#this post was written four times

[cardentist]

fandom isn't activism by the way. there's no way to do it good enough that it can stand in for putting in the work of real activism, but there's also no way to do it Bad enough that it cancels out any of your actual beliefs (as long as you treat the real people around you well, of course).

like, there's a difference between noticing that women tend to be under-represented in fics and linking that to societal misogyny (fandom as a whole is simply big enough that these trends are at least partially reflective of societal biases as a whole), and measuring specific characters and ships against each other and deciding that if one number gets below the other then feminism is LOSING.

or going up to specific People and grilling them about which characters they talk about most and why.

if someone is nice to women in real life and posts about wanting to raw old men all the time online then I think it literally doesn't matter at all actually.

recognizing that a trend As A Whole is probably influenced by societal bias doesn't translate to that Same bias being ever-present on an individual level. there's no way to write fanfic in a way that saves feminism.

fanfic is the Symptom, not the solution or even the problem. you treat the Societal Bias and the fanfic numbers change, you don't change societal bias by arguing with people online about the fics they do or don't write.

Sometimes people only write fics about gay sex because they're gay, and that's fine actually

[littletealights]

What makes you think that Arthur is a person of color? :0 just curious.

gladly.

so, at first, i thought it was me projecting but i think the first clue i got was eddie. yall might think i’m being dramatic but eddie was…suspicious from the get-go. in a normal situation like this, there’s actually 0% chance that it turns out the way it did for arthur.

but that’s beside the point. eddie knocks on the door and receives an unhurried response. he walks away to do.. whatever it is he was doing. arthur comes to the door, opens it, looks around and picks up some trash, muttering to himself. suddenly eddie has urgent business inside the office with a. flimsy excuse at best. strike one.

we, as the audience, know that arthur is being shifty because he’s just killed a man. eddie has been told, quite convincingly, that arthur was moving… boxes or something (im looking at the transcript, arthur just says ‘not furniture’ so…). and that arthur is working with sensitive documents. not sure if you know this but private detectives have to work with proper authorities to be allowed to operate legally. that means they work with the police and the courts. when a PI says a document is sensitive, they mean legally. they mean eyes only. they mean ‘come back later or i could lose my fucking license because you got the wrong look at classified documents.’ a building manager, especially their building manager, should know that. strike two.

he also asks for arthur’s partner, peter yang (who is, i can only assume, an east asian man). i should hope that i dont have to remind you that this is massachusetts in the 30’s we’re talking about, and what that means logically. but i will. america hated asian people the most they ever did until COVID in the 30s through the 60s. the only people they hated more were black and brown people. no matter how shifty and suspicious arthur was acting, eddie would’ve been… let’s just say ‘incredibly unlikely’ to ask for peter instead of the white man. strike three

there’s some little bits about subvocals and tone that i could say, but it’d be a lot and i don’t fully understand it enough to explain well why eddie set off alarms for me. because i dont have to. it takes 5 minutes (from 11:48-16:09 on spotify, so nearly exactly) for eddie to go from inconvenient, to annoying, to suspicious, to violent. and he ends the conversation with a very real threat of violence that essentially boils down to ‘don’t come back to the building again.’ eddie is a maintenance man. he did not have the power to evict anyone. unless, of course, they were a poc. so why was arthur worried about eddie when sneaking back into the building?

but, like i said, i thought i was projecting. projection and being-on-the-lam can easily explain arthur’s hesitance when delivering the baby and asking for a ride. or the gunshop in part 6. but the lighthouse? no, what really solidified it for me was the end of part 8.

here’s what officer collin knows so far: a visibly disabled man has stumbled, confused and upset, away from a lighthouse and a body that CANNOT have been killed by a human; and it is dark outside. that’s it. using this knowledge, he then proceeds to beat said man. brutally. repeatedly.

in part 9 they learn he is blind and when that timid little fucker (mitchell) expresses doubt, collin says this

this is something we like to call coerced confession. arthur did not kill that man (the lighthouse keeper). officer collin knows that arthur didn’t kill that man. (dont play, he knows.) but because it is convenient to say that he did, they’ll threaten and torture him until he says that he did.

now, friends, i’m not going to lie to your face and say that white folk are safe from the cops, youre not, i know. but what im also not going to do is pretend like there os any world in which this happens and arthur is visibly white. not in the thirties, not in america. despite being forgotten or unmentioned they are in the midst of the great depression, the exact last thing these small-town cops need is the arrest of a blind white man on their hands. regardless, i have never ever heard of a cop speaking this way to a white person unprovoked. i, on the other hand, have been spoken to this way myself.

this is already quite long and it doesn’t even cover the sheer magnitude of people who feel comfortable calling arthur (at his grown ass age of visibly-an-adult) ‘boy.’ or the wicked and downright racist way that larson says it, (genuinely. it sounds like he’s a middle school boy who discovered the word ‘fagg*t’ for the first time the way he says it. i couldn’t tell you how many times that word (boy) drove an ice pick through my fucking skull this season.) but i hope you can at least get the picture.

original post is here

[that-was-anticlimactic]

see a world so beautiful and strange (spinning off somewhere)

“Why? Why are you suppressing?”

“Because I can't tic,” Alya whispered, fingernails digging into the skin on her arm. “I know Tourette’s isn’t exactly uncommon, but it’s part of my identity as Alya Césaire. It can’t be a part of Rena Rouge, too. Someone could figure out who I am and then…”

And then she’d have to give up the coolest thing that’s ever happened to her, give up living her dreams.

[or, alya is suppresses as rena rogue in order to protect her identity, but neither ladybug nor trixx will let her hurt herself like that]

🦊2,345 words | alya-centric, alya & ladybug friendship🦊

happy tourette's awareness month!!!

[soupbtch]

ummm. my fic is done.

[bookwyrminspiration]

a keefitz achilles/patroclus au colored sketch for @rusted-phone-calls for the @kotlcfairytale exchange :)

we men are wretched things (ao3 version)

[fortunatefires]

im annotating the hunger games and I can't stop talking about Buttercup as an analogy for Katniss. How Katniss treats Buttercup is how she sees herself but how Prim treats Buttercup is how the people around Katniss see her. Katniss straight up says she wanted to drown Buttercup but she decided to keep her because Prim loved her so much. She saved that cat the same way Peeta saved her. She is loved by Prim the same way the people around her loved her even without her realizing. And just knowing that Prim risks her life to save Buttercup later on the same way Katniss risked her life to save Prim. The cat isn't just a cat and it is plaguing my every waking moment.

[sisterdivinium]

Now is the time to place your bets on whether or not this hyper self-indulgent doctor superion Vampire the Masquerade AU fic will or won't get to 100 handwritten pages...

[wigglys-dikrats]

i really can’t emphasise enough how wonderful it is to receive a comment on a fic

even if it’s a simple ‘wow this was great’ or ‘good job!’, i light up

it’s really encouraging to see that what came out of my brain translated well and was received by someone who also enjoys the thing i wrote something about

keep leaving comments on fics, you’ve no idea what kind of impact you could make on someone esp if they’re struggling with the motivation to keep writing

[enbyfallenfromthedeadstars]

One thing I adore in One Direction is the fact you can litteraly see when Harry became an adult by albums only. The EXACT moment he turned 18 and a whole new world opened up before his eyes.

Others waiting patiently the day they'll finally make him sing about his loaded gun, the traces he left in a girl's hair and how he wants to be 'rocked'.

[averlym]

May I please request some soft parrlyn please

morning vs night gfs

[ru5t]

@lcfthaunted //> requested.

  He's left their guest no further than just inside the door: the office directly off of the entryway at the front of the building. Di hovers near the office door, the image of her standing guard puts a strange chill in his stomach. It lingers as he puts himself to his task, going through whatever's left in the catchall - they'll need to go trading again, soon. That task sorts itself into the ever-growing list of things he has to do in the next week while his searching goes on autopilot and Jack wonders if this woman from the center of the city sees an ally or a threat in the young ex-drac standing at attention in the mouth of the warehouse. Honestly, he's not sure what he sees, there. Only that he knows the office is the best place for her for now. Too much that is precious resides in the units to play loose with strangers, and too many of his crew are too nosy for their own good to let them go stampeding in to peer and poke and probably insult. ... He allows himself a deep sigh, a soft curse aimed at the empty air over his head, then he gathers what he came for and returns to the entry. Jack dismisses Di with a casual nod over his shoulder, get outta here, and she scowls at him, but sets off for the garden anyway. She'll be back.

  He gives a light knock before pushing through the office door, announcing himself.

  The office was a nightmare when they first began settling into the haven, full of dust and who knew what else. Since then, they'd pulled up the carpet entirely, and someone -best guess said Dawn and Lith, though jack didn't know for sure- had painted a mural in its place. Bright orange and purple wildflowers in a sea of scrub grass, like what bloomed in the ridges to the north. The shelves had been pushed into a neat configuration, some covering the widows like blinds to cut the heat, and that old couch Weasel had rolled up with weeks ago finally had a place that wasn't the middle of the entryway. Even the old business counter was painted, and a few battery operated lights sat waiting there for nightfall like end table lamps. The result was a strange, colorful thing, but nice as far as ruins this far out into the desert went.

  Jack lays the bundle of clothes he'd gone digging for on the old counter. It's mostly out layers, any jackets he could find, and shirts that could go overtop of something thin and almost sheer that is decidedly not designed for the desert-- though a few genuine articles are in the mix as well. Anything he thought might fit, though he expects she's not likely to go trading anything out. Not right away. Thus, the jackets. It's always easier to borrow a jacket than lose whatever you've got, at first.

  “You'll burn if you don't cover,” he advises, and that's all he says of the state of her. But he keeps looking. Brow lightly furrowed, something reluctant stuck in the back of his teeth. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “I can't get you back through the wall.” Blunt, in terms of opening, but it's important there are no illusions. He can't, and his sister doesn't deal in smuggling people, and he won't suggest she start (or even bring her smuggling up at all. Not until she gets back and decides on that for herself - if this was still the situation when she did get back.) So as far as he's concerned, it's impossible. “You can stay here,” a nod at the couch, “or if you'd rather take your chances, I'm riding back to three tomorrow. There are neutral settlements, there, and maybe someone who can do what I can't. But I expect y- .. the crew from the market will be watching for that. Watching for you. I'd give it time.”

[runner5anna]

Christmas Cactus

Heyo @kodessa ! I am your ZR secret Santa. Here is a festive fic for you.

Thank you @notforconsumption and @delucadarling for organising this !

It's Christmas day in Able township. It's icey, it's cold, it's not very festive. But, Sam is quite determined to at least make something warm out of the bad day.

There is no spoilers, its SFW but there is discussions of grief and cussing. Also cringe pick up lines.

"Shit!" Bellowed Sam, along with a cacophony of clattering coming from downstairs. Five sucked a lungful of cold air in, kicking the many layers of blankets off of her, grabbed the knife from under the bedside table and ran downstairs. She shoved open the door, shouting “who the hell is there?” and slashing at the air. Her chest heaved with adrenaline and fatigue. The cold air pressed on her bare feet, and her pyjama trousers were halfway up her legs. 

‘Uh - just me?” Answered Sam. He was hunched over the side, which was covered in cocoa powder and parts of a mug. The forest green hoodie he wore to bed was covered in water. “Wait - is that another knife, 5? I thought we talked about this. You don’t need to keep knives under the bed side table.” 

5 grinned and placed it down on the side. “I don’t know what you mean.” She slid it into the drawer, intending to pick it up later. “Need a hand?”

“No - I think I’m ok.” he sighed. He picked up his foot, inspecting it closely. “I stubbed my toe and dropped the pink mug. I found the cocoa powder at the bottom of the drawer in the comms shack. Happy Christmas, I guess?” he sighed, dusted the reminisce of the brown powder off the base of his foot, and placed it down - deciding that it wasn’t broken, just sore. “I wanted to surprise you.” 

“Oh shit - that day already?” 5 ran her hands up her face, pressing her palms into her eyes. She really needed a shower. Her face felt slick with sweat and grime from the night. Maybe she’d treat herself later to a lukewarm one. 

“Yeah. Snuck up on me too. I looked at the clock on the computer last night and it was the 24th! I wanted to surprise you with some hot cocoa but I pigged that one up pretty badly.” He sniffled, and the tears welled like little gems in the corner of his large brown eyes.  

“Oh - bless your heart, Sammy. You’re too kind for this world.” 5 opened her arms, inviting him in for a hug. He placed his bristled chin on her head and sighed, relaxing into her touch. “You didn’t have to do that for me.” 

“I know. I’m the best.” He grinned. “But - I wanted to. So I did.” He pulled away from 5 and picked up the brush from the side. “I need to clean up. Snow isn’t brown. Unless it's mixed with mud. Or zombie parts. But I suppose I’d quite like chocolate snow.” 

“How’s about I make us hot chocolate with what we have left over? And we can do…” Five pressed her tongue against her teeth in thought. “...festive things.” 

“What can we do? Really?” 

5 lent down to scoop up some more powder back into the pot. If she grabbed a collider, she could at least filter out some of the dust. It was salvageable at least - and there wasn’t much of this stuff left in the world so they should at least treasure it. Somewhat disgusting, yes, but it was the apocalypse. If you could be disgusting, it was now. It would be good for her immune system development, her mother would say. “I’m not actually sure. It’s not like we have a big dinner we can make or gifts.”

“Janine has given us the day off - for those that want it.” 

“I might head out eventually, then.” 

Sam slowly turned around, and pleaded. “Please don’t. It’s -6. It’s freezing. The ground is solid. You’ll slip. Plus it’s Christmas. Let’s just have a day together - It’s been too long.” 

5 pulled a hair from the powder. It was short, brown and blunt - one of Janine’s. Her hair managed to get everywhere. It was a nice reminder that she was there somewhere - a dependable figure even in the hardest of times. “I don’t know what we can do, really.” she tutted. “We don’t even have a tree.” 

Sam gave a little gasp, and quickly shuffled over to the window where he held up Cedrick the Cactus. He was a medium sized fluffy plant - whose fuzz were actually tiny spines which Sam found out rather painfully. 5 wasn’t quite sure why she grabbed it off of the shelf, but she didn’t regret it. He kept 5 and Sam entertained, and it gave them something to talk about outside of the insanity of work, how tired they were and whoever had died recently. 

“Let’s decorate Cedrick!” 

“Won’t I be pulling spines out of your hand for the next week again?” 

“No.” He pouted. “Get your crochet, I’ll get a pen and paper. Let’s make some Christmas clothes for him. It will be fun!” 

5 felt her belly rise with giggles that Sam could only bring from her. He was a ray of sunshine - everything good in the world. When 5 was with Sam, she felt like the best version of herself, like the world was lighter and the breeze was fresher. Her heart fluttered and her cheeks began to flush with how much she realised she was smiling. 

“Let me go get dressed and I’ll be with you.” 

“Ah ah ah!” Sam grabbed her hand, gently pulling her back and wrapping his arms around her waist. “Absolutely not. No one gets dressed before midday on Christmas.” 

“If you say so. But I need a shower later. I’ll get dressed then.” 

“I’ll give you one of my shower tokens. My treat.” 

“Don’t you need them?” 

“Nah. I’m clean enough. And I don’t go running multiple times a week. They’re upstairs, I think in my jeans pocket.”

“My crochet is upstairs as well - I’ll grab them on the way. And who knows. If I’m feeling generous later I’ll let you share the shower later.” 5 purred as she slunk out of the room, leaving Sam blushing a deep shade of beetroot red. 

*

5 plodded down the stairs, still in their faded plaid pyjamas as promised, crochet hooks and wool in hand. She turned into the kitchen to see Sam was doodling, colouring and shading. He held the paper happily up - on it was a bundle of red berries and green leaves. “Mistletoe!” he announced proudly. “You know what that means?” 

“No.” Five teased, leaning across the table. She softly held his gaze. Usually, Sam’s eyes darted everywhere, like he was avoiding eye contact with everyone while gaining as much information around him as possible. In moments like this, his eyes - beautiful pools of watercolour brown - held steady and calm. 

“It means you-” he poked 5 on the nose with the paper. “-have to give me a kiss.” 

“Ugh. If you insist.” 5 joked. She placed her hand on the base of Sam’s neck, pulling him across the table and into a kiss. It was deep and long, as the two relaxed into each other. 5 inhaled a smell she’d grown to love so much of marmite, washing powder and ink. Before he pulled away, Sam nuzzled their noses together, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Thank you.” He whispered.

“You’re welcome.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” Five sat down, pulling up a chair and setting her crochet on the table. “What do you think I should make?” 

“A little scarf, or a hat maybe. I think a tiny scarf will be easier. If your hand starts to hurt you can help me with the decorations.” 

“All right.” Five started with a quick slip not, starting to make the first chain. “I always feel a little startled when I need to relax. I’m always so on edge that when I set time aside to be quiet and have time to myself I’m always waiting for the proverbial hat to drop.” 

Sam hummed in agreement. “It is hard to relax now isn’t it? With the grey wandering outside the walls and regularly staring death in the ugly maw.” He finished colouring in a little robbin and began to cut around it with the scissors. 

“I thought you were banned from using scissors by Maxine after the great finger slice event.” 

“For your information, that ban was temporary. How was I supposed to know that Maxine had just sharpened her scissors? Who has scissors that sharp anyway?” he subconsciously ran his thumb over the scar on his finger. 

“Who uses massive scissors on such a tiny thing?” 

“Oh, be quiet!” He threw the roll of string at 5’s head. “Can I have that back please.” 

5 leaned down to grab it, and spoke while she slid it across the table. “Events always feel so odd now. And I never quite know how to feel. I’m happy I survived another year I suppose.” She finished off a row and started another. “It’s such a tiny scarf, I’ll be done soon.” 

Sam stood up and boiled the kettle. “I’m just letting the glue set - I won’t spill the hot chocolate powder. Close your mouth runner 5 I can tell exactly what you’ll tease me about.” 

“What do you mean?” She scoffed mockingly. 

“You were going to make fun of me for sticking my hand to my head with aeroplane glue.” 

“I was not.” 

“Yes you were.” 

The two went back and forth, squabbling in good spirits while Sam made the hot chocolate.  

“Oh - Sam look! Cedrick has a little flower. He's bloomed.” 

“He reminds me of you in a way. You thrive in the harshest times, and you are very pretty.” He passed a mug over to 5, giving her a gentle kiss on the head. “You’re my little pretty flower.”

“Thank you, darling.” 5 pulled the final thread through, finishing off the tiny scarf. It wasn’t great, considering she’d not spent long on the thing, and the colours didn’t quite match the decor that Sam made. “It looks so bad.” 

“What? I think it looks good. Christmas trees are not supposed to look good.” 

“Cedrick is a Christmas cactus, and we made this in about 45 minutes. It's more ironic than anything - I don’t think they’re supposed to look good. But, y’know, I like him more because we raised him together, and we decorated him as well.” Sam wrapped an arm around 5’s shoulders, squeezing them comfortingly. “I want to make another one next year. I think it would be a good tradition.”

“I think…I’d like that. Christmas is so traditional - and now for the first time in ages we can’t do all of them. I’m so used to being with everyone at Christmas that it feels almost positive to create new traditions.” 

“I don’t think Christmas will ever not be hard.” Sam mused between sips of hot chocolate and blowing on too hot marshmallows. “I cried one year because I put out 6 sets of cutlery for dinner even though It had been 2 years since my grandad died. No - three.” 

“It will be hard - but with you I feel I can handle it. Thank you, for being there for me Sam. I appreciate you.” 

“I appreciate you too, 5.” He placed his head on top of 

“I think it’s just all been a lot. Even if we are a few years into the apocalypse, Christmas will always feel different. But I am happy I can spend it with you.” 

“You know what I really want to do?” 

“What? Remember it’s not midday yet, so there's no getting dressed. It’s the Christmas law.” 

“No - I follow Christmas law. I want to cuddle and watch the Doctor Who Christmas specials in bed. Do you have them on your laptop?” 

“Do I ever! I thought you’d never ask. That is a new and old Christmas tradition I can get behind.”

[an-inky-fingered-lass]

A story for the moment you realize things are going to be okay. Even if -- in that moment -- you didn't yet know you would be, too.

This was routine, in a lot of ways; they’d been here so many times together, so many different places. It made it feel a little less like the world had already ended, like the planet was cracked apart outside the window.

It was kinda a stupid question at this point, but Phil asked anyway. “You okay?”

May’s answering snort was soft, a little less sardonic than it might have been. After a long second, she nodded. “Been better, but.”

“It’s okay to not be, you know.”

She shook her head. “Pot, kettle.”

Phil huffed a slight laugh. May’s gaze flickered over to him, either looking for or seeing something no one else could see. Somewhere along the line, her shoulders had finally fallen into a sloping, exhausted line.

Read the rest on Ao3.

[imperatorrrrr]

Hello, good day, I'm a little (read: a lot) in my feels about Nico Hischier being injured and out and so I wrote a wee fic exploring that and using the Devils boys as conduits for my feelings.

check it out, if you're so inclined!

(shoutout to @devilssacrament for reading this at three in the morning my time before I posted)

[wereh0gz]

Random thought but idk why ppl thought shadow shouldn't have gotten infected by the metal virus

Like. Yeah he's the ultimate lifeform. He's immortal and literally made to be immune to most if not all diseases. But

The metal virus. Isn't an actual disease

It's a bunch nanomachines that convert living organic material into more of itself

Shadow is made of living organic material

The only way he would have been immune (based solely on what canonical info there is on how the metal virus works) is if he was inorganic or dead, which he obviously isn't. And no just bc he was made in a lab doesn't mean he's not organic

Sure, they probably could've made him immune to it in some way, like say the high amounts of chaos energy in him burn it off on contact or something. But how to get rid of it is never fully explained. All we know is that something about sonic's speed burned it off for him, but it's not explained further as far as I can remember and the virus eventually mutated to become resistant to that anyway

Going super seemed to get rid of it completely for sonic tho, so the cure could've been chaos energy after all. Or it could've been like, chaos control warping time or the warp topaz warping reality to sonic and silver's will or something. Again, it's never fully explained, and who knows if shadow would've had the time to fight it off or cure himself anyway considering the circumstances of his infection

Anyway. Tldr shadow is living flesh and the virus infects all living flesh. Him getting infected makes sense based on what we understand of the virus. That's all