#AND I UNDERSTAND HOW IT FEELS WHEN YOU SEE YOUR CHILD LIVING IN HER CULTURE SHE FITTED

[adm-starblitzsteel-4305]

It's May 3 so...

Happy Birthday Rebecca Hall!!!

[enamouredfae]

little astro observations i've made based on my little chart collection and experience 🎀

honestly i've observed this only in myself but you have a natural pull to people who's sun is the same sign as your 5th house, mine is in pisces and my bf, my best friend and my cat are all pisces, not to mention that 90% of my crushes have been pisces as well.

there is something about pisces and bunnies, they will either love bunnies (have tattoos of them, make art about them, be their favourite animal), own or have owned a bunny or they look like one, (my bf is all of the above).

in synastry a north node over a person's mars may indicate the north node person taking the mars person's virginity.

in synastry a person's moon in your 9th house may indicate they understand/feel/empathize with emotions in a different way from you due to where they come from and how they were culturally socialized, i have this with my bf and he comes from a north american individualist country where your emotions are your responsibility and other's are theirs and i come from a post communist country where you are responsible for everyone's emotions, and ppl live for other people.

in vedic astrology i am a hasta moon, claire nakti made a video on hasta nakshatra and describes hasta natives as "fairy pretty" and i have a pair of dragonfly fairy wings tattooed on my back, plus ive been told (before my tattoo) that i give off fairy vibes.

saturn ruled 3rd house makes you have to spend a lot of time in public transportation, for example you might live far from where you need to go, for me it used to take me 1 hour at least to get to some places, sometimes i'd have to wait an hour just to then spend on hour on the bus. just overall imposes patience for transportation

a lot of astro observation posts say that an aquarius 4th house makes you feel like u dont belong in your family or that you're the black sheep of the family, but i dont find that accurate at all, i feel like it makes the native the one to challenge family values, they may be the one to make their family change for humanitarian reasons

idk if this is a real technique already used by astrologers but i have a wholesign MC theory. in wholesign the midheaven can fall in the 9th/10th or 11th house. my theory is that wherever it falls is the way you get ahead in life, the way through which u become publicly known or get your career. If it falls in the 9th your career is owed to ur studies/travel, 10th your hard work/experience/reputation, 11th your connections/social media/friends.

i think i have the most literal astrological placements being passed down from your parents example. obviously placements dont always get passed down, my sister has none of their placements, but perhaps being the first child may have contributed to this since the first child is when parents still have their personality not yet influenced by parenthood. so my moon and my sun, which we know symbolize the parents amongst other things, are at the same degree and they sextile eachother exactly, which I think is an indicator that my parents are very harmonious together; they are still together and in love even now. furthermore, my moon and sun are the same signs of my parents' stelliums, i have a libra moon and my mom has a libra stellium, and my sun is in leo and my dad has a leo stellium.

sibling's ceres in your first is feeling like a parent to them, i constantly tell my sister she's my daughter, we even have an inside joke that i gave birth to her at 5, and my ceres is in her fourth, the house of motherhood so she definitely sees me as a parental figure.

me and my bf have eachother's jupiter in our 7th houses, besides being in a serious committed relationship, we want to start a business together. so i feel this is a great indicator for great partnership in both regards.

i feel like this is also a technique but i haven't really heard much about it, generational planets affect us through societal conditions/problems whereas personal planets affect us through personal problems. for example: let's go with two malefics, i have pluto in the first house which i feel would be very different from having let's say mars in the first house. the first house is amongst many things our appearance which i am insecure about. i have never in my life been told i am ugly, i am actually constantly told i am beautiful, and yet it does not click. it isn't through personal experiences that i have problems with my appearance but through consumption of society ideals. this is of course an oversimplification but you get what i mean.

chiron retrograde in natal changes our perception on trauma. me and my bf have the same chiron, his is retrograde while mine is not. he constantly says he is not traumatized, whereas i can tell i am. he 100% has traumas, the thing is that it's like he's left them behind? he just says it happened a long time ago so it's done. my observation is that retrogrades in your natal may make u leave things in the past or have a "it happened a long time ago it doesn't matter" attitude towards trauma. the thing is he acts like a non-traumatized person which is crazy to me.

i have a skin condition called dermatographia, also overall very dry itchy acne prone skin, i also have scars. here are a few placements that i have that i feel may be an indicator for skin conditions: mars ruled first house (traditional rulership) mars is inflamation and scarring, saturn in seventh saturn is dry and some people consider that libra(7th house) rules the skin, saturn opposite ascendant, saturn square venus i see venus as clear skin due to its aesthetical perfection.

saturn in 1st, especially conjunct ascendant indicates identity issues. borrowing elements of identity from people you admire, not feeling like you identify with the gender assigned at birth, not identifying with your birth name, etc.

having a libra 12th house can indicate traumatic female friendship. the 12th house is the house of hidden enemies, so you perceive these people as your friends, sometimes even best friends, so when they betray you it is very jarring and traumatic. having female friends that are jealous of you, female friends that pretend to like you, female friends that talk shit about you and even sometimes lie about u, friends that purposefully hide information from you, that want what you have, sometimes sabotaging what you have or trying to make u lose the thing they want, etc. this is a very difficult placement, because you love these people so much that you would've given up things, changed things or shared things with them if only they were honest with you. in the best of cases the friendship is real and full of love but you grow apart, and this is also painful because you can't control it.

venus square ascendant is people telling you they love you and you not believing them. just overall hardships around love and seeing yourself as loveable. double points when it also squares saturn making u think that if u are loved it's hard work or that people had to convince themselves to, that you're hard to love.

people with venus conjunct mars in first are stunning and have an androgynous vibe to them. sometimes this is visual, strong muscular body with graceful posture, but it can reflect in their personality, just strength imbued with vulnerability, people that surprise you, that are balanced.

taurus 6th house can indicate finding romantic partners in the workplace.

having a stellium in the 4th and no planets in the 10th, can indicate a strong connection to your mom and a disconnect from your dad, especially when the sun is in the opposite sign of your tenth house(in your 4th) feeling like your dad is not the way he should be.

🎀

please let me know what you think, im very curious how they hold up in other people's charts, critiques are welcome and invited.

[decadentfantasy]

Could you do headcanons for the MK1 Earthrealmers and Syzoth with a reader who is a professional dancer?

𝑴𝑲 1 𝑴𝑬𝑵 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑨 𝑭𝑬𝑴! 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑭𝑬𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑳 𝑫𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑬𝑹 𝑺/𝑶

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔: Syzoth, Johnny Cage, Kenshi Takahashi, Raiden, Kung Lao

𝑻𝑾: brief mention of blood and self-image issues

𝑨/𝑵: omg my first request! thank you so much <3 i didn't know what kind of professional dancer you wanted, so i went with ballet. i hope it's okay!

❥︎ 𝑺𝒀𝒁𝑶𝑻𝑯

❥︎ Syzoth has seen his fair share of performers, after all he did work in a wandering company for a while and Outworld's culture greatly revolves around dancing, which is considered a sacred art.

❥︎ He shouldn't be impressed, but you? Oh Lord, you take his breath away. You move so gracefully yet easily, as though floating, your every gesture has his mesmerized gaze glued to you in awe. He has never seen anything quite so beautiful.

❥︎ Since your body is your instrument, Syzoth makes sure you take good care of it: he's there to bandage your feet, wiping away the blood staining the inside of your pointee shoes, kissing your legs reverently as he massages your sore muscles with a warm damp cloth.

❥︎ If you were to ever want to perform in Outworld, you are right to believe Syzoth would use his position as emissary to his advantage. He'll talk to Mileena, and in no time you'll find yourself performing for the Empress and her court, Syzoth's adoring gaze never leaving you.

❥︎ 𝑱𝑶𝑯𝑵𝑵𝒀 𝑪𝑨𝑮𝑬

❥︎ Much similarly to Syzoth, Johnny is accustomed to dancer. He basically lives in Hollywood, he himself studied under many choreographers during his career, not to mention he's also a very good dancer.

❥︎ Jesus... You put him to shame. Your movements are always so flawless, so perfectly timed. He has a hard time understanding your level of expertise, he cannot even fathom how many years it took you.

❥︎ You bet Johnny will want to turn your life into a movie. He wants to celebrate you and your art, his girlfriend is such a marvelous dancer he thinks everyone should see her! Just be warned, it could turn out to be 4 hours long because he puts too much detail in it.

❥︎ If you feel too embarrassed or shy about him making a movie about you, Johnny will back off but that doesn't mean to whole world won't know how good you are. The sole fact that Johnny attends to your every performance makes you gain so much popularity already, not to mention the sheer amount of posts about you on all his socials. You'll basically become just as famous as him!

❥︎ 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑺𝑯𝑰 𝑻𝑨𝑲𝑨𝑯𝑨𝑺𝑯𝑰

❥︎ The most of Kenshi's life has been spent in the cruel, gruesome environment that is the Yakuza. As such, he never had many chances to enjoy beautiful things such as dance. Things so soft, so gentle, clashed immensely with his environment, so he didn't dwell on them.

❥︎ And that was his mentality when he met you. You appeared soft and delicate on stage, enchanting everyone with your grace. You almost reminded him of a butterfly, so beautiful yet short-lived in such a cruel world.

❥︎ But then you'd get off and backstage, and that's when he'd see the truth: the sweat on your face, your laboured breathing, your reddened cheeks. And when you take off your shoes the blood staining your pantyhose, the swelling in your feet... He was wrong to think you were delicate. You're anything but: you're powerful, determined and fiercely passionate, and he won't make the mistake of judging you again.

❥︎ Even after he loses his sight Kenshi tries to attend your every performance, sitting in the first row so that you know he's there. He may not see you dance anymore but the way you move is burned in his mind. How could he ever forget something so beautiful?

❥︎ 𝑹𝑨𝑰𝑫𝑬𝑵

❥︎ Raiden is actually the most aquatinted of everyone with ballet dancing: his sister used to take lessons before switching to martial arts and he was the designated pick up. Of course she wasn't anywhere close to your level, being a child and all, but he picked up a thing or two from her rambling about her classes.

❥︎ Knowing the importance of a healthy physique in your discipline Raiden makes sure to cook light yet nutritious meals for you to eat in between classes: shrimp-stuffed green peppers, rainbow stir fry and jiaozi are his go to choices. He also makes sure you always have a full water bottle with you.

❥︎ What he admires the most is your flexibility. Raiden has become fairly flexible himself since he started practicing tantric yoga in the Shaolin temple, but he is nowhere near your level. The way you manage to look so graceful as your limbs twist and bend like a swan's neck is beyond impressive for him.

❥︎ He brings flowers to your every performance, to the point your dressing room starts to look like a flower shop. He mainly gets them from a merchant in Fengjian, so expect the whole town to know about you within two weeks. Soon enough, half of it is attending: why wouldn't they support their precious Raiden's girlfriend?

❥︎ 𝑲𝑼𝑵𝑮 𝑳𝑨𝑶

❥︎ Similarly to Raiden, he also learned a couple things about ballet through his friend's sister. Kung Lao has never been particularly interested in it, mainly because his experience was that of a little girl's hobby. When he meets you that opinion quickly changes: the choreographies you can perform blow his mind completely. However, there are some things he can't stand.

❥︎ First off, your instructor. He despised them for the gruelling training they put you through, the way they force your body to bend unnaturally like they want to break every bone in your body. He starts attending your every class only to glare at them, making sure they start treating you more gently.

❥︎ Second off, the constant insecurity over your body. Kung Lao thinks you're beautiful and he can't bear the fact that you don't think the same. To remedy this, he'll do everything in his power to make you feel the prettiest possible: he'll style your hair, run you a hot bath, massage every part of your best that hurts. He won't let you put yourself down, not a chance in hell. He loves you for a reason, and he'll prove it to you.

❥︎ Kung Lao not only attends your performances, he also attends rehearsals. He may never admit it out loud but he enjoys seeing the hard work you put in it: it demonstrates that talent is not only something you're born with, it's something that needs to be cultivated and nourished. He brings you treats and water as well, and it will take some coaxing but he'll eventually cave if you ask him to join you in your stretching exercises.

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

Good evening, my Darlings! I'm sorry about the lapse between updates, but I have a new chapter up on AO3 with the full fic and full content warnings and will have the newest chapter chapter down below.

Chapter Summary: The Reader tries to understand the Harkonnens and gain favor with her husband the old-fashioned way (Part Two.)

Tagged: @alexandrainlove @richardslady121 @blazeflays @wo-ming-bai @cavillandevanssandwhich If anyone else would like to be tagged, please let me know!

Content Warning: 18+; problematic smut; arranged marriage; dubious consent; implied/referenced child abuse; under negotiated kink; problematic BDSM; internalized shame; mild degradation; oral sex (m+f receiving) throat training, come eating, collars and lashes, nipple clamps/nipple play; Feyd-Rautha; impact play/slapping; semi-public sex; vaginal sex; vaginal fingering; knife play; switching; riding; Feyd's strange and fucked up methods of showing affection

Chapter Nine: Quick to Learn, Eager to Please

Your training continues.  You wouldn’t call your progress astonishing, but after a week, and then two, you find yourself first sliding into the familiarity of your old training and then picking up on new techniques.  You can’t help but smile to yourself when you get in an offensive, notice an opening that you can take that you wouldn’t have just a week earlier.  When Feyd-Rautha says, as he watches you spar with Korvo, “You remembered what I told you about your footwork.”

His own regimen is far more extensive, of course.  There’s one morning when he strips off his sweaty training shirt and you notice striations in the muscle fibers in his chest that you don’t remember seeing before.  Perhaps it’s the brighter lighting compared to your bedrooms.

The soreness becomes normal, stiffness you stretch out every morning before you leave for the Training Halls and soothe in the afternoons a couple of times a week in the Relaxation Chambers before resuming your self-imposed Harkonnen language lessons.  The routine is its own comfort that tides you over as you receive letters from back home that all sound relieved that you’re still in one piece.  And, somehow, you are.  These elements–the training, the moments spent in the library and studying the Harkonnen battle language–make you feel a little more like this Fortress is a home that you can live in.  You’re not confident enough to try and impress Feyd yet with what you’ve learned but have found that Idrisa’s an easy tutor.  The first time you tried speaking, unprompted, in battle language to her she did an almost comical double-take before politely offering advice on how to improve your pronunciation.

“The Na-Baron will be delighted to know that you’re making an effort to learn more about his culture,” she added to soften any potential blow to your ego.  Since then, every day, you exchange basic greetings and sentences in Harkonnen with her, and each day you try to add a little more.  Idrisa’s gentle, but honest once she realizes that you won’t be offended by her critique.  

The matter of your pregnancy is still in question–it’s still too early to tell, not for lack of trying.   The collar and leash make a reappearance–on a night he also placed metal clamps on your nipples and took your mouth again until between the shock of the clamps barely fading with time and the suffocating pressure of his cock venturing further and further within the wet cavern of your mouth had tears streaming down your face and silent pleas for him to finally fuck you–but strangely enough the flogger, as he calls it, hasn’t.  When he strikes your backside he seems to prefer his own hands, maybe because for every time his hand descends it stings his palm as well.  Sometimes he brings out ropes, one night ties your arms behind your back and takes you from behind, one hand in your hair until he comes hard and pulls out only to bury his face against your backside and lick your cunt, tasting his own spend as it leaks out of you until you shudder and climax around the flicker of his tongue.  You’re past the point of being shocked by the idea of your husband tasting his own semen; it’s funny to think that such a thing would’ve horrified you a few weeks ago.  Most of this probably would.  

The night that he introduces the clamps you use his bathroom afterwards, see your splotchy face and worn body, and wonder how much of your enjoyment is genuine and how much is simply a tool to acclimate to it.  Does it really make a difference?  The pain from the clamps had gone from sharp pain to an insistent ache that left you trembling.  The way he’d held your head in place as he’d guided his cock into your mouth and kept it there, pulling out only long enough to let you breathe and pushing back in for longer increments until you felt almost light-headed.  Does it really matter how or why it made you sufficiently wet to take him inside of you?  Is it not just easier to accept it than to dwell on the accompanying shame of it?

So far, you’ve realized, he hasn’t asked you to hurt him beyond scratching his back and arms when he’s inside of you, or biting down on the meat of his shoulder until you break skin.  Hasn’t asked you to subjugate him with the silver collar and chain he keeps, always noticeable but never mentioned after that night.  Perhaps he’s waiting for the right time, the right sign that you’d be able to hurt him as deliciously as he does you.

You think of the silver collar and how it would look against his pale skin as he waits patiently for instruction, like a fierce but loyal guard dog.

The image of it makes something you can’t quite name unfurl like black smoke in the pit of your stomach.  

Between training you to fight and training you to take his cock in a variety of positions, Feyd gives ample reason for you to enjoy the soothing attention you get in the Relaxation Chambers.

Once, when you enter the chambers, you see another woman walking by you; she’s well-dressed, clearly the wife of a high-ranking member of Harkonnen militia, and you speak before you can stop yourself.

“Hello,” you tell her, and she stops, blinking in confusion.  You’re starting to get better at gauging peoples’ ages around here without hair or eyebrows, and you guess her to be in her early thirties, with a round face and hazel eyes.

She stands, awkwardly, clearly wondering why you’ve just spoken to her, before inclining her head.  “Good afternoon, Na-Baroness.”

“My apologies.  I don’t think I’ve learned your name yet,” you tell her, extending your hand.

She takes it in a gentle shake.  “Indeed you have not, Na-Baroness.  It’s Liana Druganin, wife of Piter Druganin,” she says, managing to keep a polite tone before she drops your hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Druganin,” you tell her with a small smile.

She reciprocates and it looks as manufactured as the fake wood paneling.  

You’ve seen this before, but until now have been spared actually experiencing it: that moment when an attempt at friendship is made and the recipient can only think, Why are you talking to me?  Go away .  She won’t say it, not in a thousand years, because you outrank her.  But the look on her face, almost bordering on panic at the idea that you’ll keep trying to talk to her, says it all.

You clench your jaw, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.  “Well,” you say, “Have a lovely afternoon, Lady Druganin.”  You both know that it’s not true, and that it’s also not true when she replies with a feeble echo of your sentiments.

She turns to go with a polite bow of her head and a stiffness in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before you spoke to her.  You watch after her and for a moment, she starts to turn around before thinking better of it.

You try to stay resolute.  No matter , you tell yourself.  They will start by respecting me.  They don’t have to like me yet .  My children will play with their children and I will be their Baroness.  They’ll learn.

Still, the sting of it is enough that you have to look over a letter a friend sent you to remind you that you’re perfectly capable of making them.

You write another.  There’s a growing pile of letters that you keep in a desk drawer and in moments like these pull them out and re-read them and remember that even if they’re not here, there are still people who love you.

Feyd’s birthday is almost here–in a week the Bene Gesserit will visit and Feyd will execute prisoners in the arena under the guise of sport.  There will be hours of celebrating afterwards with more flash than the solemnity of a Harkonnen wedding.  You want to ask if there will be dancing, because there wasn’t at your wedding.  You’re not sure what Harkonnen dancing would even look like.  Or music, beyond ceremonial war chants.  The party afterwards will also be the first time you’re properly presented to the Fortress as the Na-Baron.

Not that you’ll be expected to make any speeches or hold anyone’s attention, but a dress is being made for you to commemorate the occasion and you’ll represent not a person but an idea, a symbol.  This is the part of marriage you’ve been preparing for most of your life.  When you were younger your mother was honest about what marriage would look like for you; that your husband would probably be someone you didn’t know very well or perhaps not at all until the wedding, and that it would be your duty to represent the best qualities of your House and, if your groom was from a different House, his as well.  That for you, marriage would be about politics first and that love would come eventually as you got acclimated to your new husband and the role you’d be playing, and even then that it might not be a passionate or easy kind of love.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen isn’t a creature compatible with something like love.  You were almost surprised that there’s a word for it in his language.  You’re not sure if you could ever grow to love him, or he you.  You’re not sure if it’s an emotion he’s capable of feeling or if the strangely companionable routine you’ve developed with him is the best you’re going to get.  

Your children, though, you’re certain you’ll love, even if they’re raised to be cold, even as they’ll never quite look like you, and you’ll teach them how to express it.  You’ll make sure that no matter how strict and unforgiving their father will bring them up that they’ll always have you.

In a letter addressed only to your mother you ask her what you can barely form in your own mind and couldn’t possibly ask anyone else here. You ask her how early she was able to tell, because you can’t.  You must be, or else something’s very wrong, but you haven’t had a moment after he’s finished inside of you that you felt life growing there.  You don’t feel different yet, and certainly don’t look different.  When do you feel a tithe to them?  You look at your stomach in the mirror as if expecting it to swell already and wonder if the rush of maternal love will come once you can confirm it or if it happens once you have the baby.  There’s no shortage of information on the physical aspects of pregnancy but nothing on that.  The closer it gets to the Bene Gesserit’s visit the more real all this becomes: you’re going to be a mother, on a brutal and unforgiving planet that you’re constantly torn between assimilating into and rejecting to maintain your own sense of self.  You’re going to need all the help you can get.

There’s another shift, four days before Feyd-Rautha’s birthday.

It starts out as a normal training session, with Feyd putting you through close range maneuver drills.

While the rest of the Fortress is busy preparing for his birthday celebrations, he seems somewhat detached.  You’d assumed he’d be more excited at the chance to kill more prisoners in front of an adoring crowd; he’d seemed like he was having a decent enough time killing drugged men for Geidi Prime’s entertainment before the wedding.  This, however, he treats like an obligation that he discusses only in the most pragmatic terms and as part of his responsibilities as Na-Baron.  You’re not entirely sure why, or what if any moral quandary he might have now that he didn’t nearly a month ago.  But you decide that your grasp of Harkonnen pronunciation has improved enough that you can give him an early birthday present and surprise him with your efforts so far.

It’s while you separate long enough to take a minute-long break that you decide that now is as good a time as any.  You take a breath and remember how Idrisa taught you to say the words before offering him a friendly smile and throwing out the words in imperfect but improved Harkonnen.

“ Do you know what you want for your birthday, Husband? ”

He blinks, taken aback for the sweetest of moments before tilting his head and giving you a small smile as if to say, Huh.  How about that.  Like you’re a dog that’s performed an amusing trick.  It would feel embarrassing were it not for that he could have had a much worse reaction.

He responds in kind, with what you can only partially interpret as “ Yes, wife, and I ….” something garbled or a phrase you haven’t learned yet, “ what is mine .”  

Well.  Tone and implications count for a lot.  You might not understand the wording exactly, but you think you get the general picture he’s painting for you as you feel yourself blush.  He circles around you and adds, speaking faster than the instructions you’re used to hearing and a few words are indecipherable, “ I’ll eghl as my wife, lawswh you off to all of Geidi Prime .”

Before you have time to respond he locks you into position, his front to your back and his blade against your throat.  “ To zxncoh to my people that you took my seed and you’re sadghl my heir .”

Other people can hear, you think, scandalized.  Maybe not all that well, he’s not speaking loudly, and other people are focused on their own training but still…

His cock is hard and flushed against the small of your back.  Your head is spinning.  He inhales sharply, as if he can smell the growing wetness between your legs.  He withdraws his blade, holsters it in his scabbard, and turns off his shield.  On instinct, you turn off yours.  There’s a couple of seconds you’re both still, and he opens his mouth, nuzzles your hair.  And then…

“Everyone out!” he calls out, the gravel of his rasp not suited for yelling, but he manages all the same.  A servant opens the door and everyone files out without a word in less than a minute, and then the door slams shut.

He turns you around in his arms and kisses you hard.

He’d talked about doing this the first day he trained you.  It’s really a testament to his self-restraint that he’s waited this long to do it, you think as he backs you into the wall and braces one forearm beside your head.  His other hand sneaks into the waist of your pants and beneath your undergarment.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and gasp into it as he brings his fingertips over your bud and circles lightly, at first anyway.  One fingertip slides along the slit of you, feeling for your growing wetness as he rests his lips against your hairline.  You feel him break into a self-satisfied grin as he says, “I think you can handle two, don’t you, pet?” and slips his middle and index fingers in without waiting for you to respond.  You try to tamp down on your whimpers, the way the echoes of the room amplify every sound, including the slick wet noises of his fingers twisting and pumping inside of you, finally crooking forward the way you like.  It’s hardly fair of him to use that against you.

Oh, Great Mother, they’ve probably got their ears pressed up against the door, listening in, hearing everything—

–And then he slides in a third finger and crooks them again.

You buck your hips, the wind knocked out of you in a silent scream.

“You like that?” Feyd asks, his voice in your ear.

You know I do.  For fuck’s sake, Feyd, just do it again.   You let out a desperate whine, biting your lip as you nod and he rubs you down again, feeling you shake around him.  You feel searingly hot, knowing your face is flushed, knowing that everyone outside knows what the two of you are doing.

You made this choice weeks ago.  You made this choice over a month ago when the Reverend Mother told you who you were to marry.

You still his hand, giving a small nod as if to say, I’m ready, and he withdraws, tilting his head and waiting.  You hardly take a breath before you turn and descend to your knees, pulling your pants and smallclothes down your thighs and spreading your legs as far as you reasonably can before bracing your hands against the wall.  Your breath is already ragged.  You rest your forehead in between your hands.

“ Fuck me, husband ,” you manage in Harkonnen.

Feyd huffs a laugh and settles down behind you.  The sound of him unfastening the front of his pants is shockingly loud within the cavernous expanse of the room, and even as you’d wanted to hold back on your noises he punctures them out of you with each thrust.

You’ll forgive yourself this indignity.  You’re doing it for a greater purpose , you tell yourself.

And then Feyd thrusts at just the right angle that has you letting out a strangled moan, shaking around him, barely able to hold onto the wall in front of you before he brings a hand between your legs.

“That’s it, pet,” he murmurs in your ear.  “Don’t hold back.  Make all the pretty noises you can,” he says and brings his fingers back to your bud.  You cry out, tears pricking up at the corners of your eyes and you’re not entirely sure from what, clenching hard as he uses the pressure around him to power through, pulling you onto him as he growls and snarls and fills you to the brim.

You tremble through it all, shutting your eyes.  A few months ago you would never have pictured yourself doing this, letting a man fuck you from behind while over a dozen people in a hallway mere meters away could hear, and certainly would never have pictured coming from it.  A few months ago you would never have pictured marrying a Harkonnen.

Afterwards, he holds himself to your back, giving one last soft thrust before pulling out.  You yank your smallclothes and pants up as fast as possible to avoid any kind of spill, wincing at the mess of fluids smeared between you and the gusset.

“Is it always messy like this?” you ask as Feyd tucks himself back in and rises to stand.

“If you’re doing it right,” he says, offering a hand to guide you up.

Once he has you he cups your chin with his hand that had fondled you under your smallclothes.  You know immediately what he’s about to do and open your mouth, allowing him access as he slips his fingers inside.

“Clever thing, aren’t you?” Feyd says, watching his fingers go in, watching your eyes as he pushes them until they reach your soft palate and you just barely manage not to gag at the taste and scent of your own juices on his fingertips, the brush of his fingertips pressed too far in for comfort.  He withdraws them as he says, “Quick to learn, eager to please.”

You shut your eyes, exhaling shakily as you lower your head.  You can’t name the twisted combination of shame and pride at his condescending praise.

He cradles your face again.  “None of that, now.  Look at me, pet,” he says.  And when you do, swallowing around nothing, jaw clenched, he looks at your face, studying the look in your eyes as if he can understand what you’re feeling better than you can.

He kisses you again, bruising, searing, burying his other hand in your hair.  He gives you a moment to catch your breath when he releases you, and then looks at the door.  His eyes flicker between you and it for a moment before he strides towards it to let everyone back inside.

“I would never have done what we just did for anyone other than you,” you call after him before he can get there, before you can stop yourself.  “ Never .”

He stops and looks at you.  “I believe you believe that, Y/N,” he says.  “You were the first virgin I think I’ve ever been with.”

You furrow your brow.  “Really?” you ask, his response briefly taking you out of the embarrassed pit you’d started digging for yourself.  You’d sort of assumed that he’d had a history of deflowering frightened young women.  Sort of assumed that it was one of his Na-Baronly duties.

He gives a mono-syllabic grunt in the affirmative before opening the door.

You don’t envy everyone shuffling in, avoiding looking at either of you directly as they offer quick honorifics and resume their training.

You’re too shaken to be of much use for the rest of your session, not to Feyd’s surprise.  

“Let’s call it a morning, Y/N.  Go to your quarters, take a shower.  I’ll see you at breakfast,” he says, and you’re biting down on a sarcastic, why thank you, Na-Baron. The squelch of your come leaking out of me is a bit distracting.  I appreciate you noticing , when he leans in and gives you a brief kiss on the mouth.

You blink in surprise.  He seldom kisses you when there are other people around, and certainly not in front of his soldiers while he’s training.  You hesitate before returning it.  

“ Thank you, husband ,” you tell him in Harkonnen as you pull away.  The curve of his mouth twitches in what you hope is a smile.

You’re certain after that you’ve gotten a good amount of leverage, as much as you’re probably going to get until you become a mother, but what then?  

You can learn to live with Feyd as the father of your children, with him being the formative authority figure in their lives.  You’ll never try to convince yourself that deep down he’s a kind and decent man, but you’ve noticed that he has his own, albeit twisted, set of moral standards.  It’s the idea of the Baron being in their lives at all that worries you.  You can’t imagine any way in which his presence could be a good thing, especially for any sons you’ll have–and surely Feyd must know this?

A thought forms and grows even as you try to shut it out.  It’s impossible, you tell yourself, and still you can’t help but wonder.

At dinnertime the following evening your grip tightens on your fork as at the head of the table the Baron eats roasted bird down to the bone and you wonder how fragile his own must be after what must be years now of not being able to move on his own.  

There’s not a chance that you’d be able to get rid of him personally.  You’d be killed long before such an attempt could come to fruition.  But you’ve read a bit about Harkonnen history, and Barons have been usurped before, ones in declining health replaced by those who’d go on to prove more capable and more ruthless than their predecessors.  Feyd knows his own history far better than you do, he’s read about this.

He tried to kill his uncle once.  What’s stopping him now that he’s entering the very prime of his life?  When he has a wife and, soon, children to think about?  When the Baron’s over seventy and hasn’t been able to walk on his own in years?

Can he be convinced?

You keep your head down, glad that no one here can read your mind, glad that the Baron only seems to pay attention to you if he seems to be wondering if it’s too early for you to start showing.  

I’ll spare you the suspense: it is, you’d tell him if you had the nerve. 

That night Feyd comes to your room and takes you and there’s a moment between when he finishes and when he decides to sleep in his own quarters that you think about suggesting it to him.

The people respect and fear you .  It’s your time.  You’re ready.

You have a duty to Geidi Prime and the Bene Gesserit and me to keep our children safe and there’s no guarantee of that unless you get rid of the Baron.

In the end you can’t bring yourself to say it.  Not yet.

You wake up to the feeling of a body behind you and cold steel against your throat, and it takes you less than a second to realize that you’re not dreaming, and the person shifting in behind you and bringing both arms around you is very much real.

You let out one scream, to alert any guards nearby, but nothing else to waste your precious breath as you reach for the forearm leading to the hand that’s holding the knife and jerk one shoulder up as hard as you can, trying to dislodge him.

This is so much easier standing up than laying on your side, you realize with immediate clarity, having never felt more awake in your life as you try to duck your head in the scant gap that you’ve made, grabbing his wrist and struggling as he refuses to give you enough space to properly move.

You still manage to keep your hand on his forearm, ducking just enough to squirm out of his arms and plunge his knife into his ribs and then…

The knife hums but doesn’t pierce his skin.  

He has his shield activated , you realize, panic setting in, eyes trying to adjust to the dark.  If I can evade him just long enough to get his shield off then maybe–

You bite down on the man’s other arm, hard, breaking the skin and drawing a moan out of the man behind you that you don’t have time to recognize sounds familiar– you just need to get on top of him, get the upper hand –and duck under his arm long enough to turn and swing one leg over the man’s waist and pin him on his back to your bed, finally wrenching the knife out of his hand as you point it as his chest and…

You stare, panting and stunned.  It hadn’t occurred to you to question how someone could get into your chambers, hadn’t registered that your assailant was wearing pants but no shirt.  All you could think about was the knife at your throat.

Pinned underneath you is your husband.  He fixes you with a smile, looking utterly pleased with himself.

“You’re improving; that’s good,” he says.

You nearly drop your knife, barely having the mind to set it on the bed next to Feyd’s shoulder, realizing that you’re sitting directly on top of his stiffening groin.  Feyd turns off his shield device before propping himself up on his forearms.

“I had to make sure that you were prepared.  If you’re ever ambushed it won’t be in a training room with a warning,” he says.  He ignores your ragged breaths and stunned expression quickly turning to anger.

You slap him as hard as you can.  The cracking sound could deafen you; pain shoots down your wrist from the impact.

What the fuck?!  I was terrified! you almost say before he sits all the way up and pulls you into a ferocious kiss.  You give back as good as you receive, almost snarling into it, gripping the back of his neck, before pulling away for breath.

“I’m fucking furious with you,” you tell him.

“Good,” he says, and pulls you into another kiss.  He gives a quiet moan at the taste of his blood in your mouth, staining your teeth, and licks it off of you.  He draws an arm across your naked back and buries his other hand in your hair.  Anger turns to adrenaline turns to arousal that has you panting against his mouth before something occurs to you.

“Wait, what happened to–” there are always a couple of armed guards at each end of the expansive hallway.  They would’ve been able to hear your screaming.

“I told the guards that I was conducting a drill and that if they interfered that I’d feed them alive and screaming to my Darlings,” he says.

You’re deranged , you think, and reach for his pants with only one goal in mind, and for a moment you picture him flipping the two of you over, fucking you into the mattress like he does every night and sometimes in the mornings, reducing you to mewls and whimpers.

No.

This time he can be the one who gets fucked, that follows the rhythm of your hips.  You’ve only come close to that kind of leverage once before but if he wants to be inside of you tonight this is what he’s going to get.

You grab the dagger left on the sheets and press it to his collarbone.

“You nearly killed me,” you tell him.  “I’ll take what I want from you.” 

He grins at you with his black teeth and gums.  “I was only trying to make you think I would kill you, but you did well, so you can take whatever you want.”

You exhale through your nostrils.  Think I’m bluffing? you want to ask as the tip of the blade just barely pierces his alabaster skin.  An image flashes like lightning in your mind and grows like the clap of thunder–him prone underneath you, laying back and taking everything you give him.  Your mouth falls open at the idea and shuts again as you push at his chest, watching as he goes down.

Something flashes in those blue eyes of his as he has just enough reach to turn on the light and you relax the blade just enough to let him do it, let him give you a good look at him.

“Go on,” he says.  “Take your reward.”

You huff an-almost laugh, stunned, delighted.  You think of him collared but quickly dismiss the notion.  Next time.  You’re too impatient to leave the room.  You look down at Feyd, pliant and waiting beneath you, and press the tip of the knife just barely against his skin.  “Help me get your pants off,” you tell him as you raise your hips enough to give him access.

His eyes blaze as he does as he’s told, raising his hips to push them down his legs, kicking a little to get them further down.  Do they come all the way off?  Probably not.  You don’t care.  His cock stands at attention, and you relinquish the knife in order to brace a hand on his stomach, your other hand positioning him at your entrance.  Feyd’s hands in turn cup your hips.  It takes some finessing, moving on top of him; it’s not a position you’ve explored much before but you’re slick enough that it’s effortless to line him up against you and slide down onto him.

“You wanna ride me?” he says as you rock your hips for the first time and a moan spills from your lips.  He feels so good, you think, almost dazed, mouth falling open.

“Is that what this is called?” you ask, resting your hands on his chest, taking the opportunity to squeeze and grope whatever you can find.

Feyd lets out a breathless laugh, sliding his own hands over your hips, bringing one up further to squeeze one of your breasts in turn.  “Among other things,” he says.

You almost laugh as well; this way it’s almost like his body’s a fun toy you can use to amuse and please yourself.  You have better access to the rest of him this way, and he you.  He’s never really let you touch him like this, and you wonder–he doesn’t have breasts, but would he still like it if you touched his nipples?  You rock your hips, still getting a feel for the rise and fall, the drag of it, as you circle your thumb around one of them before pinching the bud between it and your forefinger.  For a moment you expect him to snap at you, grab your wrist and growl a warning at you, but he twitches and gasps and you repeat the gesture.

Your breath hitches and you can’t help but smile for a moment, delighted at the new information you have on this man, the vulnerability of him under you.  Would he, under the right circumstances, allow the clamps he’s used only once on you?  You bring one hand to his bare thigh as you try out different movements and speeds, oscillating between a rolling grind, bouncing up and down, a combination of both as the friction from this position is a unique thrill that builds the heat within you just as fast as the drag of him inside of you.

He brings one hand to your neck, thumb to your pulse point, and gives a light squeeze.  You just bear down and ride him harder as if to say, You think that scares me?  I know you, husband.  You’ve hurt a lot of people and you’re going to hurt more, but not me.  Not in a way that I can’t handle and come back from.

The clarity of it is almost shocking, but you know in your heart that it’s true; even tonight is his own perverse kind of fondness.

What a strange fucking husband, what a strange fucking marriage you have, that minutes after you thought you were about to be killed you feel safer than you have with him so far.

Your orgasm rips through you faster than you’ve ever managed with him inside of you, has you crying out as you shut your eyes and throw your head back, stomach and thighs clenching and every nerve on fire.  For a moment everything’s red and everything’s hot and you feel like you’ve just incinerated yourself, and then you come to, mouth open and hips still jerking in short thrusts on top of him and all you can see are Feyd’s pupils blown wide as he stares up at you.

There’s a moment you realize that you could deprive him of an orgasm.  One of the first nights you were together, the moment it seemed like you were about to come, he’d smugly withheld it from you.  Now that you’ve gotten yours, you could stop, climb off of him, and tell him he can finish himself off.  Right now he seems dazed, mouth open, his grip on your throat more of a loose hold.  For a moment you picture the lost look on his face if you do it.

That moment breezes by, and you start rocking onto him again, panting and moaning as you scratch down his chest, your nails catching onto his nipples, making him buck his hips and moan, the movements jostling your insides.  He’s close–and somehow, you’re building again with your frayed nerves, but you’re going to need his help to bring you over with him.

Well, maybe not need.   But you’re going to tell him anyway.

It takes you a few tries, mouth open, trying to form the words, before you say, “Touch me,” and you’re pretty proud of how it comes across as an instruction rather than a plea.

In turn it takes him a moment to register your orders before sliding his hand to your neck down to one of your breasts, squeezing and fondling one and then the other, and finally, mercifully sliding his other hand from your hip and resting it high up on your thigh, rubbing his thumb along your apex.

“That’s it,” you manage, closing your eyes, gritting your teeth at how frustratingly close you are while still so sensitive, so determined to make it over the edge before he does.  He’s panting underneath you, his heart pounding, sweat dampening his chest and his thigh and he shifts his legs and–oh.  Oh .  That’s it.  You don’t register your own moans and cries as you shut your eyes against it, feeling him coming inside of you, hearing a guttural moan ripped out of his chest as he arches his hips up into you and for a moment you feel like everything’s shattering, everything bursting into air.  After a moment you still your hips, taking in shuddering breaths, waiting to come back to yourself.

You open your eyes again and look down at Feyd, who looks at you like he’s never looked at you before and you realize this is what it’s like for someone to be in awe of you.  It’s a powerful feeling, especially from him.

You kept this away from me for nearly a month? you want to ask.  You let out a laugh.  You’re soaring.  You’re delirious.  You want to go again even as you tremble.

Feyd ends up talking first.  “Now what, pet?” he says, running his hands over your shaking thighs.  “Anything you want.”

You catch your breath.  He’s still under you, still subdued and tamed–for now.  You lean forward, bracing your forearms on either side of him, enjoying the shift of the angle of him inside of you even when softened.  He gives a slight hiss as you roll your hips once for good measure.

“I want to keep you inside of me until you get hard again, and then I want to ride you again until I can’t anymore,” you tell him.

You haven’t seen him drunk but you can imagine that it looks a little like this, the way his head rolls to the side and he grins, still looking dazed and bedazzled.  You can hardly blame him; you feel almost out of your own body as well.

I have you.  I have you.  I have you.

[fairypowerful]

Before I begin, I just wanna throw these out:

• “ ‘Missing out on love’ isn't something that matters as much when your society isn't amatonormative.”

• “When the world around you doesn't emphasize marriage and romance and all that, then wouldn't you view cultures that do as a tad odd? Not weird in a bad way, just different.”

• “[…] People cannot fathom the concept that other people might experience romantic attraction, and do so intensely, and yet value something else above romance.”

• You just don’t have those feelings of “I need romance, I need marriage” when your society isn’t broken by being amatonormativity. You just don’t have those feelings when you’re already fulfilled in a community. You just don’t have those feelings when you have a purpose in life.

• “Call me crazy, but I know for a fact that I would not want a romantic relationship if I was a Jedi […] […] […] I honestly don't understand the assumption that ‘the Jedi are miserable because they can't get married,’ I really don't.”

• There’s romance and marriage in every single media and literature, so why should it be inserted into a fictional monastic culture? If you don’t think entire groups of people could choose to have no romantic commitments their entire life, then there’s over a thousand-year nonfictional accounts of monks and nuns and priests choosing to live a single life in an environment that, too, forbids them from romantic commitments, and they lived in contentment and peace.

————————————————

I wanted to show all that first, like a little preview, because this post is not only about why the Jedi are not wrong for disallowing romantic commitments and marriage, but it’s also about amatonormativity which has always been an enormous problem in the real world, and it clearly impacts how people view communities like the Jedi within fiction.

———

“So why can't Jedi marry? The Jedi believe that children and spouses deserve complete attention. They believe that people deserve present parents and involved partners. Being a Jedi isn't a job. It's a lifestyle. How dare they preach compassion and fairness and justice whilst leaving some abandoned child somewhere? How dare they teach kindness and love and self sacrifice while having a neglected spouse?” — @popupguidetothegalaxy (original post here)

This right here! It wouldn’t stop the criticisms within that part of the fandom, it’d just redirect it to a different one.

Even if the Jedi did marry and have families, y’all (Jedi antis) would then criticize the Jedi for prioritizing the galaxy (which is literally their vocation, their aspiration, and their lifestyle) over their spouses and children.

On top of their daily galactic duties that « take them away from the temple on assignments or missions, away from the planet that temple is located on, and always on the move interstellar-wise » ,,, antis think the Jedi should/could be able to marry and raise a family properly with zero neglect of either spouse and child?

Forget about being burnt out like a nurse in a severely understaffed hospital, it’s just simply an impossible commitment!

———

I watched “Tiger Cruise” rather recently, because it’s one of those Disney movies I never watched growing up, and one conversation in the movie puts this into even more perspective – because the teenaged main character is sick & tired of always only seeing her Navy commander father for a few weeks every few months, begging him to quit the Navy and come home for good.

Maddie: Dad, when are you coming home?

Commander Dolan: What do you mean? We're gonna be docking on Friday.

Maddie: No, I mean… When are you coming home for good?

Commander Dolan: Is that why you came on board? To ask me that? [pause] Look, this is my job.

Maddie: Then get a new one. You've got the degrees, you can do like anything you want.

Commander Dolan: This is what I do.

Maddie: [pause] Must be nice .. travel all over the world, no responsibilities.

Commander Dolan: I'm responsible to a lot of people.

Maddie: To strangers, Dad. What about us? [pause] We’re strangers too. We move all over the place, see you for a few weeks every four or five months, or whenever the Navy says it's okay.

Commander Dolan: The Navy is a way of life. I mean, you go into it and you know the sacrifices you have to make.

Maddie: Well, you’ve done it for my entire life.

Seriously, is this what Jedi antis want? It’s misery, and not necessarily on the parent’s part — he’s HAPPY and LOVES his job. He has the degrees to do anything he wants, as Maddie pointed out, but he doesn’t leave the Navy. It’s the same with the Jedi, as they have the best education and biggest library in the galaxies. And yet…

(some Jedi-Critical) and Anti-Jedi fans think the Jedi are miserable and why the Order is “wrong” for disallowing it [which is just projecting their subjective view of “what a fulfilling life is supposed to look like” onto a monastic people who value and find fulfillment in something other than romance], but it would actually be miserable if they did have families.

Pushing aside the fact that the Jedi are a monastic (and not only martial) organization, there’s a legit reason for disallowing marriage and committed relationships. It’s not fun and games. You can’t combine two enormous commitments and think you can handle it without neglecting the other. There’s no such thing as a part-time Jedi, it’s not a job title!

Jedi are able to leave the Order peacefully, they aren’t forced to stay, but on this specific topic, you just don’t have those feelings of « I need romance, I need marriage » when your society isn’t broken by being amatonormativity. You just don’t have those feelings when you’re already fulfilled in a community. You just don’t have those feelings when you have a purpose in life.

How dare they be happy and fulfilled by being Jedi? How dare they show their commitment to the Order by making the active and daily choice to be Jedi, when they could leave any time? How dare they stick their middle finger up at the no-romance/no-marriage rule? How dare the Jedi not conform to the “education → graduation → relationship → engagement → wedding → 2 kids and a dog” trajectory that only an amatonormative society expects of you? How dare the Jedi be monastic and live like it too?

———

(Words belong to @phoenixyfriend)

• “ ‘Missing out on love’ isn't something that matters as much when your society isn't amatonormative”

• “When your culture is one that emphasizes compassion for all [...] Don't you think that people might just not think of marriage as something worth striving for?”

• “When the world around you doesn't emphasize marriage and romance and all that, then wouldn't you view cultures that do as a tad odd? Not weird in a bad way, just different.”

I just keep thinking about the real world and how so much of the obsession with marriage and so on is a sociocultural thing. You don't want a big white dress because it's a big white dress: you want it because it is the symbol that your culture has been pushing on you since you were two. Girls are taught to fantasize about weddings and marriage and to like A Certain Look for it, sometimes to such a degree that they can spend decades in denial about things like their sexualities.

And we're unlearning that as a society, people are being more critical of the institution and how they engage with it, are starting to question what it is that our media teaches us, asking 'why is marriage the most important thing in a girl's life, or in anyone's life' and generally moving towards a world where marriage exists but is not treated as a universal life goal.

But the Jedi are just. Already doing that.”

• “Marriage is not an inherent human/sapient want. Companionship is! We are biologically wired to be social creatures! […] But marriage? A signed sheet of paper? That's not...inherent. Fidelity and monamory? Sure, maybe. Plenty of species mate for life. But... humans have been proving that's a choice for most of history.”

— (original post, here)

Even without the galactic scale of their lifestyle and duties, is it really so hard to understand or believe that people wouldn’t be miserable in a society where romance is not considered an important thing at all?

If you don’t think entire groups of people could choose to have no romantic commitments their entire life, then there’s over a thousand-years history of monks and nuns choosing to live a single life in an environment that, too, forbids them from romantic commitments, and they lived in contentment and peace.

They’re not only connected to other Jedi through the Force, they are connected to the rest of the universe through the Force; they find joy in their selflessness, in helping people, in trying their best to do good in a universe permeated with corruption. They love being a Jedi, there’s nothing a romantic relationship can give them that’s as fulfilling as being Jedi.

Just…stop projecting your amatonormative misery onto the Jedi.

———

If millions of people around the world in real-life can choose not to ever get married and have children (without even being a part of a close-knit community like the Jedi), despite being bombarded with amatonormativity in media and literature almost everyday, then what’s so weird about a fictional group (who are literally warrior-monks and whom have all of their companionship needs met within their non-amatonormative community) choosing to be single in favor of a higher calling and lifestyle that’s far more valuable and fulfilling than having a romantic relationship?

———

(Words belong to @jedi-enthusiast)

• “Call me crazy, but I know for a fact that I would not want a romantic relationship if I was a Jedi.

If I lived somewhere where I was a part of a community of people that I considered my mentors, my friends, my family; if I lived somewhere where I was encouraged to learn, to travel, to help people, to enjoy life as it is, and better myself; if I lived somewhere where I was supported and loved and cared for by the community, and I did the supporting, the loving, the caring for other people in the community as well; if I lived somewhere where it wasn't constantly implied, or sometimes outright stated, that my worth was tied to me marrying a man, popping out children, and making money...

...if I was a Jedi, I can honestly say that the thought of pursuing a romantic relationship probably wouldn't cross my mind at all---not unless I met someone specific whom I felt that sort of connection with, but even then, I probably wouldn't give up being a Jedi to be with them because I'd feel more fulfilled as a Jedi than I would in a romantic relationship.

I honestly don't understand the assumption that the Jedi are miserable because they can't get married, I really don't.

If you feel like you wouldn't be able to be fulfilled without a romantic partner, then that's fine! Everyone's different! We all have different wants and needs! But just accept that you wouldn't be fulfilled without a romantic relationship and stop acting like it's impossible for anyone else to feel differently.

The Jedi all seem perfectly happy as they are.”

— (original post, here)

I also wanna add, because I don’t know where to put this statement … there’s romance and marriage in every single media and literature, so why should it be inserted into a fictional monastic culture? They’re not only warriors, they’re monks too.

It’s a rhetorical question…but I think either they’re so marriage-obsessed that they hadn’t thought of this. Or they are consciously aware of the over-saturation of romance within media when they talk about how the Jedi Order are wrong for disallowing romantic relationships, but they don’t care because they think higher callings are stupid and anything else is inferior to a romance/marriage.

———

(Words belong to @tookas-have-teeth) (original post here)

• “There is a difference between people saying that everyone feels romantic attraction and that it is necessary to being human [arophobia] and the comments a lot of people make about the Jedi.

Oftentimes, when I see complaints about the Jedi, it's because people are angry that people who DO feel romantic attraction might not choose to act on it, or might be part of an organization that requires its members to give up romantic relationships and marriage. People cannot fathom the concept that other people might experience romantic attraction, and do so intensely, and yet value something else above romance.

People consider this to be a cruel denial and repression of one's feelings, rather than seeing it as a choice people are making to prioritize things they value. People have SO bought into the idea that romance is the Ultimate Form of Love, that romance is necessary to live a fulfilled life, that they cannot imagine folks finding other forms of love more fulfilling, especially if those folks experience romantic attraction.”

—

[a comment within the post linked immediately above] “By claiming that people who experience romantic attraction *must* act on it or else they are oppressed, one is functionally insulting every priest, monk, nun, or any number of members of a religious order who choose, of their own free will, not to pursue romance in favor of a higher calling.” — @supersaiyanjedi14

———

There’s only two other fictional worlds that I can think of off the top of my head, that are non-amatonormative. Blissfully fulfilled and happy …

… Equestria (My Little Pony) and Pixie Hollow (Disney Fairies).

After learning the word, I could now put a name to why these two worlds are my top favorites: It’s a non-amatonormative society where everyone’s happy with just a community and a purpose in their life, where romance is 100% not an important factor.

“But in Pixie Hollow, there’s no reproduction, so of course there wouldn’t be any relationships.”

There’s still love and attraction.

Rosetta gets a crush on Sled in Secret of the Wings, Queen Clarion and Lord Milori reveal they fell in love in the distant past. And Terrence has a crush on TinkerBell (although that might just be the printed media, ‘cause I don’t remember it being obvious in the movies).

Is it really so hard to understand or believe that in a society where romance is not considered an important thing at all, and people have (literal) power and a job that they love and a whole damn community for companionship, then those people wouldn’t be miserable?

So, again, stop projecting your allonormative and amatonormative misery onto the Jedi. ‘Cause that’s all it is: your projection.

It’s so sad that the real world can’t be like the aforementioned worlds. Our world makes it so hard for people; a majority don’t have jobs they love, or they don’t have time or money to pursue and grow their talents, and there’s no true community among us. It’s literally dystopian, and we only see it as “this is normal, it’s real life” because we don’t know any other way. But that’s quite a different topic, so…

—

I just wanted to add these, unrelated to Star Wars and fandoms, to point out how destructive it [amatonormativity and allonormativity] is in the real world. ‘Cause I do see tweets on my timeline, from time to time, where a user will be torn over not having a relationship at a certain age or their life not following the ‘right’ trajectory.

[posts by people outside of the Star Wars fandom]

— @uncanny-tranny (original post here)

• Amatonormativity has destroyed so many people's understanding and acceptance of themselves, and it's heartbreaking.

Yes, it is normal to be in your 20s, 30s, or older and not have lost your virginity, had a first kiss, or a partner. It is normal to say that you aren't ready for those things, too! It is normal if your life doesn't follow the "college graduate -> engagement -> buying a home -> 2.5 kids and a dog" trajectory that so many people have idealized.

So many people associate maturity with losing your virginity, or having a first kiss, or a serious relationship, and I think that's a dangerous association. Maturity isn't gained through those things, and you don't have to have those experiences to be considered "mature" or "grown." It is not a bad thing to go at your pace. Nobody else can live your life but you. If you end up having those experiences, that's great! But it should be done because you want to experience them, not because you feel "broken" and "immature" without them.

— @/acegirleatscake on Twitter

• Allonormativity and amatonormativity normalizes ableism: the “you must be cold, sick, delusional” or “there’s something wrong with you” if you don’t have sexual or romantic attractions or don’t want those types of relationships. Being single is seen as “being unwell.”

@/0p4l3sc3nt for this one (below)

• […] single people are constantly questioned about the legitimacy of our happiness […] In an Amatonormative society, our romantic relationships will always have ulterior motives (often subconscious) – which arise from us being conditioned to see romantic relationships as the means to achieve personhood, happiness, and TRUE purpose.

———

Sincerely, everyone in the Anti-Jedi circle needs to go outside, touch grass, and reflect on it.

If our society wasn’t amatonormative (if there was no such thing as our idealization of romance and marriage, if romantic relationships weren’t seen as the most important thing at all in our society), then nobody would have an issue with the Jedi Order disallowing it — for many legit reasons, might I again remind you! Their reasons make so much sense, yet your amatonormativity floods in and turns your brain into worms.

• “Fiction doesn't necessarily map onto people's real life opinions, but the statements people make about this topic are often very broad "the Jedi are bad for forbidding marriage, because people NEED romance" type statements that definitely sound like they're general worldviews rather than just opinions on fictional characters.” — @tookas-have-teeth (again)

This post was left in my drafts from a month ago (early August 2023), but seeing the topic come up again just made me kinda snap; and I don’t want to just scream into the void, so I’m posting it.

And I don’t care how repetitive some of it is, because that was very intentional. They’re like little reminders, so you don’t miss the point and might actually reflect on it.

HAVE A GOOD DAY!

[chaxiu]

what fish feel

pairing: osamu x fem! reader

summary: what we hold in the time we have – a return to japan and the unfamiliar roads of your heart. title stolen from a bashō haiku that loosely translated goes something like

what fish feel

birds feel, I don’t know—

the year ending.

notes: my official petition to let osamu have an absolute disaster of a partner. post-timeskip spoilers for occupations (specifically of the inarizaki crew). reader is japanese-diaspora (heavily implied to be japanese-american.) my japanese is poor so please correct me if there’s something not right! loosely inspired by the documentary jiro dreams of sushi (which you can watch for free on youtube, i think!). 

for all my diaspora lovelies and for everyone who, as a child, used to think i want to go home, no matter where they were. here’s hoping the road there is warm and well-lit. 

cw: casual mentions of racism, sexism, xenophobia in relation to japanese culture. second-gen immigrant guilt (and by default an obsession with food as a love language.) very in-your-face flouting of health and safety codes for restaurants.

___

Summer, and the sky is nothing but blue. 

Your airplane touches down on the runway in a fit of grinding gears and last-minute jolts, but it pales in comparison to the way your legs are cramped and sore, a product of so many hours sat in the same place – the perils of a window seat – alternately staring out the window and dozing against the shade.

Your neighbor, next to you, smiles at you. You’ve spent some time talking to her – listening to her talk, really, the nice old obaa-chan in the middle seat who is just coming back from visiting her son and his wife and their newly-born daughter abroad, who spent at least an hour of the trip painstakingly swiping through photos while you smiled and nodded along.

“日本へよこそ,” she says. Welcome to Japan. You wonder if it should feel more momentous, this first welcome to the country in which your roots are deepest. The first few minutes of a month-long stay, your longest time in this country by far.

Instead, what is: you really do have to pee.

Finding a bathroom in the airport is simple enough, as is making your way through the customs line, although there’s a brief moment of confusion when the customs agent sees your face, your features, and attempts to wave you towards the line for returning nationals. You put your hands up, bow apologetically. “日系人,” you say, and her face clears of confusion. 

She points you to the right line. 

At the very least, you think, standing with your passport dangling between two fingers, at the very least you speak the language – slowly, in fits and starts, with gaps where your vocabulary should be and absolutely no understanding of any slang – but at the very least you can do things like tell the customs officer what you are. Foreign-born, Japanese descent: close enough by generation that this land should maybe be familiar to you, should maybe be something approaching yours. Far enough that it’s not, not really.

Once you’re through customs and baggage claim – luggage collected, both you and your suitcases a little worse for wear – there’s nothing to do but make your way to the exit, where your cousin is waiting. She looks like you, maybe, if you squint and tilt your head a little. You try your best not to think about it, about how maybe this is what you’d look like if you stayed. She regards you for a moment.

“Hey,” she says in Japanese.

“Hey,” you say back. It is not the first time you’ve felt uncomfortably aware of your accent – how much it must stick out. How everyone who comes into contact with you must know right away how much you're not from here. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

She raises an eyebrow, grabbing one of your suitcases, ignoring your half-hearted attempt at protest. “Come on. Mom’s making dinner.”

Dinner, at least, is something you know. You grip the handle of your remaining suitcase. Follow her out into the sunshine.

Your aunt lives in the suburbs of Tokyo, and you make it there just as the sun begins to set. Stepping out of the car, you shield your face against the glow. “It’s pretty,” you say, half to yourself, half because the car ride had been awkwardly quiet enough that you’d begun to say any inane comment that sprung to your mind out loud, in hopes of starting any kind of conversation.

Your cousin spares it a glance, then pauses. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess so.”

Inside, your aunt fusses over you in a way that makes you feel equal parts uncomfortable and longing – this is what I could’ve had, over and over in your head like a drumbeat. Dinner is already on the table, uni – sea urchin – as the crowning glory.

“You liked this when you were little,” your aunt says, “the last time you came to visit us. Do you remember?”

You don’t. You say you do anyway.

The truth is you think probably you would say you liked anything – even as you take your first bites and realize sometime between childhood and now, you’d unlearned how to like the texture. It’s okay, you think. It’s enough to be here, in the light around the table.

You eat without waiting for your uncle, who gets home halfway through the meal. He toes his shoes off in the genkan, and you stand when he steps inside. From what you remember of him, he is a quiet man. His wife does enough talking for the both of them. Still, when he smiles the corners of his eyes crinkle, and it strikes a chord of remembrance. 

“Tadaima,” he says.

You mouth it along with your aunt and cousin. “Okaeri.”

That night, with the grime of the airport washed off of you, wearing your softest T-shirt and pants probably a size too large, you sit on the futon that’s been unrolled for you – in your cousin’s room, right by the window – and stare at the moon. It looks the same. You feel the same. Your cousin, in bed already, is only illuminated by the glow of her phone screen. “Good night,” you say, tentative.

“Good night,” she says, rolling over in bed to face away from you.

The next morning your uncle is gone before you wake up – off to work. Your cousin has class at university, and so you follow your aunt around. It settles in a pattern of the next few days, and you have to actively fight against feeling like a lost duckling. She takes you to the Tokyo Skytree, and you make all the appropriate sounds and take the right photos to send home, of Tokyo’s beautiful skyline. She takes you to Shibuya, and you marvel at the densely packed crowds of people together. She takes you to Tsukiji, the smell of the brine and the ocean lingering on your clothes for hours. She takes you grocery shopping and in the evenings you cook next to her, losing yourself in the familiar repetition of the knife. It could probably be enough, if you let it.

On the sixth day of your visit your aunt’s friend has to go to the hospital – nothing serious, your aunt assures you, but better that they go now – and for the first time since your arrival you are left to your own devices, with nothing but time and the sky above you.

You attempt to go back to the places your aunt’s taken you, to get some shopping done – gifts, maybe, for the people you’ve left at home – but there’s something in you so uncomfortably aware that all the places she’s taken you are tourist destinations, first and foremost. That no one from Tokyo really ever goes. 

You pivot away from Shibuya and start walking.

Down the streets, turning when you feel like it, almost definitely walking in a circle more than once – there is something about the act of it, about walking these streets. About pretending, for just a moment – pretending what, you’re not sure. You walk until it’s far past lunchtime and your stomach is reminding you incessantly, until you’re scanning the signs you walk by – an udon restaurant here, an izakaya closed until the evening there – for something you might want to eat.

One of the signs, simple white characters on black font, catches your eye, and you slow to a stop. Sound out the characters in your mouth, clumsy and fumbling. Onigiri Miya, it reads, and you rock back and forth on the heels of your feet as you ponder. This time of day – too late for lunch, and too early for dinner – it’s likely to be just you in there. This could be good: you could be able to eat quickly and quietly, in and out. Or it could be awful: everyone who works there could whisper about you behind their hands, talking about the odd foreigner with the too-loud voice and too-crooked accent, always a beat behind the conversation. As the seconds tick on your thoughts turn towards dread, and you make to turn away instead.

“Hey,” says a voice. You startle.

The man standing behind you is dressed in what must be the uniform of the shop, black pants and black shirt with the Onigiri Miya logo embroidered on the breast. He smiles at you, crooked and reassuring. Says something in the most heavily accented Japanese you’ve ever heard – not that it’s much of a competition – and you blink at him. He must not be from Tokyo, then – must be from a rural prefecture – although where, you certainly couldn’t hazard a guess. 

The realization – how much of a stranger you are, even in this country that should know and be known by you – fills you with hot, irrational shame.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak, bowing to him, shoulders so high they’re almost touching your ears. You turn and flee without a backwards glance.

____

The next day, a little calmer, a little clearer-headed, you think through it again and realize that fleeing was almost certainly the absolute weirdest thing you could’ve done. 

He must think I’m such a freak, you mourn, chopping the green onions with a little more force than necessary. Such a weirdo. What kind of person stands in front of a store for minutes on end, and then when an employee comes to help you, runs away? What kind of person –

“Hey,” your cousin says, dropping her bag by the door. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve just lost all your life savings and your house burned down in a fire. What’s wrong?”

It all spills out, then – the streets, the store, the man, his polite confusion. How you had essentially run away. She blinks at you, nonplussed.

“Oh… kay,” she says, finally. “Listen, I’m not gonna pretend that was a super weird thing to do –”

You moan, setting down your knife to bury your face in your arms. It’s nice here – dark. Safe. Quiet. Maybe you should never leave.

“But,” she says firmly, “the way I see it, you have two options. Number one, live on forever in shame, knowing for the rest of your life that man will be thinking about the weirdo who showed up at his store and then ran away for the rest of his life. You will forever be Weird Runaway Girl to him. Like some fucked-up version of Cinderella.”

You bury your face deeper.

“Number two, you go apologize. And it’s weird and maybe super awkward but then it’s over and you have closure and you never have to see him again.”

You inhale. Exhale. “Can’t I just get deported,” you say into the crook of your elbow. The words come out muffled but she must hear you anyway, patting your back semi-awkwardly. 

“We’ll call that Plan C,” she says, before rolling her sleeves up. “Here. What else needs chopping?”

The next day you make your excuses to your aunt – not telling her about the Great Onigiri Miya Debacle, because having one other person know about it is already embarrassing enough – and set off on your own again, attempting to retrace your steps. Somehow you make enough wrong turns and backtracks that when you make it back it’s almost the same time of day it was yesterday. You pause when you catch sight of the storefront banner fluttering the breeze, hands fisted in the hem of your shirt.

“Just go in,” you mutter to yourself. “Apologize. Then you’ll be done with this and no one has to know ever again.”

“It’s you again,” a familiar voice says, half-confused and half-amused, and for a second the idea of getting deported becomes more appealing than anything else in the world.

“It’s me again,” you agree bleakly. “I’m sorry – would you mind – speaking a little slower? My Japanese – it’s not –”

“‘Course not,” he says, voice a little more enunciated, the deep bass of it picking carefully through the syllables, and you finally gain the willpower to peek up at him. He’s rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, a little abashed. What he could possibly have to be embarrassed about when the sum total of your interactions with him have been 1) you running away from him and 2) you telling him he talks too fast, you’re not sure, but it fills you with an odd amount of confidence. 

“Sorry,” you say again. “I just – I wanted to –”

He pauses, regards you regarding him. His cap is slightly askew. You want to reach out and adjust it. You want to see if his hair is as soft as it looks. (You want to file a restraining order against yourself, on his behalf. Before it’s too late.)

“Why don’tcha come in?” he says finally. “We’re closed right now, but I’ll make ya something.”

Closed –! 

All of this and they’d been closed this time of day anyways. What an absolutely humiliation of a punchline.

Face burning, you follow him in. 

“Have ya had onigiri before?” he asks, flicking the lights on, the air conditioning humming to life. You watch him tie an apron around his waist. Normally a question like that would make you flush with embarrassment – of course you’ve had onigiri before, you’re not that much of an alien – but something about the way he says it, the drawl of it. Something about the sleepy-slow light of the store, pale wood and tables gold-lit by the sunlight.

“Yes,” you say. “But really only mostly from konbinis.”

“The best kind,” he says. “We used t’ get those after school all the time. Walk home together eating ‘em.”

Your childhood had involved nothing of the sort, but you can imagine it – the long walk home. A boy jumping up, hand outstretched, to slap the leaves of a tree’s low-hanging branch. You hum. He washes his hands, salts them. You watch as a clump of rice begins to take shape between them. 

“Yours aren’t the best?”

He grins at you. “No, they are,” he says readily. Watching him in the summer light, you’re inclined to believe him. “Just a different kind of best, ‘s all.”

“You didn’t grow up in Tokyo,” you say. More an observation than a question, but he hums assent anyways.

“‘M from Hyogo. That’s why my Japanese sounds all funny – it’s the Kansai-ben.” He does not ask where you’re from. You’re grateful even as you hate yourself a little for it. It’s not that you’re ashamed, really. More like you’ve spent your life as one kind of other and it is less pleasant than you imagined it would be, to suddenly find yourself as the exact opposite but still on the outskirts.

“Sorry,” you say, abrupt. “For… for…”

“The running?” he asks. He doesn’t look up at you, focusing on the rice between his hands. “‘S okay. Ya had places to be.”

At the time the only place you’d had to be was away from here, but you recognize the out for what it is and take it gratefully. “Still. I imagine it was pretty startling.”

He shrugs. “I have a twin brother who does weird shit all the time. I’ve gotten kinda used to it.”

You have to laugh a little at that, and his eyes flick up to yours, looking – maybe you’re imagining it – pleased at the sound. “‘M Miya Osamu,” he says. 

“You own this place!” you say, delighted but mostly unsurprised – something about the way he holds himself in this space gives it away – before hurrying to introduce yourself. He repeats your name to himself, as if testing how the syllables feel in his mouth.

“‘S a good name,” he says. Places the onigiri in front of you. “‘A plain one, to start. Want ya to be able to taste our rice. Next time you come I’ll make you something different.”

There’s a flush of delight in your chest at the next time. Obediently you pick it up, feeling the heft of it in your hands. 

The rice is soft and good and a little bit like childhood, the ache of it. The lingering sweetness. You tell Osamu as much, and he grins at you, satisfied. “‘S my old senpai who grows the rice,” he says. “If anyone knows good rice, ‘s him.”

“He does,” you say fervently. The rice is sticky and filling and you’re definitely getting grains on your face but it’s hard to care – it’s simple food, but it’s good, and it’s oddly comforting for food from a restaurant you’ve never been to before in your entire life. 

Osamu wipes down the counter, watching you eat out of the corner of his eye. He seems oddly pleased by how much you’re enjoying the food. When you tell him as much, he grins, a little sheepish. 

“I want the people who come here t’ eat well,” he says. “Good food is better food when it’s shared.”

You smile at him, a little tentative. “Thanks for sharing this with me.”

“Thanks for sharing it with me,” he says back, then shoos you out without letting you pay. “Next time,” he says, and you let him tuck your credit card back in your wallet and your wallet back in your pocket.

Your cousin eyes you over the dinner table, but doesn’t say anything about the secret smile at the curve of your lips. In her bedroom that night all she says is “Okay?”

“Okay,” you agree. It is summer, and you have nothing but time. 

When you visit again the next day the store is already open. You can see him through the windows, and it’s enough to make your lips tug up again in an involuntary smile as you step through the doorframe.

“Hi,” you say, a little shy, suddenly. A little envious of how grounded he seems, here in this space. 

“Hi,” he says back, jerking his chin at the counter. “Wanna sit?”

It’s umeboshi filling that day, plum tart on your teeth. Tuna mayo the next. Unagi the day after, and he slowly takes you through the menu, watching your face keenly as you eat each one. 

The month passes slowly, honey-dripped and sweet. You tell your aunt that you’ve made a friend, maybe, and watch as her face splits in a smile that makes her look years younger. When you were little your mother used to tell you she could see the resemblance between the two of you. Now, more than anything, you want it to be true. 

“Not a fan, huh,” Osamu says on the day he gives you uni-topped onigiri – unigiri, he’d joked as he’d handed it to you. One of our experimental ones, ya know? – and you blink at him. You’d gotten good at hiding your discomfort with the texture.

Osamu clicks his tongue at you, the sound both disapproving and fond. “Don’t make yerself eat it,” he chides, sliding it away from you. “I’ll make ya another one.”

“Oh – no, you don’t have to, it’s okay, I couldn’t –”

He reaches over and carefully flicks you on the forehead. “I know I don’t hafta,” he says easily. “But I wanna. I want ya to eat well.”

Abashed, you watch as he makes you another one. The careful press of his fingers. The arch of his wrist.

“My parents are from here,” you say suddenly into the silence. He glances up at you, but doesn’t say anything. 

“From Japan, I mean. They left the country before they had me.”

“Where’d they go?”

You tell him, and he whistles, low. “‘S a long ways away.”

“It is,” you say. “Makes traveling hard. I haven’t – haven’t been back here since I was little.”

“Ya got family here?”

“An aunt – my mom’s sister. Her husband. Their daughter. A few other relatives, though I think those are scattered around Japan. I don’t know them too well.”

He hums, considering. “Didja like it? Where you grew up?”

You think about it. About a sepia-toned childhood, about wide streets and dry summer grass, pricking your skin.

“I was very well-loved,” you tell him. “But I was still – I think I was still lonely.”

Osamu nods. “Ya know my twin, Atsumu? When we were in high school we played volleyball t’gether. ‘Tsumu sorta – I think he took it for granted that we were gonna play together forever. That we’d always want the same things. Took a long time for me to be brave enough to tell him I wanted to do this – ” he gestures to the shop around him. “ – for a living. Took me even longer to stop bein’ so mad at him that I had to tell him in the first place. That he didn’t know me as well as I wanted him to.”

He finishes making another onigiri. Pushes it over to you. Then rounds the counter and sits next to you, picking up the first one he’d made you, the one delicate bite taken out of it.

“And now?” you ask. 

Osamu, partway through a bite of your abandoned onigiri, freezes mid-chew. He swallows. “And now?” he echoes.

“And now? Do you think he knows you?”

He snorts. “That idiot would need to get his head out of his own ass, first.” He pauses, considers you. “But. I think these days ‘m less worried ‘bout being known perfectly.”

You blink over at him. He’s turning the half-eaten remnants of the onigiri over and over between his hands. On instinct, you reach over and place a hand on his. The skin of it, the bone of it. The pull of tendon and the flex of muscle and the fluttering pulse. 

He doesn’t look at you. Under your fingertips a muscle jumps, then quickly relaxes.

“These days,” he says, “‘M much happier t’be loved. In spite of all the parts of me he doesn’t understand.”

You think about this, even as he pops the last of his onigiri in his mouth. “Come out with me, tonight,” he says.

“To where?”

He shrugs. “M’friends are in town. Want you to meet ‘em. Even ‘Tsumu will be there, though can’t guarantee he’ll behave.”

“This is the brother that does weird shit?”

Osamu rolls his eyes heavenwards. “Yeah, ‘n I’ve only got the one brother, thank God. Would be willin’ to bet our ma saw how he acted ‘n decided it was enough for her.”

You tactfully avoid mentioning that Osamu himself would probably have been a factor in that decision, if that were the case. Instead you busy yourself with the onigiri in your hands, fiddling with it, breaking off one of the corners before catching yourself. Osamu always laughs at you when you do that. Quit playing with yer food, he’d said once, flicking you gently on the forehead. The mark hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes. The feeling stayed for days.

“Come out with us,” he says, again. His eyes, when you peek at them, are gray and the steady of a long winter.

“Okay,” you say, without much thinking. It’s almost worth it to see the crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes when he smiles. 

You stuff another bite of rice in your mouth to avoid the thought.

____

Us turns out to be Osamu himself, of course, broad-shouldered and dependable and somehow uniquely capable of being a pain in the ass; Suna Rintarou, a sleepy-eyed man with the worst posture you’ve ever seen and a unique talent for instigating; and Miya Atsumu, the infamous Miya Atsumu, with brassy-blond hair that must come from a bottle and a voice pitched at exactly the right frequency to be as annoying as possible. 

“What a funny accent!” is the first thing Atsumu says upon meeting you, grinning in a way that, if he weren’t Osamu’s brother, you would call a leer. “This is the cute little foreigner ya’ve been tellin’ us about, then, huh, ‘Samu?”

Calmly, without surrendering his grip on the tongs he’s been using to grill, Osamu smacks his brother upside the head with his free hand, hard enough to make him pout. “Just ignore –” he begins to say to you, apologetic. 

“You should stop dying your hair yourself,” you say to Atsumu, frowning at him over the table. The smell of the yakiniku is a sore temptation – never mind that it hasn’t finished cooking, according to Osamu – and you can readily admit to yourself that the hunger is making you more irritable than you’d be otherwise. “You’re frying it, and besides, the color is awful. You can’t tell me you were going for that shade on purpose, were you?”

At the sound of his twin’s spluttering noises Osamu starts to laugh – a borderline cackle, mean-spirited and still somehow so lovely. He laughs like how Atsumu does, you realize. There’s something very lovely about it.

To distract yourself from that thought you grab a too-hot piece of meat with your chopsticks and shove it in your mouth. It burns your tongue but rather than spit it out, you shovel in a load of rice, to counteract it, and pray you don’t choke.

Suna watches you with the kind of fascination that you’d thought previously reserved for seeing a particularly exotic zoo animal for the first time. 

“I can see why he likes you,” he remarks, absentmindedly.

What do you mean, you try and say. There’s too much rice in your mouth. You choke.

Osamu somehow manages to simultaneously pat you on the back, put more meat on your plate, and punch Suna’s shoulder at the same time. You resolve to study his abnormal skill at multitasking at a later date. “Y’alright?”

“Fine,” you gasp, trying your best to take a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

Conversation flows smoothly. It’s all-too-easy to tell that they’ve known each other for years, falling into a rapport that’s clearly practiced. It’s even easier to let yourself get swept along in the banter, to pretend that you, too, have known them for years, that the lives they’ve painstakingly carved out for themselves here have always had space for you, too.

It’s an achingly sweet thought. You refuse to let yourself dwell on it for long. 

Osamu insists on walking you home. “‘S almost two in the morning,” he says, “‘sides, I’ve had about enough of him –” he jerks a thumb at his brother, now slumped against Suna’s side, whining about something or other about their volleyball careers (a botched serve, maybe?) while the latter pokes and prods at him. 

You consider this. “Yeah,” you say. “Fair enough.”

Outside the air is warm and Osamu’s presence by your side is warmer. “Thanks for inviting me,” you say to him. The words feel inadequate, for all that he’d let you pretend tonight, even though he couldn’t have been aware of it.

“Thanks for comin’,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “They liked ya.”

“You think?”

“I know,” he says, firm. “They wouldn’t spend so much time teasin’ someone they didn’t like.”

The thought suffuses you with an oddly warm glow. You duck your chin into your chest, hoping he doesn’t notice. If he does he doesn’t mention it.  

“Are ya comin’ by the store tomorrow?” he asks, and you hum, affirmative.

“It might be the last time, before I go.” Saying it out loud is somehow both better and worse.

“Ah,” Osamu says. You walk in silence for a few beats, footsteps falling in time. 

“Come by tomorrow,” he repeats – a statement this time, not a question. You nod anyways, and he walks you right up to your front door, lingering there as if waiting for something. 

“Goodnight, ‘Samu,” you say. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“See ya tomorrow,” he affirms, but makes no move to leave. You frown at him. He pulls a face right back, half-mocking, half in deliberation.

In one fell move he takes the cap off of your head and puts it on yours. It fits strangely – your heads must be too dissimilar of a shape. You would go to sleep wearing it if you could. 

“Goodnight,” you say again, dumbly. 

Osamu’s smile in the moonlight is sharp and a little something else, something you can't read. “G’night,” he says. When he turns to leave the streetlights make the black of his hair look almost blue.

Your cousin, when you slip back up to her room, is still awake. The glow of her smartphone lets you see the jaw-creaking yawn she lets out when she sees you.

“Tadaima,” you say, quiet.

“Okaeri,” she mumbles.

“Sleep well,” you add, but she’s already set her phone on the nightstand, breaths slipping into something quiet and even, as if the only permission she’d been waiting for was the sound of your footsteps at the doorway. You are so full of love you think you could choke on it.

The next day when you show up to Onigiri Miya there’s no onigiri waiting for you. You deliberate feeling betrayed for a second before Osamu steps out of the back, throws a wad of fabric at you. You just barely manage to catch it, uncrumpling it to reveal an apron.

“An apron,” you say.

He grins. “Nice hat.”

You flush almost immediately, resisting the urge to tuck your chin into your chest – it would really only make the hat more visible. “Thanks,” you mutter. “Apron?”

He swings open the gate dividing the front of the restaurant and the kitchen. “You wanna learn?”

The prospect of this world opening up to you leaves you feeling more trepidation than anything. You slip the apron over your head, tie the strings around your waist. “Do I look professional?”

“That’s a Michelin-star chef right there,” Osamu says.

And he’s right, in a way – if ‘Michelin-star chef’ meant ‘uniquely creative in one’s ability to mess up’. The rice doesn’t clump. It sticks to your hands. You grab it when it’s too hot and burn yourself, even through the gloves. You salt your hands too liberally. You don’t salt your hands enough. The clumps of filling are too large. You shape it too firmly and it all falls apart, crumbling in your hands. The remains of your failures are scattered all over the kitchen – “Don’t worry,” Osamu had told you, “I’ll feed ‘em to ‘Tsumu.” – by the time you have one half-presentable one. Half-presentable as in not falling apart. Mostly not falling apart. You cup it in your hands with all the reverence one would hold a baby bird that’d fallen out of its tree.

Osamu plucks it out of your hands. Inspects the way it sags between his fingers. “Huh,” he says.

“Huh?” you parrot, hopeful. He ignores you, taking a bite. Chews. Swallows. The expression on his face is inscrutable. 

“Tastes surprisingly good,” he says.

“Thank you! I – what do you mean, surprisingly?”

Osamu grins. “We’ll make a chef outta you yet.”

The afternoon is spent at his side. “Packin’ an order,” he says. “Wanna help?” You make one onigiri to every five of his, determined to neaten up your technique, but it’s fun anyways. 

“Why onigiri?” you ask him, frowning down at the mass in your hands. “Why not – I don’t know, ramen or yakisoba or something?”

He hums. His hands are steady and large and careful. “I mean, for starters, I like eatin’ ‘em.”

You wait for him to continue. Eventually: “They’re a simple food. Nothin’ fancy. No crazy ingredients. No one’s gonna get a Michelin star for doin’ the stuff I do.”

“Except me,” you say, and Osamu lets out a bark of laughter.

“Except you,” he agrees. “But they’re a comfort food, y’know? I told you we used to get ‘em from the konbini on our way home from practice. Or – for lunch, sometimes, I used t’ make bentos for me n’ ‘Tsumu. The first thing I learned t’make was onigiri. My ma taught me.”

“You love them a lot.”

He scrunches up his nose, displeased. “Not like I’d ever tell ‘Tsumu,” he says. “But – well. ‘f course I was gonna make him food. ‘f course I was gonna learn from my ma. ‘S just what we do.”

The depth of it – the quiet love, the steadiness – leaves you a little breathless. Osamu keeps his eyes fixed firmly on his hands, although you’re certain he doesn’t need to.

“I was – such a lonely child,” you say. He knows this already. You’d told him this already.

He finishes shaping the rice in his hands, deliberate. Strips his gloves off. “Wanna go sit on the steps outside?” 

Outside the sun is setting, and the sky is streaked with color. You sit shoulder to shoulder and watch the people pass by. 

“I can’t imagine,” he says, “growing up so far away.” Far away from what, he doesn’t elaborate. You know what he means anyways.

You think about your hometown, think about the summers and the smell of chlorine, the winters and the whole world muffled and still. Think about the wide-open sky. How close and how far away it all felt, all at once. 

“There were good parts,” you say.

“There must’ve been,” Osamu says. “Look at how you turned out.”

“It was very – very far,” you say, “from the people that were supposed to love me no matter what I did.”

He hums. The crickets are beginning to sound. You dread to think about the mosquito bites you’ll find on your skin tomorrow.

“I – it’s not that I’m not grateful,” you say, because you are. “Not that I’m not grateful for the things I have. The life I’ve built.”

“I know,” he says.

“I know I’m lucky to be where I am. To have grown up where I did, in the way I did. My parents wanted the best for me. They gave up a lot for it.”

“Probably,” he agrees. 

“And maybe – maybe I’m romanticizing it. Painting living here as something a lot grander than it is. But – ”

In another life you are sitting in your cousin’s bedroom and listening to her wax poetic about some topic neither of you will remember in the morning. It’s late but in this life you’re young and the moon is full and reassuring. In another life the most intimate way you know your family’s faces is not reduced down to three pixels. In another life each street of this city holds a different memory. In another life you know this place like breathing.

“I could’ve lived here,” you say. “I could’ve had this.”

Osamu regards you, considering. In a way it’s almost a relief, that he’s neither quick to assure or to laugh in outright disbelief.

“You could’ve,” he says at last. “I think you still can.”

“It’ll never be like it could’ve been,” you warn.

“No,” Osamu says, affable. “But I think we could still make it good.”

He offers you his hand. You take it.

“Hungry?” Osamu asks. You consider this, the feel of his hand in yours. You picture: standing outside of his store and watching him, gentle and careful and good, with his callused hands and his patient smile. Here are hands that were made to hold. 

In this dream you step inside, and he looks up at the sound of the door.

Welcome, he says to you. You know what he means by it.

In a few days there will be a plane seat with your name on it – an ocean and everything that lies between. Still, it’s summer – here and now and the rest of your lives – and you have nothing but time. Summer, and there is a space for you at the table. 

You grin at Osamu, squeeze his hand. He squeezes back: once, twice, three times.

“I could eat.”

[plan-3-tmars]

My Theory on Kazui's Parent's.

Q: Is there a meaning behind your name?

A: It's cause I'm the eldest son. It seems like my father was also wishing I'd be "a strong man."

The wording of Kazui's answer here really makes me think. We know that Kazui is strong. He defended Fuuta against Kotoko and even talks about having "never gone up against a woman [like her]" in his VD, implying that he has gotten into fights before (most likely at work - either in the field or in training.)

It seems like, to me, Kazui has parents with very traditional views. Kazui's father wishing that he would turn out to be "a strong man" could imply that he places value on the old-style gender roles in family or society in general. Yes he most likely thinks that being strong physically is important, but also being strong mentally. A 'normal' man who doesn't cry, doesn't show emotain. A man who provides for his family and sticks to tradition, simple as. A son who does what's expected of him - that kind of strong.

~~~

I also think the way Kazui talks is linked to his family's old-school beliefs. Despite only being 39, Kazui always refers to himself as an "old man" and says things like "when your mature/older like me," etc. It's a bit odd, though it might be a cultural thing. Kazui does call himself immature though, so for a man who believes he has only grown up in terms of his age and not his mind, he puts an awful lot of weight on what it means to be an adult. Can you see where I'm going with this? Yup it's back to his strong man comment baby!!!

In that previous qoute Kazui says how his father was also wishing he'd be a strong man. I think the other person Kazui is referencing might very well be himself. I think if Kazui has been taught these old school gender-roles since he was a child, then he might hold alot of weight to them. He wouldn't know any different if that was all he heard about what it meant to be a man as a kid, and therefore wants to live up to that expectation his parents hold of him. He, however, quickly learns that he is not this way and internalises it as something being wrong with him, something that isn't normal that he must fix. Which brings me to my next point...

~~~

I think that Kazui's family are more important to understanding his crime then we may think based on what's been shown to us so far, and I'd even go so far as to say that their beliefs might've been a very big reason/the reason on why Kazui felt the need to lie and marry Hinako.

If we take a situation where Kazui has very traditional parents who want him to grow up quickly, get a nice job and settle down young, it might make sense on why he felt obligated to marry Hinako. In Half he talks about how he's confused on why he doesn't feel happiness in their relationship, as "isn't this what happiness is?" I believe these ideas came from Kazui's parent's. That perhaps they unknowingly (or full knowingly) drilled the idea into his head that a perfect looking couple such as he and Hinako is the ultimate true love, the true happiness, and that he should follow in those steps if he wants to be happy and successful as it in turn will also make them happy and proud of him.

[livingbrother]

LO and it's portrayal of S/A

A rant by someone who just finished EP. 98 and is incredibly furious

Cw: Mentions of S/A, it's effects, too much swearing, ED mention, personal stuff that happened to yours truly, lots of other stuff too, just no idea what to tag it as

Don't read this if you're not mentally doing well, I don't want you getting hurt because of my post, I love you, feel better soon

Boy. Oh fucking boy. I just got through episode 98 of this shit show and, I'll just say, I am beyond furious. Livid, in fact.

For context, I am a survivor or sexual abuse and mental abuse, I have dealt with those who act sort of like Apollo, I was never raped, but I was molested as a child. I, as a survivor, feel nothing but rage at how Rachel portrayed Apollo being a rapist. The way he acts is incredibly unrealistic for an abuser, as somebody who dealt with two abusers with Narcissistic Personality Disorder (I'm not saying everyone who has NPD are villains, I'm just saying what I went through), I see what Rachel was trying, but oh so tragically failed, to do. He tried to control, manipulate, and gaslight Persephone. Only for none of it to work, that's not how ANY of it fucking works!

Where is the fucking control, other than just fucking raping her? I get he wants to take the power away from her and be the one to control her, but I've seen none of that! I get she has PTSD over it (I'LL GET TO THIS POINT AGAIN). I NEVER GOT THE SENSE THAT SHE WAS POWERLESS EXCEPT FOR THAT ONE SCENE. I HAVE NEVER SEEN HER QUESTION IF THAT WAS HIS INFLUENCE PICKING HER DRESSES, OR FUCKING EVEN HER FOOD! WHEN I WAS LIVING WITH ONE OF MY ABUSERS, SHE'D PICK OUT MY OUTFITS, ONE'S I HATED, AND I STILL CHOOSE SOME OF THOSE OUTFITS, TO THIS DAY! WHERE WAS HER LOSS OF CONTROL? SHE NEVER FELT ISOLATED, SHE NEVER FELT LIKE SHE WAS TRAPPED. YES. SHE WAS TRAPPED IN THAT ONE ROOM WITH HIM, BUT EVEN THEN! SHE HAD LEVERAGE OVER HIM WITH THE FUCKING LYRE. Ugh.

About her realizing she was raped, um. Excuse me? A lot of victims don't realize they were raped or abused until like, months or years later. I'm glad for the ones who instantly realized it, good for them. Given Persephone's personality and experience with the world, she wouldn't have known it was rape because she's not accustomed to dating and sexual culture. On top of that, she isn't really seen actually distressed when she remembers, oh, and lets not forget that she WAS FUCKING FINE WITH TOUCH AND PHYSICAL FLIRTING DAYS AFTER HER ASSAULT. Let me remind you that I have been through this thing myself, you do not just omg I was just assaulted! time to go let someone touch me! Nonono, you spend years jumping when people touch you, years of moving when someone tries to grab your shoulder, years of pushing someone's hand off your arm, years screaming when you get a hug. And then, maybe from flashbacks, maybe from googling things, you discover you were molested! And then it alllllll makes sense. I understand if she became hypersexual, cause same, but that usually doesn't set in until a good long while.

I also hate how Apollo is written, he should have stayed as a shitty ex boyfriend or whatever the fuck Rachel was gonna make him, he just comes across as a cartoonish villain than an abuser. The man just fucking rubs his hands together and fucking goes I'll get you next time my pretty! I fucking HATE his writing so goddamn much. I understand wanting to make him pushy, egotistical, and insecure, they're some of the hallmarks of the pushy nice guy she was going for. But when it comes to him being abusive, it's like watching a bad joke. Rapists don't usually, you know, CATCH FEELINGS FOR THEIR VICTIM (correct me if I'm wrong), unless it's to lure them back in to hurt them again. She made him so obviously evil it hurts, abusers don't usually act that way, they put on a pretty smile, act kind, and behind closed doors, act shitty. I respect 97-98 for getting that part right, but too many times, too many fucking times Rachel has gotten that wrong. I have dealt with this myself, my mother did this exact thing, she even put on the pretty smile for me so even I, somebody who knew he was being tormented, questioned whether or not I was being abused! We never see this with Persephone! We never see her getting gaslit with this, she never questions her reality! She knows everything that's going on for sure! I know what Rachel was aiming for, and she failed miserably!

God, on top of this, we never really get to see Persephone's PTSD unless the story fuckin says Apollo's here! She's never really fucking affected by her rape, we don't see her jump from touches, refuse sexual advanced from Hades, yeah, sure, we see her afraid of camera flashes, but that's about it!!!!!!!! She never really experiences the effects of s/a! I developed an ED and agoraphobia from my abuse! Where the fuck is that?! That would have been a lot more fucking interesting than the slop we fucking got!

I know I've missed some things, but I need to calm down before I pop a blood vessel. I might revisit this post when I'm less angry, I just needed to rant.

[haechvn]

Hold On

Pairing: Shuri x Reader

Warning: Angst and a lil fluff. Shuri is a little bit moody but who can really blame her

Summary/Request: y/n is a lab specialist and is sent to work in shuri’s lab after during that year after t’challa passed on (hurt/comfort) then maybe y/n was in the market when the tallokan attacked and shuri protects.

Word Count: 1.9k

Author’s Note: Takes place during Wakanda Forever so beware of spoilers. 

I am working on a few rn but KEEP SENDING REQUESTS. We didn’t just have Shuri star in her OWN MOVIE for y'all to be ignoring her. You guys should be ashamed. Don't play with me, play with yourself.  Enjoy my loves!

“Shuri, I get what you are trying to do but are you sure recreating the herb solely in a lab will give you the same results? Aren’t there any cultural lines you’d be crossing or something? Maybe we should ask the Queen about this first,” you quipped as you steadily chased Shuri around her lab, hoping to get her to reconsider her next steps with the current experiment. 

It has been over a year since the sudden passing of her older brother and the only life she has been able to live is that of a mad scientist - nothing more and certainly nothing less. Of course she still took proper care of herself but her only desire was to find a way to crack the code that could have saved T’Challa’s life. That pain is with her everyday so to combat that, she has put together a squad of the most brilliant minds in Wakanda to help her efforts and that is where you come in. Working alongside the Princess as a Lab Specialist, who is an expert in working with organic matter and analyzing foreign and home-based substances. Truth be told, Shuri adores her entire team but values your opinion and work above all. Maybe it's because your eyes keep her up at night. But in this situation, no one's words were really as important as her own. At least, that’s what she thought. 

“I know what I’m doing,” she seethed stentoriously, speaking as if every word was its own sentence. Stopping abruptly and turning around for you to greet her rigid eyes, her jaw clenched and the veins on her forehead looked like they wanted to break free. Shuri did not want to have this conversation with you again because as more time passed, the more her patience with this project wore thin. Why does everyone still view her as a child? Why can’t her plans be good enough? Every cell in your body told you that you had yet again irritated the Princess. 

“I'm tired of everyone questioning me as if I am not the smartest woman in the world! Go to the market like I requested and pick up the items I asked you to so we can go back to experimenting and stop all this talking. That’s an order.”

Scoffing at her disrespectful tone, you continued on, wanting the Princess to fully think through the ramifications of what lies ahead. She may be royalty but she was also your friend so to hear her speak to you this way without any regard of how you may feel made your heart crack just a bit. You had done your best to be there for her during this very difficult last year and always offered a shoulder to cry on but she has unknowingly begun taking her anger out on you. Her taut voice introduced many onlooking eyes peering over to the previously quiet conversation the two of you were having. Crossing your arms in front of your chest, you held your ground.

“How long will this go on for? You constantly treat your colleagues like we are nothing but mere pets to you. Didn’t you bring us in so that we could help you find ways to solve your problem? That is what I am trying to do here and I don't understand why you can’t see that. I just want you to be safe,” you let out with your voice slightly cracking, exhausted from arguing and the constant back and forth. Sure you kept her on her toes from time to time but this just became too much. Thinking about what could happen if she ingested the curated herb and Bast forbid something went wrong. You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself. No. You can’t let your mind go there. 

Not letting her answer your questions, you bowed to the Princess and spun on your heels, signaling your exit from the lab with your coat rustling behind you. Quickly rushing out, you could hear her sigh and beckon you towards her but your head was held high as you trekked forward. You didn’t wish to be disregarded any further and the Princess clearly needed some time to think. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That’ll be 12 Wakandan dollars pwease,” said the young girl selling herbs, plates and bowls with her mother. Dots and stripes dance on her face and her smile reminds you of the one Shuri used to carry. It has been so long - too long so maybe this will bring that back to her. 

Thanking the girl and her mother, you start to head back to the lab but not without appreciating the breathtaking beauty of the culture in Wakanda. Such peaceful and vibrant people to match the ethereal aura of this wonderful nation is something that can only be witnessed with your own eyes. In the distance, you made out the figure of a certain Jabari leader smiling widely and waving his enormous hands at you. M’Baku has really proven himself to be a formidable and dependent member of the Wakandan civilization. Just as you lifted your hand to greet him back, you heard the girl and her mother that you bought from scream in anguish.

Whipping your head around, all you could see for miles was water exploding out of thin air. Everywhere started to flood and all the stores and their owners began disappearing before your eyes. Clutching the materials that Shuri requested, you tried your hardest to outrun the waves if that is even possible. You can’t even swim so trying to head towards the water was completely out of the question, especially once three foreign figures rose from the shore. Just like in those cliche horror films, you naturally lost your footing and all you could think was Wait. Atlantis is a real place??!! 

Scared for your life, you gathered yourself up and continued onto the palace until the sweetest melody you have ever heard entered your senses. Dropping everything from your grasp, in a trance you found yourself facing the mysterious figures again, this time in the direction of a man adorned in gold, jade and what is that? Vibranium? However your thoughts were no longer your own and all you wanted to do at this present moment was obey the orders of the singing siren before you. Chaos and destruction ensued around you but all you felt was peace. An eerie peace that sent chills down your spine but whisked your mind away from any current circumstances. Your mind knew he was about to kill you. 

On your way down to kneel in front of this unknown enemy, your name was shouted out at you from the heavens above. The voice held fear and grievance in it and it snapped you out of your hypnosis. It was the Princess. Up above in a ship with what looked like Nneka, waving you down endlessly in hopes to get your attention. Even during her most vulnerable moments, Shuri looked absolutely glorious. Maybe it’s the way her curls fell forward as if they were reaching out to you or her deep charcoal eyes that seems to call you hers. Either way, with the world crashing down around you, you still couldn’t help the butterflies in your chest every time you laid eyes on her. 

Before you could register what was happening, her figure dove out of the aircraft and was headed straight towards you. It seems as though she cracked the code. Landing stealthy with her back turned towards you, her black panther suit seemed to glow in the sun. Decorated in gold and silver from top to bottom, you couldn't hold in your shock. Shuri had always said that the black panther died with her brother but it seems as though she was terribly incorrect.

“Namor. I guess this makes me your enemy now,” she stalked towards him as he slightly trembled in surprise. 

Shuri’s languid movements reminded you of her brother but much more graceful and slightly less calculated but magnificent nonetheless. Intense blows were exchanged between the both of them as you scampered away to find safety in an attempt to avoid the crossfire. Namor eventually catapulted himself away from the Princess and made his way towards the Royal Palace. Getting ready to run in his direction, the Black Panther halted and turned to finally face you. 

Your heart was pounding profusely as she neared you and her helmet disappeared. Her eyes held the story of everything she had been through yet she still carried on like royalty, with such poise and dignity.

She’s here. She’s here. She’s here. She really came here to save me.

You have never seen the Princess kneel before, especially not in a public place so your eyes went wide as she went down on one knee and grasped your hands. Her chest was going up and down at an alarming rate and the grip she had on you started to burn. 

“I’m so sorry I-. I had hoped you were-. Ugh! I can’t believe he almost-,” her words failing her at every opportunity. Tears dropped onto your joined hands and her back shook with her cries. When Shuri had received a distress signal, she had no choice but to take the incomplete herb in an attempt to even the playing field with the submariner. It scared her even more to know that he was attacking the market, the same place she had sent you to in a fit of rage. She couldn’t even believe she used that tone on you of all people so the thought that that might have been the last conversation between you two - no. Not again. She shook her head over and over, not daring to look you in the eyes because she didn’t deserve your kindness. From the outside looking in, Princess Shuri was losing it and this new mantle she now carried was already beginning to be too much for her. 

“Stand up! You are a Princess,” you bellowed, your heart breaking at the sight. Though you shared the same frightened feeling as her, she needed someone to be strong for her and who better than you. 

"We can have this conversation later but your people need you. Your country needs you. Show them who you are, Shuri. Then come back to me.” You couldn't believe you were here offering this kind of counsel to the Princess. You two have really come a long way.

Her head snapped up, curls dancing across her forehead, showcasing her cherry red, tear-filled eyes. She really thought she lost you. 

Quickly gathering her strength, she called for Nakia to “beam us up” and take you to safety. As you are being lifted up, her arms softly wrap themselves around your torso while your chests are conveniently pressed up against each other. Shuri’s eyes haven’t been able to leave yours and they are saying all the things her lips and insecurities wouldn’t allow her. You nod and offer a small smile, knowing that that’s the best thing you could muster up in the moment. Her eyes traveled between yours and your lips over and over. She licked her lips out of nervousness and tried to see if her actions would be accepted before she leaned forward to close the gap between you two. Just as her ready lips grazed yours, Okoye’s voice screeched and pierced through her earpiece. 

“My Princess! The Royal Palace is underwater!”

[k1ngdom-of-thieves]

Hi there~~! If it's not too troublesome, could I request Trey, Riddle, Kalim and Jamil with a female Chinese s/o who is a great cook because her family owns a traditional Chinese confectionery shop?

I hope this is alright, I don’t know a lot about Chinese confectionery

Trey, Riddle,Kalim, and Jamil + Chinese reader who’s a great cook!

Trey Clover

Trey is always looking for ways to make the Unbirthday parties more exciting, so he’ll definitely be asking you for recipes or advice. It’s always good to get a second opinion, after all!

While you guys are baking, he’ll ask you about your family’s business and compare it to his family’s bakery. He appreciates having someone here that he can relate to.

He’ll let you try some of his treats so you can give him critiques. You usually eat more than you need to because his pastries are really good. I would’ve pulled an Ace and stolen the whole tray.

Your cooking helps motivate him to work harder on his own work. Having his dorm mates prefer someone else’s food isn’t going to do him any favors.

“I need to start upping my game. Riddle would kill me if it turns out people would rather have someone from another dorm be our chef.”

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle doesn’t know a lot about foods from other parts of the world, so he’ll be greatly interested in whatever you make. Be prepared to answer the questions of a very confused housewarden.

He watches you cook with awe in his eyes. You’re using spices that he’s never thought to combine with such grace that he’s never seen from Trey.

After trying your dishes, he strongly implores you to cook for an Unbirthday party. He’s positive that his dorm mates will love your food as much as he does.

He’ll ask about your family and their shop. He’s lived a pretty sheltered life, so he wants to know how other people families are like.

“Were you allowed to help out with making the confectionery? My apologies for sounding condescending, I’m just very interested in what kind of people your family is.”

Kalim Al Asim

Kalim is always excited to learn more about others, especially if their culture is different from his. He loves to just sit and listen to you talk about your family.

He may not be able to eat your food for a while, you know, the whole almost getting poisoned as a child thing. But he’ll definitely complement the way you cook and how the food looks.

That doesn’t mean he’ll never eat your food though, it just take him a while to do so. You just might have your cooking judged by Jamil first. That sounds terrifying ngl

He might ask you to cook for the dorm sometime. Of course, that’s only if you want to! He understands that being the prefect of Ramshackle might take up most of your time.

“Hey, do you want to come over to our party later? I’m sure everyone would love to try your cooking!”

Jamil Viper

Jamil is fairly new interested in how different your cooking is from his. He likes to see if he can adapt some of your techniques into his cooking.

He gets very interested when you talk about your family and your culture back home. His dream is to travel the world so hearing about how different your life is very interesting to him.

If you feel like it, he would really appreciate if you would come and cook with him. He’d rather have someone that he can trust with him instead of having to keep an eye on both Kalim and the food.

He’d really like to try your food sometime, of course he won’t force you to make anything. He’s lived with Kalim far too long to know how irritating that can be. He just kinda wants to eating food that wasn’t made by him for once.

“Wow, your cooking is like nothing I’ve ever had before. I’m almost positive that you could be a famous chef one day.”

[docholligay]

Going through someone's blog and seeing two posts, like...4 days apart ? Of:

Post a: neurotypical people don't understand how much of a struggle it is to listen to them talk about stuff I don't care about :( I wish it was socially acceptable to tell them I'm not interested, ever.

Post b: honestly hurts so much when you can tell someone doesn't care about your special interest. :(

I just want to cup your face and go, "please reread those and let's talk about social kindness"

I did block them, I think I am reaching a friggin... point break over here. I have been weird all my life, I was an EXTREMELY lonely child, and if someone wanted to tell me about their pet lizard I would have died happy, and if they had listened to me talk about the time Kate Harony burned down a barn to get doc out of prison, my tiny child heart would have burst. Like, that's give and take.

I've been trying to express this deep deep SCRATCH of irritation for weeks now, and I think a closer step to it, is... neurotypical, if we believe anyone is, people, also have feelings and needs and preferences. They ALSO get to decide what they can and can't live with.

I have a pretty classic and overwhelming strain of ADHD. Though, I feel less and less like saying the word for it matters, and get closer and closer to identifying as Fucking Weird. My mother is broadly neurotypical. She gets to have her feelings be hurt if I don't want to hear about her and her boyfriend's day at Costco. That's what she did with her day. She wants to tell me. I owe her that if I want to talk about my run, for example. I listen to jetty talk about coding even though I legitimately don't understand. I try and follow along!

I get tired of the idea that you don't ever have to put effort into relationships, and if you do, they aren't good relationships. And this attendant idea that being nice is masking behavior when it's you, but it's just kindness when it's other people doing it.

If it is true that you don't owe anyone anything, then the reverse is also true. No one owes you anything. This is not how I want to live.

There are things I do that are basically harmless: I have a lot of trouble sitting still, I'm twitchy and startle easily, and a million other small things that as it turns out I'm actually not going to mention because I don't like attention being drawn to them and i hate it when people notice, and I know they do.

None of those things really affect other people.

There are also things I do that are anywhere from annoying to harmful: I forget things, I interrupt people,* I sometimes zone out and lose the thread of whatever was going on.

If I love people, and I want them to love me, I have to treat them with that love as much as is possible. If I forget something, and make someone feel rejected, that is true whether or not I can pin a diagnosis to their lives. I hate to say it, but, "treat people as you would like to be treated" is often a very good guideline. Do you want someone to listen to you talk about the video game you really love? Then you should listen to them talk about Crossfit. Or, I guess the secret third option is, maybe you don't want to be friends, but that, too, is a choice.

I've been working with my three year old on conversation, and we've come up with things you can ask people if you'd like to get to know them better. Her current favorites are "What's your favorite animal?" and "what's your favorite color of crayon?" I think these are both great topics for a three year old. I want to teach her that if she wants people to talk to her and be engaged with her, she will have to give them the same.

This is true of everyone. Everyone has feelings. Everyone has interests and thoughts and preferences. I cannot emphasize enough how important I think it is to remember that life is a chorus, and none of us are the soloist. We are here for each other. Other people are not your backing vocals.

*this is also a cultural issue, though. I don't actually experience problems with this in some circles.

[cheemscakecat]

Invincible Spoilers

It actually makes a lot of sense that the Viltrumites latched on to family and changed their worldview because of it.

So for thousands of years, the dominant violent faction that killed the peace-loving Viltrumites sat unchallenged because the old peaceful ways were lost. They believed they were superior to the weaker species around them, and saw them as mere animals. Very few weapons could even hurt them, much less kill.

Under those circumstances, the killing of weak Viltrumites children made a twisted kind of sense. After all, there would always be more Viltrumites having children and the strong would live. They didn’t die often, so in their perspective, children were not such a precious resource as they are to humans.

Someone engineered a virus that could kill them. And it very nearly destroyed the entire species. There were only 50 full-blooded Viltrumites left in the wake of the pandemic.

Like Nolan said, they’re on the brink of extinction.

Nolan wrote books based on his missions to destroy threats to the dying Viltrumites species. He was the guy they sent to deal with threats and see how dangerous they really were.

So he was probably also the first Viltrumite to be tasked with having a hybrid child.

Before the virus, they wouldn’t have had offspring with “lesser beings”, but they couldn’t afford to be so picky with so few in their ranks. So why not send your danger guy to make sure it won’t give you another life threatening disease or result in a deformed child? To see if the rest can follow suit and repopulate with other species.

That’s why they sent him to live with humans, they’re the most compatible species that they could find.

Death shouldn’t be a concern under Viltrumite doctrine. And it wasn’t until the virus. But now that the remaining soldiers have watched their Viltrumite friends and family die, death holds new weight.

Nolan wouldn’t use death as a point to convince Mark if he didn’t somewhat understand the weight of it. And it’s also a point against himself, because he’s arguing out loud with himself at the same time. Why would you fight for Earth and let your people go extinct?

Viltrumite doctrine commands you to kill weak offspring. That’s how things have been done for thousands of years.

But how can a tactical minded-person see the value in doing that?! When the species is nearly extinct and you’ve gone through all the effort of getting attached and trying to raise that child? Old Viltrumite doctrine and the current situation are not compatible.

Nolan is torn between the two ideologies that are telling him how to show loyalty and care. One is telling him that he needs to kill Mark to uphold the holy doctrines of his people. The other is telling him that killing your child is stupid, wasteful, and a disservice to what he’s trying to achieve.

Mark telling him that even if the humans die, they’ll still be together has put more weight on the second, correct ideology. The whole reason you’re even here is to build your species back up and keep it from fading into myth. You care about other Viltrumites. It’s self-sabotaging to destroy the very offspring that you are having to repopulate. And if being half-Viltrumite is enough to make them valuable, shouldn’t the offspring’s life be preserved?

Let’s just get Anissa out of the way first. I’m not defending what she did. She didn’t even want to have kids in the first place, which I think is something the show should expand on. We don’t get to know why, but given the fact they’re meant to have hybrid children, I’m assuming part of it is feeling that the child may be a waste.

It would suck to be pregnant for 9 months only to have something wrong with the baby, especially if in their culture that offspring would be killed at some point. I think she decided to target Mark because he’s already part Viltrumite, and her child would get their powers faster so she could start testing the strength of the child. Wastes less time putting effort into the kid if he or she is not going to grow up Viltrumite material.

The show could also expand on the fact that she has an actual relationship with the father of her second child, and had her of her own volition, not because she was commanded to. It’s implied in the comic, but she needs more development this time around. Anyways, at some point she found actual value in her children, beyond their strength.

Kregg was so down for the cause that he had multiple families at once. And he makes a very good point to Thragg; why shouldn’t we protect our families if we’re repopulating?

He’s got like 10 families, that’s at least 10 Viltrumite kids if everything goes to plan. You really wanna forfeit going from 50 to 60 Viltrumites? Mans just has the natural and sane instinct to protect his loved ones and give his kids the chance to grow up. Thragg doesn’t.

Lucan is one of 50 remaining Viltrumites, and we don’t know the ratio of men to women. But even if there were 25 of each, both genders are a precious resource for repopulating. Should we really be surprised that a man who has had 25 women to choose from at most is unwilling to soil a relationship?

Yes, there’s billions of Earth women, but you don’t go from starving to finding yourself in a supermarket and magically stop being affected by the time you were starving. Kregg stocked up on as many families as possible: Lucan was so used to rationing that he decided to be the best he could to one family, which is still precious even in a sea of options.

Thragg doesn’t understand that. He’s the embodiment of their flawed purging ideology.

Everyone else’s natural nurturing instincts were dormant under the surface, and started sprouting up when they had Earth kids. Thragg’s nurturing instincts are in the Nether for the whole series. He seems dumb because the whole Violent Fascist Viltrumite ideology he lives by is dumb.

It goes against nature and it’s a bad survival strategy. We just get to see it spelled out because the virus has already happened and he isn’t adapting like everyone else. And what’s crazy is that his surviving kids adapted even after all his brainwashing. He could have changed, but he refused and stayed embedded in his ideology his entire life.

I didn’t know where to put Thula, but she’s cool now too. [Cool as in not evil, I mean. She was never lame.]

[the1975attheirverybest]

A rant on BRAT, tumblr, and pop culture from a certified grandma.

*this is not an invitation to start drama I WILL block you if you engage in bad faith.*

I’m going to resist the urge to turn this thing into a “think piece” so I’ll get right into it.

I have noticed a trend (see here and here) of people not giving much thought to what Charli’s music is about (not these specific anons just people in general) and it seems to go hand in hand with others still criticizing her for making “catchy club music” and her lyrics being “not deep enough.” From these attitudes there’s been an even more mistaken one that claims the album “glorifies drug use.” I want to point out that I find this especially disappointing coming from 1975 fans because making pop songs that have dark, deep, “real” meanings is the signature move of a 1975 track. So, I have to ask why we afford Matty Healy the opportunity to be vulnerable and smart (even to the point where we laugh — as we should, mind you— at people who think looking for somebody to love or It’s Not Living are about love) but we don’t do the same for Charli? Could it, perhaps, be internalized sexism?

Matty and Charli, while being very different in some respects, have A LOT in common artistically. They’re both into satire and performance (Charli has spoken a lot about how the “brat” persona is a projection born of insecurity), she makes dancey songs that are about parasocial relationships, inter-generational trauma, being a woman in her industry and under capitalism in general, stereotypical expectations of female artistry, being a woman and having to contend with child-baring and what you think of your family life, what love looks like, etc. and yet we want to reduce her mentions of club culture into “glorifying drugs.” Or “mean girl aesthetic.” I mean, she sings in Sympathy is a Knife about how it’s in her head and that she’s conditioned to feel pitted against women who are different from her just because of the nature of how women are socialized and people still only view her as a hater.

Moreover, I think seeing the brat movement as a celebration of pathological drug use is narrow minded. If you don’t understand the appeal or feel it, that’s one thing. But to say that’s the albums fault is just plainly and objectively wrong. “BRAT” is clearly more about the mindset and the approach that she has to femininity. Which is why you see lots and lots of posts online about being a brat who has hobbies like knitting and reading, never going to the club, going to bed at 9 pm (myself included in this category. I relate to SO MUCH of her stuff and I’m introverted to a fault. I need to be on medication in order to go out).

The real reason that this album has blown up in the say that it has is (not because it’s one dimensional and only appeals to dance-inclined folks; not because it romanticizes drugs; not because it encourages hatred) because it’s authentic and vulnerable. You don’t need to be into club culture or anything in order to underage or connect with aspects of the record. That’s how you gain mainstream appeal. When the work is well done and there’s thought behind it, it’s likely to gain an audience.

You don’t have to like it. But you can’t put that on the album.

[thatbadadvice]

Help! Everyone Can See My Tiddies, And By My Tiddies, I Mean Somebody Else’s Tiddies

The Ethicist, New York Times, 15 November 2022:

I’m proud of my wife and her breastfeeding of my son — I am so glad that they have been able to experience the bonding and health benefits that come with breastfeeding. My concern arises from the fact that my wife has posted photos online of her breastfeeding. These are not photos where everything happens to be conveniently covered up. You can see it all. I understand that my wife’s Instagram accounts are “private,” in that only connections/followers can see posts. These people range from family members, close friends of hers, close friends of mine, acquaintances and business contacts. I have asked her about the photos, and in particular what the thought process was behind posting them. She said that breastfeeding is something she is proud of and wants to share with her contacts.

I can’t claim that I understand the psychology behind posting such things on social media. To me it seems rather show-offy. But it’s part of our culture now, and I don’t need to understand it. I support efforts to normalize breastfeeding in society, but this feels like a step too far. That my friends and family are able to see such explicit photos of my wife makes me uncomfortable. But that alone would not be enough for me to push the issue. My major concern, which I raised with my wife, is that one day our son will be going to school, and school kids can be mean. Is it fair for those photos to live on accounts where parents of other children at the school, connected to my wife, could see the photos? Could this expose our son to unnecessary bullying? My wife’s response is, “Let’s discuss it with our son when he is old enough, and we can make a choice then.” My gut tells me that it would be more appropriate to remove the photos now, and when our son is old enough to discuss the matter with us, they can be posted with his consent at that time. What do you think? Name Withheld

Before we get to anything else: can we just take a moment to celebrate you for once? Because not everyone on earth would be proud of his breastfeeding wife, but you definitely are, and for that, my good sir, you deserve a major award. Humanity has achieved a number of feats over the millennia -- rescuing children from underwater caves, traveling to space, developing antibiotics -- but nothing quite captures our incredible capacity for goodness like a dude who just really thoroughly approves of his wife’s decision to breastfeed. Love to see a man who isn’t so cowed by “our culture” that he’s forced to hide how absolutely fine he is with children eating food.

But it’s “our culture” that is the problem, isn’t it? Sure, there’s nothing wrong with breastfeeding -- as you so eloquently said yourself, it has some upsides that you are gracious enough to be publicly supportive of -- and sure, it’s not a bad idea to normalize breastfeeding, but there’s a line, isn’t there? Surely your wife can find a way to normalize breastfeeding without showing her loved ones how she does it? She’s just over here like, “I’m proud of this and I don’t care what people say?” Feminism has really gone too far. Sure, every woman could use a little more pressure to do something different or better based on what other people think is best or what makes other people more comfortable, but mothers need a triple-dose these days, and your wife is a primo example. Normalizing breastfeeding is great! But there is such a thing as too normal. We can’t just make breastfeeding so normal that people just feel totally comfortable taking pictures of themselves while taking care of their children! What’s next? Universal child care?? Paid parental leave?? STUDENT LOAN FORGIVENESS??????

One appreciates that you’re worried about the very real possibility that, ten years from now, a child from your son’s school will go digging through his parents’ Instagram accounts looking for your wife’s profile and scroll backwards through a decade of her posts to identify his classmate as a baby and alert the local children. Sounds exactly like every fifth-grader I know.

But your concerns are misplaced.

It’s sweet that you’re willing to be so accepting of your wife literally keeping your baby alive by feeding it -- it really does show what a bold, forward-thinking man you are -- but it seems like you’re going out of your way not to name the elephant in the room. Or, really, the two elephants in the room. More aptly, the two elephants on Instagram: tiddies. Your wife is behaving as if her breasts, somehow, belong to her? Let’s just say what we’re all thinking: What is your wife doing putting your tiddies out there on the internet for everyone to see? It would be one thing if she were, as you note, “covered up” in such a way as to obscure literally everything about what she’s doing (a great way to normalize behavior!) but you said it yourself: “you can see it all.” And by “it all,” you mean your personal breasts! Just on display! Willy-nilly! “Show-offy,” if you will! 

It’s time to sit the little lady down for a serious discussion about her life choices -- not breastfeeding, breastfeeding is amazing! could not possibly be more supportive of breastfeeding! make no mistake! -- and ask her if she really thinks it’s appropriate to flaunt her benevolent master’s mammarial property all over the internet. There is a point after which a man must put his foot down to protect his own bodily autonomy -- you cannot allow your wife to just flop your jugs out there all over the internet, showing off Daddy’s fun bags to every Tom, Dick, and Harry! What right does she have to free your nipples? Sweatergod, it’s like one day women were permitted to open credit cards in their own name and then the next day they just lost their entire fucking minds.

Perhaps when your wife gets a little bit older, she will better understand what it means to post photos of her husband’s breasts on social media without his consent.  

[1moreff-creator]

I'm curious, given how much you like and think about Min, which secret do you think fits Min best?

So, the short answer is “the poison one” like most people believe, but there is a bit more nuance to it, so I think I can use this as an excuse to talk about Min for a while! Yay! In this post, I’ll discuss not only why I think that’s her secret, but also when, why and how I believe she poisoned her competitors. Get ready for a lot of speculation.

Also, I believe you’ve mentioned in your Character Playlist post you think that secret is Hu’s, so I probably should go into detail anyways.

CW for the remaining secrets: suicide, self-harm, murder, and also a lot of talk of Min’s backstory, so toxic school culture.

So, a few of the remaining secrets we can completely rule out, because we can assign them to people without much controversy.

•The “survivor’s guilt” secret Min herself ‘received’ is clearly Xander’s, which is easy to gather from his Bonus Episode and his secret quote.

•That means David’s lying, but like most people, I believe he got Teruko’s secret. The whole “everything in your life is worth killing over” part is already pretty telling, but she’s also the only one who could get “the killing game is your fault” as a motive without being the mastermind, basically. After all, she can blame her luck: “This killing game is my fault because the reason this Hope’s Peak class was chosen in particular is because of my luck” is the quickest defense she would have, for instance.

•Although I unfortunately could see Min self-harming, I doubt she’d feel the need to do it “for fun”. I don’t think anyone believes that secret to be anyone’s but Veronika.

With most of the others already being confirmed, this leaves us with three secrets I feel there is still meaningful debate over. Those being “murderer without remorse”, “hopeless child” and “poisoned the competition”.

For Min specifically though, I feel like we can rule out “murderer without remorse”. Mainly because the other two just fit her better, as there is nothing connecting her backstory to this secret in particular. But also because… well, it’s Arei’s secret. It’s going to be quite weird if it doesn’t at least come up in the trial, let alone if something this dramatic belongs to someone who is… not available.

And that leaves us with two. “Hopeless child” and “poison the competition”.

Is there reason to believe she’s the one who attempted suicide three times? Well, her backstory is quite sad, it’s understandable how something like what she went through could lead someone to suicide, but it’s never been expressly implied.

But if anyone believes this is Min’s secret, I imagine it’d be because they believe the “poison” secret belongs to someone else. The possible candidates are Levi and Hu.

Now, Levi has only slightly less connection to the “poison” secret than Min does the “suicide” secret. That is to say, conceivable, but without much direct evidence. But Hu actually has a decently strong argument for the “poison” secret, I can see why someone would assign that one to her.

The main thing is her secret quote: “I want to pay for what I’ve done. But even then, I still want to live.” If that’s referring to something outside the killing game, it has to be the poison secret. She wouldn’t need to repent for suicide, and if she was a remorseless murderer, she wouldn’t want to pay for what she’s done. Of course, the issue is that it could be referring to something from the killing game (such as Min’s own quote, “I wanted to save you”).

But the LGI MV may actually provide support for the Hu!Poison theory, because of the assassin’s teapot. This is one of the objects shown in that one scene where everything around the room was labeled, next to the (not) a prop gun, the candle in the candle holder, and the bowl of fruit. There’s an interpretation that a lot of these objects represent the different characters of the killing game (gun for Xander, bowl of fruit for Rose, rope for Arei, clock for Eden, dresser for Levi, etc), and the one which best fits Hu at first glance is the teapot. The thing is, assassin’s teapots are commonly associated with poison, so the connection grows stronger.

(If you’re wondering, Min is probably the albino mouse and arabidopsis. Not only are they connected to her via the footnote which talks about the fruit fly Min name-checks in her voice actor reveal, but the albino mouse, arabidopsis, fruit fly and E. Coli are organisms used in experiments. And:

Min: [Talking about Hope’s Peak and the exam she took] But to conduct an experiment to see if someone would force themselves to become their idea of an Ultimate for the Academy’s sake and succeed.

Min sees her talent as nothing but an experiment. I’m so sad)

Tangent aside, Hu does have an argument for the poison secret. Except… the specifics are a bit strange.

You always treated the competition with ruthlessness, but poisoning them to win was a bit too far, wasn’t it?

Whoever had this secret, must be a highly competitive person. I’m… not sure that fits Hu, frankly. Nor Levi, who seems to be relatively new to his talent, or at least that’s the impression I got from his introduction. Neither of them are as competitive as Min, that’s for sure (more on that later).

Now, there is also the “to win” aspect of the secret’s wording, which is worth talking about. There are such things as zither playing competitions (thanks Google), as well as general music instrument competitions which I imagine are more competitive, and it makes more sense to say Hu “won” one of those, rather than Min “won” her exam, right?

Well, two issues with that. One, Hu has never mentioned these competitions, ever (nor has Levi mentioned anything analogous). Two, while you can’t “win” an exam, you can win a “contest”. And the thing Min actually took part in was called “Ultimate Contest for Eminent Students” (UCES). Under that wording, it does make sense to say Min “won” it.

This is where we dive full force to the Bonus Episode… and where the idea of the “suicide” secret belonging to Min starts to fall apart.

Min: Failure was not something I even considered, because if I failed, then there would be no future for me or my family.

Min: I had simply accepted for my whole life that I would be the Ultimate Student, and I lived my life accordingly. That’s the Academy chose me.

See, the problem here is… well, to put it bluntly, dying would mean not winning the contest. Although her life sounds horrible, she speaks of it as if she had fully accepted it at one point, resigned herself to it, and she simply wouldn’t think of committing suicide because it would go against her goal of becoming the Ultimate Student. Keep in mind she was doing it for her family just as much as she was doing it for herself, if not more.

That said, suicide is inherently irrational, so it still isn’t ruled out. She does fits being a hopeless child, unfortunately, so the secret is still up in the air.

However, as the Bonus Episode progresses, it’s clear Min’s competitiveness is a much more important part of her character than it is for Hu’s or Levi’s. This had already been established as early as her introduction, where she claims she constantly has to hone her talent to maintain it, but the Bonus Episode drives the point home.

Min: Because of this contest, because I wanted to win, I had let my entire life revolve around that one test.

(Oh, hey! Confirmation on the “win” phrasing!)

This is by itself more competitiveness than Hu or Levi have ever expressed, and shows that Min really was ready to go extremely far for this contest. But it runs even deeper than that.

Min: High achievement, studying, taking exams, being the top of my class.

Min: I cut everything else out of my life for that one goal. And that is exactly what they wanted to see.

Being top of her class is one of the main things Min brings up as aspects of being the Ultimate Student, separate from getting good grades. In other words, competitiveness is intrinsic to her talent.

But would she really be willing to harm or even kill others for her own purposes?

Well, yeah, obviously. We saw it in the killing game. Even if you spin Xander’s death to be an accident, Min was very much ready to let everyone else die in that class trial to live and escape (good ending, tbh /j). Although we don’t know enough about Levi or Hu to be sure, we are certain Min would be someone to poison her competition to win that Contest.

Then, there’s the matter of who received these secrets. Veronika received the “suicide” secret, and is keeping it to herself to “keep things interesting”. Mind you, she’s unpredictable enough that I’m not sure she wouldn’t consider keeping a dead person’s secret to herself “interesting”, but she still seems too excited for it to just be Min’s. Or maybe that’s just me.

But the big thing is that Xander was the person who ‘received’ the “poison” secret. And considering Min ‘got’ Xander’s, I think it makes sense to assume both the chapter one deaths got each others. Even beyond the ‘character foil’ aspect those two have going on, this essentially lets them stay out of the narrative entirely, to let the alive people have the stage. It could also be read as ironic; the seemingly dangerous and aggressive ‘Ultimate Rebel’ has a secret where he did nothing wrong, while the seemingly calm and innocent ‘Ultimate Student’ has a murderous past.

(Speaking of past, while researching for this, I noticed the pinned comment on Min’s Bonus Episode is “someone who wants to move on from the past”, while the pinned comment in Xander’s is “someone who wants to hold on to the past”. The quote could apply to both secrets, so I just brought it up ‘cause I think it’s cool)

With all this in mind, plus the few lines which imply Hu has self-esteem issues and more depressive thoughts than she usually lets on (which I won’t get into because I’ve already talked about Hu too much in a Min post), I think it makes more sense for Min to have the “poison” secret, and for Hu to have the “suicide” secret… or the “murderer” secret, she’s honestly my fallback on who the accomplice may be if Levi isn’t it. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, don’t worry about it too much.

However, that wasn’t enough for me. So now I want to figure out what exactly Min did, to see if I find anything more conclusive on this poison incident. Because we have a motive, but we’re lacking a method. And… I think I have a more clear idea of what may have happened now.

Originally, I thought maybe Min had only non-lethally poisoned people in the place the contest was held, to distract them and make them fail. However, it’s stated that the Contest actually took place across the US, so that doesn’t entirely make sense. Instead, I want to focus on this line:

Min: I’m sure I did amazingly well, but it seems highly unlikely that I was number one in the nation in terms of raw scores.

Let’s think, what does this line imply? Well, it implies Min doesn’t believe she got a perfect score, so she must have made a few mistakes. And if you recall from that trial I get sad thinking about, Min has a… bad reaction, to the idea of mistakes.

Min: Right now, everyone suspects me, which is a mistake. But that’s alright. Mistakes are meant to be fixed.

Min: Like filling out a multiple-choice test. You bubble in answer after answer and sometimes get it wrong.

Min: If I let even one miscalculation slip by, then the life that I worked so hard for will come crashing down in an instant. So I’ll keep erasing those mistakes until they’re correct.

Min: As long as I learn from my mistakes… As long as I make the correct choice in the end… That’s how I’ll achieve success.

So, first, this reiterates Min’s fixation on the future she worked for her whole life, making it more unlikely in my eyes that she has the “suicide” secret. But the important thing, the one I highlighted, is that Min is obsessed with the idea of correcting mistakes.

But, how would she correct the mistakes in a test she already turned in? How does she correct the mistakes she made during the UCES now that the test is already being graded?

Well, the grading process would take some time… so she just needs to find a more “creative” way to address her mistakes. As long as she makes the right choice, she can achieve success.

Thus, we reach a point where the UCES has already happened, the results aren’t in, and Min is freaking the hell out because she knows she made some mistakes. She has to do something, because her entire life revolves around this. She has to win. The idea of any other outcome is utterly inconceivable. And in the (paraphrased) words of a wise man no longer with us, “there are two paths to succeess. One, self-improvement. Two, sabotaging literally the entire competition”

So, she finds a way to track down the other candidates or likely winners, and she poisons them in some way. Can’t win if you’re dead!

Although, admittedly, that is the hardest part to understand from all this. How would she go about tracking all those people all around the US and managing to poison them all? It’s be nearly impossible unless she did something large scale like poisoning entire water sources or some-

…

Heeeeeeey… The Chariton incident didn’t happen to coincide with the UCES, riiiight?…

…

Okay, no. Crisis averted. On further research, it’s stated in Bonus Episode #2 that incident happened when Xander was 14, while Min took the Contest when she was 17. Assuming they’re the same age (which is an assumption, but still), Min can’t be responsible for that. Good.

However, thinking about that did give me an idea of how Min could have gone about doing this.

Min: But one day, we were visited by the founder of that big company XF-Ture Tech. He told my parents that he would sponsor me and pay for all of our expenses.

Min: All he asked in return was that in 12 years, I would pass the Academy's test and became the Ultimate Student.

So, we know very little about whatever the hell XF-Ture Tech is, but we can assume it’s pretty powerful. Maybe owned by the Duke Spurling guy from Xander’s and Rose’s backstory. So, if they’re so interested in getting Min into Hope’s Peak, maybe they could arrange something for her to poison the other potential winners. Anything to get Min, someone who owes them essentially her entire purpose in life (from her perspective), into Hope’s Peak. They have invested 12 years into this, you know. What’s a bit of poison to guarantee success?

And there is one other line which implies XF-Ture Tech may have helped Min in her quest more than just by giving her family money.

Min: Maybe I'll become a teacher. I'm not the best at teaching, and I'll never be as good as him, but I want to try.

Yeah, did you forget about this line? Frankly, me too. But it does imply Min received private tutoring from a really good teacher; hell, maybe Duke Spurling himself, who knows. It’s clear XF-Ture Tech desperately wants influence in Hope’s Peak, and if this “him” is the one who’s to blame for Min’s “fix all mistakes” obsession, then I could see them facilitating something like this. Or even goading her into it, which helps me cope and say Min was manipulated and isn’t that evil trust me bro please-

A minor issue with this theory is that the secret’s wording implies Min poisoned her competition directly, which… doesn’t fully track? You’d think they would delegate something like this.

Unless… they had some reason for Min to administer the poison herself. As a way to show Hope’s Peak how committed she is to being the Ultimate Student.

Min: I was selected as the Ultimate Student not because of my academic performance, nor my intelligence, but because I had grown into their ideal of an Ultimate Student.

Min: In the end, what the Academy wanted wasn't to select the most intelligent student nor thr best test taker...

Min: But to conduct an experiment to see if someone would force themselves to become their idea of an Ultimate for the Academy's sake and succeed.

So, I know I’ve already speculated a lot based on very little evidence, but this definitely feels like the largest stretch I'm making. Essentially, I believe it’s possible Hope’s Peak knows about her poisoning the competition, but they just see it as further confirmation that she truly deserves the title of Ultimate Student. Competitiveness is a part of the talent, according to my interpretation about that line about being top of the class. And Hope’s Peak in this universe clearly is somewhat fucked up, considering what we’ve learnt from Xander’s Bonus Episode.

After all, think about it. Min says Hope’s Peak picked her for reasons outside of her test, but how do they know about the other stuff she’s done? It’s perfectly possible I’m reading too much into this, and XF-Ture Tech just has a trustable source which could recommend Min to the Hope’s Peak talent scouts or something. But that’s boring. It’s more fun to see this poisoning as the ultimate (hah) demonstration of Min’s devotion to the Academy and the ideals of Ultimates.

… Also, maybe that opens the door again to the poison being non-lethal? If she was just asked by Hope’s Peak to show her loyalty by eliminating competition, she could have maybe put them in comas, ones too long for the Academy to consider giving them the Ultimate Student title. Hey, if turpentine fumes can knock people out…

Actually, now that I’m thinking about it (this post wasn’t planned too well), that works even if Hope’s Peak doesn’t know about this. I did always find it weird the secret specifically mentions poisoning instead of straight up murdering, even when they’re supposed to be as unflattering as possible. So… she’s evil, but I can fix her (in a completely platonic fashion). Surely. Or make her worse. Whichever’s more fun.

(Watch her secret be the suicide one, btw. I don’t know if I’d laugh or cry)

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So, hope that satisfies your question! And hopefully I didn’t bore you too much with my insane speculation! I honestly don’t know which theory is crazier, this one or “the Sleepy MV is actually about Min and Mai”. But I had fun, and that’s what matters.

Anyways, thanks for reading so far! You deserve an A+ for putting up with my insanity! Take care!

[marihoneywk]

Duty and Flames

Ser Criston Cole x targaryen original female character

Summary:

Daenys Velaryon, oldest daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen and, allegedly, Ser Laenor Velaryon.

Hair white like moon, eyes bright like the sun. Many say that she’s the copy of her mother in her younger years, with an ethereal beauty and a kind but wild soul.

After six years in Dragonstone, Rhaenyra and her family have to travel back to Kings Landing to secure Lucerys position as heir to Driftmark. What happens when the chaotic members of the Targaryen family reunite again and a particular Lord Commander of the Kingsguard takes a more dark interest in the sweet Daenys?

Chapter 1 - Of memories and changes

The roads of Kings Landing were just as Daenys remembered it. Dirty, with excrements laying around as if they were flowers. The smell was so strong that she had to close the small window in the carriage. 

“How is this piece of shit the kings home?” Lucerys asked not remembering very well the details of the city that saw him came into this world. 

“Here is awful but in the keep its all clean and smells like freshly washed sheets. That’s what matters to the council in the end.” During the time that she lived in Red Keep, not once did Daenys witnessed the council caring about the small folk or even their living conditions. They were just numbers who only were relevant when someone forgot to pay their taxes or when the crime rates were too high and it started to get hard to put so many men in the dungeons. 

The carriage lurched and Daenys had to brace Jace’s arms in order to prevent her into falling on the floor or on top of Luke, who was in front of her.

“Careful sister, you almost hit my jaw with your elbow.” Jacaerys laughed and helped his sister sit properly on her seat.

Daenys had hit her knee on the wood of the seat and made a small noise of pain thar her brothers didn’t notice. An obvious bruise in the knee would appear in a day.

“Look, we’re here! I can see the gates already!” Luke pointed and the three siblings looked together through the small gaps of the carriage and saw the red gates of the castle. 

The gates opened and just after that, the two carriages that transported Daenys and her family, started to slow down and then stoped in the yard. 

Rhaenyra came out of her carriage, with Daemon and Joffrey behind her, and with the nursemaids that held the babes, Aegon and Viserys, following. The door to Daenys’s carriage open and she, Jacaerys and Lucerys got up and stepped into the ground as well.

As all the family members got out, they noticed an unusual but relevant detail. The lack of a proper reception to the heir to the Iron Throne. 

Daenys heard Daemon laugh, expect it wasn’t in a funny way and was more in a “been in here for one minute and already want to strangle the Hightowers” way.

The only person who was outside to greet them was Lord Caswell. “Welcome back princess. I’m sorry for the small reception but a lot is going on in the castle at moment, so we couldn’t find time to prepare.” 

Rhaenyra gave a yellow smile to Lord Caswell, pretending that she believed in his words and that the humiliating welcoming to the heir to the throne was not made on purpose. 

Daenys and Jace exchanged glances, communicating their feelings about this weird greeting with their eyes. 

“Please follow me your grace, and the maids will show you, your lord husband and your children the way to your respective chambers.” The family followed Lord Caswell and as soon as they entered the walls of the Red Keep they notice how everything had changed. 

The sigils of House Targaryen were no longer a statement in the the walls, and had been replaced with the symbol of the Seven Pointed Star. A clear change made by Alicent Hightower, a faithful women who didn’t understand the ways of the Targaryen culture.

“I would say its nice to be home but I scarcely recognize it.” Rhaenyra confessed and Daenys couldn´t agree more with her mother.

Being the eldest child, she was the one with more memories of the castle, but the current decoration of the Red Keep did hardly anything to relieve her childhood. The few minutes that she had spent inside the castle since her family’s arrival, had not brough the sweet sentiment of being home that she thought would feel.

“Children please go set yourselves in your chambers, while me and Daemon go visit the King.” Rhaenyra asked, as she also murmured to the nursemaids to bring little Viserys and Aegon with them.

Daenys nodded, obeying her mother’s request and took Joffrey’s hand in hers and began walking to their old rooms, with her other two brothers just behind her.

“Almost looks like we’re in the Sept.” Lucerys was still looking around, observing all the changes made in the castle. “If Alicent could, she would kill all the dragons and made us ride seven pointed stars.” He laughed and Jacaerys joined him.

“Shhh! Don´t say that, someone might hear you! The Hand and the Queen have ears and eyes everywhere.” Daenys could almost punch her brothers for speaking so freely about Alicent while they were still in the corridors of the castle. “We’re not in Dragonstone anymore. It´s been six years since we were here, and we don’t know the people who surround us anymore. Don’t forget that the main reason for our travel is to secure Lucerys’s position as heir to Driftmark, so please be careful brothers.” Her siblings laughs came to a stop once she started lecturing them, and the regret in Lucerys’s eyes was visible as he understood the danger of joking around in the keep.

Daenys knew how unpleasant these weeks in Kings Landing would be. Their family didn´t view them as equals, with the word “bastards” always in the point of their tongues. She also knew how difficult the relationship between Alicent and her mother was. Even if Rhaenyra had never spoken directly with her daughter about it, Daenys could read between the lines and notice the awkward stares and conversations the two women shared, since she started to understood the ways of the royalty.

The Velaryon children had finally reached their chambers, and Daenys gave Joffrey to one of his nursemaids and entered alone in her childhood bedroom.

Thankfully, the changes made by Alicent had not reached her room and everything was the same. The bed in the middle of the space with a beige dossel that went from the ceiling to the floor, the dark brown dressing table with a mirror on the left that reflected the image of her bed, and the fireplace that brought memories of her and Jacaerys reading together in front of it in the coldest days.

However, the favourite thing about her room was the window that showed a large view of Blackwater Bay and that would light the entire space from the early morning till very last second of the sunset. Daenys used to seat on a chair near the window and watched the sea move itself, observing the ships departing and arriving.

A knock on the door interrupted her small moment of nostalgia and she went to open it just to reveal Luke and Jace.

“Me and Luke and are going to training yard. Do you want to come with us?” The oldest of the boys asked.

“Are you going to train already? We only just arrived.” Daenys responded, not wanting her brothers to tired themselves so soon, knowing that they were probably sore from the ride in their dragons, even if wasn’t that long of a distance.

“No, we’re just going there to see if the mark made by Luke on the wall it’s still there, and also because we want see our old weapons. “ He stated exchanging excited glances with Lucerys. “Please come with us and don’t stay in your room all day hiding from Aegon.” Jacearys grabbed his sister’s hand and pushed her with them through the corridor.

“I’m not hiding from Aegon! In fact, his presence didn´t even crossed my mind! Not even for a second.” She argued.

Daenys and Aegon used to be very close. Practically best friends. They pulled many pranks together and were like two little nightmares always ready to create chaos in the castle. They used to stole cakes from the kitchen and throw pillows at the knights from the balconies of the keep. This lasted until the day Aegon discovered wine, and since them, his passion for playing and spending time with Daenys was replaced with more dirty hobbies, such as getting himself drunk and chasing around women. Daenys got tired of begging for his attention and learned how to have fun by herself, since she also didn’t like the games that Luke and Jace played, and Helaena was too different for her to understand. She tried befriending Aemond but he was a loner and denied pretty much all her invites to play.

“If you say so.” Jace shrug his shoulders.

Daenys tried to forget the matter, focusing only on walking to the training yard, but now that her brother had put Aegon in her thoughts, she quickly became anxious and wanted to turn around to go hide in her room like Jace had suggest.

“It looks smaller that I remember.” Luke said as soon as they arrived to the yard and Jace argued that it actually looked the exact same. Daenys didn’t really had opinion on the matter, since she rarely spent time there when they lived in keep. She appreciated reading and cross stitching with her Speta instead, being more fan of calm activities.

As soon as three siblings set foot in the training yard, Daenys could feel the looks of others in her skin, and she notice that Lucerys felt the same. Six years had passed since Rhaenyra’s children were last seen by members of the court, but those were not looks of curiosity. She could recognize some of ladies that eyed them, remembering how much they liked gossiping. In a matter of hours, their opinions about the looks of the three siblings would be completely spread through the castle, and she knew it wouldn’t be nice and kind ones.

“Everyone’s starring at us.” Luke said with sad eyes.“No one would question me being heir to Driftmark if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon than Ser Harwin Strong.”

Daenys immediately turned to her younger brother and put her hands in his shoulders in a comforting way. “Please ignore their stares and their words Luke. You are the legitimate heir to Driftmark. Even if you don´t share physical similarities with Ser Laenor, you are the boy he raised and loved. No one is more suited for this than you. “She smiled at him, ruffled his hair lovingly and then planted a kiss on his forehead, trying to make the boy feel better.

Lucerys was a boy of four and ten, but he never denied his sister’s affection, like the boys of his age did. He had a very strong connection with his sister and mother, so he adored when Daenys comforted him, or randomly just hugged him. He knew the role of women in their society, so he wanted to lean into his sister’s love before it was to late and she had to move away from their family to go live with some lord.

The cheers of a crowd attracted their attention and the three of them turned to see what occurred in the training yard.

A long blonde hair was moving in the air, as the person who the hair belonged to moved effortlessly from the blows of a knight. Immediately not only Daenys, but also Lucerys and Jacaerys, recognize the men who trained. Their uncle Aemond, and Ser Criston Cole.

Aemond was very different from the child he once was, now being almost tall as Daemon and with evident muscles from all his hard training. The eye patch was also a very prominent aspect in his new form, and Daenys couldn’t stop herself from looking nervously at Luke.

Aemond was really impressive. She couldn’t remember seeing someone so young and with that much skill. The little and shy boy from her childhood was now a man who did not fear the sharpness of a sword, and fired back with smart but fast blows.

However, her eyes also stopped to look at Ser Criston’s figure. He appeared older, with some visible wrinkles near his eyes as he made some faces during the fight, but at same time, he still looked exactly like the man Daenys used to see daily around the keep six years ago. Now that she was a woman of age and had more maturity, she couldn’t deny the beauty in Ser Criston Cole, even with all that sweat. His dornish features looked more appealing than ever, especially as the sun shine directly above him.

Ser Criston was also old enough to be her father, and had too close of a relationship with Alicent, so she quickly wiped these thoughts of her head.

When Daenys turned her focus on the fight again, it had already come to an end, with Aemond winning and showing clearly to everyone in the training yard his brilliant abilities as a fighter.

“Nephews, have you come to train? Or are you going to hide under your older sister’s skirts?” Aemond’s voice interrupted the conversations in the yard and Daenys locked eyes with him as soon as he mentioned her brothers. Aemond took his time and observed his niece carefully, noticing her also evident changes. She looked more tall as well, and her blonde hair was longer and wavier, touching her lower back almost like a cloak. Her body was also curvier, with the bump of her bottom and the swell of her breasts visible, even beneath the conservative dress that Daenys wore due to being more comfortable for dragon rides.

As Aemond had focus his attention on Daenys, so had Ser Criston, even if it was in a more discreet way. Last time he saw her she was a child of one and ten, and now in front of him he had a whole woman.

Ser Criston made a sound with his throat as he took in her similarities with Rhaenyra, the woman he once had been in love, and that rejected and humiliated him.

Daenys Velaryon shared absolutely nothing with her suppose father, Ser Laenor Velaryon, stealing all the traits from her mother. The hair, the cheeks, the lips and the eyes. Ser Criston Cole swore he was seeing young Rhaenyra in front of him once again. The only clear difference between her and Rhaenyra, was her height, and without realizing Ser Criston suddenly started to imagine the longs legs that were hidden under Daenys’s black dress.

Were her legs pale and thin like her mother’s? How would her eyes look like under the light of a few candles in her chambers? Did she smelled like lemon cake just like Rhaenyra used to? Or did she preferred the scent of jasmines and other flowers?

What sounds would she make as he kissed her neck? Would she touch his back with her nails just like Rhaenyra in that one time they spent together?

Ser Criston couldn’t believe in his own thoughts. He had been a good knight in those six years, loyal to the Queen like he was her dog. He wouldn’t let Rhaenyra ruin him again. Even if it wasn’t her, it was her bloodline that stood in front of him. With a sweet little face that could made the most religious man sin. He hated her already.

Rhaenyra’s family had only just arrived but Criston couldn´t wait for their departure as the simple presence of Daenys in the training yard was making him relive some memories he didn’t want to remember, and was awaking a side of him that he only wished would stay hidden.

Next chapter

Note

I want to read all of your opinions about this chapter and if you find any grammatical mistakes please comment so I can write it correctly. English is not my first language so I’m a little nervous writing this 🥲

Tomorrow I’m going to work on the second chapter and try to publish it as soon as I can.

Also, if you read the summary that I posted almost a month ago, yes I did change the title of the story.

Mari xx