#turning the other cheek is a radical action actually

[many-sparrows]

[germiyahu]

One of the funnier things about Jesus is that he's often described as a "radical" and my classics professor literally said "it doesn't make sense for the Romans to execute him if he wasn't covertly calling for an overthrow of the government." I've spent most of my adult life hearing that Jesus was preaching zany dangerous world-upending ideas and he was just too badass and ~actually leftist the whole time~ to be left alive.

However, he was preaching "pray for your enemies, even if they persecute you," "if a Roman strikes you, turn your cheek and offer the other," "if a Roman soldier forces you to carry his equipment, offer to carry it an extra mile," "do not pray in public like those hypocritical Pharisees, pray in private God likes that better," "who are you to judge the Romans' specks in their eyes, you're actually worse if you think about it," "guys Caesar is the legitimate government of the Empire I think you should show the proper respect just pay your taxes," "hey I know I'm being executed but like let's take a moment to consider that the Roman soldiers feel bad about it, forgive them they know not what they do."

This is bootlicking shitlib cuckery if I've ever seen it. Jesus' philosophy for how Judea and its culture was going to survive Hellenization/Romanization was... "Be polite. Don't cause a scene. Keep your head down. Why be a rabble-rouser and make trouble for the rest of us? You're giving us a bad name. Romans are people too!"

He had some cool ideas like "sex workers deserve dignity," but I don't think he's actually the "role model," and "actually really wise Rabbi," that a lot of non Jews try to tell Jews he is (aka, how they should view him even if they don't think he's the son of God). And to be fair, a lot of his ideas were already held by other Pharisees/early Rabbis. Certainly Maimonides et al. would go on to independently come to some similar conclusions re: forgiveness and whatnot.

But Jesus was not a radical. Most scholars agree he was a member of the Hillel school of the Pharisee "political party." He was definitely not a Zealot. The Romans didn't execute him because he was calling for an overthrow of the government. They executed him because he was becoming too popular, and people were calling him Moshiach, which was an implicit threat to Roman supremacy. But Jesus himself was not telling people to firebomb their local valmartus.

I suspect if Jesus had been alive to see the Bar Kochba revolt, he would've "strongly condemned the violent actions of the rebels," even if he "sympathized with their pain." He was actively preaching, if not assimilationism, then meek submission. Martyrdom. If you suffer in silent dignity then your just reward will come. And I'm not claiming he was a race traitor or anything, this was an individual man's response to the ongoing trauma of his homeland being subjugated and exploited. These were his ideas about what to do about it.

But in essence, Jesus was the original Good Jew, and the Romans still murdered him. He spent all of his time as a public figure arguing that they should be accepted and loved and that their oppression of the Jews should be tolerated, and that one day the Romans would simply lose interest in being colonizers and the Jews would be free by being patient and understanding and not rocking the boat too much. And the Romans killed him anyway. Being a Good Jew will never save you.

[embervoices]

A number of people responding to this seem to think I'm a pacifist, taking the side of no action in a dichotomy where our only options are "Focus on destroying the enemy" or "Sit back and let them destroy us".

On the contrary. I am NOT a pacifist. Nowhere have I argued for anyone to turn the other cheek. By all means, if there is literally someone right in front of you physically trying to kill you, fight back for all you are worth. If you can't win, then go down fighting, and do whatever you can to take them with you.

And yet.

If that's your actual situation, why the fuck are you having a text argument with a random stranger on Tumblr about it, instead of doing whatever you have to do to literally survive?

The people whose everyday life is under direct attack aren't the people we're saying need to be vigilant about radicalization.

It's the rest of us - the people who know things are bad, care tremendously, and frequently feel powerless, but are not ourselves in immediate danger, who need to be vigilant.

Because my point is very much NOT "Bad things aren't happening, calm down."

"Calm" and "reasonable" are NOT synonyms.

By all means, be very reasonably angry!

Just please, PLEASE focus that anger on what we need to BUILD UP, not on who we can justify killing.

Wiping the slate clean means destroying the infrastructure that feeds our population of hundreds of millions (in the US alone). Wiping the slate clean means letting everyone unhoused, most disabled people, etc. just fucking die for lack of support.

Whatever metric we use to measure success in this fight is what we will maximize, and "dead enemies" doesn't feed anybody, doesn't house anybody, doesn't distribute meds to anybody. Do you see it yet?

I get it. You're ready to make sacrifices because you have nothing left to lose.

Except that's bullshit.

If you are in the USA and in a position to post on Tumblr I promise you still have quite a bit left to lose.

Ask any inmate.

Ask any refugee.

But if you sincerely believe that, because of the constant media input telling you simplified sound bites all about what's wrong, and nothing about how to fix it except "It's US against THEM and we MUST DESTROY THEM!", then you will be oh-so-conveniently focused on nothing but attack and counterattack.

And there's a very big, very obvious problem with that.

Think about it. If this really IS heading for a physical war where the goal is for them to kill us or for us to kill them, we're already done here. Because "They" include billionaires, and governments with access to literally every weapon in the known world, multiple military organizations, and huge media propaganda machines, and "We" have... what exactly?

Maybe don't pick a fight we can't fucking win?

Hence so many of us saying, "We're not there yet, and that's not a goal we will survive. Focus on things like cooperating with each other to make future attacks no longer possible, or shoring up our infrastructure so that it can't be taken away from us so easily."

Because if all you can see to do with your fear and anger is destroy, you have successfully fallen right into the trap that was set for you by the very people you fear most.

And that, my friends, is an absolutely tragic waste of justified, useful anger.

A little advice from someone studying extremist groups: if you’re in a social media environment where the daily ubiquitous message is that you have no hope of any kind of future and you can’t possibly achieve anything without a violent overthrow of society, you’re being radicalized, and not in the good way.

[larktb-archive]

I wanna make one more post about Sarah Z being a dumb white hoe because I'm tired of speaking about the most milquetoast of libs on this site masquerading as radicals but i saw a post she made saying that basic abolitionist tenant is to "not harm those who have harmed you" claiming that doing so is carcarel logic.

As always with the most logged on people online this is about callout posts which to white people who haven't left their gated community in months and clutch their handbags when they see someone two shades darker than a paper bag is the exact same as the prison system and the modern enslavement of millions across the globe and the continuation of chattel slavery in the USA.

Now obviously it's really simple to see that no actually, someone making a post saying that "this person has done x negative things and gets off to these things so be wary of them" is not the same as the state sponsored imprisonment of people for monetary gain and the entrenchment of white supremacy. However they'd argue that the kinda thinking that fuels callouts is the kind that fuels the carcarel system, ignoring both historical societal standards of social conduct prior to the prison system as well as like... the actual real structures that fuel these systems.

There is very much criticisms to be made of shame based societies, but these have existed long, long before prisons or the modern prison system and the continuous misinterpretation of abolitionist work which detail the systems that form the basis of the prison system proves that these people, for all their bluster have not read abolitionist works. If they did, they'd know the problem with the prison system isn't "wanting to harm others who have harmed", it's the enslavement of others and the. To turn common rhetoric on its head because I love to be snarky: it's catholicism. The idea that you need to suffer in silence and turn the other cheek? That's Catholicism. I don't know how many times I heard turn the cheek not 7 times but 77 times in high school but this liberal "we gotta sing Kumbaya" with those who are racist, misogynistic and predatory is very much in line with Catholic conceptualizations of the forgiveness of the other. I don't really believe this, I think it's more to do with American ideas of liberty and freedom to do whatever without any consequence for your actions, but I think it's funny you can turn the "callouts are basically Christianity" on its head incredibly easily.

Anyways what's really the kicker here, and the reason im making this post, is that there are people in the notes saying "oh if there's a pedophile online you shouldn't make a callout you should call the police"... which... like... "we need to stop carcarel thinking with callouts... and instead need to contribute to the actual carcarel system of prisons" is definitely not a take I thought I'd see here but surely is one that has that fresh tumblr "I'm a white person who has never faced adversity in their life please listen to me" smell on them.

I'd also point out that the original callout post that Sarah Z is talking about in these vague diatribes is one that describes a major transmisogynist who gets off on conversion therapy for lesbians and transfems, and as a white person she said that saying the slur abo isn't a big deal if youre talking about omegaverse or what.

[wildernessuntothemselves]

I'm Yours, You're Mine | 5

Word Count: 4.1k

Genre: Smut, angst

Warnings: Cheating, yandere!felix, sub!felix, mention of blackmail, public sex, pussy eating, guided masturbation?, fingering, hella jealousy, assault mention, jisung inclusion lmao

A/N: link to the gorgeous dress the OC wears made a super lovely anon thank you babe

GIF CREDIT

“What is taking you so long?” You grunt, walking into the kitchen to find the freckled boy pulling a tray out of the oven. At the sound of your voice, he springs up and flashes you a brilliant smile that explains just why he’s nicknamed the sunshine boy. You smile bitterly at the reminder. Oh, how you used to believe that.

“I just finished the brownies for the picnic, noona.” He chirps happily, looking so angelic, like a bad thought never crossed his mind ever.

Felix wants to take you on a romantic picnic date beside the river. He volunteered to do everything, making you both the food and drinks you’ll need so all you’ll have to do is sit there and enjoy the pleasant early summer weather.

Taking a deep breath, you steal yourself, preparing for the transformation you’ve come to expect from him. “Oh, we’re not going on a picnic. I changed my mind. I wanna go to the mall instead.”

You know the commercial, impersonal place would upset the sentimental boy, and that’s why you do it. The sharp fall of his smile makes your heart stop for a second and your body stiffen, preparing for an attack.

“What?” He asks gruffly.

“I need new summer clothes.” You try to appear nonchalantly.

“Can’t you do that any other time?”

“I want to do it today.” You shrug, stopping yourself from flinching as you see his jaw clench. “You promised you’d take care of me. You promised you’d do what I want.” You remind him of the promises he made after attacking you last time. The promises he made to make you give him another chance. You didn’t believe in any of his promises, and you were provoking him on purpose to prove that he can’t himself in check so you’d have a reason to call this whole thing off.

And it seems he’s getting there. “But we agreed on this date. I prepared a lot for this. I made you fucking brownies.”

“You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.” You accuse, and he flinches, his body immediately deflating as the anger rushes out of him. “No, I won’t. It’s okay. We can go wherever you want, noona. You just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

You didn’t expect this reaction from him. You thought he’d lash out again. Maybe it really was a mistake like he said, and you should give him another chance. You’re lost in contemplation when his soft, low voice breaks through to you.

“Would you at least try the brownies?” He pleads, his pretty eyes sparkling, making you believe that the universe truly is a cruel, uncaring place if the stars would agree to light up the eyes of someone like him. Still, you can’t resist the constellations reflected in his eyes and onto his cheeks, finding yourself compelled to lean down and press a kiss to his pouty lips.

You suck in a sharp breath at the exploding light that brightens his face at such a small action, like a supernova, blazing your cold heart.

“Okay.” You breathe, and he, giddy with excitement, cuts off a piece for you. You reach out for it but he swings his hand out of the way, wanting to feed it to you himself. You open your mouth and accept the food, biting a piece of it off and chewing it.

Felix watches you with bated breath, as if your opinion would win him a national baking competition. You’re scared by how much you’re enjoying his attention, and it scares you. It’s too easy to get addicted to him.

“How do you like it, noona?”

“It’s sublime.” You smile, the divine taste of the dessert and his angelic features could fool you into thinking you’re in heaven. How can one person give you such radically conflicting feelings? You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff, not knowing if at the end of fall you’ll be greeted by the refreshing ocean water or the jagged, deadly rocks.

Felix’s smile gets impossibly wider as he giggles. “I knew you’d like it, baby.” He leans in to give you a peck that’s sweeter than the food you just had.

______________________________

You can’t find anything you like. Nothing at all.

Frustrated, you turn to Felix who had been following you obediently like a little puppy through the countless stores.

“I don’t know. Do you see anything good?” You huff, and he seems surprised by your question, not having expected you to actually take his opinion, albeit how last choice it is. You feel bad. He not only didn’t complain like he promised, even though you cancelled the picnic he wanted, but he actually hyped you up and showered you with compliments every time you’d try on something new.

“What do you like your girl to wear?” You tease him, knowing your words will bring a pretty blush to his face.

“I--I like dresses.” He replies sheepishly.

“Yeah? Like what? Show me.”

It’s your turn to follow him around as he bashfully picks out a few dresses for you. You notice they're all so girly and pretty with bows and frills and lace. Seems like he has a type.

“Do you want me to try them on, baby?” You ask when he hands them to you.

“Please.” He breathes, impatient to see them on you and you think it's adorable how excited he is. You don’t wear dresses, and you know you won’t wear these, but you try them on just for him, not expecting how much his reaction will affect you.

"Wow." He sucks in a breath, his widened eyes taking in every inch of you. Smirking, you ask, "You like it that much?"

He nods vigorously, looking at you with adoration and want you’ve never had directed at you before. It takes your breath away, how genuine it looks, compelling you to do everything in your power to earn it.

The dress is made of a pretty pink Chiffon material, with a pink bow circling under the chest and a sweetheart neckline that exposes your collarbones and dips down to show quite a bit of cleavage, serving to emphasize your breasts that Felix can’t take his eyes off of. The contrast between the light and princessy look of the flowy skirt, and the seductive neckline hints at a certain corruption of innocence begging to be undertaken.

But just as you prepare to be engulfed in the sparkly blue-green of the ocean water, you find yourself crumpling over the rocks as Felix pulls out his phone to take a picture of you.

“You and your pictures.” You comment bitterly, happiness gone. “Gonna blackmail me over this too?”

He gasps, and the hand holding his phone immediately drops down, as if he couldn’t believe you’d say that.

“What, did you forget that you forced me into this?” You mock, “I bet you’re loving this. Making me do this. Dressing me up like I’m your doll? I bet your little dick is hard right now.”

He shakes his head, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to deny your words or just defend his actions. Pulling him close by his jeans, you press your thigh between his legs and laugh when it’s met by his hard-on. “See? I know everything that goes on in your sick brain.”

“Just wanna be good for you.” He whimpers, but even as he says that, his eyes fall to your breasts and his hand reaches out to run over the neckline of the dress you have on.

“Of course you do.” You snarl, and he cowers under your harsh tone. But like a kid at a candy store, he can’t stop his hand from straying, his fingers trailing down to circle around your nipples pushing through the soft material of the dress.

Grabbing his wrist, you bring his hand to your mouth and take his middle finger into your mouth, sucking on it lightly, grinning as his knees buckling and a small whimper leaves his lips. He tries to push you back into the fitting room but you don’t budge, taking his finger out of your mouth and humming. "I suddenly want something to suck on. Why don't you buy me a popsicle baby? I'm feeling hot."

He gulps harshly, "Yes, noona."

________

Felix buys all the dresses for you and you keep wearing the pink one, wanting to make him suffer more through the trip.

You strut to the ice cream store, feeling unstoppable in your flowy dress with your lovestruck lover in toe, hand on your waist and eyes glaring at everyone, trying to fend off anyone who would try to approach you.

Felix sits you down in a booth at the far end of the store, hiding you from view as he goes to get what you want. You sigh, playing the skirt of your new dress, lost in thought about Felix and how you feel about him. He’s sweet, addictively so, but he’s volatile and that scares you. Would you pick him over Chan? What if he just wants you because Chan has you? Maybe this is some kind of sick competition for him. Or maybe it’s the contrast with Chan that makes you like him at all. Maybe you’re just upset with Chan.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud, cheery voice. “Noona, how are you?”

Coming out your daze, you blink, taking in the new figure. “Oh, hey, Jisung.”

“What are you doing here?” He asks giddily, eyes raking over your body, stopping over your breasts the same way Felix did, and lingers on them too long. You clear your throat, smirking as his eyes snap back up to your face as he flushes.

You’re quite aware of the crush he has on you. So better get rid of him before Felix comes and throws a tantrum. Unless…

This could be your chance to get back at Felix for what he did to you and for forcing you to go on this date. He can threaten to tell Chan on you but what is he gonna do to Jisung? Nothing.

“I’m just hanging with a friend.” You smile broadly, “Why don’t you join us?”

“Wouldn’t your friend mind?” He asks, already moving to sit down. You grin wickedly, “No, he’ll love it."

“Okay.” He sits down opposite you, unsuspecting of the storm about to come over. Right on time, Felix comes back with your popsicle.

“Oh, hey Lixie! This is Jisung. We work together.” You pull him down, ignoring the sour look on his face.

“Hey!” Jisung pipes up with a friendly wave that Felix doesn’t return. Felix pins the other boy down with a glare that makes Jisung shrink back.

“He’s just a little shy.” You reach over the table and place your hand over his to comfort him, a gesture that only makes Felix angrier and he in turn grabs your thigh under the table and squeezes it in warning. Turning to him, you pluck the popsicle out of his hand and take a big lick. “Hmm, this is tasty.”

You take the part of the popsicle into your mouth, giving Felix a wink before you turn to the other boy. “So, how have you been, Sungie?”

“Um… good.” He fidgets as you swirl your tongue around the popsicle in an obviously suggestive way.

“How's your girlfriend?” You ask, knowing full well that they broke up. His eyes follow your tongue for a second before he clears his throat and answers. “We’re not together anymore.”

“Oh, no!” You pout, lips cherry colored and glistening with melted ice cream. “That must be very hard for you, baby.”

You feel Felix’s hand clench around your thigh, but you don’t spare him a glance as you continue, “How have you been handling that?”

You place the popsicle back in your mouth, sucking on it enticingly as you eye Jisung up and down and wait for him to answer, but the poor boy can barely string his words together. “It’s--I’m...o-okay.”

Pulling the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet slurp, you smile while licking the tip of the treat. “I’m so glad. Hmm, this is so good.” You moan out, and extend the popsicle towards him. “Wanna try it?”

Jisung chokes on his own spit, and you can tell that a handprint will remain on your upper thigh from how hard Felix’s fingers were digging into your skin.

"No that's okay, noona." Jisung fidgets, and you know he’s rubbing his thighs together under the table. You ignore his refusal, pushing the popsicle towards his mouth. "Come on baby, open up for me."

He obediently opens his mouth despite his refusal, but before he can close his lips around the ice cream, you pull it away with a laugh. "Why don't you stick out your tongue for me?"

He sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes snap to Felix. You can only see the other boy from the corner of your eye, but the rage rolling off of him in waves more than explains the terrified look on your coworker's face. No, that wouldn't do.

Leaning over the table, your ass in Felix’s face barely covered by the short dress, you curl a finger under Jisung’s chin and turn his attention towards you. "Don't look at him baby. Keep your eyes on me."

He nods weakly and you smile, moving to sit back down when Felix grabs your hips and pulls you down onto his lap, a small gasp escaping from your lips as you feel his hard-on against your thin underwear.

Your grin grows bigger, and you grind down on Felix’s dick as you tell Jisung, "Now show me your tongue, baby."

The sight of Jisung’s glazed eyes and pretty tongue out like a cute puppy makes you moan a little, something only Felix can hear. You feel his hand move from your hip to your pussy, fingers rubbing over you now soaked panties. With a shuddering breath, you move the popsicle over Jisung’s tongue, delighted by how he doesn’t pull it back into his mouth until you tell him to.

"Such a good boy." You coo, and you feel Felix’s fingers slip under your panties to rub harshly at your bare pussy. Shuddering, you open your legs wider for him. "He's such a good boy, isn't he, Felix? I bet he'd never act out or disobey me."

Felix grabs your clit between his thumb and index finger and pinches lightly, making you jump in his lap and bounce on his cock, the two of you groaning out in pleasure and making poor Jisung whimper as he clutches hard onto the table to keep from touching himself.

Opening your legs wide, you order Felix, "Put your fingers in me. Wanna show you what you're not getting by being a brat."

His hand leaves the tight circles he’s drawing over you clit and dip down to your hole, plunging a finger right in. “Oh, fuck.” You shudder at the delicious intrusion and the thrust of Felix’s dick against your pussy, the both of you clearly wishing that was his dick instead of his finger.

“Feels good, baby?” You whisper back to Felix and he nods sharply, finger pushing in and out of you incessantly as if you’ll tell him to stop at any moment. "Yeah? Tell Jisung how it feels."

Felix growls against your skin, sinking his teeth into your shoulder angrily, not wanting to think about the other guy with you right now. But you don’t back down. "Tell him or I'll have him find out himself."

He stuffs another finger inside you, and obeys, voice grave and hostile. “Noona’s pussy is tight around my fingers. So soft and wet for me. Only me.”

You laugh breathlessly, bucking your hips against Felix’s hand so that your clit can rub against his palm. Poor Jisung’s hands were white from how tightly he was gripping onto the table, and you’re worried he would either break it or hurt himself.

“You getting turned on watching us, baby?” You drawl, getting his attention. “It’s okay. You can touch yourself.”

As if he was waiting for your permission, Jisung instantly sticks his hand between his legs, and humps against it to relieve some of the pressure.

“Good boy.” You murmur, and Felix abuses the spot he bit in your shoulder again, deeping the mark forming there and making his feelings clear about you praising another guy while he’s fingering you. "Did you fantasize about my pussy, baby?"

“Yes.” Both of them answer, and you laugh.

"Hmm, seems like you've got competition, kitty. Maybe I chose the wrong boy to play with."

Felix stops abruptly, pulling his fingers out of you and pushing you onto the seat next to him. Your heart beats rapidly against your chest, thinking that he’s about to make a scene. Instead, he slips under the table and pulls on your hips so your ass is at the edge of the seat. Yanking your panties off, he spreads your legs wide.

"Gonna prove to you that I'm the one for you." He buries his face in your pussy, angrily licking every little inch of it and sucking harshly on your clit.

“Oh, fuck---Felix!” You moan, grabbing onto his hair as he devours your pussy. “Good boy. This is exactly where you belong.”

From the barely open slit of your eyes you see Jisung frustrated and on the verge of crying as he’s not getting as much stimulation as he needs.

"Pull your pretty cock out for me baby.” You drawl, trying to entice him so he’d forget about being in a public place and give in to you. “Don't be scared. Noona wants you to be dirty."

He discards his fears, pulling his dick out and yanking on it fast.

“Good boy. Such a good boy.” You effuse, and under the table, Felix pulls back to slap your pussy in punishment, furious that you’re still giving Jisung attention even though he’s on his knees under the table eating your pussy out.

“Brat.” You hiss, tugging on his hair and pushing his head back between your legs, grinding your pussy against his face.

"Wanna cum, please." Jisung begs, and you tear your eyes away from Felix’s shiny and livid ones to look over at him. He doesn’t look pretty or angelic as Felix looks even under the cramped table and surrounded by the pink Chiffon as he ignores his need to breathe in favor of pleasing you. Instead, Jisung he looks sweaty and fucked dumb, his eyes barely focused and his jaw hanging open.

"Wait for noona." You gruffly answer, squeaking in surprise as you feel Felix’s tongue push inside your pussy, a growly moan ripping out of him as he feels your tight walls around his tongue.

"You are doing such a good job, kitten.” You purr down to your lover, fucking his pretty face.

“No, I can’t, n-noona… please.” He cries, and you glare at him. “I said wait.”

“Can’t….ahh...noona, I’m sorry….fuck, fuck!” He squeaks, body convulsing as little ropes of white stain his shirt.

Seeing the mess he makes, you’re tipped over the edge yourself, cumming on Felix’s tongue and closing your thighs around his head, trapping him there. Obediently, he stays still as your hips buck a few more times against his face before your body relaxes and your legs fall open.

Felix gives your pussy a couple of soothing licks before he pulls your dress down and emerges from under the table, his face glistening with your cum. Yet somehow, he still looks as delicate and beautiful as ever as leans into your hand cupping his cheek.

“Good boy.” You murmur, your other hand reaching out to palm his crotch when a wet spot surprises you. You raise an eyebrow "oh?"

"I'm sorry. I know you didn’t say I could cum. I just wanted this for so long. Wanted to make you feel as good as you make me feel." He sobs, thinking you'll laugh at him. But you find it so incredibly sexy and flattering. You never thought you'd meet a guy who enjoyed pleasing you that much.

"You did good, baby." You beam, patting his cheek. ”Sitting there while I flirt with another boy? Maybe next I just make you watch while I fuck him. How does that sound? I bet it will make your little cock so hard, you little pervert."

He shakes his head violently, getting upset. "No, please don't. It would kill me. I love you so much." He breaks down and starts babbling about how he never wanted it to be this way. How sorry he is, begging you to not do this again.

"Hush, my dumb kitty." You press your finger against his lips to stop him from talking. “It’s okay. How about we go home and get cleaned up then have some coffee and brownies?"

He nods gratefully, and you’re about to get up when you hear someone cough. You look in front of you and remember that you had a guest.

“Oh, Jisung. Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?” You say, pulling Felix up and ignoring Jisung’s protests, and walking to the door.

However, Jisung isn’t the only one with something to say. As you’re about to leave the shop, an employee intercepts you. You can immediately tell what he’s going to say from the severe look on his face.

“Please, don’t try to come back to our shop or we’ll have to call the police.”

You nod, cheeks burning in humiliation as you run out and drag a smiling Felix behind you to the car.

__________________

When you head off to work a few days later, you wonder what you’re going to say to Jisung. You had set off to work with a promise to Felix that you’re not gonna pursue anything with the brunette, but he weirdly didn’t seem particularly concerned about the matter, despite how upset he was that day.

Yes, you’d been extra nice to him these past few days, acting much more receptive to his affectionate ways and responding in kind, but you still didn’t expect that much change.

Your brain is buzzing with all the possibilities about how Jisung will react and your lover’s one-hundred-eighty flip in attitude as you step into your office, but then you realize that Jisung isn’t there at all. Asking around, you find out that he’s at the hospital. Apparently he’d injured himself while playing with a knife. You roll your eyes. That boy is a danger to himself.

Still, you decide to go check up on him at the hospital.

You expect him to act awkward around you, to blush and stutter and look away. What you don’t expect is the sheer horror on his face upon seeing you.

“Wow, did I scar you that bad?” Is the first thing you say to him once you’re inside his hospital room.

“Why are you here?” He asks shakily, staring behind you as if he’s expecting someone to pop out from there.

You frown, “I realize I may have crossed the line yesterday but I just wanted to make sure you’re alright."

“I’m fine. Now please leave.”

“Thanks, I’m so reassured right now.” You roll your eyes, moving closer to him. ”How did this even happen? How does one stab their own leg?”

But as you reach out to touch his shoulder, he screams. "Don't touch me! You can't touch me!"

"What's going on? You're freaking me out." You jump back, and once again, he looks behind you. "Does he know you're here?"

"Who?"

"Your boyfriend."

"Chan?” You ask, confused. What does Chan have to do with this? “He doesn't even know you."

"No, Felix. The one that was with you yesterday."

"Felix? He's not my---" Your face suddenly falls as a horrible thought crosses your mind. No. It can’t be. "Did he do this to you?"

Jisung pales and shakes his head violently "No. I told you it was an accident. Now please leave."

He seems to be on the verge of breakdown, and maybe you should try to calm him down, but your mind is in an upheaval right now, and all you could think of is running to Felix to prove to yourself that you’re just being crazy. He would never do something like this, would he? It can’t be. It’s simply outrageous. But then again his weird change in behavior, his volatile attitude that always keeps you on edge… No, that’s crazy talk.

Numbly you go out of the room and make your way to your car to head back home. You’ll talk to Felix and he’ll tell you how stupid you’re being, and it’s all gonna be alright.

__________

A/N: this chapter was written so quickly because of all the lovely feedback you guys gave me so yeah feedback feeds me

[kyberphilosopher]

Rᴇᴅᴀᴍᴀɴᴄʏ

Redamancy: (n.) the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.

After spending the night with Eren, you try to determine the future of your relationship. Eren complicates things.

Word Count : 1822

Contains allusions to sex. 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

It was a miracle that neither of you had been caught. Truly. In fact, the sheer convenience of the whole thing was enough to make you raise your eyebrow in suspicion. Though, there was no reason for you to stop taking it for granted. 

It was the boy who had started it. 

Whether or not you had kissed first, or him, was irrelevant. What matters was that the mess hall was empty, and the air was quick to feel hot. The more of his lips you felt, the stronger the smell of sweat became. Not that you minded. Your head was too cloudy with a strong sense of growing lust to care. In fact, you reveled in it. But it was Eren who had given the word to take things back to your dormitory, and it was you who had given the word of acceptance. 

The night had been excellent, in short. The dormitory had been, similar to the mess hall, emptied out. The two of you had been blessed with a whole nights worth of twisting and stretching, without the confines of anxiety or embarrassment.

His skin felt like fire. His lips were wet from coats of saliva. In fact, like a Titan, he had given you little to no mercy in terms of bruising and marks made from a tongue. In turn, you couldn’t help the thin scratches your finger nails had given his back, and the final mess of his chocolate colored locks. Time blurred together. All you knew was warmth and steam. 

And then, you must’ve fallen asleep in the early morning. Your lover hadn’t been far behind you. Perhaps it was because your body had become numb or overly sensitive from all the heat, but you hadn’t recalled Eren’s arms being wrapped around you before drifting off. 

But now...

His hands are on you again. Not like they were the night before, but nearly just as intimate. Fingertips aren’t hot this time, but getting there. For now, they are warm. 

One of Eren’s arms is under your body, with the forearm out and hand reaching right under your breast. The other is draped over your shoulder, with the hand between the front of your throat and the center of your collarbone. This is the hand that is responsible for pushing your back closer against his chest and keeping you there. It feels like a trap, but a loving one. 

Love. That was the issue here. 

You’d had a certain admiration for Jaeger for a while. You’d known each other since your cadet years. He was hot headed, stubborn, but driven. You weren’t particularly bratty or as hard brained as he, but the two of you were easily in sync. You were friends. You joked like friends. Did favors like friends. Fought together like friends. Now you were wrestling together, and it wasn’t like friends. 

But you hadn’t considered what would happen after. Would you remain simply friends? Did you want this to be a one time thing, or not? Did Eren? If not, what was he keeping you so close to him for? Behavior like this is normally reserved for relationships. What are you to do with this?

Eren’s body shifts. You can feel the muscles in his abdomen roll and settle back into place with the curve of your back. Your eyes remain open as a sign of how wide awake you are, glued to all the other objects in the room you can see. 

Love. Eren is showing a sign of love. Is he? You could be mistaken. Is it right to read into the placement of his fingers, or not? Should you wake him up to discuss it? No. Not, let him rest. 

Your bottom lip sucks in between your teeth as you think. Eren’s grip on you feels as if it’s getting tighter by the second, though that might just be a figment of your anxiety instead of reality. Regardless, his touch is not one of hatred or lust, for the time being. It’s soft, but firm. Firm enough for you to have wiggle room if you need it, but soft enough to let you know he Eren has no intention of hurting you. It feels more like he wants you to stay. Which brings you back to your first problem- was this a sign of love?

Eren shifts again. His neck cranes around in a lazy stretch, than his face sinks into the back of your neck. You can feel it settle between the nape of your neck and your body of hair. Eren breathes out through his nose as he continues to grow comfortable, and for a split second, you’re ecstatic with your current position. 

The hand by your breast twitches, then slips lower. The palm rests closer to the side of your ribs now, making you hyper aware of touch all over again. Upon natural reaction, your toes curl tightly in stimulation, though not from anything sexual. Just from the intimacy. 

Swallowing, you decide to test the waters. 

Your legs detangle from each other and instead encroach on Eren’s territory. Your left heel grazes against Eren’s shin, and you push yourself closer against his chest, if it were possible. 

Erent doesn’t wake up completely. Instead, there’s a stiff “Mmm,” as his own legs move. One of his legs runs over your own, covering over it. Now you’re closer. 

He must be aware of his actions, right?

“Good morning.”

His voice is low and scratchy from sleep. If your mind hadn’t been consumed with the future of your relationship with him, you would’ve felt the vibration of his voice right to the core between your legs. 

You don’t respond. Despite your wide open eyes, you are turned away from him. If you’re quiet, you can feign sleep. Maybe then you’ll have time to think a way out of this. 

“Y/N, it’s time to wake up,” he says against your ear. You feel his body stretch, but remain in the same position. Eren is quiet for a moment. Then he speaks again. “I can tell that you’re awake, you know.”

Well, shit. 

Your mouth is quick to go dry. Your heart is thump, thump, thumping. You’re certain he can feel it just as you can. 

“I have to get up,” you say suddenly, without thinking. In your panic, you sit up, your legs uncurling from Eren’s and bending as an arm gives you leverage against the mattress. His hands fall from your form at once, breaking the contact. 

Now the air feels cold. 

Eren watches your bare back. His eyes are half closed from the drowsiness of morning, pieces of hair sprawled out against the pillow he rests against. Even from this view, Eren can see a fraction of temporary scars he’d left on your body from the previous night. Not to say that he caused you pain. He hadn’t. 

Absent mindedly, Eren’s left hand reaches up to trail his fingers along your spine. You tense up immediately, almost in a jolt. Jaeger must not think anything of it, though, because his pads of his fingers continue to ghost over the muscles of your back as lightly as a feather. 

“Did you sleep alright?” he questions, still tired himself. 

You had slept fantastic, actually. So warm, so safe, too exhausted to consider anything but being asleep. Eren Jaeger had been responsible for all three of those factors. You had the chance to argue that it was the best you’d slept in years. Dare you even say, all your life?

“I slept okay,” your mutter. You don’t know what his game is. You don’t know what he’s thinking. 

“Good,” Eren responds. “I’d hope so.”

There is a pause. “Did you have a good night, too?” he further questions. You can tell there is his version of a smile behind his words. One of those sick ones when he’s thinking something somewhat radical. 

The night, like your sleep, had also been fantastic. But was that all that Eren had thought about? Was that what he had been after this whole time? No. The relationship and comfort between the two of you was genuine, but so was the heated night of passion. What did you want? More importantly, what did Eren want?

Eren presses his entire hand against your back until it’s flat. If it were covered in paint, or more likely, blood, it would leave a perfect hand print against your skin. 

“Yes, I did,” you speak. 

Eren’s eyes soften. His hand pulls away from your skin, than returns to the light wisps of touching with his fingers. 

Some people, had they not known Eren, may have thought his touch resembled that of a painters, or a musicians. In fact, his touch and gifted hands were born from the training you had been put through. He would’ve had to be conscious of his finger placement, what with how often they’re balled into tight fists of rage. 

Then Eren frowns. His touch slows until it pauses completely. “Is something wrong?”

Perhaps you were thinking too hard about it. Perhaps whether him holding you meaning something or not wasn’t even really important. It could’ve been something done with little thought or emotion. 

You don’t answer. You’re staring at the wall parallel to your bed a bit away, remembering several of the expressions Eren had made just a few hours ago. The butterflies in your stomach are making an appearance again, and you’re forced into a corner of guilt over whether your entire relationship is now ruined. 

Jaeger, though, isn’t having it. In a clean motion, an arm wraps around your stomach and pulls you back down against the bed. You land with a thud against the cheap thing, and Eren is quick to apologize. 

Both his arms snake their way around your body, finding the best areas to hold in order to get you to stay there with him. Because, despite your beautiful, questioning, wondering mind, Eren is showing you genuine love. He loves you. He’s trying to let you know that he loves you. 

His head rests between your shoulder and your neck, his cheek by your ear and his face close to pressed against yours. “Just go back to sleep, then,” he advises lowly, his own voice lowering from another wave of drowsiness. With his eyes becoming heavy and fast, he places a kiss against your temple. 

And you, settling back into the warmth, do not even bother to fight it this time. You return the love in kind, accepting it and sinking in it. Drowning in it, even. You would worry yourself with questions of your future with Eren when you wake again, and the boy would worry he had not made his intentions of affection clear. 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

I wrote this in an hour. I can’t think of anything more to do with it. 

[mggpleasedontlookhere]

sinking

request: Helloo! 👋🏼 I really like your stories for Spencer Reid, they’re pretty detailed, creative and really interesting! So.. idk if you’ll see this but I was wondering if you’re willing to create a Reid x Reader where, the reader doesn’t know how to swim and so one day, an unsub who works around waters or something holds reader hostage and then shoves her into the ocean off the dock, in hopes to run away and no one knows she can’t swim besides Reid who jumps after her immediately? Sorry, thank u! :)

for: @tooweirdforyou 

word count: 2,600                                                                                     reading time aprox: 10 mins

masterlist

New York City, the land of naked cowgirls in the middle of Times Square, overpriced souvenirs, and home of Broadway shows. Unfortunately we didn’t have the privilege to be stationed in the heart of Manhattan, since our unsub had decided to execute his activities in the suburban neighborhoods of the city.  

We were seated in a police station in Rockaway. The neighborhood we were in was low on the socioeconomic spectrum, which offered a clue to the profile we’ve built. Me, Spencer, and Morgan sat around in the conference of the station, discussing our frivolous adventures of life as we waited for the rest of the team to head back from their tasks. 

“Wait so you’re telling me that you hate the ocean?” Morgan teased Reid, nudging him in the shoulder in a brotherly manner. “Why is that?” He continued, a smirk making its way onto his lips.

“Do you have any idea how many microbes are in the ocean” Spencer cringed, crunching up his nose in disgust. “In a single liter of seawater alone, there’s approximately a colony of one billion bacteria and ten billion virus-” He explained before getting cut off by Morgan. 

“Oka-okay germ boy, enough of that before you ruin my image of a perfect vacation” 

“Germ boy? That’s new” I interjected in amusement, laughing as Spencer squatted lower in his chair to hide the oncoming blush on his cheeks. “Oh come on Spence- hey everyone’s got some sort of phobia” I reassured, reaching over to ruffle his tangled hair. 

“Well actually, a phobia is-” 

“Don’t ruin it Spence” I joked, watching his lips curl up into an amused smile. 

On cue, the rest of the BAU entered the building in a hurry. Hotch and JJ ran side by side into the office where we held Raymund Celter, a relative of the suspected unsub, for questioning. Me, Spencer, and Morgan looked at each other in confusion, until Emily walked up to us with an embittered expression. 

“What’s up?” Morgan asked, directing the conversation to the suspenseful air that surrounded the four of us. 

Emily sighed, rubbing her forehead in frustration. “Our unsub...isn’t who we thought it was” She admitted, letting her eyes cast over the interrogation room where Hotch and JJ were.

“Wait- but our profile still fits right?” Morgan insisted with his eyebrows furrowed and his forehead etched with lines. 

“Yeah, but we’ve been looking at the wrong type of relationship” She sighed, her defeated expression indicating the exhaustion that all of us shared. “If the unsub isn’t a relative- and we ruled out employees since the victims aren’t necessarily affluent- who else has full invitation to the house, is comfortable enough with the family, and is particularly close to-” She paused mid sentence as all the cogs in our brains were turning until we all settled on the same idea. 

We looked at each other in revelation and it seemed like JJ and Hotch shared a similar idealization as they rushed out of the interrogation room. 

Emily was quick to get Garcia on the phone, witnessing the troubled looks she received from Hotch. “Garcia, can you see if there were any family friends or close neigh-” She requested, although she was abruptly cut off by Hotch informing her of the details that they’ve uncovered. 

“No need for that. The man we’re looking for is Henry Bennett, he grew up next door to the Celter’s residence- Garcia can you look for the last known address” Hotch commanded, chewing the inside of his mouth in anticipation. 

“Uh- we might have a problem, sir” Garcia sheepishly admitted. “Well I’ve looked at his DMV records and there are 4 possible locations where he can reside at” Garcia explained, sending the coordinates to our tablets. 

“Um okay, we’re going to have to split up. JJ and Morgan, Emily’s with Rossi, Reid you’re with me- Y/N are you okay doing this by yourself?” Hotch asked, concerning wavering in his eyes. I nodded in affirmation, already strapping on my gun and heading to the armory for FBI bullet proof vests. 

After everyone had situated themselves in the right attire, it was time to leave in separate cars. That’s when Spencer pulled me aside by the arm, clutching it with a tense hand. “Are you sure you’re fine going alone? I can tell Hot-” He rambled, his words laced with the same concern Hotch expressed previously. 

“Don’t worry germ boy, I think I can handle myself pretty well” I jokingly reassured. Although the lines etched across his forehead didn’t seem to lessen as I tried to lighten up the air. “Listen Spence...I’m going to be okay- I promise I’ll be extra careful” I expressed in the hopes that his doleful expression would vanish. 

He responded with a hesitant nod and a tight lipped smile, pulling me into a warm embrace. He smelled of pumpkin spice candles mixed in with a little sweat, which, oddly, made out to be a comforting aroma. 

“Hey germ boy, If it makes you feel any better about before, I’m absolutely terrified about the ocean too- well all types of large bodies of water” I sheepishly admitted, ruffling the top of his head as I went to open the front door of the SUV. 

“Wait what?” He replied, taken aback by my profession. “You are?” He continued with a smirk on his lips. 

“Yeah, I don’t do well with the whole “deep water and the unknown thing” I expressed, staring at my twiddling thumbs. “I also, kinda, don’t know how to swim either” I blushed, climbing into the front seat of the vehicle, watching Spencer’s grin grow. Finally bidding a final adieu to all of my colleagues, I headed out to the coordinates I had been assigned to. 

-

With my luck, I was sent to a docking area near Rockaway beach. The coordinates that Garcia had sent me were of an old fishing hut near the coastline. I was in constant contact with the rest of the team, communicating whether the unsub was to be found at our locations.

I surveyed the area with my gun close to my chest, pointed down to the floor. My eyes flickered to the water numerous times, feeling my anxiety rile up in my veins as I attempted to keep my focus on finding unsub.  I was essentially on high alert, every creek and every sound triggering my flight or fight response. 

It wasn't until I had gotten to the fishing hut that my anxiety rose to a new high. The small house was located at the end of the dock where the waves crashed against the wooden spokes below the thin bridge. 

Suddenly, I had heard footsteps from the inside of the hut. I raised my gun into a more controlled position before taking a breath, tentatively opening the door to enter. “FBI”  I yelled, feeling my arms shake as the sound of the water amplified, bouncing off the floorboards. “ Henry Bennett”  I called out,  surveying my surroundings. “ I'm from the FBI, I just want to talk” I peaked  around the corner, seeing a slight shadow of a figure at the end of a hallway. 

I radioed in my location, letting the rest of the team know that I had found the unsub. Hotch informed me that the rest of the team we're coming soon, although they might take longer than expected. With a brief goodbye, I finally made myself known, locking eyes with the unsub himself. “Henry Bennett-” I began but was ultimately cut off with his radical spiel. 

“Ge-get away from m-me” He stuttered, a pistol in his right hand pointed directly at me. “Y-you don-don’t understand. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS!” He yelled, his behavior becoming more unstable by the minute. 

“Hey, it's okay-it's okay, I'm here to help” I proceeded to attempt to calm him down as he started to hit his head with his other hand. Although he continued to inflict harm to himself, repeating the same mantra as before. 

“NO ONE UNDERSTANDS! NO ONE UNDERSTANDS! NO ONE-” 

 In the midst of his words I cut him off abruptly,  placing my gun in its holster to indicate peace. “Henry, look at- hey look at me Henry”  I called his attention, halting his actions. “I'm here to help, my team is going to come very soon and they are going to help you” I reassured, creeping closer to disarm him. 

“Ar-are you sure?” He whimpered, still clutching onto the gun with the tight grip.  I placed my hand over his, letting him sink into my touch. 

“Yes Henry, I promise” I softly guaranteed, feeling his grip loosen up as I rubbed his back to  soothe him. Although as I proceeded to take away his gun, he tensed up again looking at me with doleful eyes. 

“Do you really promise?” He asked in desperation, searching my eyes for the truth as I fished out for his weapon. I nodded, giving him an understanding smile as he finally let go of his weapon. I calmed him down, telling him everything was going to be okay, letting him kneel down into the position to apprehend him for his crimes. 

Unfortunately, the team had picked this time to approach the area, the loud sirens engulfing the dock, triggering the unsub to expel in a violent outburst. Suddenly I was pinned to the ground with strong arms, while malicious screams were emitted from the unsub's mouth. 

“You promised! YOU PROMISED!” The unsub repeated, reaching over to retain the gun he had. “You lied to me- JUST LIKE THE REST OF THEM!” He sobbed, pressing the cold metal against the back of my forehead. “Now you’re going to pay” He threatened, forcefully pulling me up to my feet and walking me out to the docks. 

The team came into view as we walked out, although my vision was distorted due to the tears that began to appear in the corners of my eyes. “Henry Bennett, FBI, let her go and things will go smoothly” Spencer spoke, maintaining a calm composure. When he locked eyes with my terrified ones, I saw a chink in his armor. 

Despite the small discovery, he had a firm grip on his gun, pointing it directly at the unsub as the rest of the team followed behind him. 

“NO! SHE LIED TO ME!” Henry bellowed, digging the barrel right into the side of my head as he held me by the neck.

“Please Henry, nobody has to be hurt” Emily interjected, trying to extinguish the situation in a peaceful manner. 

“But- but” Henry shook his head, letting his malevolent expression falter for a moment. The team crept closer to where we were positioned. Soon enough, Henry noticed this and for every step forward the team took, he would take a step back. 

It was until we had reached the end of the dock that the team had realized. “Please Henry, we know what happened with Raymund- we know that his parents didn’t approve of your friendship with him-” Emily began, placing her gun in the holster, similar to the tactic performed before. “-or should I say relationship. It was wrong of them to-”

“THEY WERE WRONG! THEY LIED TO ME!” He screamed, the gun in his hand shaking as he loosened his grip. “I loved him and they t-told m-me I couldn’t” He cried, dropping his weapon. 

The team took this as an opportunity to approach Henry, seeing that he was disoriented. But, they soon found out that they were wrong. Henry threw himself into the water with his arm still latched around me. I struggled against his grip, beating against his rib cage as he fought my resistance. 

With a hard blow to the forehead, I was able to swim up to the surface. I glanced at my feet, seeing his unconscious body drift down into the dark abyss. Terrified thoughts raced inside my head, thinking of the possibility of drowning and never being found. I squirmed and kicked, taking in a breath of air as I broke into the surface. 

Suddenly, I was scooped into a pair of arms as I continued to panic and writhe in their grasp. I took chaste breaths, my eyes still covered with water, so I was unable to see who had me. It was until Spencer’s soothing voice reached my ears, that I finally calmed down. 

“Y/N! Y/N! I got you- hey I got you” He repeated, although the affirmation was more for his own state of mind. 

My breathing was still rapid, but my brain had registered that I was going to be okay. I let tears mix in with the sea water on my cheeks as I sobbed in terror. The cold sensation of the water increased my adrenaline by ten fold. I gripped onto Spencer’s vest, similar to a child with their mother, letting his voice soothe me. 

I placed my head in the crook of his neck as he pulled the both of us near a ladder. He pushed me up gently, encouraging me to climb up to the rest of the team. Once I was situated on land, I sat down and burrowed myself into my knees. I was embarrassed, yet grateful that Spencer had saved me, knowing that my severe fear of water was now known to the rest of the team. 

Finally, Spencer knelt down to where I sat, wrapping his long arms around where I had enclosed myself. I let myself lean into his embrace, nuzzling my head into his neck once again as he helped me control my breathing. 

A blanket was placed on the both of us as I refused to get up. Spencer gave a sideways glance to Hotch in the way of saying “give us a moment’. The team had refuted back to their cars in respect to Spencer’s request, leaving me and him on the dock. 

“Than-thank you” I muttered, able to muster up the strength to express my gratitude. 

“It’s nothing Y/N” He reassured, letting the sound of seagulls and the waves permeate the ambiance of the scene. “When...when you told me that you had a fear of the water- and that you can’t swim- seeing you getting pushed into the water nearly gave me a heart attack” He admitted, breathing into the top of my head. 

“I don’t- I don’t know what to do to thank you Spence. I was so- so terrified- and you went to- I just- thank you” I praised, looking up into his worried expression. 

I placed an apprehensive hand on his cheek, getting a better look at the beautiful features that graced his face. I smiled at him, observing how his eyes would flicker from my eyes to my lips. I blushed at the discovery, letting myself lean more into his embrace. 

Slowly, our faces closed in on the distance, our breaths fanning over each other’s faces as we looked at each other for any indication of resistance. Finally our lips collided in a kiss, maintaining slow movements as we melted in each other. 

His lips were supple and tasted like vanilla lip balm, although his movements were gentle and meaningful. He grazed my cheeks with both of his hands, cupping them in his palms as he pulled away. He proceeded to place chaste kisses on my forehead as I let my eyes close at the feeling. 

“I think that was a pretty great way to thank me” He grinned. 

“I guess I’ll just have to keep thanking you for all the times you’ve made my life better” 

-

taglist: @rexorangecouny​ @howdycharlie​

A/N

i hope this is okay, not my best work, but i hope it’s still enjoyable. 

[bill-y]

𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐄

Peeta Mellark x male reader

[ We all know who Katniss Everdeen is, but what if Primrose hadn’t been chosen but another boy from another unfortunate family? YOUR family. ]

Info: This is basically a reader insert and I’ve changed a few rules, not ground breaking though. The reader is a bit bland for now but I plan for his actions to be different. Because he has different moral grounds from Katniss and such. Would appreciate feedback! FEEL FREE TO POINT OUT TYPOS. GRAMMARLY SOMETIMES DOESN’T DO MY DYSLEXIC ASS JUSTICE

Part three: Click this, Rumtumtugger.

Part four: you're here, jennyanydots

Part five: Clicky dicky here, buddy

Wattpad account: L0calxDumbass

Those words left my mouth without much thought. I wasn't thinking of the damned consequences at the moment.

Behind me was Kunal, an iron grip on my leg, bawling his eyes out. "Y/N! NO! NO! YOU CAN'T GO!" he pleaded, his cries getting louder by the second. 

My hand ruffled his strawberry blonde hair, messing it up. "Let go, Nal," I said in the calmest tone I could muster. He shook his head, tears running down his cheeks, I cleared my dry throat, gulping down nothing. My mouth was dry as if I just ate a handful of salt, which was honestly a luxury.

My face remained stoic, the moment I show a sign of distress I know the people in the Capitol would eat it up like good bread. It entertains them, our suffering entertains them. 

His hands slipped from my leg, gripping on my pants before he was finally taken away from me. "Up you go, Owl eyes," said Gale, his voice trying hard to remain steady. Beside him was Katniss, who was holding Kunal by the shoulders. She nodded, "Good luck, Y/n,"

I nodded, before looking back at the temporary stage. "Oh well, Bravo!" Effie exclaimed. "That's the spirit of the games!"

She was thrilled, finally seeing some action from this district. It made a pit in my stomach, I clenched my jaw. If only the roles were reversed, Capitol people fighting for their lives instead of us.

Oh, how funny that would be.

I strode to the stage, trying my best to look collected. The foreboding feeling in my stomach only grew with each step I took, my hands sweating as if they've just been dipped into water once I finally took my place.

"Do tell us your name," Effie said, her grin widening as she nodded, encouraging me to talk. It took all the will power I had to not strangle her.

"Y/n Greyback," I replied dryly, hoping it would set her off.

“I bet my buttons that was your brother. Don’t want him to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!” she trilled, making me clench my fists.

Her words were met with silence. No one clapped, not a noise can be heard. Even the ones who would usually bet on who would wound up as a tribute didn't do anything.

I held back a smile, a surge of hope flowing through me. This was the most rebellious thing they could do without getting punishment of any sort. Silence.

Silence doesn't mean fear or that we're cowards. It meant that we do not accept this, we do not condone.

Just as my father always said, one does not need to shout to make a change.

The next thing that happened was even more of a surprise. Maybe it was because I was a son of a "rebel", maybe they pitied my family or maybe it was because I talked to the mayor's daughter.

Just one, then two, then a group almost all of the crowd put the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and held it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.

My tense hands relaxed a sense of calm washing over me. We were united in a strange way, something I thought would only happen in my dreams.

"Look at him! Look at this one!" Hollered Haymitch, throwing an arm around my shoulder. His arm was quite heavy, understandable, he's a wreck. "I like him!"

The scent of alcohol from his breath was strong, or maybe he just smelled of alcohol. "Lots of. . ." He paused, trying to think of a word.

I cringed as he slightly swayed around, trying my best to not touch him. "Spunk!" he declared triumphantly. "More than you!"

He released me, staggering to the front of the stage. "More than you!" He declared once more, pointing towards the camera.

Was he talking to the audience? Or maybe he was addressing the Capitol. I wish it's the latter, that would be funny.

Just as he opened his mouth to continue, he fell down the stage, knocking himself unconscious in the process. I snickered slightly, my face scrunching up right after.

Thankfully, the cameras were all pointed towards him, watching as they whisked him away into a stretcher. I took this moment to glare back into the distance, watching the scenery.

There was the hill that me, Katniss and Gale were just at. It looked so peaceful, contrary to my day.

"What an exciting day!" Effie warbled, trying to fix her tilted wig. It looked ridiculous. Why would Capitol people, no, why would anyone wear that?

It looks ugly, like a beaten up squirrel. Though I'd be lying if I said it wasn't eye-catching, though, beaten up squirrels are also eye-catching. “But more excitement to come! It’s time to choose our next tribute!” she continued, putting one hand to the second bowl.

Her fingertips grab the first slip it encounters. I hoped it wasn't Gale or Katniss. I didn't want to kill them, not that I'd ever stand a chance.

Katniss was extremely skilled with the bow, she could probably shoot my head from miles away. Gale, on the other hand, was strong, compared to him, I had the strength of a broken twig.

"Peeta Mellark," She read. Oh no. Why him? Of all the people in this district. His father just "introduced" me to him this morning, not just that, I knew him.

I watched him make his way up the stage, I had a clear look at him this time. He had a stocky build, medium height,  ashy blonde hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the situation registered on his face, though you could tell that he was alarmed by the way his blue eyes looked.

Like a prey knowing it'd be hunted.

Despite this, he still manages to climb up the small flight of stairs calmly.

Effie Trinket then asked for volunteers, but no one spoke up. He has two older brothers, I've seen them. But one is probably too old to volunteer, and the other just wouldn't. This was standard family devotion, what I'd done was a radical thing.

The mayor began to say the same old words he always says every reaping day. I couldn't help but think, why him?

I remember it all too well, that day, it was raining up a storm, the wind was howling. My mother and my brother were left at home, I was tasked to find food for us since my mother couldn't bear to show her face to the district.

How could she? Her husband has been executed for rebellion against the Capitol. One of the peacekeepers found weapons under his possession and he was killed. He managed to convince them to spare us, though sometimes I wished it hadn't worked.

Within a week of his death, we began to lose money, and therefore, food. Nobody wanted to help us, nobody wanted to associate with the family of a tyrant.

Shame, the family name bared shame. My mother didn't have the gall to go out and sell any of my father's things, my brother was too young to even understand what was going on.

I was angry. How could they have just taken everything away from us that easy? Who gave them the right to do that?

But at that moment, I couldn't afford to sit still and wallow in my resentment. That was a luxury I couldn't afford. not many could afford it either.

Starvation was a fairly common thing in district 12, though the amount of covering up the peacekeepers do no one a favour and fools no one.

There I was, a boy who wasn't even old enough to be registered into the pile walking around in the harsh weather, stripped away from my dignity and whatever money we had.

I found myself in the Mellark's bakery, being told off by the baker's wife, who was tired of having brats from the Seam paw through her trash. I would've screamed back then, but I didn't want the Peacekeepers called on me.

So I left without another word, sitting at a tree for some sort of cover from the harsh rain.  I remember the snorts of the pigs beside me, and that was when I realized I'm no better than cattle; the people of Panim were no better than cattle.

My knees buckles as I collapsed onto the wet grass, shuddering from the cold and the harsh reality. Maybe I had gone insane then, but I vaguely remember talking to the pigs, ranting to them.

They didn't listen, they were too busy rolling in the mud. Looking back, I find this extremely funny, but maybe that's because I don't want to pity myself.

I didn't even notice a boy until the pigs actually rose to eat the pieces of bread thrown at them. I stared at him for a long while, mainly because of the burnt bread, the crust was scorched black.

But a red mark on his cheekbone caught my attention. Had they hit him for burning the bread? My parents have never hit me, I couldn't even imagine what that would feel like.

He took one look at the bakery as if checking if the coast was clear before he turned back to the pigs. Though instead of feeding the pigs he tossed the loaves of bread to me.

I watched him walk towards the bakery and closing the kitchen door tightly behind him. All I could do was stay silent, before shoving them up to my shirt, muttering a broken thank you as I ran home.

The loaves had cooled by the time I got home, but that didn't matter. We had something to eat. Mother looked at me, relieved I didn't die. She hugged me, apologizing.

I didn't care though, we had food, that's what's important.

And for the first time in weeks, we had a proper meal.

I was thankful, the fact that he'd probably burnt the bread on purpose never occurred to me until I crawled onto the bed, staring at the wooden ceiling. An act of kindness, someone still cared.

It was as if spring came overnight, fluffy clouds, blue sky, the warm sweet air. At school, we would always catch each other's gazes. I felt a tad bit bad, his cheek was swollen and his eye had blackened.

I couldn't come up to say thank you, instead, I watched him from a distance, contemplating whether I should. When I went to fetch Nal, out eyes met once more, I was about to mouth a thank you until Nal tugged my shirt.

He handed me a dandelion. He's always loved flowers. His love for it made me realize how I would get the food we needed. All that time I and my father spent in the forest won't be for nothing.

To this day, I still feel as if I owe my family's life to him. I had honestly given up, but he gave me something. Peeta Mellark, the boy who gave me bread and the dandelion, both gave me hope.

Maybe if I had said thank you all those years ago I wouldn't be feeling so guilty now. I could always say it but something about thanking him whilst I'm practically holding a knife against his throat seems dishonest.

The mayor finished his speech, telling us to shake hands. His were as warm and firm as those loaves of bread. He squeezed me as if reassuring me. Or maybe those were just nervous spasms.

We turn back to the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays.

There are twenty-four of us fighting in that arena, as grim as it is, let's just hope someone kills him before I'm forced to. I don't wanna kill the reason I've survived all those years.

Word count: 2026

Tags:

@nin3s

Sorry for the late update my exams are next week and im rushing to finish my requirements at school. :"

[superman86to99]

Superman #85 (January 1994)

Cat Grant in... "DARK RETRIBUTION"! Which is like normal retribution, but somehow darker. On the receiving end of Cat's darktribution is Winslow Schott, the Toyman, who suddenly changed his MO from "pestering Superman with wacky robots" to "murdering children" back on Superman #84, with one of his victims being Cat's young son Adam. Now Cat has a gun and intends to sneak it into prison to use it on Toyman. She's also pretty pissed at Superman for taking so long to find Toyman after Adam’s death (to be fair, Superman did lose several days being frozen in time by an S&M demon, as seen in Man of Steel #29).

So how did Superman find Toyman anyway? Basically, by spying on like 25% of Metropolis. After finding out from Inspector Turpin that the kids were killed near the docks, Superman goes there and focuses all of his super-senses to get "a quick glimpse of every person" until he sees a bald, robed man sitting on a giant crib, and goes "hmmm, yeah, that looks like someone who murders children." At first, Superman doesn't understand why Toyman would do such a horrible thing, but then Schott starts talking to his mommy in his head and the answer becomes clear: he watched Psycho too many times (or Dan Jurgens did, anyway).

Immediately after wondering why no one buys his toys, Toyman makes some machine guns spring out of his giant crib. I don't know, man, maybe it's because they're all full of explosives and stuff? Anyway, Toyman throws a bunch of exploding toys at Superman, including a robot duplicate of himself, but of course they do nothing. Superman takes him to jail so he can get the help he needs -- which, according to Cat, is a bullet to the face. Or so it seems, until she gets in front of him, pulls the trigger, and...

PSYCHE! It was one of those classic joke guns I’ve only ever seen in comics! Cat says she DID plan to bring a real gun, but then she saw one of these at a toy store and just couldn't resist. Superman, who was watching the whole thing, tells Cat she could get in trouble for this stunt, but he won't tell anyone because she's already been through enough. Then he asks her if she needs help getting home and she says no, because she wants to be more self-sufficient.

I think that's supposed to be an inspiring ending, but I don't know... Adam's eerie face floating in the background there makes me think she's gonna shave her head and climb into a giant crib any day, too. THE END!

Character-Watch:

Cat did become more self-sufficient after this, though. Up to now, all of her storylines seemed to revolve around other people: her ex-husband, Morgan Edge, José Delgado, Vinnie Edge, and finally Toyman. After this, I feel like there was a clear effort to turn her into a character that works by herself. I actually like what they did with Cat in the coming years, though I still don’t think they had to kill her poor kid to do that -- they could have sent him off to boarding school, or maybe to live with his dad. Or with José Delgado, over at Power of Shazam! I bet Jerry Ordway would have taken good care of him.

Plotline-Watch:

Wait, so can Superman just find anyone in Metropolis any time he wants? Not really: this is part of the ongoing storyline about his powers getting boosted after he came back from the dead, which sounds pretty useful now but is about to get very inconvenient.

Don Sparrow points out: "It is interesting that as Superman tries to capture Schott, he at one point instead captures a robot decoy, particularly knowing what Geoff Johns will retroactively do to this storyline in years to come, in Action Comics #865, as we mentioned in our review of Superman #84." Johns also explained that the robot thought he was hearing his mother's voice due to the real Toyman trying to contact him via radio, which I prefer to the "psycho talks to his dead mom" cliche.

Superman says "I never thought he'd get to the point where he'd KILL anyone -- especially children!" Agreed about the children part but, uh, did Superman already forget that Toyman murdered a whole bunch people on his very first appearance, in Superman #13? Or does Superman not count greedy toy company owners as people? Understandable, I guess.

There's a sequence about Cat starting a fire in a paper basket at the prison to sneak past the metal detector, but why do that if she had a toy gun all long? Other than to prevent smartass readers like us from saying "How did she get the gun into the prison?!" before the plot twist, that is.

Patreon-Watch:

Shout out to our patient Patreon patrons, Aaron, Murray Qualie, Chris “Ace” Hendrix, britneyspearsatemyshorts, Patrick D. Ryall, Bheki Latha, Mark Syp, Ryan Bush, Raphael Fischer, Dave Shevlin, and Kit! The latest Patreon-only article was about another episode of the 1988 Superman cartoon written by Marv Wolfman, this one co-starring Wonder Woman (to Lois' frustration).

Another Patreon perk is getting to read Don Sparrow's section early, because he usually finishes his side of these posts long before I do (he ALREADY finished the next one, for instance). But now this one can be posted in public! Take it away, Don:

Art-Watch (by @donsparrow​):

We begin with the cover, and it’s a good one— an ultra tight close up for Cat Grant firing a .38 calibre gun, with the titular Superman soaring in, perhaps too late.  An interesting thing to notice in this issue (and especially on the cover) is that the paper stock that DC used for their comics changed, so slightly more realistic shading was possible.  While it’s nowhere near the sophistication or gloss of the Image Comics stock of the time, there is an attempt at more realistic, airbrushy type shading in the colour.  It works well in places, like the muzzle flash, on on Cat Grant’s cheeks and knuckles, but less so in her hair, where the shadow looks a browny green on my copy.

The interior pages open with a pretty good bit of near-silent storytelling.  We are deftly shown, and not told the story—there are condolence cards and headlines, and the looming presence of a liquor bottle, until we are shown on the next page splash the real heart of the story, a revolver held aloft by Catherine Grant, bereaved mother, with her targeting in her mind the grim visage of the Toyman.

While their first few issues together meshed pretty well, it’s around  this issue that the pencil/inks team of Jurgens and Rubinstein starts to look a little rushed in places.  A few inkers who worked with Jurgens that I’ve spoken to have hinted that his pencils can vary in their level of detail, from very finished  to pretty loose, and in the latter case, it’s up to the inker to embellish where there’s a lack of detail.  Some inkers, like Brett Breeding, really lay down a heavier hand, where there’s quite a bit of actual drawing work in addition to adding value and weight to the lines.  I suspect some of the looseness in the figures, as well as empty  backgrounds reveals that these pencils were less detailed than we often  see from Jurgens.

There’s some weird body language in the tense exchange between Superman and Cat as she angrily confronts him about his lack of progress in capturing her son’s killer—Superman  looks a little too dynamic and pleased with himself for someone ostensibly apologizing. Superman taking flight to hunt down Toyman is classic Jurgens, though.

Another example of art weirdness comes on page 7, where Superman gets filled in on the progress of the Adam Morgan investigation.  Apparently Suicide Slum has some San Francisco-like hills, as that is one very steep sidewalk separating Superman and Turpin from some central-casting looking punks.

The  sequence of Superman concentrating his sight and hearing on the  waterfront area is well-drawn, and it’s always nice to see novel uses of his powers.  Tyler Hoechlin’s Superman does a similar trick quite often on the excellent first season of Superman & Lois.  The full-bleed splash of Superman breaking through the wall to capture Toyman is definitely panel-of-the-week material, as we really feel Superman’s rage and desperation to catch this child-killer.

Pretty much all the pages with Cat Grant confronting Winslow Schott are  well-done and tensely paced.  While sometimes I think the pupil-less  flare of the eye-glasses is a cop-out, it does lend an opaqueness and mystery to what Toyman is thinking.  Speaking of cop-outs, the gag gun twist ending really didn’t work for me.  I was glad that Cat didn’t lower herself to Schott’s level and become a killer, even for revenge, but the prank gun just felt too silly of a tonal shift for a storyline with this much gravitas.  The breakneck denouement that Cat is now depending only on herself didn’t get quite enough breathing room either.

While I appreciated that the ending of this issue avoided an overly simplistic, Death Wish style of justice, this issue extends this troubling but brief era of Superman comics. The casual chalk outlines of  yet two more dead children continues the high body count of the  previous handful of issues, and the tone remains jarring to me.  The issue is also self-aware enough to point out, again, that Schott is  generally an ally of children, and not someone who historically wishes  them harm, but that doesn’t stop the story from going there, in the most  violent of terms. In addition to being a radical change to the Toyman  character, it’s handled in a fashion more glib than we’re used to seeing  in these pages.  The mental health cliché of a matriarchal obsession, a la Norman Bates doesn’t elevate it either.  So, another rare misstep  from Jurgens the writer, in my opinion.   STRAY OBSERVATIONS:

I  had thought for sure that Romanove Vodka was a sly reference to a certain Russian Spy turned Marvel superhero, but it turns out there  actually is a Russian Vodka called that, minus the “E”, produced not in Russia, as one might think from the Czarist name, but rather, India.

While it made for an awkward exchange, I was glad that Cat pointed out how  her tragedy more or less sat on the shelf while Superman dealt with the "Spilled Blood" storyline.  A lesser book might not have acknowledged any  time had passed. Though I did find it odd for Superman to opine that he  wanted to find her son’s murderer even more than she wanted him to.  Huh?  How so?

I love the detail that Toyman hears the noise of Superman soaring to capture him, likening it to a train coming.

I  quibble, but there’s so much I don’t understand about the “new” Toyman.  If he’s truly regressing mentally, to an infant-like state, why does he wear this phantom of the opera style long cloak while he sits in his baby crib?  Why not go all the way, and wear footie pajamas, like the lost souls on TLC specials about “adult babies”?

I get that Cat Grant is in steely determination mode, but it seemed a little out of place that she had almost no reaction to the taunting she faced from her child’s killer.  She doesn’t shed a single tear in the entire issue, and no matter how focused she is on vengeance, that doesn’t seem realistic to me. [Max: That's because this is not just retribution, Don. It's dark retribution. We’ve been over this!]

[fenrys-moonbeam-lochan]

And I shall bestow a kiss upon you

Summary: The cadre like to kiss each other. Aedion is a little confused

Ao3

Part of my ToG Comfortember 2020. I know it’s 2021 now, but I’m determined to finish it. 

XXX

The Cadre liked to kiss each other.

It was an absurd thought, but Aedion knew what he was seeing.

He hadn't thought much of it at first. They were pretty drunk the first time it happened, and Fenrys had been the perpetrator. That part was self-explanatory, really.

After a night out that had left both he and Rowan tipsy, Fenrys drunk and Lorcan the only one sober, they had come back with Fenrys dangling between them.

"I'll take him to his room," said Lorcan

"Are You sure?" asked Rowan

"Yea, yea," said Lorcan, "I'm sure your wives are waiting to hit you over the heads for being this late,"

Aedion chuckled. They were late, an hour late, to be exact. Elide, of course, was still in Perranth, so Lorcan didn't need to worry about ruining anyone's schedule.

"Alright then,"

Lorcan started to lead Fenrys away when he suddenly flailed and tried to move back.

"Wait! Wait!" he cried, "I have to say bye,"

Lorcan rolled his eyes and sighed but let him go. Fenrys ambled over and gave Rowan a big hug and kiss on the cheek. He then turned to Aedion and kissed his hair.

"Timo to go now," said Lorcan

Fenrys grinned and waved, "Bye!"

Aedion smiled and shook his head as they watched the other two go.

"Wow, he's drunk,"

Rowan snorted his agreement.

And that was that.

Except that it wasn't.

The next time it happened, they were at a party hosted by the Queen of Terrasen. It was a holiday gala with plenty of wine and spirits making the rounds. This time both he and Fenrys were pretty drunk. As the night ended and the still sober ladies retired to one of the smaller sitting rooms, Rowan and Lorcan decided it was time for both he and Fenrys to be in bed.

Rowan grabbed him while Lorcan took the other wolf. However, before Fenrys could leave, he once again gave both of them a kiss on the cheek. Aedion let it go instantly but was forced to rethink it when Rowan was putting him in bed.

The silver-haired male helped him strip out of his outer layers and got him under the covers. Once Aedion was in, Rowan lowered his head and gently touched his lips to Aedion's forehead.

Now, Aedion was drunk and tired and didn't have the capacity to really think beyond his initial surprise. However, in the morning, his head was a little more clear, if throbbing, and he remembered what had happened the night before.

Even though it was a bit odd, he put it off to Rowan just acting like the big brother. Aedion himself had always kissed Aelin as a sign of affection. So what if they were two males? It was still a normal thing to do.

It happened again after a late-night dinner at the palace. This time no one was drunk, and no one kissed him.

However, as Fenrys got up to leave, everyone else got up say goodbye. Rowan was the last one, and as he leaned in for a hug, Fenrys gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, same as Aelin.

It was a little surprising since he had only seen Fenrys kiss one of the males when drunk, but he figured it was just something Fenrys did.

The next time the four of them were sitting at a campfire, and the oldest two males were regaling them with stories from their centuries together. Fenrys would chime in here and there, too, but it was mostly the other two talking.

Surprisingly, Fenrys was the first one to get up, citing an early morning for him. Before he left, he went to grasp Rowan's arm and then quickly kissed him on the cheek. Lorcan was given the same treatment.

Lorcan was given the same treatment. What the fuck?

The oldest male didn't push him away as Aedion had expected, merely sighed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes. As Fenrys passed him, he placed a kiss on his head too.

Aedion looked at the other males, but they had gone back to reminiscing about one battle or another.

Alright. So maybe Fenrys really just liked kissing his friends. It could be a thing.

The time after that, there was no Fenrys. It was actually Rowan that did it.

"Alright, time for me go," he said once the two of them were done pouring over reports. The man squeezed his shoulder and placed a kiss on his head. Aedion mumbled his own goodnight and wondered what the hell was going on.

He had almost given up on figuring it out and just accepted that Fenrys and Rowan were just like that. Except then he witnessed a small moment between Lorcan and Rowan that made him curious again.

They were going out to meet a radical pure-blood fae group, the kind that didn't believe any demi-fae should have been given freedom. The new laws put forward by the Sellene had brought them out of the woodwork. Aelin had agreed to go help settle things down.

Lorcan had been on edge ever since he heard of the group, more tense than normal, mood sourer than ever, and he barely said two words to anyone.

No one in the court blamed him, though. This group had been around for a long time, and if Rowan's impromptu history lesson was anything to go by, someone as old as Lorcan would have been brought a lot of pain due to their actions.

Just before they were about to leave, Aedion saw Rowan and Lorcan standing a little away from the rest of them. Rowan was saying something to Lorcan softly and when he finished talking, the dark made gently grasped his forearm. He then leaned in as if to hug the other male but turned his face to brush a small kiss at Rowan's temple.

It was a small moment and if Aedion had blinked, he would have missed it. Nobody else saw it and Aedion didn't have time to give it much thought.

After that incident, Aedion started to see it a lot more. Fenrys would kiss them when he was drunk or at the end of the day. Rowan would do it in a 'brotherly' way when one of them was upset or they were having a soft moment. They kissed each other more than they kissed him but still when they did, it seemed to come to them naturally. With Lorcan, the action wasn't natural. It was deliberate, usually comfort as the last resort. A kiss for Fenrys when his drink made him cry instead of making him laugh, one for Rowans when his eyes became glassy and always done in a fleeting moment. Aedion didn't think anyone else noticed it and the only reason he did was that he was looking for it.

Lorcan didn't kiss Aedion though. At least, he didn't use to.

Aedion and Lysandra had travelled to Perranth to check on Elide as she healed from her bones being realigned. The whole court had wanted to go together but as far as responsibilities go, it was just not feasible.

They promised to stay there three nights and on the second one, Aedion woke up in a sweat, his heart racing in his chest.

A nightmare. It had been a nightmare and a brutal one at that. One filled with too much blood and screaming, one that left him unable to go to sleep. Not wanting to wake his slumbering wife, Aedion carefully sipped out of bed.

Once he was in the hall, Aedion walked around the maze of a manor until he ended up on the city facing balcony. It was the same balcony Elide used at big functions to be seen and heard by her citizens. At night, it gave a beautiful and peaceful view of Perranth. It helped calm him.

The presence behind him seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He whipped around to find Lorcan already stepping back with his hands up and a sheepish look on his face.

"Apologies," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "I forget not everyone can feel me coming,"

"Right," muttered Aedion, "What are you doing up here?"

Lorcan hummed, "I usually only sleep four to six hours a night. This time it more towards the least amount. You?"

Aedion just shrugged and went back to looking at the city. Lorcan nodded as if he understood. Who knew, he probably did.

They stood there for a little while, silently watching the sleeping city together. Eventually, as Aedion's eyes started to droop, Lorcan turned towards him.

"We should get you back to bed, Ashryver," he said, "Unlike me, you do need more sleep,"

Aedion grunted but followed Lorcan without complaint. Lorcan was right, he was tired and he needed the sleep. Maybe this time his mind would actually let him rest.

When they got to the suite he was staying in, Lorcan was the one to open the door for him. Aedion nodded his thanks and said a quiet good night. As he passed Lorcan, the older male put a gentle hand on his shoulder and brushed a kiss to his temple.

"Good night," he murmured to Aedion, quickly closing the door after him.

It happened so fast, Aedion didn't have time to be surprised before the other male was gone.

He was, however, determined to get some answers.

The next time he saw Rowan, he plopped down beside him with intent.

"I have a question," he declared to his brother

Rowan raises an eyebrow at him, "Oh?"

"What's with the kissing?"

Rowan's other eyebrow joined its partner.

"You're going to need to be a little more specific, pup," said Rowan, "I'm assuming you're not asking about the normal kissing young men ask their older brothers about,"

Aedion snorted, "No. I'm talking about you and the rest of the Cadre,"

"Oh, that," said Rowan, "You noticed, hmm?"

"A bit hard not to," said Aedion, "Especially when Lorcan of all people gently bestowed one on me,"

"He did?" asked Rowan, disbelief clear on his face, "Wait. Is that what prompted this conversation?"

"Well, yes," answered Aedion, "Fenrys only does it when he's tired or drunk or both and you're to me what I am to Aelin so I didn't think much about it. I figured males that were close just did that,"

Rowan smiled, "And you would be right,"

Aedion gave him a blank look.

"But..."

Rowan smiled and threw an arm around, gently tugging him into his side.

"It doesn't really mean anything. It's just something people in Doranelle grow up doing, like shaking hands and hugging each other. Of course, Lorcan didn't grow up with family and is a little more reserved. Fenrys and I, as nobles, were taught some etiquette along with it. Bow first, who should initiate, how close you have to be and such but otherwise it doesn't have a deep meaning behind it,"

"So Lorcan...?"

Rowan sighed.

"As I said about Lorcan," he said, "He grew up without a family. All those jokes we make of him, he doesn't mind them because frankly, he gives as much as he gets. If he minded, we wouldn't make the jokes but there is some truth to them,"

Aedion thought back to the comment he had heard in passing conversations. The more humorous and nonchalant ones like 'bastard from the slums' and 'street rat'. And the ones said in the heat of the moment, like the day Rowan had spat out 'fucked his way to the top' in anger, making even Lorcan go quiet for a second.

If one really looked at the implied stories behind them, they didn't paint a very nice picture of Lorcan's past.

"He cares about you," said Rowan, "In his own Lorcan way, as much as he is able. We care out you,"

"Oh," whispered Aedion, "Oh,"

Rowan chuckled and placed a kiss against his temple. Aedion could feel his smile against his skin.

"Come on, pup," said Rowan, still smiling, "I think it's time for lunch,"

"Okay," he murmured, still a bit dazed.

After his conversation with Rowan, Aedion stopped keeping track, letting the older males show their affection. Lorcan's displays were still few and far between but Aedion knew that was just another part of him.

Eventually, he found himself reciprocating and even initiating the small show of affection. He learnt to turn his head and kiss Fenrys at the same time. He learnt to plant a kiss on Rowan's cheek as they hugged in greeting. He learnt that Fenrys like his hair to be kissed when he was tired. He found that when his brother was drunk he let out an adorable little giggle at having his forehead kissed.

He, however, refrained from doing any such thing with Lorcan. It just didn't seem right. Lorcan himself rarely initiated and to Aedion it felt as if he would be crossing some invisible line.

However, one night, on the anniversary of the court's victory, the four of them were sitting outside bathed in moonlight. The party had gone one for some time and as it had come to an end, the four of them had slipped away for a breath of air before they had to go back in and help the ladies. They were a little tipsy, red-cheeked and warm, their conversations soft and nonsensical.

Aedion didn't want to leave but he knew he had to be the first one to get up. Nobody expected Lorcan to be in there, they all understood his need for a break and Elide was the only one expected by the people. Rowan could also get away from disappearing for a bit. However, Aedion would be missed by some of the guests that were still milling about.

With great pain, he got himself to stand up.

"Alright gentlemen, I should go inside," he told the others.

They were a few murmurs of assent as he bent down to place a kiss on Fenrys's head. He then moved to Rowan and gave his forehead a gentle kiss. Then unthinkingly, he bent down and placed a kiss on Lorcan's forehead too.

The older male looked at him with surprise all over his face. Aedion froze, thinking that he might have just made a huge mistake.

However, Lorcan just silently raised his glass back to his lips to hide his smile, small and a little shy.

And yes, Elide had been right. Lorcan definitely looked much younger and brighter with a smile on his face.

[thanksjro]

Spotlight: Trailcutter - Trailcutter Threatens to Kill Several People For a Good Noodle Star

The Spotlight issues- the one-shots that focus on a single character in an effort to get readers interested in them (and sell toys, of course)- are a funny thing. The ones relating to MTMTE characters within the timeline of MTMTE’s events were written nearly a year after the events during which they are set.

The Spotlights as a whole don’t stick in my brain terribly well, and that’s probably because when I first read IDW’s run back in 2016, I went by publication dates instead of story chronology. I don’t think that really leaves itself for a properly cohesive reading experience, at least not in this particular case. It doesn’t help that a lot of the other ones weren’t super awesome reads, in my opinion. Spotlight: Cyclonus isn’t exactly my favorite thing, for example.

The Scavengers storyline gets interrupted anyway with the Annual, so I figure I might as well slot these in here as well. Really, I should have covered this between MTMTE #5 and #6. Well, technically, I don’t have to do anything in any order, but it’s what I would have preferred.

Anyway, let’s see what's up.

Looks like the Lost Light’s seen better days. It’s had a hole punched in the side of it, and Trailbreaker’s been asked to use his forcefields to keep the vacuum of space from doing its thing while all the Headmasters slap some duct tape on the rip.

No, they aren’t actually Headmasters in this continuity, but it’s not often Highbrow gets to exist in the story proper, so I figured I’d take advantage of that.

Rodimus, impressed by the quick response to the damage, decides he’s going to hold a little ceremony for the boys- not Trailbreaker though, because I guess nobody told Rodimus he’d pitched in too.

Soak it in, Highbrow, because this is the closest thing to main character status you’ll be getting this whole comic run. Be mindful up there now, because if Chromedome turns too fast he’ll take your head clean off with those massive shoulders.

Each of them receive a Rodimus Star, a medal with Rodimus’ face on it signifying that the owner has done something exemplary to earn it. It is in no way shaped like a star.

Trailbreaker, bummed out that he wasn’t recognized for the work he put in, decides to drown his sorrows at Swerve’s, which at this point is still technically not on the up and up and is running illegally. Unfortunately for Trailbreaker, the afterparty is also being hosted here, so he’s not actually escaped anything.

Off to the side, Chromedome and Brainstorm are chatting with Tailgate, who notes the theming of the award-winners’ names, and thinks it’s very funny. Chromedome explains that they’re actually nicknames, from when they all worked together.

Back at Trailbreaker’s table, he’s trying to keep himself entertained, when Whirl happens. Whirl, being Whirl, makes a rude comment about his face, claiming he has an expression he makes whenever he uses his forcefields. Trailbreaker denies this, but he totally does.

Whirl asks what’s eating at Trailbreaker, not that he really cares, and after a bit of hemming and hawing, finds out that Trailbreaker’s really bothered by the fact that he was the only one on the repair team that didn’t get a star. As it turns out, Rodimus has been passing these things out like hotcakes, because Whirl’s got one too. Pretty much everyone but Trailbreaker has a star at this point.

Whirl decides to cut out the middle man and yells at Rodimus to get his McDonald’s-looking butt over here and proceeds to cut to the heart of the matter.

Implying that Drift doesn’t already have twenty Rodimus stars for just existing.

C’mon Rodimus, just give him a star. You obviously ordered way too many if you’ve given one to Whirl by this point, and Trailbreaker’s obviously feeling low.

Whirl, not satisfied with this answer, decides to inflict his special brand of help on Trailbreaker, and decides that it’s time for a little self-improvement.

But y’know. Not like he really cares.

Totally.

The first step in the Whirl Self-Help program is to throw away your old identity while insulting/infatuating over Ultra Magnus.

Now the Spotlight subtitle makes a lot more sense. Trailbreaker/Trailcutter is one of the many characters within the Transformers franchise who suffers from trademark issues, which is why he’s got more than one name. We’ll see him flipflop between the two in MTMTE- or rather, other characters flipflop between them- OR RATHER Roberts flipflop between them.

As is, Whirl takes to the change immediately, probably because he himself has gone through the process in the past.

So, talking yourself up is the next step, but Trailcutter doesn’t really want to reinvent himself, per se; he just wants to be a little more than the guy who does forcefields. He wants people to see him for him, y’know?

Whirl thinks the answer to this conundrum is to get Trailcutter a gun.

They go find Brainstorm, who’s currently busy trying to figure out just what exactly the ship hit to punch such a big hole in it. They’ve brought in the big metal something, and he, Perceptor and a couple other nerds are giving it a good once-over.

As Whirl gushes over Brainstorm’s many inventions- lot of love coming from Whirl this issue- Brainstorm questions Trailcutter’s desire to get into traditional weaponry, seeing as he’s got some sweet stuff going on already, namely the forcefield thing and the magnawheels, which we’ll get to see in action later.

Trailcutter leaves to go take a depression nap.

When he gets to his room, he finds his roommate, Hoist, to be absent. Hoist is off on his own adventure, which is covered in his very own Spotlight. Of course, because Trailcutter is playing the buttmonkey today, he still doesn’t get left alone, as he receives a call from Swerve, who’s probably super jazzed that he’s not the most beat-down character on the ship for once.

Swerve’s supposed to be doing a sponsored silence in exchange for a Rodimus star, but he’s find it very difficult, thanks to the whole “cannot shut the hell up” thing. Swerve, much like everyone with teeth in this issue, looks like he’s got a retainer in, showing that little bit of artistic license off as he asks Trailcutter for a favor.

And on that note, let’s take a brief look at the artist for this issue, Matt Frank.

Frank’s only worked on a couple other things within Transformers, one of which being the second half of the Animated comic “First (and Second) in Flight.” His style is very different from our regular artist, Alex Milne. While Milne seems to prioritize the more technical aspects of the Transformers designs, even in the relatively streamlined looks for MTMTE, Frank’s art is much more simplified, almost soft-looking. Characters look as if their faces would squish if you grabbed them by the cheeks. There’s a lot of expression, almost to the point of looking straight-up cartoonish. While I’m not sure that this style would have worked with the more serious storylines of this series, I think it’s a shame that this was the only entry from Frank that we got to see. It’s a little funky in spot, but I like how emotionally open it feels, if that makes sense.

Getting back to the story, Trailcutter hangs up on Swerve and plugs in for beddy-bye, wishing that he were a normal dude and that everyone would just shut up about his forcefields.

See, I told you- depression nap.

Trailcutter, feeling that something’s up- both with the ship and himself- heads out to find a friend. What he finds instead is profoundly disturbing.

Clearly there is a dark evil at work, if Huffer’s smiling. He shouldn’t be able to DO that.

Trailcutter wanders around the ship, finding more of the same strangeness going on: everyone is frozen in place, even Rodimus as he yells at Rewind over those snuff films Red Alert found, firmly setting this issue for having happened right before issue #6.

Trailcutter heads back to his room, and is about to answer a call from Hoist- who is still on that mission from before naptime- when a laser blast explodes his monitor.

Zounds! Some Decepticons have snuck aboard the Lost Light, and they’re looking for trouble. Thinking quickly, Trailcutter pops out of his hiding spot to forcefield the pair… except he doesn’t, because something’s wrong. His forcefields aren’t working.

The art’s a little hard to follow here, but it looks like Trailcutter just ripped Whirl’s tit-guns off and used them to shoot that guy. Radical.

With the enemy fully distracted, Trailcutter jumps over a chair and bolts for the exit, using his magnawheels and showing us exactly why they’re called that.

They’re wheels that act as magnets. That’s why.

He hacks the door to the medibay and uses it to kill a man, crushing his head, then gets the other guy with a pair of resuscitation pads. Day’s saved! Good job, Trailcutter!

Just kidding, we still have another half of this issue to get through.

The guy Trailcutter just knocked out with medical equipment gets a call. Good thing Trailcutter’s good at impressions.

Turns out, there’s a LOT of Decepticons on the Lost Light at present, and they’re after something in the shuttle bay. Looks like Trailcutter’s got some work to do. Might as well set yourself up for success, huh pal?

Gee, Brainstorm, wonder how much of all this nonsense is your fault. I’m going to guess at least all of it.

Trailcutter stocks up on the heroic necessities, and heads over to shuttle bay 3.

Lockdown’s here, and he’s brought a third of the villain lineup from Transformers Animated with him. Trailcutter brings on the bravado, dumping the two Decepticons he took out earlier on the floor and asking just what the hell these guys think they’re doing on his ship.

Lockdown isn’t terribly impressed.

Trailcutter, what the actual, genuine fuck is that even supposed to mean?

Stealing Whirl’s little talking-up speech, Trailcutter frames himself as friggin’ death incarnate, again not impressing Lockdown very much. Honestly, Lockdown just wants to grab that big ol’ something the Lost Light ran into yesterday and go.

That big ol’ something, you see, is a Titan thumb, and Lockdown and his crew are in the business of Titan hunting. Trailcutter makes it pretty clear that he’s not going to let them take the thing, seeing as Lockdown and his goonies are probably going to use it for nefarious purposes, and so seals himself in the role of the hero for the evening. He informs the Decepticons of his claim to fame, even though his forcefields still aren’t working, then pulls a little magic trick by turning off the artificial gravity for the room, claiming it to be the work of his highly-specialized skills. He lets them go up… then lets them come back down, hard.

Then Trailcutter ramps up the psychological manipulation significantly, using his anime eyes to convince Lockdown that he’s planted a tiny forcefield within his spark, and that he’s fully capable of letting it expand until it rips said spark asunder.

Lockdown and company get the fuck away from Trailcutter as fast as they possibly can, completely terrified and also maybe just the slightest bit flustered by our forcefield specialist. Once they’re out of sight, Trailcutter allows himself a moment to reflect on a job well done.

ARE YOU FUCKING-

Roberts, please, we can’t keep doing this. The sad, proud smiles, I can’t take them.

Trailcutter plops down in the captain’s chair to take a load off, only to get spooked by the hand of Rodimus clapping down on his shoulder.

Later on, Hoist’s returned from his mission to their room, and Trailcutter regales him with his tale of derring-do. Turns out that everyone being frozen was absolutely Brainstorm’s fault, and the only reason Trailcutter wasn’t affected was because he was sleep-forcefielding.

Of course, we can’t just let the guy be happy, now can we?

Okay. I looked it up, and it turns out, the British use “snap” when they’re in a situation where they’ve got the same X as another person, i.e. two people show up wearing the same outfit to an event, or some such. It comes from a matching card game. In America, we say “snap” as an exclamation, like “wow!” or “Jesus Christ!” or “dangit!” Snap is a very versatile word in the States. So there’s your little culture lesson for the day.

Trailcutter, sinking back into his sour mood from earlier, decides to go get plastered, because he has a drinking problem, but not before he goes to make a threat on Rodimus’ life over a goddamn sticker. Thus ends dear Trailcutter’s Spotlight.

[gothwarlocks]

❤ Love headcanons for Lev?

❤ love headcanons ❤

When they discover they’ve got a crush: If it's someone he's known a while, Lev's kind of bad at realizing his feelings are deeper than, "this is my friend and I love them as a friend." This is especially because he's already playful and physically affectionate with platonic friends. If it's a stranger he'd only recently met and there's chemistry of some kind, he's quick to pick up on his own feelings since the attraction is most likely physical at first. Hard (hahaha) to miss that kind of feeling, y'know?

How they confess/hint: Definitely depends on the person he's pursuing. There'd be more levity and less barriers. Lev likes to jokingly sit in others' laps, so someone he's interested in will often find him nestled in their's, arms wrapped behind their neck (what a clown). He'll pick up their tab or offer a ride home, hoping to build up to a more intimate conversation where he could possibly confess. He does like being straightforward, though, so once he knows he's in the clear, Lev will find the right time to confess and sort out where he and the other person stand.

Big gestures of love: Being wherever he's needed at the drop of a hat, willing to stop anything he's doing to see his partner. Willing to lend money or his skills/labor and expect nothing in return, regardless of the repercussions. It's a given, but hurting or killing people that upset his partner. He will go to war for someone he really loves.

Little gestures of love: Picking up the tab, lingering hugs and cheek kisses, buying/cooking them a meal, offering to walk with or drive them around, generally being there for them whenever they need small favors or just someone to be around if they're feeling scared or sad.

How to win their heart: Showing the same passion for radical change and direct action as he does. Taking care of Lev when he is down on his luck. Defending him, physically or otherwise.

How to break their heart: Not being open to new food or overall being picky. Being judgmental of his habits or interests. Leading him on or cheating on him (he takes that sort of thing very hard). Being embarrassed by his behavior.

Tiny little turn-ons: Blushing from/laughing at his jokes. Thinking he's funny. Clowning on him in retaliation. Overall "GET A ROOM!" behavior lol.

Big turn-ons: Being stronger than him, emotionally or physically (but especially physically). Being as obviously into him as he is to them. Being told he is loved and cared about. Long-term promises. Resting a hand on the nape of his neck or pulling him closer by his waist. Lev wears spiked or o-ring collars when he feels like it, so if someone were to teasingly tug on those...

Things that make their heart flutter: Public displays, like dedicating a toast to him or announcing to win a competitive thing in his honor. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the face of danger.

Their type: "Dominant" men would be a generalized answer. Lev doesn't really have a type so much as he just is attracted to men that mesh well with his own life and personality. He respects a lot of diverse qualities in people so really, just shoot your shot and see what happens. But being physically stronger than him is always an advantage, since Lev's usually one of the tougher people in his circles. Sometimes it's nice to be in the arms of a man that can bench press your weight lol.

Ideal date: Something urban and at night. Going to a concert, hitting up local cantinas, getting a late dinner at some 24-hour spot. Something impromptu, like getting matching tattoos at a shop a friend recommended the night before. Ideally, it might end with watching a holo-film back at someone's place, and whatever else is up to the other person's wishes. Lev actually likes a bit of normalcy in his dates, but he's not opposed to arson, vandalism, and a dose of chaos on a date!

Past relationships: A couple of women back on Coruscant from his teen years, when he was still unsure of himself. They're swell people and though they drifted apart, Lev is still on good terms with the both of them. Several men across the galaxy (Coruscant, Nar Shaddaa, Rishi, Mek-sha...), most of which dumped him. No one particularly memorable, though.

How they might affect current relationships: Lev'rani's still fairly sensitive to rejection. The couple of times he really liked his partners, they ended up leaving him for his faults (or their own, but he still blames himself). He could become anxious about fucking up a good thing he has going with a partner, so talking him down from those types of spirals is to be expected.

‘Goals’ in a relationship (marriage, kids, a house, etc): Lev'rani doesn't project as many hopes onto relationships as most people do, I think. He wants companionship above all else. He's very much of the mindset that if you have each other, very little else matters. Plus, he likes being mobile and not settling into traditional roles. His partner better like living in starships and apartments, because he generally just bounces from one place to another to evade authorities. Lev would also be thrilled if his partner would like to raise an anooba together!

Any other love headcanons: No thoughts head gay.

[spooky-chapscher]

I want to talk about Steven’s comments in the latest HWYD. There are apparently quite a few posts cancelling him and I have seen many more fully supporting his comments. I don’t agree with either.

For context, here is the moment of discussion, which occurs at 53:22 in “Surviving a Boring Job” in response to a submitted question where the writer, Janette Shortlocker, wants to cut ties with a racist, homophobic friend but isn’t sure when or how to do so. Steven says the following:

“I have a lot of friends who are a little bit racist and a little bit homophobic and I’m still friends with them. And I’m not saying that I’m friends with them because of their values*, I just value them as people themselves and I try to keep them around and try to, you know, educate them with what I can, but it’s not something that… I don’t want to cut ties with everybody because of their belief system*, because, frankly, I have a different value system than Katie and Shane and Ryan.”

*In his apology (found on the podcast video’s comments section), Steven apologized for his word choice here. He writes, “Racism and homophobia are not values, belief systems, or ideals, they are simply hate and nothing more. Furthermore, there is no amount of intolerance that is okay when it comes to validating someone’s humanity and identity.”

I am not here to discuss the unfortunate word-choice, which I will generously frame as an unfortunate byproduct of this sort of off-the-cuff podcast format. Why he would associate the words “value” and “belief system” with bigotry I’ll get into in my main point.

 -

I’ll come out and say that I do not agree with the message of what Steven was trying to convey on the podcast. I will say, as a queer Latino, that if you know someone who has embraced racism/homophobia/etc… that person isn’t your friend. This person either rejected you or will reject you eventually based on some other thing they can hate. You can know them, you can have a history with them, you can want to help them, you can try to help them… but you are not “friends.”

I say this as someone who has fully dropped people from my life because of shit like this. Friends, mentors, family members. It might sound cruel, but after knowing someone endorses shit like this it leaves a sour aftertaste to every otherwise fond memory I have of them. Like, “wow, I thought things were great but it turns out that they were hurting other people and I had no idea.” That sort of shit really bothers me.

Note that these people I cut out “embraced” bigotry. I do have friends who have occasionally said some kinda prejudiced shit and I have said “whoa, what?” Sometimes it led to earnest discussions of race or class or religion. Sometimes it prompts them saying “oh shit, you’re right. I didn’t think that through. I guess I don’t know that much about it.” But, you know what, the prejudice goes away after this talk and doesn’t rear its head again. Because the prejudiced shit was something that was offhandedly said and normalized by society, not something my friend genuinely believed. And when your friends do this, confront it in (initial) good faith that they didn’t mean what they said. I mean, you probably made mistakes like this too, I know I have, and every time I feel like my friends have made me a better person by calling out some ignorance that I wasn’t even aware of.

But when you try to address prejudice and a bigoted person stands their ground or, even worse, tries to counter with “well, agree to disagree;” then I think that’s the time to start distancing yourself from this person. The “friend” in Shortlocker’s letter is this type of person, and I hope that Shortlocker is able to cut them out of their life as quickly and cleanly as possible. But that’s just my opinion.

Cutting people out can be a very difficult decision, especially if you’re younger and the person in question is a family member. For people of any age, it’s a difficult call to make when the bigoted friend holds some kind of position of power over you – be they a boss, a landlord, a mentor, a spiritual leader, or just someone who can make you miserable or put you in danger if you get on their bad side. All I can say is that you do not need to announce to someone that you’re done with them. You can become “busy” with a project or another friend who “needs help” and then steadily grow apart from this hateful-ass friend until they’re only a hateful-ass acquaintance. Please stay safe.

 -

Why I’m this way goes into where I think Steven’s coming from. Some people have commented that holding onto racist and homophobic friends is “unlike” Steven. I disagree. If anything, I think this is very on-brand for him, if only because I know quite a few religious Midwesterners and almost all of them are like this. I have seen my parents try to hold onto friends who once marched with them for civil rights but the friends ended up radicalized by racists after moving to small towns. I have seen friends try to maintain work friendships where my friends would have to remain closeted or risk losing their job. My parents and these friends? All quite religious. And none of the “friends” they tried to change ended up changing, which left the people I care about miserable and hurt.

There’s this sort of attempt to turn the other cheek, because that’s the righteous thing to do. It is what my parents and people like them genuinely believe. So no, they wouldn’t approach hatred with hostility or indignation, as I would, but instead approach it with the genuine belief that this “friend” is misguided and needs to be shown the light, an action which requires love and patience. Perhaps it’s because it’s how it was raised, but I think that’s a very noble approach, despite the obvious roots in evangelism. Part of me wants to believe that with enough time and love (and therapy) that someone can unlearn their own hatred. That’s a beautiful thing. There have been stories of a number of people who truly have turned their lives around after being helped by a friend… I just have yet to ever see this actually happen.

With this in mind, it makes sense to me why someone who believes this will find ways to rationalize keeping someone so hateful in their lives. On one hand, staying with this hateful person in order to help them is an act of charity, which is a good thing. On the other hand, staying with this hateful person might make them think that their behavior is appropriate, which is a bad thing. However, having healthy debates and discussions with someone with different beliefs than you and trying to find compromise and common ground is a good thing. It’s certainly easier on the conscience if, during these discussions, you think of your friend’s hatred as a “value” that you need to learn to see from their perspective in order to fully understand and confront properly. And when someone is so far into this line of thinking, it’s sometimes difficult for them to remember that there are people on the outside who are still being hurt by this person. It’s easy to forget, when trying to salvage a relationship, that ignoring the hurt of others is itself an act of cruelty.

 -

The root of this discussion is “why do people hate” and, basically, I think it’s because they have found some kind of community in their bigotry. Their family is like that or their friends are like that or their neighborhood is like that or their online circles are like that or their entertainers are like that. There are so many people telling them “everyone in the circle is good and everyone outside the circle is evil and untrustworthy and will hurt you.” Some people, like my parents and other religious Midwesterners, will think that the way to confront this is by repeatedly demonstrating that “no, there is nothing inherently wrong with the people outside the circle,” in hopes that their dissenting voice will overwhelm all the other insider voices.

My approach is that if you make the circle as small as possible then eventually they’ll have nobody to talk to and start rethinking the whole “outsiders bad” thing. I’ve gone back and checked on a few people I cut out. Some of them are still in their hate circle. Some of them have left the circle and started a new life and I’m proud of them and if we ever meet again I’d give them another chance. 

-

The heart of Steven’s sentiments come from a place of good intentions and reflect a philosophy that firmly believes that people want to better themselves morally. I do not share this philosophy and think that his approach minimizes and risks trivializing hateful actions. It puts far too much of an emphasis on making sure the bigoted person is comfortable and not enough emphasis on defending the targets of the bigot’s hatred.

Our aim should always be to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. 

I disagree with Steven’s approach and hope that he will do better in the future when discussing things like this. Hopefully he’ll take the time to consider how his actions impact those he means to defend.

-

(If you’re curious, my philosophy is that we all want to make each other happy the best way we know how. Self-betterment has only a minor role to play in all this. For some people happiness means helping others and telling jokes and making art and cooking and all that good stuff. For some people this “happiness” comes from keeping those closest to them inside their walled-off circle, firmly believing that the outside world would hurt them. These people far too often go out of their way to harm outsiders, be it through verbal abuse, physical violence, or systematic violence - leading to larger societal issues such as legalized discrimination, redlining, and corrupt law enforcement).

 -

(Oh, and regarding Shane and Katie’s lack of comment to this… at first I was let down and hoping that they just wanted to avoid a very long debate at the end of a podcast that was already approaching the hour mark. But, after giving it a little more thought, it would be kinda gross if Katie and Shane went out of their way to police how Steven handles his racist friends, what with them both being white. I understand their reluctance to speak up on this matter but still feel that there should have been a better way to deal with it… although I don’t know what that way is.)

[mggpleasedontlookhere]

home run

request: Spencer Reid and reader go undercover at a baseball game and their really close friends but then they get put on the kiss cam 👉👈

word count: 1,204                                                                                     reading time aprox: 4 mins 30 secs

masterlist

“Did you know that essentially baseball is based on the physics of fluid dynamics, and a pitch produces a turbulent wake of air behind the ball. At which gets deflected depending upon which way the ball rotates. The rotation, actually causes the ball to move across the plate according to the same principles-” Spencer rambles, maneuvering his fingers around to motion to a spherical form rotating on it’s axis. 

“And why would I know that Reid?” I laughed while playfully pushing him to the side, making sure he didn’t fall sideways on the steps we were trudging on. “You know for a guy who knows about the physics of sports, you don’t seem to actually like the sport itself” I criticized, watching Spencer cringe and crinkle his nose. 

“I prefer the sport of chess” He retorted, scanning his eyes over the various crowds of middle age dads, young children, and die hard fans that populated the stands. 

We were working a case here in New York City, comprised of a retired MLB investor who’s been suspected of 4 homicides of past athletes that played for the Mets. 

I scoffed in amusement at the articulation of his words. “Remind me to educate you on being a normal human being after we’re done with this case” I teased whilst profiling the event. The floors of the stadium were tarnished in the sticky residue of spilled soda combined with leftover popcorn kernels. 

“Oh be quiet Y/L/N, you were nowhere close to being normal when we were kids” Spencer commented, referring to my theater phase where I enacted and memorized every line from The Phantom of the Opera. 

Reminiscing on my glory days, I remember compelling Spence to drop his physics textbooks when he was studying for his finals in high school, so that he would recite the entire play with me. “Okay but you were an atrocious Phantom to my Christine” I countered. 

We both laughed at the memories we’ve made together, taking our seats in the process as the game resumed from it’s halftime show. “Our unsub a 35 to 45 year old white male” I reminded him, examining the game in process. “But that’s literally almost everybody in here” I groaned, seeing the lack of diversity in the stands. 

“Yeah, but remember we’re looking for someone in posh clothing with the possibility of being overweight, which matches with the corresponding insecure factor of our unsub” He noted, taking a look at the VIP box that hung just above the top rows of the stadium. “He’s still regarded as a figure of influence so he may be in there” He gestured pointing to the location where many high class individuals usually resided. 

“You may be right, let’s go-” I began my sentence but was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the announcer’s voice broadcasted all over stadium. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I hope everyone’s having an extraordinary time with us-” The man on the speaker said, although I drowned out his words as my focus derived from allocating our suspect in the VIP box. 

The man began announcing advertisements and I took that as an opportunity to leave. “Come on Spence, you go into the room and I’ll-” I instructed while maneuvering out of the stands until a man twice my height and size unexpectedly occupied the seat at the end of the row, impeding my exit strategy. I went up to try and tap the individual to motion for him to leave, but instead he brought his legs up and settled them on the spine of the seat in front of him. 

What a jackass

I reached for my badge that hung on the hemline on my pants when I felt Spencer nudge at me in hesitance. He then pointed up to the big screen on the opposite side of the stadium when I had realized that both of our faces were shown in pixels. Bewilderment flooded my thoughts until I saw ‘Kiss Cam’ in big bright animated letters lay coolly on the screen. 

I gulped, watching Spencer looking at me for answers while he rubbed his hands on the material of his pants. Noticing his panicked state, I waved off the camera, indicating that I didn’t want to be part of the tradition, but was revoked on the choice when the crowd began to chant. 

“KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS!” permeated both mine and Spencer’s eardrums making my heart race increase. Spencer continued to look at me in apprehension, dread probably running through that pretty little head of his. 

“Spence, forget them, we don’t have to anyway” I turned around tugging at his arm to walk away from the cameras, but he took his stance. I peered at him in puzzlement, questioning his actions until he practically yanked my arm to where we were chest to chest. 

A red tint had blossomed on the apple of my cheeks as I felt his breath fanning over my face. “Spence I-” I stuttered, not knowing how to go about the situation. 

“Just shh” Spencer reassured. “Can I?” He sweetly asked, staring at my lips as I did so to his. I nodded in affirmation, the warmth shared between us making the small interaction more intimate. With my consent, he leaned down pressing a chaste kiss on lips.   

Kissing him felt like I was jumping on clouds or floating in space with nothing tethered to me. The skin on his lips were soft and supple as he maneuvered them sublimely against my own. Regardless of the short and affection gesture, he lingered after he was finished, placing another kiss on my forehead. 

The kiss cam then traveled to another pair, but time seemed to stop on it’s own as we stood gazing at one another. “I- Spence you didn’t really have to-” I spoke, shaking my head in disbelief at what had occurred. 

“But I wanted to” Spencer professed, cutting me off mid sentence and denying me of the radical accusations I’ve made. 

“You’ve never told me, that you know, you liked me or a-anything. I jus-st thought that you didn’t like me, especially with JJ when we f-first started and then-” I rambled, unable to produce regular sentences without getting my words caught up in each other. 

Spencer reached over, grabbing my chin with his forefinger and thumb to acquire my attention. “I’ve never taken the chance to” He admitted shyly, caressing his thumb over the soft skin of my face. 

His hazel eyes emitted nothing but a loving and genuine gaze that made my heart melt right into his hands. In all the years that I’ve been with him, I’ve never noticed his affection towards me. 

“It’s funny how you’re a profiler and you haven’t been able to figure it out Y/L/N” He taunted, grinning at me while the blush on my cheeks grew exponentially. 

“Shut up Spence, you’re just lucky I even let you kiss me” I retorted, shaking my head at him as we were finally able to surpass the ignorant man wouldn’t let us out of the aisle. 

“Yeah I am lucky aren’t I” He praised, wrapping a firm arm around my waist as we walked towards the VIP box. 

“Damn straight, Dr. Reid” 

-

A/N

woah two imagines in one day, i must be going crazy

btw, i have one more request to write, then i’m going to be writing pt. 2 of ‘It Should’ve Been You’ 

[duhragonball]

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (128/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation.   This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

[6 August 233 Before Age. Interstellar Space]

Immediately after the battle on Zenj I, Luffa underwent another round of mycotherapy treatment. It was a radical application of synthetic fungal DNA, which Dr. Topsas had devised as a way to heal all of Luffa's injuries as quickly as possible. Luffa's very first session lasted three days, but he had managed to refine the process since then, and this time Luffa only had to stay immersed in the stasis fluid for two.

Zatte counted down the hours and minutes until she could see her wife again. In recent days, she had comforted Luffa while she rested after a battle. It had been a very spiritual experience for her, and even if Luffa didn't share in that aspect of it, the lovemaking was great too. This time there would be a delay, but Zatte didn't see why anything else needed to change. And yet, when Zatte went to find her on the third day, Luffa had already left the sickbay, and had gone to the ship's gymnasium.

The entire star-yacht belonged to Luffa, a "gift" from a wealthy deathmatch promoter who desperately wanted her to go away. But Luffa usually slept in the gym, rather than any of the ship's luxurious cabins. She would spend time in Zatte's quarters, especially after they were married, but the gym was where she went to be alone, and Luffa generally preferred to sleep alone.

As Zatte entered the gym, she ignored the toppled exercise machines and torn mats. The place had been a mess for years, as Luffa used this space to let off steam. Now, she was lying on the pile of mats and towels she used for her bed, staring pensively at the ceiling.

"There you are," Zatte said. "I thought you'd head straight for my room, but I guess you wanted me to find you..."

She knelt down on the deck beside Luffa, who slowly rose to a sitting position.

"Hey," Luffa said, kissing Zatte on the cheek.

"What's wrong?" Zatte asked. What she really wanted to ask was: "Is that all? We're apart for three days and all I get is a lousy kiss on the cheek?"

"Nothing, I'm just... I'm tired, and I needed to think."

"I thought you'd want to... discuss what I did on Planet Zenj," Zatte said.

Luffa took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, you saved that kid," she said. "Hell of a job. I'm proud of you."

"It was nothing," Zatte said. "I... I meant what I said back there. I can't die without you. I'm sure of it. And when I'm around you, I feel like I can do anything."

Zatte was sure that Luffa would jump up and push her against the wall. Not too rough, but not too gently either. And Luffa would have some stern words for her about being more careful, and Zatte would fire back with some stern words about picking up the pace, and this would go on until they were too busy kissing to talk. Instead, Luffa just made a weary smile and squeezed Zatte's hand.

"Sorry, I'm just not in the mood, right now, Zattie," Luffa said.

"Oh. No problem. I figured you'd want to spar later on, but we can skip straight to that if you want."

"I can't spar with you for a while," Luffa said. "That mycotherapy junk worked pretty well, but Doc wants me to heal up from the last beating I took."

"Well, I won't tell him if you don't," Zatte offered with a smile.

"Sorry," Luffa said. "I'm playing it his way this time. It's been working out pretty well so far. I'm starting to think these medical types had the right idea all along."

"Okay, but you only use a tiny fraction of your strength when you spar with me," Zatte said. "What's the harm?"

"Probably none, but he told me to rest and that's what I'm doing. Dotz thinks the next attack will be a few days from now, and I need to be ready."

"Come on," Zatte said. She gestured toward her legs, which were clad in form-fitting black fabric adorned with neon purple highlights. "I wore your favorite training gear."

"Hey, if you want to train on your own for a while, that's fine by me," Luffa said. She rose to her feet and walked slowly to the door. "But I think I'm gonna soak in the hot tub for a while, so drop by if you need me."

She walked around Zatte to proceed on her way, but Zatte grabbed her by the arm to stop her. Luffa was somewhat surprised by how forcefully she pulled.

"I do need you," Zatte said. "For sparring."

"Zattie, I can't right now--"

"Don't give me that 'doctor's orders' bull. You'd do it if you wanted to."

Luffa raised an eyebrow. "What is this?" she asked. "I thought you only put up with the sparring sessions before. Now you're demanding it?"

"I'm part of this war too," Zatte said. "I'm here to support you, and I can't do that properly if I'm not at my best--"

"And the only way you can improve is by sparring with me personally?" Luffa asked. "That's crap, and you know it. There's other ways to train."

"Physically, but not spiritually," Zatte insisted.

"Spiritually?!" Luffa asked.

"The work you make me do," Zatte said. "Sensing your ki up close. It's a purifying experience that helps me--"

"You mean on top of the incense in the bedroom? And the litanies you recite before and after we... well... you know."

"When we have sex," Zatte finished for her. "Just say it. We have sex. Honestly, you can be such a child sometimes."

"Me? You're the one who keeps turning our whole marriage into a shrine! What's the matter? You don't trust Providence to make sure I'm doing their work right?"

"It's me I'm trying to improve!" Zatte said. "I have to consecrate myself as much as I can for the next time we go into action. I thought you understood that."

"I thought I did too, but lately you've been taking it to a whole other level. Frankly it's gotten pretty ridiculous. Are you going to follow me into the head and sing hymns every time I flush?"

"Very funny," Zatte said. "I'm just a joke to you now."

"What do you expect from someone as childish as I am?" Luffa snorted.

"Are you going to spar with me or not?" Zatte asked.

"No," Luffa said, "I'm not." And then she walked out the door.

Left alone in the gym, surrounded by broken machines, Zatte considered taking out some frustrations of her own.

*******

[7 August, 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

Guwar was finally happy. He had everything he ever wanted, and more. Once, he had been a below-average warrior, but thanks to the wonders of Jindan, he had become one of the strongest Saiyans alive.

He wasn't the strongest, by any means. The Legendary Super Saiyan still held that rank, though Luffa was an enemy to the cult, and its leaders preached that she was a heretic and an impostor. Guwar wasn't entirely sure how Luffa could be both of those things at one, or why exactly she was evil incarnate, but Luffa was a threat to everything he had achieved in the cult, and that was enough for him.

After Luffa, there was Trismegistus, the founder and leader of the cult, and the inventor of the Jindan technique. One of the advanced rituals for cult members was the Trial of Revelation, where Trismegistus would meet with initiates and reveal that he was actually the Rehval III, the Saiyan monarch who evacuated his throneworld and vanished without a trace. Perhaps for some of the cultists, this was a bitter pill to swallow, but Guwar had found the whole thing anticlimactic. He had always tried to steer clear of the Saiyan Kingdom in the past, but that was mostly because he didn't think they had anything to offer him. If he had known the king was an alchemist with the power to make Guwar stronger, he would have thrown in with Rehval a long time ago.

After Luffa and Rehval, there were other mighty Saiyans, all of them enhanced by Rehval's magic potions. Many of the Jindan Priesthood were immensely strong, though not all of them.

Then there were the Executants, a group of elite Jindan warriors charged with special missions for Trismegistus. Guwar had been promoted to this level. He wasn't the strongest of the Executants, but he wasn't the weakest either, and simply holding the position was enough to satisfy him. Before the cult, Guwar had been a nobody. Now, he was one of their heroes. He was their champion.

Having returned from a recent assignment, Guwar strode confidently through the underground halls of the Jindan Sanctuary, their sacred base of operations. His brothers and sisters in the alchemical faith nodded reverently to him as he passed. He took his meals in the Holy Refectory, along with the others who had earned the privilege, and he was permitted to eat meat and drink wine, a special dispensation for those who demonstrated exceptional loyalty.

Then there were the women. Trismegistus forbade monogamous pairings within the cult. Instead, he had devised communal breeding pits, and arranged for certain groups of participants to make use of them. Guwar didn't understand most of it. Rehval claimed that he had the means to determine which Saiyans would produce the most powerful offspring, but he never shared his methods with Guwar. All Guwar knew was that he had been sorted into Eugenic Group Red, and he was authorized to procreate with anyone else in Groups Red, Purple, and White. The other colors were off-limits to him, but this only meant that he couldn't sire children with them. As an Executant, Guwar had special permission to help himself to any lower-ranking cultists he found pleasing. It had bothered him at first. Saiyans were a notoriously prudish species, and even the mere mention of intimacy was enough to make them uneasy, but somehow Rehval had made it all seem quite normal. You had your assigned breeding duties, you went where you were sent, and you did what was asked of you, for the good of the cult. Guwar rather enjoyed it this way. It took a lot of the awkwardness out of sex.

There were, of course, some things denied to him. Guwar had never thought of himself as greedy, but somehow his thoughts always drifted to what he couldn't have. It was as though having more only inspired him to want more. As he entered the corridor leading to the Executants' quarters, he passed his own cabin and knocked on the door of another, the irony of his desires seemed especially poignant.

"You're back already?" asked the woman who answered the door.

"It was an easy assignment," Guwar said. "The man I was supposed to kill had lousy security. I'd have finished even sooner, but Trismegistus wanted me to keep a low profile."

"Mm-hmm," she said as she put her hands on his arms. "And now I suppose you've come to collect your reward for a job well done, is that it?"

"You're not my first choice," Guwar said, but you're a fine woman, Zhidarr. "And you seemed to enjoy it well enough the last few times..."

"Well, you're not my first choice either," she said, but you smell nicer than most of the ones I end up with, so that's something at least." She led him inside and began removing parts of her uniform. "Let's make it quick, though. I have my own missions, you know. I'm leaving for Dubois III in a few hours."

"Dubois?" Guwar sat on the side of her bed and started pulling off his boots. "What the hell's in the Dubois system?"

"Beats me," Zhidarr said. "I haven't been briefed yet. Hopefully it's full of Federation soldiers. I'm itching to get into the war."

"No one's come back from Federation territory since the fighting started," Guwar said. "I wouldn't be so eager to volunteer."

"And that's why you're sharing a cot with me instead of Endive," Zhidarr scolded him. "Come on, don't deny it. You'd be knocking on her door right now if you could. But she outranks you, which means you have no right to request her for procreation privileges."

"So what?" Guwar asked. "For her I should go to the front and get killed by Luffa?"

"You should go to the front and get promoted," Zhidarr said. "Think about it: the first one to fight in Federation space and return alive. You'd be hailed as a miracle. Let's face it, it's the only way you'll ever outshine Endive. She's so far above the rest of us it's ridiculous."

"Well, thanks for the advice," Guwar said, "but I can't have sex with her if I'm dead."

Zhidarr tossed her body armor to the floor and approached the bed. "Well, you won't be spending so much time with me once I get sent to the Federation," she said. "I've decided. As soon as I'm promoted ahead of you, I'm cutting you off. No offense, but I've got better things to do with my time than keep you warm."

"Too bad," Guwar said with a smirk. "Of course, if you die on the front, Trismegistus will have to promote someone else to replace you. Maybe she'll enjoy my company a little more."

"The others died because they were weak," Zhidarr insisted as she climbed onto the bed and mounted him. "Their bodies were too flawed to make full use of the Jindan power. That's why the master sends them to their deaths, you know."

"'The Federation is a crucible,'" Guwar said, repeating the sermon he had heard from the priests when the first reports from the war came in. "'Many are sent, but only the worthy will return.'"

"You say that as if you don't believe it," Zhidarr said.

"I believe Trismegistus knows what he's doing," Guwar said. "Our power comes from him, so it's his right to use us as he sees fit. If he wants to purge the rolls, so be it. I just don't understand it from a strategic sense. How do we win a war if all our soldiers die?"

"You talk like an outsider sometimes, Guwar," Zhidarr said. She kissed him and patted him on the cheek. "Trismegistus has a plan for us all. None can understand his ways, not even his loyal servants. If it made perfect sense to me, then I'd be scared. If I could figure it out, so could our enemies. All we can do is trust, and place our faith in his wisdom."

Guwar couldn't argue with this. Rehval's military plans were bewildering to him, but so far he had done right by Guwar. Others may have been killed, perhaps needlessly, but Guwar was still alive, still powerful, still successful and admired among his peers. As long as Guwar prospered, it didn't really matter to him how Trismegistus prosecuted the war.

Or did it?

*******

"Ah, Guwar, there you are."

Guwar had only visited Trismegistus' inner sanctum a few times. Most of his orders had come down through official channels, or Trismegistus had come to him. The first time he had visited this room was when the Thrice-Blessed chose to reveal his true identity to him. Guwar shrugged and wondered why it mattered. Of course King Rehval would want to hide from Luffa. It only made sense for him to create a new identity, a new secret base, and a process to carefully vet his followers. The only real surprise was that their shadowy leader was a Saiyan himself, since Saiyans weren't known to dabble in alchemy, but Guwar was a mathematician himself, and never so he never paid much heed to stereotypes.

"Reporting as ordered, Master," Guwar said as he lowered himself to one knee.

"I have something new for you," Rehval said. "And I thought I should brief you on this personally."

"A new mission?" Guwar asked. This is it, he thought to himself, he's sending me to the front.

"Relax, Guwar, I'm not sending you back into the field already," Rehval said with a chuckle. "You just returned from Thoall, after all. I take it you've already helped yourself to your rewards?"

"Um, yes sir," Guwar said, awkwardly thinking back to Zhidar's cabin.

"Good man," Rehval said. "Zhidar or Potei?"

"Uh, Zhidar, sir."

"I thought so. Always one or the other. You should really broaden your horizons, Guwar." Rehval rose from his dais and gestured for Guwar to stand. As he did, Rehval approached him and clapped his hand on Guwar's back. "There are some excellent women in the technician section that I think you'd enjoy."

It had been easier for Guwar to discuss this sort of thing when he hadn't known that Trismegistus was a fellow Saiyan. Abasing himself was one thing, and talking openly about sex was another, but what was truly disturbing how easily it came to King Rehval. Guwar had often heard talk of the king wanting to force the Saiyan culture to be more like the rest of the galaxy, and now he was finally beginning to see just how cosmopolitan he really was.

"I, uh, well... once I've found something that works, I like to stick with it, sir," Guwar said. "Less disappointment that way. Uh, you mentioned an assignment?"

"Right," Rehval said with a grin. "You pull this one off for me, Guwar, and you can have anyone you want, whenever you want. I know you've had your eye on Endive since before you joined us. She's always been out of your league, right? Well, not for much longer, I think. Here."

He picked up a portable data drive and handed it to Guwar. "I've ordered one of the ships to be prepared for your personal use," he explained. "Not that you'll be going anywhere for this job, but I think you'll need its computer core. And I've assigned some acolytes to assist you while you work."

"I don't understand," Guwar said. He held the drive in his hand and stared at it closely, as though expecting its plastic surface to offer some clue about its contents.

"Of course not," Rehval said. "The war doesn't make any sense, Guwar, not to anyone but myself. I send my followers into Federation space, and they all die, one by one. The only reason Luffa hasn't gone on the offensive is because she doesn't know where to find me, and she can't conduct a search without leaving her territory undefended." He walked idly across the room, pausing to wipe the dust off of a shelf full of old scrolls. It was strange to see him without the heavy crimson robes he normally wore. His simple red shirt and linen shorts seemed unworthy of his stature. Guwar supposed that this was a sign of how much Rehval trusted him.

"The answers," Rehval continued, "are contained in that drive you're holding. This isn't a war for territory, or something that can be measured in casualties or starships. This is a holy war, Guwar. You do understand that much, don't you?"

"Of course, Master," Guwar said.

"You used galactic ley lines to find this planet," Rehval said. "That's why I hid my world from the universe. Not out of cowardice, but to challenge my followers to find me. Only the resourceful could discover my truth. For instance, you used your mathematics background to devise an algorithm for interpreting geomantic signals. That's why I needed you for this work, Guwar. You're the only one I can count on to check my calculations."

"Calculations?"

"You'll find it all in that drive," Rehval said. "Our goal is not just to empower ourselves with Jindan, Guwar. We aren't just trying to win the war, either. You are all the essence of the divine reagent, which I will use to transmute the entire universe. That is why my body remains here, on Nagaoka, while my earthen avatars fight Luffa in my place. The true victory lies here. This is where the blessed reaction will begin. If Luffa were to destroy this planet, it would upset my plans. That's the other reason I've worked so hard to keep its location secret."

"This has something to do with the galactic ley lines," Guwar said. "I never understood what they were or how they worked, but I got the impression that they were like a network of pipes running through every star and planet, and there was some sort of power coursing through them."

"That's not too far off," Rehval said. "Except the lines don't exactly channel power in the conventional sense. More like... possibility. Things are possible on Nagaoka that can't be done anywhere else. The lines that converge here give this planet immense alchemical potential, and if we can direct more lines towards Nagaoka, there may be no limit to what we can accomplish."

Guwar liked the sound of that. If Rehval could become even more powerful than he already was, then there would be nothing that could stand in their way. Not even the Super Saiyan would be a threat. And as Rehval's power increased, how much more generously would he reward his servants...

"My work is based on an algorithm designed by the original Trismegistus," Rehval said. "I named myself after that ancient master to honor him, and to claim his legacy. He had found ways to manipulate ley lines, but he lacked the raw power to attempt anything on a large scale. That is why I need you to go over his work, and build a more robust mathematical model."

"I'll get started right away," Guwar said.

"I knew I could count on you, Guwar," Rehval said. "As much as I prize Endive's service, this task will be more important than anything she's ever done for me. Consider this your path to becoming the First Executant."

Guwar liked the sound of that even more. He could have Endive whenever he wanted. Not to mention a few other high-ranking Executants he wouldn't mind socializing with. They would all adore him for his great service to the cause. And all he would have to do is ply his trade for a few hours. A day at most. He had drawn up mathematical models in his spare time for fun. How hard could this be?

*******

[7 August, 233 Before Age. Interstellar Space.]

Zatte stewed in her frustrations for a full day, and when she was ready to face Luffa again, she found her in the star-yacht's hot tub. Dr. Topsas had restricted Luffa from so many activities, it was just about the only thing left for her to do. Luffa didn't look up at her, and she didn't know how to begin, so she just started talking.

"I wanted to apologize for yesterday," Zatte said.

Luffa glanced up at her. "I shouldn't have mocked your faith," she said. "It defines you as a warrior."

"No, you were right," Zatte said. "I have been going overboard lately. Receiving training from you is... well, it's important to me. It makes me feel like I'm actively doing something to prove my support."

"Sometimes, you have to do nothing," Luffa said. "I'm not soaking in this thing because it's fun, you know. I wanted worthy opponents to fight, and now I've got more than I can handle. I have to play this carefully or I'll let them win."

"You're right," Zatte said.

"Doc doesn't even want me cooking for a few days," Luffa said. "I hate that."

"We've got enough leftovers to last a while," Zatte said. "And there's always the backup rations."

"You guys deserve better than rations," Luffa said. "But I have to play this smart. I learned that from you."

You learned it from Keda, Zatte thought to herself. The Dorlun child was much more sensible than either of them, but the pain of her death was still sorely felt, and so the two of them had a tendency to avoid speaking of her.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Zatte asked. "Anything at all?"

Luffa shrugged. "I don't think so," she said. "You're welcome to stick around, but I think what you really want is a place to channel all that pent up energy. I don't think I can help you there. Not for a while, anyway."

"Sounds like we both have the same problem," Zatte said. "We might as well be miserable together."

She sat down at the edge of the tub and took off her boots, then dipped her ankles into the bubbling water. "Is this what it's like to be you?" Zatte asked after a few minutes. "I mean, being so riled up and not being able to cut loose?"

"I was going to ask you the same question," Luffa said. "For the first time in years, I'm having to conserve my strength and wait for the right moment. And there's no clear path to victory. Best I can hope for is to go from one battle to the next."

"Huh. I guess we've got a lot more in common than I thought," Zatte said.

*******

[15 August, 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

Blusser didn't know what Guwar's assignment was, but she was deeply honored to assist him while he carried it out. All she really knew was that he had boarded a scientific research vessel which the Jindan Cult had captured several months ago. At first, she assumed they would be flying the craft to some distant star system, but instead the ship went nowhere, and Blusser and her fellow acolytes were tasked with standing guard on the tarmac to make sure he wasn't disturbed. On occasion, they went inside to serve him meals. She had done this herself yesterday afternoon, and she was impressed with his charming disposition. Executants like Guwar represented the finest warriors the cult had to offer, and everyone spoke so highly of Guwar. On top of that, he was a scholar too. Blusser never had much interest in math, but somehow he was able to explain complex ideas in a way that made them easy to follow, even if she didn't remember most of it. He was a fascinating man.

Her relief arrived at the shipyard, carrying a crate containing his dinner. Blusser took the crate and went inside the ship to deliver the meal before leaving. She had to perform some rituals with the priests, and then she would turn in and report to the shipyard the next morning to do it all over again. But the priests weren't expecting her for another hour, so she hoped to spend some more time enjoying Guwar's company.

The ship was designed for a crew of three, but it had a rather spacious common area. There, Blusser found a large triangular table with papers scattered across the surface. Three computer terminals were located at each corner of the table, although one of them had been torn off of its mounting and was now embedded in the wall. Guwar was nowhere to be found. Blusser guessed that he was in the head, or perhaps taking a nap in one of the cabins on the deck above. She laid the crate down on the deck and started arranging the dishes on the table for him. When she finished, and he still didn't show himself, she began to worry, and so she searching the rest of the ship.

At last, she found him in the engine room, seated at its single workstation, his face buried in his folded arms. There were papers here as well, some of them crumpled up into little balls.

"Uh, Executant Guwar?" she said, unsure how to proceed. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, but I wanted to let you know that your dinner is ready."

He looked up at her, his expression weary and frustrated. He seemed to be a completely different man than the one she had spoke with yesterday.

"What?" he asked. Then: "Oh, yes. Fine. Whatever."

"Is everything all right, sir?" Blusser asked.

"Everything's fine," he said, not even trying to hide his insincerity. "You can go now."

She put her hands together and looked away from him awkwardly. "Well, I was just thinking, if you had the time, I'd like to hear more about that theorem you were telling me about yesterday. I--"

"I said you can go now," Guwar snarled. "Can't you see that I'm busy?!"

He grabbed a tool from the desk and threw it at her. Blusser dodged it easily enough, but decided to leave before he could try again.

As she hurried out of the ship, she passed by her relief, standing guard outside.

"Better give him plenty of space," she warned her. "That job he's working on must be a lot tougher than we thought!"

NEXT: Proof by contradiction.

[grammartrolls]

Stepping In: A Hyperbolic Drabble

that’s right i’m actually posting writing on here deal with it

ship: hyperbole (foseti x apiuma) (and a little bit of apiuma o8< natter >8o foseti)

When Foseti Mafdet agreed to play a video game with a bunch of people she barely knew, if at all, she never expected to become a god. She wasn’t much of a gamer, after all, so when her moirail told her about some game called “SGRUB” in which the players make “a new world” she assumed it was some kind of metaphor. 

But here she was, a newly made god of a newly made universe, arguing with a bunch of other newly made gods about how the newly made rules should function in this newly made universe. 

It was exhausting and excruciating.

Watching the highbloods argue for a stricter caste structure, arguing with her more radical minority for a deletion of the hierarchy…it all became very tedious very quickly. It was a new, different kind of tediousness than Foseti was familiar with. It was…newly made.

Godly, even. You know, Foseti used to be an atheist before this all happened, but all of this bullshit has made her more open to the idea that perhaps there are gods…and maybe they were just as exhausting and annoying as these ones. It would explain why their world is so fucked up. 

Foseti wished she was still an atheist. Ignorance is bliss, after all. 

Back on her home planet, discussions took a different approach. Sometimes they were violent, but Foseti tried her best to keep them peaceful. Terse, but peaceful. But now things are significantly different. Now, the two sides were no longer arguing for the long term or the theoretical. Not that Foseti had any desire to argue in pure theory, being a woman of pure praxis, but regardless, discussions were now discussing…the Now. The immediate. The Thing That Is Literally About To Happen. 

The birth of a new universe.

…It got exhausting. Breaks needed to be taken. So here she was, taking a break… when who chose to saunter in but one Apiuma Abella. 

Oh, how Foseti hated Apiuma Abella. 

There were many annoying things that happened at these godly debates. That seadweller, Pequod, and his outlandish idea for a vengeance-based universe…the clown, Latena, arguing for a stronger military, Shakti being…Shakti. Even her own moirail got on her nerves, with his refusal to care about how stupid his optics look when he screams about “lowblood supremacy”. 

But by far the worst actor in these debates was Apiuma Abella.

It’s easy to see that Apiuma should, one would think, have the most skin in this game. Foseti knew that Apiuma didn’t even leave her house back on their home planet because she would immediately be culled in the street. Apiuma had a chance to help Foseti create a new universe built on equality, where lowbloods finally had the rights they deserved.

But, no, apparently Apiuma is blissfully unaware of any oppression that existed in their world. 

At least, that’s what it looks like to Foseti! It’s how it would look to anyone! 

The reason Apiuma was easily the worst part of these debates is her insistence on giving “everyone a chance to speak”. Ugh. What grift. 

The very idea that Apiuma, easily the most oppressed person here, would insist on hearing “everyone’s side”, when one of the “gods” at this table wants her and every other lowblood dead was downright insulting to Foseti. 

And here came she, likely going to spread her “moderate tolerance” somewhere else. Not that…there was anywhere else to go, of course. They were on a…giant spaceship… whatever, it’s irrelevant. 

As Apiuma passed Foseti, she shot a quick look at her. 

Foseti repaid it in full. “Apiuma.” She said, tart. 

“Foseti…how’s it going?” Apiuma responded, attempting to veil her clear upset…ness. 

“Not good.” The rustblood responded coolly. She wanted it to be obvious.  

“Oh. I’m sorry. That’s a shame.” Apiuma said, perhaps in an attempt to genuinely feel for Foseti, before attempting to leave again. 

“It’s because of you, you know.” Foseti said, rising. 

Apiuma stopped and turned around. “What? What did I do?” She said, incredulous, hands on her hips.

Foseti stepped forward and stared the yellowblood down. It was times like these, their confrontations, where the aesthetic difference between the two of them was thrown into stark contrast. Foseti was taller, slimmer, but not without muscle. She had tattoos and piercings. Her hair was big and loud. She was a punk! Apiuma, meanwhile, was small. Squishy. Cute. Undeniably cute. Frustratingly adorable. And soft. And nice to look at, yes, Foseti can admit it! But she still hated her. But, god, she was cute. Being a kismesis is weird sometimes. 

In these confrontations, Foseti couldn’t help but feel some sense of satisfaction, even if it was buried under all the anger, in the visual tension between the two of them. Foseti was staring her down, tall and lean. Apiuma was staring up, not weakly, Foseti could admit. There was a fire in her adorably and comically big eyes. The contrast was attractive to the both of them. They were both equally strong in their relationship, and although they despised each other, they gave each other a fire and a passion. This was, Foseti presumed, the essence of a kismessitude. The two of them hated each other. But, god, it was hot. Being a kismesis is weird in general.

But that’s not what this is about. This is about something less personal, of course.

“What did you do? You platformed a supremacist!” 

“What? What does that even mean?” 

Of course Apiuma didn’t understand. 

“Of course you don’t understand…you are so insistent on hearing “other opinions” that you refuse to deplatform one that should absolutely not have a seat at the table.” Foseti snipped, bitter.

“A seat at the…are you talking about Pequod? You know he did a lot to help us in the game! He gave the killing blow to the Black King! We all saw it! He literally helped us win the whole game! He earned his seat at the table like all of us. Also, can we go back to ‘of course you don’t understand’…? What the heck is that supposed to mean!” Apiuma buzzed. 

Foseti crossed her arms. It’s true that Pequod did a lot in the campaign. That weapon of his, the Stygian Shade…? It certainly carries a lot of firepower. But whatever, his actions don’t change the fact that his beliefs are toxic as shit. “He literally still believes in a blood hierarchy and actively advocates for it. He literally just did that. You were watching, weren’t you?” 

“Of course I was watching!” Apiuma huffed, also crossing her arms. A yellow blush colored her cheeks just a bit. 

Cute. Foseti tried to suppress a satisfied grin. 

“This isn’t even a political discussion...” Apiuma spat, somewhat under her breath.

“What! What are you even talking about! ‘This isn’t a political discussion’? That’s ridiculous, and you fucking know it. When discussing the making of a new universe, the politics of that universe are kind of vital, don’t you think? And including supremacists like Pequod, or grifters like Marina, or war-advocators like Latena is not the morally responsible thing to do, don’t you think?!” 

“Well, if it’s such a political discussion, I don’t see why you have to involve everyone, especially people who want to stay out of the politics, like me!” Apiuma burst. 

Oh, here it is. The moment Apiuma pulls out the ‘apolitical’ card, and Foseti gets to pull out all the stops. 

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot you don’t actually care.” Foseti said dryly, turning around. 

Apiuma gasped. “How dare you!” She rushed in front of the rustblood. “How dare you suggest such a thing!” 

“Well, if you actually cared, you would be willing to take the steps needed for equality.” Foseti shrugged. “But instead you choose to be a caste traitor.” 

“C-Caste traitor!?” Apiuma repeated, shocked. 

“I said what I said. You have repeatedly refused to take the necessary steps for lowblood liberation, and continue to do so now.” Foseti leaned forward, and rested her hands on her knees, getting close to Apiuma’s adorable face. “What other word is there to use but traitor, babe?” 

Apiuma puffed, clearly offended. 

Normally, Foseti would not use such…incendiary tactics. She was normally far more professional than this, but there was something about Apiuma…

“What, so I’m supposed to join the revolution like a ‘good lowblood’? I’m supposed to be blacklisted from every major city, I’m supposed to be enemy no. 1, like you, babe? Sometimes, people just want to cope.”

Foseti backed up quickly, a bit surprised. Apiuma didn’t usually have stops to pull out like this. She was kind of impressed. 

“Besides, it really is none of your business at all what I think or believe or do with my time. I have a right to do things completely unrelated to politics. It’s, honestly, pretty offensive, really, how much you harp on my apolitical…ness, since it’s obvious you only do that because I’m the lowest blood color among the whole team. Why should I have to be staunchly political, like you? Because I’m a lowblood? A near-mutant? It’s super unfair and annoying, honestly.” Apiuma crossed her arms, and looked away. She was frowning, but Foseti could see a satisfied glint in her eye. 

Clever. Foseti wasn’t expecting all of that. Not that Apiuma wasn’t clever, of course, but this is usually the part where she gets flustered and walks away. Or they make out. It’s really 50/50 at this point. 

Foseti averted her eyes. She honestly didn’t know what to say. It’s…possible that…Apiuma might…be right. But it doesn’t matter.

“The fact still stands that your refusal to stand for our rights shows that you, on some level, don’t care. Or you just can’t be bothered. Either way, it’s disappointing. And yes, a large part of that is because of your blood color. I find it unbelievable how apolitical you are because of your caste. You have the most to gain and the most to lose in the movement, so why don’t you choose to stand up?” 

Foseti prided herself on that answer, especially since it clearly upset Apiuma more.

“I hate revolutionaries!” Apiuma threw her hands up, clearly frustrated. “Nothing anyone does is ever good enough for you! Why can’t you just accept that some people don’t care about politics without calling us ‘grifters’! That a lot of us just want to live our lives and not have to think about any of that stuff!” 

Foseti was surprised. And angry. Not at Apiuma responding at all, no, she found a great satisfaction in their debate. But the idea that anyone, especially with a blood color as low as Apiuma’s, wouldn’t want to think about the problems that plague their society, wouldn’t want to fix it, made Foseti furious. 

“…Whatever.” The rustblood said, bile coating her words. “I shouldn’t keep you. You probably have clown makeup to paint on, don’t you? Faygo to drink? I bet you have to go play ‘make-believe highblood’.” Foseti crossed her arms again and looked away, satisfied at such a line. 

“That would invalidate everything…you say…” There was a silence. 

Apiuma wasn’t responding to Foseti’s insult. That wasn’t normal.  

Foseti looked down to see a completely different expression on her kismesis’ face. 

Shock, offense and hurt was splayed on Apiuma’s cheek. The small yellowblood looked down at her feet. 

“I…” Foseti could hear Apiuma’s voice shake. Her face was obscured from view, but immediately Foseti got that feeling in the pit of her stomach that she said something she really, really shouldn’t have. Apiuma held her hands together, and Foseti could see they were shaking. Oh, no, no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. A kismesis isn’t supposed to make their partner cry. Er…well…this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“Hey…” Foseti reached out. 

Apiuma ran away. 

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, did she just fuck this up?

“Wow, you fucked that up.” A different voice. 

Foseti turned around to see a familiar, bespectacled, nihilistic near-jade. “Oh, it’s you…” Foseti sighed. “What are you doing here? Er—how long were you standing here?” 

“Enough to know you have royally fucked up.” Natter Schlau stepped forward toward the rustblood. 

Foseti didn’t have particularly high regards for Natter either. She was, perhaps, just as apolitical as her moirail-turned-matesprit, but at the very least she has a more philosophical justification. It’s a bullshit one, but at least she has one. Regardless, most of her interactions with the nihilist were unpleasant, but that’s probably just because Natter is an unpleasant person. 

“Why didn’t you rush to your matesprit’s aid earlier?” Foseti asked, with a slight sarcastic twinge.

Natter shrugged. “I assumed it was some strange blackrom courtship ritual.” 

Foseti shrugged back. “…It kind of was. But…ah shit…I really went too far with that last comment. The ‘make-believe highblood’ comment. That was a terrible thing to say.”

It truly was a shitty thing to say. 

“Yes, terrible would be the key word. How did you even know that?” 

“Know what? I made that up.” Foseti rubbed her temples. “It…it was hyperbole, you know? I was being facetious.” 

“Oh…” Natter groaned slightly, before rubbing her eyes underneath her glasses. “Well. Congratulations. You have picked upon a very sensitive wound.” She gestured sarcastically. “Good job.”

“Wait…don’t tell me…”

“Alright, I won’t.”

“I’m being serious. Apiuma…actually pretends to be a highblood?” Foseti asked in disbelief.

Natter sighed. “…Sometimes. I have caught her doing that, yes. She practices putting face paint on and pretending to be a purpleblood. Honestly, I don’t know if she is play-pretending at being a highblood or genuinely desires to become a subjuggulator, or a convert, or however that heathen cult works,”

God, Natter could be an asshole, even to the assholes.

“Regardless,” the near-jade continued, “She sometimes practices putting on clown makeup. I’ve asked her about it. We’ve discussed it, but as of now she does not desire to discuss it further, so I leave it at that.” 

Foseti sighed and ran her hands through her hair. This…this was weird.

“Oh…fuck…I fucked up so bad.” She began massaging her eyes, feeling a headache coming on. 

“Yes.”

Well, at least Natter was direct, if a bit abrupt.

Foseti struggled a bit. She was not a bad kismesis. Apiuma has said that, and Foseti understands what a bad kismessitude looked like. No, neither of them were overly abusive or wanted each other dead. It was just little jabs and pokes, stabs and gripes, that made a good pitch relationship. And Foseti was pretty sure that she and Apiuma have that. Well. It might become ‘had’, if Foseti doesn’t go patch things up. Oh, and Foseti definitely knows she’s going have to be the one to fix this. But apologies are not…her strong suit. She’s apologized before, of course, as has anyone, but it never gets easier. She sighed. 

“I’ll fix it. Don’t worry.”

“I am not worried. Apiuma is stronger than you think. She is very unstable, of course, but who of us isn’t?” 

Again with the thoughtful insights. God, Natter was insufferable. But she was right. 

“However!” Foseti pointed out. “Her unstable nature does not make my points any less valid.” She said, mainly to herself. 

Natter cocked an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Our debate. I know when I go apologize she’s going to try and say that her feelings being hurt makes her arguments somehow more valid. They aren’t.”

“Oh. That. How tedious you two are sometimes.” 

“You’re one to talk.” 

“Fair enough.” Natter pushed up her glasses. “What was that whole event even about anyway?” 

“Ugh!” Foseti cried out. “What it’s always about! Apiuma is so…apolitical. I don’t get it.” 

“Oh, right, the same thing you two are always, always talking about.” The exasperation in her voice was obvious, as it always was. “Honestly, I don’t think your argument is as valid as you say.” 

“What makes you say that.” Foseti asked tersely, with another cross of the arms.

Natter sighed greatly as she is wont to do. “Very well. I shall explain. I believe there are several things about Apiuma that you simply do not understand. Mainly, her disposition. It is simply not cut out for politics. As you have seen, Apiuma is a highly sensitive person. Personally, I think that makes her beautiful and empathetic, but it is not a very practical skill with politics, I think you would agree?” 

Foseti shrugged. “I guess.” Natter did have a point. Foseti herself has had to cultivate a pretty tough skin, and a soft egg like Apiuma probably wouldn’t thrive if she was in Foseti’s position. 

“Furthermore, Apiuma has had more hardship than you could possibly know. She has not left her home in sweeps. Well, I mean…now she has, but before we began SGRUB, she hadn’t walked out her own door in a long time. She has suffered greatly, due to her, frankly frustrating, refusal to go hemoanon. And, honestly, I think you would agree that her refusal to hide her blood color is somewhat radical, yes?” 

Foseti looked away. “Sure. I can admit that.” 

“In all this time hiding away, it would have been easy for Apiuma to cultivate an attitude of negativity, of sullenness or anger. But, instead, she chose joy. She chose…pretty things…” Natter paused, slightly lost in appreciation for her matesprit. Despite her dislike of both of them, Foseti could acknowledge that they had a very healthy relationship. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t a bit jealous. 

“Anyway. Apiuma has turned herself into a person that would rather focus on joy and positivity than being mentally bogged down by politics and revolutionary action.”

Foseti puffed a bit. “You can be a revolutionary and be joyful and positive.” She said, prickled. 

“Ah yes, because you are clearly a person overcome with virulent joy and light.”  

Foseti narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at the nihilist. “Look.” She said, sharp. “I’m only harsh and cold because my movement requires me to be so.”

Natter chuckled a bit, and pushed up her glasses once more; a classic smug Natter manuever, one that she performed every time she felt she made a prescient argument.

“Do you think Apiuma should become you?” 

Foseti stopped. Huh. Hm. 

That’s a weird question. Foseti thought about it for a moment. 

“Let us phrase it like this. Do you think the world would be better if people in it were more like you?” 

Foseti fumbled. “I mean…” She means…it kind of would be? If people were more practical, simple, honest, and strong, the world would be a better place. It would certainly be better for the lowbloods. 

“Y…Yes. It would be. The world would be better if people acted like me.” 

“And do you see a problem with that mindset?”

Of course Foseti did. The moment she verbalized it, she recognized the problem.

“Not everyone can be Foseti Mafdet. Some people are just really not cut out for it, and it would be counterproductive, irresponsible, harmful and stupid to believe otherwise. I am sure you would agree.” Natter stated, frankly.

“You’re right.” Foseti conceded. 

“And someone like Apiuma is absolutely not cut out for it. Obviously. She herself would agree. And so she has every right to not engage in something that would clearly cause her great mental duress. Besides, she kind of already is under mental duress. The very act of existing as she does gives her a great amount of mental struggles. I think you can understand that, being a lowblood yourself.” 

“Of course.” Foseti nodded. Yes, she herself has long buried trauma that simply comes from existing as a lowblooded troll. The attacks, the losses…yes, Foseti understood that pain acutely. “I get that.” 

“So it would be irresponsible to put her into further mental and physical danger. Apiuma is a lot more vulnerable than you.” 

Foseti nodded. “Fine. I can admit that she doesn’t have to become a revolutionary. But she could afford to care more about our plight.” 

“And who are you to say she doesn’t? You do not hear the conversations we have, her and I, and you would be surprised at some of the opinions that Apiuma possess. They are more radical than you might think.” Natter replied.

Foseti narrowed her eyes a bit. “Even if that is true, it sometimes feels like she doesn’t even know how we suffer.”

Natter scoffed. “What a preposterous notion. Of course she does! She is, arguably, more oppressed than you! Not that we should play that kind of game. Again, she cannot even leave her house.”

Foseti raised her hands defensively. “Alright, alright, I get it, I get it. I may not agree with her, but I get it.”

“Oh, do not mistake me,” Natter interrupted. “I have no desire to defend my matesprit regarding some of her arguments. I think several of her opinions are rather indefensible. The idea that someone like Pequod should have any say in how this new universe unfolds is demonstrably stupid. The man can barely function as a social being.” 

Foseti chuckled a bit. Hm. Maybe Natter wasn’t as apolitical as Foseti had thought her to be. 

“I agree with you that someone like that should probably be deplatformed. Apiuma’s fixation on not hurting anyone’s feelings is rather ill-advised in this regard. Her repeated refusal to disavow outwardly supremacist rhetoric and people is something her and I are working on. Frankly, it disturbs me that she thinks like this. What if some brigand or blackguard demands something heinous of her and she cannot find it in herself to refuse, for fear of hurting their feelings? It is something that frightens me, not that much frightens me, of course. No, I don’t think any of us are qualified to be gods. Even me. Well…” Natter thought about it. “No. I am as flawed an individual as any thinking being. Really, what is thought? What is a being?” 

Wow. Even when Natter makes a cogent argument, she is still insufferable. It’s a skill, honestly.

“Anyway. This is why I believe that she shouldn’t even be involved in this discussion. But it seems you have somewhat forced her hand.” 

“What?” Foseti  replied, curious. 

“Well. You are kind of forcing all of us to attend these meetings.” Natter said, frankly.

“I think that’s a reasonable thing to do.” Foseti replied, a bit offended by the implication. “We all beat the game, so those of us who have reasonable beliefs should work together to create our new universe.” 

“And yet you find yourself frustrated at Apiuma for being bad at realpolitik when you yourself have forced herself into the position! You have created your own problem here, Foseti,” Natter removed her glasses and polished them. “You force her to do something she is bad at, and then hate her for being bad at it. I am not saying the two of you cannot have conflict. You are kismeses. You hate each other. That is, how you say, the point. But you should at least acknowledge the slight fuckery of the issue here.” The jade punctuated her point by slipping her glasses back onto her face, and gazed at Foseti expectedly.

Foseti shifted slightly. “Fine. She doesn’t have to come to the discussions anymore. But what in the shit is with the ‘make-believe highblood’ stuff!” Foseti threw her hands up in frustration. 

Natter furrowed her brows. It looked like genuine offense was taken there. “You should know, Apiuma fully understands that her fixation on highbloods is extremely unhealthy. That is another thing her and I are discussing. And frankly, her relationship with her own marginalized identity is absolutely none of your business. You had no justification to make a comment as hurtful as that, and furthermore, you have no right to continue to poke the wound. It would be best for the both of you if you both forgot that you said that, but since you cannot, I would suggest you do not mention it again. Besides, who are you to judge how a lowblood copes with their lot in life? Some of us fight back, some of us fantasize, all of us know our own pain. It is offensive to assume otherwise.” Natter crossed her arms, clearly tense. 

Foseti turned away from the near-jade, caught in her own thoughts. Natter was right. This obsession with Apiuma’s trauma responses is horrible for their relationship. She turned back. 

“You’re right. Thanks.” 

Natter sighed slightly, loosening up a bit. “Of course. I care deeply for my matesprit, and desire her to have a healthy kismessitude. By the way,” Natter narrowed her eyes to slits. “If it decays to abuse, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

Foseti cocked a very unconvinced brow. “What even is your strife specibus?” 

Natter shifted slightly. “…I wield a very dangerous shovel.”

“…Right.” Foseti bat the issue away. “Anyway. Thanks.”

A sense of guilt still hung in her head, but she felt more open knowing what the next steps to take are. 

Foseti looked toward Natter. “You know…you’re a pretty great mediator.” 

“Hm.” The near-jade thought about it for a moment. “I suppose I am. Anyway. I must be off.” Natter began to walk past Foseti, in Apiuma’s direction.

“Where are you going?” Foseti asked.

“I am going to comfort my girlfriend. I wish you the best, Foseti.”

And with that, the nihilist left, following her matesprit. What an asshole. She was right, of course, but she was still an asshole. 

Foseti Mafdet took a deep, godly, breath, and decided the next best course of action would be to head to her room to sleep and think. 

...And so she did. And the dreams were good.