#teeny tiny red shithead

[brothermoth]

"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle."

—My man Sun Tzu, Art of War

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I don't think you guys understand how the US government works. I'm not straight up defending anyone here, I just think that folks need to understand how many gears are all working at once.

First of all the president really can't do shit. Very few presidents have maintained enough social and political power to actually pass their own ideas. FDR was a powerhouse of PR. He was popular. He was charismatic and the people loved him and he was president at the right time to actually force his bills through. Kennedy had quite a bit of sway that helped him start Civil Rights bills rolling through, and LBJ was riding off years of civil unrest, and he made a lot of compromises in 1964 to get those bills passed.

If Congress doesn't like you, you're fucked. It's stupid as hell for candidates to make so many promises because so much of that stuff is simply out of their control. They are surrounded by Senators and Representatives and aids and staffers and secretaries, and often their every idea is put to some sort of vote. The Democrats are not do-nothings. Neither are the Republicans. The Democrats are a very diverse party of very diverse people, which makes it so much harder for them to get things done. For every lukewarm liberal there's someone who genuinely cares for the people in this country.

Picture this: you're a Dem senator from a teeny blue state like fucking Maryland or something. You're a speck. You've got the senator from New York (a state with a pretty even red/blue split if you look at the numbers) who has to appease the rural voters and the city voters. These tiny blue states? Those are the ones who say the stuff you like. The problem is, they're outmatched by the huge states who know they can't swing too far left or right because they need those votes. A hard-line red or blue politician would have a super hard time getting in office in a big blue state. Hell, they have trouble in big red states too.

Those are the people making the decisions. A bunch of shitheads arguing and nobody has enough actual power to get their specific issues legislated on. You compromise. You have to compromise because you DO have to make everyone at least somewhat satisfied. The president just puts a stamp on it and a little bow and kisses it goodnight. Sometimes he says "hey guys why don't we—" and nobody can hear because everyone is yelling already. Some presidents shout louder than others. Trump is a facade. The president is the guy you yell at so the actual shitballs can keep typing away behind the scenes. Trump himself had no fucking power. You think they let his ass do anything? Fuck no. That is how every president works. The president is just the guy you look at. Don't fucking forget that.

Joe Biden himself is not rawdogging Lockheed Martin and playing catch with Israel like his son in the backyard. Congress sways red. Congress has always trended toward right of center, and if the president doesn't like that he can't do Jack shit about it. We should absolutely stop sending weapons to little baby Genocider, don't get me wrong, but it's far more complex than you think. We can't do a single thing for Palestinians if we don't play politics. There's no option not to. You protest, you hound your reps, you threaten and you VOTE. Vote for people who are at least willing to be swayed. You want candidates willing to fold under pressure and give the people what they want.

We do not know Kamala Harris. We don't know her own personal beliefs, we don't know her as a person or a voter. We know what she wants us to know, and it is her job to play both sides. One woman tug of war.

She needs the lukewarm liberals. She needs to tow the line as much as she possibly can because she cannot win if she doesn't. It's not what you want to hear and it's upsetting but it's politics. Kamala is as far left as a presidential candidate could possibly outwardly express.

Jimmy Carter ran as a segregationist in Dixie Georgia. If you saw him campaign, you'd never want to vote for him in a million years. You know what he did when he got into office? Goddamn integration, baby. Because he knew how to play the game. You tow the line, get your votes. Don't say anything to crazy and don't make any outlandish promises.

Leftists are not nearly a big enough voter base to cater to. It's unfortunate, but it's true. Kamala likely supports cutting most, if not all ties with Israel (based on released private comments) but she could never say that AND win the election. You know who is more important? Lukewarm blues. Fucking old people, man. They suck but they are the largest voter turnout.

I'm a history student. I've studied so many fucking political trends it would make your head spin. The side that wins is the patient one. You think the Civil Rights act was the result of a few years of boycotts? Fuck no. It was hundreds, thousands of activists over decades whittling away at the barricades to progress. It's so easy to put barricades up but they're a lot harder to take down.

No genocide in history has ever been stopped by government action. Government is woefully inefficient, riddled with bureaucracy and puzzles like an ISpy book. It's really disheartening to hear and I'm sorry. The Rwandan genocide fizzled out after millions were massacred. The Holocaust didn't stop because it was a genocide, it stopped because WW2 was a land dispute and Germany lost. This is not to say that politicians didn't care—many many of them did—but the people who want progress are blocked at every turn.

You know what you do? You help people. Donate! Work with humanitarian orgs, spread awareness, lend an ear to folks who have escaped and are traumatized by what they've been through. You do what you can for the people who you can do something for, and you vote. It's the only say you have over your government and it's frustrating, but revolution fucking sucks. Even if you think it's for a good cause, trust me. The right people never ever get into power after a revolution and the instability makes things so much worse.

The one big rule of airplane safety is put on your mask before you help others. I'm telling you right now, if you don't keep whittling at the fucking American government you are not going to have a voice to shout with.

Understand how your fucking government functions. You're not doing anyone any favors if you don't. Learn what actually works. Learn from the past and the people who have succeeded because others before them whittled at the barricades. Progress is slow and demoralization makes it slower.

Any leftist worth their salt is the sort of person who can take a step back and look at things. You HAVE to understand why things happen, how they happen. Why do you think fascist governments go for education first?

Please please please learn how to learn. It makes you effective and it makes you dangerous. If you don't know your enemy you might as well fight naked.

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[ask-the-warlord-in-the-helmet]

Hey Shredhead, whats your least favorite thing about all your enemies?

Here we go-

@ask-leader-in-blue he’s a suck up and also blue doesn’t go with his shade of green

@ask-the-red-guy-with-the-sai he needs to overdose on chill pills, calm down

@ask-the-purple-genius HE DOESNT USE HIS BO STAFF CORRECTLY WHY ARE YOU USING IT LIKE A BAT

@ask-a-rad-dude-in-an-orangemask he’s actually rather fun, His catchphrase is fun the first couple of times but it gets annoying after a while

@ask-the-redheaded-kunoichi it took her a startlingly short amount of time to become a kunoichi and she’s also well annoying why do you need psychic powers you’ve got a tesen?

@ask-the-one-and-only-casey-jones who even are you again?

[cartoonsaint]

Try Not to Use the “F-Word,” Okay?

[Ao3]

was reading about @doodledrawsthings​ ‘coffee shop au’ and thought it was interesting that from the jump Luka uses “peck” as a swear. told myself not to overthink it... so naturally here’s nearly three thousand words about the idea that Luka used to swear a LOT. not sure how in keeping it is w his character, but it certainly is in keeping w MY experiences of unthinkingly swearing around a toddler ahahah.... fuck 8)

Summary: three snapshots of luka that are definitely only about swearing (coffee shop au) Characters: Luka, Vanessa, baby Hattie, Luka’s parents. Rating: T (features swearing, implied unhealthy relationship, post-birth scene, minor bleeding) Length: 2878 words

One evening during dinner, Luka loses his grip on his fork and drops it under the table with a clatter. “Fuck,” he says mildly.

Dad gasps, which is a poor choice since he was mid-sip of water. He sputters and coughs, face turning alarmingly red, while Mom throws her head back and laughs. It’s even louder and longer than usual; even by the time Luka crawls back up from under the table, errant fork clutched in one hand and brow wrinkled in confusion over his weird parents, his mom is still laughing. His dad, though, has managed to get his breath back.

“Luka T. Princeton!” he says hoarsely, looking both absolutely scandalized and absolutely soaked from the water that escaped his mouth and cup. “We do not say that word at the dinner table!”

“What word?” Luka asks, before a metaphorical lightbulb goes off. “Oh, ‘fuck’?”

“Don’t—!” his dad says, then goes “hrng” and looks to his wife for help. 

Luka’s mom, now face-down at the dinner table in stark contrast to her usually flawless manners, just smacks the table with a fist and laughs harder. The water in Luka’s cup ripples with it, which in itself is pretty funny, but his dad still looks so uncharacteristically thunderstruck that Luka is unsure whether to join in. Plus he pulled out the full name, so… 

Luka bites his lower lip, suddenly worried. Did he do something bad…?

“Where did you even hear that word?” Dad is massaging the bridge of his nose now in the way he only does when dealing with a tough client or a call that he doesn’t want Luka to overhear, and Luka finds he has to bite his lip even harder because it wants to wobble and he’s a big kid, he’s not going to cry.

“M-Mom said it the other day, when she cut her finger,” he admits, fiddling with his fork. Dad turns to her with such a look of betrayal, even as Mom tries to stifle her continuing giggles. “Um… is it bad?”

“Yes,” Dad says, just as Mom catches her breath and says, “Well, sort of.”

Luka’s parents glance at each other in surprised confusion, but Luka barely notices. He said a bad word… Does that mean he’s bad? Despite his best efforts, his vision starts to go blurry with tears as he stares down at the fork in his hands. He doesn’t want to be bad.

“I don’t think it’s that big a deal,” his mom says.

“I do,” replies his dad, sounding baffled. “I just assumed we were on the same page with this.”

Luka sniffs, trying desperately to hold it together, but he said a bad word — but he didn’t know — but does it matter if he didn’t know? He’s still bad, right? Hot tears start to trail down his cheeks and he sniffs again, harder and louder.

“Oh, Lu,” his dad says softly and crosses around the table to kneel by Luka’s seat. Luka wipes at his eyes fruitlessly as his mom reaches across and takes his smaller hand in hers. “I’m sorry, kiddo, I didn’t mean to get upset. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s okay,” his mom tells him, giving his hand a squeeze. “It’s alright, Luka. We’re not angry — it is a, ah, a ‘bad word,’ but you didn’t know. It’s alright, sweetheart.”

Once Luka starts crying, though, it always takes him an embarrassingly long time to stop. He can’t help it. His frustration about unwillingly acting like such a dumb little kid makes his tears come faster and harder; he has to scrub at his face for a while, his dad handing him tissues, and so he doesn’t pick up on the silent conversation happening over his head between his parents.

They are a matched set in so many ways. To Luka they seem to move in perfect tandem, one picking up the tasks of the other with seamless grace. It seems so natural, so unpracticed and easy, and indeed some of it is — but as Luka cries, they communicate in a series of small expressions each has long-studied in the other: We will talk about this when Luka goes to bed. And, Well I thought it was funny. And, Alright maybe it was but I still don’t want him swearing. And, We’ll discuss it. We’ll figure it out together. I love you.

Luka never realizes. He just assumes that perfect couples are never out of sync with each other — and if they are out of sync, then they must not be perfect.

***

“Fuck, Ven, she’s perfect,” Luka breathes.

He couldn't get close enough sitting in one of the chairs, so he had been leaning against his wife's hospital bed when Vanessa passed him their child — their child, their baby, theirs — and his knees went weak. Now he’s kneeling on the tile floor, barely aware of his surroundings because in his arms he holds a truly, beautifully perfect little baby girl.

She has… a nose. He couldn’t say whether it’s more like his or Vanessa’s because this perfect bundle of joy is a scrunched up little pink newborn so mostly she looks like a lot of wrinkles that a sleepy face got on, but fuck, he loves that little nose and everything attached to it. Honestly through the tears he can barely see her right now but she’s perfect, perfect, perfect… even if she is, objectively speaking, not actually that appealing to look at. “Shit, Ven. Ven. Look at her goddamn little face, fuck.”

Vanessa makes a sound and reaches for him, touching his hand. “You don’t like her face?”

“I fucking love her face,” he says hoarsely. “I love her so goddamn much, Ven, I don’t even know how to say it. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Good,” Vanessa says tiredly. Luka doesn’t want to put their daughter down for a second so he does his best to wipe his eyes on the shoulder of his shirt sleeve. He gets to his feet only to sink right onto the bed beside his wife. His perfect, wonderful wife who has given them the tiny creature he never wants to look away from. “You wanted to name her Harriet, didn’t you?”

It’s like there’s a thread pulling his gaze directly to their daughter but he resists it for long enough to look up at the radiant woman he loves. She’s watching him, eyes glittering. “Do you mean…?”

She gives him one of her luminous smiles, even exhausted as she clearly is. “If it’s what you want, my love.”

Luka’s heart leaps as he looks down at their daughter — at Harriet. “Harriet,” he whispers in wonder. “Little Harry.”

Vanessa’s grip on his arm briefly tightens. “No,” she says.

Luka can’t help the wet laugh that comes out of him, though he tries to keep it down for the sake of his exhausted wife. “No,” he agrees. “How about… Hattie? Little Hattie?”

Hattie sleeps on, a teeny tiny person wrapped up safe in Luka’s trembling arms. He’s probably going to get dehydrated from all this crying and his face already hurts from how hard he’s smiling but, fuck, he doesn’t care about that at all when their perfect daughter is right here. “Hm? Hattie? How’s that sound, princess?” And he presses a gentle, wet kiss to Harriet’s brow.

Luka doesn’t notice Vanessa’s stung shock. He doesn’t notice the shadow of fear, anger, and confusion that darkens her face as she looks between her husband and the daughter she’s given him. It will take him a long time to realize his assumptions about their mutual goals as a unit are different.

For now, he loves Vanessa with all his heart — and loves their little Hattie just as much, if not more.

***

“Fuck,” Luka hisses, jerking his hand out of the hot, soapy water to check his fingertip. Blood wells up from its soft pad, mixing and diluting in the dirty dishwater. “Fuck,” he sighs again, and turns the squeaky nozzle of his shitty sink to run clean water over it. What kind of a fucking fool leaves a sharp knife in the sink like that, anyway.

Obviously, he does. This god awful apartment is just his, after all — he’d run here as soon as he could manage to pull together both the separate funds and distance necessary to prevent Vanessa locating it. This place is safe: Vanessa has never been here, and as of today she never will. So it’s safe, that is, from her — not from Luka’s own inability to keep track of where the goddamn sharp objects are.

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself as the water rushing over his cut starts to run clean. “Shithead.”

It’s been a weird day — a weird week — shit, a weird few years, if Luka thinks about it. When Vanessa came into his life, she seemed to him so bright that nothing else was worth looking at. It took until their daughter — his daughter, now — for Luka to start looking into the darkness she brought as well. Then the divorce proceedings, custody battles, the restraining order — for so long it had seemed that the legal system would fail Luka and Harriet, that Vanessa’s long shadow would follow them wherever they went.

Until earlier this week, that is, when Vanessa used magic in the courtroom.

Things had happened quickly from there. The paperwork barring Vanessa in his and Hattie’s life was just signed and made official today; his copies are still set neatly on the junky, second-hand kitchen table until he figures out exactly where to put them. After so long, it’s finally over. He and Hattie are free.

The old pipes complain as he turns the water off. The cut isn’t too bad, but he probably ought to bandage it anyway. He wipes away the spilled water with a ratty towel, turning to —

“Ffffpffpffpfpfpflllffff,” says Hattie from right by Luka’s feet, which is also outside of her playpen.

“Fuck!” Luka yelps, leaping about a foot in the air. Hattie stops blowing air through her lips to smile up at him, totally angelic. Luka presses a hand to his chest, staring at his little girl. “Kiddo! You scared me! How did you—?”

He looks across the small, open floorplan into the den, where he’s set up several different brands and varieties of baby gates to keep Hattie out of the kitchen when he’s occupied with cooking or cleaning. Her many toys are left behind, the gates apparently untouched, but somehow she’s escaped them — again — to hug Luka’s leg and smile up at him.

He smiles back, of course — he couldn’t deny her anything. And even if it is a problem that his little girl can’t be contained anywhere, he feels a swell of pride at her continued and baffling ingenuity — as well as a slight prickling in his eyes because even with all her toys she always just seems to want to be close to him. “No one’s gonna keep you trapped anywhere, huh, sweetheart?” he asks, squatting down to ruffle her light brown waves.

“Fffpllfpllfff,” Hattie replies importantly, graciously accepting the affection.

“Ah, I see. Your jumping abilities are unmatched, are they?” Luka says in return. His daughter started moving early, her curiosity about the world apparently unable to be sated with just looking even when she was just a few months old. She has always wanted to touch, to crawl, to walk — just the other day Luka could swear he caught her trying to climb the couch. His little princess is unstoppable, and his pride in her every step has gotten him teary-eyed more than once (more than once this week, even).

“Fffflpllplflffff,” Hattie tells him, eyes bright. She smiles hugely in between blowing air through her lips. What she lacks in the ability to form words (she’s a little late, and Luka’s not worried, exactly, but he is watching that with hawk-like eyes) she makes up for in expression. She turns her big blue eyes to the hand Luka isn’t using to brush back her wavy locks, curious. “Fffllllllllflflplf?”

“Oh, your dad cut himself,” Luka explains, showing her the slim red line of blood beading up on the pad of his finger. “Pretty stupid, if you ask — oh, sweetie, don’t—!” She’s grabbed his finger in a little fist before he can stop her, smearing blood all over it. He quickly scoops her into his lap, frowning down at her messy hand. “Fuck. Alright, we’ll just—”

“Fffffffuck,” Hattie says clearly.

Luka blinks once. Twice. He looks down at his daughter, who is beaming up at him with clear pride.

“...what,” Luka says.

“Flffflpplf.”

“A-alright, okay, that’s — sorry, princess, your dad thought for a second there you said—”

“Pllllfffflllplflflfff. Fffuck!” Hattie says again. Then she claps her little hands together in delight, further spreading the blood between them.

“Ha,” says Luka, voice unusually high. “Hahaha I? You??? …Alright! Alright! This, ah, this is fine, kiddo, we’ll just—”

“Fuck! Ffplplffuck fuck fuck?”

Luka takes a deep breath. Then he takes another one.

When Harriet was first born, he’d made an effort to cut back on the swearing. He had the ability to turn it off, after all, in the courthouse and with clients, so presumably it should have been easy to transfer that back home, too. But changing the way he’s spoken for years in his own space turned out to be quite difficult; with the stress of the past few months, that effort had been one of the many things to fall by the wayside in favor of more immediate concerns.

So Luka has been swearing a lot lately. And his sweet Hattie has been quietly soaking it all up, patiently biding her time until she could attempt to communicate with her dad in his own language.

“Ffffuck?” Hattie asks, eyes concerned. She presses one dirty hand to Luka’s face, as though attempting to stem the flow of tears. “Fffpllppff?”

“Oh, princess, I’m sorry,” he tells her, rubbing his wet face on his shoulder to clear his eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have — I—” He sniffs, then exhales hard. “Alright. Daddy’s been saying some bad words lately, but he’s gonna stop now, okay?”

“Fuck!”

A part of Luka really, really wants to laugh, actually, because damn is Hattie cute with her big, sparkling eyes, her chubby cheeks uplifted with a smile, the absolute adoration on her face as she looks up at him for approval. The contrast between how sweet she looks in her bird-patterned onesie and the foul language coming out of her mouth is almost —

“Fuck?”

“Nope!” he says brightly. “We’re gonna try something different! Okay, kiddo?” Hattie tilts her head adorably and Luka’s chest squeezes — fuck he loves her. “Hmmm…”

She watches him silently as he thinks. In the dozens of parenting books he’s read there was never anything explicitly about what to do if a toddler started cursing (because no one else has this problem because only he is this bad a dad, holy shit), but he can recall a number of chapters about encouraging them in pronunciation…

He’ll need something that sounds like “fuck,” but definitely isn’t. He laces his fingers together, tilting his head at Hattie. She pats his hands, looking solemnly back. He sticks his tongue out at her; delighted, she does the same. What word to use?

He notices that her orange onesie has penguins on it. 

“Alright, kiddo, this is going to be a little silly,” he says, and goes, “fllpppplffffpeck.”

It might be easier to just let this go, to let Hattie say and do whatever she wants, and part of Luka is tempted. But he knows now how important it is to talk in a family, to put in the work to understand one another. This situation might be a minor instance of it, but he wants to make sure he and Hattie never have a problem talking to each other. He’s willing to put in the work, as much as it takes.

It takes an hour or so to convince her that “peck” is superior to “fuck.” The process is complicated by the continued desire to laugh every time she swears, but eventually they manage, and Hattie goes toddling off merrily chanting, “peck peck peck peck.”

Luka painfully hauls himself up (shit, his tailbone hurts) to finally finish doing the dishes in water that has long gone cold. This is a good start, he thinks, but he’ll need to watch his own language as well. Maybe he can encourage Hattie’s positive association with the word with a bird toy or something? He considers this as he reaches into the water to unplug the drain —

And jerks his hand back as the same finger grazes probably the same goddamn knife. “Fff—!”

“Peck!”

He glances over his shoulder. Hattie is painstakingly tugging at the baby gates, trying to get back into the playpen he knows she knows he prefers her to be in. Her eyes are solemn, watching him for what he’ll do.

“...peck,” he agrees weakly. She smiles brilliantly and goes back to her toddler work.

God, he fu— he pecking loves her.

[harringtonstudios]

bail. (part I)

plot: your weekend was supposed to be chill, now you’re running around early morning trying to figure out what exactly went wrong. part 2!

A/N: super long and different! i hope you like this anon! please lmk ur thoughts

taglist: @iamdorka @no-shxt-sherl @bakerkells @findingmyth​ @rosegoldrichie​ @mayaslifeinabox​ @itjustkindahappenedreally​ @hnbtx​

Getting a phone call at 3:42am when you were knocked out on a hotel bed in Portland was not how you expected your weekend to go. The worst part was when you groggily reached for your cell phone, only to see a random number pop up on your screen. Shrugging it off, you pulled your head under the thick blanket, closing your eyes. 

Two minutes later, the phone went off again and you snapped open your eyes. Grabbing your phone this time, you picked up the call, bringing it to you ear before murmuring, “Who the fuck-”

“Hey Y/N. It’s Colson,” the man said on the other side and you glared at the ceiling, immediately placing his voice. Of course, he would be calling you at almost four in the morning from some random number. 

“Why are you calling me?” you muttered, pulling your covers back over you. 

“So there’s a little situation see,” he started and you scowled, knowing that this was going to require you actually getting up. 

“Where’s Rook,” you questioned, trying to figure out if your little brother was caught up in this mess. If he wasn’t, you would let someone else handle it. You weren’t Colson’s babysitter, both of you were too fiery to be put in a room together anyways. Anytime you were together, there were always bitten-back insults, glares thrown across rooms, and dumb competitions to prove you were better than each other. 

“He’s here, he called, but you didn’t pick up. I got the phone after and you’re the only person we know here with us,” he rambled and you huffed, getting up off the bed.

“Where are you?” you asked, walking over to the bathroom, trying to see if you needed to pee before you left. 

“County jail,” Colson muttered on the other end and your eyes widened. Before you could say anything, he blurted out, “Look I know, I know. Can you just bring us bail? I’ll pay you back, but we can’t stay the night here.” 

Pulling on pants, you grabbed your coat and wallet as the line suddenly started to beep. “I’m coming,” you got out before the call cut off. 

-

The empty, cold streets of Portland were not inviting. There was nobody around, the kid sitting on the main desk in the lobby, typing away on his phone. You had walked out of the hotel into total darkness, so you went back in, sitting on the couches as you called a Lyft. 

Within five minutes, the car had pulled up. Getting in the backseat, you threw a smile to the driver, praying that he wouldn’t ask why you needed to go to jail. Your prayers didn’t work, a minute into the ride, the driver glanced in the mirror before saying, “So, county jail huh? What’s that story?”

You stared at the front seat. “My brother and his stupid friends got themselves locked up for the night,” you responded, keeping it simple. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you stole a glimpse at the GPS setup on his dashboard. Just five more minutes. 

“You going to bail them out?” he pushed, smiling when you glared at him in the mirror. “Something like that,” you murmured and he got the message, turning on the radio as you stared out the window. 

The county jail came into view and you braced yourself for the mess you were going to walk into. “Thanks dude,” you blurted, before getting out of his car. 

“Hey, good luck,” he threw your way, rolling his window to wave. You smiled awkwardly before walking into the building. The lady at the front desk was filing her nails as the man behind her sat with his head down. There was a bench, two guys sitting there, slumped on top of each other. 

Grimacing, you walked up to the desk. 

“Hi, I’m here to bail out a couple of people,” you started, and the lady gave you a look, eyebrows raised as she put her nail file down. 

“Names?” she muttered, reaching down to sort through what looked like files. 

“JP Cappelletty, Colson Baker,” you spoke, faltering at the end. “Did anyone else come in with them?” you asked, biting your lip, hoping for a no. 

“Yeah, do you know his name?” she asked, slapping three files onto her desk. 

“Um Slim,” you bit out. 

“Government name?” she questioned, flipping open a chart. 

“I don’t know that,” you responded, hand nervously tapping on the desk. 

She looked up at you, glaring for a second, before shouting, “MIKE. BRING THE THREE GUYS UP FRONT.”

You flashed her a smile, reaching into your purse for your wallet. 

“I’ll need you to sign a couple of papers. It’ll be $302 per person. You want a receipt?” she stated, reaching for her machine. 

“A receipt would be great,” you responded, trying not to freak out about dropping over $900 on bail. 

“You’ll have to call up your credit card company, let them know you’re paying a large amount,” she finished, reaching for the card in your hand. 

“Yeah, okay. First thing in the morning,” you nodded, eyes clocking on the movement behind her. 

Colson was shuffling in front, head hanging. You could see Slim at the back, nose looking slightly busted. Rook was in the middle of them and although, you couldn’t really see him, you knew he was probably scuffed up. They all were in handcuffs, clanking as they moved to the front, near the gated door. 

“Lady! I said sign here,” the woman said, snapping at you. You looked down at the six different sheets. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled, taking a pen from her. Signing off on all the documents, you pushed them back her way. 

“Mike, they’re good to go,” the woman motioned, and you heard a buzz. Walking to the gated door, you stood back as it swung open. 

Colson got uncuffed first, rubbing at his wrists. Your eyes widened at his knuckles, swollen and purple. Stepping out, he came to stand behind you, murmuring a soft, “Thanks.” 

Rook was next, and you sighed, seeing his black eye. He looked up at you, eyes watering and you quickly pulled him in for a hug. 

“You okay?” you asked, patting his back. 

“Yeah, this is so fucked,” he muttered and you let out a little laugh as he sniffed. 

“You’re lucky I won’t tell dad about this,” you responded, pushing him slightly as Slim stepped out. 

“Y/N! You’re the best,” he boomed, as he leaned down for a hug. You gave him a quick one, head turning as you smelled the alcohol wafting off of him. 

“Thanks Mike,” you said, arms shoving the three of them towards the exit. They all stumbled outside and you waited until the door of the office closed before turning to face them. 

“What the FUCK. You’re all drunk, busted up, falling on top of each other, in fucking JAIL!” you shouted, arms waving around as they stood there. 

“What’d you shitheads do?” you barked at them, eyes focusing on Colson, who was avoiding your gaze. 

“Y/N, chillll,” Slim mumbled, swaying slightly. 

“Oh fuck no,” you scoffed. 

“I’ll tell you everything. Can we just get home?” Colson quietly muttered. He spared you a glance, eyes slightly red. 

You called another Lyft, sitting down on the front steps of the station. Rook sat next to you, head falling on your shoulder. 

“Don’t blame him Y/N,” he said, hand hitting your knee. 

“J,” you started, “You wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for him.” 

“That’s not true. We both know that,” Rook responded and you looked up at the sky, hoping you had enough patience to deal with this. 

-

Sitting in the passenger seat, you stared at the driver’s mirror, watching the boys in the back. Slim had slumped against the leather, eyes closed. Rook was half on top of him, mouth open as he drooled. Colson was the only one awake, biting his lip staring out the window. 

A part of you wanted to yell at him, scold him for getting your little brother tangled up with this lifestyle, being a bad influence. But another part of you wanted to give him a hug, stroke his hair off his forehead. And then there was a teeny, tiny part of you that wanted to kiss his stupid, chapped lips, play with his broken fingers, hold ice against his purpled knuckles. 

That part of you was new. You had always thought you hated Colson, despised him for messing up Rook’s life, and that’s why you two were always biting at each other. But then this weekend, he had hurled his usual insults and you’d seen something sparkle in his eye. And then you’d both gotten fucked up off of ecstasy and he whispered your name, and all of a sudden all you could think about was him on top of you, panting out your name over and over again. You’d run off to bed then, claiming that you were tired, but really you were overthinking every single interaction you’d had with Colson since knowing him. 

-

Pulling up to the hotel, you thanked the driver. Opening the back door, you helped the three idiots, trying to keep their limbs in check as they sleepily slumped out. Colson was the last one, slamming the door closed before throwing you a weak smile. Holding up Slim, he asked, “I’ll make sure he gets back to his room. You trust me enough for that?”

You nodded, wrapping Rook’s arm around your neck so you could lift him slightly. “Can we talk before you go to bed?” you pushed, knowing that if you put this off until tomorrow, the conversation wouldn’t happen. He wasn’t sober, but this was the closest you would get to hearing the entire story of tonight without all three of the guys changing around details. 

“Yeah, come over after Rookie’s in bed,” he murmured over his shoulder. You smiled at the use of Rook’s little nickname, and then caught yourself quickly, throwing a neutral face back on. Getting into the elevator, you suddenly felt exhausted, the night taking a toll on you. 

-

Stomach grumbling as soon as you pushed Rook into bed, you looked around the floor for any snack machines. Remembering the cereal box you had stolen from breakfast back in your room, you went upstairs. Reaching your door, you stood in front, rooting around in your purse for the key card. Coming up empty, you frowned, trying again to feel the cool piece of plastic. Nothing. 

Then, it hit you. You had left the key on the table next to your hotel bed, taking it out of your purse since this was supposed to be your last night here. “Fuck,” you muttered, rushing to the elevator door. Walking out into the lobby, you went to the front desk, only to see it empty. There was nobody around to talk to and you let out another curse as your phone buzzed.

Colson Baker: you can come over. room 536.

Deciding to go up first, you got back on the elevator, praying for an easy talk. Knocking on the door, you edged it open before walking in. Colson sat on his bed, leaning against the backboard. His long legs were stretched out in front of him and he’d kicked off his shoes, socked feet crossed at the end. He was holding a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a spoon in the other, and you pushed his feet aside as you plopped on the edge of his bed. 

“Pass the peanut butter?” you asked, gesturing to the jar in his hand. He snorted before leaning off the backboard to give it over. Taking the jar, you hesitated before reaching over to take his spoon too. Dipping it in, you scooped up a nice spoonful before eating it. 

“Mmhm, I’m starving,” you murmured between thick peanut butter. 

“Me too, give it back,” he said, arm reaching out as you moved back out of reach.

“Nope. Not until you explain this shitty situation,” you said, smiling sweetly as you took another spoonful. 

He sighed before leaning back fully, hand rubbing over his face. He had a little bit of stubble, highlighted by the dim yellow of the lamp. His knuckles looked worse here, deep purple and you reached out before you could help yourself. Bringing his hand up to your eyes, you ran a finger over the bruises. 

“Colson,” you sighed out and he shifted a little, sitting upright so that he was closer to you. 

“I know,” he started, and you looked up at him. 

“What happened,” you asked, letting his hand drop in between you both. 

“We were at a bar. I was fucked up already. Slim and Rook had smoked a little, but then they drank and got crossed. There was a group of girls and we danced around a little, but they didn’t want to do anything so we backed off. Then, these guys started getting all up on them and they weren’t listening, so I threw a punch. Things get kinda hazy after that,” he ended, eyes staring straight at you. 

You didn’t say anything, processing the information. Of fucking course they had started a bar fight. Biting your cheek, you asked, “And then you got arrested?”

“I guess. Next thing I know, I’m in fucking handcuffs and we’re getting pulled out of the bar. Rookie freaked out, tried to call you once we got there. And then they let me go, so I tried again and you picked up,” he mumbled, pressing down on his own knuckles. 

“Okay,” you breathed out, “I’m not going to yell at you.” 

He snorted at that, leaning back, putting both his arms above his head. 

“But the next time I get a fucking call from jail, I’m leaving you all to rot there,” you finished, putting the peanut butter jar on the bed, towards him. 

“Noted,” he nodded, closing his eyes. 

Taking in his appearance, you grimaced at the state of his hands. Picking up his key card from the nightstand, you got up. You left the room with an ice bucket before he could even realize, walking to the machine on the floor. Gathering a few ice cubes, you unlocked his door, walking back in. 

“Where’d you go,” he mustered out, sounding a little hoarse. 

“Ice,” you responded, before taking a few tissues from the desk. Making a makeshift ice pack, you sat back on the bed. 

Carefully reaching for his arms, you pulled one down. He extended his fingers, looking down at them himself. 

“Yeah, I guess I fucked myself over bad,” he said, moving his fingers slowly. 

“You’re an asshole who can’t stop himself,” you responded, gingerly laying the ice across his knuckles. He winced a little and you lifted it up. 

“Keep it there, feels good,” he mumbled, using his other hand to guide yours back to his bruises. 

Looking up, you made eye contact and the world softened its edges for a second. 

Kicking into a panic, you quickly moved back, pulling your hand out. He gripped on the tissue ice pack, confused. You let out a breath before getting up, walking over to the desk where the hotel phone sat. Finding the reception number, you picked up the phone, dialing in the numbers. Crossing your fingers, you were on the line for a second before the message started up,” We’re sorry. No one is available at this time.” 

“Fuck,” you muttered, slamming down the phone. 

“What,” Colson asked, and you looked over at the bed. His eyes were closed, the ice pack sitting on the nightstand, creating a little puddle. 

“I locked myself out of my room, no one’s downstairs,” you explained, reaching for your cell phone. His eyes opened at that, and you saw him looking as you called Rook. 

“Of course he isn’t picking up,” you muttered to yourself. It would be so easy to just fall asleep in your brother’s bed, living like you were kids again. 

“Rook’s dead to the world,” Colson mumbled out as he slowly got up. You saw him moving and you paused, mid-pace. 

“Just stay here. I’ll sleep on the floor or something,” he said, reaching up to stretch. His shirt rode up a little and you saw the triple X tattoo peeking out his waistband, tempting you.

“You can’t sleep on the floor, you just got beat up dude. Take the bed, I’ll sleep in the bathtub or something. Throw me a pillow,” you stated, shrugging off your jacket. 

He gave you a look before shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Just stay on the bed,” he said, pulling one of the sheets off. 

“No. I wanna sleep in the bathtub,” you threw back, reaching for the sheet from him.

“You’re gonna fight me on this too?” he asked, letting go of the sheet as you stumbled a little. 

“It’s not that serious Colson. Go the fuck to sleep,” you spat out, turning around to the bathroom.  

Walking in, you paused a little as your socked feet hit the cold tiles. The bathtub wasn’t really big, covered in a layer of grime. Trying to figure out a way to clean it up, you searched around, eyes only finding the little complimentary bottles of shampoo. 

Stepping back out of the bathroom, you saw Colson already in the bed. The covers were pulled up to his head, blonde tuft sticking out. You knew he wasn’t asleep, hearing the sounds of his phone under the blanket.

 There were two options here: you could either lay on the dirty floor, covered in stickiness from everyone’s bar-laced Converses or you could get in bed with him. The right choice was evident, and you reminded yourself exactly why you couldn’t stand him before moving over to the other side of the bed. 

Placing the pillow you had taken back down on the bed, you laid the sheet down. You couldn’t really see Colson, he had taken over one side of the bed and you knew that he probably wasn’t sure that you were there. Nudging his shoulder, you lifted the covers from his head. 

He looked up at you once, then saw the pillow right next to him. Shifting so that he was fully facing you, he grinned before saying, “Sleeping with me tonight?” 

“God, could you be any more fucking annoying,” you muttered, sitting on the side of the bed. 

“I’m just stating the facts,” he said, hands rubbing over his bare chest. You glared at him, before getting up and grabbing his white shirt from the desk. 

Throwing it to him, you barked, “Put it back on.” 

He gave you an incredulous look, before shrugging it on. 

“Happy now? Thin cotton makes a great barrier,” he scoffed. 

You looked at him once before grinning, muttering, “Just peachy.”

Getting into bed, you brought your knees close up to your chest. This was a comfortable position for you, and you wrapped an arm around yourself before mumbling out, “Stay on your side or I’ll cut your balls off.” 

Not even waiting for a response, you let your eyes close. You had tired yourself out with this adventure, and within seconds you were sleeping. 

Waking up an hour later, you blinked your eyes at the harsh light coming through the opened curtains. You had a pounding headache, letting out a little groan as you shifted. Moving just a little, you felt something slump over your waist. Lifting the covers, you saw Colson’s hand, leaning against your hip, heat radiating off of it. Your heart stuttered a little, before you slightly moved it off of yourself. 

A minute later, you decided to get up for the day. You wanted to check with the receptionist to see if you could get back into your own hotel room. Pushing yourself up, you turned just a little to look at Colson’s sleeping form. 

His head was smashed into the pillow, hair flopping over his forehead. One of his hands was outstretched, reaching towards you while the other was wrapped around his own torso. He looked peaceful, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Taking in the sight of a quiet, angelic Colson Baker, you smiled before getting off the bed. 

Walking over to the phone, you called the number again, twirling the cord as you looked through the window at the vacant parking lot.

“Portland’s Finest. How can we help you Mr.Baker?” a voice spoke, tinny through the phone. 

“Oh hi, I um- I’m Y/N. I locked myself out of my room,” you mumbled into the line. 

“Oh, sorry about that Ms. Y/N. Why don’t you come down here and we can figure this out,” the receptionist spoke and you responded quickly, hanging up the line. 

Grabbing your purse, you pulled on your shoes. Picking up your coat, you passed Colson sleeping as you stood at the door. Waiting for a second, you shuffled back to the bed, leaning down. Kissing his forehead quickly, you sighed before walking out the door. It was going to be a long day.

[badacts]

eyes on me (pt.4)

This fic is about Gotham’s revenant problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. It’s a mild concussion.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You injured him. Again.”

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

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

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

Bruce is scowling. “That’s not-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A good soldier. A good fucking soldier.

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

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

“Fuck you,” Jason rasps, and throws.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His fingers relax.

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

It’s Alfred. He looks furious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[honeylikewords]

Gimme your thoughts about Us, I’m still dumb af - You know who it be

I’m putting off an essay to write this but let’s ROCK and ROLL, BABY!

So, spoilers below the cut, just as a warning for anyone who still wants to see Us (2019), dir. Jordan Peele. If you’re unable to see the movie for whatever reason, you can feel free to read this and garner some ideas from it, but I still suggest seeing the film, in the end. A lot of this won’t make sense unless you’ve seen Us!

I normally don’t go out for too much horror, but I do think the Jordan Peele movies are legitimately great works of art, and very culturally relevant, so if you want to be supportive of black artists, black art, and the vocalization of the black experience, I highly suggest going to see these movies or watching them at home. 

They’re not actually overly violent or exploitative, and understanding that the violence in the films is meant to be metaphorical for the systemic violence perpetrated against oppressed groups helps to contextualize the stuff you do end up seeing. So, without further ado, let’s get into some Thoughts about some Cinema.

So, first of all, I have to say that I haven’t stopped thinking about this movie since I saw it at, like, 5:30 pm on Sunday. It’s been on my mind non-stop, and I’ve been fixated on the soundtrack, particularly “Anthem” and “Pas de Deux”, along with the “Tethered Remix” of “I Got Five On It”. I love the intentionally jarring combination of sounds, and how “Anthem” is directly reflective of the idea of the “U.S. Anthem”. “Us Anthem”. 

Jordan himself has been very open about the fact that the title Us is meant to also represent “U.S.”, and when Red is asked “what she is” and she rasps out “We’re Americans” it just... stuck with me. 

The nonsense-singing of “Anthem”, too, fixates me, since the scorer for the film has talked about how it’s the “voices of the Tethered”, and how they’re “angry” and “ready to get free”. We know that the Tethered cannot speak, which is a major and interesting facet of their life, to me, since they’re never given “a voice” beyond this kind of animal screaming and groaning. 

It’s what makes a lot of viewers see them as “sub-human”, but always gets to my heart and makes me think about the fact that they are so very keenly human. It makes me think about the repression of “lesser” languages, native languages, “non-verbal” languages. The Tethered DO have a means of communication-- clicks and rasps, cries and screams-- which definitely do pull at the human fear of “unnatural” noises, but also remind me of native languages that utilize clicks or throat sounds often not found in English. 

The Tethered are deeply, intimately human. While it is mentioned by Red that two bodies cannot share the one soul, that doesn’t mean to me that the other is soulless. I really don’t think that about the Tethered. I think that they are their own people, and that their rising proves that. They’re not hollow machines that just mimic their “original” on the surface, but are just people with their own souls, people who have been wrongly oppressed and mistreated.

Us is openly a discussion about the way we, as people and as Americans, treat “others”. Whether that means the racial other, the cultural other, the class other, the gendered other, or anything other system we try to dichotomize, binarize, or diametrically oppose to something else, it’s very definitely about the ways we abuse and mistreat people in order to systemically oppress them and gain from that.

Adelaide represents this interesting kind of class-traitor, in a way, because she rises “above the others”, both literally and figuratively, and instead of making an effort to free those around her, she just rises to the top and forgets where she came from. Whether that’s about assimilating into white culture and “rejecting” the culture one came from (joining in the oppression of your own people by claiming to ‘not be one of those kinds’) or about rising to a wealthy position and oppressing the poor, forgetting what it was like to be poor one’s self, or about any number of other things, that’s up for interpretation. But the issue is still there.

Jordan intentionally left the specific meaning of the film open so that every viewer would be forced to engage with it personally. Who do you, personally, help to betray? Who do you, personally, help to oppress? Whose suffering do you, personally, benefit from? You’re forced to grapple with that, and forced to acknowledge the reality that every single one of us is part of the issue. You only climb higher by putting someone below you, and this movie forces you to recognize that. 

I’ve heard people complaining that Us isn’t as good as Get Out specifically because it’s more open-ended, but I think that’s what makes both films fantastic and beautiful. Get Out brazenly exposes the direct experience of everyday black horror, and is completely open about it. It’s a one-to-one analogy. But Us is for everyone, making you wrestle with yourself. You are your own Tethered. You are the good and the bad of yourself. And neither one is fully good and neither one is fully bad. Get Out was a master-class in analogy, but Us is more of a metaphor; it doesn’t need to have everything laid out. Its horror and its beauty lay inside of its intentional cloudiness.

I’m really obsessed with the rabbit imagery, too. I love bunnies, and seeing them become symbolic of this horror really was an interesting take. Jordan himself has expressed being uncomfortable with and scared of rabbits, specifically because he can see that they’re “soulless” inside; he says that if you took the brain of a rabbit and put it in a person, you’d get Michael Myers. Totally void, just ready to hurt. And I think that’s an interesting take on them. He also points out that the image of rabbit ears, the shape of their head, mirrors the shape of the scissors that the Tethereds use.

I also love the way that rabbits are largely docile little creatures, but can bite pretty hard if provoked, and I feel that’s a good way to look at the Tethered. I don’t see them as inherently evil or violent, just pushed beyond their own limitations. They did what we all did as Americans: they led a violent uprising against their oppressors, then ‘peacefully’ took their place, all the way across America. They are us, for better, for worse. 

The choice to use the 80′s references really often also caught my attention; Jordan talks about how the 80′s nostalgia is this double-edged sword, since everyone is longing to go back, but not realizing the costs and weights of that, the evil lurking under the placidity and “wholesome American image” that the 80′s sought to project.

The all-American, apple pie, small-town fun and games of the 80′s also came with the Reagan administration, the AIDs crisis, the war on drugs, a massive rift between the rich and the poor (with a steadily more wealthy middle class expanding from just middle class into rich, upper middle class individuals and extremely poor lower middle class), and “sublimated racism”. We pretended, as a nation, that we were now post-racial, but that was such, such, such a huge lie.

So setting the memory scenes in the 80′s, using 80′s film references, 80′s imagery, 80′s sound-a-likes, the Michael Jackson stuff: it all points to the duality of what we love, what we are nostalgic for. Michael was a hero of the 80′s, but now... 

Speaking of Michael Jackson, notice carefully the costuming of the Tethereds. Red jumpsuit, single glove, ‘the monster is not what it seems’, the “Thriller” t-shirt... why, Jordan, one might think that you made the Tethereds look like Michael in “Thriller”!

Which he obviously did, guh-doy.

I mean, the glove/sharp symbol also is an homage to good ol��� shithead Freddy Krueger, too, but it’s definitely a potent nod to Michael Jackson. We know that Adelaide (now Red) had seen the “Thriller” video as a child, and that she wanted the shirt with him on it, so the image of the Tethered is this combination between the Hands Across America symbols and the Michael Jackson look in “Thriller”. Adelaide (now Red) never forgot. 

Also, god, Hands Across America? Talk about 80′s false optimism! It’s incredible how potent that image is for the issue being discussed. For those of you who don’t know, Hands Across America was an initiative in the 80′s to help end hunger and homelessness in America. The idea was that every person in America would join hands and form a line “from sea to shining sea” across the entire lower 48 continental states, and for each person in line, $10 dollars would be donated to the cause.

The event, of course, failed in many ways. First, there’s no POSSIBLE way for people to join hands across the whole continent; the terrain of the US makes it entirely impossible. Plus, the time necessary to conduct that would be incredibly exhausting for people standing in line! But what’s worse? The project did successfully raise ~$34 million, but nearly $20 million of that disappeared into “event costs”: paying the celebrities that endorsed it, paying the event organizers, et cetera. Only around $15 millions made it to the homeless and hungry. While $15 mil. is no small number, that’s.... less than half of what was raised. So where did all that go? Into the pockets of the already rich. It’s such powerful symbolism, especially within the context of the film.

Oh, also, while still on the 80′s talk, the opening shot of the film features a VHS copy of the movie C.H.U.D., a movie about “sub-human underground sewer dwellers” who rose up to eat the surface humans. These “CHUDs” were one-to-one analogies for the homeless and impoverished.

I cannot get over how strong the storytelling is in Us, I just can’t. I’m obsessed with it. I cannot help but wanna talk about it all the time! It’s so GOOD and I’m so FRUSTRATED that I’m gonna cut myself off here to stop from ranting about every teeny tiny thing and every big major thing because no one will know what I’m on about, but, seriously, do yourselves a favor and go see Us. 

This movie will make you have to sit down and think about whose suffering you’ve benefited from, and what you need to do within yourself to change this.

Also, before I go, I just gotta say I love, love, love the decision Jordan made about having the 1980s version of the hall of mirrors be “Native American” themed, only to have that “politically corrected” in the 2010s to be “Merlin’s Hall Of Mirrors”, which is just a facade thrown up over a still-racist, exactly the same hall of mirrors. The problem lurks within, never gone, just covered.

Also, that ties to the Kubrick connection (The Shining is a major inspiration for Jordan) and the genocide connection, so, uh, it’s deep out here, lads.

Anyway, I have opinions about movies.

[crzcorgi]

Negan and the wee girl

for @ladylorelitany‘s Monster Mash 2017 : A Negan Challenge

My prompt was Fae

Negan x Fairy OC

2500 words

Warnings ~ Negan’s language and a bit of sexual innuendo, it’s Negan!

This is a definite AU as I have very little knowledge of fairies, so I just winged it! 😂

This will have more to it

@negans-network

 The fucking ungrateful ball-less shitheads! I screamed out behind me when I realized the group of men that were with me had fucking hightailed it out of the woods we were in. But I had to get to the outpost we had hidden out here. And, like fucking always, I’m the only one with the fucking balls to do it.

  We’d been on the road for days, checking all our outposts and the communities we had taken control off. I was fucking tired, wanted to get back to the Sanctuary, I needed to fuck someone and fucking soon. And this shit outpost was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

 We’d heard a strange noise when we first entered the wooded area.

 “Jesus, boss! What the hell was that sound?!”

 “I don’t know D, just keep the fuck moving!”

  “That was howling, but that ain’t like any dog I’ve ever heard before!”

 “If it ain’t fucking walkers, then you shitheads pay it no mind and keep on a marching!”

 We walked further into the forest, the sounds seeming to fade away. When we reached a clearing the howling appeared again, intensified.

 “I’m out of here!”

 “Me too.”

  And that was the last I saw of those fuckers. I didn’t have time to dwell on the assholiness of my fucking supposed Saviors. Marching forth thru the high grass I was suddenly knocked on my ass by a herd of what looked like small dogs. What the actual fuck am I seeing here?!

 I got back on my feet to see the tall grasses being parted by nothing visible to me. I followed the part, thinking it had to be those dogs(?) that had plowed me the fuck over. When I reached the edge where the grass ended and the woods once again started, I heard something else, music? What the fuck?!

 I made sure Lucille was secure on my shoulder as I slowly and quietly stepped forward towards the beat. Peeking around a tree, I saw it. But my mind couldn’t fucking comprehend the shit that was going down.

 It was a party of some sort, people dancing, music playing, laughter filling the air. On the edge of this circle of people were the small dogs I had thought I had seen before. They appeared to be keeping guard, their back ends facing the small crowd, ears pricked forward towards the surrounding area.

 Now, this was definitely a fucking strange sight in these days. But it wasn’t the party of people that made this occurrence strange. Fuck no! It was the fact that the partiers in question were no more than a few fucking inches tall. And no, I’m not fucking crazy.

 I felt dizzy suddenly, not sure exactly what the fuckity fuck I was witnessing. It’s the apocalypse, the dead are roaming the earth. Are tiny people so hard to comprehend?!

 Fuck, yes they are!

 I stepped back, looking for a place to sit my ass down before I fell down. As I sat on a fallen tree trunk, I stepped on a twig, a sharp “snap” heard by the massive ears on one of the dog sentries. Turning to look right at me, I saw one of the people jump on its’ back and then they both headed my way. Shit!

 When the dog reached me, the little person, a woman I could now see, climbed up onto the dog’s head, holding onto its ears for balance.

 “Hello sir!” I could hear her, as tiny as she was, she was fucking loud. “I’m LilithElle of Pembrokeshire. And you are?” She looked as if she was holding out her tiny hand to me.

Okay.

 “Uh, um, I’m Negan of The Sanctuary.” I placed my hand down towards her. She took both of her miniature hands, clasping onto one of my fingers, attempting to “shake” it. Damn if it wasn’t cute.

 “Well a good afternoon to you, Negan of The Sanctuary! And welcome to our gathering!” She gestured towards the circle of party goers. “And this here,” she leant down to pat her dog’s head, “is Dal, he’s my steed, and my best friend.” She gently stroked between his ears, sitting down, her tiny legs crossing.

 “So, good sir, what brings you here? Most of your kind cannot see us. Is there something you’re searching for? Something you need, desire?” She stood once again, straightening the little outfit she wore, which wasn’t much, an itty bitty leaf bra and some sort of flower skirt. Do these creatures have the same anatomy as humans? Does this little lady standing in front of me have little tits and a teenie pussy? And why the fuck am I thinking about this?! Shit.

 I was wiping at my face, feeling fucking flush, when I suddenly felt something, someone, lightly touching my knee. Looking down and just about to swat what I thought must have been a fucking spider away, I realized the little lady was now standing on me. I must have looked like what I felt, because she had a concerned look on her face.

 “Mr. Negan, are okay? I know this must come as a bit of a shock, a horde of tiny people living in the woods with corgi steeds and invisible to most.” She patted my hand that rested on my leg. “Ask me anything, Mr. Negan. I’m an open book!” Her mini arms opening wide. “But do you mind if I sit here a bit? I’m afraid my legs are a wee bit tired, I’ve had a might busy morning.” She let out a big yawn, stretching her arms over her head, and fuck if I didn’t check her out.

 Jesus fucking Christ, I’m going nuts, I must have hit my fucking head when I fell and now I’m dreaming about a tiny half naked lady with nice tits. Okay, that could definitely explain all this.

 I didn’t know what to say, what to fucking think. I’m sitting in the woods, death, destruction all around me. And I’m in the middle of some psychedelic fucking acid trip chatting it up with a tiny sexy fucking fairy tale creature.

 “Okay, doll, your name again?”

 She looked up at me and I could see her beautiful eyes, a fucking kaleidoscope of different colors swirling around. “Well, we faes have very long names, but are given shorter names once our personalities show. I’m known as LilithElle. Some call me Lil as I’m a bit wee sized.”

 She giggled, covering her mouth in embarrassment. “I guess to you sir, we all are a bit wee!” She stretched her legs out in front of her and leaned back on her hands. “So, next question?”

 “You said most people can’t fucking see your kind. So why can I?” She seemed to be contemplating her answer.

 “One of my elders might be better to answer this, but I do know this. Usually someone who believes in us can definitely see, but my mother once told me that so can humans that have a fairy soulmate. So, Mr. Negan, do you believe in fairies?” She sat forward, resting her tiny chin in her hands, a look of all seriousness on her face.

 “Well, I guess I fucking do sweetheart, cause I sure as shit am looking at you right now.” I laughed, making my leg shake.

 “Whoa!” I realized that any fucking movement I made, no matter how small,  was like a fucking quake to little miss tiny. She was holding onto my thumb with all her fucking might. “I think I’ll jump back over to Dal, Mr. Negan.” She giggled again, such a sweet sound.

 She stood back up, turning to head back to her dog. “Hold on teenie tiny, climb onto my hand, let me get a better look at ya.” I placed my hand near her, palm up.

 She stepped onto my hand, sitting down, crisscrossing her long legs. “Okay, but please move slowly, I’m not fond of heights Mr. Negan.”

 I carefully began lifting my hand, keeping it fucking level. When reached my face, I brought her closer. “Hello doll, now I can see you better. Now call me Negan, no need for the formalities.”

 “Oooh, I’m high up! Hey Dal!” She leaned over my hand carefully, waving to her dog below on the ground. He began barking, jumping up on my knee causing me to almost drop tiny tot.

 “Down boy! If you knock Mr., I mean Negan down, I’ll come tumbling down too!” She was pointing her itty finger at the dog, chastising him. And I couldn’t help but notice her tiny fucking ass was pointed right in my face.

Fuck man, get a grip! It’s not like she’s a fucking normal size woman. Nothing can come out of this.

 But why the fuckity fuck am I so attracted to her. It’s like I’m drawn to the little doll. Jesus, this whole experience is freaking me the fuck out.

 She turned around, her tiny hands suddenly placed on her hips. “Like what you see Negan?” She giggled, which turned into her whole body laughing. “I’m just kiddin’ with you!” She sat down again, patting my thumb. “Would you like to meet everyone? We’re a friendly bunch!”

 The little lady has a fucking sense of humor, fuck, I’m in love! Hey, no not really, I mean shit, she’s the size of my dick.

 “Okay, they aren’t gonna try to fucking tie me down or something are they?” I couldn’t stop staring at her, wasn’t sure if it was the fact that I was holding an actual living breathing very fucking human looking creature. Or was it because I found her fucking breathtaking.

 She had long dark hair, I’d say it was black, but when the sun hit it, it changed colors, purple, blue, red. Her eyes, almost the same. Dark, but when the light hit they turned shades of purple, blue, green. They looked to almost be emitting light on their own. Her skin was pale, but fucking glittering. And she felt warm sitting in my hand, it was fucking nice.

I had to shake myself out of my fucking crazy thoughts. I’m fucking attracted to a fucking fairy? Jesus if I didn’t need to get back to my wives and soon.

 “Oh no, Negan. My people are very cordial, we’re a welcoming bunch we are!” She stood up, her hands behind her back, just looking up at me. “But, you must have people waiting for you? A mate? Children?” She spoke softly, looking down at her miniature bare feet , as if she didn’t want me to answer.

 “No, uh no mate, or kids. Shit no, not in this world. Besides sweetheart, I’m not the most pleasant man.”

 She tipped her head at me. “Now, I found that extremely hard to believe, Negan. You’ve been nothing but a gentle sir with me. And you make me laugh!” She started laughing, her hands coming around to the front of herself, clutching her itty stomach.

 “Well, doll, I guess you fucking bring out the best in me!” I laughed, careful not to shake my hand. She looked up at me with the sweetest smile.

 “While that is incredibly kind of you Negan, you don’t need anyone to bring out your best. You do that all by yourself! I’ve not met many of your kind I’m afraid, but the stories I’ve heard, well…” She wrapped her arms around her small frame, shivering.

 I wanted to get her back to smiling so I quickly spoke up. “Okay sweet thing, how about you fucking introduce me to your family. Do you want me to place you back down on your little dogger?”

 She beamed up at me. “Perfect!”

 I slowly moved her to the back of her dog, placing her gently down onto her saddle. I watched as she settled in, grabbing her “reins” that seemed to be made from twisted vines. Her saddle a bed of leaves with flowers as trim. She began speaking to him in a language that I couldn’t fucking understand. She then began making clicking sounds, the pup turning around.

 “Ready Negan?!” She yelled up at me.

 “Lead the way doll!” I followed, thinking I would have to be fucking careful, taking tiny steps so as to not overpower them. But I needn’t worry, that little fucker could run fast on those 4 tiny stumps for legs. We were quickly back at the celebration. She jumped off the dog, quickly making her way over to what looked like a stage of sorts, made out of rocks and logs.

 “Excuse me everyone! I have brought us a new friend from far away!” Her voice was loud, carrying across the partiers and to where I was standing. I was concerned, believing that her voice could attract the undead. Which made me wonder how they fought them? Were they here, wherever here was?

 When I came out of my fucking thoughts I realized a 100 sets of eyes were on me.

 “Uh, hello. I’m Negan, and I’m not sure where I am, or why I’m here. But LilithElle has been so very accommodating to me.” I looked over the tiny party goers, seeing only what looked like welcoming faces, not an angry fucking scared mob that I was sure I would see.

 “Welcome Negan! You’re in Pembrokeshire, home to the Alban clan.”  I noticed little doll walking back over towards me, stopping to talk to someone. They both began heading over to me.

 “Negan of The Sanctuary, this is my mam, she birthed me many moons ago.” She giggled that sweet sounding song making me smile.

 “Good noon Negan of The Sanctuary! A friend of my dear Lil is a friend of us all!” She stretched her hand high like her daughter had done, so I crouched down to meet her. As she touched my hand, she jolted backwards, falling into doll, the both of them collapsing into a heap on the ground.

 As they struggled to get up, I offered my hand for help. They both stood, straightening their outfits.

 “Mam, what’s the matter? You almost crushed me!” She began laughing, grabbing onto my thumb to steady herself.

 Doll’s mother stood and came right up to me. “Good sir, do you know what your purpose is here?”

 “Uh, I’m afraid I don’t know. One minute I’m walking thru a fucking field. Next thing I know I’m looking at, talking to, tiny people. Yeah, I’m fucking lost here sweetheart.”

 “I know your reason for being brought to us.”

 Doll stepped over to the other woman’s side. “Please, do tell us!”

 “Negan, you kind sir, are my daughter’s soulmate.”

[tinygamertris]

@castingmysilver asked (thank you) and so you shall receive!

In loving memory of the teacher involved, who sadly passed away of cancer a few years ago and left a hole in both the school and my heart that can never be filled.

So. Waaaaaay back in 2001 I was attending a very religious private school. We're talking chapel twice a week and prayers before assembly, strict rules on makeup and jewellery, wear anything slightly 'objectionable' and get suspended religious.

I was doing my first year of pre-tertiary courses, and the Dean of Studies, who happened to also be head of the English department, had allowed me to skip the very basic English C course on the condition that I do English Literature before Writer's Workshop. It was in retrospect a really good plan and sharpened my skills but good GOD there was some top class bullshit in English Lit.

For you see, the state assessment body had (TASSAB), in their great wisdom, created a list of 24 books and plays from which teachers were told to pick between 4 and 6 to cover across the year. There was just one teeny tiny little problem:

They didn't say what was going to be on the final assessment exams.

My teacher, who was the same Dean of Studies, noticed this and decided the safest option would be to cover all 24 books and plays. Which was absolutely the correct decision and one that gave us a huge amount of leeway come exam time and some of the highest collective TASSAB scores in the state, but it also meant we had to cover some books that I would much rather not have spent my valuable time and brain space on.

Enter... Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Of all the stuff we did that year, from The Crucible to Twelfth Night, this was the book my teacher knew was going to cause trouble with the small knot of feminists in the class. He was right to be worried.

For you see, Tess is a book replete with rape, victim-blaming, abandonment, trauma and basically every possible shitty circumstance a Victorian novel could heap upon it's protagonist. There is not a single moment in her life that isn't either destroyed by the actions of a selfish rich man or driven by the desires of a would-be rich man. It's a long torrent of suffering and regret tinged only by two brief spots of hope that seem designed to make everything else more miserable. I hated this book.

And then I reached the ending. I read about her 'most beloved' husband marrying her little sister at the exact same time as she was hanged for murder.

We had to give a short presentation on the book and naturally I planned to be politely scathing, being at the time very rarely inclined to actually swear. (As you can tell, many things have changed since then.) I went in there with a neatly hand-written speech, on a series of cards I'd bought from the school stationary shop for the purpose, ready and prepared to say my piece and throw the book in the bin when I finished.

I did not stick to my script.

According to my classmates, about halfway through my cards my ears started turning bright red. I just remember feeling hotter and hotter with anger.

I stopped talking, calmly walked to the bin and dropped in my cards, then I looked up at class feeling like I was going to explode. It was a high-stress class in a high-stress year and something just SNAPPED.

"Fuck this book," I said. "Fuck this stupid book and fuck Alec for being a rapist shithead and fuck Angel for being a double-standard wanker prick and fuck Tess for not killing them both early and FUCK THIS BOOK!"

As you can imagine, English departments do not expect a quiet Friday afternoon to be shattered by an extremely angry teenager with the voice of a Muppet mouse suddenly shouting 'Fuck this book' so loud that they lose their voice afterwards. In the blessed moment of silence that followed I threw the book into the bin as hard as I could and went back to my desk.

The teacher from next door slowly peered her head into the room and asked what was going on. In response my teacher handed her his copy of the book and gave her the page number of the last chapter. Her face as she read was a picture worth a thousand words. "Ahh," she said, "I see. Please don't do it again."

My teacher pulled me aside after class to say he completely understood what had set me off but maybe less terrifying screaming next time. And then he gave me a mini chocolate bar from his 'you did real good' stash in his bag.

And that's how I got away with screaming 'Fuck' in a religious school's English Literature class.

I'm feeling salty. Someone ask me about the time I got away with shouting 'FUCK' at high volume in my religious school's English Literature class.

[ask-the-warlord-in-the-helmet]

Ok heres your dare: Say one nice thing about the turtles

@ask-leader-in-blue he’s been trained well, Yoshi was a good sensei to him

@ask-the-red-guy-with-the-sai red really suits him, it fits his aesthetic

@ask-the-purple-genius as someone who can’t do pretty basic math, I appreciate someone with intelligence

@ask-a-rad-dude-in-an-orangemask his cats cute and he’s also the most tolerable of them all

That was well easy give me something better next time

[ask-the-warlord-in-the-helmet]

I heard @ask-the-red-guy-with-the-sai was scared of bugs so does anyone want to hear about the time I was besties with a giant cockroach?

[ask-the-warlord-in-the-helmet]

I have met myself on multiple occasions, He’s not as bad as he could be but I wouldn’t mind seeing him again

Hey Shredhead, whats your least favorite thing about all your enemies?

Here we go-

@ask-leader-in-blue he’s a suck up and also blue doesn’t go with his shade of green

@ask-the-red-guy-with-the-sai he needs to overdose on chill pills, calm down

@ask-the-purple-genius HE DOESNT USE HIS BO STAFF CORRECTLY WHY ARE YOU USING IT LIKE A BAT

@ask-a-rad-dude-in-an-orangemask he’s actually rather fun, His catchphrase is fun the first couple of times but it gets annoying after a while

@ask-the-redheaded-kunoichi it took her a startlingly short amount of time to become a kunoichi and she’s also well annoying why do you need psychic powers you’ve got a tesen?

@ask-the-one-and-only-casey-jones who even are you again?

[ask-the-warlord-in-the-helmet]

He. Needs. To. Chill. The. Fuck. Out.

Hey Shredhead, whats your least favorite thing about all your enemies?

Here we go-

@ask-leader-in-blue he’s a suck up and also blue doesn’t go with his shade of green

@ask-the-red-guy-with-the-sai he needs to overdose on chill pills, calm down

@ask-the-purple-genius HE DOESNT USE HIS BO STAFF CORRECTLY WHY ARE YOU USING IT LIKE A BAT

@ask-a-rad-dude-in-an-orangemask he’s actually rather fun, His catchphrase is fun the first couple of times but it gets annoying after a while

@ask-the-redheaded-kunoichi it took her a startlingly short amount of time to become a kunoichi and she’s also well annoying why do you need psychic powers you’ve got a tesen?

@ask-the-one-and-only-casey-jones who even are you again?

[ask-the-warlord-in-the-helmet]

I’m a drama hoe and I’m not the one screaming

Hey Shredhead, whats your least favorite thing about all your enemies?

Here we go-

@ask-leader-in-blue he’s a suck up and also blue doesn’t go with his shade of green

@ask-the-red-guy-with-the-sai he needs to overdose on chill pills, calm down

@ask-the-purple-genius HE DOESNT USE HIS BO STAFF CORRECTLY WHY ARE YOU USING IT LIKE A BAT

@ask-a-rad-dude-in-an-orangemask he’s actually rather fun, His catchphrase is fun the first couple of times but it gets annoying after a while

@ask-the-redheaded-kunoichi it took her a startlingly short amount of time to become a kunoichi and she’s also well annoying why do you need psychic powers you’ve got a tesen?

@ask-the-one-and-only-casey-jones who even are you again?

[ask-the-warlord-in-the-helmet]

I’m going to B&R’s as I speak, Good luck catching me

Hey Shredhead, whats your least favorite thing about all your enemies?

Here we go-

@ask-leader-in-blue he’s a suck up and also blue doesn’t go with his shade of green

@ask-the-red-guy-with-the-sai he needs to overdose on chill pills, calm down

@ask-the-purple-genius HE DOESNT USE HIS BO STAFF CORRECTLY WHY ARE YOU USING IT LIKE A BAT

@ask-a-rad-dude-in-an-orangemask he’s actually rather fun, His catchphrase is fun the first couple of times but it gets annoying after a while

@ask-the-redheaded-kunoichi it took her a startlingly short amount of time to become a kunoichi and she’s also well annoying why do you need psychic powers you’ve got a tesen?

@ask-the-one-and-only-casey-jones who even are you again?

[ask-the-warlord-in-the-helmet]

I’ll take that as a yes.

So it happened back when I was around 14, I was wandering around this forest and I spotted a giant cockroach, it was at least a couple feet long. And it was hissing like I was the devil. So I ran off, did my research and found out that it was a red bellied, hissing cockroach. And that hissing is a sign of affection.

To this day I have sprinkles the cockroach with me at all times, So go away before I use her.

I heard @ask-the-red-guy-with-the-sai was scared of bugs so does anyone want to hear about the time I was besties with a giant cockroach?