#so i think you could make him like. partially non white maybe and explore his ability to connect but nonetheless fail to understand some

[roobylavender]

this is definitely one of my more controversial stances but while i believe oliver queen absolutely has to be played by a white man i don’t think bruce wayne necessarily has to be

[meat--grindr]

I can request a story of Yandere Brahms with his reader, where Brahms kidnaps the reader by taking her inside the walls of the Mansion to be loved and protected. How did you come to this situation, maybe you can have a little NFSW?

Ahh, Brahms. How I love him so. I just wanted to let you know before we get into anything too serious, that this might be a little different than you were expecting, and for that I’m going to apologize right off the bat. I’ll admit I’m a massive weeb, but I never really saw the appeal of yanderes. Cringe, I know. So, I’m going to do my best here and take yandere more as ‘possessive’ if that’s alright? Also, I took some liberties with ‘kidnapping’ as you’ll see, just because I don’t want to walk too far into non-consensual territory when there’s NSFW involved. I don’t want to write anything explicitly non-consensual here, so it was a fine line to walk, but I think I found an okay solution. If this isn’t at all what you’re looking for, maybe drop me a PM and we can try to work something out? Anyway have like 5000-ish words of Brahms smut :)

Possessive (Yandere [?] Brahms (Female Reader) – NSFW

·       Standing at the foot of the stairs, you are struck, though certainly not for the first time, by the beauty of the house in which you find yourself. The golden hue of the wood which panels the walls reflect and amplify the soft glow emanating from beneath frosted glass lampshades. The diffused amber glow is cast about the room, throwing elongated shadows against the walls and into the far corners. From your place at the very bottom of the stairwell, the ceiling, now several floors above you, is lost to the early darkness of a winter evening.

·       Through the window, you can see the first soft flakes of snow drifting through the air. But here, inside, with your back braced against the newel post, you are warm. Tipping your head back, you gaze up into the yawning void above and cast your mind into it, losing yourself in daydreams of the beautiful rooms it conceals; your bedroom with its fourposter bed, all draped in velvet and silk—the dark, lacquered wood of the study, which still smells of cigar smoke, though as far as you can tell one hasn’t been lit in there for years—and, of course, the library.

·       Dark shelves line the walls, so tall they stretch from the wooden floor to the moulded ceiling. They stand, filled nearly past capacity with volumes of every shape and size, from encyclopedias so large you can lift only one at a time, to pocket novellas no bigger than your palm. Pages and spines alike, embossed with gold and silver shimmer from both the shelves and the tables set beside each of the overstuffed armchairs. The plush rug which lies beneath those tables and chairs makes even the floor a comfortable place to stretch out and lose oneself in a book. And the smell. Old leather and paper, printing ink and glue, dust and the very passage of time itself. It’s like every crooked old bookstore you’ve ever entered tucked away in a cozy corner of your own home. Whether or not you remember having dreamt of owning a private library, you were quite sure you could never go back to life without one and find yourself contented.

·       Even now, you long to curl up in one of those plush chairs and sink into another world until bedtime. You knew a soft blanket and a half-finished novel waited for you there, begging you to come back and see to them. And why shouldn’t you? What else was there to do on a chilly night such as this? The day’s chores were completed—the rat traps were checked (empty as always), the laundry was done, wood for the fire was stacked in the shed, and the supper dishes had been washed and put away. There is very little else that requires your attention. So why not?

·       Your socked feet sink into the plush, green carpeting as you mount the stairs. The banister is pleasantly cool and smooth beneath your fingertips. As you ascend, the light from below begins to dim, unable to reach any further into the darkness above. The difference made by the two flights of stairs between the lighted foyer and the dark second floor leaves you light-blinded and blinking in the shadows.

·       When again you regain your sight enough to behold it, even in partial darkness, the hallway that stretches before you is beautiful—the wooden paneling on the lower half of the walls takes on a sleek shine, while the deep green wallpaper above it fades into a stately and sober black. The paintings and portraits that line the walls are somber; muted without the proper lighting to show their colours, but they are no less impressive or imposing. A ship, barely visible, save for the canvas sails, is tossed on a rapidly darkening sea, lighting flashing far in the distance—a bright brushstroke of pure white, clear even in deep shadow. An old woman, her name rendered illegible in the gloom, stares down her nose at you in deep disapproval. Her eyes, like the rest of her, are severe and grey, and they seem, through either a trick of the light or the mastery of the painter, to follow you down the hall.

·       It is very dark. A thin, watery light filters through a small window at the end of the hall, but it does little to help guide you. You suppose you could turn on one of the many lamps that line the long and ponderous hall, but you know you can find your way just find without one. You’d spent several adventurous afternoons and many restless nights exploring the house and grounds. Though in the beginning you could barely follow the straight hall from the front door to the kitchen without getting lost, these days, you rarely, if ever, found yourself wandering the halls with no idea where you were.

·       You reach out, brushing the wallpaper with the tips of your fingers as you walk, grounding yourself in the darkness. It’s almost rough to the touch, stiff with age, though it’s clearly been well taken care of. In the daylight, there is little sign of aging at all - no scuffs or faded sections. You knew the house itself was well over a hundred years old, but it showed its age in astonishingly few places. Sure, the phones were ancient and the lack of wi-fi was irritating but—

·       Thump.

·       You freeze in place. You’re sure the sound had come from within the wall, just to the left of where you stood. There is something in there. The blood roars in your ear as you press it up against the wallpaper, straining to hear even a hint of movement, be it the shifting of the wood as the house settles, or the pitter-patter of something living. The seconds stretch on into minutes, but no further sounds come. You scrunch up your nose, feeling rather silly. It’s probably just a mouse…or maybe a rat. It sounded big. Perhaps those traps were good for something after all.

·       Your gaze lingers on the spot for a moment longer, but still, there is nothing but silence. Maybe it had been the house creaking in the wind. Old houses were prone to groaning after all. Either way, it couldn’t hurt to move some of the traps further up into the house for a little bit, just to be on the safe side.

·       You turn and continue down the hall, mind once again turning to the blanket, the book, and the comfy glow of the library. You press your palm flat against the wall as you walk, the whisper of your skin sliding over the wallpaper barely audible, even in the quiet that envelops the house at night.

·       Then your fingers catch against something—an indentation in the wallpaper. It’s subtle, but definitely there. You stop to inspect it closer, worried that perhaps your assessment about the house not showing its age may have come a little hastily. Your fingers explore the seam with care, and you decide it’s not a crack—it’s too regular, too straight. It feels intentional in its design. And it’s practically invisible in the darkness—likely just as difficult to spot in daylight considering how frequently you find yourself in this hall and your failure to take notice of it before now.

·       You crouch down, following the seam with your fingers. It stretches all the way down to the floor. Why…it’s almost like…a little door…

·       Almost at the same moment this thought trickles into your mind, the little section of wall gives way beneath your touch, swinging inward on silent hinges.

·       From within the inky darkness beyond, a pair of long, thin arms surge forth, snaking around your waist. The grip in which they envelop you is bruising as you are pulled back into the darkness beyond the secret door.

·       It slams behind you hard enough to rattle the picture frames in the hall. You scream, long and hard, struggling against the arms that cage you. You flail your limbs, lashing out blindly with fists and feet and nails, hoping desperately to strike your attacker, or at least wriggle enough to squirm from their crushing grasp. But the grip around your midsection only tightens, squeezing the very air from your lungs.

·       You lurch into motion, the figure in the darkness half-carrying, half-dragging you along a narrow passageway. You try to scream again but find you can’t get enough air to do so. Instead, you lash out, legs kicking against the walls, knees and shins colliding painfully with rough, wooden support beams and sharp corners.

·       While rounding a particularly tight corner, you manage to kick the opposite wall hard enough to throw your attacker off balance. A hissing shower of dust and plaster rains down on the pair of you. The figure stumbles, grip relaxing for only a moment, but it’s enough. You wriggle from their crushing grasp and dart back the way you came.

·       The figure recovers quickly, and you can hear them bolting after you in the darkness. It doesn’t take long before they’re on you again, one large hand fisted deep in your hair, wrenching your head back. You cry out in pain, stumbling back against the intruder. The hand in your hair doesn’t relinquish it’s hold as their other arm wraps around your chest, locking in place like an iron bar. You struggle uselessly, hot tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you’re dragged back the way you’d come, seemingly with even less regard for your physical well-being.

·       Not far beyond the corner where you’d made your escape, you’re shoved to the ground unceremoniously. As you make to crawl away, the figure circles around you, blocking your path of escape. Even as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can’t see much more than an outline. Even so, you can tell they’re much bigger than you. You feel a large hand sliding beneath your knees, and another on the small of your back and suddenly, the floor beneath you drops away. Instinctively, your arms shoot out, fumbling in the darkness for something solid to grab hold of. Your grasping hands find a fist-full of the intruder’s shirt. It’s soft and well-worn in your hands, and you clutch so tightly to it that you can feel your fingers beginning to cramp almost immediately. A soft rumble rolls through the figure, and after a moment, you realize they’re laughing at you. You want to let go, but the fear of tumbling backward into the darkness stills your hands.

·       With the way you’re being jostled about, you get the distinct impression that you’re ascending a flight of stairs. Secret tunnels and staircases in the walls? Under any other circumstance, you would be ecstatic, ready to drop everything and explore them. But caught as you were, in the arms of a stranger, there is nothing but panic within you. Taking advantage of your new position, you take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the intention to scream, though you’re sure there’s no one around to hear you.

·       “Don’t.” So, it’s a man? His voice is soft, a half-whisper that thrums through your body where it’s pressed up against his chest. There is a distinctly British tilt to his voice, and it’s oddly muffled, as though something was covering his mouth. You’re reminded of those old cartoon bandits who wore bandanas across their mouths. He doesn’t want to be identified. The though sends a cold chill through you. This isn’t good. “Scream and I’ll drop you.”

·       The scream dies in your throat. While you certainly don’t like being caught in a strange man’s grip, the thought of lying broken at the bottom of a secret staircase no one else seems to know about hammers a worse kind of fear into your gut. You could die…or not and that might be the worse option: injured and completely at a stranger’s mercy. No. As it stands, if you follow his instructions, you remain unharmed, and the longer you remain unharmed, the better your chances of finding a way out.

·       At the top of the steps, you find yourself in front of a rough wooden door. Here he readjusts his grip on you, bracing your weight against his hips as he taps the door open with a gentle kick.

·       Suddenly, you’re bathed in a soft, golden light cast by the dozens of candles that lay scattered about the room. After so much time spent in the dark, the burst of light dazzles your eyes. In spite of your fear, you curl up against the strange man’s chest, turning away from the light that blinds and burns your eyes. It’s too much too soon.

·       The man laughs again, bouncing you gently in his arms, like one would a small child, “No hiding.”

·       His tone is light, but it is still a command. Sensing scant room for disobedience, you turn your face up towards his, cracking one eye open, then the other. You had been told not to, but in the flickering light, as you blink up at the face of your kidnapper, you can do nothing to stop the scream that builds in your throat.

·       His face is hidden, not behind a bandana, but a porcelain mask. The pale white surface is littered with a spider’s web of thin cracks and what looks to be dried blood. Your eyes sweep over the soft curve of the mouth, the delicate nose which turns up at the end, and the empty spaces behind which dark, human eyes burn into your own.

·       The moment the scream leaves you, ringing loud in the enclosed space, the man snarls, striding into the room with purpose. As he weaves through the maze of dusty old furniture, you beat your fists against his chest, squirming in his grip, trying with renewed desperation to escape his clutches. “Let me go! Let me go!!”

·       Ignoring your pleas, he stalks to the far corner of the room, where a low-slung cot waits, tucked close against a rough brick wall. He dumps you none too gently onto it, and you scrabble backward, knocking your head against the wall behind you. Your ears ring with the force of the blow, but your eyes remain trained on the masked man as he clambers onto the cot with you.

·       You jam yourself back into the corner, as far from the menacing figure as possible. He comes toward you slowly, laughing, as though this were all some silly game the pair of you were enjoying. You kick at him, and he swats your leg away, his shoulders shaking with laughter. His eyes, however, aren’t laughing. Where they peak out from beneath the mask, they blaze with only one thing: hunger.

·       You kick out at him again, catching him, this time, on the jaw, just beneath the edge of his mask. And just like that he’s not laughing anymore. He goes frighteningly still, and there’s a change in the air. You know he’s done playing.

·       He lunges for you, and you shriek, cowering back against the wall, the rough bricks digging into the flesh of your arms. His hands close around your ankles and he pulls you down toward him.

·       He slots himself between your legs, pinning your thighs down with boney knees. You squirm beneath him, but he’s too heavy for you to shake off. He looms above you in the candlelight, breathing hard, his eyes flashing behind the mask. With a jolt, you realize he’s going to hurt you. You’re so sure, you flinch, cringing away from him as much as is possible, bracing for the pain that’s sure to come.

·       But, when his knuckles brush against your cheek, it’s not in anger. It’s a gentle caress that jolts through you like an electric current. You turn to look at him, as he brushes the damp hair back from your forehead. He stares at you for a long moment, drinking in your shock, before leaning down to press cool porcelain lips against yours.

·       The kindness of his gestures surprises you almost more than any blow he could have delivered. When he promised to play rough, he usually meant it. With shaking hands, you reach up to touch his face. Your fingers slip beneath the mask, brushing the hair and skin beneath with feather-light touches. You want to see his face, want kisses from his real lips, want—

·       But the man’s fingers curl around your wrists, wrenching your hands from his face. “No.” There is force behind the word equal to the force with which he pins your wrists against the sheets, indenting the mattress beneath them. His voice, in that same soft whisper from before, rasps in your ear, “Not even when we’re playing, Love.”

·       You swallow hard, all the pretenses of your little experiment dropping away in an instant. You realize you came dangerously close to crossing a line. “Okay. Brahms. I-I’m sorry.”

·       You expect that he’ll want to stop now, and you wouldn’t blame him if he did, but he surprises you by nuzzling against your neck, “Not ‘Brahms.’”

·       So, he still wants to play. You smile up at him. “Oh, right! Sorry.”

·       He bends over your neck again, pressing porcelain kisses against your neck. You crane your head back, eager to make up for your misstep with the mask. There’s something about these kisses that makes your heart flutter—perhaps it’s simply the rush of a new sensation against sensitive flesh, or maybe it’s the knowledge that his real lips lay just beneath that hard surface, so close and yet completely out of reach.

·       When he lets go of your left wrist, you’re so caught up in these kisses, that you barely register it. That is until you feel the mask slide in an unnatural direction against your skin, and you feel Brahms’ real lips against your neck for the first time. Your whole body jerks forward, pressing against him with a soft sigh on your lips. His mouth is softer and warmer than you ever could have imagined. Even his beard feels good where it scratches against you.

·       His teeth scrape over your pulse, drawing another sound from you. You throw your arms around his neck and pull him down on top of you. His laugh rasps out against your throat, as he stamps warm kisses all across your collarbone.

·       You roll your hips against his and he groans, the sound rumbling deep within his chest. He surges upward fixing his teeth into the meat of your neck as he grinds down against you, letting you feel just how badly he wants you. His name slips between your teeth as a hiss and you feel him smile against your neck. His tongue flickers over the mark he’s left, though it’s more to lay further claim than to soothe the ache his teeth pushed into your flesh.

·       When he pulls back, he’s already pushing the mask back into place, though you catch a quick flash of the smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth.

·       He looks down at you, eyes sliding slow down your body, head cocked to the side like he’s thinking. He has that hungry look about him again and it lights a white-hot bolt of desire in your gut. You lift your hips, rolling them against his, relishing both the spark of pleasure that shoots through your stomach, and the shiver that rolls down his spine. A little whine escapes his lips, and you feel your heart leap. God, you’d do anything to hear that sound again. He meets the roll of your body with a stuttering jolt of his own.

·       You can’t help but beam up at him. “What are you thinking about Brah—Mister?”

·       He sighs deeply, running his hands down your chest, his fingers tracing along your ribs. “About all the things I could do to you…”

·       A breathless puff of laughter escapes you, “Oh, yeah?” You guide his hands down to your hips, hoping he’ll take the hint. “Like what?”

·       “Hm…let’s see. I could, hold you down,” His hands, still resting beneath yours tighten against your hips, pushing you down against the mattress. You try to buck up against him, but he holds you fast, “I don’t think so, Love.” He grips you hard, dipping his head to whisper into your ear, “I could just hold you here, and you’d have to take whatever I decide to give you.” His thumbs trace the seams of your hips. Even through your jeans it makes you shudder.

·       “Or, I could give you very little at all,” He lets go of your hips in favour of ghosting a hand down your thigh. His other hand presses gently against your zipper. His fingers trail down the seam, until you feel the pressure against your clit and jerk against his hand. He pulls away, “Just enough to keep you interested, but not enough to satisfy you.”

·       You whine, feeling a damp patch growing in your underwear. You know he’d get such a charge from dragging this out, teasing you until your arousal had soaked through the denim of your jeans. You could hear him now, ‘A few kisses and some dirty words…it’s that easy?' While you’d usually be willing to indulge him, you weren’t willing to give him that satisfaction today. He was already so uppity as it was. “Or you could just toss my legs over your shoulders and take what you want.” You toss an arm over your forehead in an attempt at playing toward his flair for the dramatic, “Look at me, baby. I’m defenseless.” You roll your hips against him again, nice and slow. You can tell by the hitch in his breathing that you’ve almost got him convinced. You can barely keep the smirk from your face as you arch your back, and whimper for him, “Please?”

·       That one word is all it takes to break him. In a flash he’s slipped out of his cardigan and tossed it off into the darkness of the attic. His suspenders follow suit with a metallic clinking. It isn’t until he’s unbuttoning his trousers that you realize you have mere seconds to undo your own before Brahms falls upon you and tears them off himself. You’ve lost more than one good pair of jeans this way and you don’t intend to lose another if you can help it.

·       Your shaking hands fumble with the button, managing to pop it only after a few tries. Taking them off from your position underneath Brahms is no small feat, especially considering his reluctance to move, now that his trousers rest about his knees and he’s rolling his hips against your still clothed thigh, his cock already leaking against the denim.

·       “Want you now.” His voice is rough, breaking in time with the thrusting of his hips.

·       “I know, baby. But you’ve gotta wait.”

·       Brahms huffs in irritation. ‘Wait’ is not a word he likes to hear at the best of times, let alone when his dick is this hard.

·       You tap his hip gently. “C’mon, up.”

·       He drops his head against your shoulder with a petulant whimper, his hips stuttering against your thigh.

·       “Brahms…” You sigh, half-frustrated, half-amused. You would be lying if you said you didn’t find it incredibly sexy when Brahms acted like a brat, but your pleasure was at stake here as well. “You can’t fuck me properly with my jeans on.”

·       His hips slow for a moment, and he whines again.

·       “C’mon, be a good boy for me.” You feel his cock pulse against your thigh, and he relents. He scoots back just enough for you to push your jeans and underwear down your thighs. Brahms takes care of the rest, tearing the offending fabric from your legs and tossing it from the bed to join his cardigan on the floor.

·       His hands are on your shoulders in an instant, shoving you back against the mattress, all patience spent. You feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and barely have a time to take a breath before he’s pushing inside with a single, smooth stroke.

·       “F-Fuuuck…”

·       “Yeah, that’s the idea, baby.” Your hands are fisted tightly in the sheets, your voice tight as your body grows accustomed to the stretch once again. You’ve taken Brahms with little preparation before. You know you can handle it, but somehow the girth of him almost always comes as a surprise.

·       To his credit, he does his best to keep still until you give him the ‘okay,’ though you can feel his hips shaking with the effort. He’s mouthy while he waits though, any trace of the gentleman within him his gone, replaced by a cursing, dirty-talking stranger, “Gonna pound you into this mattress, gonna fuck you like—fuck you’re so wet—like your my whore…mine, mine, ah fuck! Mine.”

·       You roll your hips, testing the water, and he bites back a string of curses. His hips stutter forward unbidden, and you moan low in your throat.

·       Behind the mask, you see his eyes roll back. He starts to beg then, changing his tune entirely, “Please, Love, let me fuck you, please, please, please. I promise I’ll be good. I will, just please!”

·       You reach up, carding your fingers through his hair, “Show me what a good boy you are, make us feel good, baby.”

·       Without missing a beat, Brahms’ hips take up a frantic rhythm, tearing a litany of pretty sounds from your throat. Your hands tangle themselves in his hair as he drops his head to press doll’s mouth kisses against your throat.

·       Your hand slips between your bodies, spreading your lips to circle your clit. You buck against him, gasping his name as the pleasure courses through you two-fold.

·       A strong hand grasps your wrist again pulling it away from your clit. “We mustn’t touch what isn’t ours.” You nearly whine in frustration, but your displeasure is quickly forgotten when you feel the soft pads of Brahms’ fingers against your sensitive flesh.

·       “You,” he groans in pleasure, angling his hips to push deeper inside of you, “You belong to me.” He punctuates the sentiment with a sharp snap of his hips. “That means I am the only one who can make you feel good.” He presses his fingers hard against your clit, and your thighs begin to shake. “Tell me who you belong to.”

·       It takes you a second to find your voice. “Y-You, Brahms.”

·       “Yesss,” the rhythm of his thrusts is beginning to fall by the wayside as his hips buck and stutter. “Say it again.” His fingers circle your clit faster, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of orgasm.

·       “Fuck, Brahms! I’m yours! A-All yours! You’re gonna make me cum.”

·       “Mine.” You feel the mask slide to the side again and his lips are on your neck. You feel his teeth graze the bite mark he’d left. His teeth are in your throat, his fingers on your clit, his cock in your cunt, and you’re cumming. His name tumbles from your lips, the only coherent thought in your mind.

·       He groans against your neck, trying to fuck you through it, but you’re too tight around him, forcing him into an agitated stillness. His fingers work your clit feverishly until you push his hand away, too oversensitive to stand another second of it.

·       You’re still almost painfully tight around him when the rhythmic pulsing of your own orgasm begins to push him over the edge. He thrusts into you once, twice, thrice more, before pulling out and shaking apart, his cum painting your thighs and stomach. He whimpers and trembles, fisting his cock through the aftershocks of his orgasm, desperate to chase every last ounce of pleasure.

·       Only when he’s well and truly spent, nearly sobbing from the agony of the overstimulation does he flop down on the cot beside you, panting heavily, cock still twitching against his thighs.

·       He kicks off his trousers, and curls up by your side, throwing an arm around you. For the longest time, the only sound in the room is that of your breathing slowing in tandem as you each come down from your high.

·       Brahms’ voice is small when he speaks up at last, “Did I do okay?”

·       You turn to face him, laying on your side. You reach out a hand and readjust his mask, before pressing a soft kiss against the delicate bow of his lips. “You were perfect. Thank you, Brahms.”

·       He nods once, but he doesn’t look convinced. There’s tension in his shoulders, and he won’t look you in the eyes.

·       “What’s wrong, honey?”

·       He shakes his head, burrowing against your side. “Nothing…”

·       “It doesn’t look like nothing to me. It’s okay to talk to me about things like this, you know.”

·       He’s silent for a little while longer, and you wonder if he needs a little more prodding to use his words. But then, he speaks, “I wasn’t…too rough? In the passages?”

·       “No, baby. No. It was exactly like we talked about.”

·       “Okay.” There’s a little touch of a frown in his voice, like he’s trying to puzzle something through in his mind. “I didn’t expect you to fight me so hard. It felt…real.”

·       “I wanted to make it seem real. Did I upset you?”

·       There’s a long pause, but when he speaks, he sounds genuine. “I don’t think so. It was a little…thrilling.”

·       You can’t help the giggle that bubbles in your throat, “It was, wasn’t it? Where did you get an idea like that? Pretending to kidnap me and all that?”

·       He’s quiet for a moment, as he remembers a time not so long ago, when the idea was meant to be more reality than fantasy. He was supposed to have that girl. He should have done better, should have fought for her harder, should have killed her and buried her in the yard with the others. He should have done a lot of things. The scar on his stomach burns with the memory of all the things he should have done. But they don’t matter now. She doesn’t matter now. He has you.

·       He presses another kiss against your neck and lies, “Recreation of a scene from 'Jane Eyre.' You know how I adore that novel. And you being such a pretty lady, simply had to fill the role of the damsel in distress.”

·       “If you say so.” You snuggle closer against his chest. He really was a very strange man. A yawn blossoms in the base of your jaw, but you do your best to fight it off. You know you’ll be sore later, but for now you’re happy and sated and perfectly content to doze in the arms of the man you love.

·       Then a thought hits you, “Hold on, Jane Eyre doesn’t get kidnapped, Brahms.”

·       He chuckles softly against your shoulder, “So you have been reading my books after all.”

[absinthe-and-abstinence]

An Unhealthy Obsession: Chapter 19

A Heart-to-Heart, and an Eye-to-Eye

TW: yelling, reckless driving, language, slight (?) non-consensual activity, partial nudity, and biting-ish?

Aw, man! You all have been amazing readers, and I'm so glad you're all enjoying the story so far. I didn't think I'd really get a pair of eyes on this; the fact it's getting as popular as it is getting is unbelievable to me. Thank you all. More content is coming your way, and that means more answers, and more questions. I'm always available on Tumblr or my Twitter as well. Thank you all, and enjoy. X

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You yelled as you raced down the highway, afraid that the interstate cameras might catch your plate and you.

“Why didn’t you leave with them? You had the chance!”

He hadn’t calmed down yet. “I know, I know…” he muttered as he wrestled his hands through his hair.

“Jesus Christ, Spence. I kidnapped you and even I know how stupid that is.”

His body trembling, he put up his hand to his face. “I-I…”

“You’re not anything. You’re just stupid.”

Your emotions were too intertwined and intense to untangle. Were you mad? Disappointed? Relieved? Confused? Scared? Perhaps, but you were so caught up in this moment that you couldn’t decipher anything. The only emotion you could define was the panic that was written all over the face of Spencer.

“You told me to get in the car,” he whispered.

“No, I didn’t,” you hissed, “I told you to make a decision. I had to leave and your team was right there. God, Spencer, why didn’t you go with them?”

“I-I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t ready to go back, maybe I was just scared…I…”

You raced down the highway, going faster than any speed limit required.

“What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the one who made the decision, I’m just asking you why!”

He ran his hand up to his hair and pulled on it.

“It really doesn’t help when you yell at me, you know.”

You sat there, face flushed and red. Regardless of anything else you felt, you decided you were absolutely pissed off. You sat there, simmering and steaming as he tried to calm himself down.

“Please, Spence, just say something. Anything.”

His breathing was beginning to slow down again.

“Their faces looked so scared when they saw me. Like they saw a ghost.”

“Well,” you replied exasperated, “you have been technically missing for months. If you were looking for one of them who went missing; how’d you feel when you found them again? What if it was Derek that had gone missing?”

“You know,” he laughed, “how do you even know what Derek’s like? You’ve never met him.”

You kept your eyes on the road. “I think you’re forgetting I’m the crazy, obsessive villain here. Watching you meant watching the people around you too.”

“That is one of the scariest things someone has ever said to me.”

You chuckled, then remembered instantly your anger and frustration. You forced the smile off your face and turned onto your exit. How could he be so irritating, making you smile while seeing red?

“Anyway. They’ve only gotten one call from you, and the first time they see you again – you run? You don’t think that’s terrifying to them?”

“I-I, uh, I didn’t think about that.”

“Spence. Again; how would you react?”

He fidgeted with his hands, locking and interlocking his fingers. “Also scared. Confused. Shocked.”

The house began to become visible within the ghostly dark forest. It was still a far ways off, but you could start to make it out.

“So why did you run?”

“I don’t know…I guess I’m just afraid of losing you?”

You almost slammed on your brakes.

“…What?”

“I-I’m not sure. I’ve lost a lot of people in my life, I just don’t want that to happen to you.”

Something inside you snapped, and you shut down. At this point, you didn’t know if you were blushing or if you were reaching your boiling point. He seemed nervous, glancing back at you to see if you’d speak again. You remained silent, and kept your face emotionless. In the corner of your eye you could see his hands continue to fidget and flop around, but you didn’t care.

Finally, you arrived at the house. You marched out the car door and stomped up to the front door. Forcibly placing the key inside the lock, you slammed open the front door and turned on the hallway light before Spencer had even shut his passenger side door.

You waited for him behind the corner, listening to hear him come up the front steps and through the door. As soon as he shut the front door and turned around, you caught him off guard.

“Listen, Spence. I think you’ve forgotten who I am,” you growled.

“I, I know who you are, Y/N,” he stammered.

You led him up against a wall and pinned him there with your hands on each side of his body.

“I’m not someone you miss, Spencer. I’m someone who took you from your friends and family to a house in the middle of nowhere.”

He stared down at you, taking a gulp of air.

“You want to know how I got you here? I drugged your coffee with cough syrup; did you know that? I figured you should know that.”

The words escaped your lips on their own, unaware if this was a fear tactic or a confession.

“You had an electric collar around your neck, do you remember that? I tied you up downstairs in the basement here, to keep you. I remember that day clearly, do you?”

You kept your eyes on him, his eyes glancing anywhere but your own gaze. A bead of sweat appeared on his brow.

“I’m not someone you miss, Spencer. I’m someone you should be afraid of. More than the reaction of anyone on your team.”

You started to take off his jacket, then unraveled the scarf from around his head.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

Your hands shaking, out of fear, frustration, and the amalgamation of emotions that kept flaming inside you.

“You, my good Spencer, ran away from me twice. You came back to me the first time, sick and scared. The second time I found you, you were so intoxicated you couldn’t tell one person’s face from another. It’s common for unsubs to punish their victims for escaping. So,” you trailed off, now revealing a devilish grin, “it’s time for me to play the role.”

As you began to undo the buttons on his shirt, he quivered.

“W-what role?”

Pop, pop, went the buttons as you worked your way down his white collared shirt.

“The role you seemed to forget I play. I’m the unsub in this little story.”

You rolled the sleeves down his arms, revealing his bare chest. Now that it was naked and available, you could see the waves of breathing; inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. You took your hands and pinned his wrists to the wall; making them eye-level up from you. You licked your lips and began to kiss his neck.

He moaned softly, but you pretended not to hear it. The idea of him getting any satisfaction right now made you angrier, and your kisses became harder and faster against his skin.

“When you ran away from me, you let other people mark your skin,” you said between kisses and breaths, “now it’s my turn to mark you as mine.”

Your kisses turned harsher as you began to use your teeth against his neck. They wouldn’t appear yet, but where you passionately put your lips would become dark, indigo bruises later against his skin. You took one hand off of his wrists, and used your fingernails to trail down his chest.

Slowly, you began to work your way across and down. You worked first towards the shoulder closest to you, dragging your nails across his chest as you left lovemarks tiled on him. As your fingers floated across his form, you could feel his breathing getting faster and his body getting warmer.

“Is it still punishment if I enjoy it?”

You didn’t stop your actions for a second. In fact, as he muttered those words and you could almost taste the panting from his mouth, it encouraged you to work faster, to work harder, and suddenly – that fire that you had had once; this raw, burning, sensation that tickled your bones the moment you saw him onscreen; that insatiable obsession that drew you deeper and deeper into the cesspool of Spencer Reid – had caught flame again.

“Shut the fuck up,” you hissed, as you smashed your lips against his.

You tried to force the kiss, but every time you went back to kiss him again, his lips met yours with a passion akin to yours. Unsure if it felt amazing to have this sensation, that he may want you the way you wanted him, or if it was more irritating than anything – that as much as you were trying to prove a point; you were a dangerous person who shouldn’t be trusted and would only hurt him, he was so excited by you that your lesson had flown right over his head. The more you tried to kiss him harder, he’d meet your mouth with the same unexpected fury.

The one hand you had remaining on his wrist you brought into his scalp, and began to play with his hair with your fingers. He whimpered softly into your breath, and he moved his lips away to make that sound.

“Ah,” was the only noise you could muster as you took a tucket of his hair and pulled gently on it. He took a sharp breath and tilted his head back. You used one hand to pull different spots of his hair, the other hand you guided towards his stomach to rack your nails slowly across, and moved your lips slowly off of his mouth, down his chin, and down his neck.

You two slowly, in one unison, unspoken, walked your way over to the couch. He toppled onto it, you quickly taking your position on top of him – dominating him.

“God, I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” you muttered as you worked your mouth down the base of his throat to his pectorals. “I’ve wanted to know what it’d be like to be with you, to touch your body.”

His eyes rolled back as he said, “Please, Y/N, then. Explore the all of me.”

You took your mouth off of his chest to meet his gaze. His expression wasn’t one of fear, worry, or apprehension. It was a calm, serene one, that even through a flushed complexion and wavering breathing, met your eyes with a sense of serenity.

You took one of his hands, and kissed his wrist. You kissed it gently, with the softest of intentions. He held it up higher for you, as you planted sweet kisses from his lower arm up towards his biceps. You worked your way up back to his shoulder, giving him the sweetest of touches where your marks had already started to become visible.

“Is this what your life is, just trauma after trauma?” you asked as you began to work on the other wrist. “Do you just wave from horrible thing to horrible thing?”

“You’re not a horrible thing. Not to me,” he whispered.

You kept going, not listening to his reply.

“Is that why you wake up and do your job, regardless of anything evil you had seem before? You’ve learned just to tuck that trauma away from another day?”

“It’s not trauma if I want you to do this.”

You took both your hands and wrapped it around the hand of the arm you had been loving.

“You know I’m not healthy. I’m not good for you in any way.”

“Well,” he answered, clapping his free hand against your own, “as a doctor, I must say your hypothesis needs a little work. You’re not healthy for me. I’m probably not very great for you either, giving into you like this. But,” he said, as he began to sit up, “you were wrong about one thing.

You’re the best thing I could ever want or need right now.”

And this time, the first time sober, he kissed you square on the lips.

He guided his hands out of yours, holding your head steady. He worked his own hand up into your hair, stroking it softly. You returned his kiss, and he used his other hand to cradle your cheek. The tension in your entire body melted, and you swooned into him.

“There we go,” he murmured, as he guided you down onto the couch, this time with him on top of you.

“You’re not scary,” he continued to move his lips from your lips onto your cheek. “Quite the opposite, really.”

This time, it was you who had grown soft and panted to his touch.

“You see, people,” he whispered, as he tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, and worked his way down your neck, “sometimes feel a need to deflect their thoughts and feelings. You want me to be scared of you, Y/N, because you’re afraid. Maybe you feel guilty. Maybe you’re scared I’d leave again. Or maybe,” he stopped, “you’re afraid that for the first time in a long time, someone has ever cared for you back in this way.”

Oh god.

He began to work the sweater off of you, past your chest, past your shoulders, over your head, and onto the floor. He continued to speak.

“I know what it likes to be scared of being with another person. Feeling that they may see you for this gross, unlovable person you truly are. You’re so worried that they may leave you for who you are, you push them away first. That way you get hurt, but its your own fault, and you’d think it’d hurt a little less that way.”

For the first time since the shower, Spencer saw your chest, your lingerie moving up and down with the movement of your respiratory system.

“I never called people back, no matter how much I cared about them. If they saw where I came from, what my mind was like, what I saw everyday…” he stopped speaking for a moment or two, taking time to place his lips onto your collarbone. His warmness sent a tingle up your spine, and he continued.

“I know my team is waiting for me, looking for me. I know that I shouldn’t be here, and certainly not on top of you. But you know what, Y/N?”

He looked up at you, a soft smile on his face.

“I really couldn’t care right now.”

“I…” you muttered, not even sure what to say.

As if he knew, he shushed you and place a finger up to your lips. You kissed it gently.

“May I?” he asked, tucking his thumb underneath your bra.

You nodded, and he slowly lifted your bra off your chest and over your head.

The way he played with you was gentle, and it made you feel safe, in a weird way. Comforted. The way he cupped your breast and slid his fingers around it – it didn’t feel risqué or sensual. It felt natural, as if he was exploring your body and not trying to slip into it.

He embraced one breast with one hand, and place his mouth around the other. It sent shivers all the way up you, and you hadn’t ever realize how sensitive that area was until now.

“Spence…”

He slowly stopped his activity, looking back up at you with puppy-dog eyes.

“I’m supposed to be teaching you a lesson. I’m supposed to be punishing you.”

He lifted you up gently as to see eye-to-eye.

“Even if I was stricken down from the gods above, you would not be a punishment to me. If you were my hamartia, I’d chose to the pain of an arrow in my heel if that meant I got to have you in my life.”

How gentle this felt. It almost didn’t feel real, like a blurry dream far-off. But as Spencer placed one arm underneath your back and slipped the other underneath the back of your knee to carry you off the couch to upstairs, you realized: this was real. Regardless if you came from another world or this one was made of fiction, it was real enough for you. Spencer was real enough for you. Even if you got arrested, you decided, and locked up for a million years, the way he smiled and looked at you now would be worth everything you had done up to this point.

He carried you up into your bedroom and let you fall tenderly onto the bed. He kissed your forehead and as he began to leave the room, you asked him if he might spend the night with you in this bed. He chuckled at that and replied,

“I think I get to decide that as my last birthday present of the night. It’s a good way to end a birthday.”

He climbed in and curled up next to you, and you two melted into one another. You wrapped your bodies around one another, one embracing the other.

“Sorry for, you know, running out of a bar and yelling at you on your birthday.”

He laughed.

“I’ve had a lot worse birthdays than that.”

As he drifted off into a slumber, you whispered good night to him, and fell asleep yourself, no longer worried about the possibility of a team of trained hunters coming to find you.

Which was great, since they had caught the last two numbers of your plate, and with the make and model of your car, and all the video footage of you driving hectic earlier, that was all they needed.

And they were coming.

Taglist:

@thatsonezesty13

[gra-sonas]

I didn’t mean to be “silent”, this just took me much longer to write than I had planned. 

First of all, I’d like to point you in the direction of a very good post @adiwriting​ posted a couple of days ago, that sums things up in a very articulate way, you can find it HERE.

~*~

In short: in his most recent interview with the Pretty Little Wine Moms Podcast, Tyler - who’s playing a character who’s half Native American -  revealed, that he did a DNA test with a company called 23AndMe during the filming of season 1 of Roswell, New Mexico, and he test didn’t detect Native American ancestry, even though his grandmother had told him in 2010, that his paternal grandfather Harold's great grandmother was Cherokee Indian.

Below the cut is a transcript of that part of the interview, my opinion on this whole thing, and I answered a couple of asks I got about it. This is a VERY long post.

I’ve already watched the video of the interview, and it shows, that they edited the interview quite heavily. There are several cuts throughout the episode, and some things that can be heard in the audio version, didn’t make it into the video either. 

TRANSCRIPT [I didn’t transcribe every laugh or random words, but I’ve tried my best to make it as accurate as possible]

LESLEY: Did you audition for any of the other roles on PLL?

TYLER: No, Caleb came in halfway through season one. I remember, it was supposed to be a 4-episode stint, a guest starring role. What’s funny though, I lived right by Warner Brothers [studios], so I would drive […] past Warner Brothers and there was a bill board of Pretty Little Liars before it came out and I was like “I could probably be on a show like that.” So, anyway, I auditioned for Caleb, yeah. I never read for… […] No, I didn’t get the role at first because they were like “we really think he needs to be like really ethnic. We need some ethnic diversity. And I was like—

LESLEY: What are you? You’re like “hello”! Part Native American, i mean.

TYLER: Well, no, I’m actually not. I’m actually not, I found out.

HOLLY: Whaaaat? Yes, you are. We did talk about this.

NIA: I thought you were.

HOLLY: We talked about this on set.

TYLER: Do you know when I found out that I wasn’t is when I got Roswell, my character was also supposed to be Native American, half Native American. And I was like “great”, because the pool was like so small. You know, so this is great, you know. I’m shooting season one of the show and do a 23AndMe [DNA test] and I have literally not even 0.1 % Native American.

HOLLY: That can’t be possible.

NIA: No, no, no, no, let me explain how that works. That’s not right.

HOLLY: Nia has some things to tell you.

NIA: The information - I know these things, every nationality in me—

TYLER: Okay, tell me.

NIA: 23AndMe is pulling from— if you do 23AndMe and then you do… what’s the other one—

LESLEY: AncestryCOM

HOLLY: AncestryCOM

NIA: —they’ll come up different. And the reason they’ll come up different from each other is, they’re pulling from the people they already have in their database. So, if there’s not very many Native American people doing 23AndM—

HOLLY: Which there isn’t.

NIA: —it’s not gonna show up.

TYLER: Oh god.

NIA: Yeah.

[INFO: There’s a clear CUT at this point before the interview continues, they even cut Tyler’s “Oh god” you can hear in the audio from the video. So they must’ve talked about this some more before the official version of the interview continues.]

TYLER: Okay, so this is what happened, going back [to being cast as Caleb]. They said “thank you so much for the read” and I really thought I was gonna get it. Because Gayle Pillsbury [PLL casting director] - I’d never even read for her before - and I went in and auditioned, and her response was literally everything you want in an audition. She like lost her fucking mind and was like “where did you come from?”, you know, that sort of thing. I mean, I’m a TERRIBLE auditioner and I get so unbelievably nervous, so for that to be the response—

LESLEY: Wow.

TYLER: So that response… I was like “oh my gosh”. And you even audition and you’re like “I booked it. I booked it!”, you know what I mean? Even though it’s not up to her, you know, but anyway. Then they told me “thank you so much for the read, it was so good, but we want more ethnic diversity”. They came back to me, I don’t know, three weeks later? And they were like “What is your background?” And I was like “I don’t even know.” I called my dad, he tells me “I don’t even know.” He’s like “Call grandma.”. I call my grandma, she tells me her side and then… My dad’s dad passed away before I was born, I don’t know his side of the family at all. So my grandmother talks about his side of the family and says “You know—“ - it was Harold, Harold was my grandfather’s name - —“Harold’s great grandmother was Cherokee Indian. And I was like “Really?” I was like “This is good!”

WINE MOMS,  LAUGHING: “This is good!”

TYLER: So, then I told casting “I’m Native American.” And so they thought it was enough to cast me as, you know, ‘ethnically ambiguous’ or whatever.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

~*~

I’m not an expert on DNA tests. Nia’s comment that tests from different companies come back with different results bc they pull their data from different gene pools makes sense, but I can’t verify whether that's actually the case. Neither do I know whether her claim that 23AndMe pool lacks Native samples for reference is correct.

If it is, it would mean that 23AndMe DNA tests in general wouldn’t be able to detect Native ancestry in any sample. Maybe a test with a different company would come up with a different result, in any case, it would be a very small percentage, given how many generations are between Tyler and his Native ancestor.

The result of the test is only one piece of the puzzle tho, and not the relevant one.

The question isn’t whether the result indicates that what Tyler’s grandma told him is false. The question is, if one Native ancestor 5 generations back and no tribal affiliation of any kind entitle Tyler to play POC characters. 

The answer is a clear no, and yet he’s been cast as non-white characters (and in one case as an explicitly Native character) twice in his life.

That’s unfortunate at best, and ignorant at worst.

~*~

Tyler auditioned for PLL in 2010 when he was 23, turning 24 that year. Initially he didn’t get the role bc they wanted someone “ethnic”. They called him 3 weeks (!) after the initial rejection and asked about his background, and by talking to his grandma, he found out about this Native ancestor.

2010 was a mere decade ago, but it was also a different time. Discussions about diversity and representation on screen, the question whether it’s okay for male actors to play trans women or if shows should pass the Bechdel test were all topics that weren’t discussed as “aggressively (and I mean that in a very positive way, hammer it home that all these things matter!) as they are discussed today, and structures in the TV and movie industry ignored most of it anyway (still do way too often, lbr).

Looking back, it’s easy to condemn what happened as vigorously as we would condemn it if it happened today, but applying today’s standards to 2010 is still a bit unfair. (I’m not saying that what happened is okay, just that back then the level of awareness for it to be wrong wasn’t the same as it is today).

Sure enough ABC execs were all too happy to accept that minimal partial Native ancestry as “enough” to cast him, probably also because Tyler looked “ethnically ambiguous” to them, whatever that means. (Holly also mentioned that they talked about Tyler’s Native ancestry on the set of PLL, and apparently not a single person pointed out that maybe it was a questionable decision...).

Tyler was trying to get his career started back then, and an opportunity like PLL would be any young actor’s dream. When they told him “you’re ethnic enough, you’ve got the job”, he lacked the tools and the awareness to question their decision, neither did anyone ever question Tyler’s decision to accept the role. It was considered to be “okay” by all sides. Which is a systemic problem.

As far as I know, Caleb’s supposed “ethnically diverse” background was never explored on PLL, so they were just happy he looked “ethnic" but never gave a fuck about actual representation. Welcome to the club of most TV shows ever made. Even in 2020, too many shows and movies still try to pull that shit. The difference is, that nowadays they are called out, and people speak up. 

~*~

Fast forward to 2017 when Tyler got the script for Roswell. 7 years of him believing that this partial Native ancestry made him part Native, not half like Alex Manes, but it probably felt like it was “enough” - it had been enough for PLL after all.

He got cast because he’s a great actor, but also because he supposedly had the required ethnic background. This is also on the studio tbh. I assume he was asked about his background and he must’ve told them the same story (since he didn’t have a DNA test he could’ve shown them), and for The CW “one Cherokee Indian ancestor 5 generations back” was also “Native enough”...

~*~

It’s quite a bit of a mess tbh. Fans have been hit rather hard by this revelation, some are angry, some are disappointed, some feel uncomfortable, some probably don’t know whether how they feel is how they should feel after applying all our new-found 2020 ~wisdom and awareness to the situation.

Opinions on the matter differ. Vastly in some cases. Some people feel betrayed, some have “cancelled” Tyler, for others it’s not ideal but also not that big of a deal. It’s a mixed bag, really. 

As for me: 2010 Tyler gets a pass from me. It was a “different time” with different industry rules in place, and ABC’s higher ups, who should’ve known and done better, didn’t. Neither did anyone in casting, nor his management, colleagues, or anyone in his personal life. And he clearly lacked the experience and awareness to question the decision, or himself for accepting it because it never was questioned! Not even in the years following.

2017 Tyler only gets a partial pass. 2017 wasn’t 2020 and too many things were still not all that different from 2010. He’d been on a show for 7 years where this partial Native ancestry was “enough”. Hence he probably felt like auditioning for the role of Alex was okay, and everyone involved in the casting process thought so, too. 

He never pretended to be Native American to get the role, he never pulled a Scarlett Johansson. However... he probably should’ve questioned a bit harder whether a Native ancestor 5 generations back makes him “Native enough” to play a (half) Native character, or any kind of POC character for that matter.

So yeah, definitely putting some blame on him for the lack of awareness, but I’m also side-eying The CW and whoever was involved in the decision making. 

~*~

What I hope for and expect fromTyler now and in the future is, that he won’t ever allow to be cast as any kind of “ethnic” character ever again.

He’s worked hard and has very much earned the career he’s made. He’s an amazing actor, but the circumstances that gave him the opportunity to have that career are based on racist structures in the TV and movie industry, and he directly profited from a system, that cast him - for all we know a white man - as a man of color. Twice.

Imo Tyler’s well aware of these things now. 2020 in particular should’ve been a pretty good eye-opener. It’s good that he has someone like Jeanine to look up to and learn from (not her job to teach him or take him by the hand or anything, but I think she’s a great example of someone who’s already made a name of herself, and uses her influence to help others, and the way she talks about diversity and elevating marginalized voices is very powerful), and I hope that in the future he’ll use is voice and “weight” as an established actor, to elevate minority voices and push for their stories to be included.

Answered your question in part above already.

It’s important to note that there’s a difference between criticizing someone’s actions, and openly hating and/or dissing them. This is a messy situation, and while Tyler can’t change the past, he has to do better in the future. Saying that doesn’t make me (or anyone else) a hater. Tyler’s amazing, but he’s also not perfect. And he doesn’t have to be. No one’s perfect.

When I look back at my life, dear god, I grew up in a very liberal family, we travelled places, I had access to all the books and education, and still. At 23? I was somewhat anti-feminist and a slightly conservative leaning liberal. Not a bad person per se, but also quite ignorant (compared to today’s standards anyway). Thankfully that’s changed over the years. And it keeps changing. Because getting complacent and thinking “I know it all” is BS. I’m working on myself every day, and I’m still prone to fuck up occasionally bc the system is rigged in my favor, and I might not even be aware of it in that moment. 

I’m not cross with Tyler, because I can’t say for certain I hadn’t done the same if the circumstances had been similar. I’m actually quite sure I had done the same, bc society and the industry made it okay. AND NO ONE EVER QUESTIONED IT! He never claimed more for himself than a Native ancestor 5 generations back, and society at large and the TV/movie industry in particular said “that’s fine, you have that ancestry, you can go for diverse roles”. So in part, he fell victim to a system that pretended it was okay.

With MeToo and the Black Lives Matter movement, that “it’s okay” mentality is finally questioned and challenged, and more and more people speak up whenever someone tries to pull this shit. But it still keeps happening and there’s a lot more work to do. 

No one can claim ignorance anymore, though. And he has to do better in the future.

I feel you, nonnie. It’s a messy situation. Imo it’s most unfortunate that this information came out the way it did. In a heavily edited podcast episode with inexperienced (and dare I say “industry-biased”) moderators. We don’t know what else he said or for how long they talked about this.

The podcast hosts were clearly not the most qualified to handle that kind of revelation. There were no follow-up questions, there was no criticism, and the way the interview was edited, the whole thing was treated as a non-issue and “fun” anecdote. Which doesn’t do Tyler any favors tbh. 

But imo it’s also unfair to condemn him solely on what they decided to release. We don’t know what else he said, whether he expressed remorse or whatnot. I don’t know whether his publicist okayed the interview prior to its release. If they did, he should get a new publicist... 

(I’m not implying he should’ve kept it a “secret”, but as a publicist I would’ve made sure this revelation had been handled differently, and Tyler hadn’t been made to look like he was just laughing it off).

I don’t know Tyler personally, but going by everything I’ve seen from him and know about him, I’m certain he won’t take on another POC role. And even if another DNA test should come up with a different result one day, and a certain percentage of Native ancestry would be found, I’d expect him to handle things differently. And imo that’s something he expects from himself, too. He’s a good man. <3

I don’t think he should, but I’m white, so my opinion on this isn’t really relevant. If Native groups would call for him to step down (which I don’t think they would), I’d support it because THEIR opinion on this actually matters.

One option could be that they do a storyline where it’s revealed that the woman Alex believes to be his mother isn’t his biological mom and it turns out he’s not Native - but that’s probably a far stretch, idk.

If he’d give up the role (which he clearly isn’t doing, considering he’s found out during S1 and is about to begin filming S3), I doubt The CW would recast the role with a native actor btw. Alex’d just be written off the show.

What I hope for is, that he’ll join Jeanine in her efforts to push for more Native and Latinx representation and stories on the show (Jeanine talked about that in her recent IG live with congressman Castro, @lambourngb​ made a post about it), and you can watch the entire IG live here.

Fandom’s a large group of many individual people. There are several people who have addressed this and talk about it. And while not every single person in fandom’s talking about it, it’s not swept under the rug either.

And how does this whole thing make Malex fans (another large group of many individual people) look toxic? Malex fans are not a hive mind. I have seen several Malex fans talk about this, and talk about it critically.

I’m sorry that you’re disappointed, nonnie, I’m just not sure what you expected?

[janiedean]

I was wondering what you feel about the opinion that GRRM hates feminine/non-warrior women because they (Catelyn, Cersei, Sansa) are written with intentional flaws while his warrior girls (Brienne, Arya) are not? Do you agree with that? That Brienne and Arya have no flaws? It was some dumb meta about how the world is against Brienne, but she never does harm to the world, so she's a bad character and GRRM is a misogynist or something. (1/2)

I disagree obviously. Just because Brienne is not a demon doesn't mean she doesn't have flaws or she's a bad character lol. Like... why can't we have an angel in a world of monsters? What's wrong with that? Are these people jealous that Brienne is one of those pure character that their faves are not, so they feel like dismissing her as a bad character to make themselves feel good? I'm asking you because I know you love Catelyn and Brienne so I know you're the best person to ask this. Ty (2/2)

... I mean this has a long answer to give but this *meta* seems to me like it was written by someone who has no idea what they’re talking about when it comes to who grrm hates in his writing or his supposed misogyny because they have it all wrong and I think you pretty much guessed the point, but in order, let’s... tackle this one by one:

grrm doesn’t at all hate cat and sansa and their flaws are... flaws in the sense that he’s writing them like good people who aren’t 100% perfect but like.. sansa’s *flaws* from the beginning are stuff that’s common to most 12yo girls in existence and she overcomes them and she’s generally a good and kind and caring person whose main trait is that she’s good and kind and stays like that so how exactly now she’s written... like you’re supposed to hate her? bc she’s not. grrm never wanted you to hate sansa. he wrote her like a realistic 11-15yo but like most of us were like that at that age or have had friends who were like that, so... what the fuck. catelyn.... like guys the one heavy flaw she has is her treatment of jon but she’s written as a smart person who’s trying to live in a misogynistic society as best as she can and she’s written like a tragic character but grrm obviously likes her/loves writing her, it’s.... like if you read her chapters you can see how much work/love/craft went into them and how he worked on her bg very carefully also she is more of a protagonist than ned until asos when it comes to the stark side like.... how is giving her human flaws meaning he hates her?? grrm doesn’t hate her. the fact that she and brienne end up doing the knightly/lady sworn sword thing is even more of a proof he doesn’t but more on that later;

cersei... well I mean grrm obv doesn’t like cersei that much but a) he’s written a version of that character at least thrice already including the asoiaf one so I think he has an ex like that that he doesn’t particularly remember fondly or smth but like... she’s written to be a villain. she’s a villain. she’s a very well-crafted/thought out villain with a realistic background but diff. from cat and sansa she’s there to be the antagonist period, and just like... cersei and cat are aesthetically the same archetype and they couldn’t be more different so idk wtf are people smoking when saying that and if they can’t read cat chapters without fandom-hates-her glasses idk what to tell them;

brienne and arya have flaws are we serious, like arya has the flaws everyone has at that age (too impulsive/tends to judge people very fast/is too fixed on things/doesn’t listen to people etc) but like she’s fucking nine when it starts and she gets traumatized to hell and back, like arya’s sl to me is creepy af because no 12yo should be like that and it’s a very good trauma exploration but like....... she has faults but she’s not a bad person for obvious reasons as in SHE’S A KID same as sansa same as EVERYONE UNDERAGE IN THESE BOOKS except partially joffrey and even he has a background that explains how he is, like.... arya and sansa are supposed to be written in an equally sympathetic but specular way because they have opposite ways of reacting to trauma ie sansa holds on to her kindness arya gets progressively detached because she has to kill people to survive but you’re not supposed to hate either of them? honestly grrm wrote them with the exact same stakes, anyone who thinks it’s qualitatively different needs to go back and reread it with some intellectual honestly;

brienne... I mean we serious? the thing with brienne is that she’s a fundamentally good person who is written to become the ultimate example of a good knight™ and who is supposed to restore decency to the title after the institution has crumpled into the dirt, so... she’s... good, same as dunk is in the novels, but like: lmao she has a lot of faults, first thing that at the beginning she judges everyone on sight and sees everything in black and white, she has zero preservation instinct and nonexisting selfesteem because she thinks her life isn’t worth her vows and she thinks she’s not fit for anything she tries to do and would have died for a guy who danced with her once like sorry that’s not healthy, which are all things,... she’s... getting over.... because she has a character arc, but saying that brienne isn’t realistic or doesn’t have faults is ridiculous because she is;

now, this concept that grrm is misogynist is idiotic because a guy who has an insane number of female povs - some of which are the same trope ie brienne and arya - and have all a distinct different personality and voice and none of them are like too idealized or too evil and are to a level relatable means he’s everything but because a misogynyst wouldn’t be able to pull that off. like, in any other book brienne and arya would have been the same character, in his they’re not, so maybe like... give him some credit in the sense that the moment half of your povs are well-written realistic female characters and the ones without povs are equally well-written/manage to be fan faves (ie marg and olenna) maybe he’s just... not... a misogynist nor hates women so that’s out of the way;

re cat and brienne: like... saying ‘ah he hates catelyn’ when catelyn is literally the first *lady* who treats brienne like a friend/peer/person she cares about is completely fucking idiotic because guess what if you’re like brienne usually most Attractive Girls™ the way cat is are not your best friends in life (I mean c. calls her a cow and they didn’t even meet on paper lmao and it’s obvious from b’s povs that she has bad experiences with other women in general), so the fact that cat actually sees her worth, accepts her as her sworn sword doing a thing that’s usually just between men, trusts her with her daughters’ lives, thinks she’s a better knight than jaime could be and treats her as it befits her station (in riverrun she had dresses made for her but brienne wouldn’t wear them) and is actually good to one of the few good people in these books who gets treated like dirt by most others should tell you exactly what grrm thinks of catelyn, ie nothing too bad, and that she’s a good person who fucked up on one thing that the narrative knows and doesn’t excuse, but like.... lmao that entire argument falls flat just for that;

Are these people jealous that Brienne is one of those pure character that their faves are not, so they feel like dismissing her as a bad character to make themselves feel good? you’re on to smth but as I ranted on twitter once: this all falls again to the fact that people Cannot Accept The Fact That An Ugly Girl Who Is Going To Stay Ugly is one of the moral hearts of these series and is An Actual Good Person Who Deserves Good Things in spite of not performing femininity, and who’s going to get the guy of her dreams (who is Hot) without settling and without becoming beautiful, and she’ll manage to realize her dreams even without becoming beautiful and regardless of having been treated like dirt because of her looks all her life, and like... apparently that is too much or too complicated to conceive and so either they have to decide she’s not That ugly or make her things she’s not or decide she’ll die early wow and whatever else, but like: the problem is that usually the Pure Moral Center Of A Story Who Happens To Be Female and gets her dreams and the hot dude is standard attractive. brienne is not, she has trauma because of that, and she’s still the best person in there (or one of the best) and she’ll get her dreams and the hot dude, and people can’t handle this specific concept nor admit that grrm, having done a thing that no one else has until now because there’s no other brienne in genre literature/in that way, is everything but a misogynist, since he actually, ah, wait, gave decent rep to people who most times are relegated to playing the best friend who stays single or are usually evil bc ugly antagonist women are everywhere, ugly protagonist women who are actually Good People™ and aren’t a paragon of Pure Virtue and don’t die virgins? not really. so: people can’t handle that brienne the way she is is a Good Person and The One True Knight In Westeros and it’s a sad thing but it just shows that maybe more people should go for that trope and that’s my two cents;

other than that no guy who can write the range of women grrm does can be a misogynist by definition, especially a guy who managed to get perfectly how it feels being a straight nonstandard attractive woman in society in general because my friends if before I stumbled into asoiaf I never related 100% to one fictional character ever there was a reason, and I read a lot, so people can bite me on that thing;

to end and comment on one thing: 

how the world is against Brienne, but she never does harm to the world

congrats to OP they went THAT close to it: that’s the entire fucking point. being like brienne in her society (and not performing femininity™ correctly in ours) means that whatever you do people will criticize you and treat you like dirt even if you don’t mean them any harm. the world is absolutely against her because all the circumstances are stacked against her - she’s a woman, doing a man’s job, looking nonattractive and therefore other women treat her like dirt and men don’t consider her or see her as a threat and hate her for it because she’s better at their job than they are, wanting to be a knight which is a thing that’s technically forbidden bc women can’t be anointed as far as the westerosi law says, who’s doing that because she knows she’s good at it but every single person in her way doesn’t want her to succeed except for a handful, can’t use femininity to navigate the world and she has to survive as a woman in a men’s world in an extremely misogynistic medieval society and there’s a reason why no one but three people takes her seriously, ie that if you don’t count a few people in f&b that are history book material in her context/timeframe she’s an unicum and people tend to dislike it when you’re an unicum/sticking out/wanting to go against the system. the system is absolutely stacked against her, when everything she wants is do good to others and making her father proud and be a knight and find love, and even if it’s not that much to ask for her it’s, on paper, impossible.... and the entire point is that as impossible as it looks she’s definitely going to get it because she’s written exactly for that, and if people haven’t grasped that it’s her arc - overcoming a misogynistic society and living beyond gender roles regardless of your looks which in itself is groundbreakingly feminist - sorry for them but they’ll have a bad wake up call when grrm gets wow/ados out.

and that’s my two cents, but like: there’s nothing wrong in liking characters With Faults or evil ones and you can find Good Ones boring, just don’t try to make it pass like the author is a misogynist because the Good Character is a nonstandard attractive gnc woman because that’s actually a thing no one else ever did.

and this stated brienne is more similar to book!sansa than book!arya personality-wise so it’s an argument that doesn’t hold on even joking. /two cents

[aegonbeingfakeisracist]

It still bothers me that Daenerys, Viserys, Rhaegar, and Maester Aemon are all more Dornish than they are Valyrian, and still, they’re treated not just as white passing, but actually white, in a way that takes away a lot of potentially fascinating themes from the story, while also being insulting in the same vein that artists drawing Targaryens that explicitly did not have silver hair or purple eyes or pale skin with those traits is insulting. With the artists, the idea is, how could someone with dark hair, eyes, and skin be beautiful or interesting to look at? With the story itself, it’s why actually make this a story partially about race as a social construct, the nature of white supremacy, and the corruptive influence of power being a universal problem when it could instead be all about the white people?

Let’s start with Maester Aemon, the eldest of these characters. He wasn’t just half Dornish, he was three quarters! His Martell grandmother. His Dayne mother. This should matter, but it somehow doesn’t. It’s another unfortunate implication of having so much of the Targaryen story centre on characters with this extremely white fantasy appearance. The characters with those features are viewed as Targaryens, no more questions asked. The ones without...well. If their non-Targaryen parent is not Dornish, no big deal. If they are, they’re really Martells, no matter their name, no matter the lives they’ve lived, no matter how close they are to either parent. It’s the difference between how Maekar, Rhaenys the Queen That Never Was, and Baelor are all viewed. We don’t actually know how Aemon looked, but I think we can safely assume he looked more like his father than anyone else because he’s never associated with Dorne. He’s never treated as anything other than an old white guy. He says something brief about how even the children - Rhaenys and Aegon - were killed when talking about the destruction of his house, so we could have gotten him travelling to meet Aegon instead of Dany, which would emphasize his Dornish heritage, but instead he died without ever hearing Aegon had lived. Aemon has Dornish heritage, but it isn’t ever considered something that matters. Similarly, Aegon V - in The Sworn Sword, Dunk is all, “he turns as brown as a Dornishman” and “maybe he doesn’t sweat because of his dragon blood”, and doesn’t once think about how Aegon is mostly Dornish.

Hell, let’s go a step further than that and talk about how Aerys is more Dornish than he is Valyrian. If we assume there was one fewer generation between Elia and Daenerys than there was between Rhaegar and Daeron, because of the vast age difference between Daeron and Daenerys, and that the Martells in between married other Dornishmen...unless I’m making a math error somewhere and miscounting ancestors, which is very possible, that means Aerys is less than an eighth less Dorish than the granddaughter he refused to touch because he claimed she “smelled Dornish”. That could have been something interesting to explore - the myth of the Targaryens and their dragon blood; the colourism involved in Westerosi anti-Dornish sentiment; the impact of appearance on how people are perceived; how just a couple generations is enough to make people forget obvious facts; the inherent corruption of institutions meaning that divisions are instilled in populations so that one group or another can maintain its power. But that’s not what’s going on here, because on a textual level, all these characters - Daenerys, Viserys, Rhaegar, Aerys, Aemon - are written as white, rather than white passing. It’s a similar issue to what I talked about a while back in regards to Arthur and Ashara, except exaggerated even further.

It would be one thing if this had been done on purpose. It’s a very interesting concept! But instead, we just get “you have to not just look white, but essentially be white, otherwise you’re not cool enough to be important to the story”.

[potterandpromises]

Timeless, Garcy, and Jessica Logan?

Timeless

Favorite character: hmmm… probably Lucy when it comes down to it.

Least Favorite character: I certainly don’t like Wyatt as much as the show wants me/expects me to–but if he was given a proper character arc I would like him. No one immediately jumps to mind who I absolutely despise… I’ll go with Nicholas Keynes.

5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon): Garcy, Riya, Wyjess, Emma x Jessica (not as like a healthy, longterm ship, but I think it’s an interesting idea to explore in fic) Denise x Michelle.

Character I find most attractive: this is a show full of attractive people and you expect me to pick just one? For shame. (Is another way of saying Idk)

Character I would marry: I wouldn’t marry any of them.

Character I would be best friends with: I think I’d get along pretty well with Jiya.

a random thought: I really do want a season 3 if we pick up from 2x10. Even though I don’t trust the writers anymore.

An unpopular opinion: I actually don’t think Amy should/should have been saved. I think the narrative is pointing toward Lucy accepting  that Amy can’t be saved and  that being another layer of her motivation to destroy Emma and Rittenhouse.

My Canon OTP: Garcy

My Non-canon OTP: I don’t have one.

Most Badass Character: there are a lot of badass characters but I’ll go with Flynn.

Most Epic Villain: Emma, I love Emma. She’s this completely irredeemable yet sympathetic villain. And she is fascinating; from her believe that a person’s worth comes only from their achievements to her willingness to justify anything to get what she wants; she is one of my favorite villains in anything I’ve encountered thus far.

Pairing I am not a fan of: Lucy/Wyatt. They needed each other in season one, but aside from Wyatt’’s actions after Jessica’s return (unhealthy and incredibly selfish). Lucy has outgrown Wyatt. He’s still the same dude as he was when they met, just with his issues pushed to the surface. Whereas Lucy has changed and groom a lot since the Hindenburg, since her time with Rittenhouse, since everything. And I don’t think Wyatt understands that at all. Plus even if that wasn’t the case, what do they really have in common?

Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): if we’re including the Christmas special? Literally all of them. Otherwise no one really jumps to mind–but I kind of wish we’d gotten more time with certain characters like Noah or Bam Bam. But I don’t know that that would actually benefit the story so much as I just like them.

Favourite Friendship: Flynn and Rufus. The two funniest characters in the show and you put them together? Magical.

Character I most identify with: I identify quite a bit with Lucy’s emotional state in season 2.

Character I wish I could be: errrrr, I don’t envy any of them.

Garcy

When I started shipping them: the beer scene, maybe? Definitely by the end of 2x06. I binge watched so I’m not sure exactly.

My thoughts: this beautiful, intense relationship built on friendship, respect, reading the other’s journal which was given to him by her in his darkest hour, being there for each other in the worst moments of their lives, and an unknown future together.

What makes me happy about them: s o f t,  c o m f o r t,  l o v e

What makes me sad about them: I suppose the ‘sad’ things about don’t make me feel that way exactly–but to answer the question that would be their separate beliefs they aren’t worthy of love.

Things done in fanfic that annoys me: the opposite of the things I look for I guess? And this isn’t suspect  to this ship but having the other characters ship it, like they don’t have lives outside of these two characters. Although I do find the ‘taking bets’ trope to be be funny under certain circumstances, depends on how it’s done.

Things I look for in fanfic: a sense of respect and deep affection.

My wishlist: like in terms of moments? A hug, a bridal carry, Lucy calling him Garcia to get his attention when he’s in a bad place, a proper São Paulo scene, Flynn saving her from the car accident she had in college, bed sharing, and a kiss all come to mind (and that’s just off the top of my head).

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: Flynn doesn’t really have any other ships (aside from Lorena who he would not stay with if she were to be brought back). If not Flynn, I’d like Lucy to end up with a woman.

My happily ever after for them: I don’t see the 2.5 kids white picket fence life for them. With Flynn’s trauma and Lucy’s family issues I don’t see them planning on having kids–but if it ware to happen accidentally they would go with it. I envision them moving in together after the war and figuring out how to deal with jobs and trauma and this new life together. I also  think they would have an undefined relationship for quite a long time. I’ll leave that there sense I have a partially written post-war fic and a few plot bunnies for others.

Jessica Logan

How I feel about this character: I think she has enormous potential.

Any/all the people I ship romantically with this character: Wyatt, and like I said earlier, her having a  relationship with Emma would be an interesting thing to explore in the context of a future redemption arc.

My favorite non-romantic relationship for this character: I actually think it would be interesting to see her and Flynn interact. Obviously there are ill feelings there but I don’t think it would be completely lost on them that they aren’t all that different. They both believed in a cause and did bad things for it. The only difference is Flynn was correct all along while Jessica was groomed by a cult-like organization into believing hers.

My unpopular opinion about this character: I could go either way on whether or not she and Wyatt get together if she wore to have a redemption arc. Working out their issues for the sake of their child and ending up together would be interesting to see. But so would A functional divorced relationship.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: (ignoring the Christmas special). Even though her Rittenhouse ‘plot twist’ was  obvious, I can ignore that if it were to lead to something interesting being done with her conflicting feelings related to Rittenhouse and Emma, the  fact that she was groomed as a child, the fact  she’s an anti-villain rather than a true villain. And I think a redemption arc would be perfect for that.

Favorite friendship for this character: she doesn’t really have any. She had one with Jiya but even if she were to join the team I don’t see them being friends in the same way again.

My crossover ship: I don’t really think much about crossover ships

[tcfkag]

Bisexual women married to men face zero homophobia and get to experience 100% straight passing privilege. I really don't feel sorry for bi women who never got to "explore" their love for women in college or whatever. Lesbians don't have a choice, and many have decided to be alone because they can't deal with the hate and violence. Maybe if bi women would have more sympathy for lesbians there would be less distrust of bi women from them.

Anony, not to be rude here but this is ridiculous and also internally contradictory. Your basic four points are:1) “Bi people (Ed note: but hey, sure, it’s only women) who are married to men face zero homophobia” - I mean, lots and lots and LOTS of people who later came out as gay or lesbian were previously married to a member of the opposite sex and straight passing because of internalized homophobia amongst other things. Do you really think homophobia didn’t impact their lives? 

2) “I really don’t feel sorry for bi women who never [experimented’ in college].” First, you dislike bisexuals because we sleep with men and can be straight passing, implying bisexuals should be out in public and dating women to get to stay in the queer community’s big tent. And then immediately follow up by essentially saying that since bisexuals *can* be straight passing, that we should. Gay men and lesbian women did his for literally generations - marrying members of the opposite sex because they felt guilty, were forced to, or chose to, - but then many of them come out very late in life and sometimes end up destroying their entire relationship with their family. Knowing that, the fact that you seem to think that not acting on your sexual orientation will make it just poof goes away when you marry a member of the opposite sex.

3) “Lesbians don’t have a choice [etc]”: Anony, you keep seesawing between two arguments - that bi people don’t belong in the queer community bc we could “choose” to pass as straight...while then promptly stating, (correctly), that lesbians have no choice. You either believe one’s sexuality is an essential part of one’s being or you’re saying a bi person could just wake up and set it aside. 

[Ed. Note]: in the post that I’m sure you’re replying to, I *specifically stated* that being a straight-passing white woman made life in society substantially easier. I even bolded that part. But the cost of that is being willing to stay in the closet for the rest.of.your.life.] 

4) “ Lesbians...have decided to be alone because they can't deal with the hate and violence. Maybe if bi women would have more sympathy for lesbians there would be less distrust of bi women from them.”: So, the first sentence here is the peak of your cognitive dissonance in this ask. Because if you are invested in lesbians having a larger dating pool, then trying to fight the stigma against bisexual women in the lesbian community first/too; perhaps if we felt more welcomed, we’d feel more comfortable participating in and with the community, including dating women. [Ed. Note: Friendly reminder that this is basically precisely what my first post was about - that many lesbians refuse to date bi-women, creating a smaller dating universe for themselves while reminding bisexuals that we do not belong in the straight community but also aren’t accepted in the queer community either.] And that doesn’t even only apply to getting dates; larger groups have safety in numbers - ending some of the hate and violence you mention is by convincing people that there isn’t anything wrong with wlw. Logically then, it seems like it would be in the lesbian community’s best interest to try to associate bisexuals with them. But instead we are still stuck butting heads together about who gets to be what before we can stand up to that hate and violence you mentioned. Plus, not for nothing, I specifically stated in the post you’re probably talking about (I bolded it and everything) that I wasn’t comparing my experience AT ALL to the dangers/issues that non-straight passing people in the queer community. I’m not sure what you mean exactly about having more sympathy for lesbians even means in this case - does sympathy require that we don’t try to respond when people are attacking our sexual orientation? Do we only get to show it by sleeping or dating a certain number of women before we can date a man?5) “ Maybe if bi women would have more sympathy for lesbians there would be less distrust of bi women from them.” And here we meet the pinnacle of this post. So far you have wobbled between how bisexuals in relationships with men are choosing men and therefore not queer and that sexuality isn’t a choice...but that lesbians have no choice because their sexuality is valid while a bisexual isn’t.  You’re coming awfully close to the territory our parents and grandparents visit[ed] so often when they assume that a bisexual in a relationship with a member of the opposite sex ”makes you straight and cures your deviancy”. 

So before I go on, just a quick f*ck you because I have a large group of queer friends and an 18-year-old trans mentee. I’ve been mentoring him since he was eleven. I will not accept anything in this country for less than total legal and societal protections the queer community, especially for kids like my mentee because I want him to grow up in a better world than people my age (or my parent’s age) did.So next you demand that we show more sympathy for lesbians and I’m just not sure what you mean by that. Do we show sympathy by not dating women or by dating women? At this point, I really not entirely sure anymore. And I can’t speak to all bisexual women in the world, but its partially due to reactions precisely like this one that keeps us from coming out - especially coming out and dating women. I suppose if we do start dating women, that we could also show our sympathy by never again sleeping with a man because we are lesbians now, because god-forbid we get marked as distrustful because we dated a man after we dated a woman (basically the converse of dating a man making you straight but that dating women makes us lesbians). Are those the sympathies you’re looking for?TL;DR - I never said bisexuals weren’t able to be straight passing and that we don’t face the same risks, which is true. But not being welcome in either community leaves us in a permanent state of limbo bc living openly, which many of us can’t or won’t do, means getting comments like the ones in this reply and the OP; if this is the way you treat bisexuals, I’m honestly not surprised none of them have wanted to date you or stay for a long time because you sound absolutely delightful.

[xanthiccircuitry]

Physical

Word count: 1,462

Chapter: 1/?

Characters: Thor (Marvel), Loki (Marvel), minor OCs

Summary: A poisoned relationship leaves Thor and Loki in a different world; the journey has them different than they were before. The two of them will have to sort out their differences and build their relationship if they ever hope to return to normal. The antidote? Well, they might have to get physical.

Warnings: This fic will have nsfw content in later chapters, there will be heavy conversation between the two and violence of a non-serious sort (this is explained within)

Translations provided at the end of the chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, it's characters, or entities.

Fic under the cut

This wasn't a fun experience, in fact, it was so incredibly bad that he'd run out of things to call it. First they get transported to some strange alter dimension with different gods, rules, and temperatures and now this?! Someone knocked on the door and he flung it open, glaring down at the green-and-black clad figure standing there. Sparks literally flew from around him, lightning drawing up within him - which, he decided, wasn't a bad feeling, if a little unwanted.

“Hello, brother…”

It was weird hearing his own voice from the perspective of another, “So help me, Thor, the next words out of your mouth better be 'Sorry’ and 'Here’s the antidote.’ Understand?”

The figure that was not Thor but also was Thor looked down for a moment and then back up, “I'm not happy about it either!”

Loki growled loudly and turned away from the door, pinching the brow of his (well, not his) nose. Ysmir this was confusing!

“Huir vin?” A small voice spoke up, light but full of regal authority. Loki turned back, eyes locking on the figure of an ellith, that's what they called themselves, the females. These weren't the elves of their Alfheim, they were different elves with different names and much different customs. The queen had long hair of copper fire, she was shapely and beautiful, but all elves of this world were fair, he supposed. Her dress was finely made, a light gown with a cloak made to look like the night sky, full of stars; the contrast of the dark sky and her white skin complimented her well. Her eyes sparkled mischievously and were he not currently inhabiting the body of his (adoptive) brother, he might have appreciated it more.

“You brought a guest.” Thor gave him a cutting look that Loki did appreciate, glad to know that his face did look good when he did that.

“This is Queen Laerwen, daughter of the spring. She can help us.” Loki raised a brow, almost positive that something between their language and Allspeak was lost.

“How do you know she can help us?”

“Don't be rude.”

Loki placed a hand on his chest in offense, “Me? I'm never rude!”

Thor did the firm stance he was known for in Loki's body and it very much did not have the same effect, “Quiet!”

Laerwen waited for them to finish before speaking, “I see a bit of ill luck has befallen the two of you, your feär appear to be in the wrong places.”

Loki resisted the urge the say something snarky, “And can you replace them?”

Laerwen smiled softly, shaking her head, “Oh no, I cannot place your feär back in their right places. Only you can do that. I can help you facilitate the transaction.”

Normally Thor was the one who was quick to jump to rash decisions, but it was Loki who quickly and firmly said, “Now.”

Thor looked genuinely concerned for a moment but brushed it aside, “Ahem, how will this be done, exactly?”

“To understand that, you will need to understand the nature of the feä and how it works. You may wish to take a seat.”

Loki took a breath to calm himself, something about Thor's body really irritated him. Maybe it was his big hands, or his golden hair, or the way lightning seemed to rush through every vein and he could hear thunder in his chest, ready to do his bidding. Thor's body was so attuned with strength and absolutely all of it drove him nuts. He wasn't used to being thrown off his guard like this, normally he'd be the one in charge of his form change and this was decidedly not that. Thor, however, didn't seem to be having any trouble with his body and that made him a little more irritable than he already was.

Laerwen kindly gestured to an adjacent room that he hadn't had the time or obligation to explore thusly and walked into herself. With no choice, the brothers followed and took seats in the well-made, comfy chairs that did nothing to put Loki at ease. Thor put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, squeezing a little as if he could sense Loki's turmoil.

Loki brushed the hand away, “It's your fault we're in this mess.” He hissed softly.

“Are you ready?” Laerwen asked, eyes alight with amusement.

Thor responded, “Yes.” at the same time, Loki responded, “Get on with it.” Thor threw a glare that Loki missed.

Graciously, the queen ignored the rude remark, “Feär are your starlight. They are you, they have existed for far longer than the shells they house themselves in, and will exist after those shells are broken. Feä exist as much on a physical level as a magical and spiritual one. Feä are not known to make mistakes, nor “switch” as yours have, but things happen. I believe your brother said--.”

“That he was a massive idiot? That he intentionally threw us into an unknown portal with no inkling of where it might take us?!” Loki snapped.

“Brother, enough! It was better than letting us get killed! Let her speak. You are disrespecting a Queen! One who has not only taken us in but is also going to help us fix our problem!” Thor said harshly,

Loki snarled at him, getting up. “I have never been known to be very respectful of royalty, brother.” Venom was poured into his words and were it not for an extreme cold rush that ran over the both of them, they might have continued to argue.

“What did I miss?” The form of a man appeared in the window, eyes still glowing from blowing a wash of icy flame into the room.

“Merely the bickering of feä, melethron.” Laerwen replied easily, “This is my King, Calenguard, son of the leaves, not that the title means anything to you, Loki of Jotunheim.” She smirked and Loki straightened his back, smoothed his tunic, and sat down.

-Now he was positive something was lost in translation.-

The cold had brought him back to his senses, the only way to fix this was to get the antidote from these(?) Elves(?). He wasn't so sure what the male was, he didn't look like any dragon he'd ever seen. He was tall, taller than Thor most likely, broad but not quite as thickly muscled. His face held the same fine features that elves possessed but his eyes were neither one color nor another, sometimes turning to slits when the light hit just right. His waterline was ringed in black, and there seemed to be pale silver-green scales around his eyes, more visible around his ears which, while pointed, had a different angle than the other elves. His hair was long and silver blond melting into a soft forest green, his eyebrows following suit.

“Bickering feä, you say? That reminds me of us, Mîr nin.” The dragon elf breathed, his throat glowing silver as tiny snowflakes came out of his mouth.

“As I was going to say, your brother told me you two have been in a bit of a disagreement. In which case the two of you are having a very special moment with your feär.” Laerwen continued, the king at her side bringing the temperature in the room down several degrees simply by being there.

“Because of our disagreement, the feär have made a special mistake?” Loki asked, hoping this wasn't going where he thought it was going.

“It's not a mistake at all. The two of you have poisoned yourselves with malcontent, your “antidote” must be the resolution of these emotions.”

Loki facepalmed, “We've tried, for centuries…”

“Then might I suggest a different tactic?” Calenguard spoke up, continuing when he was met with silence, “Your feär have forced you into each other's shoes. This would be an excellent time to get to know each other's strengths and weaknesses. Train against one another, let your emotions out physically until your bare the root of your problem.”

“You might find it smaller than you know.” Laerwen finished, standing to join her king. “There is a doorway here, and beyond it, a small clearing with walls and some trees. Use it for your training, it is private.”

She gestured to the door, partially hidden in the design of the wall, and then said goodbye to each of them along with a sincere gesture that she hoped they worked it out.

~

Privately, in their own rooms, the king and queen shared a glass of wine. “Do you think the problem is..îr?” Laerwen asked with a knowing look.

Calenguard openly laughed, “Almost entirely. As was our own.”

Laerwen frowned a bit, “I was never so difficult.”

“Mmhmmm.”

~

“Did they just...tell us to fight it out?” Loki looked at Thor, then at the door, then back at Thor.

“...maybe?”

To be continued

Translations

Huir vin- My lord(s)

Melethron- My love (male)

Mîr nin- My treasure

Îr- Desire

[marredbyoverlength]

The Handmaiden - A Review and Airing of Grievances

Ah-ga-ssi (original title)

Dir. Park Chan-wook.

Starring Kim Tae-ri, Kim Min-hee, Ha Jung-woo.

I don’t watch nearly enough Korean cinema. Frankly, I don’t watch enough movies from anywhere outside the US.

But this is only partially my fault. The Handmaiden received a tiny US release of 140 theaters (for comparison, there are nearly 140 theaters in New York City alone). It wasn’t released here for public consumption until January 2017, almost a year after its debut at Cannes, and not on Blu-ray until March. I couldn’t even find the film through piracy.

And that’s not surprising. Korean cinema does not do well here. Spike Lee’s Oldboy remake made about $5 million on a $30 million budget. One of the highest-grossing films in Korean history, Ryoo Seung-wan’s terrific Veteran, played in only a few US theaters and didn’t make waves. I saw it while living in Ann Arbor, and the theater was almost entirely east-Asian students. I only saw it because my Korean then-girlfriend took me, and I like foreign films.

Here’s why I bring all that up: Handmaiden should be a hit. It’s got a con-artist plot every bit as good as Ocean’s 11, a gorgeous period style every bit as good as Anna Karenina, an erotic bent infinitely better than 50 Shades of Grey. Truly there is something in Handmaiden for everybody.

And yet, no American success. Why not?

One cynical explanation might be that we don’t like subtitles. “I’m not going to read a movie,” I’ve heard viewers proudly declare. And The Handmaiden could not exist without subtitles. It slips between Korean and Japanese; to keep them straight, Korean lines were subtitled in white, and Japanese in yellow. The relationships between the characters and their languages are critical to understanding the film, but maybe we don’t have the patience for it.

Another possible cynical explanation: we’re not interested in period pieces set in non-white countries. Whether this is true or not, Hollywood seems to believe it—recall the insultingly Caucasian Exodus: Gods and Kings, or even this year’s Ghost in the Shell (the future counts as a period).

Part of the problem here is just that we don’t have a good understanding of East Asian history. The Handmaiden is set during the 1930’s, during the Japanese occupation of Korea. Its attention to period detail is enrapturing, but we Westerners have no context for it. Is that an impediment to our understanding? I don’t think so. I’m certainly no historian, and my enjoyment of the film was undiminished. But it might be a barrier to entry, its Korean-ness dissuading us from even trying to understand.

I’d say this is symptomatic of America’s cultural pathology: films made in Korea are Korean Movies, films starring black people are Black People Movies, films with same-sex couples are LGBT Movies. But movies with white, straight, cis Americans are just…movies. The Avengers is fit for everyone’s consumption, but I dunno, sighs the suburbanite, I just don’t think Moonlight is for me. Our cultural blindness is part of America’s Jungian Shadow, which we refuse to engage with.

I know I’m supposed to be reviewing The Handmaiden, and I promise I’m getting to it. To do that, I have to confront the expectations around foreign films, the idea that the film will be fundamentally different because the director bills his surname first. But when you strip away the veil, either of exoticism or of xenophobia, The Handmaiden is a tremendous film that would be perfectly at home in an American theater, filling the same niche as Black Swan or The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (another film that needed to be Westernized before we could see it).

At the center of The Handmaiden are three characters: Sook-hee (Kim Tae-ri), the daughter of a legendary thief, “Count” Fujiwara (Ha Jung-woo), a slimy-slick con man, and the Lady Hideko (Kim Min-hee), an heiress kept under tight control by her uncle Kouzuki (Jo Jin-woong, who is 39 in real life but here plays a 60-something pervert).

Fujiwara recruits Sook-hee to help him con Lady Hideko into marrying him, at which point he would take her money and have her committed to a mental institution. But, like secrets, a con can only be kept by two people if one of them is dead. Carefully-laid plans to awry when Sook-hee and Lady Hideko begin to fall in love—incredibly erotic love, not the innocent, non-threatening lesbian schoolgirl romance we’re so often spoonfed.

It’s difficult to say much more without spoiling something. I can’t speak to how well it holds up on subsequent viewings, but the first time through, the unfolding of the intricate plot is marvelous. It engages in a few dirty tricks, including my biggest pet peeve, the artificial withholding of information, but by and large the twists in the story fall in just the right place: surprising but believable, invisible in the moment but obvious in hindsight.

The con is also a perfect thematic vehicle for a film where every character is pretending to be someone they’re not—even the non-schemers. Uncle Kouzuki is essentially a Korean turncoat, adopting the customs of the occupying Japanese as his own, rejecting the trappings of his country as “ugly.” His head servant, Miss Sasaki (Kim Hae-suk), acts the role of the stern house manager; in fact, she is Kouzuki’s ex-wife, who he left to marry a Japanese woman. Despite the divorce, the two still share a bed.

And, of course, our trio of main characters are almost entirely façade. But punctuating their deception are moments of emotional honesty, almost entirely manifesting (or maybe triggered by) the constant lurid tension between the characters. In a spectacular early scene, Lady Hideko, nude in a bath, complains of a jagged tooth. Sook-hee retrieves a thimble and inserts it into Hideko’s mouth, filing down the rough edge. The two stare into each other’s eyes as if entranced, both aware of the sexual nature of the act, both engaging in it slightly too long for plausible deniability.

The characters variously embrace or excuse their transgressive behaviors. Kouzuki seems the most at peace with himself, at least privately. “I’m just an old man who likes dirty stories,” he tells Count Fujiwara. Fujiwara, by contrast, insists throughout the film he’s only after money, but we discover otherwise when he gets rough with a sexual partner whose consent is at best questionable.

So each character lies to each other, and many lie to themselves. The film, both visually and structurally, explores these false fronts, asking which parts of our actions are “real.” The Handmaiden, for all its eroticism and melodrama, confronts some of the more difficult aspects of interpersonal relationships. Can we really know the people in our lives? Can we really know ourselves?

Does any of this sound “foreign”? If this film were made in the US, starring white people, it’d get about a dozen Oscar nominations. Though set in a different time and place, The Handmaiden is a demonstration that people are people, with all our psychosexual baggage, wherever you go. It’s a visually masterful, superbly constructed film deserving of our attention.

9/10.

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

Yarbrough Delivers 7 2/3 Sharp in Rays' G1 Win

John slowly opened his eyes. This one, again. Sort of. He had already lived it. It’d been awhile since he bothered to remember the same tired old sequence. It has been even longer since he had tried to commit it to memory. But even then, there was always a mistranslation due to … whatever. He had the utmost idea as to what he wanted to say and then it’d come out … wrong? He wondered if that was the right word for it. Anyway, this lapse in time, it was different. He had learned by now that it was much wiser to squint through the light the fluorescent tubes brought forth. He rolled on his side and faced the white cement wall. The shade of paint was just as unforgiving as the lights above him. He traced a finger on the groove of the wall. He guessed it was morning. The slot in his door would open and they would slide in breakfast. John rolled over and swung his legs off the bed. His bare feet touched concrete floor and the chill was a jolt to the system. He raised his arms into the air and stretched while omitting a long yawn. John listened for the footsteps. They weren’t there. Not normal for him to deviate from his routine but stranger things have happened. He usually woke up just in time for the morning shift to begin. In the year and a half since, he had become aware of when this happened. He always considered it a callback to a routine that essentially defined him half of his life. He got up. Stripped off his underwear. Relieved himself. Brushed his teeth in the sink built into the same stainless steel toilet he just used. He sequestered the previous day’s dirty laundry in a closed container under his bed. He looked into the bin right next it to find a stack of carefully organized clothing, retrieved them, and put on his clean underwear, white jumpsuit, and slippers. He made his bed. It had to be just right. He stripped the non standard linens and pillows he’d earned as some pittance for good behavior. He examined them meticulously. He would make sure that they didn’t need be laundered along with his previous day’s clothing. After the bed was made to his satisfaction, John stood around with his hands on his hips. He was getting a little agitated now. Most likely due to hunger. This was usually where this charade exposed its purpose. He looked to the drain set right before his toilet. Any moment he’d hear his voice. He had never learned the name that owned the voice. It happened. And then by happenstance, he’d been there all those years. There was a part of John that wondered if he was ever real after they’d encountered each other the first time. There was conflict in everything that defined reality. That’d been so long ago. And besides, one day, the voice had gone away by itself. Last thing he said is that he couldn’t wait to see Johnny in hell. John sat back down on his bed. A couple months back, he’d confided to Mike maybe to the nature of these encounters. What had possibly happened to him. Didn’t take them much to put two and two together. He hadn’t been seeking out some absolution as to what happened. The act was after all part of him. The absent voice, the man it belonged to, they would always be a part of him. And so in a strange way, John was disappointed that they wouldn’t reminiscence about old times. And he always had something to say about the present. And then he would join him. But that wasn’t happening. He clasped his hands together, cracking his knuckles in the process. He didn’t like this. It wasn’t part of the routine. Finally, there were footsteps approaching. Eventually ending at his door. There was the jingle jangling of keys, the scrape of metal on metal as the right one was inserted and turned just so. The release of the lock. The creak of the hinges as the door is pulled out, light pouring in. Partially blinded, he could only make out the figure’s broad form. Very familiar. It stepped into the cell. John sighed, “Me.” He had become very accustomed to what one would consider putting his best foot forward. And so here he was, in the dark grey suit he’d worn earlier in the week. “Really? This is just confusing.” The suit shrugged, “What did you think you were doing all along? This is a work of fiction, transcribed or not. Why are you writing these down afterwards? Half the time, you crumple up the page and toss it.  I mean I’d rather not obscure things by implying some disorder because that isn’t it. This is just you lost in thought. Mike and you are in the hotel room. You two are watching the Red Sox get their shit kicked in. Mike’s words, not mine.” “I know that. Just doesn’t make any sense to me.” “Me either,” the man, well, John, joined the other by taking a seat beside him on the bed. Bed was a generous term as it was a frame bolted to the wall with a sliver of a pad for comfort. He clasped a hand on the inmate’s shoulder, “Tell me something, and by that I mean, tell yourself something. You considered walking off the first night you were invited to stay in the guest room. Why is that?” John hated dredging up that mess. “I mean, depression, right?” “Probably.” “Actually, I’m asking the wrong question. Why’d you stay?” “Didn’t have anywhere else to go. Was tired of being alone.” The man in the suit bursted out laughing, even slapping his knee. It was a mischaracterization.   It was contrary to everything John was, “That’s, Church, that’s pretty funny. You could have surrounded yourself with all manner of people. The business being what it is and you chose to linger around the one person who takes you in like a lost dog.” “They seemed nice.” “Okay, okay,” the suit had now been prone to sudden peels of laughter and he had to wipe tears from his eyes due to the sheer hilarity of it, “Fair enough. And so what is this?” “What is what?” John wanted to run out that door, maybe it’d end this. He’d like to just explain everything to Mike. Stop playing around. Stop mixing up his thoughts. Stop being so … not sure? “Is this pretend? Just like before?” “No,” he said adamantly. “You sure keep quiet about all of this.” “Easy enough to find out. Seems like everyone knows more than me anyway.” The suit stood up, separating himself from the gloom of that statement. “I feel like a pinball, you know that? Just bouncing around from thought to thought,” he gestured towards the open door, “Funny enough, I don’t know what’s out there. There isn’t anything beyond this silly little cell. You think it represents clarity or self actualization or … eh, probably not. Doesn’t work like that. Sort of like how you’re handling, you know, life about now.” “I’m trying.” “At what? What do you think Mike is all twisted up about? I can’t tell you what it is. Again, I’m you. There’s something beyond an eighth grader’s first relationship. The chaste kisses. The hand holding. Then acting like you’re exploring the unsettled lands, step by step.  The haphazard gratification. The handjob under the bleachers. I mean, it wasn’t there literally but Jesus Christ, John. Saying you two are partners.” “We are.” “I’m … I’m trying to help you but John Bishop Church isn’t equipped to help himself. I’m just whistling in the wind. I’ll just go.” The suit turned his back to John, stepped towards the exit. “Game’s over. Four fuckin’ runs at the top of the 9th. Get fucked, Boston. Anyways, Mets’re on later tonight or whenever, timezone’s got me all fucked up, but you don’t gotta watch on the account of me. Your turn, John. Your turn to stop watching reruns of your life.” “I, I don’t know how…” Out the door, “Fuck if I know either. Figure it out.” The door slammed shut behind the suit. But the door didn’t lock. John slumped over, face buried in his hands, muffling his exasperation, “I don’t know how…” “Don’t know what, bud?”

“N, nothing.”

[usatrendingsports]

Spurned by Shohei Ohtani and Giancarlo Stanton, Giants can rebuild in a giant method

Suffice it to say, this week has not been sort to the San Francisco Giants. First got here information that the Giants misplaced out to the Angels for Shohei Ohtani regardless of being one among seven finalists for the Japanese two-way star. Then got here this assertion from the workforce concerning its pursuit of Marlins slugger and reigning NL MVP Giancarlo Stanton: 

Our settlement with the Marlins to amass Giancarlo Stanton topic to his waiving of the no-trade clause is not going to transfer ahead and it’s our understanding that the Marlins and Stanton are exploring different choices. 

In order that’s two vital losses for a workforce that badly wanted some needle-moving additions this offseason. 

Let’s keep in mind that the Giants are coming off a 98-loss season and a last-place end. To compound grim issues, they completed totally 40 video games behind the hated Dodgers. Sure, the Giants can financial institution on some enchancment in 2018, thanks partially to considerably stronger underlying fundamentals and the belief of a wholesome season from Madison Bumgarner.

Nonetheless, heading into the meat of the offseason, the SportsLine (@SportsLine on Twitter) Projection Mannequin tabs the Giants for simply 75 victories, which might have put them 12 video games out of the second NL wild-card spot this season. Including the likes of Stanton and Ohtani clearly would’ve improved that baseline by fairly a bit, however that is now not a risk for the Giants. Now they seem to be a dangerous workforce with a foul farm system — i.e., not a lot to commerce — surveying a shallow and flawed free-agent class. 

As an illustration … 

#Brewers’ Santana is one various for #SFGiants if they can’t purchase Stanton. A free agent equivalent to Jay Bruce could be one other. Many choices in play.

— Ken Rosenthal (@Ken_Rosenthal) December 8, 2017

That is Domingo Santana, and I am simply undecided the Giants have the younger expertise wanted to amass him from the Brewers, who’ve their very own designs on competition. Jay Bruce could be an enormous downside defensively within the spacious AT&T outfield, and the identical goes for J.D. Martinez. Once more, nobody plausibly obtainable to a workforce just like the Giants improves them practically as a lot as Stanton and Ohtani would’ve. 

All of this bodes in poor health for the Giants, insofar as 2018 is anxious. Nevertheless, in the event that they select to tear it down and rebuild, then they may see such straits as a possibility. This may be very out of step for the Giants, who for a few years have angled to contend each season. Finally, although, each workforce should face the teardown, and maybe it is the Giants’ flip. In the event that they did determine to go such a route, think about what they may do … 

Commerce Madison Bumgarner

You already know he is a playoff legend, and over the previous three seasons he has improved his regular-season efficiency by a big margin. For the reason that begin of the 2015 season, MadBum has pitched to a 2.93 ERA/136 ERA+ and 5.19 Ok/BB ratio. That is ace-level stuff. As properly, he is signed to a contract that is team-friendly within the excessive: He’s beneath workforce management for the following two seasons at a complete price of simply $24 million (incentives may push the value of these two membership choices a bit larger). 

He is nonetheless simply 28, and it a was non-pitching damage that laid him up for a big chunk of 2017. For sure, a controllable, reasonably priced ace like Bumgarner would internet the prospect-starved Giants an enormous return. Bumgarner does have a partial no-trade clause of as much as eight groups, however that is simply labored round. 

Commerce Buster Posey

Posey is coming off yet one more extremely productive season on the plate, and he additionally caught greater than 800 innings in 2017. Given Posey’s helpful bat and his elite defensive abilities behind the plate, he nonetheless stands as some of the helpful all-around performers within the recreation. The listing of aspiring contenders he may assistance is essentially an extended one. He is going into his age-31 season, and sooner or later decline will take maintain. For now, although, Posey nonetheless profiles as a serious near-term asset. 

The nine-year deal Posey signed in early 2013 features a full no-trade clause, and as we have seen with Stanton that is a serious consideration. Nevertheless, Posey’s deal features a $22 million possibility with a $Three million buyout for 2022. If the workforce working to amass Posey ensures that possibility — thus including nearly $20 million to the worth of his contract — then Posey could be inclined to go chase a fourth World Collection ring on another person’s watch. 

Commerce Brandon Crawford

Why cease there? Crawford’s struggles on the plate in 2017 are famous. Nevertheless, he was nonetheless stable on the plate general by shortstop requirements, and he was principally in step with expectations save for a foul June. Crawford additionally stays a real difference-maker with the glove. He is additionally obtained a full no-trade clause, and the Bay Space native might desire to train it. Nevertheless, transferring Crawford is much less important to this hypothetical rebuilding course of than is dealing Bumgarner and Posey. 

Commerce Brandon Belt

Belt has a considerably on-again, off-again relationship with the entrance workplace, so this one in all probability would not be a tough promote at HQ. He is productive and locked up by means of 2021 with a restricted no-trade clause. He’d make sense for doubtless contenders in want of assist at first base. The Mariners and Purple Sox come instantly to thoughts, as do, probably, the Indians.

Commerce Jeff Samardzija

Groups as of late are past eyeballing ERA of their assessments, and so they take a look at Samardzija they will see a man who paced the the NL in innings final season and made huge strides on the command-and-control entrance. In different phrases, they will see a sturdy mid-rotation piece who pitched a lot better than his four.42 ERA would lead you to imagine. The Giants may kick in some money and enhance their prospect haul in a Samardzija deal. 

Gradual-play it with Mark Melancon and Johnny Cueto

Melancon struggled in his first season with San Fran, and forearm and elbow points have been largely responsible. He underwent surgical procedure to handle these points in September, and he is eyeing a return to well being and type in 2018. The Giants could be clever to let him show he is as much as doing simply that. The commerce prices for closers are usually inflated main as much as the non-waiver commerce deadline, and meaning the Giants may money in if Melancon bounces again. Cling onto him for now. 

The identical goes for Cueto, who in 2017 endured his first subpar season since he was a 23-year-old with the Reds. Even a modest rebound within the first half of 2018 may make Cueto a helpful commerce piece heading as much as July 31. 

There’s an apparent case towards all this. Perhaps the Giants decide that, even with out Stanton and Ohtani, an energetic winter may put them inside vary of playoff competition. There is a case to be made to that finish, not less than should you squint on the proper instances.

On one other degree, possibly they decide that, even when competition is a longshot, that buying and selling beloved franchise icons like Bumgarner and Posey could be too damaging to the franchise’s picture. That is a really defensible place and one of the best post-Stanton/Ohtani argument towards an entire rebuild. 

All that stated, the Giants have earlier than them the chance to develop into this offseason’s reply to the White Sox — i.e., develop into the workforce who turns one of many very worst farm techniques into one of many best possible, nearly solely by way of trades of veterans. It is doable, and it is an method that is in all probability in one of the best long-term pursuits of the franchise. That is a tough set off to drag, although, contemplating how a lot a few of these guys imply to the Giants’ historical past and the Giants’ followers.   

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