#but men should never feel bad about being a man because they’ve been taught being a man is bad

[midnight-in-eden]

This is what I meant in this post about being an angry atheist. I was taught to think anger was bad. I was taught to place moral value judgments on emotions. And anger like angry atheists have was especially bad, because it was linked with pride.

And you know what? It’s true!! My anger is my pride saying I should never have been treated like this. My anger is my self worth saying I am worth more than this, and not because of my Father, because of me. My anger is my protectiveness for myself and people like me saying The abuse and trauma have gone on too long.

For my ancestors who left their homes and walked on bloody blistered feet for a lie. For the girls in my family tree who were treated like cattle, collected in a herd for their husband. For the people of color denied access to exaltation and eternal families through the priesthood and temple ban, for the queer people who are still denied those things. For boys at BYU who underwent electroshock and induced vomiting “therapy” for the crime of being gay. For every child abused by a bishop or other leader. For every woman who wanted a career and gave it up because she was told her only priority was having and raising children. For every young man who felt pressured to go on a mission or face rejection and soft shunning from his community. For children who were denied baptism because their parents were gay. For everyone who was ever traumatized by a violent and invasive temple ceremony they weren’t warned about ahead of time. For all the people in poverty who faithfully gave their mite even when it was the only money they had. For every non-believing kid who’s sat through self righteous lectures from emotionally abusive parents. For every person who was ever coerced to sit in a closed office with an adult man and confess masturbation or anything else sexual, especially the children who were made to give these “confessions.” For every girl who grew up feeling like her body and sexuality were a dirty and shameful thing because of all the modesty culture and law of chastity lessons. For all the kids who grew up scared by the story of Abraham and Isaac, for all the kids who felt like their faith wasn’t good enough because they knew they couldn’t do what Nephi did to Laban.

I’m angry about historians who were excommunicated for telling the truth. I’m angry about people excusing racist and sexist scriptures. I’m angry about men telling me they’ve read about polygamy and came to terms with it, so I should too. I’m angry about queer people being called enemies of the family and signs of Satan’s increasing power. I’m angry about being manipulated. I’m angry about the abusive relationship I was taught to have with God, how I was told I would never make it without him, that I shouldn’t trust my own understanding but only what God (and his prophets) said, that I should be grateful he gave me this opportunity to have trials, to suffer, because it would turn me into someone better, someone he could accept living with him. I’m even angry for the girls who sadly took out their second pair of earrings based on the whim of an old man.

Yes, I’m angry! Aren’t you? Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it such a relief, such a gasp of fresh air straight into your lungs, to allow yourself to be angry about things you know are wrong?

[malxshrine-a]

Time in a tree by Raleigh Ritchie explains quite literally the crux of what is wrong with 'kuna in concerns to my origins headcanons.

I guess rules are there to break But I make mistakes like they were handed on a plate When I try to leave sometimes, I'm standing in the way I'm on the edge of crying all the time, 'cause I can't human Right

What a state I get wound up, from the ground up And I don't know why Turn the sound up, drown the noise out Swallow (whoa), don't cry Got an anxious heart, and it's stone made Can't take paper or heartbreak

Asa and Naoki have always been troublemakers, Naoki especially. The both of them have been treated like less than humans since they were born. Sold off by a family that thought they were MONSTERS for simply being born as hideous conjoined twins. Naoki has always made mistakes and gotten angry far too easily, too quick to resort to violence, but it’s always served to protect him and his brother.

Do you ever feel like, you could live a real life? Like everybody else in the real world, you could be a real girl? You could be a wizard, or you could be in NASA You could write fiction, you could tame raptors Most days I struggle and I get snappy Fuck all that, I just wanna be happy

Swimming against the current Am I wrong? Can you show me a warrant? Honestly, I'm a bomb Abhorrent I'm on it, I get it, I've got it I wanna be 10 again, just me and Sonic And nobody telling me I should be more than I am Back when I had a plan

Both have always wished to be normal in some form or fashion at some point in their life. There have been times, few and far between, one or both has wished that they could be just two normal people with normal families in their village. Perhaps, their parents may have even loved them. And then, they realize they’d have to separate and that is true pain. The thought that the one closest to you could disappear for any reason at all is fear inducing.

Even before he was turned into Sukuna, each brother has always been living on an edge. Of terror, horror, anger, hate. and so afterwards, Sukuna just hates PEOPLE. so much. they created him and can’t take the abhorrent mess they made. He’s happy being himself, it’s everyone else that’s always had a problem with HIM in any form he’s had no choice but to take ( and wouldn’t change them either way ). 

I've seen things that I never should have seen Said too many things I didn't mean Hurt myself too many times to count I need to let it out, and just release Been lying to myself too long Been trying by myself too long I can't relax, I'm too distracted I can't hack it, hmm

I'm needy, greedy Love me, feed me Let's be a family It'll take a village To make a man of me So why couldn't you love me? It's all I need

They’ve seen horrors no children should ever be subjected to. They’ve had to grow up unprotected and open to adults that would and could have killed them at any moment for anything at all. they’ve had to kill men twice their age before they were even taken by the cult in the first place. Asa and Naoki had to raise themselves in a era that was and never would be kind to children OR special cases like them. He doesn’t think much about harming children, because the world he grew up in taught him that the weak ( especially women and children ) do not make it far at all.

The only way to live is to protect yourself. no one else will do it for you. and even if they should, they will abandon and leave you to your fate if truly pressed into a tight space. The humans want to slaughter each other so bad by the hundreds. Why do they even care if it’s him or a regular man taking whole crowds of people out? the root of the problem very much is: he had all the innocence and love a child could offer in the world and they turned him into a monster. He would return that tenfold. It’s all they deserve. if someone, anyone with even a shred of a conscious had gotten to them first, they might not be so bitter. even if they had been taken, maybe he’d wouldn’t be so bad now.

I just want time in a tree I need a place just for me Somewhere that I can be free Keep the faith and just be What you'll be

[princessmuk]

Didn’t want to derail that last post but I think the treatment of trans men is heavily intertwined with the entire “men are trash” brand of feminism.

Like, yeah, the phrase is supposed to mean the patriarchy is trash. The bad men are trash. Good, feminist men should just understand that the phrase doesn’t apply to them. Oh, but, also, that they need to always keep it in mind and be aware of their privilege. In short, it’s there to remind them that as men, they are inherently bad.

Men are not inherently bad. Women are not inherently good. And as much as TERFs and even good feminists like to pretend men are just unfixable monsters, that does absolutely nothing to help feminism. It doesn’t make men want to do better, it makes them feel like shit and alienates them, AND gives them an excuse to not even attempt to change! It doesn’t help women who have been hurt by men, it just gives them something mean and quippy to say in a attempt to hurt men like they’ve been hurt.

YES, men as a group hold a privilege women do not. YES, the misogynistic society we live in benefits men, no matter if they themselves are misogynists or not. Men SHOULD be aware of their privilege. They SHOULD strive to do better. They SHOULD hold each other accountable, because often times men will only listen to other men.

But “men are trash”? No. Men are beautiful. Men are kind. Men are passionate. Men are devoted. Men are brave. Men are so many things, good and bad, and you can’t lump all men together and just say they’re bad. “Not all men” is stupid, too — YES all men, because all men benefit and all men are a part of the problem if they aren’t directly combating it — but it also speaks to how the feminist movement appears to men. They feel attacked. They feel worthless. And I don’t want to coddle them, we do have valid criticisms we need to air, and it might hurt them to hear it. But I have a major problem when men — cis, trans, whatever — internalize that they are worthless, or bad, or ugly, or unlovable.

I have a problem when trans men are alienated from their own community because they have some sort of privilege. News flash, trans people don’t just pick up the privileges of their gender. Trans men who don’t pass DEFINITELY don’t get male privilege bestowed upon them, and trans men who do can still get attacked, discriminated against, etc. etc. JUST LIKE TRANS WOMEN.

Men: I love you. I love you so much. Your opinions matter. Your experiences matter. Your struggles matter. Your emotions matter. There are times you need to step aside and give the floor to others. There are times you need to listen rather than speak. But you should not be silenced. You should not be painted as a monster just because of your gender. Don’t hate yourself for being a man. A real feminist would tell you that THAT is exactly the opposite of what this movement is trying to achieve.

Love yourself. Love your body. Love your gender. Love your community. Love men, love women, love whoever.

Men are good. Trans men are good.

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Twenty

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: sorry for the wait yall this month really kicked my ass,, but also we reached part 20!!

tw infertility discussion

***

Gwyn: isn’t he beautiful <3

In the freezing February air outside the tea house, Nesta clicks on the picture attached to Gwyn’s text. It’s a distant shot of a man in his mid-thirties hunched over a library desk while working, unaware that there’s a camera on him. She’ll give it to Gwyn, though—he is a little handsome.

Emerie: the stalker levels are through the roof, gwyneth. seek help.

Gwyn: no i’m gonna marry him

Nesta doesn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned, but she types out a brief response before her thumbs fall off from the cold: Will give my opinion on him later. Got to go.

Gwyn’s crush will have to wait, Nesta thinks as she finally puts her phone away and pushes her way inside the exquisite tea house. Immediately, blasting heat thaws her frozen fingers and toes, and farther inside she spots the table she reserved for three. Right now, only one person sits at it.

Nesta grits her teeth and approaches the round table, heels clicking softly on the parquet floors. Elain doesn’t look up from the menu she’s reading. “This place would be nicer to visit in the spring,” is her only acknowledgment of Nesta.

“I like the winter,” Nesta answers simply, taking her seat across from Elain. She likes how the ice creeps over the garden outside until everything looks frozen in time, and she likes how the colorful flowers and trees become dulled by white snow. Not that her sister would understand or care.

“Of course you do,” Elain mutters, setting down the menu with all the careful elegance of a debutante. “I’m only here for Feyre, anyway.”

It almost saddens Nesta that she doesn’t feel hurt or offense at the words. She thought she would care more about Elain’s opinion than she actually does. “Where is Feyre, then?” she says, looking pointedly at the empty seat between them. “I thought she was coming with you.”

“I’m right here,” a breathless voice says, accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps. Feyre appears, looking flushed from exertion and the cold. She sets her bag down and joins them at the table, scooting her seat all the way in. “Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” Nesta bites. “I was just about to order.”

“So was I.” Elain smiles breezily.

Feyre glances between the two of them, clear concern on her face, but she covers it up and says, “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

It was Feyre’s idea, of course. After Nesta told her off for never being interested in what she wanted to do, Feyre actually listened. She asked if Nesta wanted to hang out, and then let Nesta fill in the rest of the details on her own terms.

Which brings them to the tea house. Unfortunately for her sisters, however, Nesta doesn’t really know where to go from ordering tea and biscuits.

“How is school going?” Feyre asks her after their drinks arrive.

Nesta sips from her tea, already bored. “It’s been fifteen minutes and you have yet to say anything of substance, Feyre. It makes me miss being alone with Elain and her mood.”

Feyre looks taken aback, and Elain levels a glare at Nesta. An unsurprised, of course you have to ruin everything like this glare.

So Nesta clarifies, “That wasn’t an attack. I just hoped that after driving out here, I would get something better than shallow small talk.”

“And how do you know it was shallow?” Elain steps in harshly. “How do you know she isn’t actually interested in how you’re doing at school?”

Nesta slides blunt blue eyes to Feyre. “If that’s the case, then I commend you. Personally, I wouldn’t give a shit if I was in your position.”

To her surprise, Feyre snorts. She looks resigned when she says, “No, you’re right. I don’t care about what’s going on at school, not if you don’t. What would you rather we talk about then, Nesta?”

Without hesitation, Nesta says, “Ask me something you really care to hear the answer to.”

Elain shuts her mouth and sits back at that. Feyre twists her lips, thinking her next words over carefully. “How is your therapy going?” she finally asks in a cautious tone. “What do you talk about there?”

Remembering that she’s in a formal setting, Nesta stops herself from crossing her arms. She settles on wrapping her fingers delicately around her teacup instead. “We talk about whatever I feel like talking about,” she answers honestly. Although lately her conversations with Lana feel more restrained than usual.

“And what’s that?” Feyre urges.

Nesta shrugs, fitting apathy onto her face like an old mask. “Recently? Childbearing.” But it isn’t her favorite topic of discussion, not at all.

“You’re pregnant?” Elain jumps in, leading Nesta to throw her an unamused look.

“No, idiot,” she says. “My therapist just has the idea that if I end up being infertile it’ll screw me up, mentally and emotionally and whatever. She thinks I should deal with that baggage now instead of saving it for later.” She rolls her eyes thinking about it. How many times does she have to repeat that she doesn’t care about her body’s reproductive abilities until Lana gets it?

Feyre chuckles, confused. “Why would you be infertile?”

Nesta forgot—she didn’t want her sisters knowing anything that has to do with her health. She even made Cassian keep her doctor visits secret from Feyre. But that was months ago, and the sisters are… not exactly in a better place now, but looking for the way there. Nesta thinks she can tell them without any severe regrets. “I have endometriosis.”

When she’s met with silence, she adds, “You know, with the tissue growing on my ovaries and stuff. It might affect all the babies I don’t care to have in the future.”

Elain is the first to speak. “You always wanted to be a mother.” Her voice is soft, almost mourning. It irritates the hell out of Nesta.

“No, I didn’t,” she snaps back.

“You did,” Elain insists. Feyre still hasn’t said anything. “You took care of our cat, Mittens, until the day she died. You taught Feyre her alphabet. You raised me when Mama and Papa were too busy to do it. You never carried dolls around in strollers or anything, but you loved being a mother.”

“I don’t remember any of this,” Feyre says, blinking. “I’m sorry, can we go back to the endometriosis part?”

Nesta sips from her tea, the bitter taste a welcome distraction from Elain’s words. “What about it?”

“How long have you known?” Feyre demands.

“It isn’t cancer. And I’m getting treated, obviously. I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Nesta sighs, setting her cup down. “October. Cassian made me go to the doctor because he was worried about my periods, we had a big fight about health insurance, and now I use my salary from your boyfriend to afford medication so I don’t feel like dying every month. Is that everything you wanted to hear?”

Feyre only stares at her, for once revealing no emotion. “I keep forgetting,” she says finally, “that we’re not at a place to share things like that with each other. I keep being surprised every time I realize how much of your life you keep from us.”

“I don’t,” Elain huffs under her breath while she tears a croissant in half.

Nesta is still watching Feyre. “You remember how bad my cycles were? I would cry loud enough at night to wake the house.”

Feyre flinches at the memory, and Elain goes still.

“But no one ever woke up,” Nesta says. They never talked about it before, and she has no desire to keep speaking about it now. If they start to tally all the hurts they’ve dealt to each other, Nesta fears they’ll be here for hours. Worse, she fears she will lose.

She reaches for a lavender macaron and delicately pulls it apart, studying the cream filling inside. “Did you know they make these using the lavender flowers from the garden outside?”

“I hate lavender,” Elain says.

Spying her chance to shift the subject off herself, Nesta goes for it. “Because Azriel smells like lavender?” She pushes one half of the dainty cookie past her lips, chewing. “It’s an interesting cologne choice, I agree.”

“Wait, what are we talking about now?” Feyre looks around, unaware that they’ve moved onto another topic.

Elain’s innocent brown eyes turn into daggers pointed at Nesta, betrayal written across her face. Nesta feels no pity for her—especially not if they’re going to sit around judging each other for keeping secrets.

Feyre’s eyes widen and she turns to Elain. “Is it about your,” she lowers her voice and whispers, “crush?”

Nesta raises a skeptical brow. She doubts whatever Az and Elain have stops at just a crush.

“No, it’s not,” Elain answers determinedly. “God, do you have to bring men into everything, Nesta?”

“I think you’re projecting.”

“Quit it,” Feyre snaps at the both of them. “Or I’ll grab my things and leave.”

Do it, Nesta almost dares. But she has a feeling that Feyre means it, that she won’t submit to being taunted, so Nesta reins the words back from the tip of her tongue. After all, this tea is expensive.

The sisters take a moment to settle, and Feyre is the one to restart the conversation. “Either way,” she tells Nesta, “it looks like counseling is going really well for you. I’m glad.”

“Yeah, it really gives your skin a certain glow,” Elain drawls.

Nesta doesn’t rise to meet her sarcasm. In all seriousness, Elain and Feyre could probably use a therapist themselves. It might make Nesta’s interactions with them less headache-inducing.

“You should visit one day,” she throws the suggestion out without thinking.

“What, like a therapy session?” Feyre says.

Realizing the implications of her terrible idea, Nesta forces herself not to backpedal. “Yes,” she makes herself grit out. “If you’re interested, that is.”

Elain and Feyre share a glance of hesitation and concern. It’s a glance that grates on Nesta’s nerves, but she keeps her mouth shut and waits for a response.

Feyre answers first: “We’ll do it.”

Elain looks more doubtful, but seems to realize that refusing to go would paint her in a negative light. We can’t have that, can we? Nesta thinks wryly. She reaches for some macarons and starts stuffing them into her purse. “Sounds good. Great.” It is not at all great. Having her sisters in the same room as her and Lana might just be terrible enough to ruin Nesta’s next month or two.

“I’ll text you the details whenever I feel like it,” she tells Feyre and Elain as she rises out of her seat. Likely not for as long as possible.

“Where are you going?” Elain demands.

“I’m leaving.” Nesta pointedly drapes her coat over her shoulders, picking up her purse. “I have plans for the rest of the day, sorry.” Plans to get home and rate Gwyn’s work crush on a scale of one to ten. Maybe she’ll rewatch a sitcom if she has time.

“But it’s only been an hour,” Feyre protests.

Did Feyre think they would be spending the whole day together? Nesta wants to shudder at the mere idea of it, but she somehow… feels bad for her sister. “Maybe another time,” she promises vaguely. To provide some sort of reassurance, she adds, “I had fun today. Thanks for pulling this together.” The words are hollow, fake, and she’s probably a hypocrite for not being able to return the same sincerity she demanded from Feyre. But honesty isn’t going to get Nesta very far today, so this false politeness is the best she can manage.

Elain looks somewhat relieved, and Feyre looks disappointed but unsurprised. “Alright.” The girls nod at her. “Get home safe.”

She turns and leaves as soon as she’s given the green light.

A stale scent greets Nesta when she enters her apartment, reminding her that she hasn’t been around in days. In her defense, the winter months are easier to bear in Cassian’s heated cabin than in a poorly insulated basement.

Flicking the lights on, Nesta books it to the thermostat, her teeth nearly chattering out of her body. After turning the heat as high as it can go, she climbs beneath the covers of her bed without bothering to take her coat off. She doesn’t take out her phone to text the groupchat like she promised she would. She doesn’t even get her laptop to turn Netflix on. Rather, her focus is caught on the framed picture of her and Cassian sitting atop the dresser.

Everything was okay as she stepped out of the tea house. It wasn’t until she was inside her car that it came upon her: the whirlwind of emotions that had stayed so carefully hidden while she chatted with her sisters. All throughout the drive home, her mind kept returning to that one topic. Children.

Elain said that Nesta used to genuinely enjoy playing substitute mother when they were children, and she was right. But that was all fun and games, like playing teacher. What Elain left out was what happened after their actual mother died and their father went into debt, leaving all three girls in need of a parent figure. Nesta wasn’t a mother then—or at least, not a good one.

Now, she stares at the picture full of smiley cheeks and windblown hair, remembering the night that she realized she wanted to hold Cassian’s hand in hers.

She can’t imagine Cassian not wanting kids. They’ve never discussed it, but it’s so obvious to anyone who’s ever met him: he has too much love to give away to not one day end up with a whole brood of children. The thought makes Nesta’s stomach churn.

***

“Thanks again, guys.” Cassian shakes hands with his team as they file out of the conference room, all of them dressed professionally while he lingers in his hoodie. As soon as the last worker is out the door, he pulls out his phone, ready to shoot Nesta a message. She met up with her sisters alone today for the first time in a year, and he can’t wait any longer to find out if their brunch ended in a fight or not.

He clicks on his phone to find two texts from his brother, sent not too long ago.

Rhys: You’re in the office today for the monthly check-in, right?

Rhys: Don’t leave after the meeting is over. I’ll be there in an hour to introduce you to the new guy heading the Milan project.

Cassian frowns, confused. Rhys and the new guy are coming all the way up here to meet him? He didn’t know he was that important to the project.

While he waits for his unexpected guests, Cassian texts Nesta twice, and only receives a single short response saying she got home safe. Resolving to call and have a real conversation with her later, he gets up to change into the spare buttondown and pressed slacks he keeps in a locker in his office. If Rhys wants him to play the part of company boss, then he might as well look the part.

He’s adjusting the cuffs of his dark-colored shirt when the door to his office opens without warning, and Rhysand strides in followed by a stiff-looking young man.

Cassian eyes the stranger up and down first, trying to get a read on him the way he’s seen Nesta and Rhys read others. He doesn’t come up with a single thing, as usual, but he hopes he achieved his goal of looking intimidating.

“Cass,” Rhys greets him with a subdued nod, in full CEO mode. “This is our new hire, Keith O’Connell. I snagged him from right under Vanserra & Co.’s noses.” His near-violet eyes gleam with pride. “He’s going to be working out of Milan for us starting this summer.”

“Sounds good to me.” Cassian smiles lazily, and this is something he doesn’t need to fake—confidence. He reaches out to shake Keith’s hand. “Hi. I’m Cassian Madani.”

“Good to meet you.” The other man shakes back, but his grip is too tight, like he’s trying to break Cassian’s hand. Try-hard, a voice that sounds like Nesta tells him. Uses arrogance to cover up his insecurity.

Cassian takes it all into account as he pulls his hand away, seeing Keith through clearer eyes. His dark brown hair is slicked back with copious amounts of hair product, and a shrewd black gaze takes in every detail of the office. He stands like he’s attempting to seem taller than he actually is.

A typical white-collar worker looking for a way up the corporate ladder, Cassian concludes. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, but there must be a reason Rhys is so excited about him.

“Keith is starting here at your branch next week,” Rhys is saying when Cassian refocuses.

He blinks, unsure if he heard correctly. “What, all the way out here?” Away from Velaris in this modest mountain town?

“We agreed it was best if you two work together as closely as possible while preparing for the summer launch. Since you can’t come to Velaris, that means Keith comes here.”

Cassian looks at Rhys in astonishment. He thought that once he rejected the Milan position, he’d cleaned his hands of the job for good. Clearly he was wrong. “Just how involved am I going to be on this project?”

Rhys grins back at him. “You’ll lead from home base, of course.”

Cassian glares. Rhys responds with a look that says they’ll talk about this later.

Keith seems to find the idea of working alongside another person as distasteful as Cassian finds it unexpected, but he says anyway, “I can’t wait to start working together. I have a lot of ideas for the Italian outpost that I think you’ll appreciate.”

“I’m sure I will,” Cassian hums. “When do you start again?”

“Next Monday.”

“Then we should talk then.” Cassian gestures out the door. Keith looks taken aback, likely having expected more out of this meeting. But Cassian can’t meet with this guy until he gets a hold of what the fuck is going on. After shepherding Keith out of the office and shutting the door after him, he turns to Rhys with a raised brow.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Rhys warns. “Your role in this project is serious.”

“This project isn’t even part of my job description. What am I supposed to know about international business conductions?”

“You know enough to keep an eye on that O’Connell kid for me.” Rhys leans against Cassian’s desk as if it’s his own and crosses his feet. “He’s an asset to the company, but he also worked for our competitors up to a couple of months ago. I can’t trust him to manage this thing on his own, and I don’t have the time or resources right now to watch over him myself. That’s why the duty falls to you.”

“I manage security,” Cassian states, in case it wasn’t obvious. “What about Az?”

“Az has his own things to handle.” Rhys waves him off. “Just do what I tell you to, will you? Pay attention to O’Connell for the duration of the Italy venture and make sure he doesn’t steer our ship off course. You’ll get paid triple for the extra hours.”

“I don’t need triple,” Cassian grumbles, but Rhys is no longer listening. He’s typing on his phone and already heading for the door.

“Feyre and I are having dinner here before heading back home,” he calls over his shoulder. “See you later; I believe in you!” The door shuts after him, leaving Cassian alone.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies to the empty room.

Cassian leaves not long after Rhysand does, having no excuse to linger. Outside, he’s greeted with a surprise leaning against the hood of his truck.

Nesta pushes off the hood as soon as he catches notice of her. “Long day?” she asks.

He laughs for the first time all afternoon, the sound surprised and genuine. “I was just thinking about you.”

“That’s why I’m here. I heard your thoughts.” There’s a light in her pale eyes that only burns whenever she looks at him. It’s the same light that powers her ability to make jokes and let her guard down around him in a way she can’t with most others, and Cassian is especially grateful for it today.

Nesta reaches out and takes his hand into hers. He watches the way their palms fit together in endless fascination, his brown fingers a stark contrast against her white ones. He squeezes once and looks back up at her. “How did meeting your sisters go? You never told me.”

The light flickers so briefly Cassian wonders if it’s a trick of his eyes. But then Nesta is there again, at full brightness. She squeezes his hand back. “Take me home. I’ll tell you all about it.”

***

a/n: i love writing stuff related to cassian’s job i’ll just be throwing random words in there and calling it business jargon

tagging: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @frosted-crackers @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog

[aggravatetheaxe]

Can I have some Nick x bo thoughts? 🥺🥺 I’m intrigued

Okay I decided to just throw spaghetti for this one, so it's in the form of a chaotic bullet point list

STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS THOUGHTS ABOUT NICK/BO:

i feel like there'd be little to no chance of him living without carly also being alive; if anyone was going to appeal to bo's little shreds of humanity - his sense of family - it would be a girl begging for her twin brother's life

also i just like carly so what would be the point if she wasn't there?

it would have to be rather earlier in the movie. like, there is no going back from the point they're at in the final battle, you know? no amount of begging would assuage bo and vincent from murdering them at that point

on the other hand, seeing how resilient carly and nick are is a big turning point in the movie. it's super important for not just the viewers but all the characters to see how well they work in tandem. i wouldn't want to take that away from them

so maybe the best of both worlds would be if carly and nick decided to turn the tables on the boys after they shoot bo and he passes out in the theater?

like what if when he passed out, they tied him up and used him to lure vincent, and there was some kind of tense bargaining situation?

or, ooh ooh ooh, what if: so bo has carly down in his dungeon and nick can't get her out, so instead he captures one of the sinclair brothers and that's the trade off? carly's life for bo's or whatever?

then carly and nick aren't in a position where they can leave ambrose, but the brothers aren't necessarily in a position to kill them either

idk neither of those are perfect scenarios, but suspend disbelief with me

this would be Slow Burn. HELLA Slow Burn enemies to lovers. which i love, so

bo would hate nick on principle because he's the one bastard they couldn't take down, and he's just some fucking guy from florida. plus he's a cocky asshole who has a problem with authority, and though bo kens that, it also drives him FUCKING INSANE when he is the authority figure

nick would hate bo because, well, it's obvious: bo killed some of his closest friends, including dalton, who nick may or may not have had romantic tension with; and wade, his sister's boyfriend. to say nothing of the fact that bo hunted, kidnapped, and tied up his sister with the intention of torturing her later

who would break first? i think bo would. bo's hatred of nick is the principle of the thing, an almost puerile anger that he was outsmarted; nick's hatred of bo is deeply personal

but! that would give bo some time to come to terms with being bisexual. nick doesn't need as much time to come to terms with that, so by the time they hooked up, they'd be on more or less the same page with everything

would it start out as hate sex? almost certainly. they're both so fucking frustrated they feel this way. it might even happen on accident tbh

bo would be completely oblivious to the fact that nick was kind of with dalton/had romantic tension with him. nick would have to be like "??? dude. that was basically my boyfriend what the fuck"

does bo feel remorse for killing people? no, not usually. does he eventually come to feel remorse for killing these particular people? well... yes and no. if he hadn't, he'd never have met nick. but it's a real pain in the ass for your boyfriend and his sister to hate you for killing all their friends, when someone else's friends woulda done just as well

god they butt heads so much. they're both have an extreme aversion to authority, though i would argue nick's is a little more combative. nick doesn't care what punishment he gets - he sees himself as above punishment, uncontrollable - while bo has been taught to fear punishment and has a strong sense of "respect." it is possible to make bo bend under your authority; i don't think it's possible to do it to nick, at least not in the same way

Florida Man. that's all i have to say on that

despite butting heads though, they also have a hell of a lot in common. they were both considered the "evil twin" at ages when they literally couldn't help themselves and needed help, love, and compassion. now they've grown to be men who genuinely do bad things because of the preconceived notions and perceptions of others

the difference between them, though, is that bo comes off as a nice guy but he's actually a MONSTER. nick comes off as a huge creep and a punk, he does shitty things to make himself seem hard and cool, but inside he's a good person. they're foils of each other and that's always sexy

their foil is all about redemption and presentation vs action but maybe i'm projecting

they are foils though so they have some core things in common: strong love for their family, specifically their respective twins; dedication and steadfastness; perseverance in the face of death; quick wit and cleverness, fast thinking; finally, a tendency to say mean things that they either regret later or don't actually mean, in an attempt to protect themselves from being vulnerable

i don't know if these two would ever be truly happy with one another - it would be a tumultuous relationship for sure - but they would understand each other in a lot of ways

and most importantly? bo might realize that, after everything he went through in his life, he made the choice to be a serial killer and torturer. things could have been different

whether or not anything would actually change, i'm not sure, but he MIGHT realize how deep a hole he truly dug himself

but he's too far in now, nothing to do about it, ya know?

if more people came through ambrose, nick and carly would be right there trying to help them escape. come hell or high water, no matter the consequences, they would try to help, even if they could never truly escape themselves

nick would bargain, beg, and steal to earn carly the right to go see their parents (or any other privilege). she should be allowed to be free even if he's not. he's very self sacrificing

okay so that was very chaotic but i hope you enjoyed some of my Thoughts!

[pennyserenade]

TINY DANCER 

tags: javier peña x female oc, javier peña, rockstar!au, fluff  rating: t ( teen ) (for now) warnings: language, alcohol  word count: 1.6k+ summary: a band of young men from laredo, texas are on the verge of rock’n’roll stardom and anita rodríguez is the woman who follows them into it. a story of rock’n’roll and all the fluff that follows notes: this is very self indulgent and heavily inspired by the movie almost famous, as well as whatever fleetwood mac had going on, and the book daisy jones & the six. as you can tell, this is a genre of fiction i favor heavily, and i’m more than happy to make this everyone’s problem. thank you for baring with me

Summer time has never tasted so sweet on the tongues of these impassioned young men from Laredo, Texas, she bets. Perspiration covers their foreheads as they stand under the much too bright colored lights, and the crowd before them cheers them on with an eagerness that belongs only to those who really loved music. And they respond like men who really love music—all smiles and grins and heavy panting from giving their young bodies away to it. One might even say their souls.

Even from behind the curtain, she can feel the wave of electricity that rolls off of them. It is a beautiful thing to hear after suffering under the heavy blanket of Texas heat for her own performance.

They had liked her alright, responded about as warmly as they could for an opening act they hadn’t really known, but they turn these young men into Gods. She feels it tight in her stomach, that everlasting and endless excitement reserved for falling in love, not with people, but with moments. Even if it’s all for not, this little musical and spiritual journey she has partaken on, she will at least have been there for the moment these men had exhaled themselves into true and complete stardom.

Not bad for a band called El Fuego, she thinks.

“My God they’re something, aren’t they, Anita?”

Her sister holds aside the curtain to make room for herself. “The one in the really tight jeans was talking to me during your performance. He’s beautiful, I swear it. Just godly.”

Anita smiles. “You can’t fall in love with rockstars, baby sister, it’s unethical and impractical. Have your years with me taught you nothing?”

“Yeah, but those rockstars were a dime of dozen and tight jeans looks like sex out there,” she whines. Anita scans over the men, trying to decipher whom she might mean. That’s when she catches Tight Jeans’ eyes. She gives him a grin and without missing a beat, he gives her a charming wink. A wink reserved for a man on top of the world.

“What’s his name?” Anita asks.

“Javier Peña,” she responds. “He’s just gorgeous isn’t he? They all are.”

All Anita can do is grin as she continues to watch the rest of their performance.

****

This isn’t her first rodeo. This isn’t even her second or third or fourth. In fact, she’s lost track of the times she’s been led back to hotel rooms with a slew of people she doesn’t know, swept dangerously up in the shared euphoria that is the after show comedown.

In her hand she holds her second drink of the night. It’s a concoction she’d mixed for herself, made up of too much juice and too much alcohol, but she deserves it, she reckons. She’s opened for a damn good band and she’s a pretty damn good singer most of the time, and that Javier guy has been looking at her all night, despite the group of women that surround him. He has a good way of being present with them and present with her, too, genuine grins and attention for all to spare. Like the charming and humble lead guitarist he is, he strums idly at an acoustic guitar while he speaks with the women.

She’s been standing in the same place for too long, drinking the same second drink, listening to the beginning of songs he starts before he falters off into the next one. Even over the light hum of chatter and the radio nearby, she can focus on him. She watches his fingers as they strum—watches the way he doesn’t need to look down at them to keep them steady and trained. He’s a professional musician, through and through, even if he may just be some guy from Laredo to most individuals in the world. His manager had been so brave to wager that they were going to hit nationwide success by next week when one of their songs got radio air. She asked if she could keep opening for them, when they got big. All he did was grin. She likes to think it’s a yes.

“Hello.”

Coming back to earth, Anita finds Tight Pants in front of her. Not starling close, but enough to elicit something ghastly in her.

He smells of leather and good cigarettes, and her baby sister was right, he does look like sex. He’s all lean muscle, and though the perspiration has gone from his forehead, she bets if he were to lean in close and press his lips to hers, she might be tempted to taste the residue of it in what would become haste and passionate kissing.

“Hello,” she responds.

“I’m Javi, from Laredo.”

He extends his rather large hand for her to take, and she does. She wonders if this is the approach he uses with a lot of women. He’s good looking enough to be dangerous, but then again, she’s smart enough to understand where the line between fun and serious ends and begins with these men. She’s a rockstar too, privy to sex and drugs just like the lot of them, even if she is just a one man band.

She puts her hand in his and he gives her a firm shake. “Anita,” she says, then inspired by the liquid courage in her, she adds, “From somewhere warm, but hopefully headed some place better.”

He gives her a laugh and she finds that unfortunately, it’s the sort that makes one’s own lips tug upwards.

“You sounded good tonight. Did you write that song?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “You sounded good too. I mean, you probably know that already, but.” She smiles. “Who writes for you?”

“Graham.”

“Graham’s the...”

“Lead singer. Dirty blonde over there talking to your—“ He looks at her. “Sister?”

She nods. “Yeah. She said she had talked to you earlier.”

“Yeah. We talked about your someplace warm. California, is it?”

“Cali indeed.”

“I’ve never been.”

“Well, Javi, I’m sure you’re about to.”

His dimple appears for her. He looks at her like she wishes he wouldn’t, because it makes her badly want to stick to his side for the rest of the night. And on his lips.

Even more unfortunate for her, he rummages in his pockets and pulls out a packet of those good cigarettes that make up his aroma. He opens it and takes one out for himself, sticking it between his lips, before offering her one.

“You smoke?”

She takes one. “Sometimes,” she nods. “Are we allowed to, in here?”

Javi shrugs his shoulders as he lights his. “Dunno,” he responds. She leans forward so he can light hers too. “Suppose we should go sit on the balcony on the off chance that this is the one hotel in America that doesn’t allow it?”

****

“You know Me and Bobby McGee, Laredo?” she nods down to his guitar.

The air outside is just cool enough to be comfortable in, so, despite that their cigarettes have long been stamped out and the party inside awaits them, they stay on the patio, rooted to the furniture. He hasn’t made any moves on her, a fact which takes her by surprise, and so they’ve lulled into a comfortable ebb and flow of natural conversation.

He tweaks his fingers on the neck of the guitar before he begins to strum the strings of it . His hair, overgrown in a way that suits a man of his occupation, cascades over his forehead as his brow becomes pinched from focus. In an instant, from his fingers comes the tune of her desire. He looks up at her, grinning, once he gets into the flow of it.

“¿Hablas español?” he asks, over his guitar.

“Un poquito, but not much,” she tells him. “Why?”

“No reason,” he dismisses, “Can you sing Me and Bobby McGee?”

“Sí.”

He laughs. “Well, put on a show then.”

***

She sobers up halfway between the sun tucking itself into the sky and the sun peeking back out from the horizon, but she can’t remember when. They’d played a lot of songs and her throat feels hoarse, but she can’t recall any one song that had felt particularly clear. It all sort of blended together up until this moment.

Javi lays, back rested against the chair, looking tired. His guitar now rests beside him, quiet, and he stares out at the city below them.

There’s a soft hum of normal people doing normal things below them; the horn of an eager taxi driver, the breaks of a bus, the chatter of patrons going in and out of the hotel.

They sit in the comfort of this city’s morning routine while she smokes his last good cigarette. “I was never much for staying up all night,” she tells him, passing it over to him.

He takes it between his lips and nods. “I was never much for sleeping all night.”

“And why’s that?”

He shrugs, exhaling the smoke. “Don’t know. Sometimes the past haunts me, sometimes it’s just too fuckin’ hot, sometimes it’s the company.”

“Mm,” she hums. “I must admit, I didn't peg you as the get-to-know-me-in-the-early-morning type. Thought you’d be content just charming me with your guitar for the rest of eternity.”

“Well,” he passes the cigarette back to her, pushing his digits against her own in the process. “I’m not, really, but we’ve talked about our favorite songs all night and you’re our opener for the rest of this tour, so why not?”

She takes a drag off the cigarette. “I’m not the opener for the rest of the tour.”

“No?” he asks.

“No,” she shakes her head. “This was a favor, I think. A very kind one.”

He looks out in front of him, falling into silence. Thinking.  Then he says, “I think I’m in the position to call in some favors right now if you’d liked to be. The opener, I mean.”

She lets the smoke out from the side of her mouth, which has risen up into a wide grin. “Javier from Laredo, I think I could kiss you right now.”

He takes the cigarette back from her fingers, offering her his own grin. “I think I’d like that,” Javi says, tone soft. Genuine.

She swings her legs over the side of her lawn chair, and holds herself up just far enough to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. He turns though, not entirely on purpose, she thinks, and their noses brush against one another. She rises from her seat when he leans down and fills the space between them, resting against his own chair as his lips move against her own.

No tongue, though. He pulls back after a few seconds, brown eyes full of warmth. She’s surprised by the amount of control he has over himself. Surprised that he wants to use it, too.

“I better go check on my sister,” she breathes out, resting her hand over his chest.

“Okay,” he nods. “I’ll see you in the next city, Anita.”

“Yeah,” she smiles.

“Look for me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she promises.

She likes this man and his tight jeans, she’s decided. Likes him a lot.

EVERYTHING : @astroboots , @frannyzooey , @wyn-n-tonic , @rosiefridayrogersunday , @melaniermblt , @theorganasolo​ , @amneris21​ , @honestly-shite , @over300books , @elegantduckturtle, @pbeatriz , @pretty-brown-eyess , @brcwneyes  ,  @chronic-nosebleed

JAVI :  @wyn-n-tonic , @rosiefridayrogersunday , @disgruntledspacedad , @melaniermblt , @walt-breslin , @theorganasolo , @amneris21 , @hb8301 , @penajavier , @darnitdraco , @over300books , @dobbyjen , @paperbag33 , @rebel-fanfare , @p3dr0pasca1lov3r247

TINY DANCER : @itssmashedavo (just because i thought this might interest you)

[qqueenofhades]

Hey, I loved your post about queerness in historical fiction. I was wondering if you could help me find a better way to explain (or know of someone who could) to the white (usually male) fans of Tolkien who are currently losing their minds because in the series for Amazon they have cast Sir Lenny Henry (a black man) as a hobbit. It feels like the exact same argument that was dealt with when Anya Chalotra was cast as Yennefer for The Witcher. It just seems like only white people are screaming that the entire cast must be white in both the case of the Witcher and Middle Earth in order to be "historically accurate to the Dark Ages" when it's all fantasy. I'm a white person and I don't get it. It's really frustrating that the only way to convince them that people of color should be allowed to play characters who aren't evil-doers is to bring up the existence of the potato in both Middle Earth and The Witcher. In this most recent fight, I've been called all kinds of names (one dude keeps saying I'm racist when I haven't brought up race or anything like that) and it's ridiculous because Henry was cast as a Harfoot who were hobbits with dark skin that they claim means Mediterranean not Black.

Ooof. I admire your initiative, I really do, but also: there comes a point where all good-faith efforts are totally futile, because these people don't actually WANT their beliefs challenged, and there won't be anything you can do about it except to exhaust yourself. You can throw all the material or documentary evidence at them that you want, but it won't work, because racism, white superiority, and the assumption of a monolithically white medieval history are a helluva drug. They are eager to split ridiculous hairs like "dark skin means Mediterranean instead of black" because, well, racism, whether or not they want to acknowledge that. Because Mediterranean is at least European, whereas for them, Black is Bad, Inferior, or otherwise Unacceptable. This doesn't even get into the types who want to claim that Ancient Rome (which was rather notably, y'know, Mediterranean and North African) was actually lily-white, because even dark-skinned Southern and Eastern Europeans can't ultimately make the racist cut.

Tolkien himself obviously had problems with his depiction of race and racialized people (witness the Haradrim, "men from the South," being the only people of colour in the story and generalized as an indiscriminate evil force fighting for Sauron against the white/Northern European heroes). That's not to say Tolkien was actively racist (see: the letter he wrote to the Nazi German would-be publishers of The Hobbit, inviting them cordially to get fucked), but it does mean that he was steeped in the usual assumptions and expectations of a white upper-class British man in the 1920s and 1930s, and not least the mindset that the (white) rulers of the (nonwhite) British Empire were superior, morally correct, and the privileged resisters of "evil" political systems. (This isn't even getting into how Germany was admired throughout the long 19th century for its perceived cultural and social superiority, the American eugenics movement directly influenced the Nazis, a lot of people thought that Hitler's only mistake was being too obviously crazy, and America and Britain only actively entered World War II when their territory/perceived global power was infringed upon.)

White people tend to assume that if they personally don't hold discriminatory attitudes (and they usually do, just because that's what society has taught them for almost all of modern history), they can't be racist, and it's a personal insult to call them that. They know that Racism Is Bad, but likewise, it's always someone else's fault, not theirs. See the huge brouhaha over the supposed plan to teach "critical race theory" in American public schools, which is really just acknowledging that centuries of racism and discrimination have created a system that disadvantages people of color at every level. This is absolute heresy for today's right wing (which has become ever more extreme, reactionary, and historically amnesiac) to admit. They can admit historical racism, sometimes, maybe, only in demonstrably "bad" people, but as far as they're concerned, there was no lingering effect whatsoever, and it's "un-American" (read: anti-white supremacist) to insist otherwise. Land of the free! Everyone treated the same! Etc. etc. The continued inferior or disadvantaged life outcomes of people of color is, according to these types, simply a result of them not being motivated/ambitious/smart enough to fix their own broken circumstances. Those centuries of genocide, cultural destruction, use as literal chattel slaves, etc, has nothing to do with it.

If this sounds ridiculous: well, obviously, it is. But as reactionary mindsets have become troublingly normalized and social media has allowed people to spread both passively and actively racist content to unprecedented degrees, it has also leaked into media. The type of white-man-fan you're arguing with won't accept any "historically accurate" argument for the inclusion of non-white people, even as they're staking their own (bad) arguments on that hill. This is because they want to claim the sole privilege to create a nostalgic/imagined/fantasy space that looks just like them. Their underlying belief is that people of color never had any power or consequential role in history, and shouldn't have, so they don't want to see a space, even an explicitly fantastic/non-historical setting (like LOTR, The Witcher, GOT, etc.), where this is the case. Whether or not they want to say it, or even if they're aware of it, they feel that even if they've been unhappily forced to accept a small lessening of their cultural power just because we no longer automatically accept that white men get to run everything, they at least can take comfort in a (white) past. And now, or so they think, the "politically correct" types also want to ruin their racist fantasy comfort zone. They can't even escape from multiculturalism in media, as it too has become steadily more diverse.

Basically: it's racism, Jan. It's many levels of racism, you can't argue those people out of it, and you have to identify and understand that, especially since their favorite diversionary tactic will be the schoolyard maneuver of going, "no, YOU'RE the racist!!!"

(Also: "historically accurate to the Dark Ages" should tell you everything you need to know. These people know absolutely nothing about history, but that won't prevent them from weaponising it in defense of the perceived threat to their cultural and racial domination. Besides, yet again, fantasy universes have no claim to historical accuracy, and if you say that, I assume you just want to feel justified in creating a fictional universe where the only powerful/consequential people are white heterosexual western European-coded men, because you not-so-secretly wish it was still that way in reality.)

[growup-thatbeautiful]

drive is out now!! It’s a Post Season Harringrove Hurt/Comfort and I’m pretty proud of it. Read it on ao3 here or below the cut. Likes and comments are very very much appreciated :))

Billy doesn’t drive after starcourt. Something about being behind the wheel makes him sick with memories that he can’t understand. They’re abstract and totally unreliable.

But it’s kind of always been like that for him. He's used to having gaps in his memories, except most of the time it’s because of trauma. Or that’s what Joyce tells him and the rest of them whenever they have nightmares about things they don’t remember happening.

He's been living with the Byers and El. He tries to be useful around the house, doing whatever he can because he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s hard, though. It seems like everything he does, he does wrong. He never had to learn how to fold sheets or clean dishes. Not only was neil hargrove terribly homophobic, but also misogynistic, which is a word joyce taught him because she teaches all her kids that stuff. And he’s one of her kids now. So, yeah. Neil never had Billy do the chores because “he’s not a true man, but he sure as shit isn’t a woman.”

It's alarming how quickly this odd family replaces his old one. Neil seems miles away. Neil doesn’t try to look for Billy, and that’s fine as far as Billy's concerned. He's got scars to cover up the ones Neil made. no need to dwell on that when he has so much other trauma to process., right? Kind of.

He does check up on max. Asks her if neils pulling any of the shit he used to get from his dad. double checks for bruises hidden under makeup or long sleeves, and never finds any. Good.

Joyce is good. great, even. She doesn’t blame him when he breaks a dish because he heard a noise. She listens when he says he needs some alone time, and she knows when he’s just saying that. She gives good hugs and has no problem giving him Jonathan's old room to stay in while he’s off at college. leaving Hawkins behind him, calling every night anxiously awaiting the return of It. Nothing happens, and eventually they relax. Or they try to. That part of billy’s been broken for a long time, though.

So Joyce starts fading into memories of his mom, and he tries not to blame her.

Again. He's never had a great memory anyway. He does remember his mom telling him that boys don’t marry other boys when he was five and told her he wanted to marry his best friend. Then she told him never to tell his dad. It's strange, because he can’t remember her saying that she loved him, even though he’s sure she did. Did she? Huh.

At least the painful memories he gets to keep. Neil beating’s. Beating up on Harrington that night he didn’t know what was going on. The car crash before his mind was taken from him. Max’s terrible scream of “Billy” mixed in with the ear-ringing pain. Waking up in a hospital with starburst scars across his body. Skin that isn’t his. They remind him not to get to comfortable, remind him that the kindness he’s being shown isn’t well earned.

Because Billy knows he wasn’t worth those hospital bills and sleepless nights. All he’s done to the people here is hurt and scar and he’s seen them with the deepest kind of fear in their eyes. Fear because of him.

Everytime he goes down a path like this, he tries to stay clear of everyone. Because. They all tried to hide how much hurt he’s caused. They don’t blame him like they should.

He didn’t know any of them well before. But he knows El didn’t always carry around that police badge or look up at every siren, praying for a familiar face only to be disappointed and try not to show it. Because if Billy survived, couldn’t the more-deserving Hopper? Apparently not.

He knows Joyce didn’t always search for Will in every setting and have those folded up pictures of the two men that died because of all the shitty things that happened. Because she can’t stand to forget their faces or not carry that burden for just a second.

Will didn’t always get quiet every time a draft went through the room or refuse to go out that front door first. Because so many things have been ruined for him.

The rest of the kids didn’t always jump at every noise or bunch together for every corner, carrying lucky momentous and items. Because God forbid they have a break.

He doesn’t see them a lot, but Nancy and Jonathan definitely didn’t carry around an emergency kit everywhere they went, packed with medical supplies and Nancy’s choice gun. Because they’re going to be there to help if anything tries to take another person they loves away.

Some part of Billy reasons that it’s not all his fault. He wasn’t one of those scientists or government agents that started the whole thing.

But he did enough. Enough to warrant all the shit that he’s going through. It’s not the healthiest way of thinking, he’s aware of that, but it helps him get by.

No matter how hard he tries, though, there’s always someone at the house that finds him. Curled up into a ball, dry hitching sobs and no tears because “Hargrove men don’t cry.” Billy gets damn close sometimes, but the fear that Neil’s going to come out from the cracks in the wall and kick him where he lays is too real.

There are usually soft words.

“We don’t blame your here, honey. That wasn’t you, that did all that stuff. And I’m not going to let anything else bad happen to the people under this roof.” Joyce’s strong and sure voice, only breaking at the edges.

“I know what it’s like to have him control you like that. I know better than anyone else, and I know how scary it is. Mom says it’s over now, though, and I can’t feel It anymore. I would tell you first if It came back.” Will never says anything more than that, which is comforting in itself. It’s nice to have someone else.

“They lost. You’re here. I’m here. Will’s here. It is safe.” El’s statement is simple, but she makes it easy to believe.

He believes them until he gets another new memory of what he did. The Mayors blood on the floor. Heather’s petrified screams. Standing before that thing and feeling nothing but a perverse sense of but awe and, buried beneath that, a screaming sense of horror and the constant feeling of slipping in the sand.

There are times, like right now, when he doesn’t want someone to make him feel better. He wants someone who can drive him away from here and sit in an empty parking lot and smoke away the thoughts. Someone like Steve.

He would do it himself. He would. But he can’t. Can’t get over that fucking gas pedal. So he calls Steve.

They’ve done this enough times for it to make sense for Billy to have Steve’s number memorized. And his work schedule. And to know when he with Dustin or Robin or any of the others on one of those group outings Billy can’t bring himself to go to. There are too many sad faces, too many broken homes.

It doesn’t matter what he wears. It’s just Steve, and they’ve gotten past the point of caring about things like that.

Which. Is obvious to anyone who looks at Billy, not that he sees anyone. He’s lost a lot of weight. Muscles that used to be defined are gone, replaced by scars. He can’t get them back yet, because he’s not strong enough to lift any of them. And because muscles like that can hurt and hit. His eyes are surrounded by heavy bags, bloodshot and tired. The new callouses on his hands are mostly scars from anxiety ridden breakages, and the pained nails are because El wanted to try the new dark blue out. His hair is greasy and flat, nowhere near what it used to be. It hangs around his shoulders in curled waves, so far from where he used to be.

He doesn’t even try to smile to the sad reflection in the mirror.

Steve doesn’t honk when he arrives. The first time he did that and the noise sent Billy spiraling, and Steve had felt terrible, cussing up a storm that actually helped Billy out of it. Luckily, it was just Billy home and no one else was there to witness they’re collective train wreck.

Before he leaves, Billy grabs something from the bathroom and stuffs it in with the rest of the random shit he brings.

Billy slides into the passenger seat, leans his head back against the headrest, and says, “So, Harrington, how you been?”

Steve, mercifully, looks the same as always. He looks good, the asshole. It’s a relief that he’s still able to feel that fire Steve lights up. Different than all the other King’s from California. A few more scars, but they all have that. His shades are pushed through his hair, brown strands flopping over lazily.

“Same as usual, so fairly shitty and on the brink of breakdown. You?” It would be a normal conversation if Steve wasn’t completely serious, corners of his mouth only ticking up when Billy reaches over and bats at the band-aid charm hanging from the mirror. A joke from Billy to say sorry for, you know, almost beating him to death for no real reason.

“Oh, you know.” He doesn’t need to say more for Steve to get the idea. It’s the same way they’ve been feeling for months now.

“Yeah.” The car ride over isn’t far from the Byers’ house, and they spend it in almost silence. Some pop station is playing low on the radio.

“This the shit you listen to, pretty boy? I expected more than this.” It’s an attempt at normalcy, something that they’ve slowly been working up to.

“At least I don’t blast out my eardrums every time I want to listen to music,” replies Steve quickly, smile evident in his tone.

And it’s normal. It’s them. The way they were before it all got so messy. For that brief moment, there’s no winter night or july 4th. For a brief moment Billy can entertain a reality where he went to the find Steve instead of a fight. A world where Steve, with those pretty eyes and snap remarks, could hold his hand and stop him from doing all the bad things in the future.

But the moment passes. Steve clears his throat and looks forward at the road.

They arrive to the quarry, water at the bottom glinting, tossing, teasing. The car doors slam shut, and they slide up on to the front of the car. Billy pulls his last minute grab out of the bag and hands it to Steve.

“I want you to cut my hair.” Steve takes the scissors and towel in his hand, looking at Billy.

He doesn’t ask if Billy’s sure. Billy figures that Steve knows at this point he wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t real. If Billy wasn’t sure. Steve cards a hand through Billy’s hair. It feels. Good. Real good.

Steve starts cutting, and Billy winces at the sound of the scissors closing around his hair. His past.

“I like to think it isn’t just part of me.” The comment comes out of nowhere, surprising Billy more than it surprises Steve.

“What?” Steve’s voice is calm, the sniping of the scissors is methodical.

“The anger. The aggression. The tendency to hurt. I like to think it’s not in my nature, but my nurture.”

“I don’t think you’re violent.” It’s a laughable statement.

“You’re joking. Did you forget most of last year? I’m the one with the bad memory here, Harrington.” Billy can practically hear Steve’s disapproving mother’s frown behind him.

“That wasn’t you.”

“Right, sure, whatever, bullshit. But what about…you know. Last winter.”

“What happened before that?” asks Steve patiently.

“Jesus, you’re worse than Joyce. My dad sent me after Max. Found her at Byers’ place with you. Hurt you a whole fucking lot.”

“Is that all he did? He just told you to go after her?” Billy ignores the way his stomach does flips when Steve runs a hand through Billy’s hair, straightening it out.

“So you’re my fuckin’ therapist now? What do you want me to say? He kissed my head and sent my on my merry way? That’s now how he works. I’ll admit, I was saved by his new wifey. He can’t use me as a punching bag when she’s standing right there, not like he did with mom. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing worse than what you’ve done to me. And the insults weren’t too bad either. He forgot to call me a fag.”

“Oh. Shit, Billy, I-“

“It’s fine,” cuts in Billy, hating the pity in Steve’s voice. He’s not the one who should have it.

“You didn’t deserve that.” This time it does make Billy laugh. It’s a hollow and haunting sound, an echo of his charming boyish laugh.

“Sure I did, dipshit. You’re probably one of the people who knows best why I did, in fact, deserve it.”

“So then I’m the best person. to tell you that you aren’t that person. You haven’t been that person since you left him and all of that shit. Let me ask you something. Do you want to hurt people now?”

“No!” Billy startles himself with his sudden enthusiasm, and Steve jumps a little behind him. Steve is quicker to recover, though, and he runs a hand through the hair he hasn’t cut yet. It’s soothing. Billy barely resists the urge to lean into it. Ask for more.

“Did you ever want to hurt people? Like really, truly want to see them hurt?” Billy has to think about the question. Steve deserves an real answer.

Flashes fly through his mind, bringing on too familiar emotions. Anger, a need to make someone, anyone, feel the way that he’s feeling. Fear that not having this power over people would make him weak. Horror at what he’s about to do. Detachment, painful as he grinned and laughed.

“I just wanted to have control. Take some of the hurt I was feeling and give it to other people. It was a rush that I was addicted to. The thrill of the fight, the feel of flesh against my fist, the look of blood on my knuckles. I liked fighting, still do. I didn’t like hurting people.” Steve puts the scissors down on the car hood, fluffing Billy’s hair and sliding down next to him.

“I’ve been on the wrong side of the fists of two people I’m now okay with,” admits Steve. “Believe me, I know now to take a beating. I’ve been heartbroken by two other people I’m close friends with. I forgive too easily.”

“So you’re a compulsive truster and I’m a compulsive fighter. What a pair we make, huh Harrington?”

“Yeah.” agrees Steve, bumping his shoulder against Billy. “What a pair.”

Maybe it’s the haircut. Maybe it’s the sunlight confessions. Maybe it’s how carefree and happy Steve looks. But Billy feels lighter. Like there was this unspoken weight he had been carrying around that no one knew about. Or everyone knew about, but couldn’t help.

The thing is, Steve didn’t even say anything. He didn’t promise a better future, he didn’t say that he was safe. He shared some of the personal pain they all carry around.

“I don’t think I ever said sorry. I am sorry, you know. I. I didn’t-“

<i>Mean to hurt you. Want to hurt you. Mean to let you see how much I hurt. Want to need you.</i>

“I know. I’m sorry too. Someone should’ve known. About you.” Steve leans closer, and Billy chalks it up to the night chill as the sun settles below the glistening rocks.

“I was good at hiding things I didn’t want people to see.”

“Yeah, well you’re not alone there either.”

“You good at hiding, pretty boy?” Billy’s eyes flick down to Steve’s lips, and, is Billy imagining it or is Steve looking at him the same way?

“Apparently not good enough,” jokes Steve. His smile falls off of his lips, and he leans minutely closer. If Billy wasn’t paying attention to all of Steve…

The way his hair glows white and gold in the sunset. That wrinkle between his brows. The way one of his eyes is a little darker than the other. How he smells like cigarette smoke and that fancy hairspray, even when his hair is blown from the wind.

The way he looked that night. Cool and collected, then terrified and fighting for his life. So beautiful in the harsh starlight and then so abstract in the broken kitchen light.

Before he knows what’s happening, Steve is filling that gap. Kissing Billy like he’s trying to sooth the pain from their past. Maybe he is. Billy wouldn’t put it past him.

His hand finds a way to Steve’s hair, the same way Steve’s been running his through Billy’s now shorter hair. He curls it into the strands, holding on tightly. Soft.

The way Steve sighs his name takes Billy away from it all. The pain. The memories. The lack of memories.

They lay out under the stars for a few minutes, but Billy knows Joyce will freak out if she can’t find him. Not because she doesn’t trust him, he has to remind himself, but because she doesn’t trust others.

On the drive home Steve plays that pop stuff again, and Billy gives him the appropriate shit for it, a smile on his face the whole time. His fingers laced through Steve’s.

They arrive at the house, and Steve declines to come in. Gives the excuse that his parents will be waiting up when they both know it’s not true. Billy can’t blame him. Billy understands needing to be alone, needing to get away.

Billy leans through Steve’s window and wished that he could kiss him goodbye. Well. The teasing will have to do.

“Night, King Steve.”

“Goodnight, Asshole.”

If Joyce gives him a knowing smile at the door, Billy doesn’t smile back. Probably.

He definitely does. Maybe he deserves the smile. If Steve thinks he does.

[fluffyblaire]

why can’t Hawks refuse?

‼️MANGA SPOILERS‼️

Tootooroo~ 🎺Buckle up, folks, it’s time for a Hawks character analysis! 

Today, we’re going to talk about what kind of person Keigo is, how Keigo reconciles with Hawks, how much of the HPSC is inside of Hawks and how all of that comes together to answer the question: “why can’t Hawks refuse?”

Section I: Keigo

Looking at Keigo as a grown up, it can be hard to tell which of his actions are natural to him and which ones are a result of the HPSC’s upbringing. However, there is one place where we can see what kind of person Keigo is at the very core, before the HPSC or any other major societal institution touched him. 

Exhibit A: “Top heroes have stories about them from their school days. Most of their stories have one thing in common: their bodies moved before they had a chance to think.” —All Might

When Keigo was a kid, he saved this entire family. This is his origin story, the story “from [his] school days” if he had gone to school, the story where “[his] body moved before [he] had a chance to think.” As a child, he saved a family from a disaster, and that should tell you a lot more about his character other than just that he was a very physically capable boy.

Keigo has the heart of a true hero, and he had it long before hero society’s influence reached him. He didn’t need the society around him to tell him to be selfless. He didn’t need the media broadcasting heroics every day to tell him helping people is good. He just does. He lived in the slums and if anything, his environment and thief relative would have taught him the opposite: be selfish, that’s how you survive. But he’s not like that. He gives and gives and doesn’t even stick around for recognition. 

This is who Takami Keigo is and while he will lose and gain layers of personality after the Commission recruits him, the core motivations, values, and emotions that compelled him to save this family do not change.

Section II: Hawks

After the HPSC recruits Keigo, Keigo’s heroic heart begins to blend with the tools and habits the HPSC gives him. Keigo, combined with the Commission’s training, becomes Hawks.

Now, what did the HPSC do to Keigo? I don’t think they physically or emotionally abused him for years—at least not in the conventional sense. If that were the case, I believe we would have gotten the details by now. I do think that Keigo must have suffered and that he was taken advantage of by the adults around him in a very strategic and unethical way. Let’s look at all the things I can dissect about Keigo’s upbringing by the Commission.

Exhibit B: “My back just ain’t broad enough to put the people at ease.” —Hawks

The first thing to note is that baby Keigo had big dreams when he was first recruited.

He wanted to be a shiny hero the likes of Endeavor but when we meet Hawks, one of the first major character depth details we find out about him is that he thinks his own back isn’t enough.

Sometime between when he agreed to the HPSC’s training and when he became the No.2 hero, something in Keigo died. A dream died, and he has accepted that he cannot be like his childhood hero. Comparing himself to Endeavor, Hawks thinks himself inferior in more ways than just power stats.

Keigo knows there is a disconnect between what he wanted to be and what he actually became, but he also knows his role well and still tries his best with it even though it isn’t the one he thought he had been promised when the HPSC recruited him. He is unsatisfied but he still does his best. Why? Because after all these years, the kid who flew straight into an automobile disaster to save an entire family is still there underneath the Commission’s manufactured hero. 

He still wants to protect people who can’t protect themselves; his dissatisfaction with how he achieves that didn’t dampen that spirit. This is why he works his ass off but still seems discontent with himself. His role may not be his ideal one but through it, he can protect people, and that’s enough for him to keep doing his best.

Exhibit C: “A special program... to become a special hero.” —Unknown

The second thing to bring up is that if the Commission did not make Hawks like his role model, what did they make him? 

Keigo just wanted to be a flashy hero that saves people from bad guys. A very simple, honest type of hero. The Commission did give him the skills for that, but they also gave him skills that a simple, honest hero should never need: espionage, acting, lying, manipulation, and who knows what else.

Hawks’ hero education was not the same education the UA kids are getting. In this panel, Hawks narrates as if his “negotiation skills” were a convenient coincidence, but come on. What straight forward, honest hero (like All Might, Endeavor, Miruko—you get the type) would need social manipulation skills? The HPSC knew what they were doing when they selected Hawks’ curriculum, and the material came in handy at last when they assigned him this mission that a simple, honest hero should never have to take on. The HPSC never intended to turn Hawks into a simple, honest hero; they wanted to turn him into a hyper-competent soldier to whom they can assign the hardest, dirtiest work that no ordinary hero would be willing to do. 

Judging by the way he joked about the HPSC’s “proposal,” I am led to believe that Hawks is used to his own feelings and concerns not mattering. People, especially children, do not naturally accept that their wants don’t matter, so what does this tell you about how Hawks was raised?

Exhibit D: My Hero Academia ED7

The third thing I need to talk about is this photo. I think one look at this photo of Keigo from ED7 should tell you something was off with his childhood even after he was taken in by the Commission.

Out of all the photos Bones could have shown of baby Keigo, they chose a photo of him in a hospital gown, blindfolded, surrounded by nameless, faceless men in suits with a chain-linked fence in the background of a cold metal training facility. If you look too quickly, you’d think his hands were tied in front of him because of the way his posture and pose is drawn.

This photo choice alone is enough to submit to me that something unethical was going on when the Commission picked Keigo up, and Horikoshi and the producers of the anime want us to read it as unethical. We are meant to read Hawks as a victim here, but we are given no indication in the story that Hawks thinks of himself as a victim. Once again, I am led to believe that he is accustomed to his own feelings not mattering in the grand scheme of things. He has no expectations of being treated more considerately, so he does not view himself as a victim of anything.

Exhibit E: Lonely Birdie

The fourth thing I want to bring up is Hawks’ lack of human connections. The Commission talked as if he had a family when they picked him up, but there’s no mention of that family when we see Hawks as a pro. He leaves his sidekicks behind. He has a professional, frosty relationship with the HPSC, the people who raised him from childhood. He has no one who is a friend close enough that the question of his civilian name would have even come up. The colleague he trusted most with info on his PLF infiltration was Endeavor who he’d only know in person for a few months.

Hawks can be very likable; his approval rating is high and the common folk love him. He is also very perceptive of and constantly thinking of others. And yet he has no close human connections, and the only explanation I can think of for this is that he distances himself from others either consciously or subconsciously.

This tells me either Keigo had no chances/time to seek out human connections on his own as he grew up or he was discouraged from forming those connections altogether. In either case, I doubt he was shown much affection during his training. He was not treated as if a child adopted into a family; he was treated as a new recruit to be guided and whipped into shape. A lack of human relationships while growing up likely led to his lack of relationships as an adult.

Exhibit F: Guilty Birdie

The fifth thing to note is that Hawks blames himself for anything that is not swift, decisive success. He always moves like he’s running out of time and thinks like he must do everything on his own. 

This mindset is very self-destructive and the consistency with which he repeatedly monologues lines like “think of the citizens/think of Japan/if only you did X” tells me this mindset was something that was drilled into him from the outside. These don’t sound like things you would monologue to yourself to psych yourself up. These sound like things a trainer or coach would tell you repeatedly in order to guilt you into working harder. 

Section III: Why Can’t Hawks Refuse?

Accepting that his own feelings don’t matter, distancing himself from others, using guilt to push himself, etc.—I think these are small habits the HPSC strategically instilled in Hawks through his environment as they raised him. The HPSC had an agenda while raising Hawks, but it’s nothing as dramatic as brainwashing. Instead, the Commission focused on building small and seemingly harmless habits like the ones I’ve noted. These habits can be positive if applied correctly but instead, over the years, they’ve subtly broken down Hawks’ sense of self-love and made him a slave to his own heroic heart.

His own feelings don’t matter when it comes to fulfilling his role, so Hawks will never refuse a mission just because he doesn’t like it. He habitually guilts himself with a reminder of who he is doing everything for—the people—so he’ll always work hard and fast. He distances himself from others, so no one will ever get close enough to him to teach him his human value and change his habits. Take these tendencies and make them second nature to a man whose heart is far too giving, and it’s not hard to see how the Commission trapped Hawks without having to actually trap him.

I don’t think the HPSC is doing anything dark like threatening/blackmailing Hawks. They don’t need to. Hawks can’t refuse their request because, deep down, he is simply too kind. If he is given a chance to save people, he won’t let himself abandon the opportunity. If he can take the burden of a dirty job off of someone else’s shoulders, he will. 

Keigo wasn’t a good hero candidate just because of his Quirk. His nature is too kind, especially to those he doesn’t know, and the Commission saw it from the beginning and took advantage of it. They don’t have to brainwash or leash him. All they had to do was teach him some self-destructive but seemingly heroic habits and those along with Keigo’s innate selflessness are more than enough to keep him focused on his role and unable to flat-out say no to the Commission.

Exhibit G: The Diamond

Lastly, let’s talk about how the diamond on Hawks’ hero costume matches the diamond on the HPSC building. It’s subtle, but I think it means something. It’s subtle just as the HPSC’s influence on Hawks is subtle in the form of small personal habits. The habits the HPSC strategically fostered in Hawks won’t disappear just because he has his own agency now and can carry his career alone. The diamond on Hawks’ chest is like a brand. Once property of the HPSC, always property of the HPSC even in the smallest ways.

In conclusion: If the HPSC wanted to indoctrinate Hawks, they could’ve easily done it, and the Hawks we know today who is skeptical of the HPSC and who observed that a villain could be a good person would not exist. Instead, the Commission knew they could make him independent (therefore, low maintenance) and easy to order around when needed if they went the subtler route: shaping not his values, moral code, or motivations but his internal habits. It’s sneaky, it’s shady, it’s unethical, but it’s kind of brilliant. 

[waiting4inspiration]

Her Eyes V: Simply Put (Geralt x Reader)

Summary:  You tell Geralt a little bit more about what you know of your father as well and reveal something personal; your chances of conceiving a child

Warnings: mentions of infertility, angst, strong language, magical elements, slight mentions/reference to rape, mentions of abandonment, please let me know if I missed anything

Word Count: 2, 433

Her Eyes Masterlist II Witcher Masterlist

“So, if you’re part dragon, does that mean you can turn into one if you wanted to?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbles, but you chuckle at the question and the way the Witcher warns the bard to be careful of his words in case you would take offense to them. 

There’s something in the way Jaskier asks his questions that you find amusing. He’s not asking them to make you feel bad about yourself or anything like that. He’s just asking out of pure curiosity. And maybe it’s because he wishes to write a ballad about this adventure. 

You turn your head over your shoulder to look at Jaskier who has chosen to walk a little bit behind you rather than beside Geralt. You tried to reason with him to at least get a horse for the poor bard, but he wouldn’t listen to you. “I haven’t tried it, but I doubt something like that can happen,” you state, smiling playfully at him before you turn your gaze back in front of you. 

You hear Jaskier hum to himself, probably thinking about his neck question. Whatever it is, you’re ready for it. 

Spending the night answering and asking questions with Geralt really changed a few things. For one, you feel a bit more confident now. Telling someone the truth about what you are, no longer having to keep things a secret anymore is like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. You don’t feel the burden of having to fit in with people in court. You can be yourself. 

And you’ve learned quite a lot about Geralt too. He’s told you about his Child of Surprise, Ciri, how she’s currently being trained in the basics of being a Witcher by those in Kaer Morhen, where he has trained and turned into a Witcher. And he told you how that happened. 

He shared more with you in one night than he had shared with Jaskier in the how-ever-many-years they’ve known each other. And you...well, you’ve shared more with him than you’ve shared with anyone in your entire life. 

Geralt wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to travel so soon after what happened yesterday, thinking that it would be best for you to rest first before traveling. But, you seem to be doing as great as before the whole knife incident.  

“Breathe fire?” Jaskier questions. It makes Geralt turn around to give him a stern look that makes you laugh and shake your head at the silent exchange between the two men. “What? How am I supposed to create my next masterpiece if I don’t ask questions?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, Jaskier,” you mention, looking over to him again to give him a friendly smile. “People like me would prefer to remain unknown,” you say, looking to Geralt and catching him staring at you. 

He turns his head away from you, breaks his stare and clears his throat, making you smirk to yourself and blush lightly at the thought that he had been staring at you. 

Jaskier breathes out a long, audible sigh and drops his head between his shoulders. “Alright. But it would have been the greatest ballad to have ever crossed the continent,” he announces, holding his arms out as if to proclaim it to the skies. “The intense feeling of power, the burning passion for fire, the freedom to go anywhere. The freedom, the power, the fire. What a life it would be. I envy the legend that is still told. I envy the fire; I envy the freedom. Straight forward: I wish I was a dragon,” Jaskier speaks what you think is part of this ballad he’s been thinking about.

As he mutters to himself and walks forward, ahead of you and Geralt, you shake your head to yourself and turn to look at Geralt when he rides up to your side. “How long have you exactly been friends?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him as he grunts.

“He’s not my friend,” Geralt grumbles, keeps his gaze on Jaskier a few feet ahead of you and his words make you chuckle. 

“Well, some people would say different.” That makes him turn his head towards you. “Geralt, it’s okay to have a friend. Someone to talk to every now and then,” you add, making him take a deep breath as he turns his head out in front of him again. 

You wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He remains silent, eyes forward, and that brooding look on his face you’ve gotten so used to, it makes you smile. “Can I ask you something?” he finally speaks, making your head turn towards him and smile.

“You still have questions after last night?” you tease, making him give you a look to tell you to be serious. “Of course. What’s your question?”

He clears his throat, runs his tongue over his lips and breathes out a low sigh. “Who is Armen?” he asks. 

The smile falls off your face and you drop your gaze down to your hands wrapped around the reins. You bite your lower lip, close your eyes and recall the dream you had when you blacked down because of the knife. The knife you now keep at the bottom of a bag, just in case. 

“He’s my father,” you whisper, pulling slightly on the reins and stopping your horse as you let the dream play in your mind again. “My uncle used to tell me about him when I was a child,” you start, open your eyes and look up at Geralt as he stops Roach from walking and stands beside you. “He had only met my father once, but the way he spoke of him…” You trail off, smiling to yourself as you gently shake your head. “I’ve ever heard someone speak of someone else with so much respect.”

Geralt stares at you as you speak, watches the emotions in your eyes flicker with those flaming irises. And your smile...it’s almost sad. 

You said last night when he asked you if you remember anything of your father that you only have stories to go on. You said that one day, you hope you will find him. And deep down, Geralt hopes you find him too.

“Geralt? I know we should be keeping to the main road, but what do you plan on doing when it just...ends?”

Jaskier’s question that he shouts makes the Witcher grunt and turn Roach to walk towards where Jaskier’s voice comes from. Sighing to yourself, you urge your horse forward to follow Geralt. 

But a shiver rolls down your spine and a terrible feeling resonates in the spot where the knife hit you. And your head turns over your shoulder when you hear a faint whisper behind you.

You’ve noticed a change ever since you had that little incident with the Magick Hunter and his knife in your back. You noticed a change in the weather, especially at night, how it seems to be colder at night than in the day. And you’ve noticed a change in yourself. 

It’s hard to sleep. This is the first night after the attack and you can’t sleep. You just find yourself staring up at the sky, through the leaves of the canopy above you, trying to find the stars. And with sleep alluding you, the only thing on your mind you can’t help but think of is that dream about your father. 

Huffing out in annoyance, you push yourself off the ground and stare at the dying fire Geralt had set up when you stopped for the night. 

“Can’t sleep?” Geralt’s voice pulls your eyes away from the fireplace and to him. He sits a little bit away from you, sharpening the steel sword he always carries on his back. 

You sigh, shift in your spot to cross your legs over each other as you shake your head. “What about you?” you ask as he places the sword to the side and turns to face you more directly. “Do Witcher even sleep?”

He chuckles deeply and smirks at you. “We can go without sleep longer than ordinary people. But not by much,” he states, turning his head to look out into the woods. “We need to keep watch during the night,” he mentions and carries on staring off in the distance. 

Staring at him for a moment, you breathe out a loud breath and push yourself to your feet and gently walk over to Geralt, careful to not wake Jaskier, and making Geralt turn his gaze towards you. 

He watches you sit down beside him and look out to where he had been looking a few moments ago. You pull your lower lip in between your teeth and sigh after a few moments of silence, listening to the wind blowing, making the leaves rustle and the branches to creak slightly. “Do you think my father could still be out there, somewhere?” you quietly question, slowly turning your head up to look at Geralt. 

Blinking, he shifts and clears his throat as he folds his hands in front of him as he glances off to the side for a brief second. When he looks back at you, he finds you waiting for his response with an eager look on your face. “Dragons can live for a very long time, even in human form,” he begins, earning an understanding nod from you. You must have been taught this by Akius already. “And they are very hard to kill, even harder to find.”

Even though he didn’t want to say that, he had too. And he sees the disappointment in your eyes when he states that fact. He knows you want to find your father one day. But you should at least know that your search could fail, and you might not ever find him. 

Your head drops in sorrow and you stare down at your hands, quiet, thinking of your next words. “And if I ask you to help me find him?”

“(Y/n)-”

“I can’t stop thinking about him, Geralt. I know, deep down, he wouldn’t have left me or my mother if he didn’t have a choice. I know, from stories my uncle Dormond used to tell me. A man, a dragon with so much respect for everyone, and love for my mother, would never have abandoned me,” you speak, and Geralt can see the passion in your word dancing in the flames of your eyes. Every word resonates in them, making them glow brighter. “He’s the only chance I have for a family,” you whisper as you turn your gaze away from him. 

Those words make him frown at you, something you catch him doing out of the corner of your eye, and you wait for him to ask what you mean by that because you know he’s caught a different meaning behind your words. “The only chance you have for a family,” he repeats your words. And you nod. “You wouldn’t want to start one yourself?”

Your eyes fall shut to hide the small tears welling up as you swallow the hard lump in your throat. “I...I can’t,” you stammer out. Keeping your head low and your gaze on your hands, you bite your lower lip as you wait for Geralt to say something about that. To either console you or question why. You’re prepared for anything. 

“Can’t or won’t?” His question makes your head turn up to him. There’s a sort of angry look in your eyes, a stubborn look that tells him you won’t answer that question. “Your kind aren’t infertile, (Y/n). I know that for a fact-”

“No, but a pregnancy can only happen if your genes are compatible,” you snap, the pupils of your eyes constricting even more as you glare coldly at him. “What do you think happens to women in a situation like that? When you don’t know who is compatible with you?” you question with a cold voice. And Geralt suddenly realizes that he doesn’t know that much about your species as he would like to let on. “They get tossed around, passed on from man to man until they find someone compatible. Even then, your chances of finding someone like that are slim,” you add, dropping your head again to stare at your hands as you breathe out a sigh. “I’d rather never have a child and love one person than get passed around like a piece of meat until I find someone compatible.”

Geralt understands that. Over the past few days of getting to know you, he knows that you’re too strong-minded, you have too much of a strong will to have something like that done to you. 

You shift, shake your head to stop yourself from thinking about this fact and look up at Geralt again. “Besides, your chances all depend on what kind of dragon your parent was,” you mention, making Geralt hum and glance down to his hands. 

Your words make sense. The more common the dragon, the more your chance is of finding someone compatible. But the offspring of a rare dragon… 

“You think your father is a black dragon?” he asks. Your father can’t be a gold dragon because they are sterile creatures. Their mutation that makes them the rarest kind also makes them infertile. So, he has to go with the next logical theory. 

He lifts his gaze up to you as you take a breath. “I don’t know. The only one that has seen my father in his dragon form was probably my mother,” you state, that angry look in your eyes has now gone and a small smile returns to your face. 

Staring at each other for a moment, he can’t help but wonder for himself what kind of dragon your father is. He must be one of the rare kinds, considering how much power you seem to have. Even though you are the first half-dragon person he has met, he’s certain that you have more power than any other half-dragon person that might be out there. 

And though he’s slightly concerned about what will happen to you, now that he knows a bit more about what your species does in order to have children, in order for the species to carry on, he’s sure you can take care of yourself. He’s seen you fight. You’re more than capable. 

But, it’s only his job to get you to where you want to go. After that, it’s all up to you. After that, it’s none of his concern anymore. Right?

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[scaryscarecrows]

Child Safety 101

AN: Continuation of ‘I Think I’ll Just Collapse Right Here, Thanks’, found in Why Do They Kick Me?

Note: Mark is a trauma surgeon, not a GP, but he’s also the only one Jason will let within doctoring range, so.

* * *

The Knight has been down and unresponsive for literal days. The first day was the diciest, because even Mark hadn’t been totally sure if he’d pull through, but his fever had gone down enough to remove him from the danger zone.

Once it had become apparent that he wasn’t going to die on them-because Antoine’s sorry, but no way is he continuing this crusade in the guy’s memory or whatever, if the boss dies, he is leaving-, they’d had a meeting and, essentially, made a chore chart for who had Knightwatch, who had Armywatch, and who got to nap.

It’s a fairly efficient rotation. And so far, at least, they’ve managed to keep the news of, well, everything under wraps. All the men know is that the boss is down but that he will be fine, carry on as normal. They don’t know that the helmet’s off.

And. Oof. Of all the crackpot theories they’ve jokingly tossed around, this wasn’t one of them. Antoine’s not sure which one he’s more stuck on: the fact that the boss is a teenager, or the fact that the boss is-was-Robin. They’re so intertwined that it doesn’t really matter, it’s just…

Antoine is not a parent. He’s happy to keep it that way; the best part of uncle-ing is dosing them up on sugar and releasing them back to the parents. So he doesn’t really get the whole ‘electrical outlets are a Great Danger’ thing. But he does get, maybe a little better than your average parent, the sick, twisted fucks of society. He’s worked with a handful. Spoken with more. He still remembers, years after the fact, that one guy...he ate people. Literally. He’d put a toddler in the oven-alive-and…

Yeah.

But this is a little different. This is...it’s one thing to hear about it. It’s another thing to be faced with it. And it’s another thing entirely to see it. That fucking tape, man…

He stretches out a bit, pops his back and rubs a hand over his side, feeling rough scar tissue. What a week. What an absolute hell of a week.

He’s on Knightwatch now, because everything outside is moving smoothly without him and Frank really, really needs the nap. The boss is finally sleeping peacefully, curled up on his side with one arm flung up to shield his face. He’s still shivering on and off, and he sounds congested as all get out, but the worst of it is over. No more screaming, no more pleading.

What now? He supposes they’ll stay the course, but he’s not sure, not really. Maybe this is the end. Maybe the boss will vanish in the middle of the night.

Jesus, that explains so much. Batman taught him all this weird shit. Batman...this is, arguably, entirely Batman’s fault. What sort of weirdo...never mind. Never mind.

As ever, he figures, this is a nasty combination of neglectful adult and opportunistic predator. This is the same thing as that one girl in his sister’s apartment complex that got kidnapped. Six years old, mother said, ‘yes, yes, go play by the road alone!’ and she got abducted and murdered. Somebody should have been watching her.

Somebody should have been watching the boss.

Doesn’t matter. People are watching him now, at least, whether he likes it or not.

He coughs and rolls over, one arm slipping off the bed. Antoine sighs and puts it back, straightens the sheets out like he’s seen Frank and his sister do, and wonders what’s going to happen now.

They could, he supposes, figure out who he-and by extension, Batman-is. Jimmy could run a facial recognition at the minimum. But they haven’t, and they don’t really intend to. Curious as they are, they owe him their lives and...and no matter how this turns out, he’s their boss and they won’t.

Antoine’s sort of lost in thought, caught up in memories of that little girl (what was her name?) and the cannibal and the utter confusion of everything, when the Knight suddenly jerks upright like he’s gonna make a break for it.

“Shit--”

He twists over and only feels a little sorry for forcing the Knight back down. The sorry feeling vanishes when the boss tries to fight him.

“No--”

“You gotta be kidding me--” It’s not much of a fight, but he’s still trying, which is incredibly unfair. “How even--there.”

Okay. There’s no easy weapons in here, which is all he can ask for. He’s not interested in being held at gunpoint again, thanks.

“You back with us, sir?”

The Knight’s quiet, breathing hard and seemingly very interested in the ceiling.

“We have an intruder,” he says, voice carefully flat. “I want every available unit search--”

Uh-huh.

“You wouldn’t have held this intruder at gunpoint, would you, sir?”

Silence. That’s what he thought. They’re professionals, for heaven’s sake. People don’t just get into their super-secret hidden base. That just doesn’t happen. Their own people have gotten lost trying to find their way back to it! Intruder, humph. That hurts.

…

Yeah, okay, he’s trying to maintain the facade of normalcy. Like. The helmet’s off, man, any weird-ass theories anybody’s had have now been put to rest in favor of the truth. But both of them are probably going to be happier if they just pretend that nothing has changed.

(Which is half-true. Baby Robin or not, the guy’s still scary.)

“What day is it,” he finally says, voice scarcely above a whisper. Antoine hits the call button.

“March third, sir.”

“Shit.”

Yup.

There’s no good response to that and the boss goes slack, one arm flung over his face. A minute later, Mark throws open the door with a grumpy, “What the fuck was that.”

“I--”

“Went the fuck down in the middle of the day thanks to a one-oh-four degree fever,” Mark seethes. “You have. The goddamn. Flu. People die from the flu, straight-up die, and you didn’t think to mention it! I’m not asking for much here. Just a little heads up. Y’know, ‘hey, Jones, I’m feelin’ pretty crappy, think you can poke your head in to make sure I didn’t die in the night?’ ‘Oh, sure thing, boss, happy to help, feel better!’” The smile he plasters on is frightening. The boss doesn’t like it, not one bit, and to Mark’s credit, he drops it pretty quick. “What were you thinking? Anything? Really, I’d love your thought process.”

“‘ve handled worse on my own,” the Knight mumbles, somewhere between sheepish and stubborn. “Thought a walk would clear my head.”

Sad thing is, Antoine believes him. The brand alone is not pretty, and while Mark hasn’t said much, what he has shared is disturbing.

And. Well. It’s not like the boss has been totally silent for the past few days. Once or twice he’d woken up screaming, the kind of awful sound Antoine associates with three-feet-thick walls and Professionals. Hell, Mark had collared Trent to come and look at something, and while neither of them are sharing, that’s Bad. Trent’s not a doctor, but he knows how to hurt people...and what they look like after.

“Well, it made you worse. You’re lucky you didn’t kill someone or yourself, parading around like that. Aight, you sit up, you clear out.”

Gladly.

“Feel better, sir,” he says. “We’ve got things handled out here, so just get some rest.”

“Oh, he doesn’t have a choice. Come on, up-up...be lucky if I let you out of my sight again after this...f’I have to give you weekly check-ups, that’s what’ll happen…”

Fuck Batman, Antoine thinks tiredly. This is his fault, things never should have advanced to the point that his...sidekick...kid...whatever ended up like this. How is Gotham not screaming about kids and guns anyway, huh? That just seems like Child Safety 101. He certainly makes sure all his toys are locked up tight when the niblings are over. He sure as hell wouldn’t give them a dull knife and tell them to, like, fight a trained mercenary. That seems like a terrible idea.

Whatever. It’s not going to go any farther. Boss he might be, but he’s just not going to be allowed to be an idiot, that’s all there is to it. No more vanishing off somewhere for three days, he’ll just have to check in or something. Frank can bully him about that. It’s for his own damn good.

THE END

[kiefbowl]

ew why tf are you dating a scrote

okay this is clearly a troll, but I’ll answer anyway since this seems to be a topic of interest to people lately. I wrote a lot and talked about sexual assault, so go ahead and skip it if that’s not your jam. disclaimer: I don’t have a problem or think there’s anything wrong with people who don’t want to follow me bc of the bf. that’s legitimate! please do what suits you. I think some of my responses have been perceived as snarky in the past but I only try to be snarky when I suspect a troll, I really don’t have a problem with people unfollowing me b/c of the bf or even telling me about it.

I worked with Malcolm for about a year and a half before we go together, but we got together for the first time 5 months after I had a brief but intense love affair with a meth addict that ended in big traumatic ways after he started using heavily again, which eventually cultivated in him raping me (not that it was the only sexual violence I experienced with him but that time was particularly horrific because I was heartbroken and he was high on meth). he was also a man, and the reason I started dating him isn’t so clear to me except that I was looking for a way to live recklessly and self harm. There’s a longer story there but the details can’t be told concisely and it’s no one’s business. In any case, everything that happened with him is not worth recounting, but it was long and complicated and continued even after the rape. To give some context about how bad it was, I also had worked with the meth addict (I’m not using his name on purpose), and part way through our relationship he got a new job. a couple weeks after the rape, he lost that job and got his old job back. yeah, imagine being dumped by a meth addict and the being raped by him and then he starts working with you when you know he is using now. not fun, pretty sad to think about.

I was in a very traumatized state for months. It’s hard to describe what it’s like, except you don’t feel like you’re living. You can feel very foreign to your own life. I felt like something inside of me was constantly pressing against me to get out, and if it did it would be me screaming. Like, my skin had become a suit to mask the babbling lunatic underneath. I would have random outbursts where I would wince in pain and people would ask what was up and it was just that the emotional pain was felt so sharply it became physical, but I felt like I couldn’t be honest with people. I did go to therapy, it felt like life and death. right around the time before Malcolm and I together, so a few months into therapy, my therapist gave me permission to feel okay seeking out love, sex, and relationships, because I was feeling very guilty that I might be using someone if I did. In any case, Malcolm showed up to my bday party, and was one of the last to leave, and I just was ready for the next thing after the meth addict bf. Every day I didn’t have sex, the last person I had sex with was him. I wanted to be normal again. I was feeling a little better, less freakish, but still so sad. So I said, okay Malcolm, come home with me and he did. It didn’t seem so bad to take Malcolm home with me because I wasn’t very interested in him long term, so it seemed like low stakes to end up hurting him. Low investment. Yadda yadda.

Malcolm was also convenient, he lived walking distance. he was nice, friendly, easy to hang out with. our emotional intimacy was very low, it was low low low low maintenance dating. Malcolm felt very safe, he was the polar opposite of the other bf. we had a casual, boring, unintimidating fling for a few months that sputtered out. if the other bf was like riding a roller coaster that was condemned, Malcolm was like taking a nap on the bus back home after a long exhausting day at the amusement park. I know, it’s not very sexy. But it was nice to feel like a human again, have proof I could be normal, proof I could do unsexy things like watch tv and go to brunch and it didn’t feel like I was a freak for trying after months of feeling like I had a neon sign over my head that said “idiot adult woman dated meth addict like it wasn’t going to end up fucking her over HA HA.” I was ready to go out with my new sense of normalcy and have fun with people I might be, er, to be blunt, more interested in.

BUT the most amazing thing was we stayed friends after the break up, which I had never had before. and even though the first few months of dating helped me feel normal again in a way, it turns out being raped by your meth addict ex leaves deep, painful welts. who could guess. Seeking out other relationships from scratch ended up being exhausting. When do I bring up that I’m not even a year from a meth addict raping me? Date two? I tried with other people, and it wasn’t working. I dropped dating, and focused on friends and work instead. But I missed him some days, and as things around me were starting to feel like they were crumbling again, he was there and around. He came over, smoked weed, taught me MTG, let me make him dinner, took me out to bars, listened to me cry, had gentle sex. Soon we were seeing and talking to each other every day. We spent enough time together that it became clear we were dating again, and this time around it was more enjoyable and more intimate. It felt easier to invest in our relationship the second time around because he already knew the baggage. We started dating and eventually, out of the sake of convenience, moved in together. 

But if it makes you feel any better, anon who is probably not reading this, the state of my relationship is not great atm. It feels like we’re very good friends that share a bed. I always had doubts about this relationship from the beginning, I was never really crazy about Malcolm and was tentative about being exclusive. I rationalized the relationship with thoughts like “you don’t know until you try” and “maybe this love is different love, and it doesn’t feel like previous love because I still need to learn more about love.” I don’t think that’s quite it anymore. But, we live together in an unpredicted pandemic, so I sort of made my bed. Plus, it’s hard to decide to break up with someone who isn’t bad just maybe not good enough. Maybe it’s my fault? some days I wake up and think, “oh well am I really giving him 100%? if I tried harder maybe it would be better.” Maybe it’ll get better? What’s life post pandemic and when is it coming, I can’t know. I’ve been depressed, will I get better? Will it change things? I also adore his parents, they’ve been amazing to me, they inspire me. they’ve opened their hearts to me. losing them weighs heavy. I love Malcom very much, he’s been a good friend and we’ve built a nice little life together that has a lot of parts working. How do you decide what day to hurt someone you love? Idk...I guess I entered this relationship to learn.

The Meth Addict has loomed large in our relationship and casts a long shadow. I’ve talked about it with Malcolm but I’m not sure he fully understands it. almost 3 years since my birthday we hooked up. That’s a long time. It’s as long as the relationship I had with my first love. I can’t predict the full story Malcolm and I will have, but I can see a potential break up looming closer. I struggle with it every day. Some nights, like tonight, it’s seems pretty clear cut. If I think this way now it pretty much proves I want to break up, right? But tomorrow morning he’ll make me tea and we’ll talk about our weekend plans and I’ll think “oh this is so nice, what was I even thinking about last night? I’m getting in my own head.” So I don’t know! I think about women a lot. I think about how I talk frankly about my bisexuality on tumblr and yet my experiences with men outnumber that with women. I feel like I’m cheating sometimes, like I’ve lead you guys to believe something that’s not real even though I’m not lying. I think about how I never want to cheat on Malcolm but I get crushes and I want to sleep with women and I wonder if I should be a mom and I think about his parents and it gets confusing. I feel guilty about thinking about our convenience because that’s cheating him and cheating me, but sometimes I wake up happy and much happier than I’ve been in 10 years.

So I guess the reason I’m dating a scrote is because I’m complicated and have a bit of a messy life, and I live day to day, and we make micro choices that lead to macro choices and then we make macro choices that lead to micro choices, and I haven’t pulled the trigger on breaking up with him yet. He was part of the healing journey because, well, he was here. In my real life. It turns out the women we follow on tumblr are very very human with lives far more complex that can be summed up in a few posts on tumblr. Maybe ask me in 50 years why I dated Malcolm, I’ll probably have a better idea why. 

[leomitchellart]

So… about this latest Inktober controversy….

Time to begrudgingly chuck in my two penneth… (Remeber you can always press “J” to skip this post altogether)

As most of you may or may not know, Alphonso Dunn released a Youtube video wherein he publicly accused Jake Parker, and creator of the Inktober challenge, of plagiarising his book. Both of these men are public figures, artists specialising in pen & ink. In the video Dunn looks at the preview pages and flip through footage of Parker’s “Inktober All Year Round” and says they draw many similarities in the illustrations, language and layout that he used in his own book, “Pen & Ink Drawing”. Parker’s book was set to this month. Hense why Dunn only used footage and not a physical copy.

Since the video’s release, the art community has been very spilt down the middle. The book’s publisher has halted the launch of Parker’s book until the matter can be investigated. Even DeviantArt cancelled their own Inktober event thing (I’ll admit I don’t keep up with these things DA keeps doing). Parker has since released a statement in the matter. Now it’s up to the courts to decide what’s happening next. The video itself is an hour long, but it’s crucial to see it yourself. 

People are, understandably, outraged after seeing it. This seems like a shitty thing to rip-off Dunn - not to mention stupid. Since Dunn is the more popular pen & ink artist with more social media followers and name recognition. Many have called to boycott inktober and condemn Parker. I’ll admit, I was right alongside them at first, at least for feeling outraged. The similarities are there. But if YMS’s Kimba video has taught me anything, it’s that, even if an accusation of plagiarism may be obvious at a cursory glance, sometimes it’s important to take a more critical eye and do more research to learn that things aren’t as cut and dry as they first seem. If there’s a lesson I can take away from the internet as a whole, it’s that no one thinks about the consequences of mob mentality.

The most common defence of Parker is that because they’re both books about pen and ink drawing, then they’re inevitably going to be similar. I’ll admit that, when you pick-up so many art books, a lot of them will cover the same basic grounds of materials, tutorials, strokes, techniques etc. The parts about rendering textures on spheres and cubes isnt new. Look up “texture study” and you’ll see so many examples of artists rendering these kinds of things digitally. I’ve also noticed a common theme of people more formally educated in art pointing out how none of these are original. Everything down to the steps and illustrations are things they’ve learned from years ago. Since I'm a pen & ink artist, inspired by my love of comics, I have quite a few books about inking: Dunn’s included. I own both his books and still highly recommend them. I didn't even preorder Parker’s book. Ironically because I didn't think it could offer anything new that my other books hadn’t already.

While Ethan Becker took the time to cross-examine Dunn and Parker’s books with several others, there weren’t many of the ones I actually owned. So I looked to my shelves to see what I could find. Books like:

“The Art of Comic Book Inking” by Gary Martin & Steve Rude

“How Comics Work” by Dave Gibbons & Tim Pilcher

“The DC Comics guide to Inking Comics” by Klaus Janson

“Making Comics” by Scott McCloud

“Stan Lee’s How to Draw Comics”

I’m sure there’s plenty more examples out there. I was planning to go through all of these and take pictures. But ultimately that’s not the core point of these post. Plus it would’ve taken WAY too long and this post itself, is long enough.

Of course, none of the them are 100% close to Dunn’s in the way they’re displayed. Not as close as Parker’s could be considered. That being said, I know Dunn is trying to claim that he invented these techniques. The nucleus of the issue is how similar they are in terms of order and how these pages are displayed. Some I can chock-up to standard practice, while others seem more coincidental.

If there’s one thing I’m adamant about, it’s that I think that Dunn should’ve messaged Parker first before making the accusation public. Some try to dispute that this would've made it easier for Dunn to be “silenced”, whatever that means; but that sounds a bit conspiratorial to me. Ideally, you confront him about it in private, if he makes any threats or blows you off, get your lawyer on the phone and then make the video. Not only is it the more civil thing to do - but it’s the smarter thing to do. This is a serious legal matter, not just internet drama. While I’m sure Dunn had no intention of tearing Parker down or getting a mob onto him, that’s unfortunately what’s happened. A backlash both from the general artisan community and several companies. Wherein it was left to Parker himself to make this an official legal matter. If Parker’s found not guilty, then this could easily leave the gate open for him to sue Dunn for damages, loss of revenue, defamation of character or whatever else, should he see fit. As could the publishers, given how this affected their sales. Companies responded to the accusation of the video alone, before an investigation could be launched. Sure, it wouldn't be “acting the bigger man” but he’d be well within his right to do it. Dunn showed that Jake has mentioned him before, shown admiration for his career and referenced him in other posts. If it comes to light in court, that Dunn is even cited as an inspiration or source in the book itself, then it’s case closed. 

Then there’s the other possibility that Parker might not have done this on his own, but that he has a team behind the book. If that’s the case, the most I can accuse Parker of is being a hack. I worry Dunn has kneecapped himself for just how badly he’s handled this situation. Made worse by him not having an actual physical copy to assess and just had footage of preview pages to go on. So far, the circumstances don’t seem on his favour. 

I don’t think ill of Dunn. I do think he believes he’s been wronged and no malice in his intentions. I just think he’s made some critical errors on how to handled this. As for Parker himself, I couldn't give a donkey’s doo-dah about him. I’m sure you could accuse me of playing devil’s advocate earlier, but to me, he was the guy who released the annual prompt list. If it really does turn out that he’s a plagiarist and had malicious intent, then fuck ‘im. I never regarded him as an inspiration of mine or paid much attention to him outside of that. It was the community that made Inktober what it is. I’ve never met Parker. Maybe he’s a cool guy? Maybe he’s a bellend? I don’t know.

Granted this isn't the first time Parker has proved himself to be a controversial figure: - Last year people were upset about him trademarking (not copywriting, as many have erroneously claimed) the word “Inktober” and some artists were stopped from selling their related work or zines. Parker would issue a statement: claiming the takedowns were a mistake of “overzealous lawyers” and it’s just a matter of the logo being trademarked. People can sell their Inktober works and even mention they are Inktober-related. Just not use the official logo. On the one hand, from a business standpoint, I get it. It’s the bare minimum you need to do to protect your IP, especially when you have a store. BUT, like most people, I don’t like how, what’s intended as a community challenge, has slowly become more of a brand associated with one man. Hardly a surprise it left a bad taste in so many people’s mouths. But, since it doesn't actually effect anyone’s ability to take part in the challenge, outside of personal principle, I went ahead with it the previous year. 

 - The year before, when asked if one can do Inktober digitally, Parker said the following:

I know some are still bitter about that, but speaking as someone who inks traditionally and digitally, this came across as needless whinging and blowing things out of proportion. Claiming that Jake had derided digital artists and said they were invalid etc etc. Take it from me, challenging yourself to try out different methods to ink traditionally can greatly improve the work you do digitally. It’s like how learning traditional fundamentals of art can still be applied to digital. Plus he never said “No.” he just gave valid reasons about how it makes it a different experience. That said, if you’re someone who can’t afford any kind of inking equipment or pens and only have a selected application to draw on - then none of this applies to you. Just the aforementioned few who took it upon themselves to get angry over nothing. Recently I’ve heard from subscribers of his newsletter that he’s now embraced the idea of people doing inktober digitally, to the point of selling digital brushes for inktober. I’m sure some will call this “backsliding” or “money grubbing” because people aren’t allowed to change their minds or update their statements.

For weeks I’ve been torn on what to do, not being able to solidify one stance over another. One minute I thought #JusticeForAlphonsoDunn then I wonder “Wait maybe I should look again?” to “But wait, those are way too similar!” Having splinters in my arse from sitting on the fence for so long. The longer this went on, however, I began to realise that I can’t take one stance over another. This case is far too muddy and complicated. I don’t have enough sufficient knowledge or evidence. Nor do any of you. We literally only have Dunn’s video to go on. While it’s a good start, it’s not enough to be taken 100% as gospel when it’s the only thing to hand. 

As previously mentioned, a lot of artists have decided to not take part in Inktober at all, or follow different prompt lists. That’s completely fine. A lot of them are based around a specific theme: halloween, kinky stuff, bears, transformers, OCs, Disney or whatever. That has massive appeal. I just can’d do it myself. I prefer the focus on random words, rather than all centred on a single subject; allowing me to be creative with my ideas and execution. I actually did try to make a list of my own random words. Problem is, I worried that because I was choosing my own, I might be subconsciously bias towards certain prompts and not truly challenging myself. Even narrowing down my options was taking too long. In the end…. I’ve decided to just do the official prompts again this year.

For me, that’s what it ultimately came down to. TIME. It’s the middle of September. I can’t afford to wait for the court case to be settled. No other prominent artists I respect have released their own prompt lists. I know there’s been some shitty people who are condemning this choice. Attacking others, accusing them of supporting plagiarism, looking to block anyone who does the official prompts. Even trying to make this a racial issue. Just…. no. 

If someone doesn’t want to take part in Inktober, that’s fine. If someone wants to do the official prompts, that’s fine. If someone wants to do their own prompts, that’s fine.

Don’t go around aggressively making snap judgements or accusing people of taking a side. Do whatever makes you feel comfortable. This has been a shit year, let people enjoy something.

If you look at this situation and it makes you feel angry, and you don’t feel comfortable in taking part in a challenge because of it’s creator. I get that, I literally get that. It’s why I haven't done Mermay. And please don’t mention Pinktober, I’m aware of it, but given his insta video on the subject and the things he said, I quickly came to the conclusion that I can’t take this person seriously. I’m sure this might make me seem hypocritical, but how this differs, if only for me, is the sheer amount Inktober means to me. It’s more than a simple challenge. Inktober's the one thing I’ve been most excited about all year. As it was ruined for me in 2019, when I lost my home and I didn't get to complete every prompt. (Long story, I’m okay now). As we all know, 2020, has been an AWFUL year. We’ve got to take whatever joy we can. As I’ve looked longer at the official prompts, I found ideas I’m really excited for. 

Once I started to really dedicate myself to it, it became a massive event. I hype myself up as I prepare for the busy month. Buy in supplies, clean the house and workspace, cook and freeze meals in bulk to save time, printing off a sheet that allows me to jot down ideas as I plan ahead.  Then once it’s done, after so much work, it makes the reward all the sweeter: Ordering a takeaway, celebrating a great halloween night and still rocking those vibes throughout November. Feeling proud of myself for doing it and seeing myself improve my technique, discipline and earning a few lie-ins to make up for the sleep I lost working. I’m like a kid waiting for Christmas. That said, don’t think that there’s something wrong with you when you understandably can’t dedicate that amount time for a simple art challenge. If anything that’s plenty of reason to why you’re smarter than me. You have a life and don’t push yourself too much.

Now, I need to crack on with the preparations. If you want to boycott Jake Parker, just not buying any of his products should be enough. Doing the inktober challenge doesn't bring attention to him, as I doubt most people even know him as the creator, nor does it even line his pockets. I just hate how cancel culture can do such serious damage like this and then try and put pressure on others to act accordingly without even doing any research themselves. 

As long as you’re not harassing anybody. Just do what YOU want to do. That’s fine. 

[trophywifejimgordon]

It’s over. 

Just as soon as it started, almost, except for the part where it took an eternity. Except for the part where, though Daniel actually has experienced being pitted in a fight to the death before, and this was nothing like that, he just relived the past 35 years of his life, not “flashing before his eyes” so much as being jogged into his memory in chunks, hit by overwhelming hit. Every decision he ever made, and every one that was made for him, brought Daniel here, to this moment, to… victory?

Daniel LaRusso has won every most important fight in his life, and this one is no different; Johnny Lawrence now lies on his back, pinned there by the weight of Daniel’s foot resting on his chest. He’s not struggling anymore, just breathing hard and looking, really looking, at Daniel. Daniel’s not really so sure that he likes it.

He’d been face down, last time. Something like that. Daniel’d hardly had attention to spare on the disarmed bomb, not when his whole world was relief and agony and celebration and Miyagi and the sweeping crowd roaring his name and Ali. He had only even been distantly aware of Johnny handing him the trophy, and had, at the time, actually just assumed that he had been forced to by the bounds of tradition--after all, what did Daniel know, then, about the way of things at tournaments like these? It was only after Mike Barnes neglected to be the graceful loser that Daniel had even started to wonder… but Johnny had been long gone by then.

He’s here now, though. And there’s none of the rest; no roaring crowds, no debilitating pain in his knee, no Ali, no excitement, no relief. No Miyagi, either, but that’s kind of been the problem. It’s all over, and here, in the aftermath, there is only Johnny and Daniel, as there ever was, and looking down at Johnny’s wide eyes, Daniel is hit for the first time by the notion that, for you to win, someone else has to lose.

And of course, that should be no great surprise, no world shattering revelation--that is, after all, the business he’s in. Both karate and cars; it’s cutthroat, and it’s a competition, no matter how much he might preach otherwise (lie) to his class at Miyagi-do. But it is. A revelation. Daniel has spent the past year learning about Johnny Lawrence as a human being, more human than it ever felt comfortable to consider him, seeing him struggle and reach out and lash out and, admittedly, grow. There were times when Daniel had hated him, times when he almost thought they could be friends. But it is only now, staring defeat down into the waiting--not angry, not guilty, just… expectant--expression of his opponent, that it hits Daniel: there is a side to their story, and maybe there always was, where Daniel is the villain.

This breaks the man. That’s not him; he’s never been that. Daniel, growing up, had been friends with action comics and superheroes more than actual people--he tried, of course, but could never quite get anyone to stay. (Anyone but Mr. Miyagi, that is, but Daniel is old enough by now to suspect that he might have had his issues, too.) His mother--always a Daniel fan, as a rule--had encouraged him, told him he was too good for those other kids, anyhow, and he sort of believed her. Then he got older, and there was Kreese and Johnny and Chozen and Silver and Barnes, and the world was black and white, just like in the pages of his comics--there was a lesson in Daniel’s final two years of high school, and it was that his childish worldview had essentially been correct, that there was a good guy, and there was a bad guy, and most of the time, the role of the “good guy” fell to him. Growing up, if it could be called that, had done him no favors; while Daniel as a child had been (okay, he could admit it) a bit obnoxious, he had also been fresh and impressionable and wide eyed, ready to learn, always. Ready to shift his viewpoint. Age, as it does with all, or at least most, had made the walls around his worldview a little more stiff, while trauma (for that’s what it was, he realizes now, Trauma, with a capital T) had cemented them in place. The final, glancing blow to Daniel’s ability to bend before he broke was the death of the man who had taught him to do so in the first place; after he lost Mr. Miyagi, that had been it for him, the nail in the coffin. He was stuck. Unalterable, unchangeable. Bitter, and stiff, and unyielding, and more than any of that, completely unable to see it.

Because, who had time for self-contemplation when you were successful? Who had space for introspection when you were busy and moving up and, by all rights, happy? Daniel didn’t need to look inside or better himself; he was the good guy. He was a g-d damn heroic archetype, baby, and he helped people see the light, not the other way around. 

And that mindset had lasted, it had served him, for the better part of eight whole years, or maybe a lifetime. It kept him going, affirmed his choices and supported his self-righteous streak, for all this time, and it was maybe going to keep powering on forever, through the very end of Daniel LaRusso until

       suddenly

                       it didn’t.

And so he gaped down at Johnny Lawrence (old hat, by now, at being typecast as the villain in Daniel’s personal morality plays) and met his sad, blue eyes with sad, brown ones showing--though he did not know or altogether intend it--pure, abject terror right there on his face.

For the first time since Mr. Miyagi died, Daniel feels a shift, uncomfortable and alien and wild, and so all he can say, deer in the headlights wishing the car would come sooner, is, “My knee.”

He thinks about letting Johnny up, or at least removing his own personal peine forte et dure and making it an option. Daniel thinks about it, he hesitates, but he doesn’t move in the end.

Can’t.

“What,” Johnny says cautiously, expression still indecipherable, or maybe that’s Daniel. Despite the weight on his chest, he pushes himself up a little, halfway into a sitting position and resting on his elbows, and Daniel lets him. Can’t do anything about that, either. 

“You didn’t go for my knee, you never did, even though you knew it was my weak spot. I must’ve left it open about a hundred times, I was stupid--but you didn’t take advantage. Why not, Johnny, huh? What did you get out of that?”

Johnny, like, licks his lips a little, probably (probably?) in contemplation, and his gaze flits between Daniel’s face and his leg, the one that’s still pinning him, the one that he and Bobby Brown but John Kreese most of all had done irreparable damage to 35 years back. He almost seems to challenge Daniel (though it’s probably just his keyed-up confrontation brain talking)--like, oh, you mean this knee?

Daniel isn’t sure what the look in Johnny’s eye means--he’s starting to figure out that he doesn’t understand Johnny Lawrence half as well as he’d prided himself on knowing him before--and there’s a second when half of him thinks Johnny’s about to lick a stripe up the surgery scars he caused and the other half thinks that Johnny’s about to strike first, strike hard, strike one last time and show no mercy as he shreds the tendon with his teeth, finishing what he started 35 years ago and ruining the leg for good. 

Of course, he does neither of these things. All he does eventually is bring his gaze back up to Daniel’s eye--expression steel, more sober than Daniel has ever seen him--and say, “I keep telling you, man, and you don’t listen--that’s not who I want to be. I want to be better than I was taught. And you’re never gonna hear it.”

The truth of Johnny’s statement strikes him--in that moment, Daniel knows that Johnny’s strides toward redemption, his constant game of two steps forward, one step back, have not been petty or self-serving or convenient in the least for him; they’ve been genuine. Johnny has been struggling since their childhood, since he fell in with Kreese, and he’s still struggling right now; struggling to unlearn all the bad, three decades of toxic crap dumped on him and into him, because Johnny sees his faults and sees his failures and he wants to be more than the sum of them. It might mean (and just watch, this revelation is earth shattering) that Johnny is a better man than Daniel, who has never once looked in a mirror to do anything more than adjust his too-expensive tie before heading out on the sales floor. Who would Johnny be if he’d had someone like Mr. Miyagi for a mentor? Who would Daniel be if he hadn’t?

His breath, finally calmed down from the physical exertion, starts to speed up again, heart pounding in his chest, and oh, sure, why not, Daniel thinks he’s going to have a panic attack. The least he can do is free Johnny from the pin before he does so; things will probably get really, really strange, if not.

Shaky, trying to control his limbs and remember--well, pretty much anything about the simplest breathing techniques, Daniel lets him go. 

After another second’s deliberation, he reaches down a hand.

“You’re wrong, Johnny,” he says (because nothing between them can be without petty disagreements, not even this), eyes focused on something he couldn’t name if his life depended on it, a spot on the floor just behind Johnny’s shoulder. The floor, the hardwood floor he’d installed himself, even after Amanda had dropped several hints that she wanted it done professionally, because he could handle it, and he had; his floor, in his house, because--oh, right--they’re in his house, his house in Encino, and this whole thing should reek of normalcy, and yet. “I hear you.”

The fight drains out of him entirely, and all of a sudden, Daniel is nothing so much as he is tired. Johnny takes his hand and lets himself be pulled up, and they’re both left standing, shells of men, hollow. Nothing inside. They look at one another and the reflection of their nothingness, and Daniel….

Well. Daniel, is broken.

And then, in a perspective shift like an earthquake, like a typhoon off the coast of Okinawa, like a crane kick in the fucking head, he just may be reforged.

[loudlytransparenttrash]

What do you think of the one of many feminist concept of "toxic masculinity" being like 'boys are afraid to cry and show emotion due to bullying by other males' but from what I see, unless the guy is a stereotypical obnoxious frat bro, I have seen males being supportive towards each other and it's usually feminist who label male emotions as fragile. I'm wondering if there is any truth to men perpetuating making fun of weakness in other men thus creating "toxic masculinity" if you get me

Yeah, they often say boys need to be emotional, gentle and sensitive but then turn around and encourage girls to rid themselves of those traits and act like the frat bros they despise. Masculine traits in males is toxic and harmful, for women it’s empowering and badass. The idea that it’s best for men to be emotional and communicate their feelings like women do is based on a narcissistic assumption that the way we communicate is best and men should be forced into imitating us; all part of erasing our innate differences, for men’s own good, of course. There’s no doubt some men will often size each other up and will present themselves strongly when they’re placed in a competitive environment, there’s also many reasons why some men don’t like showing their emotions, but generally I think guys are just as caring, thoughtful and expressive, they just show it in ways that are weird to us, usually with less tears, dramatics and much more privately. There’s nothing wrong with encouraging boys to be empathetic and respectful but there’s also nothing wrong with them wanting to be strong, driven and not let feelings get in the way sometimes. 

Yet in schools across the western world, young men are forced into lectures, workshops and activities that teach them that the way they communicate and their very masculinity in general is dangerous, poisonous, toxic. The term "toxic masculinity” originally had nothing to do with what feminists are teaching today. For example, one book that seeks to raise awareness of issues that men face, titled “Man Enough: Fathers, Sons, and the Search for Masculinity”, highlighted one of the earliest examples of toxic masculinity in literature. “Without a father in residence, men may go through life striving towards an ideal of exaggerated, even toxic, masculinity,” the author of the book, Frank Pittman, said on the topic of young men without fathers. While the term was first popularized by grassroots writers, particularly by men seeking to raise awareness of male-specific issues, the term has recently been hijacked by the feminist establishment as a way to scapegoat, blame and denigrate men as a whole. In the college classroom, toxic masculinity is presented to students as some kind of disease that affects all men and women alike. When this is taught, no counter arguments are given, and there’s never any mention that this is actually a theory about the manifestations of masculinity as opposed to truth.

Many enjoy the “toxic masculinity” framework, because it allows them to contextualize all of the bad experiences and imagined grievances they’ve had with men under a broad umbrella. Lamenting toxic masculinity is the best way to blame men as a class without directly pointing the finger. And if masculinity is really toxic, then what’s the remedy? The neutralization of maleness? At the very least, it’s a way to undercut what makes men essentially men so feminist women can feel a little more powerful and neuter some of the competition in order for them to achieve their ultimate goal of putting women in charge. 

[cosmicclownboy]

Me finishing something I struggled to write....wow it was actually likely :)

When his father is alive the idea of going to therapy is suffocating. It continues to be throughout his years in the air force until the day it's mandated because by that point everything was suffocating. Waking up. Doing his physio. Simple tasks.Hard tasks. He had survived against all the odds but a part of him felt dead. So a part of him was in this limbo where he always felt like he was dying. The first session he stares at the clock inching the minutes until the clock hand rests on the hour change. The second he stares at the glass of water. By the third session he's exhausted he hasn't slept he still hears the screams and the blast in his mind so he slowly lets the man in not to everything. Not to his dad but to the blast. He was diagnosed with Complex PTSD and he was offered many ways to help with it. He goes to his sessions. He does his physio. Alex slowly builds himself up then he goes back to work.

It goes well for the most part until someone slams a door shut and he has to spend an hour in the bathroom trying to eradicate the weight on his chest and how to stop feeling cold. His therapist offers anti-anxiety medication and whilst he nods his head eyes cloudy he hears his father's words.

"Manes men don't cry it's a sign of weakness. We are soldiers, not Sally's"

He tries different antidepressants settling on one that helps his thoughts slower and that helps him sleep. None of his friends knows it when he heads back to Roswell except Kyle after he's let in on the alien secret and he makes him his doctor in case of shenanigans.

His father dies and he thinks maybe things can be different better in a way he never thought possible. The statue gets put up and he has a panic attack so bad he spends the next two days in bed. It takes him two weeks to think about it really think about it. To face the battle he has to jump right in and the idea of therapy doesn't seem so suffocating any more he's no longer afraid just determined to make strides. With Kyle's help, he finds one that specialises in childhood domestic abuse as well as having experience with veterans. She helps him in ways he didn't think was possible and maybe a year ago the idea of the traffic light method would have had him rolling his eyes or silently repressing whatever emotions he had. But maybe this could be a good thing.

Michael is the first to notice they are on a recon mission together and he's passing across the really good coffee from Bean me up he raises his eyebrows at the sight of an orange bracelet.

"Didn't think you liked orange? expanding the airforce's colour scheme?"

He huffs at that. Who said he didn't like orange?

"My therapist said because of my upbringing and complex PTSD I have a hard time vocalising or communicating my feelings so she suggested a traffic light method. Green is a good day when my emotions are in check. Orange is okay I can manage the day. Red is when-

"everything too much"

"Yeah. On red days I write down everything as to why it's red including my triggers and talk them over with her. It also helps people around me recognise when I'm in that headspace"

Michael shuts his door purses his lips and blows into his own coffee cup.

"I'm glad you're talking to someone"

"Me too. Now, are we gonna recreate a buddy cop movie extraterrestrial style or what? Come on, Guerin don't tell me you don't want to unleash your nerd. This is a safe place"

Michael takes a swig of his own coffee shaking his head before chuckling and taking the wheel. Maybe they share a lot more longing looks then friends would normally. They've just always had a connection under the surface beating and bubbling all on its own.Unspoken and beautiful.

More often then not he wears the orange one. The first time the green bracelet graces his wrist is the day the homeless dog he found slowly offers her belly to be rubbed. Yeah, that day was worthy of a green one. The day Nova finds him and the days that follow which end in his house having a dog bed in pretty much every corner. He might end up replacing his leather couch but who cares it's just a couch. It has nothing on her.

It's only when the days veer closer to the fourth anniversary of that day he truly struggles. Phantom pain comes in waves and he grips every surface he comes in contact with. The days slowly blur together it's a cocktail of depression, sleep deprivation and nightmares that has him on the Tuesday reach for the red bracelet. He finds the Crashdown is a minute from where he is and he's in desperate need for coffee.

Communicating hasn't always been easy for him and Michael especially their fight and flight being fight or fuck over the past decade but they've been trying their hardest to strive to be better to build a foundation. The bracelets were always something Michael immediately sought out every time they were in each other's vicinity. He saunters into the Crashdown buckle first and smooshes himself into the booth without a second thought grabbing one of the menus and seeing what new alien pun food Isobel helped conjure. It isn't until he finishes his order smiling at Liz that he finally looks up to Alex who's completely dissociated. His eyes are dark and sunken his milkshake untouched and he just looks lost. Michael's eyes drift to Alex's fingers noting the tremors before his eyes peer up further and he sees the red bracelet. Michael has a choice at this moment he could leave Alex to it but something in his heart tells him that the days of leaving are behind them. So he slowly reaches for the right hand that tremors and lightly laces the fingers between them. By the time he's halfway through his fries, Alex is more self-aware. He looks to their joined fingers and Michael's mouth completely stuffed with fries and looks softly at him. He doesn't unlace them.

"Want to get out of here?"

They end up in their spot the desert vast and unnerving.

"Did I do the right thing driving us here does it bring up anything we can go back if you want? You never really told any of us what to do on a code red day".

He's right he didn't say to any of them what to do. Truth is anytime Alex usually has one of these days he locks himself in a room and allows every ugly emotion to override him until his body tells him otherwise. Today was a new one in that he wanted connection. He wanted to be with Michael and despite the fear of the unknown he confesses this to Michael.

"It'll be four years Sunday"

"Since your leg?"

Alex nods he doesn't really know how to delve into it the only people who know what happened are the people at the airforce. People don't ask they don't want to know and the people who do aren't worthy of the conversation. Not to mention a lot of his job is classified he can only offer what he can.

"It was meant to be a simple job. Twenty of us in and out.Forty minutes on the dot. I was meant to hack a server. We got to the room we swept the entire place we didn't realise there was a pressure-sensitive bomb until Avril took his foot off. He was the youngest".

Recalling it makes his body shiver his hands shake but he needs to do this.

"Only eight of us made it out. Everyone else had spouses and kids. I had a dad who when I woke up from a two-week coma said I couldn't get blown up right. I didn't understand it. I'm good at compartmentalising stuff it's what he taught me to do my whole life but that day...I felt everything then nothing."

They lay there for a while staring at the stars tracing them with their fingers with one hand lacing the other. There's a light breeze softly swaying in the air Alex softly turns his body to Michael's until they are laying on the side facing one another. 

"I get that feeling"

The confession Michael makes his heart ache and tighten he ushers the cowboy closer his fingers searching for his curls to slowly run his fingers through. Michael ends up the little spoon and judging by the little hum he makes he thinks he doesn't mind a little bit. Michael had the essence of a cat it's one of the many reasons he loves him.

"I know you do"

He pulls Michael tighter resting his head on his curls lightly pecking the crevice of his head.

"I think it's probably why we push each other away so much. I don't want the painful stuff I've been through to trigger or touch your stuff and neither do you so we pick a reason to walk away thinking the other one will be better off. I haven't been better off have you?"

Michael removes himself from his hold much to his disappointment and sitting up because he needs this conversation to be that of what it is a conversation.

"There hasn't been a day you've been gone where I thought that Alex. I'm just sorry for so many things"

"me too"

By the time he makes it to his house Alex is wiped he needs to feed Nova before she barks the house down. He also should really clean his prosthetic liner doesn't want to wind up getting sick. Not to mention taking his pain meds. Trust Michael to recognise all of this and tells him he'll feed her. He wants to argue but his eyes are drifting.

When he wakes up there's a glass of water his pain and anxiety meds on the bedside table and he's trying to remember how the hell he made it to his bed. Last time he checked he KO'd on the sofa as Nova was yipping at Michael's feet.

Michael.

Alex fumbles for his crutch and heads for the living room maybe he shouldn't make a presumption but he's pretty sure he knows his alien from the back of his hand and sure enough, he comes across to Michael and his Nova sharing the couch or Nova dominating both these things as if they are her own. It's the first time in a long time he's slept and he's hoping it's the first of many times he wakes up to Michael in his house. By the time he makes it back to the bedroom, he's staring at the red bracelet on his wrist and the notebook Michael also placed by the pill bottles sticky note on the top with a drawing of a lopsided penny. He spends twenty minutes writing it all down his triggers that day the way he felt all to make sure for his next session he can talk about it continue to make progress. By the time he's put the pen down and taken his anti-anxiety pill, he's greeted by his girl in the zoomies frame of mind.

"Hey, girl. Do you want to play? Give me a minute to put the leg on sweetie and I'll take you to the garden"

He stares at the three bracelets all meaning different things. Today isn't a red bracelet day so he turns to the orange one. It makes the most sense, doesn't it? Today he can manage yet there's something calling him to the green one. Can he go from red to green from a couple of hours? He'll make sure to ask in his next sessions but Nova excitedly barking wanting to play is reason enough for him to tie the green braids to his wrist.

"Do you always feel the need to dramatically lean against doorways".

His Michael senses are tingling he can't decide if it's a loving Michael thing or maybe the whole cosmic alien soulmate thing.

"You're wearing green today".

"Observant too"

He takes the coffee on offer delighting in the way the black bitterness soothes his soul.

"I think today could be a good day. Nova's happy. Plus you and I had an actual conversation which didn't end in tears, fucking or brokeback mountain angst"

Michael's not wearing his hat or his belt he's just leaning against the door frame with bedhead of the ages curls veering in every destination. He wants to run his hands through them and hold him. Fuck it who says he can't. He curls his head into his shoulder much to his surprise and tucks his arm to hold his waist. He feels the chuckle rumble against his ears

"We've had what ten years of it angst is overrated. You know what's underrated?"

"What?"

"Having breakfast. Holding hands. Watching a movie. Being boyfriends"

Alex feels a kiss against his head and peaks up to Michael softly cupping his cheeks he makes sure Alex's eyes are on his not looking away.

"I love you. If you aren't there yet that's okay. I don't want to mess with your recovery. If you don't want to be with me after everything that's okay too. I just want you to know I'm here and I'm not going anywhere"

Alex puts the cup of coffee down and brings his head up so their foreheads touch.

"I love you too".

Alex knows love won't cure everything and being with Michael doesn't mean it's automatically going to be green bracelets all the time. The red bracelet won't cease to exist. He still gets red days. But he does know this. Whatever the day and whatever colour he wears Michael will rub circles into his hand and hold it just the same. Some days he has a depressive episode or an anxiety attack and between his therapist and the people he loves they help him recognise it's okay. It's okay to be loved. It's okay to need and want people. His father's words can stay in the ground with him. Alex is finally content.