#discussions with kat

[imakatperson22]

Chat I’ve seen a tsunami (ha.) of some of the worst takes in this fandom surrounding the golf bts photo and some are more egregious than others but I want to address one specifically: The idea that Gerrard would discriminate less against Buck for being queer because he has “cis white male privilege” or even try to seek a rapport with Buck.

Whiteness has never historically been a saving grace for minorities or do y’all not remember how people “with even one drop of colored blood” based on their ancestry were considered nonwhite, no matter how they appeared? If you are ANY sort of minority in the past, that was enough to cast you out, no matter your skin tone. Matthew Sheppard was a white man and if you don’t know that name, I suggest you learn it today. The hate for minorities of any kind was always stronger than the love of whiteness.

Gerrard, as a character, represents the past and its regressive nature. He’s not going to all of a sudden be just fine and dandy with Buck being queer just because he’s a cis white masculine man.

Did we all collectively forget that Gerrard called Tommy, another cis white masculine man, a fairy, which is a gay slur? The man has enough hate to go around for EVERYONE.

[lesbiangiratina]

Throwing up rn

[poltergeistsoup]

Girlrillaz…and Udon…if u will

[clonerightsagenda]

I am one chapter into Admiral Jole and the Red Queen and I'm reeling:

Diversity win! The militaristic space empire has a co-ed military now.

Aral Cordelia and Jole were in a throuple.

Posthumous gay IVF throuple babies....

Cordelia is going to let the posthumous gay IVF throuple babies be a surprise for her current children

"I'm ok with Aral cheating on me because I knew he was bisexual" is not as encouraging a line as perhaps Bujold thought it was but considering the text mentions they'd discussed it in theory I'm choosing to interpret this as 'Cordelia gave him her blessing but didn't think he had the guts to do anything about it and then got home and went eyyyy party'

[redemn]

folks ,   there is a reason why the only two options ,   whenever a woman asks if arthur would like a good time ,   are "decline" and "reject" 😭   i can count on exactly one hand the amount of people arthur would sleep with .   this is not the place to go if you want horny arthur posting , anon ! it takes a lot for arthur to be open to it .

[bitegore]

if your ocs were bosses in a video game, what do you think their boss fight would be like?

[cuteniaarts]

2 hour rough drawing of Ehuang, my precious Green Opal child who I don’t draw nearly enough <3

[cinematicnomad]

my therapist is like, so we made it through the childhood trauma aspect of your luggage, how about we move onto your relationship hangups now??

[tigirl-and-co]

i like imagining watching movies and stuff with my F/Os, but a lot of them are shitheads and the rest are stupid as hell, which is a problem when a lot of the movies I watch are cult classics, kinda esoteric, or both.

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

i mean,,,, if you look at tiny's egg in comparison to guy diamond, that's already big enough to equate to pushing out a baby for humans. and with how big bruce & brandy's kids are it's possible that the eggs are bigger, as well.

in other words, bruce is a kiwi bird

@razzle-zazzle do you know what the bird bit is about

also someone fucking save Bruce bc that sounds BRUTAL

[afro-elf]

the 'biracial black people (women, because this mostly affects women) aren't black but a secret third thing' discourse has gone so far that i'm seeing people get surprised that biracial black women face anti-black racism and misogynoir........

[clonerightsagenda]

While talking with people about the ways FMA approaches the topic of Ishval, I've realized it falls into a SFF trend I jokingly call "are we the baddies?" stories. These are stories that focus on characters from a colonialist and/or imperialist society who are active parts of the imperial project, and they often spend most of their time investigating harms coming to people within the empire. Examples include Imperial Radch and the Locked Tomb. (Nona has started to move beyond that, although the core characters in Nona remain former high status imperial citizens.)

What I've noticed is that these stories are often written by comparatively privileged residents of imperial/settler colonialist nations (America, Aotearoa, Japan, specifically Hokkaido). Something that has also interested me is that there's often a level of distancing imposed through the characters' races. Many of the 'are we the baddies' stories by white authors that I've read have mostly brown characters (whether this is because ambiguously brown spacefutures are trendy, it's a quick way to check the diversity box without having to research culture, or they don't want to ask us to sympathize with white imperial villains, idk) whereas FMA makes its fascist military state European and Germanic-influenced, gesturing toward Japan's imperial history via a former ally without confronting it directly.

I've seen enough of these that I wonder if it's people trying to grapple with what it means when instead of being one of the scrappy rebels fighting the faceless evil empire, you are a citizen of the evil empire. What does it mean to be part of that system when you consider yourself, your family, your friends to be good people? How do you become more and more complicit? What can you do about it?

That's a storyline that will probably hit people differently depending on whether it's a question they're wrestling with or if they've been victimized by these systems and never had to stop to go "huh are those the baddies"? And there's certainly room to criticize stories like these for glossing over the damage done to external victims of empire, but I think they're deliberately focusing on people within the system for a reason.

[thebirdandhersong]

It's really interesting to explore the place of religion in the Lockwood and Co universe, partly because Stroud sort of paints it as a coping mechanism/blind faith/mental crutch in the books (or extrapolates things like ghost cults, the Combe Carey monks, etc. from it)

[cuteniaarts]

@katkastrofa: *writes a single throwaway line in one chapter of Lost and Found that is never referenced again*

Me, completely randomly and with no prompting: Alright, bet–

[gritsandbrits]

Kat from wendell and wild meeting my oc Alisha bc we need alt/goth black girls

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Dismantled Chapter 8

AO3

mutant mayhem popped off guys i might just write fic for that too

Trigger Warnings: discussions of injury, violence/gore, speculated child abuse, panic attacks, and kidnapping

2441 words

Donnie stumbled out of his room on unsteady feet, stomach gurgling painfully. How long had he slept? His head did not feel much better from last night, but at least he could see things without stars bursting over his vision with pain.

The yokai was already in the kitchen, cooking up something that Donnie couldn’t quite identify yet.

Upon noticing him, he smiled wide, sharp canines revealed. It didn’t set him on edge like it had before. “Look who’s finally awake,” he said with a teasing lilt.

“What time is it?” he asked, feeling much like his head was screwed on backwards.

“Not too late,” was the reply. If his head were any clearer, he’d be unsatisfied with that response, but as it was… he was struggling just to walk. “I’m making breakfast,” he continued, gesturing to what looked like a yokai equivalent of pancakes. Interesting. 

Frankly, Donnie was just grateful to be eating solid food, so he wasn’t about to complain about it. 

“Oh, could you grab the pitcher from the fridge? I’ve gotta make sure these don’t burn.”

He glanced over to the fridge, mildly confused. He couldn’t recall being actually asked to do anything in his time here. Was there actual progress being made here?

He swung the fridge door open, quickly spotting the target. It was smaller than what he’d expected, but that wasn’t his primary concern. Whatever was inside could not possibly be consumable. It was pink, but not in a strawberry lemonade kind of way. Honestly, it was unlike any “beverage” he’d ever seen, and he lived with Leo and Raph. Those two would mix together and consume anything. It was… certainly something to behold. 

Or, well… he was supposed to live with them. He was supposed to go back to them. What was he doing here, again?

“All done! Come sit.”

Heart heavy, he returned to the table, pitcher in hand. 

A plate stacked with a few pancakes was set in front of him, along with an empty cup. Displeased, Donnie glanced from the cup to the pitcher, grimacing. 

“Can I just have like… water? Or coffee?” He asked, passing his empty cup between his hands, fidgeting. 

“Coffee, at your age…” he grumbled, “you’ll stunt your growth.”

Donnie straightened in his seat, eager to share his knowledge. “Actually, there have been several studies disproving that. It’s an old myth that likely stemmed from what seemed to be connections to osteoporosis, but that didn’t even turn out to be relevant.”

His not-father grinned slightly, amused. “You just have endless knowledge in that head of yours, don’t you? I’m impressed.”

He preened at the praise, slightly giddy that his fun facts were actually met with interest. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d supplied Splinter with any fact that had been met with much of a reaction at all. Unless you counted the classic “shut up, I’m watching television,” as a reaction. It kind of just felt like the default, most days.

“Tell you what,” he said, “just try one sip of the juice, and if you don’t like it, you don’t need to drink it.”

“That is supposed to be juice?” He asked, skeptical. “What kind?” 

Were he not eyeing the drink like it would bite him, or perhaps had he not been off his game since waking up as he had this morning, he may have caught the way his makeshift caretaker shifted, nervous. 

“Oh, it’s a… blend,” he supplied, slightly stilted. “Like a sort of fruit punch, you could say.”

It certainly didn’t look like any fruit punch he’d ever seen. Still, if taking just one sip would be enough to grant him some nice, plain water…

He was thirsty, after all.

With a begrudging sigh, he picked up the pitcher, making a show of pouring in the most minuscule of drops possible. 

He frowned down at it. One sip. He could do that. If he had been able to survive pipe goop chicken last lair games — arguably the worst moment of his life when it came to anything regarding flavor. Or sanitation. Or breathing. — he could do this, no problem.

“Can’t I just determine I won’t like it based on every other observation about it?” he asked once more, the smell hitting him too strongly as he gagged. 

“It tastes much better than it smells, I promise.”

It smelled artificial. Furthermore, it smelled kind of like Draxum’s lair had — before they’d blown it up. He didn’t know what kind of garbage that mad man had been cooking up in that lab, but if he had to choose between drinking one of those concoctions and being thrown off a roof… 

The expectant gaze of the man who claimed fatherhood — what a mess of “parental figures” he and his brothers had. A creator that had tried to end humanity, a temporary disaster of the spider b-witch that had sung his praises until he’d let his guard down, a man-rat that had never read a book on parenting in his life, and now this fox yokai that Donnie didn’t even know the real name of (which made it frustratingly difficult to refer to him, even mentally, because lord knows he wasn’t about to bust out “dad” this soon. Or ever! Because he wasn’t insane.) Hadn’t there been a point to this train of thought? Why was he being watched so intently—?

Right. This stupid drink. 

With a long, drawn out huff, he lifted the cup to his mouth, taking his time in tilting it back until the tiniest, tiniest drop landed on his tongue.

The plan was to dramatically place the cup back on the table with a request/demand/beg for just water, please. That plan, unfortunately, was instantly thrown out the window the moment the flavor began to hit him. He didn’t even entirely register that he’d knocked back the tiny amount in his cup until he found himself pouring a full glass. He needed more. 

It tasted like — like perfection. It didn’t taste like any real food, per se (at least, none Donnie had ever tried), but if he had to assign the flavor based on vibes alone, then it tasted like… it tasted like science. Not in a chemical, monster energy can sort of way. But in the satisfaction of it. It tasted like how he felt when he finished perfecting an invention. It tasted like hours of work, tinkering away on whatever he wanted to. It tasted like genius. Like a genius that could ramble as long as he pleased, who would always have someone listening with genuine interest. 

That shouldn’t have even been possible. But alas, it was true. He couldn’t think of a single other way in the world to describe what the juice tasted like.

The flavor didn’t change as he took another drink of it. But the sensation did. It went down his throat more thickly this time, the chill spreading from his esophagus through the rest of his body like ice.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, kiddo!”

He blinked owlishly at the yokai before him, who was gently prying the cup from Donnie’s hands. At some point, it had emptied itself.

“Not so gross after all?” he offered after a moment with a triumphant grin.

“This… doesn’t taste like fruit punch?” He asked lamely. 

“Really?” He hummed, glancing with a rapid calmness to a clock on the wall. “It’s a Hidden City staple, I’m surprised you didn’t grow up with it.”

“Yeah, well… I didn’t exactly know yokai even existed until approximately a year ago, so…”

“How come?”

He shrugged, pushing the food around on his plate. “Our dad wasn’t big on sharing.”

His companion’s mood soured at the mention, but surprisingly enough, didn’t seem mad. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he was contemplating something. He glanced at the clock again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Technically, you already did.” He stabbed at his breakfast with a fork. “But yeah, I guess?”

“The scars on your shell,” he said, and Donnie stiffened in his seat. The scars. The Shredder. Never more certain that he was going to die. “They aren’t from… him, are they?”

And that… wasn’t exactly where he’d expected that to go. He laughed slightly in surprise. “What, from Splinter? No, no these are from…” his jaw felt tight. His chest stirred with uneasiness. “They’re from… uh… something else.”

“At your age, what else am I supposed to think?”

“Well, there’s this demon that wanted to end the world or something, so we had to, y’know, fight it—”

“You went up against a—?” He templed his hands, taking a deep breath. “And your… Splinter,” he said, spitting it out like it was one of those foul words that Donnie was no longer allowed to say. “He just let you?”

“No, he was there too… kind of. He and Leo ran off, so the rest of us just had to deal with it until they got back.”

“What kind of—? You see why I’m so concerned for your well-being, don’t you? Nobody has been watching out for you like they should. Sending children out to handle those things, what kind of…” he trailed off into a grumble that Donnie was pretty sure wasn’t meant for him. It wouldn’t have mattered, either way. Because it was the first thing he’d said that continued to echo in his mind.

Concerned for your well-being.

It had been a long time since he’d felt like anyone was particularly concerned for his well-being, especially.

But instead of the giddy excitement he should have felt at the idea that a parent aged adult actually wanted something to do with him? His mind dragged itself even further back, now stuck on something else.

The Shredder.

His father, who should have — he wouldn’t have been able to stop them even if he’d tried. Leo, who had left — with good reason. The rest of them, who’d been hurt for it — none as bad as him. His armor ripped off, deep claws digging into his carapace.

The Shredder. His father. His brothers. 

What little sat inside his stomach for the morning churned uncomfortably. The chill of the juice seemed to crawl right back up his throat, touching the edges of his skull.

The Shredder. His family. Unimaginable pain.

Something unplugged a wire or two in his brain, messing them up. Rebooting him.

Home. Shredder. Bad.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. How are you… feeling?”

“Hm?” He hummed, in a daze. 

“How are you feeling?”

His heart beat all wrong inside his body. The rhythm was off. Something was off. Something was wrong with him.

“I don’t—” he attempted, alarmed to find himself choking up on nothing. He could feel every beat of his heart through every inch of his skin, rushing violently as it pounded away. Was he having a panic attack? Why? What could be setting it off? What were Leo’s instructions on grounding, again?

His breath hitched, terror blooming like a weed and stretching through his limbs. Why was — why was he — dying, he was dying, there was no other explanation — because thinking of Leo felt like Shredder, claws drawing blood and nearly striking fatal. 

Now he was definitely having a panic attack.

He clutched his chest with one hand, mortified that he was beginning to cry. Again. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t think of a single other time he’d ever been this emotionally unstable, a circuit board with faulty soldering, crying on a near daily basis like a child. It made him ache. 

“I don’t want to go back—” he cried, a truth he was unsure of even as it tumbled out of his mouth. Home would get him killed. Home would get him Shredder. Desperately, he gasped for air, his throat too tight, his lungs too empty. “What’s wr-wrong with me—?”

Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong. The freezing chill of his drink from earlier lingered in his throat, and for a moment he was certain he would begin to throw it up. If he had to deal with the sensory nightmare of that right now, he was likely to entirely shut down.

At some point, he was being held in a hug, and while normally he would shove away from such physical contact with much of anybody in this state, right now he could only lean into it as he cried. 

“Oh, kiddo, you don’t have to go back. I promise you’re safe here.”

“But—” he hiccuped, “but I—” couldn’t go back. Home felt like Shredder’s claws slicing through his carapace. It felt like being shoved in a cage by Baron Draxum, threats of torture looming overhead. It felt like nightmares about straight death, brutal and cold. 

What was wrong with him? His heart was going to break through his ribs. That wasn’t right. This wasn’t right. The lair was home, and home was safe, and home was…

His brothers ganging up against him. His dad spending the most time with Leo or Mikey. Shelldon hating him, nearly killing him without remorse due to his brothers’ meddling.

This was wrong. This was wrong. Home had good things about it too. But thinking of his lab felt like tech exploding in his face, his brothers hating him for the gifts he’d lovingly crafted. Thinking of his room felt like I call Dee’s stuff when he doesn’t survive!

Something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right. 

Thinking of his twin brother, of Leo felt like beach balls everywhere. That was stupid. Beach balls were just thin plastic and air, but the mere thought of them was enough to spike his anxiety on a good day. 

“I can’t—” he wailed, his head feeling much like someone was driving a chisel through it. 

“Let it out, bud,” came the gentle instruction, “it’s okay. I’d never make you go back there.”

But why was he so scared of that? Just yesterday, his only wish had been to go back. Now, it filled him with dread so heavy he was terrified he’d sink straight through the earth.

“But why am — why am I—?” he babbled, so confused and so scared and his mind empty for any possible reason why.

“That place was dangerous. You didn’t even realize how much of a traumatic effect living like that would have on you until you were taken out of it.”

He sniffled, shakily nodding as he wiped the tears from his face. “Right,” he managed. In an instant, he was doubled back over, heaving with silent sobs, this time. He just couldn’t stop.

“That’s it… just let it all out, sunshine. You’re safe, now.”