#and c) still ambiguous in its own right!

[604to647]

Birthday Present

1.3K / Javier Pena x fem!reader

Summary: Someone leaves you a birthday present on your desk.

Warnings: Angst, pining and yearning, but also some hurt, allusion to past relationship, allusions to smut, allusions to infidelity (possible/perceived? left ambiguous on purpose), reader is described as having hair that can be adorned with accessories, set in the Escobar seasons of Narcos (but which one/when is up to you), reader works at the embassy (my h/c is in Treasury because I only know how to write Finance girlies, but it's not important)

A/N: I've had a Javi P story swirling in my head for a long time, long before I even conceptualized Safest with You; but I'm fully committed to SwY right now, and don't think I have it in me to write another multi-chapter fic at the same time. So here is just a little angsty one shot of these two dummies; maybe one day I'll revisit and write the longer story for them that they deserve.

Multiple hands usher you to the office breakroom, where everyone from Treasury and several people from other embassy departments are waiting with a cake adorned with lit candles.  Someone dims the lights and the crowd starts singing “Happy Birthday” to you as you smile and welcome their kind attention.  After the candles are blown out and cake slices dispensed, you give your thanks after some small talk and leave most of the crowd to enjoy their midafternoon break.  Making your way back to your desk carrying the paper plate with your generous slice of cake, you’re surprised to see a small black velvet box with a red bow sitting on top of your files. Momentarily confused, you have to think back to remember that it certainly hadn’t been there when you left for the break room earlier.  You pick up the box and find it to be quite light; as you turn it over in your hands, you look around to see who it might be from.  Unfortunately, most people are either still having cake or just returning to their desks as you have, so there's no one who would have been around to see who left it.

You sit down and open the box; inside, resting on the soft black fabric, are two matching metal hair clips, each with a small, delicate looking silver bird adorning its end.  They’re beautiful and subtle, definitely something that would have caught your eye at an antique store – these were not purchased at any of the local souvenir stores near the embassy, that was for sure.  Your knee jerk reaction is to think they’re from Javier.  Among his many names of endearment for you, his favourite had been to call you his pretty bird. 

But you weren’t his pretty bird anymore.  No, you hold up one of the hand-crafted clips in your hand to admire it, these weren’t from Javi.  He had no reason to give you a gift with such sentiment.

Not when he hadn’t spoken a word to you in the two months since he had broken your heart; not even a word that night you had silently pieced together the scene in his apartment with the beautiful half naked woman on his couch and him standing in the living room shirtless, his pants unbuttoned.  You had apologized for interrupting before leaving your key to his apartment on the kitchen counter, then crying, made your way upstairs to ask the Murphys if you could use their phone to call a car.

You had felt so stupid.  It was entirely your fault for letting Javi break your heart.  You had heard all the whispered warnings around the office of Agent Javier Pena’s philandering ways; some shared as jovial gossip, but also some more bitter testimonials.  But that hadn’t been the man who had helped translate your clumsy Spanish with the Columbian embassy staff.  Or the one who had gently threaded his fingers through yours when unwinding from stressful days over long, lazy dinners. And it hadn’t been the man who had been too shy to cross the threshold of your apartment until you practically yanked him in and let him pull orgasm after orgasm from you until you nearly forgot your own name.  So you had ignored the murmurs about his reputation, allowing what had to be hubris to think it wouldn’t apply to you.  And you had fallen in love with Javier Pena.  You fell head over heels for the puppy eyed, baritone voiced gruff who cared more deeply about his work and the innocent people of Columbia than anyone knew; who had a tender heart that hurt every time Escobar’s violence touched lives that he, Javi, could not save.  With his words and his gentle and not so gentle touches, Javier had made you believe he had fallen in love with you too.  In the end, it must have simply been another weapon in his arsenal of charm to keep his bed occupied and his roster of rotating paramours never ending.  You had fallen for it, thinking you had somehow been special, when of course, you weren’t. Stupid.

No, Javi had no reason to think of you on your birthday.  The gift wasn’t from him.  But this certainty comes with another realization close on its heels: that despite everything, a small part of you wished it was.

---

Javi had waited patiently the entire day, peeking out the door of the DEA office he shared with Steve, down the hall to the big windows of the Treasury department to watch for when you would leave your desk.  All day long, people came by to wish you happy birthday, and you had smiled sweetly at everyone and thanked them for their felicitations. 

Never once did you look down the hall in his direction, but it had been months since you had done so.  It used to be a secret ritual between the two of you; when the DEA would rush down this same hallway for a raid or mission, you would lock eyes with him and mouth words of encouragement, a simple “Be careful” or “Come back”, and him countering “Always” with a cocky smirk, but eyes filled with adoration.  And he had kept that promise every time, always returning to you and proving his devotion over and over with his words, his hands, his mouth, his cock.  Worshipping you, really.  His pretty bird.  The most perfect creature to have ever stepped foot in the US Embassy; sweet, smart, a force to be reckoned with, but most of all, kind, and by some miracle, you saw those same qualities in him.  You made him feel like a better man that he was, and loved him for all that he strived to be.  He had never wanted to be separated from you.

Now he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times you had addressed him directly in the last two months: once in a meeting and once while crossing paths in the Ambassador’s office - a polite nod followed by, “Agent.”

Agent.

As if you didn’t know his name.

As if you hadn’t cried it out over and over while writhing in pleasure beneath him.

As if you hadn’t whispered it following the three sweetest words he ever heard from you.

I love you, Javier.

I love you more, pretty bird.

And now it was “Agent”.  Now you hated him. But he still loved you so, so much.

So he had waited until your entire department had left for birthday cake before slipping into the vacated room and leaving your present on your desk.  He had seen the hair clips in the window of a little Columbian antique store while on a recon mission in a village outside of Bogota; thinking of you immediately when he saw them and how perfect they would look in your soft hair.  He had bought them that day, but the box had been sitting in his desk ever since, waiting for a way to make it into your hands where it belonged.

He knew he couldn’t give them to you directly, he was still unable to face you; he had already seen devastation and hurt replace what used to be love and admiration in your eyes the night he didn't stop you from leaving his apartment, allowing you to think he had cheated on you. He was too much of a coward to face those same eyes now and what he might see: disappointment, hate.  Impatiently, he hovers in the safety of his office doorway, waiting for you to discover your gift.  When you do, he watches your face go from surprise, to thoughtful confusion, to delight as you admire the hair clips.  Your eyes seem bright and a little bit sad as you examine the little bird decorating the barrette in the light.  He breathes a little sigh of relief when you ultimately smile and put the dainty accessory away, slipping the gift box into your purse.

Javier hopes you love your present.  He wishes he could help you attach the hair clips to your hair, but contents himself with knowing that when you wear them, you will be carrying his love with you, even if you don’t know it.

[kdogreads]

Perfect Strangers

Dean x Reader smut

Summary: You wander into your favorite bar to relax after a long day. When a tall, dark and handsome hunter walks in, you end up in his car making questionable decisions.

TW: Alcohol, spanking, car sex; please let me know anything else

Word count: 3225 (oops lol)

A/N: I got a little carried away on this one. Please let me know if there are any mistakes and all feedback is welcome! Enjoy at your own risk ;)

—————————————————-

The only thing you could think about right now was how desperately you wanted a damn drink. This last demon hunt really kicked your ass — literally. The demon knocked you on your butt during the fight and it was really damn sore; not that you’d admit that to anyone. You pulled into your favorite dive bar and let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a chance to relax.

You recognized some of the cars there as other hunters. This was a hunter hotspot, after all. Friends, colleagues, and perfect strangers alike all gathered here to pretend they were normal people with normal jobs for a few hours, just like anyone else. Or they’d just drink enough to think they really did work a 9-5, until they stumbled outside mumbling about spirits and vamps and dead man’s blood.

You swung open the squeaky, rusted door and watched all the heads turn to see who was coming in now. Some nodded your way, a few gave small waves or smiles, and the rest just turned back to their own conversations. A peeling barstool off on its own was calling your name and you made your way over to settle in for the evening.

“What’s your poison tonight, (y/n)?” The friendly bartender you’d come to know asked as you took your jacket off and threw it over the stool.

“Long island, please, Frank,’’ You smiled at the weathered man. He wasn’t a hunter, but he knew enough to welcome them in, not ask too many questions, and keep their drinks full.

“That bad, huh?” He smiled at you, reaching for the many bottles needed.

“You don’t want to know, my friend.” You let out a chuckle and ran a hand through your y/h/c hair, tucking it behind your ear.

“You got that right,” Frank said with a wink, “Let me know when you’re ready for another.” He slid your drink across the counter and headed off to tend to his other patrons.

You sipped the potent liquid and felt yourself relax. Classic rock and old country music played quietly from the jukebox, lulling you to someplace else in some other life.

Just as you finished the last of your first drink, Frank slid another one your way, and you heard the familiar squeak of the front door opening. This time, you joined the crowd and turned to see who had wondered their way in.

Two tall, tired-looking men in blue jeans and flannel shirts — undeniably hunters — stepped through the door into the smoky room. A tight smile crept across the taller one’s face, acknowledging he was a friend of the cause. He nodded ambiguously before tucking into a booth in the corner and opening up a beat-up laptop. The other man, still tall but slightly shorter than the other, headed straight to the bar and looked for an open spot. Naturally, the only open seat was right next to you. Great.

The handsome man nodded slightly as he threw a bowed leg over the stool just inches from you.

Frank made his way over and greeted the man. He raised an eyebrow your way, silently asking if you were okay. You smiled slightly in response, so Frank lightened up and made small talk with the mystery man. He returned shortly with his order, bottom-shelf whiskey on the rocks, and it fell quiet again in your little corner of the world. Nothing but the smooth sounds of Bob Seger’s voice filled your ears. That is, until you felt a pair of eyes on you and another smooth, deep voice invaded your senses.

“How do you drink that sugary shit?” The voice boomed loudly, but not demandingly. Just making conversation.

“How do you drink that gut-rotting shit?” You questioned back. The man chuckled.

“Fair enough,” he conceded and raised his glass towards you. Your glasses clinked together and you both sipped your medication of choice for the night.

“Dean,” he offered, turning slightly in his chair towards you.

“Y/n,” you smiled.

“Nice to meet you, y/n.” Dean flashed a heartbreaking smile, eyes crinkling in the corners and nostrils flaring out just slightly. It was only then you noticed how pleasant his musk of leather and gunpowder was.

You spent the next few minutes sharing stories of a long day of travel and your beloved cars, both old Chevys, and how content you were to be here, drinking your thoughts away.

The minutes grew longer and, before you knew it, it had been nearly three hours and nearing 1 o’clock in the morning.

Dean was devastatingly charming — offering kind and sarcastic comments intermixed, light taps on your arm when telling a funny story, and hunting war stories, some satisfying and some really, really dark.

It was in the middle of his tale about battles with Lucifer, the literal devil, you felt the drinks catching up to you and you excused yourself to the bathroom. Not realizing just how many you’d had, you felt a bit unsteady upon rising from your wobbling barstool. Dean gripped your arm to keep you from tumbling over.

“Easy there, tiger. Didn’t find your sea legs yet, huh?” Dean shook his head and let out a light laugh watching you try your hardest to keep your balance.

“Watch it, Dean. I could still kick your ass right now. Don’t try me,” you spat back playfully having gained enough awareness in your limbs to stand on your own.

Dean threw his hands up in surrender, motioning for you to head in the direction of the bathroom.

“Well,” you began after clearing your throat, “If you feel you must accompany me to the restroom to ensure my vertical integrity, please don’t let me stop you.” You sloppily strung the colorful sentence together, giggling in the middle of your performance.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean let out a hearty laugh and stood up next to you, offering his arm to hook yours into, “Your humble servant.”

You giggled the whole way to the bathroom, weaving a winding path down the otherwise straight hallway. You arrived at the small, dimly-lit “ladies room” sign and your escort paused in front of it.

“Now, Dean, you and your nice, firm biceps will have to wait for me out here,” you squeezed the muscular arm keeping you upright and let out yet another girlish laugh.

“I’ll be right out here, sweetheart,” Dean smiled and shook his head, opening the wooden door for you.

You raised your brows at the ‘sweetheart’ comment, and smiled what you intended to be an alluring smile, but didn’t feel confident you’d conveyed anything but a drunken smirk.

You took care of what you needed to, likely taking much longer than intended and banging into the walls a bit more often than usual. As you washed your hands, the warm water felt nice over your cold hands and made a chill dance up your back, pulling you slightly back into the sober world.

Outside the door, Dean patiently waited, chuckling with every thud against the wall. He smiled at you as you swung the door open again and stepped your way back into the dark hallway.

“Feel better?” He questioned, offering his arm back out to you.

“Much better, but I am too old to be out this late,” you responded, now feeling the alcohol dragging gravity down on your body at a much heavier rate than normal.

Dean laughed and nodded in agreement, “Right there with you, sweetheart. Let me take you home.”

There he goes throwing “sweethearts” around again. It made your stomach flutter a little more this time.

Typically, you would never agree to get into a strange’s man car, but having passed your sneaky monster tests — a dash of holy water in his glass when he went to the bathroom, brushing his skin with your silver ring, watching as his arm rested on the iron rivets in Frank’s bar top — Dean seemed all human, and humans you could deal with. You were certain he’d tested you, too, without your knowledge. If he were as good a hunter as he sounded, he better have.

“Alright, taxi man, but if you turn out to be a serial killer or some kind of weirdo, I’m not a very willing victim,” you offered back playfully, “I’ll bite back.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Dean responded, a different, deeper tone to his voice. You felt a smile creep across your face as you imagined what he might be thinking.

You both stopped to pay your tabs and said goodnight to Frank. He smiled an inquisitive smile your way and you rolled your eyes in response.

You stepped into the cool night air with Dean, questioning the decisions that got you to this point, but not really caring.

He led you through the parking lot to his stunning classic car. You stood still a moment, taking in her shine in the moonlight.

“Baby, y/n. Y/n, Baby,” Dean motioned to you and to the car. Clearly, he loved this hunk of metal a whole lot more than you did your old rust bucket.

“Lovely to meet you, Baby. So sorry our first meeting will include me climbing inside of you.”

Dean laughed at your bold introduction. “She doesn’t mind,” he replied. You weren’t sure if he was flirting with you or the car, but you were entertained nonetheless.

He walked around to open the passenger side door for you. You felt a sense of nervousness as you climbed into her bench seat, followed immediately by a rush of excitement, not knowing what was in store for you next.

The interior smelled just like Dean had a few hours ago. Leather, gunpowder, and sexual tension. You felt tingles in your stomach and a warmth between your thighs as the anticipation grew for Dean to climb in next to you.

“Ah, some music?” Dean reached for the dial as soon as the engine roared to life. You jumped at the slam of his door, but relaxed again when the familiar opening notes of Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire” danced through the speakers. The growing melody made your heart beat faster than before.

“Where to, Miss Daisy?” Dean asked.

“Here,” you answered, turning so your whole body faced Dean. You slid over the seat to place your cool hand on his warm forearm.

“What do you- Oh,” Dean began, placing his large hand over yours, “You’re sure, y/n? That’s what you want?”

“Yes, Dean, this is what I want. And you?” You raised another hand to the top of his buttoned-up shirt, panting into his ear, your mouth now inches from him, and circled a finger around the top button. “Do you want me, Dean?”

“Oh yes I do,” Dean hissed and placed his free hand on the back of your neck, pulling your mouth to his.

Your lips crashed together, eagerly opening and closing together in a fast rhythm. Dean’s tongue worked its way into your mouth, searching around your bottom teeth and your tongue. You started working on the buttons of his flannel, moving frantically to pull the constricting garment off him.

Now in a plain t-shirt, he looked even more enticing to you. Biceps glistening in the yellowish glow of the street lamps, he easily grabbed your hips and pulled you into his lap.

Straddling his legs, you could feel his large member growing more and more solid under your wet core. You grinded into him and a deep groan escaped from his chest.

“God, y/n, you are so beautiful,” Dean hissed into your skin, placing rough kisses along your jaw and neck.

He reached a hand down to cup your round ass before reaching under you to rub your dripping core through your jeans. You let out a moan and panted as you sat up taller, allowing him a further reach. The friction of his hand on your clit nearly made you cum already.

You could hardly take it anymore. You wanted Dean inside of you so desperately.

Dipping back down to kiss his lips again, you undid the button of your jeans and Dean did the same.

Suddenly, Dean pushed you over his shoulder and yanked your jeans down your thighs. He hesitated for a moment to put his hands around your ass and let out a low, “Fuck.”

“Have you been a bad girl, y/n?” Dean growled into your skin, rubbing small circles over your ass and thigh while his other strong arm wrapped around your waist to hold you firmly in place.

“Dean!” You shrieked, the cool air swirling around your wet folds made you forget for a moment what you were about to say. “What if someone walks by?”

“They’re drunk,” he hissed, planting a small bite on your exposed hip, “Now answer me.” He tightened his grip on the sensitive skin just under your full hips, gliding achingly closer to your throbbing core. Your worry melted away, just wanting Dean to touch you.

“Yes,” You panted, “Yes Dean.” Anticipation growing deep in your body. You inhaled sharply as his large hand landed roughly on your skin.

“I knew you were, my dirty slut,” Dean hissed, landing another spank on your ass, followed by a slow rub, “Already so wet for me, too, huh?”

You groaned as another smack, and another, and another stung your throbbing skin. Each blow sent a surge of hotness through your veins, making you wetter and wetter. He peeled back just one leg of your jeans, but it was more than enough to give you the freedom you needed.

Dean finally lowered you back into his lap, kissing you eagerly and rubbing the sting away with his rough, careful hands.

He lifted the two of you up slightly as you pulled his jeans down enough to free his rock-hard cock. You gripped it tightly with one hand while the other tangled into Dean’s hair. You stroked him slowly at first, then faster as he let low growls escape from his chest.

He grabbed at your hair and your ass, growing more and more eager to feel the warm walls inside you.

Dean let out another string of curse words before grabbing the sides of your face and pulling your face to his, kissing you softer than before, but somehow even hungrier to feel you around him.

You lined your dripping entrance up with him and slowly sank down until your thighs met his and you both let out deep moans. He filled you completely and stretched your walls further than ever before. Dean’s strong hands grabbed your hips and carefully lifted you up, allowing you to adjust to his size inside you, before pushing you back down with more force this time.

You grabbed onto the seat back behind Dean and braced yourself to bounce up and down on his hard cock, slamming into your sweet spot with every thrust. He left his hands on your hips, but let you take the lead, eager to see what you could do to him.

“Fuck, y/n,” Dean panted between your thrusts, “Fuck, you ride that cock so good.”

You let a smirk grow across your lips and he grabbed a handful of your hair and pulled your head back roughly.

“Dean,” you whined, “You feel so good inside me.” You felt the pressure rising in your core, Dean’s grip on your body causing him to hit just the right spot over and over.

“Cum for me, baby. Cum all over me.”

His words sent tingles over your clit, sending you over the edge. The hotness of an orgasm took over your body, taking over your senses with shockwaves of pleasure. You shook in Dean’s lap as your walls clenched around him. He guided you up and down, riding out the frantic waves of pleasure with you.

Dean groaned deep in his throat as your walls released him slightly, making him desperate for more of you. He shoved you down, filling you up with his hardness, and ground your hips into his.

Your nails dug into his back as Dean rolled you forward and back, the friction on your clit making you moan and breathe out, “Dean- fuck. I-I’m gonna cum.” Your warm breath rolling over his face, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Dean, please don’t stop,” you barely spat out, shocks of pleasure coursing through your body.

Feeling your walls tightening again, Dean slid his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit with his rough fingers. The changing in sensation sent you bucking frantically into another orgasm. You saw stars as the waves overtook you and you felt Dean release deep inside you, spilling out the warm liquid into your walls and filling you to your limit. The spasms of both of your muscles intensify each other’s sensations while Dean pulls you closer to him, gripping tightly onto your lower back.

Both of your bodies start to relax as the final shockwaves of pleasure rush through you. Gently, your forehead lands on his and a smile grows across his face. He brushes your messy y/h/c off your cheek.

“Damn, y/n, you wanted that bad, huh?” Dean teased before meeting his lips to yours for a deep, slow kiss.

“Screw you, Winchester,” you spat back playfully, smacking Dean on the shoulder and shaking your head.

“You already did,” he winked and planted a light tap on your back.

You let out a laugh and began to swing your leg over to take your place back in the passenger seat.

“Hey,” Dean grabbed your hips, stopping your momentum, “That was fun, sweetheart. I love picking you up at bars.” He planted a sweet kiss on your lips.

“And I love going home with you every time,” A smile crept further across your lips with every word and you returned another soft kiss before climbing back into the passenger seat, pulling jeans back over your legs. You slid Dean’s flannel over your shoulders, suddenly chilly without his body to warm yours.

“Come ‘ere,” Dean whispered, gliding his arm around you and pulling you to his chest. His strong heartbeat lulled you into a relaxed state of contentment.

“Let’s go home,” Dean kissed your forehead, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to sleep until tomorrow afternoon.”

You sighed and nodded as Dean slid his arm out from behind you to put the car in reverse.

“Wait,” You began, “Sam?” Remembering the younger Winchester had walked in with his brother.

“I gave him your keys when you were in the bathroom. He was smart enough not to ask any questions.”

“Ah, of course,” You laughed and laid your head on Dean’s shoulder, ready to go back to the bunker the three of you shared and settle in for the night.

It wasn’t the first time you and Dean pretended to be perfect strangers engaging in an alcohol-fueled one night stand, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The excitement kept your intense and dangerous life together, killing monsters and exorcizing demons, feeling a bit more like a ‘normal’ relationship, strangely enough.

For now, though, you were happy to be on your way back to the arsenal of the unknown you called home and sleep next to your Dean until tomorrow brought you another creature needing killed.

Join my tag list! Thank you so much for the love ❤️ @this-is-me19

[inventors-fair]

Second Spellings: Runners-Up ~

Our runners-up this week are @bergdg, @helloijustreadyourpost, and @hypexion!

@bergdg — The Great Conjuration

I don't really know where blue and green became the shapeshifteryest of shapeshifter colors (or rather, I get the gist because blue = mutability and green = nature). When you have these together, though, you get a card like this which is really damn sweet. This card obviously puts a massive target on your back, but if you go fast enough, you can ensure that the power behind your creatures can swing fully and completely. Or rather, that you have at least one explosive turn. Having all the cards be exiled can be a feel-bad, but there are great ways to exploit this and even better ways that this card is just plain fun.

For example: naming Eldrazi allows you to cast Emrakul off a Blisterpod. Honestly, do I need to name any other examples after that? I think that the only major revision I would make would be for the last ability to say "You may cast any number of cards exiled with ~ this turn without paying their mana costs." I'm not sure where you got the "one or more" wording from, but hey, that's a small issue for such a fun card. It's extremely narrow and more often than not feels like it would be a glass cannon—so yeah, perfectly reasonable for what the conjuration is implying, right? Side note: amazing art skills there. The mood conveys the gist conveys the extremity.

@helloijustreadyourpost — Sky Dancer

I like the Shakespeare reference in the flavor text, and I think it speaks to some kind of faerie perspective that's not quite translatable to human thought—or at least that feels like the intention, the way that the fae see the world. That is to say, I like both the simplicity and the ambiguity. It's actually tied with the effect for the card, which is a potentially quite powerful effect at common! I can't think of any specific effects with which it's broken, at least not at the moment.

So what you have is the ability to swing in with your fliers and then be on the defense, plus if you have any flash synergy you can utilize that to make combat harder for your opponents. All checks out. Cast triggers at common aren't the easiest to grok, but at the same time, this effect doesn't use too much complex space because of no inherent tap ability; I'm thinking of how my students sometimes get juked out with weird Thermo-Alchemist triggers, y'know. By itself, it's a card that does just what Faeries want to do at common, and I think that the only possible change I'd make would be to make it a 1/2, and even that's negligible. Solid common design!

@hypexion — Distortion Skitterer

As an uncommon? You're treading hazardous ground... But, it's a seven-mana 4/4 so that's honestly not so bad. Making additional 4/4s with trample is pretty nasty and you do get one on cast, but holy crap, that's still really fun to play, and fairly limiting all things considered. The amount of times that this would've come up in OGW limited would be pretty little, which is reasonable, but getting two of them or getting just one trigger off would be pretty nasty. Considering that MH3 is going to have even more? Wow. I think that the double-C is quite reasonable for the setup.

Honestly this card speaks for itself—the power level is comparable to the more powerful uncommons of its era, it's an Eldrazi that makes more Eldrazi, and you've got a pretty reasonable wording to show how nuts it can be. FYI, the cast trigger for other spells would actually be its own thing, e.g. "When you cast this spell and whenever you cast a spell with {C} in its mana cost..." I believe you don't have to specify "on the battlefield" because, like Cityscape Leveler, it implies the zone with the wording on the trigger. That said, it's fairly complex, so I understand if things got finicky. Flavor text is a solid B+, too! Just remember to put the period inside the quotation marks. I guess a runner-up flavor would've been Zurdi saying that they missed the scute bugs.

Commentary soon! @abelzumi

[olderthannetfic]

Since people are talking about TV!GO again and Neil, here's my two cents.

Something that always comes up in these talks is "Neil is a good ally and not a homophobe!" as roundabout "proof" of A/C being canon. And I feel like that's a result of the myopic way homophobic/racist/sexist/etc. has become synonymous with "bad person, pls cancel" rather than a description of an ingrained set of biases, many of them unconscious, many of them wildly different in levels of harmful impact. (Meaning, someone who actively votes against queer rights is a much bigger problem than someone who writes bad queer rep.)

A really good way to explain this is to look at representation that was progressive for its time but is dated now. Take black actors in movies released in the 80s and 90s and 2000's. Black people became more common, often in supporting roles, sometimes predictably enough that "Sassy Black Friend" or "Black Dude Dies First" became their own tropes. Now of course, this is more progressive than the mid-20th-century time point when they would only play nurses or cleaners, and any decision to cast black people in roles more diverse than that was in some way motivated by progressiveness. But at the same time, what motivates a (usually white) director to give the supporting role to the black actor, but keep the starring roles white? Are we really going to pretend it's not racism? Come on. Racist/homophobic/sexist/etc. bias isn't a binary, it's a complex spectrum of sliding scales and what roles you're comfortable envisioning someone in. I fully believe that Neil simply isn't comfortable with making his leads G-A-Y gay, but is more comfortable with giving them more obscure or less threatening queer identities like asexual or nonbinary or whatnot (or at least, "not excluding" them as per his tweets). Because he's still a straight guy with some level of queerphobic bias, even if is, in many ways, a good queer ally (let's not forget him pushing back against Rowling and TERFs there especially). Just... not in this particular, fairly minor way. That is exactly why A/C isn't canon and Dream/Hob Gadling isn't canon, and why both ships exist primarily in the realm of eyefucking meaningful looks, and why Neil in 2019 twisted himself in circles on Twitter shooting down the idea of Crowley and Azi being gay without being too overt about it.

Hell, I don't even hold it against him. People write what they gotta write, what speaks to them, etc. Sometimes that means only writing things you're comfortable with, such a wink-wink-squint ship that could mean anything.

My only real gripe is that Neil was a little too eager to pat himself on the back when TV!GO came out, and acted a bit too smugly when faced with polite discussion about making A/C explicitly canon. Queersplaining (yes I'm making that a thing now) as a straight author that [ambiguous thing you wrote] is much better than kissing or holding hands is simply not a good look. ( https://twitter.com/neilhimself/status/1168947785883951109?lang=en ) My other real gripe is that his fanbase acts like questioning his writing is like a personal attack on them. Whoever compared him to Joss Whedon was spot on; I remember identical wank 10-15 years back when people were daring to criticize some of the writing in Buffy and Firefly.

--

[thestarlightforge]

Some thoughts on hope, honesty and storytelling from a director’s POV.

I’ve tried to articulate what frustrated me about Multiverse of Madness many times, and they’ve all delved into some combination of A) breaking down the misogynistic, reductive, antisemitic tropes it employed; B) delving into comic book and MCU lore that illustrates why it’s mostly nonsense; and C) character analysis.

But I was thinking about it again today, this time in the context of my aesthetic as a director and writer.

This week, I’ve been at the Kennedy Center’s Director’s Intensive, an amazing annual event that unites early-career directors in community with professionals in theatre. Guests range from pros in dramaturgy, intimacy choreography, stage design, directing, performance, and more.

In several exercises, I’ve refined my thinking on the roles hope and hard truth play in my storytelling. I love hope. It’s my bread and butter. But I hate it when I feel it’s been delivered cheaply—without digging into the realities of how horrible the world can be. Just doesn’t feel earned.

This is why I struggle with the original Little Mermaid cartoon. To me, in addition to its notes on misogyny, consent, class struggle and female power, it’s so clearly a disability story. In Ariel’s most famous ballad, she croons her belief that to be a part of the world she loves—to dance, discover and be free—she has to be able to walk and run. Then, she enters “man’s world” with fully-functioning legs—you can’t CONVINCE me Ursula would’ve given her those. To add ANOTHER layer, when she discovers she’s mute, it’s taken as fact that means she can’t communicate. As if sign language completely doesn’t exist—and again, you can’t CONVINCE me that Ariel, intrepid scholar of all things human, “didn’t know” about sign language. But the story gets resolved with little change to her views: She gets the man (she barely knows), her voice (she doesn’t need), sexy legs (for fitting in) and the world (which looks much like her greatest idealization).

The world doesn’t change. It doesn’t let her down. She’s magically “cured.” She has to change. So to me, her “happy ending” felt hollow and mostly devoid of truth.

Thus bringing me back to Multiverse of Madness and WandaVision.

A lot of fans argued Wanda doesn’t face enough accountability in WandaVision. I feel that ignores the show’s symbolism as a grief epic, abstractions of Wanda’s compounded trauma, and her mental state/ability to even be held accountable in that situation. But in a literal reading, to some extent, I agree. In MoM, people had similar (even less ambiguous) concerns... Most of which I have no desire to delve into again here.

The important aspect, though, is hope. In WandaVision, the subject matter was a series of hard truths and revelations—death after death, unconscionable loss. But it doesn’t read like a funeral. It reads like a celebration of life. And the central dramatic argument of Wanda’s story, to me, is that no matter how utterly broken or lost you are, you can still be a good person—even a hero—if you keep trying and lead with your heart.

So many people hung their hope on Wanda. Queer people, young people, women, outcasts, people who struggle with their own experiences of mental illness and loss. I believe that as artists, we are responsible to the work, our collaborators, our communities, ourselves and the audience—but when we offer hope, we take on an extra responsibility to the audience/the world.

People are going to feel however they feel; it isn’t up to us to fully mitigate that, nor can we. But we ask audiences to be vulnerable—to get invested in our stories and, for however long, trust us with their hearts—and as long as we stay truthful while doing it, it’s the right thing to do not to crush them.

To quote Silver Linings Playbook:

“The world's hard enough as it is, guys. It’s fucking hard enough as it is.”

Wanda’s story in Multiverse of Madness ended with her partial redemption and sacrifice—that’s how Stephen and 838-Christine frame it, for the brief time they talk about it. With the knowledge that she destroyed the Darkhold, an ancient evil, and broke its hold on her with the power of her compassion.

But you know what it also was? A suicide attempt. (One that, if that red flash was her magic saving her, she was lucky to survive.) She is a character known for mental illness, both in the MCU and in her decades-long history in comics. And—whoever you decide is responsible, be it Raimi, Waldron, Feige, other heads at Disney, or some combination—MoM decided that the answer to her story should be suicide. Worse, they’re presently unwilling to classify/discuss it as such.

So any hope we get from her “sacrifice,” her partial redemption, the red flash after—it rings hollow. Because it fails to acknowledge the hard truth.

[sunshine-overload]

[BSTS] Zakuro Alt Stage 4* Card Story

(note: Team C’s show is based on ‘Dogra Magra’ a novel by Yumeno Kyūsaku. It follows a protagonist who has lost all his memories and sense of self. The heroine in the show is Moyoko. ‘Daydream’ is the translated title of the event song.)

chapter 1 -voice training room-

zakuro: ….Hm. Really, what should I do about this.

saki: Is something the matter?

zakuro: It is quite embarrassing but once again my melody was in disarray and all over the place. My word, this is starting to become a dire situation. Like the futility of a crushed egg.

saki: I thought your voice sounded as nice as always though…

zakuro: Even your comforting words right now are in vain.

saki: (Zakuro-san really must be feeling unwell…)

zakuro: I’ll just be going around in circles if I continue trying in this state, I’d be no better than a dog chasing its tail. Please allow me to take a short break.

saki: Yes, please rest for a bit.

zakuro: I’m going to go and buy something to drink, excuse me.

-zakuro leaves and returns-

zakuro: …….

saki: Um, Zakuro-san… Are you ok? If you’re not feeling well then…

zakuro: My my, your concern is so deeply kind. Actually, I have an unrelated query I would like to ask you. —What kind of existence am I to you?

saki: Huh? …Why do you want to know something like that?

zakuro: I mean nothing strange by it, I simply want to break through this predicament of mine. No matter what I do, this life of mine is an empty cicada shell. If the advantage to this emptiness is nothing more than being able to sing in a matching melody to a song then… If I’ve lost my only unique ability then this body will be crushed by its own hollowness and fade away.

saki: Fade away… but that’s…

zakuro: The only way to perceive yourself when your existence is ambiguous both inside and out, is by viewing it through the eyes of another. I’d like you to tell me what I am, so, what would your answer be?

saki: Let’s see… I think that you’re Team C’s indispensable singer.

zakuro: Well well… I’ll humbly accept that unexpected sentiment of yours.

saki: Um, does that help you at all?

zakuro: Of course, it’s as if good news is reverberating down from the heavens. I shall etch your words into my very being. Now then… I guess it is high time I attempt to tackle this difficult melody once more.

saki: I think it may be best if you stop rehearsing and rest for today…

zakuro: No no, I’ve just changed my mind. I think this ambiguous state I’m in is quite fitting for this melody that provokes insanity. For now, I’d like to engrave my singing into your memory as much as I can. Please give me a bit more of your time, my sweet little bird of destiny.

-

chapter 2 -backstage-

saki: (I wonder if Zakuro-san is feeling better now…)

zakuro: My my, it seems the little bird has wandered off and lost her way.

saki: Zakuro-san!

zakuro: Could it be you’ve come to wish me success in the show before the curtain rises?

saki: I’ve just been worried about you…

zakuro: My my, that’s unexpected, you’ve really been worrying for my sake? Well well, what surprisingly good fortune, I’m thankful to the point of being indebted to you.

saki: I’m glad, you seem to have returned to your usual self again, Zakuro-san.

zakuro: How shameful of me it is to have clouded your kind heart with unease. If a certain devotee of yours were to hear of this I’d be sentenced to being torn limb from limb.

saki: (I wonder who he’s talking about…)

-cg

zakuro: …Still, this show really is like a ‘daydream’ to me. Body swaying and everything being hazy as if I were sleepwalking… In a state where one is prone to mistakenly identifying themselves with another. Please tell me little bird, just what do you think my true existence is?

saki: Um, that’s the same thing you asked me the other day, isn’t it?

zakuro: …….

zakuro: How strange, I apologise for repeating myself. Though, I’m happy to know that you pay enough attention to remember my foolish ramblings. You truly are the one and only ‘Moyoko’ for me.

-cg gone

zakuro: …The curtain should be rising soon.

saki: I’ll go and return to my seat then. Please do your best in tonight’s performance.

zakuro: I’m on the stage… you’re in the audience. And yet, it’s as if there is nothing that separates us. Let us both enjoy ourselves, on this journey into a world abundant with bizarre happenings.

—end

[glorious-blackout]

I just finished reading "I'll See You On The Dark Side of the Moon" and my h/c heart loved it so much. Can I get the director's cut for that?

Also, I saw your tags on an anon post. I am also ace! I didn't think I'd run into any other ace Milex shippers here ❤️

Awww thank you so much! 💖 That story (and the whole Milex Big Bang experience) was very special for me so it always makes my day to hear from readers who enjoyed it!

I technically do have a 'director's cut' ending for this fic 😅 Because it was written and edited over a period of months, it had plenty of time to morph from a traditional psychological horror into a story that was more concerned with Alex and Miles's relationship and Alex's desperation to return home. This meant that by the time I got around to writing the first draft of the last chapter, the ambiguous ending I'd had in mind from day one was starting to rub me the wrong way, especially after the intensity of the events leading up to it. After a lot of internal debate and some feedback from my lovely friend who read the early drafts of each chapter, I eventually settled on a more hopeful conclusion which I still feel was the right decision.

Enough time has passed though that I'm happy to share the original ending for curiosity's sake - the only major changes were in the last few paragraphs of the chapter 😊

A soft thud rudely interrupts such pleasant fantasies.  

They break apart, rosy-cheeked and breathless, casting an eye over the bed until the source of their interruption presents itself. Miles’s battered copy of ‘The Restaurant at the End of the Universe’ has slipped from its perch and is now resting precariously against the bedrails, its pages splayed open and threatening to crease beyond repair the instant they hit the floor. Alex rescues it mindlessly - just in time to spare it from slipping through the gap - and brings it closer, recognising the neon imprint of the title from his childhood. 

Without really thinking, he flicks through the yellowed pages, glancing at the dense passages for only a moment before throwing the book aside, blinking away the faint stirrings of a headache. 

“You okay, love?” Miles asks, seemingly out of the blue, until Alex realises he hasn’t said anything since their untimely separation. He looks over at Miles, basks in his beauty in the sleepy morning light, and can’t quite bring himself to believe that he’s real. That he has chosen to spend the rest of his life with Alex of all people, when he could have anyone he wanted. 

“Kiss me again?” he asks, hoping that his desperation for reassurance is not as obvious to Miles’s ears as it is to his own. 

“You’re insatiable,” Miles chuckles, but his eyes are warm and his hand cradles Alex’s cheek with a gentleness that makes him want to fall asleep, safe in Miles’s arms. A persistent beep resounds in perfect time with the pulse drumming in his ears, and Miles’s eyes glance in the direction of the snitching monitor.  

“The nurses’ll be thinking you’re in trouble.” 

‘Oh I am,’ Alex thinks, but he elects not to mention it. Truth be told, he can’t bring himself to care, especially with Miles gazing at him as though he’s just unveiled the secrets of the universe. 

It isn’t long before Miles grants his request, kissing him with so much care and love that their surroundings melt into oblivion. Alex finds that this is a rather pleasant state in which to exist, and so he ignores his creeping exhaustion and the slowly awakening aches across his body in favour of letting his mind be consumed by the man he loves more than anything in this world and beyond.   

As he loses himself in the sweet taste of Miles’s lips and the pleasant burn of stubble against his cheek, Alex finds that he’s almost capable of forgetting the way Douglas Adams’s words had danced maniacally across the page, defying all attempts at comprehension. 

Almost. 

[stillness-in-green]

Chapter 374 Thoughts: Butterfly Effect

How’s this for a turn-around time?  XD  Next time, starting on the inbox. Back to chronological bullet points because, again, the table-shuffling going on this week means I have less in-depth to talk about. (The exception: translation quibbles. I have a lot of translation quibbles. It's one of those weeks.)

O  I love how ominous that one visible eye tracking up from the hand to Mic is.  Whereas at the end of last chapter, its forward aim and the thin line of a single eyebrow made Kurogiri look mostly surprised/shocked, here his expression is considerably more chilling.

O  I don’t have anything in particular to say about Meryl the Weather Forecast gal making a Principled Stand against AFO, save to note that the projection behind her notes that the forecast is for the midnight news.(1)  That is to say, the viewership numbers are not at an all-time high for this noble speaking of truth to power.  (Though if the government is still playing at placating AFO, I wonder if that means Tim Ackbar is out of a job?)

O  Amused that even the tail on Iida’s talk balloon is at right angles.

O  Love the note from Burnin’ that Dabi’s “will” is inherited from Endeavor, because, wow, ain’t that the truth—lethal determination that never falters or flinches, no matter the obstacle.  Touya continues to be by far the most Endeavor-like in temperament of the Todoroki children.

Well, except that, as much as I love the Dabi Is Endeavor’s Monster read, it is still worth discussing that crediting Dabi’s willpower to Endeavor is diminishing his own individuality in ways that, ironically, play right into the narrative he spun for the world in his video: that his flames are Endeavor’s flames, that there’s no boundary between Endeavor’s sins and Dabi’s crimes.  That’s dangerous rhetoric, Burnin’! Especially for your side!

O  I suppose there must be a resurgence of Phoenix Quirk theorizing in response to this chapter, huh?  What with Burnin’ being very explicit about the There’s Something Else Going On Here signaling.   Chalk that up as something I’ll wait and see on because I don’t have enough deep interest in Dabi to actively theorize about it, save a mild curiosity as to what the explanation is that Ujiko, noted quirk specialist, failed to spot it.

O  I adore that page of the portal opening up in front of Dabi, though mainly because it delights me to imagine the sheer face-splitting width of the grin Skeptic must be wearing while he delivers that free travel line.

O  I find it irksome that C. Cook decided to entirely remove all reference to the implied friends Spinner spoke of last chapter when he begged Kurogiri to rescue Shigaraki-tachi, but then here in this chapter, in a moment that allows for a touch of ambiguity about who AFO is referring to, Spinner or Kurogiri, suddenly Cook goes with friends, plural.  The noun in question is ambiguous in the Japanese, sure, but the official English would nearly rule out Spinner as the topic of AFO’s monologue thanks to that singular/plural disagreement.

For the record, yeah, I think AFO is obviously referring to Spinner here.  It’s a bit of a run-on meander, but I think the switch to Kurogiri is just to emphasize that his presence is the result of Spinner’s strong feelings, not to indicate that Kurogiri was the topic all along.  Though I’m sure Shirakumo’s feelings for his friends are not at all off the table going forward, there’s not much reason to assume AFO is placing his trust in those feelings, given that the last time they were awakened, Shirakumo was instrumental in interrupting the surgery.

(Caveat: Given that ominous shifting of Shiragiri’s eye on the very first page, I suppose there’s a slight possibility that AFO is talking about Kurogiri here, and the feeling he’s talking about is “resentment that his ‘friends’ didn’t save him from the dark life he led after Ujiko and I stole him from the nest.”  That feels like a reach to me, but it would be very funny.)

O  The microchip line feels like another case of Horikoshi overexplaining things so he doesn’t get buried in letters from confused fans again like he did after Deku’s 1,000,000% against Muscular.  It’s not quite as egregious as Hawks and Jeanist’s incredibly terrible conversation in Chapter 299 reiterating things they both already knew about Jeanist’s faux death, but it’s got the same sense.

Like, presumably Spinner—and if not him, then definitely Scarecrow and the other PLF advisors—had some way of communicating with Skeptic.  It would not be so unbelievably convoluted to just assume Skeptic could patch himself through on one of those lines the same way he does to talk to Dabi this very chapter, especially since Skeptic somehow realized right away that Spinner succeeded. Indeed, a heads-up from Skeptic is presumably how AFO himself knew when to start monologuing about Spinner's success before the portals even appeared.  That would feel less off to me than trying to imagine Spinner letting The Hand out of his sight long enough for AFO to plant some chip on it.

As it is, I have to assume that when AFO says "microchip," he really means "micro transceiver." AFO didn't know about the heroes' Tempt & Trap plan to split up his army, so he couldn't have put the coordinates Kurogiri would need on the chip in advance. Ergo, it has to be actively receiving a signal that can relay everyones' current locations. Maybe, as a Noumu, Kurogiri can automatically decode orders from radio waves a la the Near High Ends, but it seems like the simplest thing would, again, be to just use whatever comm device Spinner has. Doesn't seem like it would be any more or less prone to breaking than the microchip in The Hand did, you know?

O  I have no strong feelings about that “Heya” added to Dabi’s line as he comes out of the portal, but considerably stronger feelings (negative) about adding the “Oh” to Togawice’s.  “Oh, Hawwwwks,” makes Himijin sound like a sassy slasher killer rather than an incredibly pissed-off guy risen from the grave for revenge.

In fairness, if the Twice speaking is transformed Toga, she’s usually much closer to “sassy slasher” than “furious revenant,” but this is her confronting Jin’s murderer—a topic that makes her drop her singsong levity every time it comes up. That long, menacing growl of Hawks' name feels much more accurate to her mindset.

Anyway, somehow-not-the-most-baffling-choice-made-this-chapter localization aside, it’s a panel we’ve all been waiting for for the better part of three years now, and I seriously can’t wait to see more of it.(2)  You can tell Horikoshi loved it, too; that is some seriously dedicated attention to contours, lighting, and linework.

O  “Femme fatale” was actually the localization choice that had me scratching my head the most this week, but some research suggests that the term AFO uses—傾国, keikoku—is one that, while it literally translates to siren/beauty/courtesan/prostitute, is understood to refer to a woman of such beauty and magnetism that emperors and kings become enamored, endangering their countries as their attention strays.  Certainly the most readily understood comparison to a Western eye would be Helen of Troy.

AFO’s full phrase was 少女に傾国, shoujo ni keikoku; Toga being a teenager rather than a full-grown woman is presumably why the shoujo got attached.  I don’t pretend to understand enough Japanese to say for sure what the ni would indicate about the relationship between the two words, though, much less in the context of the full sentence.  (Terminology I can look up on Google with reasonable enough confidence that I’ll at least land in the right ballpark; sentence structure is well past my level.  Take me with a grain of salt.)

Anyway, regardless of whether AFO is literally using that term for Toga or just describing the situation using a string of words that just-so-happens to call the term to mind, I like it as a callback to what Giran tells Twice in his Deika flashback:

O  Hawks, having learned absolutely nothing, immediately leaps to the much-quoted definition of insanity: repeating the same actions and expecting different outcomes.  I cannot wait to watch him get his ass handed to him.  That last panel(3) activated every schadenfreude button I’ve got, and I will be reading the next chapter with gleeful popcorn gifs scrolling across the forefront of my brain.  Hell, I might make a bowl irl.  Do not let me down on this one, Horikoshi.  And All For One, if you want to rub it in a little harder, you go right ahead.

Taking a break from my Hedonism Bot-esque delight, I will say that I’m delighted that Tokoyami will have a front-row seat for this, too.  It always bothered me that we never got more of him thinking about the claim that his beloved mentor killed a man in cold blood.  I’m not even saying he had to disagree with the choice; I just wish we’d gotten to see more than him tearfully dismissing the claim and then literally never thinking about it again.

Time for a reckoning, lads. Past time.

---FOOTNOTES---

1:  Which would put the current time in central Japan as being a bit after 5PM the next day, by the way.

2:  Though I imagine we’re going to start in flashback next chapter, if only to see how Tsuyu’s doing, that clearly being half of her headset in the rear Twice’s hands.

3:  With one last sigh-inducing translation choice for the road, since soitsu seems to be usually singular, and Hawks is clearly focused on Twice here, not Twice and Dabi, as would be one interpretation of “them.”  Anyway, loving that Hawks not only calls for Twice to get murdered again, like he wasn’t even listening to AFO yammering on about the consequences, he can’t even be polite about it.  Soitsu is, by all accounts, at best the kind of thing you use with friends you have a teasing, rough sort of dynamic with, and much more commonly regarded as derogatory.

[felikatze]

Yellow (Pokemon Adventures): The new champion Red has disappeared, and his Pikachu arrived injured in Oak's lab. When a child named Yellow appears claiming to be Red's friend, Oak entrusts Pika to them and sends them off with an upgraded Pokedex to unravel Red's disappearance and its connection to the Elite Four.

Why I like this dude: Peak gender ambiguity. Yeah yeah they totally had to pretend to be a boy for their safety. They're also very cute and I love their hat. They can talk to pokemon. They one-v-one lance in the final showdown and it's very cool. I love the RGBY arcs of pokespe. They start off naive, but their desire to help and heal pokemon hardens off into a stern determination to do right. Cool kid.

Rider (Monster Hunter Stories 2): As the grandson of the hero Red, the nameless Rider dreams of becoming, well, a Rider, someone who tames and raises Monsters. But when a mysterious red light sends local monsters into a frenzy and they obtain the egg of the herald of ruin, Raze-Wing Ratha, they find themself in over their head.

Why I like this dude: MHS2 is a MASTERCLASS in silent protagonists. Rider's struggle to take care and understand Ratha, their wavering between fear and trust is all conveyed without a single word. Though Navirou and Ena serve as the plot's mouthpieces, that emotional journey is entirely their own. It's conveyed so so well. I love them. MHS1's Rider I already adore, but this one takes the cake. No words, no sign language or writing, yet they are still understood by their friends and by Ratha. Also my Rider is a pink catboy and to see Kyle crushing on them is hilarious.

[rincewindsapprentice]

https://at.tumblr.com/rincewindsapprentice/697912204773769216/8m3uaapp40nv

Don’t you mean gender? Gender as in the social constructed part. Culture around sexism and understanding of sex.

Meanwhile the sexes of humans doesn’t swap in and out with prevailing socio economic systems any more than the sex of any other great ape does. We aren’t snails nor are we cultural figments of our own (or any gods’) imaginations.

I do actually mean sex, not gender.

How we have understood sex (as in the biological/physical part) has changed over time and across societies. While you are right in that the sexes of humans don't just swap in and out over time, how we understand, separate, and construct them (often literally) does. While this is still "cultural," what we mean by sex shifts in dramatic ways that has effects beyond just gender roles.

For example, how we define what makes sex has shifted in dramatic ways in just the West. Earlier definitions were based on the system of humors, with men being "warm" while women were "cold," yet how even this system was interpreted also shifted from time and place, especially given the possibility of "warm" women and "cold" men. In the medieval period, social role (what we now understand as gender) was just as important as physiology, sometimes more important. What was the primary importance for determining cases of ambiguous sex was that someone stay in one gender role (ie, that they stay either passive or active; given the social advantage men had, individuals under examination by juries and their families would generally push for them to be men, regardless of their "actual" sex as we would understand it).

How we have interpreted and "dealt" with issues of ambiguous sex (now generally understood as intersexuality) has even shifted. There were understandings of sex in the ancient and medieval periods that conceived of more than just two sexes (considering the ambiguous cases not just as aberrations of the "real" sex, but distinct sexes unto themselves). For those with ambiguous sexual characteristics, courts were the primary tool for determining a "final" gender, with an individual often part of these discussions. It was only later that surgeons and medical professionals asserted their expertise in answering these questions, eventually leading to literal surgeries performed on adults with ambiguous sexual characteristics to "fix" them to a specific sex, and to argue that there were only two sexes with ambiguous cases being aberrations of "real" sex.

Fast forward to the modern period and how we define sex has shifted dramatically, from outward appearance of genitals ("how long is the clitoris/penis?" "is there an opening between the anus and the clitoris/penis?") to gonads (~late 19th, early 20th), to hormones (early 20th, until men were found to have estrogen), to chromosomes (mid-20th until chromosomal differences were discovered), to even differences in the brain structure today. That list is not even exhaustive. (Anne Fausto-Sterling's work is informative here)

With regards to binary sex itself, how it is understood and to what extent it existed has also shifted tremendously. For example, the Mishnah, the codification of Jewish oral laws from 200 CE, outlines four, or up to eight, different categories of sex determined by a wide variety of means. Many early Christians understood sex in a kind of binary+ way, with there being male, female, and a gradation between the two (including an androgyny). Later understandings of binary sex in the West tended to argue that the level of binary division between the sexes itself demonstrated its level of civilization, in very clear racist (or proto-racist) terms. Thus, medieval mappamundi often included depictions of exotic two-sexed individuals (literally split in half). Later scientific racists in the 18th and 19th centuries argued that "savage" people had increasingly blurry divisions between sexes, with some arguing that the "most savage" were composed of completely ambiguous sexes, while Europeans supposedly had clearly and starkly defined binary sexes.

None of this, of course, addresses non-Western views of sex and gender, which vary wildly across societies and time, and it is not really my place to outline them here (in part because I am a white American without situated knowledge of the systems themselves).

As far as goes the idea of the sexes of humans literally swapping, the intervention of surgeons since the 14th century has facilitated that as cases of ambiguous sex were "corrected" through surgical technique. This did, at times, switch someone's sex (and especially gender role) as parts were amputated or closed (or opened and extended). While first performed only on adults, nowadays such surgeries are performed on infants at the point of birth, with even more invasive procedures enabled by findings in endocrinology. This is the realm where intersex activism aims to intervene as the vast majority of these surgeries have and are now used to prevent "social destruction," not improve the life of the individual.

As far as the tags in my post, when the West came to adopt a strictly binary view of sex (there is only "male" and "female," with ambiguous cases aberrations of a "male" or "female") is a matter of often heated debate. Some argue that binary sex emerged with the translation of Arabic texts in the 12th century and the professionalization of surgeons in the 13th and 14th centuries (see Leah DeVun, The Shape of Sex: Nonbinary Gender from Genesis to the Renaissance). Others point to such a surgical invention as late as the 19th century (see Geertje Mak, Doubting Sex: Inscriptions, bodies, and selves in nineteenth-century hermaphrodite case histories). If you throw the name "Thomas Laqueur" into an assemblage of early modern historians or classicists, you'll likely cause a fistfight.

So yes, I do in fact mean sex. It is just as socially (and literally) constructed as gender is.

Further reading:

Anne Fausto-Sterling, Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality (2000)

Leah DeVun, The Shape of Sex: Nonbinary Gender from Genesis to the Renaissance (2021)

Jules Gill-Peterson, Histories of the Transgender Child (2018)

Kimberly Hamlin, "The "Case of a Bearded Woman": Hypertrichosis and the Construction of Gender in the Age of Darwin," American Quarterly, 63 no 4 (2011)

Thomas Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (1990)

Geertje Mak, Doubting Sex: Inscriptions, bodies, and selves in nineteenth-century hermaphrodite case histories (2012)

Marianne Schleicher, "Constructions of Sex and Gender: Attending to Androgynes and "Tumtumin" through Jewish Scriptual Use," Literature and Theology 25 no 4 (2011)

Michael Stolberg, "A Woman Down to Her Bones: The Anatomy of Sexual Difference in the Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries," Isis 94 no 2 (2003)

[se-hace-camino]

an ounce of vulnerability

While coming down from a 10hr long acid trip I tried my best to go to sleep and instead my mind's eye spelled it out as clear as day that my heart was still very much wrapped up in the ambiguously sapphic situationship all lesbians find themselves in during their teenage years.

Funny enough next time I would see said ambiguously sapphic friend, I ended up getting too drunk, getting overly competitive, breaking 1.5 of my own teeth and thus ruining the plans we had made to have dinner after not having seen one another in 3yrs.

The next morning, I bandage my face up and walk the 3mi to her place. When I get there I almost lose my nerve to ring the doorbell but I finally work up the courage. When she opens the door the look of concern was immediately upon her and with an outstretched hand she almost reaches for my face but stops just shy of contact and instead scans a careful gaze over my features. She invites me upstairs and introduces me to her boyfriend. It hurt but due more to my own lack of candor.

The years following my broken teeth and broken heart, I give dating men a shot. It was very much the same attitude I approached college with, and in similar fashion I'd say I passed heterosexuality with a "C" I learned that while I am capable of loving a man it came with an oftentimes burdensome feeling of a chore.

Come pandemic times and I learn that there really is only so much sex can do to maintain a relationship when the world is crumbling all around. Worse yet my dreams become infiltrated by the stress and anxiety of waking life and lo and behold she's the one I'm trying to get to and be with in my apocalyptic nightmares--at this point I haven't spoken to or seen her in maybe 4yrs. I would become especially upset at my mind for choosing to pine over a shadow of person vs my own mother who was fighting cancer at the time. What the actual fuck.

Fast forward to 2022, I came out to myself, close friends and family, unfortunately my mother passed but I got to share my truth before she transitioned. I'm writing a lot about everything and I made peace with the fact that I was pining after a fleeting memory of an old flame. And what do you know, guess who invites me to their small intimate wedding after having no contact for 5yrs. What little footing I had quickly fell from underneath me. 3 weeks later I showed up very late to the reception and stayed for the last hour. She married the guy I met after i broke my teeth.

She text me a couple of weeks later and asks to hang out. We have to reschedule a few times but the day before Halloween we meet up to kick the soccer ball around just like when we 1st started getting to know each other. We talk and eat, it feels like no time has passed at all, like we had just picked up an old routine. But at some point there's a lull that lasts a little too long and the transition between the songs seemed eternal--I almost formed the words "you know I was in love with you right?" but I can't do it so instead I just tell her about how my mom passed.

Fortunately I had plans later that night so I had an excuse to cut our reunion short. We made plans to meet again but its been a good 7 months and we keep missing each other, maybe its for the best. That day I found out that some things are better left unsaid.

[theomnicode]

One-Punch Man chapter 165 analysis -Spoilers ahead -

New chapter just dropped. And there is a slight contention due to a potential translation error.

That Saitama actually took damage. I'd like to explain why I think this is the case and why it's clever from Murata to show it to us like this. Course, probably pulling us from the nose like they did with Boros but hear me out. https://www.reddit.com/r/OnePunchMan/comments/v82xi5/a_note_on_ch_165_translation_error_saitama/

"thethrowaccount21

The damage is probably very light and may even be limited to his clothes. Saitama's words can be translated literally as "And after I made a big deal about not getting scratched". Although the verb generally means "taking damage", it also means "scratching the surface of something" so its probably not serious damage at all.

The important part is that Saitama is talking about himself, not Garou here."

I am not going to comment on the translation, since it's probably just a double meaning on a correct translation, but I'm going to look at the pages and explain why I believe Saitama taking damage is the actual case, regardless of the translation.

Few things to note here.

Saitama inspects his hand in mild interest, specifically between the thumb and forefinger where he held his nose after getting punched and submerged.

Garou copied Saitama's own move and used it against him with equal strenght.

The amount and placement of scuff marks before and after getting punched do not match, despite getting punched in the cheek instead of the nose.

The lineart on his nose is different, less spaced out than the scuff lineart and leads from the nose down which is already very telling

The most clever part of them all, the next paneling showing us a more closeup on Saitama's face, but his right side is cut off so us readers won't see a close up and cannot accurately determine what was the case. Props to Murata on this one.

I believe it was purposefully left more ambiguous than anything. But from artist perspective, still easy to notice.

What makes it more interesting here is that a) Saitama knows his own strenght more than anything so he knows his own punch can hurt him, which is also in like with CD drama b) If Garou copies his serious punch, he could get hurt even more than a mild nosebleed c) If Garou copies his serious punch, he would have to start hurting Garou for real because it would be actually dangerous for Garou to wield that kind of power, especially if Garou's boasting about upgrading said power has any merit. Saitama doesn't make a big deal out of it, like the reader would expect Murata to make a huuuge deal since it's insane that the indestructive Saitama gets hurts but in character, Saitama only shows mild interest because he's been hurt before. It's not a big deal to Saitama himself if he gets hurt. Saitama's only thinking "ah man I have a nosebleed, guess I need to take this boasting guy seriously now."

Now, I'm just here a bit giddy about the fact that Saitama CAN hurt Saitama. Which is the main takeaway. And ONLY Saitama. Nobody else can.

Well, unless we just got trolled that is. Edit: New translation is out, seems like it was an error after all. Saitama now says: "And I went and made a big deal about telling that kid I wouldn't get scratched." Still ambiguous and possible troll but hey. https://i.imgur.com/eb4irUX.png

[ukdamo]

Notebook/On Lucian Freud/On the Veil

Mark Doty

I love starting things

*

Fat and shadow, oil and wax, mobility solidified, like cooled grease in a can –

*

Seeing how far I can go

*

     Analiese said, happily, ‘He paints the ugliness of flesh,’      but that isn’t it: flesh without the overlayer, how we ought to see it, all we’re taught –

     January sky over Seventh. To the north,      a slab of paraffin. A wax table. Then it pinks,

     shifts, at the most complicated hour, after sunset, before dark, the lamps already on. A deepening blue at the sky’s centre, but the tops of the buildings still warmed by the last of sunlight,      the way he fixes the face at its most subtle hour

*

One of the things that makes you continue is the difficulty surely

*

     all the decisions of colour revealed, light making available every nuance of a (sur)face so plainly itself it’s become plea and testament.

*

     Ugly: resist the term, or open it:       the living edge resisting?      Surface the heart of the matter.      Strange achievement: to see skin       as no one else.

*

Never any beauty

greater than the body hung in the ceaseless wind of time and repeating in that current its stream of postures,

skin perpetually lit from within as if by its own failure –

*

When I paint clothes I am really painting naked people who are covered in clothes

*

January in grisaille.      Sarah and Lucy erased,            weirdly euphonious terms:

lymphoma, heroin.      Then an anonymous body            on the sidewalk,

a fifth-floor room onto Sixth Avenue,      the aching window open all afternoon.            A man on our block

pulled from his car and beaten      with a tyre iron by another driver            who wanted him to hurry up

and pass the garbage truck.      Flesh fails and failure            is visited upon it.

The book of Freud’s paintings      a brooding invitation, catalogue            of human suspension in time

and today I think they’re an oil      and pigment howl,            outpouring against limit.

But as soon as I’ve said it,      the old argument resumes,            the ambiguity of vanitas:

do these paintings of dying things      warn or celebrate,

does their maker caution or consume?

My life in the fields of this argument,

shifting skin      the live veil,

elongated grammar of muscle,

this moment’s agreement of light

on the pure actual. (No such thing as the body,)

Fact of a wrist.

Vein troubling a forehead.

Melville: How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall?

*

                                   (By the waterfountain in the gym)

On the huge man’s left arm TRUST above an image he called the god of joy on his right forearm inscribed above the veins a centaur

symbol of leadership he said of direction

I couldn’t speak, in some deep basement of myself thinking Maybe his great body is the fact

I require …

the dream of being realised

And half the night I’m thinking of the immense human wall and veil of him. What is it we want from a body;

the lying-awake longing, to what does it attend? Whitman: These thoughts in the darkness why are they?

*

Clothing veils the real;      flesh conceals –

what to call it? quick lively presence quickening through the lidded eyes,

a moment’s sharp attention,

the painting looking back at us?

*

The mystery isn’t mind      (what else are we, evidently,            besides aware?)

but materiality, intersection      of solidity and flame,            where quick and stillness meet –

Materiality the impenetrable thing.      We don’t know what it is            other than untrustworthy –

all bodies, even the young,      who rightly think            they’re untouchable:

that faith’s their signature      and credential.            I am a body less reliable,

and therefore the rough-scumbled peaks      of these faces thrill, familiar –            aspects of flesh breaking here,

the way we say waves break –      become visible at the instant            of their descent.

Caught somewhere in the arc.      How will these look            in a hundred years?

Stunningly here.

*

Intricate wall of appearances –

                       lit at its highest entablatures,

water towers and rooftops, cornice and capital,      smokestack and chimneypot picked out

by the glow slanting across the river,      intensified Hudson-light,

and warm lamps in the high windows,      neon over the shopfronts

flickering on;

world of consummate detail,      the city lay back, shambling, corpulent, nude … (why he loves the big frame: because it is no longer            flesh but the flesh)

*

Nothing ever stands in for anything. Nobody is representing anything.

*

My god: every body of a piece, every factual expanse of skin, the contour of them –

that’s what language can’t do, curve and heft of it, that stretch … Oil and shadow, fat and wax, grief solidified.

There’s no one else. You and I the common apprehension of this.

*

Our chests open, arms back, the teacher said, ‘This is a position of FIERCE VULNERABILITY – ’

I thought, that’s it, that’s exactly a position one could live toward, to stand in permeable faith,

and yet such force in that stance, upright, heart thrust out to the world, unguarded, no hope

without the possibility of a wound. ‘To hold oneself in this pose,’ he said, ‘takes incredible strength.’

*

Everything is autobiographical

*

I look at his pictures and want above all language muscling up, active work of pushing out some sound, throat and muscle of the tongue,

some hope of accuracy –

*

and everything is a portrait, even if it’s a chair

*

Accuracy? Go on, then –

to write the tragedy of this body

*

I want to go on until there is nothing more to see

[jcmarchi]

How to Hire – and When to Fire – a Chief AI Officer

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/how-to-hire-and-when-to-fire-a-chief-ai-officer/

How to Hire – and When to Fire – a Chief AI Officer

Generative AI is quickly becoming part of corporate agendas worldwide. Nevertheless, most organizations are still struggling to get their GenAI operations up and running.

A recent Accenture survey revealed that only 27% of executives are in a position to scale such capabilities. Indeed, more than 70% are still at square one, trying to determine how to best leverage them. As a result of this current lag in AI readiness, a new corporate role has emerged: the Chief AI Officer (CAIO).

However, the ins and outs of GenAI as a business solution will eventually catch on, much like the Internet did; companies and their employees will adapt to new technologies, best practices will be established, and regulations will be set in place.

While CAIOs are indeed essential in facilitating and resolving critical AI deployment over the next few years or so, the role will eventually grow redundant. Given the inevitable maturation of GenAI, this latest C-suite position is all but temporary.

Popularity Contest

Many mid to large-sized companies have found themselves unprepared to scale GenAI technologies. 11% have responded by appointing a CAIO while another 21% (and growing) are actively seeking one out.

Top tier media including Bloomberg, Business Insider, and Forbes have covered the rise of this new position – the New York Times even went as far as declaring it the “hottest job” in corporate America. Still, the actual responsibilities of a CAIO remain quite ambiguous. Job descriptions often include vague language like “You’ll be in charge of integrating AI strategies, deploying AI, and mitigating AI risks.”

Top 3 Considerations

In reality, the responsibilities of a Chief AI Officer can be divided into three main considerations – the first of which pertains to the kinds of AI solutions currently available.

GenAI tools are improving every week; it’s crucial for the AI executive to have their finger on the pulse of the current offerings and prices in the AI marketplace. Additionally, knowing which AI solutions offer a steady product development cycle is critical information when contracting an AI vendor. A CAIO must also supervise the deployment of any such solution across the entire organization.

Second, CAIOs need to determine the AI solutions that are most relevant for each department. Every department has its own unique tasks and objectives, and therefore will require different AI tools. Thus, a CAIO needs to foster open communication with department heads to best assess the most cumbersome, time consuming, and error-prone challenges facing each department, as well as the active AI tools which can best streamline those tasks.

Moreover, it’s the CAIO’s responsibility to ensure employees are proficient in using these AI tools. According to a recent report, only 35% of workers say their employers provide the necessary tools for AI adoption – even fewer receive usage guidance (29%) or requisite training (22%). To this end, CAIOs must bolster the adoption rate of AI amongst employees as well as the company-wide impact these solutions yield – such as cost savings, time-to-market, revenue, and net promotor scores.

The third consideration concerns awareness of AI regulations. A vendor’s solution can be the gold standard, offer competitive pricing, and align perfectly with a company’s objectives – only to be rendered undeployable in the face of newly established regulations. AI regulation is in its infancy, and GenAI technologies will surely be impacted by emerging rules. For this reason, it is critical that CAIOs stay abreast of AI regulations and take current trends into account throughout the process of choosing the right AI solutions.

When to Let Go

While CAIOs are key for companies looking to overcome hurdles and expedite AI integration into office workflows, their services won’t be necessary forever. Once core integrations have been established – CIOs and CISOs should be able to take the reins, curtailing the continued need for a CAIO.

But at what point does a company know when this point has arrived? It’s important for companies, while remaining flexible as the technology continues to evolve, to establish benchmarks and milestones from the get-go in order to measure the progress of their newly appointed CAIO—and determine if the point has come to begin phasing them out.

Measuring Progress

Setting up clear benchmarks and milestones from the beginning ensures that the CAIO’s contributions are measurable and aligned with the company’s strategic goals. For instance, these could include achieving a specific level of AI integration across departments, demonstrable improvements in operational efficiency, compliance with new AI regulations, or significant advancements in employee AI proficiency. Each milestone should be specific and quantifiable, such as reducing operational costs by a certain percentage or achieving a set rate of AI adoption across various business units.

With these milestones in place, not only can a company gauge the progress of AI integration, but also strategically plan for the future without depending solely on the CAIO. This foresight is critical as it provides both the CAIO and the company with a clear view of the role’s trajectory and potential sunset.

Planning for the Transition

With established benchmarks and milestones, it’s also crucial to have a transition process ready when those targets are met. This process involves a structured handover where the CAIO collaborates closely with the CIO and CISO to ensure a seamless transfer of duties. Essential elements of a successful transition include:

Knowledge Transfer: The CAIO should ensure that all AI-related strategies, projects, and operational knowledge are thoroughly documented and shared with the CIO and CISO.

Advisory Role: Transitioning from a direct management role to an advisory role can help maintain continuity and stability. The CAIO can support the CIO and CISO by providing insights and guidance on AI-related matters as they take over the reins.

Monitoring and Adjustments: Post-transition, it’s important to monitor the outcomes and make adjustments as needed. This ensures that the integration of AI continues to meet the strategic goals without the CAIO’s direct involvement.

By planning for the eventual transition of the CAIO’s responsibilities to other C-suite executives, companies can ensure that their investment in AI governance and integration delivers sustained value over the long term. This strategic foresight not only optimizes the contributions of the CAIO but also enhances the overall resilience and adaptability of the organization in the face of evolving AI technologies.

The Clock is Ticking

The competitive implications of emerging AI technologies can’t be ignored. For companies struggling to get a grip on GenAI, hiring an executive dedicated to extracting value from the red-hot tech is a practical, strategically sound move – as long as their role is clearly defined and aligned with a company’s mission and objectives.

However, as was the case for Chief Metaverse Officers or Chief Digital Officer positions, the role of the CAIO is on track to become redundant within the corporate hierarchy. Companies must therefore be ready to undo the role of a CAIO once initial adoption and company-wide integrations are complete by establishing measurable benchmarks and milestones and equipping themselves with a clear, transparent transition plan.

For those looking to hire – or be hired as – Chief AI Officers, the time is now.

[starszinhis3y3s]

i am fucking shaking wit rage

*I* got a compliance notice for standing up for myself to the bigots i was roomed with, after MONTHS OF ABUSES.

so fucming what i called that dumbass racebaiting white boy a drunk????? he (and the other 2 omfg) been callin me a faggot, a transvestite/tranny, a trap, A Trans, a failed girl, said "kike" around me knowing my grams is jewish, too ugly to be a woman, that i needed to wear a bra cuz my "huge tits" make all of them uncomfortable, ken doll, that i had a micropenis, that i was tryna kill them when i cooked, that i "made everything about race" (i didnt, they were just racist and i called them on it) etc etc etc 🤦🏽 like first off, im a hermaphrodite, if ur gon be shitty at least get it right. also every man in my family goin back before the fucking camera was invented had fucking tits, c cups at that!!!! and guess what u fucking shit heels?! i LIKE my micropenis, i ENJOY my ambiguity. i am 2Spirit and PROUD. I SEE BEYOND WHAT UR PEA BRAINS CAN EVEN COMPREHEND. i hope u all get a fucking sti smh especially that bitch in the front office who sent me that fuckass letter. she also "moderated" (aka just wanted the gossip), and sided with the other 3 that *i* was being the asshole and shoulda moved instead of 2/3 of the straight white bigots). whatever, im one more season from goin off on my own ie out of company housing 😮‍💨 wish me luck cuz I BEEN prayin to the ancestors daily for strength

like. my esa STILL isnt approved (i sent in filled out paperwork November 30th) because of racism surrounding my name. i have a Cherokee name. its hard for english speakers to fucking say. so i go by the English Translation. the company straight refuses to recognize any of the paperwork bc of that!!!! unless i wanna go by my deadname throughout 100% of the company (like id have to change my nametag at work too), he wont be approved and ill continue to get fined $25 a day until he is. i aint payin that shit!!!!! i sent in everything right i just want ppl to not butcher my name and turn it into something disgusting. it like the equivalent to calling me a dirty or fetid water puddle when they mess it up

[silveryinkystar]

📓

onderon order 66 au my beloved

The story itself would only focus on the Onderon bits, rather than the entire scope of the timeline at that moment, but the premise is essentially a rewrite of the season 5 Onderon arc where Rex remains on-planet with Ahsoka to help the rebels. It's a close-to-canon au, enough that I can mess with the timeline but not really changing the end result (save that the emotional resolution isn't at the cost of stupid character choices) of the prequels era story.

The timeline: I'm squishing together the Onderon arc, the season 6 Biochips arc, and Revenge of the Sith. The other arcs from season 5 and 6 are pushed to before this arc, but aren't really relevant to the story. The Wrong Jedi arc, and all of season 7, don't happen at all.

My reasoning for putting these arcs together is that a) the Wrong Jedi arc and season 7 Mandalore arcs primarily get Ahsoka out of the way of Order 66 (among other things, of course), b) Onderon is where the seeds of the Rebellion are first planted at all, and c) this combination of arcs has MAXIMUM potential for angst oh my gods

So far it's still early stages in considering the plot, but aside from the general structure of the Onderon arc as it exists, I've thought of a few scenes I really want to go in there:

Rex teaching combat. I am WEAK for combat instructor Rex and I can be this indulgent in my own indulgent au fic dammit

Steela survives in this one, because star wars has a problem with fridging its female and nonwhite characters and I get to fix that

Ahsoka and Steela bonding over basically being soldiers at their ages (I headcanon Steela to be around 20 to Ahsoka's 17), and having to learn and adapt on the fly due to their initial lack of experience

Onderon cultural worldbuilding perhaps!

Intermittent messages from Obi-Wan and Anakin about Dooku's death, finding Greivous, the state of the war etc., plus Rex, Ahsoka, and Obi-Wan's worry about Anakin's state of mind

Rex's chip activating during Order 66 and having to be restrained by Steela and Saw while Ahsoka tries to figure out what's going on, and all the rebels' plans basically going to pieces because what do you mean there's a galactic empire now?

Chip angst right as Fives' message comes in too late to prevent o66, but in time that they can surgically remove it from Rex. O66 angst as Ahsoka realises what happened, and mourns along with Rex that they were too far removed to do anything about it

I'm toying with how I want it to end, but it's probably going to be fairly ambiguous about who did and didn't survive outside Onderon, with a more hands-on understanding on how the larger Rebellion came into contact with the Onderon rebels and grow from its fledgling stage.

Thank you for the ask, anon - I've really wanted to talk about this au for a while so it was a delight answering this! <3

Send me a book emoji and I'll explain the plot of a fic I haven't written yet