost wanted to push you away, to Antartica. He couldn’t have someone try to save him. He was beyond redemption. While there was tension from that sacrifice you’d made for him, it had faded into a comfortable pattern. Training, silent meals together, bickering here and there. Being on his six on all missions. You were his eyes, the whole team's eyes. You kept your boys safe. God you loved every minute of it. 

And now look at you, freshly 26 and they forgot your damn birthday. Moreso, he forgot your damn birthday. The laughter of the boys grew louder as you pushed open the rusty door to the mess hall. They were all sitting at the usual spots around the circular table. Cards and poker chips strewn across the table, cigar smoke floating around the group. This was the usual, normal weekend at base. It helped you all unwind and relax. Except right now there was a goddamn gaping hole in your heart the size of Alaska. A girl sat beside Ghost. She had on a private’s uniform… what the fuck was a damn rookie doing at the task force’s Saturday night poker? You put on a happy face, sure they forgot your birthday. It’s alright, you’re the idiot for assuming that shit, right? “Whose this lass right here, boys?” you ask in the most chipper tone you could muster. Even though you felt like going to the shooting range and brooding all night, you wouldn’t. Price answered, “This right here is the new addition to the force.” He sounded almost prideful. Generally, you expected more notice on decisions like this. Today was like being in the fucking twilight zone, everything was on it's head. The girl looked up at you, and gave a pearly white grin as she sat thigh to thigh with the lieutenant. It made no damn sense why this was the first you had heard of her.

What the hell was up with that? He never let anyone that close. You once saw him deck an orderly for accidentally bumping into him. Accidently. God, what a shit day. “Name’s Anya,” she introduced, with a kind of confidence typically reserved for more seasoned soldiers such as yourself. “Apex,” you replied, with no real hospitality except for a reserved smile you gave in return. Only Price and Ghost knew your real name. Anya had blue eyes, and blond hair. Pale, porcelain doll skin. She looked like she could be one of those American sorority girls, or perhaps an actress. It wasn’t the fact that there was a new woman on the task force, a lot of times you missed having other girls around. Hell, it wasn’t even the fact that they’d randomly mentioned this one day out of fucking nowhere. It wasn’t even the fact that they forgot your birthday… for the most part. It was the way the little blonde was nustled into Ghost’s side like they were fucking. She looked like a doe, defenseless, cute, even. Was that really his type? Soft women. That sure as fuck wasn’t you. You were coarse, prone to anger. Rough on the outside. Scarred, inside and out. Was unmaimed women his type? At that thought you felt the pit in your chest turn into a void. It couldn’t even justify what you felt for Ghost to call it love, or a crush, or any stupid shit like that.

You’d die for him. You knew that. Price, Gaz, Soap knew it. Ghost knew it, even though he fucking hated it. Yet here you were, sitting across from Anya and Ghost. Jaw locked, teeth gritting letting your fingernails embed crescents into your palm. Anymore and it’d draw blood. You couldn’t even remember what Price said Anya’s specialty was. Sure, she was probably good at it considering she’d made it to this caliber of operations. But she would never be on your level. Yet here she was cozy with Ghost. Did they know each other before this? Why didn’t Ghost ever mention her? 

You looked closer at Anya, noticing her touchiness with the boys. The way she threw her head back when she laughed. She seemed right at home here. This all broke you. Forgetting your birthday. Her being so close to Ghost. For christssake, you were a sniper, fucking act like it, you told yourself. Generally, you'd never let relations among damn men bother you. You'd come out of burning buildings more unscathed than this. Anya perked up as she observed your downcast gaze. Suddenly the corner of Anya’s plush lips turn up in a malicious smirk. She didn’t have good intentions with what was about to come out of her mouth. You knew it immediately. Wolf in sheep's clothing, damn she was good. Her little doe-eye act didn’t work on you. “What’s your real name, Apex?” Of course she knew the black ops courtesy. You don’t get to know your mates real names until you earn your own damn callsign. Callsigns kept people safe, and were signs of respect. Soap just didn't care that people knew his real name. And only you and Price knew Ghost's real name.

Price looked at her almost pitifully, assuming she didn’t know the unspoken rule. You replied to her, “You’ll learn that, if you earn your own callsign.” Soap choked on his beer a little bit. He let out an amused chuckle but added nothing to the verbal brawl that was about to ensue. While you were utterly devoted to Ghost in the most subtle yet unspeakable ways, you and Soap had grown a comfortable friendship. More like siblings, truly. Something about that dumb fucking mohawk and accent you could barely understand made you want to hit and simultaneously protect him.

Ghost stares at you, with something you couldn’t quite put your tongue on. Not that you wouldn’t mind putting your tongue on- Fuck it didn’t matter. Not with this shitty dynamic and this bitch drooling all over him. 

“Wha's got ye in a knot, bird?” Soap had whispered quietly, which was unlike him. Because he was so fucking loud all the time, but he sensed the change in your disposition. He knew this was hurting you. Knew that seeing this new girl with Ghost was like a knife to your heart. He didn’t know about your birthday though. No one did. You ignored Soap’s concern and simply observed. It was like a silent conversation between you and Ghost. A dance between you two, a silent push and pull. You felt like you were being dangled off a building. A rope slowly breaking as you swayed to getting close to him. Just for him to push you away. But how much is he willing to give? 

Usually, you were so fucking loud you put Soap to shame at these little gatherings. But, of course today was different. “Everyone tells me that you’re such a bloody life of the party but you seem different today!” Anya commented in a patronizing tone. Your knuckles turned white as you gripped your glass of whiskey, and said nothing. All other conversation ceased as the boys zero in on the tension between you and Anya. Ghost, more so than the rest of them, focuses on your reaction. “You don’t need to concern yourself with anything about me, doe.” you retort.

Alcohol…anger…jealousy. Not a good mix with you. Ghost sure as hell knew that when he had to pull your ass off of a couple lads and lasses multiple times.  She grins even more, “Come on, there’s gotta be something that got your knickers in a twist, girl to girl tell m-” 

You sit the glass of whiskey down with an eerie calmness. With the kind of solemn, yet deadly attitude you only reserved for the field. 

“My team forgot my birthday.” Might as well get it in the open. She was reveling in your brooding anyway. 

“Apex, world renowned Apex, bothered when her little team forgets her birthday,” She jeers. She had some nerves. Kinda balls that a lot of men never had. You liked that about her, maybe in another life you’d be the one to train her because of that fire in her. But, that reality would never come true. You wanted to strangle her. And maybe you'd do it.

She expected you to storm off, to shout, or yell. But instead, you grin. Fucking hell, Ghost thought, she’s gonna deck her. He’d seen you fight enough to know when you were about to spill blood. And at that thought, he sees a blond ponytail slam against the ground. 

He absolutely hated the girl, and thinks Price made a mistake. She was overconfident, and was bad at hand-to-hand. Only thing she had goin’ for her was her technology skills. He wanted to make you feel jealous, and she was perfect to use. After what happened last week, he was desperate for anything to get your attention. As much as he’d hate to admit it. You were spending too much time with Soap. 

Blood spills against the ground, sure as hell not your blood. You’ve her knee to her throat when Price finally pulls you off of her. “Come on ‘Pex she dinnae mean it.” Soap says. You finally let your shoulders relax. Ghost just stares, He found your reaction amusing of course. Especially when you bend down in Anya’s ear, “stay away from my lieutenant.” He was close enough where he could hear your whispered threat. Also close enough to see Anya’s face turn white as a damn ghost. You stood up and brushed yourself off, offering an unsympathetic apology to Price for causing a scene. Soap had a shit eating grin at the sight he just saw, you rarely lost your shit, except for now of course. 

You looked up at everyone, surprised at the sight of what you did. Embarrassed that they forgot your birthday. You try to let those emotions roll off of you. Like you always have. Just a job, you told yourself. Should’ve expected such, they’re just my coworkers at the end of the day, you repeated. It just stung, worse than a bullet wedging between your ribs. No family. No friends outside of them. And they forgot. It was like a cancer that had taken root in your brain, everytime you thought about how Ghost was letting Anya touch him, not to mention forgetting your birthday. You sigh, grabbing a beer out of the fridge and made your way to the porch. 

The cool air was like a soothing blanket against your heated face. You stared into the night, and wondered what was staring back. You mainly thought about Ghost. He’d really been avoiding you these past couple weeks truly. Yes, it was true that your one-on-one training had been over. Maybe it was that time you’d been so close to nudging his mask up. And it scared the shit out of him. So, you’d hung around Soap more. And of course, the hell that went on in the mess hall today was the first you’d seen of the lieutenant all week. 

You, too, had your fair share of men. None good enough to keep. Just stress relief. Unbeknownst to you, Ghost knew every one of their names. Even the meaningless one night stands. He knew their ranks. What division they were in. How good of a fighter. All of them were just boys in his opinion, not able to give you what you really needed. But then again, could he have even provided that? He just needed to be with you from afar. He’d settle with it, or at least tried to. The close quarters training was torture. Getting to know you was like torture. Having your curves memorized was torture. The sound of your heavy pants brought him to insanity. But it was also the closest to heaven he’d ever gotten.He wanted to run his rough fingers over every one of your many scars and trace them. He wanted to demand to know where they were from. Who gave them to you so he could do a lot more than maim. Wanted to trace them with his tongue too. Wanted to know every inch of your body by touch, taste, and smell. He was a primal man, after all. And he needed you. The way his heart raced when you were so close to pulling his mask up. He was about to let you. He hated the way warmth pooled in his stomach. Despised the way that nasty fuzzy feeling embedded itself in his brain. Loathed the way you were in his dreams. In the nightmares, too of course, where you would die in his arms. However, there was something so much more excruciating. You avoided him. So of course he went to drastic measures like letting that awful little blond drool over him. 

After an hour of thinking about how you called him “your lieutenant,” which was still so fucking crazy, he decided to come outside. You knew he was coming just by the quiet footsteps. He just stood behind you, letting only his presence interrupt the silence of the night. You could feel his eyes trail over your form. You loved it, of course you loved it. You knew his smell. The musky vanilla, with notes of cigarette, sweat, gunpowder, and cologne. What you’d give to smell that cologne on him fresh out the shower. That would never happen… right? You were just stuck with this god awful, sour feeling rotting inside you.“Didn’t think she was your type, LT.” you admit, breaking the silence at its creases. He takes a second to let out a gruff reply, “Didn’t think you’d care.”

You look over your shoulder to look at him, “you forgot my fuckin’ birthday, ‘course I care.” The whiskey loosened your tongue, you’d have never said that sober. You stand up, silently taking him in. The way the moonlight made a glow around his sillhouette. His imposing form, that should've screamed "don't fuck with me," but all you heard was "fuck me." Yeah the alcohol really loosened a lot of things... didn't it. You drunk in his body like he was cool oasis and you were thirsting to death. He saw the way you looked at him, too. He knew you were going to be his ruin. The reckoning. 

He retorted, rather coldly, but laced with another emotion you couldn’t quite identify. “She was right ‘bout one thing, y’know. Don’t know why this is such a big deal.” He fucking goaded you. You stepped closer, eyes tracing the way his lips encase the cigarette he’s smoking. Seemed like a sin just to watch, hell, he was sin himself. 

There was one thing that pissed him off more than the attitude you threw around. Albeit it did amuse him generally. It was when you turned cold. When you avoided him, of course like you were this past week. You had willed your eyes to turn darker, with a somber expression.  “You’re right, I should not have crossed that boundary. Apologie-” He interrupts you. Gruff, coarse voice imposing on you, “Now don’t give me that bullshit birdie. This bothered you didn’ it?” You could swear he almost smirked. He needed to be bathed in that fire you had that he loved so much. Even if it was from making you pissed.

He fucking enjoyied this. What a damn sadist. Did he just enjoy playing with your emotions? You sigh and take a step back, “You’re fucking reveling this aren’t you?! Now I knew those boys are frothing out of the mouth cause they’d fuck anything that walks, but I didn’t know you were like th-” He takes a step closer and presses a gloved finger to your lips. “Jealous, are you darling? Y’ know it’s all fun and games.” You push his shoulder to put some distance between you two. “Ah fuck you, god you’re such a dick.” Your chest heaves with anger and disappointment whilst your skin craves his touch. His blond eyelashes flutter as his honeyed eyes stay glued to yours. Eye contact was his thing, damnnit. It was unnerving and hot at the same time.

He leans down to your ear, “Tell me, what was it you said to her before ya’ got off her?” Y “The fuck does it matter?” You spout angrily. You knew he heard every word you said. You just wanted him to hurt like he hurt you. 

“Of course it damn well matters, you called me your lieutenant.” There were only centimeters between the both of you. You could feel his breath hit your skin, how it danced across your face. Unknown to you, your display of possession meant everything to him. No one had ever claimed him like you did. Not that it meant that much to you, he guesses. Of course he was Ghost, La fantasma, бугимен, and the embodiment of nightmares. He had a deep bond with all of the task force. They respected him. Understood him, even. But they never really claimed him like you did. And this killed him, not knowing if you really meant it. You were dangerous, you were ruining him. And he couldn’t help but want to be ruined. He'd atone at your altar. Worship you, if you'd only let him.

You didn't budge, but kept the tantalizing proximity from his masked face. Wishing he’d just take it off. “Fine, I take it back, it was the heat of the moment. Now go fuck her and leave me alone I’m sure she’s waiting.” In the blink of an eye he shoved you against the wall. By God, you knew how to piss him off. Hands pinned you on both sides while a knee wedged between your hips to prevent movement. He knew you felt something, knew you did. He knew this would be bad for both of you. Sure, he felt bad he forgot your birthday. But he’d make it up. He’d be so good. So good to you. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. God, the fuckin’ mouth you have,” he says, tracing your lips with his fingers. That made you dead quiet, the way everywhere he touched left your skin on fire. Made heat shoot down to your very core. 

He looked at you in a way you’d never seen him look at anyone before. Hungry, starved, but laced with a masochistic restraint, that was barely tethering him to his sanity.The eye black around his eyes made it seem even more sensual. Something dark in him that was going to claim you. You needed it so bad. While he was masked, his eyes had said everything that needed to be said. You knew he wanted you, but you were still hurting. You two were perfect in the sense of miscommunication. Likely stemming from rather terrible childhoods. You stayed silent, and let his fingers rest against your lips. “You don’t make any sense.” You said quietly. More like a statement than a jab against him. He was back and forth, with you and against you. Like he was tugging you along just to leave you. While sure you were deadly as hell, smart, and observant, when it came to love you were more clueless than a teenage girl. To be fair it was always difficult for you to imagine what love was. Something fabricated. Made for valentines day. It seemed like a myth or folklore. Or like something everyone else had but you weren’t allowed to have. And that didn’t bother you. Deep down on an atom-based level, what you’d felt for Simon Riley extended much farther than any language. 

He lets out a humourless scoff, “I know. Love, believe me I know, but you aren’t exactly clear y’self.” You roll your eyes, of course he would turn the argument back on you, it was practically his signature move. Yet this bickering only made the heat ignite into full on flames between you both. “Oh fuck y-” He clamped a hand over your mouth, not forcefully, but with a firmness that made you quiet. “Aye now don’t go pullin’ that shit. You’re over here runnin’ that mouth to Soap. Ya’ don’t train with me much no more and you talk to those fuckin’ sargeants.” He scoffs, as his mouth sits next to your neck, “even though I taught you everythin’ you know.” His coarse voice, partly from the cigarettes, sent chills down your spine. It was like you had just been dunked in a cooler of ice. 

The rough, gritty voice hardened from years of the military is the only thing that lulled you back to your faculties, "Don’t play a damn fool, lass. You know what you mean to me. You think I devote that much time to just any recruit? Think I train ‘em for fuckin’ years? Teach ‘em everything I know? Nearly go into a fit of rage slaughtering when they get shot on a mission?” He looked away in a failed attempt to maintain his stoic facade. But you could see through it, he knew you could. That was part of why he liked you so much, loved, really, but he wasn’t ready to admit that to himself. “Lass, I didn’ know what would get your attention. You’ve avoided me like I’m the goddamn plague. Doesna bother me that the base does that. The fear, the respect, it’s good. But when you avoid me, it- its-”

For the first time Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley could not finish a sentence. He fucking stutters. “So you let that little doe drool all over you.” You interrupt as a statement. Angrily. With that fire in your eyes that makes everything in him harden just looking at you. He swears to whatever god will listen, when it came to you he was like a pubescent boy all over again. After hand-to-hand sessions, which always ended up sweaty and pressed up against one another, he always had to make multiple trips to the bathroom to… relieve himself. It was like you were a fucking succubus, he’d always thought. 

You could tell he was amused by your anger the way his mask creased and the way his honey brown eyes lit up. “Sure as hell worked, yeah?” He said in that sultry, practically sinful tone. It was insane, the way just his voice sent energy straight to your core. You had to crane your neck to really look at him, but he was pressed against the crook of your jaw and shoulder. So you felt him. Felt all of him. Felt how he needed you as it brushed against your stomach. It sent jolts of electricity shooting through your very being. The heat of his breath against the side of your jaw made your skin feel like it was on fire. “If I remember correctly, I’m your lieutenant. Or care to repeat it? Memory’s a little dull.”

Ghost wasn’t ever touch starved, he made sure he had plenty of “stress relief,” as he’d call it .Plenty of bonnie lasses warm his bed, in at night out swiftly in the morning. Like clockwork. Always kept his mask on while taking them from the back. It was just to relieve his stress, there was never any true openness. He knew those women would run when he revealed himself. He always felt like a wolf in sheep's clothing when out in the civilian world. Even at base too. He felt alienated, like an unwilling monster. When people got too close, bad things happened. Or, so he thought. He knew he was absolutely fucked because when he’d fantasize about you, all he wanted to do was let you rip the mask off. Let your soft hands trace over his rough skin.

You could sense the change in him. The deep look in his eyes, as if he was trying to memorize you. As if he was counting every freckle and blemish. Branding it in his mind, he was your lieutenant. He wanted to swallow you whole. Crawl inside you. Have you crawl inside him. If you were a flame he'd walk in with a smile on his face. If you were a sea he'd drown a happy man. Whatever his sorry life was, would be bearable as long as you were in it.

“Your lieutenant, huh?” He repeated gruffly. “Did ya mean that?” He never wanted to admit it, but his heart raced in anticipation. It was like his whole body was pulsing with a need only you could satisfy.

“How do I know this isn’t just for your amusement Simon?” you asked softly. He betrayed nothing as he yanked your hand and placed it over his racing heart.  It was going 90 miles a fucking minute. “Ya think I’m lyin’ love?” He was almost challenging you to question his honesty again. 

You had nothing to say to that. To his proclamations. You knew he wasn’t lying. There was literally nothing in your mind. But him. His face. His voice. His hands. God, his fucking hands. They were against your hips, right now. Practically burning himself against you.

“You aren’t lying.” 

His crows feet crinkled, he let out a low laugh, “No. Couldna if I tried.” 

Your head was spinning, you couldn’t decide if it was from the previous events of this night, the whiskey, your lieutenant, or a combination of all three. Along with the dizziness from the proximity to Ghost, it came with a boldness.

You took your fingers to his face, and pulled his mask up to his nose. This time he let you instead of swatting you away like he did last time. He had a cleft lip scar, you’d never guessed. His lips plump, a mauve pink, he had pale skin. Even his damn lips and chin… they were beautiful to you. 

His breath hitched as you raked your fingers across his lips. He was nervous you’d find the cleft lip scar ugly. He did, it was part of why he loved his mask. However, you looked at him with amazement. Like he was the only fuckin man on earth. And dammit if he didn’t love it while it scared the shit out of him at the same time. 

“Love,” he whispered hoarsely. You were his vice, his tether to earth. His damnation and redemption. He knew, at that moment, he’d start a war for you. With you. Against you. Whatever you wanted as long as you were involved. He’d let you do what you wanted with him. Love him, hate him. It would kill him if you were indifferent, like you were this past week. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. Being so close to you, to your lips. To your skin. Generally he wouldn’t call himself impatient, but he needed to taste you. He slammed his lips against yours. He tasted like whiskey, cigars, and everything you ever needed. His tongue grazed your teeth begging for entrance while his hands pawed at your ass. Breathy moans escaped him, reverberating across your skin. “Fuck…” he let out. He was never a moaner, always the quiet grunter, a gruff sigh when he finished. But by god you made him… a mess.  You made him a mess. Afterall, he was your lieutenant though.

This is edited and left at a better note. Also because I suck at writing freaky and ending stuff.

I am so so so sorry. 

I just saw a post on tumblr that said rather create something than let it rot, to matter how embarrassing it is. 

Hence this. 

[coldalbion]

Not Flirting

This is NOT FLIRTING.

The very fact that the media say "flirting" is indicative of the fact that the cultural ideas we have around value, improvement, morality, ability and functionality are *rooted* in a a framework which is ableist and eugenic in nature.

Fundamentally, the idea that there are "good genes" and "bad genes" is saying there are "good" forms of embodymindedness and "bad" forms, and that we should remove or reduce the bad and increase the good.

This is biopolitics which is at the root of 19th, 20th and 21st century processes and horrors, and is not *just* racist, but is one of the major ORIGINS of racism as it manifests today, as well as a wellspring of sexism, homophobia, transphobia, antisemitism, colonialism and capitalism.

We are enmeshed in the world eugenics and its proponents thought up, and wrought. It is so prevalent beneath the surface of how we relate to the world in terms of growth, progress, science etc, that we are like fish swimming in it.

This IS NOT JUST TRUMP. This is the ongoing pandemic, the manfacture of debility in marginalised populations for the benefit of those at the levers of power. This is the dismissal of Appalachian lives and folks in rural areas as low-intelligence inbred hicks who "should have known"/"should have moved" in the face of hurricanes. This the way standardised testing structures education on pass fail and grade curves. On and on, with countless more manifestations and iterations.

**We live in a eugenicised society.**

One that frames who should be improved, and how, on the basis of trajectories which begin by evalulating a being on how much it conforms to a certain set of criteria. We never ask where those criteria come from. We never consider that the liberal humanist agenda might also create folks who *don't fit*, in order to mark those who do.

We should. We should ask ourselves where "the human" even comes from.

[ID :A screenshot from The Guardian's liveblog coverage of the US Election, which reads: "Flirting with eugenics, Trump says: ‘We got a lot of bad genes in our country right now’ In an interview earlier today with conservative broadcaster Hugh Hewitt, Donald Trump used terminology associated with eugenics to attack migrants. The remark came as the former president discussed the alleged harm done by new arrivals to the United States, saying many were “murderers”. “Now, a murderer, it’s in their genes,” Trump continued. “And we got a lot of bad genes in our country right now.” It was language similar to the beliefs of eugenics, which emerged in the late 19th century and held that human ills could be combatted through selective breeding. The theory is today regarded as both inaccurate and racist."]

[narwal-ed-in]

ARMY GLITTERATI - (Band of Brothers x Bimbo!Reader)

✨glitterati✨- /ˌɡlɪt̬.əˈrɑː.t̬i/ - 1940's slang for famous people, glamorous people, in the spotlight.

Summary: “You want to become a combat medic for the 101st?” “What, like it's hard?”

Warning: Period typical sexism, Fem reader, she/her pronouns, slight body shaming (not directed at reader). NO BETA READ. I WROTE THIS JUST NOW SO PLEASE DON'T EXPECT MUCH.

No disrespect to the real veterans of WW2, all my BoB fanfics are based on depictions by actors in the miniseries.

Borders by @plutism

BEFORE TACCOA

The war is raging and everyone is doing their part to help the men on the front.

For you, that mostly meant trying to look your best at all times, no matter how inconvenient the situation.

"Looking good is a ginormous part of the war effort, it's good for boosting troop morale. I saw it on a poster at the teaching hospital" You reasoned with your father after he complained about you buying another pair of shoes and some expensive vanishing creams.

"Darling, I think they meant that we should all keep our appearances up, not buy out our local department stores"

"Oh my god daddy, you're suffocating me! I'm just doing my part by looking nice..." you glare at your father in his work clothes and eye him with a grimace "...and clearly you're not"

When you get a telegram informing you that you've been selected to participate in a program that aims to send female medics into combat you jump on it.

This is going to be so much fun.

"I'm going to be the talk of the town when everyone finds out. Not even Reverend Smiths boring old story about dying for ten minutes in a car crash and seeing Jesus will be able to outdo this!"

Your supervisors at the hospital are shocked that you've been chosen, seeing as you're not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

You had once walked out of an operation because it was bloody and you were wearing white (all the nurse uniforms are white).

You hoped you wouldn't be assigned to the army or the airforce.

The army is too basic, and if you were stuck on an airbase somewhere then nobody would be able to see how fab you always were.

The navy was your goal, their uniforms were sooo cute, you were just dreaming of all the ways you could style it.

It's just your luck when you get assigned to airborne.

"THIS BLOWS! I'm in the two most unglamorous branches at the same time"

After your initial breakdown you realized it wasn't that bad. If you were jumping out of planes it just meant that your hotness would have a bigger audience since it would literally be raining down from the sky.

"When the Germans see all this falling from the sky, they're going to flip their friggin wigs! AHHHH"

CONNECTING WITH EASY

You're assigned to Easy company and meet the men a few months into their training at Camp Toccoa.

You show up randomly in the middle of the day.

Although the men had been told a woman would be joining them and they had been expecting you, they hadn't been expecting YOU.

You were a ditzy thing and looked like you’d jumped out of one of their pin up postcards. The brass surely couldn't expect them to put their lives in your hands.

"I'm sooo happy to meet everyone. You know, the other girls in the program are such massive liars, they said airborne was where all the uggos went, but that's so not true. After all, I'm here"

You always woke up an hour earlier than the rest of Easy so you would have time to put your face on.

It was one of your tenets to never be seen by anyone outside of family without makeup on, or with your curlers in.

Malarkey, Skip, Penkala, Shifty, Bull, Christenson, Lip and Winters had all been kind to you from the beginning, expecting nothing in return.

But some of the guys had other ideas.

George was one of the men that befriended you initially. And although he did have the ulterior motive of getting it on with you, he eventually stuck around because he actually liked you.

You guys have great play-flirting banter and you're both very entertaining people to be around, especially when you're drunk.

On the rare nights anyone gets passes they want to be around you and George because they know that's where the funs at.

You get sloppy drunk with George, flirt with men from Easy and other companies all night, then end up with your shoes off at 3am, sitting on the curb and crying about one of your ex boyfriends.

Perconte was one of your original detractors but when you found yourselves making the same brain dead comments about obvious things, you both decided to put your two half braincells together to form the singular braincell you share between yourselves.

Talbert was trying to get into your pants instantly. Nobody was surprised.

But just like George he grew to be genuinely fond of you.

What was surprising was Joe Toye taking you under his wing.

Toye could see that you were absolutely clueless and the worst part was, you had no idea.

Toye couldn't bear the agony of watching you skip around camp with your happy-go-lucky attitude, harping on about celebrity gossip nobody cared about.

"Y/N!" Toye yelled as you all got dressed to run Currahee "Why the hell is your PT shirt pink?!"

"Isn't it just the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen, Joe? I put a red handkerchief in with my laundry. Cosmo said carnation pink is the color of the summer"

Huffing and puffing, Toye took out one of his spare shirts and forced you to wear it.

"And when you give it back, it better not be fucking 'flamingo pink'" Toye said.

"Oh honey, this isn't 1939, flamingo pink is so over. I wouldn't be caught dead in that. You know, Joe, sometimes I feel like you don't care about fashion at all" You scoff at his cluelessness as you walk out.

Joe Toye is secretly your best friend in the company.

Toye taking you in meant Gaurnere and Johnny Martin had to be around you, much to their chagrin.

They didn't want some girl hanging off of them.

You win Gaurnere's respect when you coach him on what to write to his girlfriend back home to assure her that he's serious about their relationship when she began doubting his intentions.

And you win Johnny's respect when you help him find the most romantic gift for his wife for valentines day.

"Y'know, back home they call me the love doctor...Well, they used to, before I told Betsy Kline that Rob Jones was her soulmate but then he left her at the altar to elope with his housekeeper"

Sobel despised you from the moment he laid eyes on you.

Not wearing your red lipstick everyday was torture, but you had to stick to natural colours so Sobel wouldn't be able to tell what you had on.

He tried with everything in his power to get you kicked out, but much to everyones surprise, you kept up extrordinarily well with the men when it came to physical training.

"I do a lot of Pilates. It's really good for flexibility and helps you keep a positive outlook so you're not be such a 'negative nancy' all the time. Some of you could really use it. Some more than others..." you said as you side-eyed Skinny who just looked around incredulously

Eventually most of the men come to consider you a friend and a confidante since you give remarkably sound relationship advice.

"It's like sooo hard being the smartest person and the hottest catch in this camp at the same time"

The hardest nuts to crack in your immediate friend group end up being Leibgott, Cobb and Doc Roe, all for different reasons of course.

Leib was snide and arrogant and spoke to you like you were a silly little girl.

He didn't shy away from telling you how dumb he thought you were to your face.

Your relationship eventually becomes friendly but he will still be mean occasionally.

He always ends up apologising though and feels really bad when he makes you cry (the other guys nearly bite his head off whenever this happens).

"Jesus Christ, Y/N, stop being a baby already. I said I was sorry" Lieb said to you as you cried into your pillow.

"You can say sorry to me, Joey, but how are you going to tell Rita Hayworth you're sorry for saying nobody cares about her nighttime face washing routine?" You spoke inbetween sobs.

"I ain't saying sorry to Rita because I ain't sorry I said it. I stand by what I said. Nobody cares how some broad washes up at night"

"You take that back! That routine saved my life" You jumped up, pointing an accusing finger at the man.

"How the fu-"

"You're a horrible, horrible man Joseph Leibgott"

"Oh put a sock in it" Leib rolled his eyes, making you cry even harder.

Toye, ever protective of you, had enough "I swear to god Leibgott, leave that girl alone!"

Cobb was just straight up cruel to you and made sure you always knew "your place".

Roe didn't seem particularly close to anyone.

But as you all of you went into the more specialised aspects of your training and you and Roe spent more time together, he found himself looking out for you.

You were sitting alone on the grass after everyone had groaned and walked off the moment you started talking about an article you read in a magazine.

You sigh sadly, pulling at the grass when a shadow falls over you.

Bringing up a hand to block the sun you finally recognize who it is. It's Eugene Roe.

"I, uh, I was wondering if I could sit with you?" he asked.

You nodded excitedly and he took a seat beside you in the grass.

"What was it you were telling the others?"

You gasped "You really want to know?"

"I guess…"

Doc had seen everyone walk away, and although he didn't care much for mindless conversation, he knew talking to people meant a lot to you and had come over to cheer you up.

Without missing a beat you began one of your famous tirades.

By the end of your first year in Toccoa you end up finding your place.

Thanks for reading! Please like, comment and reblog if you want❤️

[shadowqueenjude]

Does anyone else find the Night Court sooooo boring? Like, there's nothing interesting there, no courtly dynamics or anything, just some sexist Illyrians and sexist people in the Court of Nightmares as well, and the whole book is Rhysand throwing his weight around WHEN he feels like it but not doing shit about genuinely important issues (like sexism). Rhysand is smart supposedly, but I've never actually seen him use TACT in this series. He's so powerful that he doesn't need to or whatever. Blah blah blah, Night Court is the biggest and the baddest. But the Autumn Court... Cutthroat, beautiful. It has sons competing for power from an early age, through combat and courtly wiles. Only the strong survive. It produced a Lucien and an Eris, and their complicated brotherly relationship. You have a paranoid, abusive leader. You have the whole LoA + Helion affair, a love child. The man who abandoned his heritage to play courtier to another High Lord. Who is friends with two humans, one who is tied to an evil god. You have Eris, playing the perfect prodigal son while planning a coup right under his father's nose. Both are potential High Lords. You have Gwyn, a part water-nymph having Autumn heritage; we could explore how mixed High Fae are treated as well. Also, I want to know more about how Lucien learned to catch fish with his BARE HANDS??? Finish the line: Autumn court males have fire in their veins and... The way I'd read an entire series on the Autumn Court 😩😩😩😩😩

[getaapologist]

The Tension and the Terror............Part XIII

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length)

Summary: Geta is starting to realize something isn't right. Letha has to fight for her own protection. Caracalla wishes to save his brother from himself, because he's being Rome's biggest idiot (not so affectionate).

Warnings: violence, death, period-typical sexism, 18+ only.

Word Count: 3.6k

Part 13 of 15

[ Part XII ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: I think writing action (be it the fun kind or the dangerous kind) is the hardest part. I hope this is even slightly entertaining. Next part might not be the last, I'm still writing so it depends on how long it gets. I would also like for there to be some sort of resolution as well so it doesn't end so abruptly. We'll see. I should really thank one of my favorite bands for putting out a particularly angry song that helped me get in the headspace for this. Thank you for reading.

The Emperor’s box remained empty until moments before the event began, the usual pomp and circumstance of the games abandoned for a dour display of punishment. 

The games held the people’s attention. Watching men fight for a chance at glory, to possibly better themselves, it was entertaining. Tactics could be observed, armor and weapons utilized in new and unique ways. Legends were written by the combatants and their actions daily. Physical prowess could be appreciated and admired.

Fighting desperately in an ultimately futile battle to survive a few short minutes longer didn’t hold much attraction. There was no one to root for, no underdog to champion. No one to bet on beyond who might die first. Only the most voracious Romans attended these events. 

As Geta stared down at the empty arena, he felt ill. Ill at the thought of the previous 24 hours. The visible fear he’d seen in Letha’s eyes as he stood over her made Geta’s stomach twist uncomfortably. Sleep eluded him. He feared what horrors awaited him in his dreams. 

He distrusted people on principle, but for him to be so wrong, let alone twice… It left him reeling. He resisted looking over to Macrinus who had visited upon them this horrible news. Something was off about the man he’d dared call a friend. Ever since delivering Geta’s own death knell, the man lingered nearly everywhere about Palatine Hill. 

As if he were taking over in the absence of Letha.

And what he had said… the party. It was clear to Geta that Macrinus had no clue about the specific nature of his interaction with Letha. He’d clearly made some assumptions, but the idea that Letha had somehow found time to not only speak with Thraex, but concoct a scheme against him and his brother felt impossible. Especially when accounting for the small slip of time in between him dismissing Lyra and stepping out to meet Letha in the hall.

No, there was something else. Something Geta hadn’t quite cracked yet. He had considered visiting the miserable cells where Letha waited for her doom to ask her himself, but he didn’t trust himself. He couldn’t possibly predict what his reaction would be to seeing her again. That scared him.

Caracalla sat in the seat beside him, staring daggers into the side of his head. On the ride over, he’d insisted again that there was something wrong here. And Geta did agree, though he didn’t say as much to his volatile brother. Regardless, none of it changed Letha’s sure guilt. He would not relish today, not by a long shot, but it was necessary. 

And to think, he would’ve sought to marry her.

“Emperor?” Ancus questioned quietly.

Geta glanced over to see Caracalla in close conversation with Ancus, his eyes fixed on his personal guard. What was said, Geta couldn’t make out. But he did notice the way Caracalla’s hand lingered on the Praetorian’s forearm.

“There will be three others,” Ravi warned quietly, wrapping the gauzy fabric strip around her shoulder, beneath her arm, and across her chest, the pressure of it easing the difficulty of moving her arm. “You must be first to get to the sword.”

“Or I definitely die first,” she lamented.

“Or you definitely, probably, will die first,” Ravi agreed, tying off the thick wrapping. “Sorry, princess.”

The mood was deeper than melancholic. Letha pulled up the straps of the plain scrap of cloth she’d been provided, a familiar sight. It still bore Hyacinthia’s signature stitching. 

Letha remembered Hyacinthia insisting to Macrinus upon her arrival that she be provided something more suitable to wear. Within a day of Macrinus’s assent, Letha had been provided with this top and some modified braccae. Though they were discouraged among men, it relieved Letha to be able to wear something more concealing around the stable of gladiators. 

And she treasured it now, eager to get rid of the bloodstained dress.

Ravi broke the uncomfortable silence first. “Did he hurt you?”

Letha played dumb. “Who?”

Ravi sighed. “The tyrant.”

“No,” she answered. “Not at all.”

Perhaps if he’d lived up to his reputation, it wouldn’t be so painful.

Before Ravi could ask any other questions, a Praetorian appeared, standing outside the cell. They could hear Viggo chasing him down, shouting that he wasn’t allowed to be back there and needed to speak with Macrinus.

Ravi bristled beside Letha, but she stood, approaching the cell bars.

“Ancus?”

“Get away from there!” Viggo ordered, finally catching up.

Ancus didn’t bat an eye. “I’m here on orders of your Emperor. It would be in your best interest to leave us.”

Viggo looked for a moment like he might argue before he turned tail and fled, most likely in search of Macrinus.

Ancus returned his attention to the cell and its current occupants. He glanced from Letha to Ravi, then back, raising an eyebrow.

“He’s trustworthy,” she assured him. 

Ravi played it cool, shooting an unbothered smile Ancus’s way, though Letha knew he was brimming with curiosity.

“I was told to deliver this to you. If it is as planned, you may need it.” Ancus reached through the bars, a small bundle wrapped in cloth in his hands. Letha took it, pulling some of the material back to get a peek at what was inside. Letha saw the familiar shape of the dagger she’d used all those nights ago. Someone had kept it.

“Tell Geta I am thankful,” Letha begged.

Ancus frowned. “I’m sorry, my lady. It is Caracalla who has sent me here.” 

It shouldn’t have left her feeling so cold, but it did. Of course. 

“Well, tell him the same.”

Ancus nodded. “I will have an eye on you.” He moved to leave, but came back. “Good luck, Letha.”

She couldn’t say anything in return, just nodded and looked down at the bundle in her hands as he walked away.

“Friends in high places, princess,” Ravi commented. 

She unwrapped the dagger, finding it still coated in dry blood. 

“Well, if you don’t need the sword, I’d say you should definitely go for the shield.”

The sound of one of the large gates on the edge of the arena opening drew Geta’s gaze. His breath caught in his throat at the sight. She had some cobbled-together armor on her shoulders and arms, but little else. Her hair had been braided, circling her head not unlike a crown. She looked nothing like the woman he had come to know.

All the better. It would be easier to watch that way, he supposed. No, no. What a ridiculous notion.

Nothing about this was easy for Geta. He regretted his choice almost as soon as he’d made it. His suggestion was borne of the grievous injury she’d dealt him. Now that the outcome of it stood on the sand below the box, the selection of weapons waiting in the center of the oval, he sat in his seat stewing in dread. 

“You can still put a stop to this madness, brother,” Caracalla reminded him, his voice terse, uncharacteristic. Geta looked over, seeing a conviction he wasn’t used to finding in Caracalla’s eyes. 

“Do not speak to me of madness, brother,” Geta spat back, irritated with Caracalla’s needling ever since he’d formed an opinion on his handling of Letha.

Caracalla’s temper flared. “You cannot even stand to look at her now,” he accused.

Geta reared around to face his brother fully, muscles in his neck tensing as he tempered the volume of his words. “Because I cannot bear it.” 

The sun burned Letha’s skin, as if Apollo himself decided to visit the arena. Her eyes moved over to rest on the Emperors’ box, seeing the two of them sitting there, in conversation with each other, their copper hair shining. Perhaps they were touched by the divine after all. 

Or perhaps the gods were playing a trick, drawing out her pain until she couldn’t bear it any longer. They would send her to her death, despite everything, all thanks to the snake, Macrinus. She got in his way. This would be the consequence.

“Don’t die too quickly, princess,” Viggo jeered from behind the wooden gate, just off to her side. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint your lover.”

She didn’t dare look over, focused instead on the gate opening up in front of her. Who, or what, would walk through it? What insurmountable task would she have to deal with? How swift a death could it provide? 

Just one moment and it could all be over. All the heartache, the pain, the vitriol, the rage. It could all disappear if she just let it happen. No matter where she ended up, be it Elysium or the pits of Tartarus, anything would surely be better than this. 

Maybe she would see her family again. Her brother could mock her once again. She could feel her mother’s hand against her cheek. Her father would seize her in a tight hug, telling her she did what she had to do, even if those words didn’t exactly ring true.

The tears welled up, obscuring her vision until she blinked and let them fall onto the sand. She quickly wiped the trails from her cheeks, breathing deeply. 

The man walking out into the arena bore an unmistakable red line across the top of his cheek, just below his temple, and it went all the way to the back of his head. The missing portion of his ear a stark reminder of her fury and how she arrived here. 

General Plautianus. 

They did this on purpose. She wondered if this was Macrinus’s idea, or if Geta had suggested it himself. This was a former general of Rome, not a gladiator. The idea of dying at his hands repulsed her. He had already claimed her father and brother, he couldn’t claim her, too. 

But did she even stand a chance? Her shoulder was still injured, she couldn’t rely on her dominant arm for too much before it grew tired and tender. They had only given her the most basic armor, nothing for her chest or legs. The only weapon she possessed was a dagger. Her dagger. A kind gift from Caracalla. She didn’t think she’d get a chance to properly thank him.

Letha didn’t know how she was supposed to fend off a Roman general. If she had just done what Macrinus tasked her with, none of this would be happening. None of this additional pain would exist. Protecting the twins had earned her no favors, clearly. It all meant nothing. 

He felt nothing. And that was almost worse than the death that awaited her. 

“I should have killed you. I knew there was something off about you,” Plautianus taunted. “You thought you could take revenge? You? You’re as dumb as your brother. Clearly fated to die by my sword. My hand was stayed once, it will not be again,” he promised, flexing his hands, his eyes focusing on the three items at the center of the arena. 

Two other men joined them, standing an equal distance from the items waiting at the center. A gladius, a spear, and a small round shield. That meant someone could be left empty handed. As Ravi had warned her, that couldn’t be her. Still, the idea of rushing to meet all of them in the same place didn’t fill her with confidence, though she didn’t have much choice.

An announcer stepped forward, dressed down compared to the usual games. There was no formal ceremony. It took Letha a moment to even realize they’d been given the go-ahead. The only tell was a flicker of movement from the other prisoners. 

Letha snapped into a sprint, her legs fresh after sitting in the cell for so long. The same could be said of the others, however. She could see them approaching the center just as quickly as she was. She did note that the general seemed slower, his bulk and elaborate armor weighing him down. But he was still fast. She didn’t think it wise to underestimate any of them.

Before Letha could get her fingers around the lip of the circular shield, she was body-checked, knocked to the chalky gravel, and one of the other prisoners hefted it. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing the next thing within reach. The spear.

Surely not the most optimal choice for her stature, it was better than nothing, the sword getting snatched up by the other man, leaving the General with nothing. 

Plautianus approached the group, his eyes raking over the slight build of the man currently holding the gladius. It took him only a moment to dodge the reckless swipe and tackle the man to the ground. He wrenched the sword from his grip and ignored his protests as he plunged the blade into his chest, rising to his feet with an ease that surely frightened those he fought against in battle. 

Three. 

Letha tried to find a good way to grip the spear, the wood rough lacking any wrap or protection for her bare hand. Even having the weapon, her options were slim. Even if she took out the man with the shield somehow, that would leave the General. And she didn’t like those odds.

It seemed Plautianus was similarly assessing his options, and as his gaze fell heavy on the shieldbearer, she knew he’d made a decision. It wasn’t what she would’ve done, had she been in his place, but she was no general, had no tactical prowess. Or maybe he was just saving her for last.

She couldn’t do nothing. Nothing would get her killed.

As Plautianus charged, she almost lost her nerve. He reached the shieldbearer, holding the sword threateningly in his direction. As he swung it overhead, the shieldbearer hefted the round disc high to block his blow. 

Letha moved in.

She jabbed the point of the spear into the back of his knee, as hard as she could. The roar Plautianus let out echoed around the arena. Before she could pull it free and step back, a swipe of the gladius cut through the pole of the spear, sending her on her ass. She got up as quickly as she could, keeping hold of the useless pole just in case.

Stunned by her action, the shieldbearer stood no chance, taking the brunt of Plautianus’s fury as he gutted him. He ripped the shield from the man as he fell, hopping a bit to take pressure off his injured leg as he faced her.

As he stared her down, she felt like she was back on the floor in the entryway to her house, shoved down to her knees. She could picture her brother slumped against the wall, his biting wit still being used to lash out at the Romans standing around them. It did nothing but earn him a few extra kicks to the ribs. But still he sat there, making use of the only tool he had left, right up until her impulsive action got him killed.

“You are the thorn in my side no longer,” Plautianus promised, leveling the sword at her, shield held close to his chest. He did not charge at her, no, he moved with purpose, a significant limp the only sign he’d been injured. It didn’t show in his face or his focus.

There wasn’t anywhere to go. She couldn’t run or hide. There were only the two of them. She was forced into a defensive position after sacrificing the tip of the spear, for all the good it did her now. He would still bear down on her, he still had the sword. 

Plautianus moved quickly, striking like a viper. She brought up the spear’s shaft to attempt to deflect the blow. The sword skated off it and cut a hot slash into her upper arm, thankfully only splitting the skin and not going deeper. Her hand went to the fresh wound and she backed away from the general, trying to pay attention to his movements as he stalked her. 

He moved in swiftly. She chucked the pole at him for lack of anything else. He raised the shield to smack it away, giving her a small opening. She drew the dagger quickly and advanced, ducking under another slash to drive it into his thigh. It had worked, another blow in this war of attrition, but she left herself open, the lip of the shield colliding with the side of her head, the crack of it audible. 

She scrambled back, seeing stars. It was hard to recover from, her stunned state causing her to lose her balance and crash down onto the fine pebbles. The chalky surface stuck to the sweat on her skin. 

Plautianus let out a roar and reached for his bleeding thigh, inspecting the damage done. With a gut-wrenching glare, he abandoned the sword and shield. He wouldn’t need them. 

As she tried to regain her breath, her vision swimming, his foot caught her injured shoulder, knocking her back onto the ground. The small stones bit into her palm as she pushed herself up onto her knees, holding the dagger desperately. Her chest burned as she tried to steady her breathing.

He just kept coming at her. There was only one way this would end. This had been orchestrated since the order was given to claim the lands she came from. Perhaps the gods were here in this arena after all. Putting things into motion in order to amuse themselves later. They must view the people as playthings, acting out plotlines for their entertainment.

It bothered Letha that she might have always been going to die at the hands of General Plautianus. Someone above surely had a penchant for torture, letting her fool herself into thinking there could be anything else but this waiting for her. 

None of it mattered. Not to her outcome. Not to him. 

It was hopeless to try to salvage her feelings now. Let it hurt, let it burn her up. If she was to meet her end here, by his order, within his view, then she could allow herself to feel the sadness of it. It was sharper than any blade. It cut deeper. By that measure, she was already dead. No point in fighting it.

She threw the dagger down onto the sand, abandoning any effort to stand. 

General Plautianus laughed. “Surrender? You’ve been watching too many gladiator matches. There’s no such thing here. The gods don’t intervene to save treasonous whores.”

She watched him turn around and hobble over to where he’d abandoned the sword, something close to happiness in his face as he reclaimed it.

“You put up this fight, all this bluster, but you’re ineffective,” he spoke, gesturing to the scar along the side of his head. “At least you’ve realized that now, and I can put right this wrong.”

Letha would not rise to his taunts.

She waited for the sword to meet her neck, her head bowed low, the careful plait of her hair exposing the back of her neck for the blade. Plautianus was strong, she’d seen him wield that blade before. Her death would be swift. 

She rested her hands on her covered thighs and closed her eyes, letting the breeze blow in the scent of the heat, the stench of Rome. She would soon add to it, a carefully crafted perfume of misery. 

The crowd had gone quiet, their breath bated for the spilling of her blood. She could hear the crunch of the gravel underfoot, could just about picture how close General Plautianus was standing. Would he cleave her head from her shoulders in one blow? Or two?

“Stop!” Geta roared, his voice echoing around the colosseum. The silence stretched, no one sure of what was happening. 

Letha opened her eyes, turning to see Geta leaning out of the box, his chest heaving. 

“Enough,” he spoke, his voice not as loud this time. She could hear the pain in his voice. She didn’t dare let herself indulge in it. It changed nothing. 

“Mercy,” Caracalla agreed, standing beside him.

Letha heard Plautianus scoff, his shoe scuffing the ground. “Mercy?” he spat. “I was promised blood,” he yelled at them. She looked up at him, alarmed, as he began to ready his arm for a swing despite the Emperors’ wishes.

“Ancus!” Caracalla shouted. 

Before she could bring up an arm as if to shield herself from his blade, the shunk of an arrow sounded as it struck Plautianus in the chest, piercing the armor. The sword clattered to the ground. She sat there, shocked, as he sank to his knees right in front of her, his expression one of disbelief as he reached for the arrow lodged in his lung. He choked on blood as his face turned an ugly color. He finally fell back, landing on his side as he continued to claw at the wound. 

The Colosseum filled with uncertain murmuring. Why was she still breathing? Why did their general lay there, dead? Why was Emperor Geta so upset? Why did they intervene?

Letha refused to look up at the box, refused to look for Geta. Refused to let herself hope. She heard the Praetorians before she felt them hauling her to her feet. Despite being carried out of the arena still alive, she felt far from safe. In fact, nothing was certain now. 

What would Macrinus have to say about Geta’s intervention? Was he fuming in the box, wishing to crack the brothers’ skulls together and be done with it? She assumed he wished to see her dead before he enacted the final steps of his plan. Now that it was foiled, the twins weren’t safe, and she was stuck in the belly of the Colosseum, unable to help them. If they would even welcome her help. 

If she somehow got the chance, she would see Macrinus dead. And then, the fates could have her.

[ Part XIV ]

[zukkacore]

I feel like there’s a lot of lip service in NATLA paid to the idea that the NATLA versions of the female characters are more emancipated in a way that actively makes their characterization and the worldbuilding more confusing. For some reason the NWT is sexist in one very specific way (women can’t do combat) but all the ways the NWT customs are stifling & patriarchal to Yue in particular don’t exist anymore b/c they want to be explicitly clear that Yue does in fact have agency in this version! The characterization of NWT culture was very confusing, as was Yue’s free spirit thing. The idea that Yue has “always done what she wanted” is so fucking busted b/c it complete robs her of her arc & comes into contradiction with the core value at Yue’s whole personality which is duty. If she was going to do what she wanted the whole time, what was the point of her time w Sokka?

And Yue physically preventing Sokka from stopping her weakens the scene. Yes, the emphasis is placed on Yue’s choice but it robs Sokka of his autonomy & undermines the strength of their relationship. When Yue freezes him, the subtext of that choice is that she doesn’t trust him nor does she see him as the kind of person who respects her decisions. Yes, OG Sokka protested, he loved her, and he genuinely internalized his duty to protect her, but if he truly prioritized his duty over her personhood, he definitely could have done a lot more to stop her. But when Yue lets go of his hand, he lets her. I think that’s a much more powerful choice & a much clearer display of their relationship.

For some reason, the decision was made to remove the unlearning sexism arc from new Sokka & the defense was that stuff was “iffy and outdated” but it’s like. The original Sokka went through something called a character arc. & even after Kyoshi Island, his baggage about being a warrior is undoubtedly tied into his relationship with patriarchy, no doubt, but that Sokka learned a lot & that’s part of why Yue likes him. The original Sokka would not have needed to be restrained, nor would the original Yue have ever felt compelled to do so. As much as Sokka blames himself for what happened, he respected Yue. And her sacrifice deserves more respect than this lip service girlboss moment. It’s both brave AND tragic. Yue’s sacrifice is multifaceted in that it’s both the ultimate fulfillment to her duty to others but also the ultimate and final expression of autonomy. And that is why it rules

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Past Gojo x F!Yoriichi Reader? (He’s an absolute menace towards her at first, then he becomes clingy and obnoxiously annoying)

Reader became a First Year at the age of 14 when Gojo and Geto are 16 in their Second Year (They wanted to size up the ‘Newbie’)

Reader refused to train or take any missions and would always turn down Gojo every time he tried to pick a fight with her to see her strength (Because he can’t detect any Cursed Energy from her whatsoever, meaning she must be weak)

However Reader was forced to join Gojo and Geto during the Plasma Vessel Mission by the Higher Ups (As the Higher Ups threatened punishment on Yaga because he allowed her to get away with this *He was going to decline and take the punishment, but she agreed to take the mission because she didn’t want to burden her Foster Father with trouble after all that he’s done for her*)

This was actually the time where Gojo and Geto learn that Reader actually has a LOT of skill and talent (Their expressions are priceless when they see her kick someone’s ass in just a mere blur)

Reader gets along with Riko (As she likes hearing her talk) and even swears to protect Riko with her own life (Making Riko blush) as well as smack Geto and Gojo around when she saw them bully Rika

Reader prevented Riko from being assassinated (As she started combat with Toji, resulting in a rapid and devastating brawl between the two Superhumans, shocking Geto with their inhuman speed)

Reader is actually more efficient in combat and Exorcising Curses than her upperclassmen and even full fledged Sorcerers, even when she was just a mere child (However Yaga wanted Reader to have a childhood as long as he could possibly give her since he knows that despite his Daughter’s gift and talent in fighting, she doesn’t like fighting and dislikes violence, as she would rather prefer to spend time with her foster father Yaga than train)

Yaga was the first person to discover that Reader can’t use Cursed Energy (As in she doesn’t ANY), yet she can see Curses and even Cursed Energy (He finds that bizarre, yet he still takes Reader in as his own) She can see Cursed Spirits because of the Transparent World (And she has it constantly activated)

Yaga doesn’t mind Reader having pacifistic ideals and beliefs, the only problem is the Higher Ups won’t accept it after they find out about her gifts (Plus he knows his daughter will deal with sexism and inequality just because she was born a girl as well as her having no Cursed Energy)

Yaga found F!Yoriichi Reader when she was a child, and seeing she has no family and can see Curses he takes her in as his Daughter (He trains her at first, only to realize she as superhuman physical skills and prowess)

He thought she was deaf/mute because she never spoken a word from all the time he knew her until she was 14 (It was one of the few moments that made him do a double take)

When Gojo saw her smile she asked him to marry him (Yaga constantly smacks him yelling that his daughter is way to young!) but he’s persistent and keeps asking her

-You remember the day your adoptive father, Yaga, found you, all those years ago. The bodies of cursed spirits all around you, you drenched in blood, but none of it was your own.

-He couldn’t even begin to process how a child as young as you could have done this, even more so when he found out that you couldn’t use Cursed Energy, mainly because you had none!! How was this possible?!

-You never knew the answer yourself, you didn’t know how to explain it, despite having no Cursed Energy, you could see Curses and Cursed Energy, and all you knew that it was bad, so you attacked it whenever you saw it.

-Yaga was… almost intimidated by your skills, it was like you were born to be a warrior, your skills were unmatched, and you weren’t even properly trained!!

-He knew that you would be dealing with so much in your life, from being female, to having no Cursed Energy while being able to see and defeat Curses with ease, and your seemingly unnatural fighting skills.

-That’s why he did his best to try to give you a normal childhood, raising you with love and affection, showing you the good in the world, as he knew at one point the higher ups were going to find out about you.

-Yaga didn’t know how to explain your personality either, you were very stoic, with a rather intimidating RBF, but you were so gentle, you were a pacifist, you disliked fighting, despite being so good at it, and you enjoyed the moments away from training more, where you would sit with Yaga, and he would teach you new things, things about the world around you.

-Yaga had thought that you were mute for the longest time, as you had never said a word to him in the eight years you had been with him, until you turned fourteen. He knew how to communicate with you, and seemed to know what you were thinking or saying, but the first time you spoke, asking you what you wanted for dinner, “Can we go for ramen?” he had nearly tripped over his feet, turning to you in shock, hearing your voice for the first time, while you didn’t look bothered in the slightest!!

-When the higher-ups did finally find out about you, and found about how you refused to take missions, they threatened your father, and not wanting him to risk his own position, you agreed to go on an important mission, with the two thorns in your side, Geto and Gojo, your upperclassmen.

-You were the only underclassman, which made them pick on you anyway, but to hear about your unnatural strength paired with having no Cursed Energy, they were curious on how strong you were.

-Gojo was such a gremlin, constantly trying to tease you and pick on you, trying to goad you into a fight, as he wanted to test if you were really as strong as Yaga said, but you would always refuse, taking the pacifist route.

-You didn’t care what they said about you, calling you a coward, which only infuriated Gojo more, as he wanted you to acknowledge him picking on you!!

-When you joined them on the Plasma Vessel Mission, you hadn’t been expecting to meet someone like Rika, she was so warm, and while she was initially scared of you, due to your intimidating aura, she realized that you were a nice person.

-You were quite protective of Rika, protecting her from Geto and Gojo picking on her, and while none of you realized it at first, you were bonding with them, growing closer to them.

-It was when Toji attacked that they all got to see firsthand your skills, as you drew your own blade against Toji. Geto’s mouth fell open as he was protecting Rika, while Gojo was staring, wide-eyed, seeing you going toe-to-toe with Toji, a skilled sorcerer and warrior, and you were handling your own!!

-Toji was impressed, seeing someone so young, especially a girl, was handling him so easily, but when he told you this, your voice was icy, “My gender doesn’t define my strength.”

-After the battle and after thousands in property damage, you were able to walk away with only minor wounds, but you froze, looking quite panicked for once, when Rika leapt into your arms, sobbing loudly as she had been worried about you.

-After you were patched up, you found Rika, Gojo, Geto, and Yaga together, talking about what had happened with Toji, and as soon as you walked in, Gojo approached you and took your hands, clasping them between his own, “Marry me Y/N!”

-Yaga was quick to punch Gojo on the top of his head, making him let you go, “Get away from my daughter!!”

-This did little to deter Gojo, in fact it only seemed to spurn him on to try harder. You couldn’t recall a day when he didn’t ask for your hand in marriage.

-You were a little confused as to why he wanted to marry you, you had no Cursed Energy, while he was regarded as the pinnacle of sorcerers. All you knew that Yaga was probably going to kill him if he didn’t leave you alone and stop asking you!

-Geto remained silent when he saw the smallest of smiles on your lips, as you watched Yaga chasing Gojo while yelling at him, you looked so happy at that moment.

[ultfreakme]

Actually you know what, thinking on it, Sokka's sexism in the original was really weird and when writing fic, I had a hard time understanding where that even came from. We've been told Gran-gran left NWT because of the sexism and stayed at SWT, Hama was a fighter, Hakoda didn't condemn Katara for fighting or learning bending, there's a trivia thing where we learn Hakoda actually wanted to find a waterbending teacher for Katara. Now sure you can say fighting doesn't mean sexism wasn't present, but Sokka's conveyance of that sexism didn't work if that's the case.

Sokka specifically underestimates girls in fighting. That's how his sexism is largely expressed. Kanna wouldn't have raised Hakoda that way and in turn Hakoda wouldn't have raised Sokka like that.

He would be overprotective of Katara and stifle her as a bender, but not because he's sexist, but because Hakoda said "Hey you're our last warrior"- and this is actually the crux of his character.

One big argument people make is that Sokka's character arc with Suki apparently won't happen. But interviews state that the new focus on Sokka-Suki would be about them finding strength and solidarity as non-benders. In the original we do see Sokka trying to figure out his place and part in the war and among Gaang, he does feel insecure about his strength and ability to protect people. I think taking the new direction would connect well with the Serpent's Pass reunion.

I understand why people are hesitant but I just saw posts saying Sokka's sexism is inherent to his character as Toph's blindness is!?!?!? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU????? There's so much to unpack there I don't even know where to begin. Like this is getting ridiculous and in trying to say Sokka's sexism is good actually, you guys forget that the original was kinda fumbling its way through Sokka's sexism arc. It's not that fast or easy to make someone dismantle sexism, and the Kyoshi Warriors + Suki are playing into the idea that a woman is only equal to a man when she has combat prowess (I still kinda cringe at Suki saying "I'm a warrior....but I'm also a girl" she says that about her romantic interest in Sokka and kissing him, like why is being a girl or romantic interest associated with 'girl'?). They could've stretched out the arc and included Yue in helping Sokka learn that women aren't inferior but all talks of women's equality was restricted to combat.

I ADORE the Katara v Pakku fight and I think that was a far better discussion and showcase of misogyny and commentary on inequality. Because yes it was a fight, but it was, underneath all that, about Kanna and Yue.

It is the first time we see that actually, Kanna and Yue should get to choose because that is a fundamental right they should have. Healing was allocated entirely to women, but Katara learned it and it was never seen as an inferior form of bending. Everyone should get to pick if they wanna fight or they wanna heal or both. Katara'a fighter, a healer.

So I just wanna ask; Do you want Sokka's sexism to be there to comment on the unfairness of gender inequality? Do you want it there to give this one male character a character arc (because Sokka never talks to Katara- the one whom he hurt most with that attitude- or acknowledges his contribution in suppressing her advances in bending after this little lesson he learned from Suki)? Or do you want it there because the og did it so it has to be there? Because if it's the first, KATARA's arc does it a million times better and that's still in the show.

[city-of-ladies]

"According to Roman sources, emperors such as Nero and Domitian were fond of throwing lavish celebrations featuring female gladiators as novelty acts. The Roman historian Cassius Dio wrote of a days-long festival Nero held in honor of his mother in 59 where upper-class men and women “drove horses, killed wild beasts, and fought gladiators, some willingly and some sore against their will.” Roman historian and politician Tacitus referred to Nero’s female gladiators as feminarum, a term reserved for upper-class women, writing that “many ladies of distinction, however, and senators, disgraced themselves by appearing in the amphitheater.”

In 66, Nero sponsored more gladiatorial games featuring Ethiopian women, wrote Dio. And in 88, Emperor Domitian held games that again featured female gladiators, wrote biographer and historian Seutonius.

Sources also wrote of venatrices, female beast hunters, appearing in the Colosseum’s 100 days of opening games in 80. Venatrices took down stags, boars, and even lions with spears and bows, says Potter. Whereas female gladiators likely fought other women to first blood in single combat, explains Potter. Contrary to popular belief, fighting to the death was rare in gladiatorial games: Sponsors considered gladiators expensive, long-term investments.

Even though many Romans disapproved of female gladiators, people went wild for them in the arena. “We do know that some of the [female gladiator] fights took place in mid-afternoon, and that’s not the time for the novelty acts or the comedies or the executions,” says Philip Matyzask, an author, historian, and professor at the University of Cambridge. “That’s the time for the premier gladiator fights. So they were treated as serious professional bouts.”

The very existence of female gladiators complicates the understanding of Roman gender roles. Many believe Roman women were docile, modest, meek, and subservient to the men in their lives. But “Roman women wielded much more influence in society than many people out in the public think,” says Coleman. Roman women could be independent benefactors (funding the construction of buildings, temples, and social programs), own property, and divorce their husbands.

“I think we develop a better understanding of our own culture by close study of another,” says Potter, and studying female gladiators illuminates the “latent sexism in the way we view women,” both today and in antiquity.

Rome’s female gladiators are just one offshoot of women’s long, often-forgotten history as warriors. “Women have fought in nearly all conflicts and wars throughout history, from the war of Troy until today,” says Manas. Rome’s female gladiators were the women warriors of their time—redefining societal expectations of what women were and are capable of."

[butchpeace]

hi i'm too scared to do this off anon since i'm still publicly trans so. i just needed some place to get this off my chest because its been festering for almost a decade

i'm de-transitioning. i found out i was intersex as a teenager after years of considering myself "transmasc" because i didn't understand why my body was the way it was. i came out as trans at age 12 because i didn't understand what was wrong with me or why other girls made fun of me for looking "like a boy." i just tried to fit into the boy mold because it's what i was always told, even though there was an F on my birth certificate

i now realize i'm an intersex lesbian. while i don't fit the perfect mold of boy/girl, i'm just me. my experiences line up with being a woman, and i was born a girl. i'm just me and that's cool.

i've been in trans spaces since i was 12. the misogyny in these spaces is completely fucking vile. trans men are now being called "gentle queers" or "tender queers" because they try to say that exposing random people to sex acts is bad. explaining that some people can go to jail for having testosterone "DIY" or get fined is just trans men being "pussies," and they're not confident in their transness like their opposites. it's all packaged under them really being men now so they should shut up, and trying to combat it is "trans misogyny." you can't speak about an experience you've had your entire life without being told by a man that you don't Really know what you're talking about.

like you don't think that trans man is a "gentle queer," you want to misgender and call him a woman. on twitter i've been called a cunt, been given rape threats, and more by trans "women" because i said that a 35 year old trans "woman" was preying on younger trans "women." he was going after people who were 18, having them move in with him, and keeping it under the label of "age gap BDSM." i just sat there and sucked it up because i didn't want to be trans misogynistic because those people have power. they create fear.

"trans misogyny" is the most fucking bullshit term i've heard in my entire life. it isn't misogyny because there isn't centuries of oppression and violence behind it. any criticism towards a trans woman or their behavior is trans misogyny.

they grew up male and those who didn't never stopped benefiting from the patriarchy. they take up space, argue, and make women afraid like men. they use slurs they insist on reclaiming because they grew out their hair and wear shitty makeup. they have male socialization and sexism is so ingrained into how they interact with women because they only know us as surface-level caricatures. it's like watching someone mock me like how my peers did on the school bus.

you can always fucking tell theyre men because of the way they treat you. it's exhausting. i'm trying to find spaces for intersex women but it's all just MEN. can we not have this one fucking thing? why do they want to talk about misogyny when they've never truly experienced it? i spent my entire life being coddled and told i was Really a boy because i was a physically masculine girl, even though that wasn't who i really was. years of trying IUDs as a *14 year old* and doctors trying to "fix me" and getting called a bitch online for fearing for someone's safety is real fucking misogyny.

i'm tired.

feel free to ignore this. your blog seemed like a safe place to vomit all this out. your blog is like a breath of fresh air, thank you for what you do. hopefully intersex little girls like me one day won't be told they're too boyish to be a girl and face sterilization. Xx

Thanks for sharing your story! I’m so happy that you’ve accepted yourself and that you’re distancing yourself from that “community” ❤️

It really is misogynistic as hell, and it 1000% follows the age old pattern of male oppression of women. Personally I think it’s probably worse than misogyny in the general population, because I don’t think it’s possible for a man to “identify” as a woman without being a total misogynist.

[elbiotipo]

How is one even supposed to deal with racism while also rejecting the concept if race itself? Even if I do accept that race is a social construct that's based on nothing, how does that help anyone under attack for being part of a specific "race"?

Racism and race are two different things, racism is a real belief people have and societies have and it harms people, but race, the concept of "race" itself, is not real. The basis of racist thinking, the concept of race (and if we want to get specific, the pseudo-scientific concept created to justify European imperialism) is completely false, and this means that racism on itself is completely baseless and false.

One shouldn't fall into the fascist discourse of dividing people among races and trying to play their game and defining races yourself, because it's nonsense in the first place, one must reject the premise entirely. There are millions of people who judge other people by the color of their skin, and if we want to have a better society, we have first to acknowledge this is a problem, second to work towards resolving it (there are many ways to do this, but it depends on the specific context) and third, to understand that the entire concept of categorizing people by their appearance is wrong, both morally and empirically.

My point is that race is a completely made up concept. Racism, meanwhile is a social problem, a prejudice amplified by imperialism and capitalism, that exists and must be combated if we are going to have a better society, but one of the things we need to understand about it is that it's based on nothing. And that societies can be changed. Prejudices like racism, sexism, homophobia, are not the result of human nature but of entrenched historical conditions. We can change those, we can change material conditions by changing how society is organized, this is the basis of Marxism. If we change society, we can stop those prejudices too, and work towards a world where people can truly live in freedom and peace.