#being treated like less than an ant at work!

[aphomic]

D.OPPY ON THE NEW MV

[irndad]

don't date coworkers- s.r.

a/n: i literally wrote this very fast and also i hope you like it pls go easy on me!!! reader has a policy they don't date coworkers. spencer is so angsty abt that !! also sorry for dropping a new fic at 2am LOL wc: 1.7k

She’s really, really good at talking to people. 

It’s one of the many traits Spencer adores about her. She moves through crowds with ease, and she can charm her way into any piece of information from whatever city cop they need a favor from. She integrated into the team faster than anyone could’ve expected. This is a strength not all profilers have- they know what it takes to know what makes someone appealing, but rare is the ability to be as charismatic and charming as she is. 

She’s good at talking to him.

She’s worked at the BAU for about a year now. 13 months, 7 days and 8 hours since she walked through the doors of the bullpen for the first time, beaming at him for the very first time. Give or take. 

Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if everyone knew that he was in love with her. He’s halfway certain she does, and is being too polite to mention it. Normally, Spencer is incredibly regimented about boundaries. While the BAU is his family, and there’s no real way to deny that, he knows that he’s less than ideal to go out with. He’s stocky and he never cuts his hair (even though she swears it’s cute longer) and he’s an awkward guy- gangly and tall and just ill-fitting to be part of the scenery of her life. 

It’s a Friday, and a rainy one at that. It’s one of the blessed ones where they don’t really have a case, just paperwork to catch up on, reports and her desk faces a window. 

Normally, when Spencer gets his work done (a good four hours before everyone else on a paperwork-only day), he’d head out. Catch up on whatever Russian novel he’s been chipping away at- but she’s here, and he’s made her favorite tea. 

“I thought you could use a treat,” he says, walking over to her desk. She looks up at him, brushing overgrown bangs, “It’s not really a great one, but I’ll get you some scones on the way to mine, yeah?”

She looks up at him, dropping her pen and focusing entire energy on him. He feels a bit overwhelmed, like an ant under a magnifying glass. 

“Did you know that I adore you, Spence?” 

He is very much not aware. No amount of her saying it will ever make him know. She takes a long sip from the mug. He knows how much honey she likes in it. He studies how she looks, eyes closed serenely, completely invested in what he’s given her. 

“You’ll be taking her home, pretty boy?” Morgan snickers, in a not altogether unkind manner. 

“Fuck off,” she says kindly, not taking her eyes off of Spencer as she rebuffed Morgan’s teasing. 

“Easy, easy,” Morgan laughs, “I’ll leave your boyfriend alone.”

If she has anything to say to that, it doesn’t come out then. 

He’s still bright red, though. Morgan is amused, and Spencer knows that she really, truly adores Morgan. Spencer loves him too, but it would be nice if he laid off the jokes. 

She doesn’t date coworkers. 

He knows this because of the first time they’d met, when he’d been walking in carrying a croissant for Garcia and a coffee for JJ, and saw what can only be described as a truly ridiculously beautiful woman in the bullpen. 

She’d been leaned back, smiling openly as Morgan tossed some random pick-up line towards her. He remembers it now like he can still hear it, her lilting lovely voice carrying just the right amount of warmth to make this not sting, or at least sting as little as possible. 

“I’m sorry, Derek,” she had said, “I make it a point not to date coworkers.” 

Which of course is fine. She can date whoever she wants, and it’s a good policy to have personally. And Spencer’s never really be the kind of guy who excelled at getting dates. He knew from the first minute that he saw her that even if she didn’t think that way… well, it wouldn’t be him, who she picked. 

Now, they are very close. So close that she drives him home from work every Friday. Which usually includes staying at his shitty apartment and watching VHS tapes of documentaries and Doctor Who. 

He wants to kiss her every Friday. All, the time, really. It’s kind of plaguing him. Clearly, she likes hanging out with him. Something about him is appealing. It’s foolish to assume that it’s more than friends, especially for someone like him to be with someone like her. 

She doesn’t date coworkers. 

“I made sure the film tonight has subtitles!”

“Are you saying film because this film is foreign, Spence?”

“I promise it’s worth it!” He says excitedly, “And they’re really done well. You won’t have to have me whisper the translations to you in real time!”

“I didn’t mind that,” She laughs then, a real laugh, “but I’m glad we’re getting to hang out tonight.”

It’s funny- they’ve done this so, so many times, but he never stops being thrilled. 

___________________________________

Sometimes, when the summer air is forgiving enough, they walk home from the office. She takes the train in, and they walk back to his place. Tonight is one of these nights, and god- she looks lovely. She’s tied her blazer around her waist, and the sunset hits her face in that gorgeous baroque painting kind of way. 

“You’re very pretty,” he hears himself say before he can stop it. He’s endlessly pleased when she preens at the praise. 

“You’re not so bad yourself, Doctor,” she says, shoving her hands into her pockets, a nervous gesture. He wants to hold those hand, intertwine her lovely delicate fingers with his bony wispy fingers. 

“You’re being nice to me,” he says, looking down at his shoes. They’re stupid. He should wear loafers, or some other shoe that doesn’t make him like half-child half-geek. 

“I’m being accurate, actually,” she says she bumps his shoulder. 

She’d be a wonderful girlfriend. He lives in the world this can happen quite often, in his fantasy. She laughs at his jokes and tells him he’s kind, and good, and she means it. He’s lucky to have this much of her- more than anyone else on the team! Spencer knows he’s her favorite. The way she’s looking at him now, how she give-up her Fridays to spend with him, on his ratty couch, how she always listens. Whenever they're both on the jet and he falls asleep, he always wakes up with a blanket on him. She's so good at loving people.

Being her favorite on the team does not mean he’s in the running to be a boyfriend. But he’d fucking want to be. He’d be a good boyfriend. Spencer, he’s gone so far for her. He fantasizes about getting her flowers that have symbolic meaning.

“Are you okay, boy-genius?”

“I’m better than okay. Do you want popcorn?”

She wants popcorn. He sets the movie up, and she gets comfortable on his couch, curling up with his purple felt blanket, and his mind betrays him with unhelpful images of what it might look like if she was his, if this is what he came home to. 

Don't picture welcome home kisses, or movie nights or being wanted. Don't.

It’s very, very hard to focus on the movie.  

She’s touchy, with him. He’s not sure if it’s because she could never see him as her boyfriend, but he’s grateful as she leans her head on his. She smells like peonies. When the credits roll, they stay like that for minute- her head on his shoulder and one of her legs thrown over his. 

He wonders, not for the first time, if she feels the same way about him. If things were just..different, then they’d be kissing under the haze of his TV right now, if he’d know what that chapstick she carries with her every day tastes like. 

“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like if we met under different circumstances?” he says, once time passes and he speaks instead of thinking.

“Hmm?” She hummed, relaxed eyes flitting their gaze over to him.

“Like, at a bar or something.”

“But you hate bars.”

“That’s why I said or something!”

Her lip juts out adorably, “But then I wouldn’t get to see you in your element.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, resting his neck on the top of the cushion. The AC is a little too much in the room. He wonders if she’s cold. “But who knows. Maybe we’d date, or something.”

It’s the dumbest thing he’s ever fucking said. Both because it was a dumb way to say it, but because it was an advance. He feels white hot shame lick at his spine when he looks at her, and hears her laugh. 

“I don’t think so, Spence.” 

“No,” shitshitshit, “I didn’t mean-“

“I mean, if you don’t want to date me now, I don’t think meeting at like, Whole Foods would’ve been the difference maker.”

It’s then he hears it- the piece he couldn’t place in her voice, when she gets like this. It’s being resigned. 

“What are you talking about?”

“C’mon, Spence,” she says, another bitter chuckle coming through, “You know how I feel. I haven’t exactly beens subtle.”

“But you don’t date coworkers. You have a rule.”

She looks at him with no recognition of what he’s saying. 

“No, because you told Morgan that, it’s the first thing I ever heard you say.”

“Yeah, but-“

“And yes, okay, you’ve been my favorite person almost as long as I’ve known you and yes, I would fucking love for you to be my girlfriend, but that was your rule!”

“You want me to be your girlfriend?”

“Obviously!”

He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else before, well- before she’s kissing him. More aggressive than that, really. Crawled onto his lap, arms around his neck, and where she leads Spencer is all too happy to follow. His body is not great at moving on instinct, but his whole nervous system feels alive- the weight of her in his lap, the feel of her waist under his fingers, the way he’s allowed this. It feels like such a pleasure, hedonistic in a way he’s never, ever been allowed to experience.

“You had a rule,” he says dumbly when she pulls away. His lips are wet. He’d like to go back to kissing, thank you very much. 

“You’re the exception, to every rule, Spencer.”

When he kisses her again (which he’s allowed to do now, holy fuck) Spencer decides he’s going to spend the rest of all time earning that status. 

[sakyhana13]

I have a Hazbin Hotel fanfiction where Vaggie is a Carmine and here I have a compilation of memes of the Carmine girls and their dynamics in this dubious fanfiction that hasn't come out yet.

The relationship between the three of them is basically that typical sibling thing: "Mommy found you in the trash, but if someone said that to you, I'll want names."

They will pick on each other, but in the end, they will be sleeping cuddled up in a pillow fort with Clara moving restlessly around the bed, Odette with all the sheets to herself and Vaggie curled up in a ball like a cat.

Clara and Odette are somewhat protective of Vaggie, because she is their youngest sister and even though she vehemently denies being treated like the baby of the house, claiming that she is an adult with the body count and PTSD of a retired war soldier, no one cares. , she is the baby of the house and nothing will change that. Let Charlie say it, after a short conversation with the older Carmine sisters, she came out pale and shaking (she thinks she would faint when her future mother-in-law talked to her).

Odette is the oldest sister, Clara is the middle child and Vaggie as previously mentioned is stuck as the youngest child.

Clara is chaotic, extroverted and clearly has ADHD. She is the artist daughter, theater and cinema are her passions, even in hell she still writes some scripts and records short shorts during her days off, when she is not doing odd jobs as a DJ in the clubs in the lust ring (Carmilla obviously doesn't know from that). She is usually the one who gives the bad ideas, the one who drags her other two sisters into adventures or misadventures. She is a talker, a person who knows how to deal with the public, a stellar negotiator and salesperson. And well, she will do everything, everything, to make her sisters happy.

Odette is obviously the child whose mind never stops thinking of new ideas and theories. She is the inventor of the weapons produced by the Carmines industries, but she has her personal projects that don't involve military weapons, like gadgets to make her life easier, like her little robotic assistant ASSIs and her hellish computer because she's not using the fucking technology manipulated by the Vees. She's basically an Entrapta, autistic technological genius inventor. And it all started because she saw a plane take off and she wanted to do something similar. Carmilla had to prevent her daughter from meeting Jesus a few times (all 3 of them in fact, being little devils who got into trouble whether they wanted to or not). She just seems to be controlled and less chaotic than Clara, but anyone is less chaotic than the middle Carmine, but don't be fooled, just like the entrapta she's a bit of a mad scientist, but she and Vaggie usually reverse each other in controlling chaos. , normally she will agree with Clara's ideas at first and then bitterly regret having gone. Despite this, she feels responsible for her little sisters, so that they stay safe and well, she would do heinous things to care for and support the two idiots that her mother did the favor of tying her to forever.

And then we have Vaggie, you know how she is. But before the fall, even before her time as an exorcist, she was a quiet and shy but extremely curious child. She wasn't an artist like Clara or an inventor like Odette, in fact she was an explorer. Your eyes seeking to learn about the world around you, especially the little animals among the leaves. Loving every second he could spend outdoors watching the little ants do their work or exploring the forest or beach near his childhood home. Vaggie strangely has a chaotic streak, but is it completely by accident or because she went along with her sisters, usually she will be the voice of reason, but when is she not? Well, maybe hell's heaven will turn yellow and hot pink. Vaggie is autistic and I don't have much else to say other than: I love this headcanon and you can pry it from my cold, dead hands. Plus Vaggie would definitely lose her other eye to protect her sisters if she had to, but she'll never admit it, because she'll never hear the end of it if those two scoundrels hear it.

Yes, Carmilla has chaotic and neurodivergent daughters who would knock God off the throne if it were for their sisters, their mother is very proud.

(Sorry for the bad English, it's not my language, and the crazy text, but I've had this in my head for a while and I wanted to get it out, because I don't know when I'm going to write a fic with it.)

[tanglepelt]

Run ghost run

second chapter

I had a thought. Danny hiding in Gotham to keep the infinite realm from starting a war. It plague my mind. So now I’m writing it.

A single warning was all humanity had.

The infinite realms would no longer allow the attacks on their people. They assured him that no matter the outcome he would be safe. All ecto beings and ecto contaminated were to be evacuated prior to the attack. As he and his friends were mostly or half human they would be sent elsewhere in time or perhaps a different universe if the need arises

Sam, Tucker and Jazz all knew what their afterlife held. Everyone else was up in the air.

He pleaded not to attack earth and argued that not everyone their deserved a war. He knew they couldn’t destroy the planet to preserve their own dimension as too many natural portals occurred. But the entire human race could be eradicated without impact to this dimension. They did agree to listen to his reasoning but only as upon his death he will be declared king. He had no power to control the realm or make orders until his coronation. The realm would remain under the councils guidance until he was a mature ghost.

They treated him like a child. According to them he was one. He had been half ghost for less than a year. He had only realized his rouges constantly attacking him was part of the culture when Pandora informed him. Them attacking him was to ensure he was well taught and ready for the realm. To them it was play fighting.

When he sealed away Piraha Dark it made them even worse. They wanted to fight him even more. He needed to be a better fighter and there was no better way to learn. They just wanted an excuse to fight him more like it. With the exception of skulker who was just hunting him to be a jerk. He didn’t have the luxury others did entering the realm, he would have to learn the culture not form with the knowledge.

Just as they demanded more fights with him they were over protective as well. One time when his parents were trigger happy in one of their hunts for him, Lunch Lady had used her meat to shield him from the blast. Technus had attacked Fenton works disarming the anti-ghost security system for a week. His parents had to figure out how to ecto proof technology it was funny to watch. While they were still attacking him and getting souped. They would protect him. His parent got so much worse. All ecto beings were scum. They were more determined to get there hands on a ghost. Time and time again saying they would tear them up molecule by molecule.

Clockwork was the only one who stood with Danny saying that one warning should be given. No more no less. The council immediately agreed with the master of time. With that the meeting adjourned and Clockwork gave him a message that when running he should follow the birds and bats as they would help. Clockwork then vanished like the cryptid he was.

When it came time to deliver the warning any hope Danny had of it working was lost. They weren't going to any higher power, not the president or governor not even the press. They would only hand the warning over directly to the GIW. They followed the ant-ecto acts, enforced the policies, it was their fault. They attacked and experimented on the citizens of the realm. It was up to them to rectify their offense.

How could Danny explain to them that the government agency would never turn it over? It wasn’t the norm for the realms, the warning or notice of attack was always given to the opponent. No reason to tell the press or government. They had no issues with the other humans but just the one group . If that group wanted to doom human life it was on them.

Danny managed to con his way into being there when the warning was handed over. He claimed it would be a good learning experience. He had a plan, and it was brilliant when the GIW threw it away he would grab it and hand it over to the news. The public was always antiwar. At least the records in the library said so. He assumed they still were Amity has been a closed off town. There wasn’t much from other cities or states.

Many residents have remained for generations, and no one really had social media. There was no point as everyone had their own cliques. Sam and Tucker had a few outside connections. Sam with activist and her ultra-recyclo-vegetarian group. Tucker was connected to a few tech geeks and video game friends. Personally, he only knew people from town.

He assumed a news source out of town would be the best deal. They shouldn’t have any problems with ghosts and these “supervillains”. An outside perspective could be just what they needed. There would be no bias against the infinite realms.

They were off to give away the warning a portal opening at the GIW in their base of operations. Frostbite summoned a wall of ice around them. The declaration was on a glowing green scroll. It announced the warning out loud, then proceeded to get brighter and brighter unit, it burst into flames and disappeared. There went his bright idea. As the scroll disappeared a glowing green circle expanded out until the light passed through them and continued on. The power it radiated was intense.

When the light passed through he was grabbed, and they went back to the ghost zone. It was certainly a learning experience. Learning the plan he made was no good. Politics were not his thing. He was dreading the days he would be expected to make decisions. He’d rather fight any day of the week. The citizens were definitely rubbing off on him.

At least Pandora and Frostbite agreed to try and keep everyone out of the human realm. They could not guarantee anything. Frostbite didn’t want to see the injuries a war would cause and the potential losses. Pandora simply said there were still people on earth she didn’t want to see suffer. Both knew they couldn’t stop a war, but they could delay it. If the anti-ecto acts were disbanded and those responsible punished no war would be necessary.

With a promise from the two to guard the portal he returned home. He planned to close the portal and erase his parents from the Fenton lock, it would only work for about a day. They would just reprogram it. 24 hours could change everything. He entered the lab via portal invisible. It was empty.

A ring of light

the door slamming open

Stomping down the stairs

He was face to face mid transformation in front of his dad

He really sucked at making plans.

Then it was all black

[buriedpair]

Your ocs are so interesting, I found you through a repost of another yandere blog I love but now I also love yours so get ready for my weird asks.

So what if MC is a god, not a good one nor a bad one, not popular but neither unknown. That doesn't matter to them, they have unlimited power and are immortal. So what best way to use that power than go to gamble for the fun of it? They are cunning and extremely confident (for obvious reasons) and treat others with basic respect but it is apparent that they view them as ants compared to them.

You can choose which OCs find out they are a god and wich don't. How would they react? How will they act around them?

Specifically for DD, MC decides to gamble their life and loose just to fuck with them as they try to pierce their skin and it's simply impossible (or maybe not and they love too much and spare them, I still don't know what he would do if their beloved lost their life)

-🦊 anon

OOOH THIS IS COOL!!! THANK YOU !!!!

Yandere!OCs x GN God!Reader

(Pssst, TW for a mention of suicide)

Amias

Amias has always known there was something off about you. Your mannerisms are strange and he constantly feels like you're looking down on him.

When you decide to gamble your life, he's appalled. How dare you? As far as he's concerned, your life is his too. This is too much for him.

He feels his heart melt out of his chest when you lose. Time stops as he falls on his hands and knees in front of you, eyes wide and unfocused. He's not ready to have a dead darling.

But you seem confident. Was this your plan? To get rid of him, you want to die? He can't stand to watch as you make your way confidently to the execution arena.

Did he go too far? Did you really need to do this? He can be better. Please don't leave.

But the blade doesn't make even a dent as it rests against your skin. You laugh mockingly toward the crowd before announcing your immortality with a confident smile.

Amias is shattered. You did this all... just to mess with him? Oh, dear. Such a pretty little bird doesn't need to be making a big fuss. You'll be safer from yourself in his arms.

Edge

Edge always knew. He could see right through you. It just makes you even more interesting, in his eyes. The way you look down on him... He's so untouchable, usually. So for you to treat him like an insect?

It's intoxicating.

Degrade him more! Tell him how useless and disgusting he is! Fuck, you've unlocked something in him. He's never been treated so poorly before, and he's entranced.

He's under your thumb, this time. You seem to be enjoying it too, so what's the harm? There's no way you're ever losing a game, by the way. You've unlocked simp Edge.

Double Down

He has no clue. He doesn't care much about your degrading comments. He's been rejected before, and he'll still go after you no matter how many times you tell him to die.

DD absolutely REFUSES to kill you, even when you gamble your life. You'd have to get him real mad before he even considers it, which is very difficult to do. When Edge tells him he HAS to, he says he's quitting his job then. He doesn't care. He'll walk out with you on his arm (you looking less than amused) whether you like it or not.

So, now he's unemployed and attached at your hip. You're annoyed. This weird mortal is clinging to you like a weird dog with separation anxiety. He looks happy, though.

Jackpot

He's already prepared to worship you, so don't worry about being a god. Nothing will change, he adores you either way.

If you gamble your life and lose, he's broken. Forever. Doesn't matter if you don't actually die, he's shattered. You did it on purpose? Even worse. He's never going to forgive himself.

He's hardly what he used to be. He won't eat or sleep. By this point, Gambit probably hates you. Jackpot's by your side, weakly clinging to your hand whenever he can be. He doesn't show up to work, either.

You've ruined him.

Gambit

Gambit isn't sure how to feel once he finds out. He ends up with the information on accident when Edge tells him, but he doesn't know how to react. He doesn't change much, maybe gets a bit more shy around you.

He loves you regardless, don't get him wrong. He just doesn't feel worthy of being around you.

If you gamble your life and lose, he'll calmly escort you out of the casino to give you a stern lecture on the value of life. You're half asleep by the time he finishes.

He'll keep you tied up if it means he can keep you safe, no matter how immortal you are.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: It's time to collect a debt

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 4 - The Frost Gleams Where The Flowers Have Been

Time whisked by faster than a hound chasing a rabbit through tall grass. A week had already slipped through Kate's fingers since she first became a part of the camp. Initially planning just a brief stay, she found herself relishing the comforting routine it offered. There was always a warm fire to gather around, a hearty meal to share, and the camaraderie of her newfound friends. But amidst the stability, a yearning for adventure tugged at her heartstrings, urging her to break free from the confines of camp, even if only for a day.

Arthur's comings and goings became a familiar rhythm in the camp's bustling routine. Rarely catching more than a glimpse of him before he vanished on another errand for Dutch, Kate couldn't help but miss his presence. She admired his unwavering dedication to the gang's needs, even if it meant sacrificing his own rest and relaxation. The man seemed to be perpetually on the move, always ready to answer the call of duty, no matter the hour.

Determined to bridge the gap, Kate promised herself to lend a hand the next time Arthur returned to camp, as long as it didn't involve any unsavory activities like killing folk. Meanwhile, she found solace in the company of her fellow campmates. Abigail, Tilly, and Mary-Beth had become her trusted confidantes, bonding over laundry duties and exchanging juicy tidbits of camp gossip. Kate couldn't help but chuckle at the wealth of information she'd amassed about John, courtesy of Abigail's candid revelations. She could probably write a book with how much dirt she had on him. 

Kate also found companionship in the likes of Sadie and Lenny, often engaging in games of poker or dominos to while away the hours. Karen and Molly remained enigmatic figures, preferring to keep to themselves, though Kate respected their need for privacy, understanding the complexities of the situation, and Molly’s relationship with Dutch. 

Despite their infrequent interactions, Kate held out hope for a chance to connect with Charles, intrigued by the silent strength he exuded. Perhaps a shared hunt would provide the opportunity for meaningful conversation. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The girls were gathered around the makeshift wooden table, indulging in a lunch of meat and cheese when Micah swaggered over, looking for trouble as usual. Kate had endured the displeasure of conversing with Micah only twice in the past week, and neither encounter had been pleasant. She noticed his penchant for making inappropriate comments, particularly targeting the other girls. When he wasn't being lewd, he took pleasure in needling the other gang members, especially Lenny, Javier, and sometimes even Arthur. Kate knew Arthur would have put him in his place if Dutch hadn't always conveniently intervened. She fought the urge to punch his greasy face when he made a jab about Arthur's weight, as if he were one to talk. After all, Arthur deserved to eat his fill for all the hard work he put in. Micah was always stirring the pot, and today seemed to be no different.

“Which one of you ladies wants to feed me my lunch?” He said smugly, resting both hands on his gun belt and standing uncomfortably close. The girls chose to ignore him. 

“Is this how you treat the men who provide for you?” He exclaimed with annoyance. 

Kate kept her head down and continued to eat as she spoke, as if Micah were less than an ant, “What exactly have you provided for us Micah? I’ve never seen you bring in food, or money for the matter. You leave and come back with nothing.” 

Micah scoffed and sauntered to stand behind Kate, trying to intimidate her, “I provide information sweetheart, I risk my life out there getting leads for jobs.”

She laughed quietly and shook her head, “you poor thing ,” she mused, “I’ll keep you in my prayers.” The other girls giggled at her comment. 

Micah stepped closer to her back, she could almost feel the gut of his belly against her hair, “watch your mouth woman.” He threatened. 

Kate sighed and leaned her chin against her palm, bored with the conversation, “or what Micah?” She said with an eye-roll. 

She heard him take a deep breath, or rather felt it, as he threw personal space at the wind at this point. He bent down to her ear and said lowly, “maybe I should take you to my cot, and fuck that attitude out of you whore .” He growled.  

Kate dropped her fork and whipped her elbow around, turning her whole body with force. Micah yelped as her elbow met his nose with a soft wet crunch, bright red blood dripping through his fingers as he looked up between his brows in anger. She had wanted to do that since the day she met him, fed up with how he talks to the women of the camp. This act was for the girls. 

“You dont have a dick to fuck me with Micah. You’re a lousy fucken’ excuse for a man,” she declared standing tall, “talk to me like that again and I’ll make sure I’m holding my knife when I swing next time.” 

The other members watched in stunned silence as Dutch emerged from his tent, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Enough of that!" he shouted, his gravelly tone signaling an end to the confrontation.

Micah spat at Kate’s feet and walked away, still trying to stem the blood pouring from his nose. She couldn't help but smirk at the sight – it was definitely broken. Sometime during the commotion, Arthur returned to camp, entering from the tree line as Micah left. She nodded in greeting as he approached.

Before she could walk over to him, Dutch intercepted her, clearly annoyed that their squabble had disturbed him. “Kate, my dear friend,” he said in a brusque tone, “why don't you find some work outside of camp today? Hm? Go make yourself useful.” He patted her shoulder.

Kate furrowed her brows at his insinuation. How was this her fault? Micah had clearly started it; he was always stirring up trouble and never finishing it.

“Arthur!” Dutch called out to the approaching cowboy. “Take Kate with you today. On, whatever it is you’re doing.” He waved them off, sounding like a parent trying to pass on their troublesome child to someone else.

Arthur approached with a shrug, “uh, sure. But I just got back-”

“Herr Morgan!” interrupted a voice, causing Arthur to visibly sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance. The list of chores never seemed to end, and Arthur was always the one sent to handle them.

“Strauss,” Arthur acknowledged with a tired voice, turning around to greet the wiry old German.

“How is the debt collecting coming along? Have you collected from that fella Downes?” Strauss inquired.

“No…I have not,” Arthur answered flatly. 

“Well, as you know, Mister Morgan, we lent him quite a sum, and it seems he has little intention of paying it back,” Strauss explained as he followed Arthur, who was trying to grab a meal for himself after working all day. “You have not seen him yet, I take it?” 

Kate stood back, observing the conversation unfold, patiently waiting to talk to Arthur. He was clearly irritated by Strauss’ interruption but tried to maintain politeness as he continued the conversation. “I-I’m sorry, Strauss. I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’ll go give him a gentle reminder.” 

“Not so gentle,” the German corrected. “I don't like his kind. They think they are superior. Please take care of this right away.” With that, Strauss made his exit. Kate knew he wasn't trying to be rude or demanding; it was just another task that, for some reason, Arthur was deemed best suited to handle.

As Arthur finished speaking with Strauss, he turned back to Kate with a tired yet apologetic expression. "Sorry ‘bout that. Looks like Dutch has volunteered us for another errand," he said with a weary smile. 

Kate grinned in response, unfazed by the prospect of more work, though she had sympathy for the man, he was clearly exhausted. "No worries, Arthur. I'm always up for the adventure," she replied casually, “wanna saddle up after you finish eating?” 

"Sounds perfect," Arthur nodded appreciatively, carrying his plate back to the table. The other girls had already cleaned up and returned to their tasks.

“That was a nice swing you pulled on Micah,” Arthur remarked between spoonfuls of stew, “ ‘bout time someone made that asshole bleed. Just wish I could’a done it sooner.”  

“I certainly enjoyed it,” Kate admitted with a smirk, “I hate the way he talks to everyone.” 

"Yeah, me too," Arthur agreed, his tone filled with frustration,  pushing the contents of the leftover stew around with his spoon. "I don't know why Dutch insists on keepin’ him around," he added, glancing around as if afraid of being overheard.

Kate leaned against the table, her gaze following Micah's path. "He ain't good for nothing aside from causing trouble," she remarked, her voice firm.

Arthur brought the bowl to his lips and drained the last of his stew and stood up, determination in his eyes. "I'd give anything to watch that shit-stain hang," he declared as they headed towards their horses.

Kate nodded in agreement. "Amen to that."

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The Downes ranch was a short ride west, Arthur taking the lead as Kate rode beside him. Lorena whinnied with excitement at the chance to stretch her legs and run again. 

“How did things go with Mary?” Kate inquired, breaking the comfortable silence. She had been wanting to discuss it with him but hadn't found the opportunity amidst their busy lives.

“It went alright, I guess,” Arthur began, maintaining a steady trot as he settled into the saddle. “Saved her little brother from some crazy cult,” he added with a huff.

“A cult? Good Lord, I hope it wasn't those bastards with the pointy white hoods,” she exclaimed, a hint of concern in her voice. 

Arthur chuckled. “Nah, nothing that serious. They called themselves Chelonians, followers of the turtle or something,” he explained, shaking his head with amusement. “Hell if I know, they seemed like they were ready to jump off the cliff when I found them.” 

“Yikes, poor kid probably just looking for some kind of purpose in his life,” she remarked with sympathy. 

“Yup, ain't we all,” Arthur agreed, scanning the horizon before turning to Kate, “you a religious woman?” he asked curiously. 

Kate pondered the question for a moment before responding, “Sorta,” she shrugged, “I used to be, I was raised catholic. My mother was pretty involved in the Vatican before she came here, so she carried a lot of those beliefs with her.” 

“Pardon my ignorance, but um, what's a vatican?” 

Kate smiled at his question, “it’s a city, in Rome,” she answered, “s’posed to be the Center of Christianity.” 

Arthur’s eyes lit up with interest, “Rome? I thought you said you was from Boston?”

She couldn't help but laugh, “I am, my mother was from Rome,” she clarified, “anyways, after she died the whole religion thing didn't really stick. Although sometimes I still find myself prayin’, just don’t know to who.” 

Arthur nodded at her answer, taking in the new information. Kate spoke up again and reciprocated his question, “are you a religious man?” 

He shook his head firmly, “nah, I don't believe in nothin’.” 

“Oh c’mon, you gotta believe in something. What do you make of this mess we call life?” Kate teased, trying to prompt a more serious answer from him. 

He sighed, “I believe everything must happen for a reason, otherwise, what's the point of it all?” 

“Well that’s much better than nothing” she said with a smile, “but I bet that belief will drive ya crazy too,” she thought about her next question for a moment before finally asking it, “what do you make of death?” 

Arthur kept his gaze forward as they trotted, seemingly avoiding the question. After a moment, he spoke up again, his voice sounding small. “I don’t know anything ‘bout that either.”

Kate exhaled softly. “If I remember correctly, that agent, Milton, said you were wanted for murder,” she paused, “who’d ya kill?” She knew she was probably pushing her luck, but if he didn’t want to answer she wouldn’t pry. 

Arthur shot her a look from under the brim of his hat. “Damn, woman, you sure are forward, ain’t you?” His lips twitched in a small smile.

Kate shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m just asking!” she said defensively. “You’re an interesting man, Arthur. The first time we met, you were robbing a stagecoach, telling me you're a railway worker. Next thing I know, I see you again, and suddenly you got a $5000 bounty on your head. Forgive a woman for asking.” She laughed.

He laughed and shook his head, “I’m afraid that's a story for another time friend,” he said, nudging his mare's side and picking up the pace, “c’mon it ain't far now, I’ll race ya.” He added, changing the subject. 

Arthur wasn’t afraid to admit he had killed people; he knew she would have left the gang a while ago had she felt she was in danger. But he worried about what she would think of him when he told her the whole truth. He felt like a fool; he wasn't pretending to be innocent, but he liked what he had with her. It was easy, it was natural, and he feared when she knew the truth, she would think differently of him, think less of him.

Kate yipped, and Lorena sprang into action, beginning their race along the final stretch to the ranch. As they rode, Arthur pulled on his reins ever so slightly, letting Kate take the lead. He watched as she whooped and hollered, riding past with a grin plastered on her face.

A heavy cloud settled over him; this wasn't just some silly horse race with a pretty lady. They were riding to collect a debt, a debt that needed to be repaid because his gang needed money. And money was what got them into this mess in the first place. If things had gone differently in Blackwater, they wouldn't even be here. Arthur shook his head at the memory, suddenly reminded of his situation. He’s a wanted man, an outlaw; he’s here on a job, and he would make damn sure it got done.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate admired the small ranch as they hitched their horses to a fence post out front. It was a cozy house with a neat garden, and sprawling plains for grazing animals. "Not a bad spot to make a living," she thought.

A woman sat on the porch swing, sewing something in her lap, while a young boy tended to the chickens nearby. In the garden, a man was busy with his vegetables. Arthur marched toward the man, presumably Mr. Downes, prompting Kate to quicken her pace to catch up.

"Thomas Downes!" Arthur's voice boomed, startling Kate. His tone was starkly different from how he usually spoke. She realized he was putting on a show of strength. Annoyed that he hadn't planned their approach together, she followed behind him.

“Thomas Downes!” He repeated, “you owe me money!” As Arthur swung open the garden gate with force, dirt kicked up into the air. 

Mr. Downes stood up, hands raised defensively, clutching a rake to his chest as if it were his shield against the impending confrontation, “oh, no-no I-I’m.” His voice trembled. 

Arthur approached him with heavy steps, each one more intimidating than the last, “c'mere you maggot,” he spat. With a swift motion, he ripped the rake from Mr. Downes' grasp, leaving Kate stunned into silence.  

"Please, sir, I-I have family, please," Mr. Downes pleaded, backing up against the opposite fence post. Kate followed them into the garden, her heart racing with unease as she witnessed Arthur's actions.  

As Arthur swung his fist into the man’s face, Kate gasped in horror. At the same moment, Mrs. Downes came running from the porch, her voice filled with desperation. "He’s not well! Please, mister, he’s not well!" she pleaded, her eyes wide with fear. She was about to join them in the garden when her son held her back, silently signaling that it was better for his father to bear the brunt of the punishment. Kate’s mouth tasted like vinegar, this was wrong. 

“You think I give a shit about your family?” Arthur spat, his voice dripping with contempt.  

“Why does it have to come to this?” Mr. Downes cried, shielding himself from Arthur's blows. “Please! Be reasonable!”  

“We ain't a charity, Mr. Downes,” Arthur lowered himself to the man's level, his tone softening slightly. “Believe me, I didn’t want this either,” he added quietly, his regret palpable.

With a forceful grip, he grabbed Mr. Downes by his collar and shoved him against the post, the impact enough to break one of his ribs.  

“That's enough, Arthur!” Kate roared, stepping closer, her eyes blazing with anger.

“I-I don't have the money,” Mr. Downes panted, struggling to catch his breath.  

Arthur looked around at the scene, his frustration evident. “Then sell your wife,” he spat out, his voice laced with malice, “sell your house, I don't care!” He raised a fist and stopped when he heard the familiar click of a revolver. 

He turned around to see Kate, pointing her gun at him, the expression on her face made his heart sink. There was no need for him to tell her the truth now, she saw everything she needed to see already. 

“I said, that’s enough,” she repeated, her voice firm. “Put him down.” Arthur released Mr. Downes, who collapsed to his knees, coughing up blood. His wife rushed to his side, her face etched with concern.

“You gonna shoot me?” Arthur's voice was filled with bitterness. “Shoot me and take the $5000? Huh? That's your plan,” he continued, growing more agitated with each passing moment. “Well, get on with it!” he shouted.

“How much does he owe you?” Kate's voice cut through the tension, devoid of emotion.

Arthur lowered his hands, “what?”

“How much does he owe you?” she repeated, her tone impatient.

“$20,” Arthur answered reluctantly.  

Kate holstered her weapon and pulled a wad of cash from her satchel, she counted out twenty bills and grabbed Arthur’s hand, shoving the money into his palm. 

“Here, no sense in killin’ a man over $20,” she turned to the family, “Mrs. Downes, I suggest you take that man to a doctor. I heard you say he was unwell, and he probably has a broken rib or two now.” 

Arthur stared at the money in his hand, his thoughts swirling like a storm. He wanted to hurl it to the ground and watch it burn.

The family lifted Mr. Downes and made their way to the wagon, “th-thank you,” she said, fear still evident in her voice. 

Kate watched them depart, her gaze lingering until the sounds of the wagon faded into the distance. Turning to Arthur, who stood before her like a statue carved from stone.

“What the fuck was that?” she scolded, her tone sharp like a whip.

Arthur opened his mouth, then shut it, grappling for words like a fish out of water.

“You don't even have a reason do you? Beatin’ on a sick man like that? For $20?” Kate’s voice rose with each question.

As the seconds passed by Arthur felt embarrassment creep up his spine, his shame quickly manifesting into anger. “We ain’t a charity,” he finally muttered, repeating what he had said to Mr. Downes. His voice barely above a whisper, struggling to maintain his composure.

“So you resort to killing him,” she remarked, her voice tinged with disappointment as she observed his expression.

“I’m an outlaw Kate, I shoot first, ask questions later,” he spat. 

“Yeah well that's a dumb fucken philosophy,” she retorted sharply , “you’re sure as shit an outlaw. But you ain’t a fucking monster Arthur. That man was sick , he had no way of defending himself. Strauss could’ve waited for his money.” She finished, striding towards her mare. The sense of disillusionment weighed heavy in her heart. She had glimpsed Arthur's tough exterior when they first met at Emerald Ranch, but she never imagined it would lead to this. It made her stomach churn.

“If you don't like the way we do things then you can leave,” Arthur's voice came from behind her, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Kate stopped in her tracks, why does this hurt so much? She’d known them for only a week, but the thought of leaving filled her with dread. It wasn't just the familiar and simple daily tasks of cooking and cleaning that anchored her to the camp; it was the friendships she had forged. They were the closest thing she had to a family in a decade.

She drew in a shaky breath and regained her composure, not turning to face him yet, “do you ever stop and think about what all this senseless killing will turn you into?” Before he could answer she finished for him, turning to meet his gaze, “When you kill an innocent, you become a little less of a man and little more of an animal.”

Without missing a beat Arthur had his answer, “then what you’re looking at ain’t human.” He sauntered over to Kate with slow purposeful steps. His anger was still present, but as he drew closer she saw the look in his eyes. They looked dead, and devoid of color. The sun was setting behind the mountains to the north, and a frigid wind brought in dark heavy clouds. As if the sky was a reflection of the turmoil in his heart. Darkness covered him like a blanket of shame. A heavy, suffocating blanket just waiting to bury the truth. 

“My hands are so stained with blood,” he began, his voice wavering, “that I can’t even remember the face of the first innocent I killed,” he drew in a breath and looked at his boots, “that ain’t something you can change.” 

The wind picked up, carrying tiny bullets of rainwater that tickled against her face. She watched him, and her heart panged. She wasn’t ready to tell him, and perhaps she’ll never get the chance to. But she related to the outlaw, more than she ever anticipated. Her mind raced, bringing back memories of faceless bodies and blood stained skin. Kate pushed the memory down, swallowing it like a spoon of molasses. 

“I don’t intend to change that,” her voice, sounding like a whisper against the heavy wind. 

“Then what do you intend Kate,” his voice sounded coarse, like his throat was thick, “why does a woman like you hang around a bunch of outlaws?” 

Now it was Kate's turn to gape like a fish, she still didn't understand herself why she chose to stay. She wanted to think of them as family but she knew it was absurd, and most of the gang probably wouldn't feel the same way. 

Arthur waited for her answer. “It’s better than being alone,” she finally said, thunder rumbled in around them like a giant beating a drum. “And I like them, they're good people.” She added feeling like an idiot for having no real reason for her to stay. 

Arthur sighed and shook his head, turning to leave. 

And suddenly, she realized the answer was walking away ,“and, I like you.” 

When his eyes met hers, they were pleading, like it pained him to speak to her. “Then you’re a fool Kate. There ain’t nothing to like about me. I’m a bad man, and I ain’t gonna change.” He spoke as if he were reciting a poem he had memorized, the words flowing with such ease one would think he was trained, no , he was raised to believe it was true. 

“I can’t escape this life. I don’t know how to live any other way,” he sounded like a small child. 

“I don’t believe that Arthur,” Kate knew there was good in him, she’d seen it. And she considered herself to be a living testament that it’s not too late to change. She wanted to shout at him, to embrace him, to beat his chest and tell him to pick himself up and break the cycle . 

Instead, she stood silently as Arthur shook his head once more, walked over to his horse, and left her at the ranch. Without a word. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The journey back felt like a whirlwind, the cold rain pelting down relentlessly, soaking Kate to the bone.  She looked up to the familiar sound of a rowdy piano and drunken laughter, and was surprised to see herself outside the Valentine saloon. Having not paid much attention to her ride, her mind racing with thoughts, almost all of them about Arthur.

“Guess I should take the hint huh?” Kate chuckled wearily to Lorena, patting the mare's neck as she dismounted. She tied her under a small awning, sheltering from the downpour while she went in for a drink. 

As she knocked the mud off her boots, a familiar voice called her name. She turned to see Charles waving from the nearby gun shop. In the dim light, his silhouette was unmistakable as he jogged over to meet her.

“I thought I recognized you riding in,” he greeted. “This storm’s a real beast. What brings you out here?” concern evident in his voice.

Kate contemplated her response. It's a long story, is what she wanted to say. “I could ask you the same,” she replied with a faint smile.

“I was just getting some supplies for hunting,” Charles explained, gesturing to the rain. “Planned on leaving tonight, but it seems I'm stuck here for now.” 

“Bummer,” Kate remarked, her exhaustion seeping through her words. She craved a neat glass of whiskey to warm her aching bones. 

Charles narrowed his eyes, sensing her distress. “Are you alright?” he asked gently. 

She looked down at her boots and sighed, no sense in lying to him. It was clear she was upset. And she had been looking to talk to Charles more anyway. 

“Honestly,” she huffed, “no, I’m not. Arthur and I collected a debt today and Arthur was just-” she trailed, unsure what to say. Charles was his friend, and she didn’t want to bad mouth him. 

Understanding washed over Charles's face as he nodded sympathetically. “Arthur was being Arthur,” he murmured.

Kate bit her lip, “yeah.” Her disappointment deepened as she realized she had Arthur all wrong. 

“Let me buy you a drink,” Charles suggested, holding the saloon doors open with a warm smile.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

In a secluded corner upstairs, Kate slouched in a rickety chair, whiskey warming her insides. Charles, equally deep in his cups, listened attentively as she recounted the events at the Downes ranch.

“And then he told me I shoot first, ask questions later ,” she mimicked in Arthurs familiar southern drawl, “it's barbaric!” 

He chucked taking a swig of his drink, “that’s a dumb fucken philosophy,” he agreed.

Kate laughed as she slammed her glass on the table, “that's exactly what I said!”

They both laughed together over the coincidence, Kate’s heart felt lighter. It felt good to vent to someone, someone other than the girls. Not that she didn’t love them, but Charles was refreshing, he was new, and he was close to Arthur. She felt safe knowing that Charles saw a different side of him too. 

His laughter quieted and went back to his usual deep comforting tone, “I’m sorry Kate, Arthur is,” he hesitated, searching for the right answer, “a complicated man.” 

“I can see that,” she said quietly, her face still hot from a mix of whiskey and laughter. 

“The man has a heart of gold,” he added, “but it's buried deep beneath his outlaw code.” 

Kate didn’t understand, Charles was part of the same gang, but even he disapproved of his code, “I don’t get it,” she began, the words seemingly harder to pronounce, “you’s an outlaw too.”

Charles shook his head, his gaze steady, “I am, and I’ve had my moments, I’ll admit,” he lifted a hand as if he were swearing on a Bible, “but I don’t hurt innocent people.” Kate said nothing, choosing to stare at the water stains on the wooden table, her drunken vision making them twist shape. 

He leaned in closer, “there’s a good man within him Kate. But he is wrestling with a giant, and the giant wins. Time, and time again.” 

She thought she mumbled something along the lines of I know what that is like but the words barely came out. A heavy tiredness taking over, the alcohol bringing her down like a vessel struck in water. Kate heard a chuckle from Charles, in the next moment he was under her arm and leading her to a room. 

“Stay here tonight, get some sleep on an actual bed,” he urged softly. Kate made no protest as her head sank into the feathered pillow. Her body melted into the sheets. 

“I’ll be leaving in the morning,” he murmured from the doorway, “you should come hunting with me.” Kate tried to say yes, but all that came out was a hum, like a cicada quieting its song as darkness descended.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

I haven't asked this round but I needed more time loop ➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

And I am really excited for your Bad Things Happen Bingo! 🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷

Ah yay thank you!!!!

51 for ➰:

tagging @steadfastsaturnsrings

---

This also means that their very young, very lovely tour guide with boundless enthusiasm is also a lot less endearing than she had been. Buck feels terrible. She’s so nice. But he’s very tired of the whole spiel. 

“If you’re really lucky, we’ll see sea slugs!” Brittany exclaims as they get into their kayaks. “We have opalescent nudibranch slugs all over and the colors they come in are amazing. They’re beautiful!”

“They’re such a treat,” Buck agrees tightly. He’s trying his best at sounding enthusiastic. 

Brittany frowns. “Whoa, you’ve seen them before?”

Eddie sighs. 

Okay! As if he was perfect at this on his first few times. 

“Uh, no,” Buck admits. “Just… I look up, uh, slug photos sometimes.”

Brittany blinks. “Oh, uh… Yeah, okay.”

“You’re so weird sometimes, Buck,” Chris says. 

“He is,” Eddie agrees. “That was a very weird thing to say.”

“I’m trying here,” Buck whispers, annoyed. 

They help Chris into his kayak, and then Eddie calmly and expertly explains the best way to paddle. Just like he has all the other days. He has this speech down to a formula. 

“Wow, sweetheart,” Buck smirks at him. “You are so good at kayaking.”

Eddie makes a tight face. 

Buck probably shouldn’t tease, but he will literally go insane if he has to pretend every day. Besides, maybe it will be good for Eddie to ease up a bit, too. 

“Yeah, Dad,” Chris picks up on Buck’s observation. He hasn’t joined in on this conversation before. Buck changing it changes things. “You are!”

“I learned in El Paso,” Eddie says, expression flat. “At the lake.”

“I grew up near a lot of water,” Buck says. “Rivers, lakes, a waterpark. I just learned how to drunkenly skinny dip.”

Chris bursts into laughter. 

“Buck,” Eddie complains. 

Buck just winks at him. 

As with the other four tours, Brittany is understanding that Chris can’t keep a regular pace for the tour. So they take it slow. Buck remembers appreciating the leisurely pace the first time. Now he just wants to speed it all up. Chop, chop. See some slugs.

---

18 for 🦷:

---

“I don’t want to make your job harder.”

Eddie doesn’t like this way of talking at all. It reminds him of him at that age. Constantly worried about making his parents’ life easier. Taking better care of his sisters. Doing more. Being better. His kid spends three months in El Paso and comes back with a guilt complex. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Buddy,” Eddie says firmly. “You’re not. I banked a lot of overtime over the summer. And, it’s not your job to worry about my work. You just worry about recovering.”

Chris sighs. “Okay.”

Eddie is going to send his parents fire ants in the mail.

“Why did you bank overtime?”

[i-heart-hxh]

Hi! 😅 What is your least favorite stereotype or generalization about Killugon/Leopika that you see often in the Hunter x Hunter fandom? It doesn’t have to be the most common ones, you can say some that you just personally don’t agree with!

Hello! I've seen other peoples' answers floating around, it's interesting to read different takes on this topic!

I want to preface this by saying I think one of the great things about fandom is that everyone is able to explore their own ideas freely and create the kind of content they want to see in the world, so while I have my own personal tastes I don't want to discourage anyone from creating what makes them happy, even if it's not my thing.

I'm quite picky about characterization personally, though I don't think my tastes/opinions are too unpopular.

With KilluGon especially, a lot of what bothers me boils down to making their relationship/dynamic way more uneven than it is in canon. One of the things I value about their relationship is that they're the same age, similarly value and care about each other, they have around the same strength/level of talent, etc. It's so special that they managed to find someone who matches them so well, someone they can truly consider an equal.

So, I find it off-putting when people drastically change the balance between them so one is much bigger/stronger/older looking or acting/has more power in the relationship/etc. (or vice versa of course). It just doesn't feel like their dynamic any more at that point. Of course they have different personalities so they'll have different ways of interacting with each other, and I'm also not talking about normal height variation (though I personally prefer them to end up around the same height, give or take a few inches on either side), but when there's a strong focus on some form of inequality between them in the dynamic, it's very unappealing to me. A lot of times this comes from trying to force them into stereotypes they don't fit.

I've talked about this extensively in meta form, but the common belief that Killua's feelings are much stronger and heavier than Gon's really bothers me, too. While I agree that Killua clearly seems to have a better understanding of his feelings and what they mean (I think he's ahead of Gon in this because of his introspective personality/higher awareness on the topic), that doesn't mean Gon's feelings towards Killua have less weight or meaning.

His mental health deteriorating in Chimera Ant Arc and him lashing out that one time doesn't erase all of the tons of kindness and affection he gave Killua prior to that, and it's clear that Killua is incredibly special to Gon. He even states that out loud multiple times to Killua! The ways they show it are different, but in my eyes they adore each other equally, and I do see that extending into a romantic sense as well--even if Gon still has to "catch up" in terms of understanding the nature of his feelings.

I also think some people don't know how to portray Gon in contrast to Killua, and he can come off as bland and generic instead of his amazing complicated self, or he gets treated like he's not intelligent in his own right.

Also, I totally get why people make this kind of thing (because I love tragedies in other stories), but I personally can't deal with endings where Gon and Killua don't ultimately get to be happy together. They've just been through so much already, they clearly want to be together, plz don't separate them ultimately... 😭 I know people gotta explore the angst, and to be fair I definitely like the angst in the context of what they've been through/what they might still have to go through to be back together again, but I just can't deal with unhappy endings for them. I also don't like seeing them in relationships with or even romantically interested in anyone else even temporarily, but that's just me being extra picky, LOL.

I don't engage with LeoPika works to quite the same degree even though I like the ship, but I get irritated when people try to push heteronormativity on them too much because of Kurapika's appearance. People acting like it's just a regular ol het ship or putting Kurapika in effeminate roles his personality doesn't fit at all are confusing to me.

I hope that's helpful! I'm sure I have plenty more pet peeves saved up from all the years I've spent in the fandom, but those are the major fandom trends I don't care for.

[wutheringcaterpillar]

Domesticity Series Part 4: The Wedding

Summary: The long, awaited day finally arrives. Family and friends gather around for the unifying of profound love, and what it means to be family

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of William and readers parents

The June flowers bloomed gracefully in the garden, the dirt path scuttling with potato bugs and ants while they were hard at work on this bright and beautiful midsummer day, not a cloud in sight.

The Killicks and your family had gotten a long for the most part, a few heated arguments here and there and the occasional remarks his mother made toward any little thing you did “wrong”.

Today was different though, William had advised her to be on her best behavior or else she would be unable to attend. 

A knock at the door startled you, but it was your sister, and William’s younger niece coming in to check in with you.

They both gasped in amazement at how beautiful your gown was. It was simple, the top part formal, covering your cleavage while being embroided with a subtle shaped design, the bottom flowing outward gracefully, just barely showing the white heels accompanying your feet.

“How do I look?” Your voice was hesitant, nervous but with a hint of hopefulness.

“Y/N, you look beautiful! I think I might even start crying, who knew my sister would get married before me!” She hid herself of her tears by turning around, not wanting to take the chance of getting you to start crying and spoiling your makeup.

The 10 year old who you knew to be Elizabeth was oogling and ogling, feeling like she was in a fairytale and asking how you knew William was the one like the curious kid she was.

Motioning for her to join you on the bench at the end of the bed, you smiled softly at her, your sister still wiping away at the endless trail of tears trying to pull herself together before joining you.

“Well, when you’re older, a person comes into your life, sometimes when you least expect it. They treat you kindly, share some of the same interests, will go to extraordinary lengths to ensure your happy even after a bad day.” Elizabeth looked at you with wide eyes, completely infatuated, wanting to hear more. 

“They’ll never take you for granted, and when William and I met we both needed someone, depended on each other immensely, and it comes to the point, you’ll just know that, that’s the person you want to spend the rest of your life with.” Glancing to your sister, she squeezed your hand lovingly, gazing at you in a moment if being proud and feeling overjoyed for you while Elizabeth clung to your side, wrapping her little arms around you taking you by surprise.

“I’m glad you’re going to be my auntie, Y/N.”

Meanwhile in William’s room he was lighting a cigarette with a shaking hand, trying to pull himself together, if he was being honest he was less nervous in the war than he is at this very moment. His father came in, advising that he shouldn’t be smoking before getting married. 

They both chuckled before William offered his father one, glancing out at everyone talking and taking their seats.

“I’m proud of you son, you did good. She’s a kind woman, pretty too. Don’t know how you managed but, she’s definitely a keeper.” William blushed slightly, going to take a seat in the living area, his father joining him. It wasn’t often his dad complimented him, so it meant the world to him.

“She’s exquisite dad, I mean truly. I often wonder how I managed to keep her by my side, I wasn’t exactly fair when I first met her all that time ago. I love her, and the house we’ve fixed together, our garden, it’s all so surreal isn’t it?” His father nodded in agreement, passing his son a mint as he diminished the flame of his cigarette. Hugging William goodbye and wishing him luck, he made his way out, leaving William grinning like a child as he made his exit outside.

Due to your father’s passing, William’s father who you had grown extremely close with, you had asked to do the honors of walking you down the aisle. He became teary eyed initially, but jumped on the opportunity.

When the melodic, soft music began to play, William’s dad winked at you reassuringly when he saw you take in a nervous breath. 

As you began to walk slowly, all heads turned to face you, standing up and admiring your beauty as William’s niece walked ahead of you fluttering daisy flower petals onto the path ahead of you.

William stood at the altar with his hand folded in front of him, time stopping when he saw how beautiful, and lovely you looked walking toward him. He hadn’t expected to be so amazed, and falling so profoundly in love with you so quickly.

He tried to hold himself together but couldn’t contain the tears welling at the brim of his eyes from your extravagant sight, the breath completely taken from his chest.

His dad kissed you on the cheek, nodding toward William proudly before taking his seat next to William’s mother.

“You look heavenly my darling.” You couldn’t stop the amber shade protruding your cheeks as you blushed, holding back tears of happiness.

“You don’t look so bad yourself Mr. Killick.” 

The pastor began the ceremony, motioning for William and yourself to join has as he unified you both as one.

Only when it came time for the vows, neither of you were prepared for the others words. The man motioned for you to begin, the rings placed on a table beside you both.

“I Y/N, take you William to be my lawfully wedded husband. I knew from the first day I met you that you were trouble, but I was drawn to you how bee is drawn to honey, and you’re my honey. We’ve built a beautiful home, beautiful memories, but most importantly you’ve shown me kindness, warmth, love..I can’t imagine my life without you in it and I refuse to. You are the love of my life William, and I looked forward to all the good days, the bad days. i want them all with you.” Now how the hell was he supposed to top that, at this point he couldn’t resist the tears breaking through his eyes. No one has ever spoke to him with such passion, such love. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. He truly was in love, and knew that asking you to marry him was the wisest decision of his life.

Now it was his turn.

“Geez, I um- wow, you’ve rendered me speechless once again.” He chuckled lightly, yourself and family members joining you as your eyes were locked into his, completely mesmerized by him.

“I William, take thee Y/N to be my lawfully wedded wife. Where do I begin for all the reason I know that you are my soulmate? You’ve been by my side even when I was too blind to notice. When I struggled, you were always right next to me, putting anything and everything aside to help me, but that’s what I adore about you. My heart flutters when I see that bright, beautiful smile, my heart flutters even when you’re snoring in your sleep. But my heart had a void, and you filled it to the brim. You are the most selfless, brilliant, impeccable woman I know and you are the only woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, I love you Y/N.”

And there goes your makeup, turning into a wallowing mess as you cried. Should’ve gotten the damn water proof brand. Smiling sweetly, you nodded reassuringly before the pastor stepped back in to complete the sacred ceremony.

“I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. William Killick. You may kiss the bride!” Without wasting a second, William clasped his warm hands over your cheeks, connecting his plush lips to yours, indulging in a kiss that was but a moment neither of you would ever forget.

Family and friends cheered in unity, snapping photos of the true, poetic scene of love and the wide smiles spread on your faces.

[innuendostudios]

The first new Alt-Right Playbook since just after the pandemic began. This video was started two and a half years ago, and languished in various states of production through a severe back injury, an ADHD diagnosis, a case of COVID, and the general stress of living in ongoing crises of health and democracy. With the help of guest artist Micael Schuenker Alves and script consultant Isabelle Felix, The Cost of Doing Business is now, finally, public.

My Patreon has taken a hit in the last few years, so, if like this work and can spare some money to keep it coming, please back me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

Say, for the sake of argument, there’s this… call him a “provocateur.” A conservative who makes his living off of being a public figure, saying scandalously evil things in public because controversy = attention and attention = brand recognition. He gets his writing gigs and interviews and guest spots sometimes because people agree with the awful things he says. More often, it’s because he gets views. His economy runs on engagement, and hate-clicks are still clicks.

One revenue stream is speaking engagements. The college campus circuit. Fans at, let’s say, UC Emeryville invite him as a guest lecturer. But UCE is, broadly, a progressive campus, which means his presence would likely provoke a lot of outrage, maybe even a protest.

And a protest would be pretty flippin’ sweet.

Protest means local news coverage. Maybe more than local. Hell, the conservative media machine loves taking stories like this and blowing them up to national importance. If he plays his cards right, he could get his words in front of millions of people instead of just the student body of UC Emeryville. Of course he’s gonna take that gig.

But the progressive students at UCE are wise to his tricks. They’ve seen him pull this stunt at other UC’s - Stockton, Bakersfield, Vacaville - so they make the decision, “We’re not gonna protest. We’re just gonna let him speak. Let the boy stamp his feet. And, in a month, no one will even remember he was here.”

As the date approaches, and the provocateur sees he’s not getting the response he wants, he starts hinting things on social media, trying to bait a reaction: “Psst, psst. Hey. I’m gonna make jokes about the Holocaust. I’m gonna say Americans treated their slaves well.” Nothing. So he ups the ante. Makes it personal. “I’m gonna put up pre-transition photos of your trans students. I’m gonna out the queer students I’ve seen on Grindr. I’m gonna name which of your students I think are illegal immigrants.”

Student body’s like, “Bro, do your worst. Nobody’s falling for it.” Until one student’s like, “Hold up… he’s gonna dox immigrants in front of his audience of white nationalist gun nuts… and we’re just gonna let him? You know some of his fans were in Charlottesville, right?”

What we’re seeing here is a game of chicken between one group of white conservative reactionaries and one group of - let’s be honest - mostly white liberals, for whom the stakes are who gets paid attention to. The provocateur doesn’t have the ammunition nor the optics to attack privileged liberals directly, so he pokes and prods at various social minorities whom privileged liberals are supposed to care about until he gets a reaction. Going after people of color is a pure Xanatos gambit for his fans - either they get a protest and a national audience hears their reactionary rhetoric, or there’s no protest and they get to fuck with some immigrants. And, because white liberals are largely ignorant to the threat posed to those immigrants, white liberals are not great at assessing the full scope of the danger. Often enough, this remains, to them, an argument about ideas and principles. To them, they are but words. (Until someone gets hit by a car or shot and then it’s “who could have predicted?”)

The provocateur’s animating force is not hatred of people of color, it’s hatred of white liberals, just as white liberals’ animating force is less advocacy for people of color than moral victory over conservatives. Neither side acknowledges people of color as entities in this fight; they’re viewed as tools for getting white people what they want, and their suffering is viewed as an “acceptable” byproduct. You’ve maybe heard the phrase, “In the game of patriarchy, women are not the opposing team, they are the ball.” Well, in the game of imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy, minorities are not the opposing team, they are the cars, store windows, and newspaper kiosks that get wrecked when the home team loses. Or when the home team wins. It’s the Eagles Fan view of oppression.

And, make no mistake: weaponizing or disregarding students of color is still racism. But it’s racism of a kind most white people have trouble recognizing - or, to speak with a sharper edge, that white people often refuse to acknowledge. From the white provocateur who does not hate minorities directly but is willing to utilize the hatred of others to get what he wants from some white people - who says “I will hurt them a lot just to hurt you a little” - to the white liberal who does mental gymnastics to not come out and say “that is a Black and Brown sacrifice I’m willing to make,” racism is not always a passion. But it is tolerable. Usable. Easy to disregard.

In a white supremacist world, it is the cost of doing business.

Let me make it clear: nothing about this is okay.

Now, the weaponizing of minority suffering is employed against many minoritized groups - I could be making this video about transphobia or homophobia, and, while many details would differ… I wouldn't even have to change my intro. Samuel R. Delany (yeah, yeah, take a shot) argues that misogyny is the oldest bigotry, and, therefore, the model on which all other bigotries are based. I’m focusing on institutional racism as my chief example, first, because this is America and the cup runneth over; second, because, in the 2016 election, the greatest indicator a person was going to vote Republican, more strongly correlated than being registered as a Republican, was racist sentiments; and, third, because racism is a fundamental building block of fascism and a primary means of sowing discord on the Left, but we’ll get to that.

I am going to curb my reflex to try and make every Alt-Right Playbook some kind of definitive statement; I do not have the last word on American racism. If you want to hear about American racism from the people who experience it, here’s a book. Here’s five books. What I bring to the table is: I have, at this point, several decades’ experience being white. And, in trying to explicate white supremacy, it is sometimes worthwhile to look at it from the inside. So my focus will be: What does whiteness mean to white people?

American racial discourse has four principle (white) characters.

On the far right end, you’ve got the guy white people picture when they hear the word “racist”: your klansman, your neo-Nazi skinhead, your suit-and-tie ethnonationalist. This guy knows he’s a racist and he’s proud of it.

Next to the white supremacist, you’ve got the white collaborator; the politician, public figure, or businessman who does not agree with the white supremacist “on paper” but will seek out their votes, attention, or money.

Next to the collaborator, you’ve got the white moderate: people who ostensibly believe in racial justice as an end goal, and are somewhat committed to bringing it about, but only with the cooperation of the white collaborator. It wouldn’t be fair to do it without their consent, you see, and thus the white moderate spends a lot less time opposing collaborators than “appealing to their better natures.” They tend to operate on behalf of people of color rather than with them.

Plainly put, the “Cost of Doing Business” maneuver is this group [collaborators] using this group [racists] to attack this group [moderates] using people of color as their weapon of choice. It is white supremacy in the form of three groups of white people fighting amongst themselves.

Finally, on the far opposite end, you’ve got the honest-to-goodness anti-racist. Where the racist will support white supremacy, and the collaborator uphold white supremacy, and the moderate seek to reform white supremacy, only the anti-racist is trying to get rid of it. And even they are not free from racial bias! And, if you tell one of them “you are not free from racial bias,” it’s not guaranteed they will react well! It’s just, if you’re trying to fight white supremacy, they’re the white folks you have the best odds with.

Now, this little chorus line is not how white people typically frame the situation. We usually think of racism as binary: there are racists, and there are non-racists. In that framing, the provocateur is someone whose allegiance we get to debate. He willingly sacrifices people of color without personally hating them; does that count as #racism? This “debate” lasts approximately the rest of your goddamn life, which should be evidence enough that the frame is wanting.

In today’s framing, there are several shades of racism and there is anti-racism. There is no “non-.”

Now, before we map the choreography of how these four types interact, first a quick note on how most white people think about whiteness. Short answer: whenever possible, they prefer not to.

Whiteness in America: is it vanilla? No, it’s fior di latte. Nothing but milk and sugar. Where non-whites are flavors, we are the base. In the same way one does not hear one’s own accent; British people have accents, but we speak English "normal-like." If you haven’t built your whole identity around being white, you probably don’t think about your whiteness very often, and perhaps even feel uncomfortable when one points it out. For it is the white experience to passively, unconsciously conceive of oneself as a kind of raceless default.

This is privilege. Indeed, this is part of what makes privilege privilege: it’s the identity that’s treated as a norm. The one you don’t have to think about. A movie with an all-white cast is widely perceived as being no way about race. But that’s not true of one with an all-Black cast.

Identities being treated as defaults makes institutional racism difficult to understand, even for well-meaning white people. “How can I be racist if I don’t identify as a racist? How could I be part of a group I never opted into?” It sounds like racism without racists. But let us reflect a moment: would “a group one never opted into” not describe a minority? People don’t choose to be gay. And, while people also don’t choose to be straight, being straight is “normal.” People don’t “come out” as straight, or have complex codes for signalling heterosexuality (that they’ll admit to, at least); in lieu of other evidence, straightness is presumed. But if people clock you as gay - or even think they’ve clocked you as gay - then you stand out from the background. It makes you more visible, where the appearance of straightness makes you less so. Makes you “the everyman.”

Of the many identities one may have, at any given time on any given axis there is typically only one default, whose rules operate differently to the rest. The more of these “normal” identities one has, the more accustomed one is to being the default. The idea is foreign that people might group one not by how one thinks of oneself, but by how one is perceived and by how one impacts others. It gets hard to fathom that, any more than whether or not a light-skinned Mexican gets to be white is up to them, whether or not you fit the definition of racist isn’t up to you. The boundaries are not policed from the inside.

So! Okay. Going again from right to left: this is where we find the titular Alt-Right. What’s novel about the suit-and-tie ethnonationalist is how they break from the iconography of racism. Their goal, like that of many racist people, is to attack and oppress people of color, but in such a way that the white establishment will let them get away with it. The average white person’s shorthand for a racist is still primarily the klansman and the neo-Nazi; respectively, a rural, working-class white nationalism and an urban, working class white nationalism. The Alt-Right is the gentrification of white nationalism. Their pocket squares and MBAs and $90 haircuts short out the white moderate’s brain because they still associate white supremacy with white trash. Racism is worse than evil, it’s common. It’s why they insist reactionary conservatism is propped up by the white working class in flyover states despite all evidence to the contrary. The Alt-Right can’t be as bad as everyone says, because who ever heard of a racist going to Harvard? (Harvard.)

The Alt-Right bridges the gap between white nationalism and the rest of white culture, using class signifiers to gain access to the political and social capital of the more mainstream collaborator and getting the moderate to treat them not as someone to be ignored but someone to bargain with in good faith.

The collaborator finds value in this relationship because, regardless of one’s position on it, racism works. A police officer may not be personally racist, but, when it’s the end of the month and they need to hand out a few more tickets to make quota, it’s safest to do so in a low-income neighborhood where the average driver can’t make their life hell by hiring a lawyer, and, due to decades of racist redlining, most low-income neighborhoods are disproportionately Black and Latine, sooo… And a prison warden may not be personally racist, but racist white people are approved by jury selection more often than people who think the justice system is racist, so Black and Latine people are the easiest to jail and private prisons get more funding when they’re full, sooo… And a conservative politician may not be personally racist, but Black and Latine people predominantly vote Democrat, and, since they’re disproportionately imprisoned, if the politician denies convicts the right to vote, they are more likely to get reelected, sooo…

Now, these people frequently are self-identified, card-carrying racists. My point is, for this system of incentives and rewards to operate, they don’t have to be. Any of them may, but none of them must. Racism exists and it’s efficient. And, in a capitalist society, where cops are competing for promotions, private prisons are competing for contracts, and politicians are competing for votes, if an unethical behavior sees a higher return than the alternative… then ethics are a luxury. There are hundreds of examples of businesses that claim, in periods of prosperity, that they prefer to do what is right over what is profitable. But what tune do they play when prosperity ends? Every boom has a bust - since 1900, the US has spent one out of every four years in recession. And, in the lean season, not using this generations-old system built by white people to advantage their descendents is a liability. A values-based business typically goes one of three ways: compromising their values to stay competitive, getting bought by someone who compromised their values to stay competitive, or sticking to their guns and facing a higher risk of going out of business. Many choose to do the right thing, and some even survive. But that’s beating the odds. The market trends toward the optimal strategy.

No one ever went broke appealing to the ignorance of white people.

The collaborator treating nonwhite suffering as the cost of doing business also works rhetorically. The average conservative citizen doesn’t know anything about the Syrian Civil War, but they know the refugee crisis is something the Left seems to care about. So demonizing refugees is mutually beneficial for pundits and politicians who want to rally their base by spiting liberals and for white supremacists who want to mainstream racism against Arabs. The average conservative citizen doesn’t understand epidemiology, but they don’t want to blame their own party for letting a million die of COVID. So calling it “the Chinese virus” is mutually beneficial for pundits and politicians who want to deflect blame onto a foreign nation and for white supremacists who want to mainstream racism against Asians.

Yet, despite their blatancy in collaborating with white supremacists, and having eerily similar goals to white supremacists, the collaborator maintains that they are, themself, “non-racist.” Their decades of opposing affirmative action, right to assembly, police reform, fair voting efforts, redistricting, funding for public schools, prisoner’s rights, religious tolerance, shutting down Guantanamo, accessibility for non-English speakers, immigration, investment in low-income neighborhoods, decolonizing school curricula, Indigenous People’s Day, putting Harriet Tubman on the twenty, kneeling, ending the drug war, or withdrawing from the Middle East are framed as problems of implementation. “We agree with the aim of closing the racial wealth gap, just not like this. We agree with the aim of Latin-Americans entering the country, just not like this. We agree with the aim of peaceful protest, just not like this.”

And, if we on the Left are to ask, how exactly are we supposed to get this without this, oh, coming up with that solution? That’s our job. And, if it’s not getting done? It’s because we haven’t come up with a solution they like yet. And probably what they don’t like about our solutions is that we implied the problem was racism. “Yes, white people are over-represented in dozens of industries nationwide, but have you considered that it’s a fluke? Pitch me a solution for it being a fluke.” The Collaborator’s white supremacy exists in the negative space. They agree racism exists, they agree we should oppose it, but they disagree that any individual thing you’re talking about is an example of it. Getting a Republican to identify an actual incident of systemic racism is like trying to point at your shadow with a flashlight.

And it’s reasonable to ask, Jesus, how far can these guys push the envelope before the rest of the establishment calls them what they are? But, if you’re waiting for the moment a white moderate agrees mainstream conservatism has done something unacceptably and unequivocally racist, you’re underestimating how long white people can equivocate.

There’s a lot to say about the white moderate. And I’m about to be that lefty who expends as many words complaining about liberals as he does fascists, but, look: as much as this series is about the tactics of the Far Right, it is at least as much about how the Center Left is susceptible to them… and complicit.

So, okay. When Democrats lose an election, what happens with the white, liberal, pundit class? Well, there’s suddenly a lot of chatter about how to talk to your racist uncle over Thanksgiving, about how liberals in red states can contact their representatives, about the value of debate. “This is our fault,” they say. “We let this happen because we didn’t have enough conversations with white conservatives.” You hear a lot more of that than talk about how the gutting of the Voting Rights Act cost a lot of the Left the right to vote, and what could be done to guarantee their representation in the next election. In fact, you hear more about how that kind of talk is alienating to the white conservatives who supported gutting the Voting Rights Act, about how reaching across the aisle is gonna mean easing off race talk, at least for now. POC representation is quickly reframed as a critical long-term goal, but, in the present moment, while we are competing for elected office, guaranteeing the minority vote is a luxury.

What’s prioritized is that the people who suppressed the Black vote in order to win elections not be made to feel that they are racist.

Because, I mean, what if they genuinely believe the Voting Rights Act unfairly targets Southern states? Or even if - and I’m saying if here - they did do it to suppress votes, if hurting Black people isn’t their goal, and they’re just trying to win elections, is that really “racist?” 

Moderates are very cagey about breaking out the R-word for a fellow white person.

See, there’s this other definition of racism that most white people learn in grade school: racism is when you say mean things to other kids about skin color and it hurts their feelings; racism is about cruelty. And harm done by white people, therefore, isn't racism if isn’t cruel; it’s merely ignorant. Or apathetic. But ignorance and apathy can be reasoned with; you just gotta sit down and hash it out. As long as it takes. Real white supremacy is about emotional distress or interpersonal violence; it’s uncommon, it’s unpopular, and it’s a hearts and minds issue.

What this definition leaves out is any notion that white supremacy is about power. That white people who disavow racism still live longer, get paid better, get arrested less often, and are typically in position to negotiate with whomever’s in power. That this society was built for The Everyman, and being The Everyman confers power upon you.

When children of white moderates get older and first brush up against this definition, wherein white supremacy is not small but all-encompassing, where it can be cruel, but is at least as often indifferent, and where every white person in the country is bound up in it and privileged by it whether they want to be or not, and will never, ever experience it themselves - where it’s not about feelings but power - how often do they say, “oh, maybe the definition I grew up with was simplified for 9-year-olds”?; or, “oh, maybe the definition given to me by white grown-ups was less complete than the one a Black grown-up might’ve given”? And how often do they say, “you can’t just redefine racism?”

Right out the gate, the white moderate is possessive not just of their whiteness but of the very definition of racism.

In the definition they know, racism exists only over here. And the white collaborator is a compatriot who shares their ultimate vision for the future, but has simply gone off course somewhere. And they don’t see themselves as flawed individuals with a long way still to go; they’ve already arrived! They’re the destination everyone else needs to get to! Living proof that white supremacy can be easily and painlessly opted out of. They can’t see collaborators as opponents because there is no definition of white supremacy that includes collaborators and doesn’t also include them.

And this is critically important: they don’t want to start thinking of themselves as white. They don’t want the constant awareness of one’s race or how one’s race is perceived – you know, the things the rest of humanity deals with. And who would want that? I’ll tell you who wants that: Nazis and klansmen want that. They’re the only ones who like thinking about whiteness every day. So, white moderates cling to the other definition, the comfortable one. They may be more or less willing to collaborate with people of color, but mostly in ways that don’t foreground their whiteness. White-as-default is one concession that can never be made, in part because it’s the one that can’t be spoken.

Their ideal is a kind of Big-Tent Antiracism, where victory comes by winning over reactionary conservatives. This might strike you as odd, given that reactionary conservatives have seen many victories in the last twenty years, none of which came by winning over us. White supremacists bolster their numbers by finding little, disgruntled pockets of America that have not, heretofore, engaged much in politics and radicalizing them to the cause, and then pitching themselves to white collaborators as a demographic now large enough to sway a narrow election. If moderates wanted to counter this strategy, they might look at who out there is sympathetic to progressive causes but isn’t voting, maybe because they don’t feel liberal candidates represent them, or maybe because someone just happened to shut down all the polling locations in their neighborhood. And, you know, mathematically, there’s probably a lot more disenfranchised people of color who match that description than racist white people who aren’t already Republicans.

But that strategy would mean doubling down on anti-racist talking points instead of easing off of them. It would mean a willingness to alienate some white people. It’s… giving up on them. It’s admitting a significant percentage of American whiteness is not on the side of racial equity. It means there’s a definition of racism where it isn’t fringe, but common and pervasive, and where addressing it requires thinking about their place in it. It means asking why they feel more affinity for white people who oppose them than people of color they claim to agree with. Why the votes of the former have to be earned but the latter are expected. And, since all that seems intolerable, they fixate on the kinds of gestures that feel like moving in the right direction but run very little risk of arriving anywhere. “How about, instead of defunding the police, we give them more money than any Administration in years, but, also, Juneteenth is a national holiday now. Something for everyone!”

The Left has the numbers to leave behind white centrists who slow down anti-racist efforts, and it doesn’t because white moderates don’t want to. They and the white collaborators are supposed to be in this together, and they are… just not in the way they think.

The irony is that the Right feels no affinity for white moderates whatsoever. They hate - and I mean haaaaate - white moderates. Smug pricks always talking about unity whenever they win an election. “Reach across the aisle?” That's what you say when you’ve lost and you want the other guys to make concessions they don’t have to make—you don’t do it when you’re in power! Are they trying to humiliate us, or did we really lose to a bunch of clowns who don’t even know how to win right? Debasing themselves in front of minorities just to get their votes when they clearly aren’t going to do anything real for them. Christ, at least white supremacists are honest!

The Right will threaten POC sometimes just to call the white moderates’ bluff.

Racism must be understood as more than a set of individual beliefs and feelings, but as a tool for achieving political ends, first and foremost because claiming otherwise is both factually and morally wrong. But also, without this understanding, white culture can’t recognize the stakes.

Fascism exists in a state of permanent conflict. Things like declaring an indefinite state of martial law, suspending elections, or executing members of government, are justified on the grounds that the people are in danger and need to be protected and mobilized. This isn’t unique to fascism: between the Cold War, the War on Drugs, and the War on Terror, the US has been in some form of ongoing conflict for the last three generations, but: you’ll note the Cold War didn’t end on a battlefield, it ended when the Soviet Union collapsed in on itself. Communism, terrorism, and drug dealing are patterns of behavior, and they wax and wane, often for reasons outside our control. Geopolitics may someday shift such that terrorism becomes less prevalent, or that lowers the demand for drugs.

Communism can be fought with diplomacy and economic sanctions because communists can choose not to be communists anymore. And fascists have no use for soft power. To justify a military dictatorship, they need an opponent that won’t just go away on its own one day. It always come back to identity politics because Black people can’t stop being Black; theirs is a number that will not be reduced without the hard power of violence and displacement.

Fascism begins by stealing populist targets from the Left: they focus on elites, corrupt businessmen, weak-willed politicians, subtly shifting focus away from leftist critique of systems to types of people. But, sooner or later, they settle on something unchangeable: race, gender, ethnicity, religious background. The bigotry is localized to the region’s existing prejudices: in Nazi Germany, it was Jews, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Roma, Slavs, Black people, queer people, and people with disabilities; in fascist Italy, it was Slovenes until Mussolini invaded Libya and Ethiopia and so demonized their citizens as well; in the US, the Klan and the American Nazi Party targeted African-Americans, Jews, and Catholics, queer people, and immigrants; Spain under Franco tried to determine the exact racial makeup of the Spanish people so they could cast out those with the “wrong mixture of bloods.”

This is why the Far Right has gone all in on transphobia of late, by the way. It has joined Islamophobia on the outer rim of acceptable bigotries. On some level they know trans folks aren’t just cis people in disguise, that desistance is rare and conversion therapy doesn’t work, because it trans people could just stop being trans… they never would have picked them for an enemy.

This is where it starts. This is why you should have no patience for anyone saying “wokeness is dividing the Left, we should focus on class.” They’re not attacking us on class. They’re trying to sell themselves as better on class than we are. Where do you think that fairy tale about “blue-collar whites” comes from? They want you to believe that they, and not the socialists, are the path forward for the downtrodden. There’s a reason fascism started popping up all over Europe right after the Russian Revolution; Mussolini got his start beating up socialists in the Po Valley, on the grounds that he was defending not wealthy elites but struggling rural farmers who didn’t like the socialist takeover of their industry during the biennio rosso. The fascist goal is to harness and redirect class resentment towards a scapegoat. They come at us on identity. It always comes down to the shape of the human skull.

When a provocateur shows up on a college campus to talk about “ideas,” it’s not a debate. There’s no special sequence of words that will defeat them [expecto patronum gif]. This is a show of dominance. They are presenting themselves as white compatriots to be reasoned with rather than agents of white supremacy to be opposed. In that framing, the stakes are attention, the weapons are words, and people of color are not players but tokens on the game board. And they are checking whether you will submit to that structure.

They don’t care about ideas. They care about power.

And power is what beats them. They tell you four hundred people showing up in protest is just free news coverage. But when four thousand show up? They cancel. That’s power. And, in absolute numbers, most events they can’t rustle up four thousand supporters, but we can, provided cishet non-disabled white dude lefties (like myself) haven’t told all the Right’s biggest targets their struggles don’t matter. (And, it’s worth mentioning, cops fuck with protesters less when some of them are white.)

(It’s also worth mentioning racism affects 58% of the working poor, so there can be no class solidarity that doesn’t address it.)

This [white moderate] isn’t who needs to win. This [POC] is who needs to win, and, if you’re white, you need to be over here [antiracist]. I’ve collected as many resources as I can find by POC on what they need and want from white allies, and put them in the down-there part. There’s a plurality of opinions on this, so I recommend reading more than one. It may not always be a four-thousand-strong protest; every direct action is unique, and must be strategized in concert with the people most affected.

But what I can tell you is, when business gets done, white folks need to split the check. A movement cannot be antifascist if it isn’t antiracist.

[n0sewise]

Why do you think Killua was having doubts about whether Gon saw him as a teammate or a friend? Do you think that if he asked his “question” would he get the answer he wanted?

oh hey!

I think CAA is a perfect storm of Gon and Killua's trauma, and tbh it snowballs from there.

Killua was already raised to see his only value in his utility.

"If I can't be loved I'll be useful, and if I can be useful enough I can be loved" or something like that <- someone smarter than me put that into a text post and it felt so Killua when I read it.

Anyway. Initially, Gon tells Killua constantly that he's glad they're friends and that he's met him. Gon is pretty perceptive, and I'd like to think some of this is due to seeing how Illumi treated Killua and wanting to reassure him that he is qualified and Deserving of having a friend. This works up to a point, but Gon has issues too.

Gon's abandonment, his guilt, and his single-mindedness really don't help things along when they get to Kite and the ants, and where a less preoccupied Gon might have picked up on some of Killua's tells (because he absolutely makes an effort to hide these from Gon), he's too busy to notice them now. He's in over his head, trying to fix what he views as his mistake, the only way he knows how, and it's worked out okay for him previously, so he's not going to slow down anytime soon. It's a mess, and then you throw in Palm and Knov and Meruem and Komugi and the Royal Guards, and Gon and Killua are living out a nightmare while all the adults around them act as nightmare foils to their own dysfunction... and what do you get?

Well, you get Killua thinking he doesn't matter to Gon outside his usefulness as a teammate, and Gon burning himself out (like his test in Trick Tower) at the cost of everything else around him. It's the worst possible timing for them, and both of the boys aren't great communicators at the best of times.

To answer your other question, I think in any other moment Killua would've gotten the answer he wanted. Maybe even in that moment, it might have pulled Gon back a little from the dark. That being said, I don't know if Gon would've given the answer in a way that would be satisfying or believable to Killua. I can see him still needing reassurance in other ways (without him coming right out and asking for it).

I hope that made sense! I feel like I wasn't qualified (haha) to answer this, but I did my best. Your asks are always so much fun!

[bonefall]

as a resident AlloAro person, I'm totally fine with Blackstar just never realizing he's aromantic. sometimes you're so busy with other crap that it doesn't hit you. also, I feel like his society has much less of a focus on romance than, say, America does. I think it's reasonable for him to not realize it. it's not being shoved into his face all the time like it is with us

also, imho, a character being some kind of lgbt is just part of them. sometimes you don't need to go in depth about it. we're just people; it's nice seeing us being treated as Just People.

His society does have less focus on romance in it because I forcefully shook it off like ants on a bagel. I may be alloromantic but amatonormativity is my deepest enemy and I want to beat it to death with a hammer.

My own journey came to the conclusion that nothing described me like "queer" did and it felt right for the first time in my whole life. So I tend to approach characters that way too. Art is an extension of its creator and all that jazz.

So labels don't always come easy lmao. It's less common I pick a label and work backwards.

But anyway, Blackstar fits being aro and a lot of folks are assuring me it wouldn't be a problem to call him this. So all right-- he's aro!

[worrywrite]

I think Equal Rites is the Discworld book that has resonated with me the most so far. Not because of the discussion on gender, though I do enjoy that. not even the message of the book. Itcs just the most my vibe.

Equal Rites speaks to me because it isn't exactly a book about adventuring or solving a problem or doing something important. It's about the people around the hero who make sure their job gets done. Sure, Esk is the protagonist, but her story isn't really the story of Equal Rites. This is the beginnig of Granny Weatherwax's story, even though she's already an old crone. I think the point is that she had to actually become a proper witch before she could carry on and have a story. Esk is fun and charming, and smart. She's the plucky and powerful protagonist. But Granny... Granny's story is kinda sexy. In a fun way.

It's refreshing to read a story, too, where an author has articulated (or tried to, hard to say how much of it was Pratchett's success and me filling in the blanks) things like the monsters of the dungeon dimension. I know they feature elsewhere in Discworld, I just haven't gotten there yet. But the horror of things that aren't is fascinating.

I feel like I will have to carry on in the witches storyline before I can say much more about the state of magic on the disc, but I was also enchanted with the concepts of different types of magic shown in the book. I like how it's all different, but also all the same. It's all headology. Just applied in different ways. You trick a peasant and they call your flask if peach brandy a potion. You fool yourself out of your body and you can borrow. You fool nature and you can create fireballs. You fool reality and you can do magic by not doing magic (I like calling this principle anti-magic, even though I'm sure it gets a proper name in another book). I feel like I'm oversimplifying and I'm probably wrong to a degree about everything being headology.

Anyway. I like that Granny isn't asked to be the protagonist. She isn't tasked with bringing forth revelations and innovating the way the world works. She works in her own realm, she does what needs to be done, she is a fantastic mother figure (minus losing track of Esk for like a month) for someone who doesn't understand children at all. Because she doesn't see Esk as a child. She does at first. But in teaching Esk and also learning from her, Granny learns to treat Esk more like an equal. Like an adult, more or less. She treats Esk like a witch, which is a station of honor in Granny's eyes. But she also acknowledges that Esk is more than that. She knows that this powerful little girl needs things that Granny can't give her and she helps. Even though it goes against everything she stands for.

Also, the ending to the book (SPOILERS), I find very interesting. Drum Billet is... He's weirdly everywhere in this book. He's the wizard at the start. He's the tree that Esk climbs. He's the staff. He's Esk's magic. He's an ant in the walls at Unseen University. He's also dead for most of the book.

And the ants discover the true secret to longevity. But they're lesser beings and their achievement is ignored. It's not even perceived. And then it's washed away. It's this weird reflection of what just transpired throughout the book. The world is full of people and things that can discover so much. But those discoveries will never see the light of day. And maybe they shouldn't? But they happen. And it's weirdly poetic by not being poetic. It's incredibly mundane, but by nature of being included it becomes important. Pratchett does that a lot and I really like it.

[kiribread]

Quirk awakenings >:)

Hello!

I decided to make a list of some random (of mostly pro heroes) short list possible quirk awakenings that probably won't happen since we're nearing the end of the series but it's still fun to think about :)

Manga spoilers ahead

Mt. Lady

A possible quirk awakening I could see for her is either to become larger or being able to control her size. The size control would probably be the most useful so she could navigate tighter alley ways in cities without causing damage. Plus if she's able to shrink in size she could do stealth missions but I'd doubt that would happen. If it were to though she would basically become the opposite of ant man! (instead of starting with shrinking powers and later getting growth power she starts with the growth power than gets the shrinking power.)

Kamui Woods

So I have 2 for him but one involves someone less so I'm braking it up. The first idea is him being able to manifest and manipulate wood not just from his body. The way I imagined it is it being very similar to Yamato's/ first hokage's kekkei genkai but only with wood. So as long as he has enough energy for it, he could manifest wood and treat it like he would with his own limbs but with more versatility. I feel like im doing a really bad job explaining this so here's this link just skip down to the ninjutsu part:

Kamui woods and Kinoko Komori

So they haven't been in this final arc a whole lot but they have been shown together a few times which makes me think that they'll have a moment together which works well for this awakening. So there is this thing called the "wood wide web" where basically fungi roots connect different tree roots together allowing trees to "talk" and transfer stuff to each other. So for example lets say one tree (the mother tree) whose roots are connected to a nearby saplings. The nearby sapling isn't getting enough food since it's in a shady spot and is in danger of dying. The mother tree can send spare nutrients to the dying sapling to give it a better chance of survival. (you should look this up on youtube when you got free time it's quiet interesting!) With the large amount of people who have been injured by afo this battle being able to incorporate that ability could be super helpful! Komori could use her mushrooms to connect the injured people and kamui to what remains of the nearby forest and help at least keep them alive! I've heard that there's not enough evidence to prove that this actually exists but considering all the other stuff that has happen this arc alone i think it's still a possibility plus a neat way to connect the 2 characters.

Ryukyu

I think a good quirk awakening for her is to simply make her more dragon like. Like I feel like getting rid of her human characteristics in her dragon form itself would do wonders with her design at least but also increased durability. Also giving her a ability like fire breathing or some other elemental power would also give a huge boost to her overall abilities. If you ask me the element that make most sense for her too me is water. The reasons I chose water is that one, i think it would overall fit her personality well, her little jaw things look like fins, and that we already got a fire user in the top ten so it wouldn't overlap in that area. (Although there may not be one for much longer...)

here's the jaw things I was talking about

[ilkkawhat]

[posted on ao3 too, just something short for the appreciation week theme though there's some themes I'd love to expand upon someday.]

Twenty four hours.

It was just twenty four hours. 

Maybe twenty five, it was hard to keep track towards the end when the fan stopped whirring, and his watch stopped ticking. 

He was laying down the entire time, the each edge of his finger- and toenails, each strand on his hair, each bone in his body still rattles him with waking numbness. His mouth and nose and skin still tickle with the ant bites speckled all over his body.

The nurses had scrubbed him clean, he tried to scrub himself clean, but here he sits in a bathtub in the thankful privacy of his own house, still scrubbing because the dirt is somehow still there, and the itching just won’t stop. 

He figures if he scratches himself in the tub, then nobody will see the blood that mixes with the soapy, dirty water. 

One reason he doesn’t take baths anymore is simply that he doesn’t fit. He has to bend his knees up, hang a foot out, or sit straight up with the water not even reaching his heart—a heart that’s somehow still beating. 

He didn’t quite fit in the box, either. Being the runt of the litter, he always wished to be taller than he was, and it’s like the design of the glass coffin was meant to mock that. 

Granted, it’s not like it was designed for comfort anyway. Even if Nick was given enough leg and arm room, wouldn’t that have been more maddening? And somehow less…comforting compared to how he had to basically hug himself, like he’s hugging himself now as the water floods around him. 

He can hear a voice warning him to stop scratching the itches, and another that warns him to get out of the tub and maybe take a jog instead because he’s been too still for far too long.

But it was his mother’s voice he listened to, pouring oatmeal into the tub just like she had when he got chicken pox as a kid.

He remembers having a rubber duck as a bath toy, and remembers the night he stopped playing with it. The day he decided he was done being a kid, tired of being picked on and made fun of by his brothers and so called “friends” at school, and for some reason he was starting to feel even more tired of being treated like a child being fawned over. His mother, who had started to pull a lot of overtime as his father was equally as busy, suddenly found the time to be there for him when he caught the pox from the trade of it going around the playground.

The soft-buzzing light in the middle of the ceiling starts to flicker. He forgot to change the bulb before he left for work that night. Even his father made an offhand comment with a subtle offer for help in the similar way his mother was picking things up around the house. 

They weren’t there when he really needed them. Granted, he never really told them when he did.

And maybe in the advice that he at first stubbornly scoffed at but still took, perhaps his mother was just trying to get back to that time when he needed her. Needed both of them, the parents that he felt guilty in sending away to a hotel but...he wasn’t quite sure that he wasn’t going to abandon ship himself and hole up in one himself. 

He finds himself staring at the showerhead above and realizes why he feels so vulnerable; did Nigel watch him take showers and baths, peeping in at his most vulnerable, just as they had all watched him for over a day, fighting a not quite so visible struggle for his own sanity, his own life?

It’s stupid, he thinks, to be well, thinking at all about any of this. Any of that. The past is in the past. What happened, happened and there’s nothing he can do now about it. 

The tub overflows with a splash to the floor, he quickly turns the faucet off. 

But he could have stopped it. 

He let his guard down. It wasn’t the first time he had been caught like that, in a naive moment thinking they had the right guy but the real killer was just footsteps behind him, and he was going to be next—but…it was the first time he had been captured like that. Hogtied, stuffed in a trunk like a piece of trash tossed into a hole and buried as if he were already dead.

With a gun. His trigger finger itches the most, his hand still twitching but it’s that finger that’s somehow…frozen. Wrapped around an invisible trigger. 

He was given a gun. That faceless asshole couldn’t even do it himself, he wanted Nick to do it and why? To make the world see how his daughter got screwed over by CSIs like him? What good would that even do? 

The light goes out and he…he sighs in relief. 

Anybody else would have become scared of the dark but then again, he was never really in it, was he? He always had the glowstick, even if its life was ending. 

He didn’t have this…complete silence, either. Save for maybe the odd drip from the faucet, it’s nice not to have the soft, teasing whir of the fan that was keeping him alive that…is not here right now. He turns to the right, where it was before. His ear pricks up. It’s not there. He’s in the dark, his legs tucked in, his arms can’t seem to break the surface of the water. 

And worst of all, he can’t breathe. 

How much longer could he have lasted? 

“Nicky? You okay in there?” 

Another minute, or another hour?

“I’m coming in, okay?”

Another day?

The water’s gone cold, and he’s shivering. Goosebumps all over his skin, he flinches at the sudden burst of light but doesn’t seem to recognize where it’s coming from. The soap bubbles are fizzing away, small little explosions of soap on his skin. It’s just as bad as the raining bullets of the shower, reminding him how his skin is no longer smooth but a rough, rugged, infected terrain. 

In holding his breath, he can only hear the struggling burst of air pounding inside his ears. 

“Hey.”

Warrick nudges Nick with the extension of his hand, lifting the white-knuckled fist out of the water and detangling Nick’s fingers to merge with his own. Nick turns to face Warrick, eyes wide and tearful but present, in the moment.

“You’re not ever gonna be in a coffin like that again, you hear me?” 

Nick watches the soap suds on his skin, fearing that an ant would emerge in each hole until it popped away. 

“Warrick,” Nick breathes. 

“Yeah, man, I'm here.”

“Can-can you…There’s a, uhm, a thing on the counter…”

Warrick gives him an odd look before he sees what Nick’s talking about.

A rubber duck. Brand new, next to the bottle of pills meant to help with the waves of anxiety keeping him from a restful sleep, and boy, does he need it.

“This?”

Nick nods, and Warrick softly smiles, tossing it into the water. 

“Thanks.” 

“Your mom bring your wooby, too?” Warrick can’t help but tease, if only just to get a slightly spiteful, but endearing smile. 

“Is it…sad that I kinda wish she did?” Nick hesitantly asks. 

“No. It’s not,” Warrick replies with sudden seriousness. He sits on the toilet, reaches in to touch Nick again, to remind him before he falls back under the surface. Nick just flips the duck in his fingers, in familiar motions as if unwrapping a gum wrapper.

“Why…” Nick starts, but catches himself, before a sharp breath, before starting again with a difficult voice. “Why am I the one?” 

He doesn’t even know what it is he wants to hear; it’s not about him, it wasn’t his fault, could have happened to anybody, all of the excuses in the book that Grissom would read to him still couldn’t amount to a satisfying conclusion. 

“I wish I knew, but…I’m…I’m glad—” Warrick halts, especially when Nick twists his head with those damn big, naïve eyes lost in a darkness he can’t shed a light on. And with that, and his flat wet hair and the bath toy in his hands, Warrick can’t help but see the broken child that’s always been hidden from him. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Warrick corrects himself. 

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” Nick agrees, dropping the duck into the wade in the murky water before he reaches a hand out of the tub, dripping onto the floor. Warrick’s face says the truth, though. Not a selfish truth, though in their watcher’s guilt, he knew the entire team felt the same way in not wanting to have suffered the same fate. Rather, it was just an assurance he wanted to give Nick, to show him the strength that the reborn man doesn’t think came with him out of the ground. He knows Nick knows it too, but that he’s too modest in some ways to admit it.

I’m glad you were the one. Because if anybody had to survive it, it could only be you.

[cto10121]

Twilight Clown Takes—Part 3

Another video of a YouTuber throwing out words like “gaslighting” “abuse” and “toxic relationships” brings all the clowns to the yard, like ants towards the discarded milkshake…but I don’t think it’s better than yours. Hie ho, let’s go

Bella Just Wants To Be A Vampire!!!1!1

Except that this goes against all the canon evidence, including Bella’s own words (!!) in Eclipse that immortality would have no allure without Edward. Should we doubt her? I don’t think we should.

For one thing, in Book 1 Bella has one very good reason to become a vampire even without Edward and superpowered immortality: It is literally dangerous for her to stay human and be a part of Edward’s world, a temptation of any vampire. It’s that reason, as well as Edward, that is the most significant factor in Bella’s reasoning. The rest are just sweet perks.

Two Clown Worlds Meet

R&J Clownery 🤝 Twilight Clownery

Anyhoo, apropos to nothing, here is a whole tag about how Romeo and Juliet is a romance, actually, and Twilight is patterned closely after their dynamics, so much so that Shakespeare could sue Meyer were he so inclined. And if anyone else calls them anything other than love stories, I’ll recommend them to an English major with actual reading comprehension skills.

Bella Has No Character/Is the Worst Character

Clown OP varies the anti script admirably and almost succeeds. But this is definitely a psy-op.

Bella changes little from her core traits after meeting Edward. On the contrary, her selflessness is ratcheted up to 1000 re: her trying to save her mother, successfully saving Edward in Italy, worried constantly about Jacob. She also defends and keeps her truck until it conks out, refuses to let Alice dictate her wardrobe, punches Jacob when he forced a kiss on her, all while still being hilariously quirky in her metaphors (the kitchen magnets, “I am Switzerland”). If anything, Bella became more…Bella with Edward.

I will give Clown OP one thing; there is an element of father figure in Bella’s dynamic with Edward. Bella as a mother to Jacob as her son, however, is stretching a lot. Maybe Werewolf!Jacob in Eclipse when Bella is worried for him and his pain? But her dynamic with pre-werewolf Jacob is pure typical teen shenanigans, nothing truly motherly.

Either way, Edward is more than a father, even an indulgent one, and Bella does not treat Jacob like her son. On the contrary, she misses human!Jacob and their pizza-and-bikes shed relationship in New Moon. Jacob brings out her immature side.

Platonic Friends

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

(Why do these clowns always overlook the fact that Edward was just as suicidal as Bella when he thought she was gone? He literally cannot exist without her! He says that explicitly! Also, Bella would have been so bored of Jacob after a while. Even pre-werewolf, they don’t have much in common.)

College AU

Yeah, no. While the coming-of-age element does muddy an otherwise straightforward romance plot line, there is power in merging the two. College is a very different dynamic than high school—as in, forming and maintaining friendships, much less romance, is much more difficult in college than high school. Romance in fiction (and in real life) needs regular forced proximity. That doesn’t happen if one person has evening classes, the other morning classes, one has work, etc.

Run, Bella, Run

There is literally no point in any of books where Bella wants to run away from Edward. Even in the meadow scene with Edward pulling the spruce tree and throwing it, Bella actually feeling genuine fear, she doesn’t run. By Eclipse she is mostly all 😅 about Edward finding out she met Jacob and is confident enough to send him a threatening voice message after he makes Alice kidnap her. And then she finally learns that if she goes 🥺 at him, Edward would just fold like a house of cards.