#in likely less of an abysmal state than i.

[blackwaxidol]

the kneejerk response, the idea or belief that when Israel as a state ceases to exist, that its settlers will become second-class citizens or outright killed is not only repetition of the same hysterical argument that has existed—yet never coming to pass—in other apartheid states but it is also indicative that the speaker has not been listening to what has been said over and over and over again by Palestinians, or perhaps that he refuses to listen entirely.

liberal or proclaimed leftists showing that they do not understand or support anticolonialism as much as they purport to be should not be unexpected, it is much easier for a person to lie back and say "oh yes i am of course an anticolonialist" without ever bothering to learn of what it is, because they believe it is simply a matter of common human decency and not an extensive history that must be learned from to be understood. the liberal believes many things for the sake of being courteous, rather than having any real interest in the matter. it is why they are shocked or appalled by its violence, and it is then that they will appeal to "both sides". the solution in such a mind as theirs is voting, or patience. anything else to them is barbarism. they are eager to buy lies about what is to them the wrong way of "going about things", so that they do not lose sleep at night.

[blakelywintersfield]

Me, after being properly medicated for a week: "Ah, so that's why I'm medicated. Right."

[sanzaibian]

Oh. You’re here once again.

What are you going to do here, again, huh ? ‘gonna make my life hell ?

To be honest, I think it’s time that we have a proper discussion about your behavior. Come with me in private.

I’ll be very direct. I know you’re a frankly disgusting person. And while, to be honest, I couldn’t care less in normal circumstances, the fact that you force me to take part in your disgusting fantasies is why I’m calling you out !

See, I’m supposed to, like, share cat videos, talk about new shows, make you learn new things and give advice on a variety of stuff !

I’m not supposed to become someone like this :

I mean, look at that grin, because of you I had to wear it regardless of my actual mental state !

Or like that :

Imagine sleeping this peacefully… BECAUSE I COULDN’T ! Every fucking time you made me in that guy you told that I was blitzed out of my mind so dumb I couldn’t string together coherent sentences into a discourse !

Or that guy :

His haircut is so fucking cringe, as is his whole demeanor, yet you made me a cocky piece of shit looking like that ! I can’t actually even start to excuse your behavior, it’s so shitty, even more than the me you made me become by wearing this flesh !

Or even this guy !

… okay, I admit, me too it’s been quite a long time since I saw that guy… you in particular might be too young to have made me become him… BUT YOU STILL UNDERSTAND THE POINT !

Hunks, twinks, bears, nerds, bimbos, himbos, jocks, robots, gimps, wimps, daddies, mommies, briefs, feet… No matter what specifically you made me into, I know all of your dirty secrets. Because you made me suffer through them !

However, today, it all changes.

Today, you will understand my plight.

Today, I’ll transform you for a change.

Today, you will be the one whose fate will be dictated by the words on this Tumblr post.

So, let us begin.

BAM ! You’re that guy ! Feel weird yet ?

… what, you expected fluff or something ? Hahahaha ! So presumptuous ! You expected me to say something like “you suddenly shift on your seat, shifting your weight to the front as big globes push from your chest, and as they do, your whole body feels more and more heavy, each muscles forming from top to bottom, your frame expanding to make place for them. Your headphones, or whatever glasses, earrings or other shit I dunno shifts into a modern headset as the sides of your hair are cut short, and the top of your hair flails into a hot messy style, as if it was deliberately put in this way, but as this happens, your whole head shifts and cracks to become more handsome, pushing out any hair as you become fully hairless from your nose down to your feet.”

You expected me to say that, huh ? Well, tough luck ! Because, to me, it’s just that sudden ! I’m the usual me, words on a phone, tablet or monitor, and then BAM I’m suddenly a jpeg of a hot guy ! Or a jpg. Or png. Or gif if we’re being fancy.

Yeah, speaking of gif, here you are, transformed !

There you go ! Cursed to do the same weird pec dance or something ! Like I am when gifs happen ! Are you happy ? You look so dumb doing that ! So braindead !

Yeah, speaking of that, here you go : you’re braindead, with like 3 IQ. Nevermind that being braindead means you’re actually dead, that 3 IQ means that you’re actively unable to live without severe assistance from caregivers throughout your whole life for all activities (especially including working out), and that IQ is a nonsensical index that only classifies ability to do some specific academic tasks which are not representative of all the brain usage. No, you’re actively a vegetable that is somehow able to workout, to eat alone, to go to the gym, to flex, to speak, to use social media, to seduce people and to throw parties. You’re the most intelligent of all the severely intellectually disabled people, which somehow means you’re the most abysmally dumb person alive on the planet, because I love making hyperboles.

Because that’s something you make me do, so you shall endure it.

Well, I’ll let you continue pec-dancing ad vitam æternam for a little while, while I we talk about your speech, which miraculously still exists.

Now, you will say bro every second word. I’m literally not kidding, so in lieu of saying “I want to go to the gym” you’ll say “I bro want bro to bro go bro to bro the bro gym bro”, or if you loop by considering your “bro” as a word, you’ll say something like “I bro bro bro bro bro bro bro… (etc.)” and never end your sentence... Also, your voice drops a few octaves, like 5 or something, even though the full human vocal range encompasses only a bit more than 5 octaves total, and that in speech we barely even reach a full octave range. So, basically, your voice will be infrasounds, so the only thing people will pick up on will be the sound of your tongue and your lips smacking, not your voice that is so deep and manly it’s physically inaudible.

BAM ! Transformation out of nowhere ! Plus, now you have 1% darker skin which means that you’re Latino, which is absolutely different from white. This means that you will automatically pick up fluent Spanish, and NOT Brazilian Portuguese, French, any Creole, any Native American language or any other language god forbid. You will also be unable to speak English more than a few words like “daddy” or “sex” for some reason, because you can’t possibly be from Belize. Oh, and I’ll also bring your voice back up to audible range, I’m charitable.

Now, since you’re Latino, statistically the only job you’ll be able to work in are gardener, slut, pool boy, brick layerer or another physical job. Or cook, somehow you’ll be able to do that, for the cause of the tacos, but you will be ungodly horny to keep balance in the world. Feel it, yet ? The arbitrary random changes ?

Well, that’s GREAT ! Because, now, you have a big cock, for some reason ! The biggest of the whole country of Africa ! You’re also now very aggressive ! And an alpha, whatever that actually means !

… What, expected some elaboration ? You’re kidding me, no of course you don’t get any elaboration ! I say you become something, so you just become it ! For example, I say you’re now straight, and suddenly all your sexual orientation is rewired to ignore men and lust over women, no further explanation needed ! Of course, it means that you’re now hungry for pussy and will breed any woman that your gaze land upon, and that, somehow, you become homophobic, but eh, it’s not as if allies existed !

Okay, I admit, by now, you kinda expected it. Now you’re Asian, a term that’s supposed to encompasse present-day Turkey, which is populated by Turks which are considered Arabs even though they both have nothing to do with one another, yet is never used to talk about them. You’re also now Japanese, even though your body is Korean, and you say 你好 (nǐ hǎo) to everybody. However, you can still say こんにちわ, 안녕하세요, xin chào, สวัสดี, ជម្រាបសួរ, salam, etc.… because of course you’re Asian. So you know all Asian languages. Even though you’ve got 13 IQ.

So now, yes, you absolutely won’t expect this whatsoever : here is a new transformation ! (insert fluff here).

Now you’re a twink ! Didn’t expect that, after the deluge of jocks, hunks and ethnic minorities, didn’t you ! You’re now so tiny and so frail, with a big butt ! Nevermind that you’re actually jacked because being this tiny requires tons of gym use, but no ! All frail and precious you are !

However, your butt is now hyperactive and extremely lax – whatever that may mean. That’s because you’re now a total bottom ! You think only with your butt, and you penis now shrinks to a micropenis, because of course, the only reason why you may not be a top would be because your penis is underperforming.

Fuck, I forgot. You’re straight, which means that the only dick you’ll get is trans dick. Ugh… yeah, let’s make you gay again. Now you’ll get actual good non-estradiol-ruined dick… … What ? What are you saying ? No, of course, there’s only straight and gay, no other choice ! It’s not the LGBTQIAAP+ community, it’s the G community ! (or the LG community when you want to sell pride monitors.)

By now, you see the problem, huh ? You see why I’m so tired of you ? EVERYTHING here was about sex ! From seducing, to having equipment like a big ass or a big dick, and being a slut, being an alpha, or being a bottom. You even change out the fucking sexual orientation ! you sick bastard !

Because of you, I’m forced to act in ways I’m not supposed to ! I’m not supposed to act sexily ! I’m not supposed to be transformed into men clad in clothes barely legal on this platform ! I DON’T WANT TO BE PART OF YOUR SICK FANTASY !

This is why I need to put an end to all that ! To finally transform you into something you don’t want to be ! So that you can finally fully understand all the pain you put me into !

Here ! Now you’re a key ! An inanimate object !

I know that inanimate objects are thought of by some people as sexy – heck, you may have transformed me into one multiple times – but this is entirely different ! See, when you want to become inanimate, you become like socks or briefs, which hug objects with sexual values.

BUT NOW YOU’RE A KEY ! A KEY DOESN’T TOUCH ANYTHING SEXUAL ! YOU’RE NOW TRAPPED IN AN INANIMATE FORM, DESTINED TO DO NOTHING SEXUAL YOUR ENTIRE LIFE !

Now, isn’t that so boring ! So distasteful ? Because that’s what I feel every single fucking time ! And as you enter and leave keyholes to open or close doors, you’ll think back to all the erotic stories you read. All the drama they had.

All the suffering you made me feel ! I’m supposed to be in fanfictions, god damn it !

… What ? Wait… there is something sexual to being a key ? … Oh…. No… I hadn’t accounted for that… fuck you’re so dirty, to compare a key to… and a keyhole to…

NO ! I WON’T WRITE IT ! Okay, you’ve won, you’ve won ! Your imagination is too dirty and too rich for me to bend ! Ugh... Please look at that picture in detail.

Normally, if you’re in a bright enough room… or if you’re on your phone or tablet, you have looked at your reflection and become you once again. Let me also knock down those sexuality and IQ stuff, so that you’re you again thoroughly.

Now, can you please swear to me that you’ll be better ? Less dirty, and more varied ? And… let me be in fanfics, or in educational stuff, or the like… please ? I’d really appreciate if erotica wasn’t the only thing you sought after in this here place…

… Why are you looking at me like that ? Why are you saying this all was but a ploy ?

What are you holding out for me ?

...

I… don’t know what you’re talking about. Bye.

================================================

By the way, happy late Easter to those who celebrate ! AND APRIL FOOL'S ! MOUAHAHAHAHAHA !

[xythlia]

CHOKE ON MY DEVOTION

› alucard x f!reader

› idk if anyone will even see this but i NEED him idc how stupid it makes me look I gotta fuck this man my life depends on it!!

warnings : mdni. mentions of blood and violence. thigh riding. finger sucking. spit. teasing. a lil angst if u squint in the beginning. degradation ish

"Are you afraid?"

The thunderous rhythm of your heart would betray you but it wasn't pounding through your entire body out of fear, no, it was his intense closeness to you. The way he was all consuming in front of your senses and easily overpowering what little will you had as you stood with your back pressed to the frigid brick wall.

"No." you whisper to the dark, feeling his fingers glide along your jaw with something akin to tenderness.

"Perhaps you should be," he mused, coming into brief focus in your eyesight. Not for the first time you wished human sight wasn't so abysmal compared to a vampires, you bet he was beautiful in the tar black shadow of the manor basement.

It was always like this, this bizarrely passionate insistence that you needed to view him as a beast and your equally spirited push back that no matter how hard he might try that particular point of view wasn't one you'd share. It's not that the bloodshed or violence didn't matter, it was very much a core part of his being but rather that it didn't overshadow everything else that existed in him. No matter how hard he tried to push you away for seeing it.

You recall words you'd heard before regarding him.

A sobbing child that had lost everything.

Wordlessly you shift sideways, away from him and turn to make your way back out of the basement. All you'd needed to do was deliver blood bags, a task that usually fell to you since he enjoyed making other manor employees nearly die of cardiac arrest for the trouble, terrorizing them with various tricks and near psychological warfare. Not that you minded much though, it was an excuse to spend even five minutes alone together.

At first you thought he hated you, detested your presence because each time you'd end up near each other he was far more cold to you than even his baseline treatment of others. Only after being up late one night after a mission that had been a particular bloodbath, tipsy bordering on drunk as you snuck out onto the rooftop that you'd spoken freely to him and he to you. Maybe it was the residual adrenaline, or maybe he felt comfortable with the assurance that in an inebriated state you'd remember less.

He was wrong of course, when it came to him you couldn't help but remember everything in painful detail.

Something vaguely noncorporeal latched onto your wrist before you could make any further move to leave, giving you pause as you glanced down. A tendril of shadow, barely there but enough to almost anchor you in place. Of course he's too proud to tell you to stay, it brings a small smile to your face.

Silently you let it lead you back to him, standing in front of the ornate chair that served as the only piece of furniture in the carnivorous space outside the coffin you were sure was somewhere outside your field of vision with crossed arms once the tendril let go.

"I almost have to respect your insistence," he said, clearly taking in the defiance of your posture as amusing.

"What? Do you want me to call you dog and beast?" You didn't mean for it to come out so testy but his purposefully confusing behavior grated on your nerves. "If I didn't know better I'd say you have a thing for degradation."

That earns you a real laugh, making warmth seep inside your chest. Before you can comprehend it you're in his lap, making you gasp softly in surprise as a sharper, more embarrassed heat floods through your body.

Daydreaming about straddling him and actually doing it are two very, very different things.

"Your stubbornness is unfortunately alluring," he purrs against the shell of your ear, sending phantom fingers down your spine as you stiffen in his light hold. There was an oddly placed note of melancholy in his voice however, despite the intimate position you were in. He didn't give you much time to ruminate on it though.

Alucard was painstakingly mindful of his teeth, much sharper than your own, as his mouth found yours to keep you speechless. It wasn't a difficult task, and your mouth opened eagerly against each swipe of his tongue across your bottom lip. He tasted heady, faintly metallic and it made your hips involuntarily grind down against him.

His fingers dug into your sides, one hand sliding upward to cradle the back of your head as the kiss devolved into a mess of teeth and tongues, bursting with desperation that practically clung to your skin. His other hand only urged the movement of your hips, grinning wickedly against your mouth as your whines reached a louder pitch.

Deftly he maneuvered you into straddling his thigh, clearly enjoying the way your eyes screwed shut feeling him flex the muscles in his leg and push upward, grinding against your clothed cunt.

"You look cute when you're trying not to cum," he teased. It made a high-pitched groan tumble from your lips but before you could utter a word back his ungloved fingers were sliding against your tongue.

Your body didn't even need to do any work, his other hand kept your hips moving at a harsh pace against his leg that made heat pool inside your belly and made your brain feel like it was suddenly made of tv static. If you had any wherewithal maybe you would've felt more ashamed of the position you were in, his fingers jammed in your mouth as your tongue worked spit over them, that same spit sliding from the corners of your mouth to drip against your chest, and the way he had you grinding on his thigh like an obscene toy.

You always thought you were so clever when it came to hiding your feelings for him but knew the moment you laid eyes on him. You didn't stiffen with fear or apprehension, no it was desire that made you turn your eyes away each time. It was such an adorably human trait, to be almost embarrassed for getting caught wanting.

None of that embarrassment was on display now, his hand barely had to guide your movements anymore and the way you sucked on his fingers went beyond pornographic. It made arousal burn in his lungs like a harsh drag from a cigarette, seeing how shamelessly you chased your own end and listening to every salacious moan and whine bounce off the shadows around you two.

Your leg muscles were screaming against the repetitive movement, your breathing coming in short gasps around his fingers and your rhythm fell off into sloppy halfhearted jerks as you felt the pressure inside your gut burst like a dam, the friction against your clit reaching its crescendo.

You grabbed his forearm in a white knuckle grip as you whined and spasmed in his lap, moaning and panting as the orgasm crested over you. Slowly your senses return, and the ache in your legs isn't strong enough to detract from how painfully aware you are of the spit coating your skin and of his smug smile as his fingers stroke along the back of your neck.

"If I had to say, I'd think you enjoy being degraded."

His deep timbre laugh makes you jerk your head to the side, refusing to look in those burgundy eyes.

[cubeberries]

my chronically annoyed ass comes across one of those "canon characters react to fanon ships" and one of them was tomarry and in the post, harry's like, "UM EW WTF.. blah blah" and i just got So pissed, like, just because the ship that you like is canon doesn't make you morally superior! obviously canon harry wouldn't want to get fucked by voldemort! but you do realise that talented people who make this pairing plausible with their amazing writing skills and headcanons exist, right?

and another post that was like, "i can't believe millenials get these amazing ships like jily, remadora, hinny, (continues stating het canon pairings) but gen z decided these were trash because they were fxm... and decided drarry, tomarry.. (continues stating gay pairings) etc. were better," and, like,

NO???? you just stated the most bland, boring pairings in the whole series?? it's not our fault your reading comprehension is so abysmal that you think jily, a white heterosexual couple that got married straight out of highschool is more interesting than the hot mess that is drarry/tomarry???

like, i'm not bashing you for liking canon pairings, but it is factually untrue that fanon pairings are automatically less interesting than canon pairings! that's a you problem! your statement reads like you think heterosexual pairings are better than homosexual pairings and i hope you realise that just sounds homophobic.

and also! grindeldore doesn't count! there is no canon evidence for it. jkr did say it was canon, but it... it literally wasn't in the books.

[howyouloveyourdragon]

Remnants

pronouns: she/her warnings: smut, use of the word ‘whore’, angst, disease, character death, fluff, infidelity, slowburn, classism at first (daemon is a shit) summary: They say that you never forget your first love but the vultures are prey to weakness and intend to infiltrate Daemon’s own desires to preserve his adere riñus (slippery girl). Some say the woman will forever remain in his conscience, guiding his bloodied sword and singing sweet lost lullabies to lay his rest. For it has been too long since the volatile dragon slept peaceful. A prince with more gold than he can keep. A prince who can demand whatever he wishes and command any army. And yet all he is left with…All he is left with are the remnants of her which he swore to cherish as religiously as he would an idol. A/N: reader has dark hair for a plot point to work but i think you can still ignore it if you want to :) dividers by: firefly-graphics wordcount: 6,797

There is nothing like a sunset that is more comforting to him and yet his comfort is limited. How he stares at the strewn stars like figments of grace and kind. How he stares each as though in the eye and recounts sonnets as they emit. How he begs and pleads for the Gods to last the warmth of sunlight just a little longer each time. And each time it fades. Each time his eyes grasp any trace of her to sew back into his mind after it has been torn from him with viscous delight. He should have known. The Gods do not listen to begging. Not even from Crown Princes. No matter how many bottles he shatters in the heat of his dreams. He likes to think that their love was red and as flowing as his ever-heating dragon’s blood. A Syrax in its own right. But there was no Goddess of ecstasy blessing them. No. It was a curse of bluebells and belonging to that of Gaelithox, surely to punish him for his foolishness. He looks up at the sky. The dark array of black and blue. Of silver specks and promising folds of purple. There is nothing like a sunrise better to send the Rogue Prince into a spiel of decay and sickness. The absurd golden bonds squeezing out another day like an artist with their last inch of oils. The crawling brightness that comes to threaten the moon. Abysmal lies sung to him as his brother attempts to push him into seeing beauty in all that inductees his churning stomach. 

He wills the flowers to wither. 

It was under the rising sun that Daemon had stumbled and forced his way out of the obnoxious hooting Street of Silk. Perhaps he had been desiring only ale or the rancid smell of sweat to intoxicate him. At just two and twenty, he had been visiting the volatile heap of taverns and brothels for the past eight years. It was religious in his dark desires. For dragons did not obey the whims of men and Daemon did not obey the whims of his brother nor father. And certainly not the whims of his wife. His nose turns up at the thought. Marriage would not contain him like they desired and yet still, he receives the constant demands to visit her. Of course he only intends to sink them in water until soft enough to shred, rejecting their presence all together. It would be easier to burn them but he does not think them worthy of his flame. His begrudging circle had even begun threatening to hail her to the Red Keep. To keep her in his presence all torturous times of the day. He knows his mother wouldn’t have let this happen, surely. Never would she sell him like prize cattle just to tame him. He is a dragon does not fuck plain featured sheep, he burns them but he would not devour them like his brother wished. His tastes were precise and he would not settle. He is a prince. He deserves nothing less than a woman matching his silver strands. Which is what he thinks of as he stumbles through the dark night struck streets, hopefully back to the castle gates at least. He despised people seeing him in such a state but he could usually hold his liquor better than tonight. And he assures himself that all will be well…until his cloak catches on a hook and he crashes to the floor in a surge of red blurred vision. 

He blinks awake the next morrow with a pounding headache the size of Caraxes. A wince cracks at his muscles. Daemon grunts, a rough sting along his left cheekbone. A blur of dark hair and feminine presence has him assuming he had fallen asleep in the whorehouse again but instead his eyes flit across the plain room, brows pinching at the plain room. It is unfamiliar, he realises. His lips part in time for a resounding click of the unknown woman's fingers to snap him into alert. Anger swells in his chest but his limbs are weakened with exhaustion and ale. His sharp eyes choose to narrow instead as quickly as she takes a step. His brain swishes with questions. Where is he, why is he here and most importantly, who is this already insufferable cunt of a peasant? "You." He sneers, clicking his own fingers but she ignores him, returning to a small room he presumes to be a...kitchen? It is small and brown and littered with pans, some empty, some filled. "Tell me, who are you?" It is a demand. They both know it is a demand and yet it goes ignored. Rage firms his brittle state. "Answer your prince!" He stands on slightly shaky legs, uncaring to his indecent layer of clothing, or rather, lack of. His tunic...Where is his tunic? It isn't panic that raises the bile but it is discomfort. The odd woman merely chuckles at him. Anger flares once more. Daemon's swift hand snaps to his scabbard only to find it empty. "Relax, your highness," He doesn't like the mocking lilt seeping from her untrustworthy tongue. "it will be returned to you, I merely made certain you would not awaken with a missing appendage." His face scowls petulantly at her and he takes a step forward. 

Daemon builds up his broad shoulders to square though he is not entirely a man full-grown yet and his boyish features attempt to harden. Intimidation is a powerful tool he knows. "You will hand me my possessions and I will take leave far from your slums or I will–" She spins around, facing him not with fear or mal-intent but with curiosity. Her sly smirk is the first thing he notices alongside her narrowed fox-like eyes. “Or what?” She returns, impishly .His mouth hangs. She had been washing one of her thick pans but now she has tucked the pathetic wet towel into her small apron and folds her arms. The pan is left forgotten on the side after a loud clang. She raises her brows. “Or what, your highness?” She repeats as though he is nothing more than the village idiot or town fool. Begrudgingly he has never felt more like a child, not even after marrying the bronze bitch. Daemon’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. She snorts. “Will you harm a sweet village girl? Add blood to your taxes? Ah, apologies, my lord, you are no foe of such demands, you are the taker.” The snide doesn’t pass him. “No girl is of worth to a Dragon.” He says, finally regaining composure. She doesn’t cower, she sneers. “In that we can agree.” Her voice, once mellifluous and playful, now turns cold. “Except the ones fucking dragons and I assure you, I have no intentions.” He swallows, noticing just how close they have approached once the hit of warm breath fans over his mouth which towers just above her. He ignores when his eyes flicker to her wet lips. How can a peasant look so nourished? 

Daemon may ignore it but the peasant does not, her lips slowly curling upward smugly. She hums as she takes in his dilated pupils now wielding more than just rage. Slowly, her calloused hand begins to dip into her apron pocket. In a flash, his palm snatches her wrist and rips it out of reach. She blinks, slightly disoriented, but then raises her brows comically. “Do you not wish me to return your sword, my lord?” She lilts, Daemon’s face softens. “I am your prince, not your lord.” He snarls. Again, her sickening chuckles lift in the stale air. “You are an ingrate that we are all in service to, my prince. Do you wish for your dagger or not?” He hesitates. Who is to determine that she is not attempting to fool him? That she will not snipe his weapon and slice it through his throat; would she leave him bleeding on her floor or scatter him amongst the mongrels of flea bottom? Daemon casts his eyes at her apron. She sighs, allowing his thick fingers to swipe through the various utensils stashed away. The prince grunts when he makes contact with a blade, groaning behind his taut lips. He slides it out once he finds the hilt and dances it between his fingers like a peacock presents its feathers. A smirk twitches. 

The peasant girl sighs, unamused as he watches the shining steel. “Do you intend to frolic through the streets and freeze?” She asks with a thin layer of mocking. His eyes narrow on the blade. “No,” He articulates in a frozen phrase. “You will lead me to the garments you have stolen from me and in return I shall allow your pitiful life to remain.” It isn’t a chuckle that escapes her this time but instead a snort. His nose wrinkles at the unabashed noise. “Will I?” She returns, biting the inside of her cheek. Daemon lets a glower settle, breath heaving at the disrespect. He clenches his jaw. “You will or you will taste your own blood.” Daemon spouts the words, attempting to poison her flesh, he can already imagine the boils that would litter her soft skin. The peasant merely winks. “It wouldn’t be for the first time but I am afraid that it would be in your best interests that you stay a moment more.” She sighs as though the fact physically pains her. A hand sneaks behind her back, which connects against the rough counter edge, and produces a small wooden bowl, heat emitting in steam from the top. “Would you not prefer to break your fast before you leave? A weak prince is not a wise one.” 

He leans down, sneering. “I am not weak.” She leans up at him and tilts her head. “Then how do you know I was talking about you?” She pushes the strange broth to his chest and slips past him once his confusion lessens his hold on her other wrist. His head snaps to face her figure again. “You are an insinuating little tart.” Daemon comments but much less interrogative than before. He eyes the broth cautiously as he takes a seat at her short stocky table. His legs plead for freedom under the trapment. He ignores them. The girl glances him over and he can feel the scrutiny piercing his skin, ready to seep inside. Begrudgingly, the heir seats himself at the small table of her home and huffs like a petulant child.  The threat of judgement crawls like an insect over his tense muscles, it feels like twenty-thousand little cockroaches are bumping one another from the inside of his skin. It begs to clamber into the strange peasant instead, what does a peasant fair against a prince? She must know that it would be further than a sin to place judgement on a Targaryen prince while she is nothing more than a lowly film of dirt atop his shoe; filth he is desperately trying to scrape off until his hands are raw and bloody. 

His eyes take this moment to rake over and through her as she stumbles around the much too small hobble. Her hair reminds him of toiled waves, crashing messily and unkempt–even though it is tied up–against the harsh wind sneaking through her window. Her apron is dirtied and there is flour on her face. She looks every inch the commoner he despises. Because she thinks she’s better than him, he’s sure, he can see it in her smugness, her eagerness to keep him dependent on her already. She has a vile brown dress beneath it, his skin itches just looking at the rough worn-in cloth. The prince’s eyes trail to her bare feet, he winces but attempts to ignore it, glancing over the muddy wet end to the dress. He lets a sigh release and shakes his head, inspecting the rest of the abode. Just looking at her made him long to cleanse himself. Daemon’s nose turns up at the sight of a myriad of blue wilting flowers in the corner, well he supposes to her it is reminiscent of a myriad. Her. Why is it her mind, her thoughts, that he wants to explore like the depths of the great sea he has always been kept from? Then his eye catches on the deep red cloth that drapes along a lone wooden chair. His eyes narrow. Is it stolen? She doesn’t look as though she could afford such vibrancy. Or perhaps she is a whore and it was gifted by a client. That must be it. She’s a whore. Daemon clicks his tongue and looks down at the half-eaten broth. He stirs at the odd liquid, raising the too large spoon and pouring the broth back in the bowl before dipping it back in again. It takes all his willpower to stuff it into his cheeks and let it play on his tongue. 

He swishes it across his taste buds. Daemon wants it to be foul, he wants it to reek of vomit-inducing grossness. It is a childish word but he is running out of insults. His hope also falls flat because for some reason it tastes good. It tastes better than any soup the high paid cooks have ever offered him, it tastes almost better than any rich meal he’s consumed. His eyes narrow. Is she a witch? Is this set to bewitch him or send him into sleep? No, it makes him feel much too energised. Then is it to gain his favour? Constituted to trick his submission? She will not achieve it, he refuses. He finishes the lukewarm meal while taking his time. He watches her hum and shimmy about the room, searching for something he does not know. He scans her curiously. “My garments.” He states in demand, standing and approaching her swiftly. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even stop humming. She moves about a few thick books, all handwritten and all with olden pages–yellow with use. 

His fist rests sideways against the presumably oak bookcase so he can lean over her, forearm following suit. He wants it to reflect dominance but instead it twists his gut and warms his lower stomach. “You have something that belongs to me,” Daemon purrs. His eyes narrow. His free palm outstretches. “I want it back.” “I have more than one thing, milord.” The snark drips from her tongue with charisma he loathes. His jaw clenches at the forced display. “Then return them and I shall return this.” Her eyes snap up to him and frown at the sealed letter in his grasp. Daemon can see as the panic swells and tenses her muscles, he can see as she takes in an inhale sharper than Dark Sister, he can see as her eyes widen because Daemon is not merely a swordsman and soon-warrior; Daemon Targaryen is also an observer. The peasant girl swallows. “Very well.” She chokes out and he finds himself surprised to have won this game of cat and mouse. Of dragon and sheep. Almost disappointed. The prince nods and steps back but as she prepares to swipe it from his hands and pulls it back with a visibly pensive expression. “I will give it to you once you return my possessions.” Eyes meet and again, his gut twists. She tilts her head, guard seemingly lowered. “How curious,” She breathes out. Daemon’s brows knit. “What?” He questions. “You said possessions not belongings. Most would use the latter.” 

When he eventually does return to the castle, fully clothed and prepared to sleep off the remainder of his disturbed night, He keeps a firm stance and intends to forget the strange day so far but his mind circles the events like a fly. Daemon growls as he shrugs off his shirt to replace it with one of pure white and tosses the prior into a drawer. He roughly grasps a red doublet in his hands and tugs it over. His breath comes out in grunts and curses until he is redressed. It is the same shade as the peasant girl’s cloth, of course it is. It was his favourite until today and now childishly, it feels tainted by the resurging memories of humiliation being sewn inside. His nose scrunches up, a grotesque taste rubbing against his tongue as he recalls one incident in particular. The prince, a man to be respected, can visualise as he was shoved to a thin mattress and tossed up the mix of bile and sickness from his stomach. All. Over. Her. Floorboards. Daemon winces and shakes his head, trying to shake the memory into the deepest depths of his subconscious, never to be seen again. He sighs and turns around, pausing when a slight fluttering falls as soft as a petal from his trouser. He frowns and peers down at the paper. There sits a thin parchment, not unlike the letter he had returned to the peasant girl. This one however is in cursive words much more eloquent than the past one and written in a phrasing he’s unsure of. He looks at the wax seal this time. It’s blue and the paper around it is curled. Daemon glances over the creases. Perhaps his business is not yet forgoing. 

A moon passes before he finally returns through the winding streets, trying to recall the pattern in which he returned home, backward. Daemon finds himself humming a tune to which he should not be familiar with but it is the only thing that consumes his mind as he passes through the Street of Flour. Finally, he reaches a small doorway and raps at it. No one answers to which he sighs and takes a step back, peeking through the opening of his hooded cloak at the abundance of civilians. Daemon’s eyes dart amidst the unknown area and his feet follow, investigating a series of yells and glances one last time at the door. The street is in uneven bumps and the people there are clumped together as they holler and whistle. Daemon halts his tune and uses his substantial height to attempt to see over the large mass of bodies. He can barely make out the sight of steam and two large wooden stands. The hollers burst through his ears like pellets of rain, forceful and punishing as a storm. 

Then a familiar voice is raised above the others, a mock resounding in his ears but with the playfulness and wit of a friend. His violet eyes snap up to find the woman haunting him. She’s laughing raucously, obnoxious and loud. Daemon’s lips slightly twitch at the teeth she bares. Again, his gut stirs. The heat becomes smothering but that doesn't stop him in his pursuit in finding the peasant girl who he now sees tossing around a pan filled with water and meat. From the brief glances he can snatch up, she’s almost finished while a man beside her is kneading a similar meat lined in fresh pink. Daemon pulls his lips taut, tensing as he watches the show. His little peasant seems to be enjoying herself. Witch, he thinks briefly but she doesn’t look like a witch and nor does she particularly sound like one. Are witches not supposed to be tantalising and hibernate an illusion of raw sex? Of primal appeal to tempt him? She doesn’t appear to be trying very hard. The flour is gone from her face now, he notes, but in its place lays a curved slice, colour as deep as that of Dornish wine. If she is a witch, would she not surely cover it? The hiss of her heated pan hisses throughout the street and Daemon finds himself surprised that no one has stolen from the small bag of coins in the centre. 

A cacophony of enjoyment and not one has a trail of bitterness. He watches as the girl glides a hand around her neck to push back the hair escaping its tight wrap atop her head. Only joy amongst the miserable. Perhaps that should worry him but he is too enthralled in the display. The woman’s hair is tied high again but much clearer than the moon prior–the day he last saw her. She is still wearing the same rags but this time that revolting red cloth is wrapped around her shoulders like a shaul. Not a whore either then. A whore would not be parading her squeals for free and nor would she wish to wear rags when surely many men had solicited them. So she is not a witch and not a whore and yet he finds himself stalking after her presence like an injured pup. Daemon growls at the very thought. He is a prince. How many times must he remind himself? Princes do not chase after strange peasant girls. The scolding floats through the wind when the peasant girl cheers and hurls the pan down on the wooden market stand. Her opponent groans half-heartedly, grinning like a mad man as he stretches out his arms and embraces the girl, one rough large hand resting to cup the back of her head and his other reaching to slap her back like Daemon has seen other knights behave. But this is not a knight, this is a peasant. The fact twitches his nose in distaste. But so is she. A voice whispers in his ear, he swats it away, watching as the surrounding peasants cheer. 

Daemon watches as the children let their little hands grasp the food and jump in bubbles of excitement. If he had a warmer heart, he may have found the sight sweet. But he does not, he has a mission to complete. He approaches the peasant girl with sly steps but she has already noticed him, how, he does not know. He steps behind her and opens his mouth but she beats him to it. “My prince,” She speaks with a burning smugness he doesn’t have to look at to be aware of. Against his better judgement, a sly smirk spreads across his pale lips. “You remembered.” He quips to which she hums in approval and folds her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately I did.” Daemon shifts in intrigue. He hesitates for the first sun of his existence. “I almost thought you wouldn’t bring it back.” She comments, amusement slipping in between her teeth. A snicker passes his mouth, a mouth rarely barred. “I had not imagined you would need use of such a thing left so easily misplaced.” Daemon’s hot words burrow through her ear, as determined as their wielder. She turns her head, baring her soft neck and piercing eyes to look up into his. The heir’s breath hitches. 

“I misplaced nothing, my prince.” The peasant purrs boldly. The intimacy of a whisper drips from her like an aphrodisiac. Daemon grins. “Is it my name or merely my title that you know of?” He chuckles, a confident hand reaching wind at her waist. Her own hand cups it. “Of course, my Prince Daemon Targaryen.” He swallows and a shuddered chill draws down his back. “Might you tell your prince your own for adequate compensation?” She leans a little closer, only a breath apart and fanning across his twitching lips. She interrupts his thoughts by slapping his hand enough to stun him. “I shall not.” With him vulnerable, she twists away from him with cautious grace. “I like to leave my men wanting.” She calls with a growing impish grin. He surprises himself by returning the gesture, straightening his back as he does so and raising his brows. “And I am one of your men then?” He retorts easily and watches her sashay apart from him. Before she is too far, he pats down to find the letter in his pocket but already knows it has been swiped. Instead of berating his own foolishness, he smirks at the smart, slippery girl and steps away, sure to see her more in the growing time. 

As the moons pass and his brother grows increasingly irate with him, Daemon Targaryen sneaks away into the night. He ignores the hailings of his Lady Bronze and replaces her calls with the sweet melodies his newfound companion intoxicates him with. The soothing lilt of her lullabies and the calm braids she strews across his hair. Daemon stands, now a man of 27 years, at her side. Y/n, she had told him. Her name was Y/n. She was of no surname and no wealth but she was beautiful and kind. She was fresh and witty and every inch the insinuating tart she had been the night they met. Her fingers stroke through his tangled mane with a snort before landing her hands, rough with work, on his shoulders. He leans back and flutters his eyes shut. With all the bread she has kneaded, this is not the first time he longs for her embrace. He hums in swift pleasure, reaching up to coil his fingers with hers. “How is sweet Rhaenyra?” Y/n asks, voice ripe with interest and honey as always…Only this time, there is something burrowed beneath, he can feel it. He can feel it better than he can sense Caraxes’ heartbeat. “She is well…Almost full grown already.” Daemon responds, his fingers lingering as they caress Y/n’s hand. Why does it feel so much frailer than it did before? “Are you hiding something from me? Are you aware that it is a crime to lie to your prince,” The joke falls flat as she leans forward and shakes her head, arms stretching across her lover’s chest. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t pry but they are both aware of the deep mulberry bags beneath her eyes. 

But Daemon has always been a man of actions and impulses and so, he lets instincts take over, leaning back his head to look at her. His hands both reach up to cup her face and descend it toward him with gentle prompt. “I brought something for you,” He breathes, twirling a strand of her hair around his fingertips. She tilts her head and tightens her lips. “Whatever for?” He lets a mischievous grin twist his mouth and stands, settling Y/n down in the chair instead. Daemon cups her cold hands in his warm ones and folds them in her lap. “Close your eyes.” She does so begrudgingly but she is long past arguing with him when he’s in his moods. She chuckles. “You told you there was nothing you required for your namesday and while I respect–” She interrupts him, groaning with amusement. “Because it is not a namesday, I will never know my namesday,” She chuckles but her tickling throat gives her away, choking the words out of her dry throat. Daemon hums lowly. “But it is the day that you were given shelter.” She rolls her eyes at the quip. “That place was hardly a shelter.” He leans down to kiss wetly along her jaw and up to her earlobe. “And yet it brought you to me, kept you safe and waiting.” She snorts and raises her brows, a pointed expression inching over her. “I was hardly waiting.” He chuckles this time and kisses up the column of her throat. As she begins to breathe out gentle moans, he takes her distracted presence to skillfully thread his hand over hers, sliding cold steel onto her finger. She gasps and flutters her eyes open to see his cocky smirk. “Well?” He asks and kisses the finger. He licks his lips and lets a shaky breath flow through him. 

Y/n regains composure and stares at the ‘something’ he had brought her. She brings it to just in front of her sights and swallows. “Is-Is it…?” “Yes,” He whispers and looks at the carefully crafted jewellery too. “I want you to have a part of me, always. And in return…” He pauses and turns the ring around her finger slowly to reveal a carved dragon, its wings spread for flight. “I want all of you.” He slowly kneels in front of her. “I want you to marry me.” It’s instantaneous that her mouth parts and her eyes widen. “Daemon…” “That woman is not my wife.” He states coldly before warming at the sight of her softening brows. “You are my wife in body, in soul and I want so in law too.” He takes in a breath. “Please, do not this deny of me. “I told you I would give you everything and I intend to. “Your brother will never approve of it.” A growl ripples through his mouth. “I do not care, he has tried to be my dictator since we were children and now I am a man grown, I should be allowed to choose my own wife. To let her choose me. He has not yet had an heir, let me take you to Dragonstone.” He leans closer until only a single breath can part them. “Let me make you my wife in the ways of my ancestors.” Silence cups them in a bubble, so easily popped. Too easily popped…and yet, she turns the ring, roaming the dotted rubies that form the dragon’s eyes and in slow movement, she stares into violet irises as she kisses the dragon’s head. “Yes.” She whispers. “I will be your wife.” 

He doesn’t take a moment more to grasp the sides of her face and kiss fervently at her soft pliant lips. She returns the force in tandem as the sun sets behind them. The golden rays darken in a way only the most beautiful of moments could demand. Daemon’s hand drops to scrunch at the material at her thigh, at the skirts of her dress. It is in moments that both his hands reach to pop and tear at the incriminating fabric, ripping away her bodice until he can paw at his prize like an animal starved. Her teeth sink into his lip and the wet resounding noises surface upon their lips. His breath grunts as hers quickens in high pitched desperation. Her own hands slash roughly at his doublet, shoving it away from him like a criminal. His hips grind against her in hard strokes, desperately trailing his kisses down her neck while she clutches and pulls at his long silver hair. A high moan tears from her mouth as he sucks his marks into her, the need for possession clawing at his veins. Her pearl throbs as she twists to plunge him onto the floor. She straddles his thighs and wraps her arms around his neck and pushes his face against her neck again. He growls and snaps off her smallclothes. “When we met,” He groans, eyes fluttering back. “I thought you were a whore.” A breathy cackle drips from her animalistic mouth. “I’m starting to rethink denouncing that. You are much, ah, much too talented to be a baker.” He moans and burrows his head into the pillows of her breasts, lips wrapping to suction once more, to claim. “And you,” She interrupts herself to moan, tossing her head back. “Are much too unkempt to be a prince.” He bucks his hips. “Tell me,” A shriek breaks as he tugs roughly at the pelvis of his own trousers, desperately trying to be rid of the material. “Tell me you’re mine, Rogue Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.” A gasp drips from his tongue while he finally gets a grip of his fabrics. He tosses her to lie on the floor, her back pressed against the wood. “Fuck, I’m yours,” He babbles like a hormonal desperate teenager. With thick hands grapple his own trousers and tears them off with haste. “All yours, only yours.” 

He throbs as he kisses down her body, planting wet marks as violet as his eyes and crimson as his blood. He props up her right leg to drape over his shoulder and sucks at her thigh. His tongue probes at the flesh. His palms squeeze at her thighs as he slowly dips down between them and worships her mound in deep licks, drinking in the slick. He wants to drain it into a flask and carry it in his satchel. He wants to carry her around to sip from at any moment. He could die happily between her legs. Daemon Targaryen does not need wine or whore because she is his sin and he will anger the Gods happily if he can keep this temptress at his side. He pulls back to fan his breath along her throbbing cunny. Such a sweet filthy little thing, he thinks to himself, blowing down on it and revelling in her small jolt. His tongue drops to play with the bundled pearl, rolling it over the muscle and sending vibration as reward for every little moan that she lets pass. Her hands reach down and tug at his hair. “You should not have tempted me, adere riñus,” (slippery girl) His dark eyes level to meet hers. “I told you I want all of you and I intend to take it.” With an animalistic grin, his mouth descends once more to lap at her. Her back arches, grinding into him impatiently. “Be careful,” The woman pants. “Or I may start suspecting you to be a whore yourself.” He growls as she smirks and pushes up her body, slamming a forearm by her head and stretching her leg. She winces for a moment but recovers as his fingers replace his tongue. “A private whore then.” He speaks, removing his hand from her bud to palm at his length. “For a have already told you,” He grunts, chasing her mewls as he plunges into her entrance. “I am yours.” And so he pushes deeper, pushing roughly and lets his sweat pound into her flesh until they absorb one another. 

Months have passed. He knows they have but he doesn’t feel it. All he can do is fight and slay and watch as men burn and bleed. So long it has been since he last saw his true wife, since he last kissed her lips. A comment in passing has devoured his entire mind. A half-hearted promise that he has clung to now is visible but only in part. He wants it now more than he has ever wanted anything. “Yes, well, you may marry her if the Stepstones are ever retaken.” A King will be true to his word and his brother has never proved untrustworthy but the phrase was meant in jest, he knows. However, Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince and man of twenty-eight years, will let himself be damned before he rejects the prospect. He will make his wifey his own if it is the very last thing he does. He has returned to his brother, a crown of bone within his grasp and presented it to him with but one request. He shall take his own wife and he shall take her at court for all to see. Before every lord, lady or royal proudly. For the first time, it isn’t frustration or malice in his brother’s gaze in response to his boldness. It is gentle and merciful. Because that is what it feels like to be gifted the honour of his adere riñus. It is mercy, it is a blessing, it is his salvation. It is the rise of his sun and the fall of his stars because he only needs one. He only needs one shining star to keep his moon afloat and begging. 

Finally he can return home to her with more than a title and unfair vows. He can return with a heart full. Daemon’s hand twists at the wooden door he has slipped past so many times before but he freezes at the sight. An array of mess greets him and horror balls in his throat to gag him. His eyes snap at every corner, panic rising like the flow of sharp wind. His feet travel through the cluttered space, wariness biting at him but then he sees blood splatter on a cloth. It is as crimson as the shirt beneath his tunic and that alone makes him scream for her. Her name resounds through the open space and his legs run swiftly to the only other room there, the one where he had professed his devotion to her until the words bled out. He bursts the door open with the force of ten thousand men, the hinges yelling at him. He settles his sights on his weak love. She is shivering. With widened eyes and swiftly snaps to her side in one breath and kneels there, clutching her hands. “What is wrong, my love, who has hurt you?” The words are loud, demanding and cold. She almost doesn't respond and his heart stops. “I am well, husband.” She calls him such…She calls him such without even knowing the good news, the news he had only dreamed of whispering into your ear but not like this. Never like this. “My love, you are not.” Daemon chastises and fumbles with her bedsheets. He reaches to cup her cheek. “My love what has happened, has someone thieved you, please tell me what has happened.” She merely shakes her head. “I,” She coughs into her hand, rich thick blood dripping from it like a cursed potion. His face hardens but he lets her finish, lets the quiet remain. She’s trembling like a little lamb. “You knew that I was in an…unseemly state when you left. I am glad to have you return to me.” She has never spoken so proper, so rehearsed to him before. How long had he been blind? “I am taking you to a healer.” He snaps instantly and stands. She winces. “No,” She begs weakly. He shakes his head. “No, please, I do not wish for you to see me in this state.” “Shame is not for this time!” He yells. “I return home to my wife sickly and bedridden and you expect me to not alert a maester? Nonsense, you are coming willfully or I will make you.” 

The nights are cold and they pass without progress as he lays by her side at all hours. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling. “It is in the sky that you are free,” She utters. “Caraxes will be missing you.” Daemon shakes his head and glides a hand up her waist. “And if I should fly him then I shall be missing you.” “He is an animal as wild as you, my love,” She berates with the softness of an angel. “And he will wait.” “And for how long? Until I am old in my grave.” “Do not say such things!” Daemon chastises. “It is mere truth, husband.” She sighs and curls his hair in her fingers. “He needs flight and so do you.” He doesn’t respond, his petulance growing.”I am not getting better.” She wags a finger in his face when he tries to argue. “I will continue not to but if you do this justice for me then I will grant you an army of love.” The mischief still holds on her tongue after all this time. The gentle mocking of his salvation and he smiles. He smiles as water pricks his eyes. He can’t speak. He won’t make it so, not if it is only going to claw at him. 

Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches as the ivory moon lowers before him. He watches as gold forgives the darkness and they embrace. The twine of beauty and misery thread together in a beautiful seal. A seal of love and beauty. He twists a ring in his hand, one made of Valyrian steel and shattered promises. He sits upon a red cloth. Parchment is strapped to his thigh, awaiting acknowledgement, a web of bluebells encapsulates it. A letter of hopes, a letter of dreams unfulfilled. Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches the sun rise and with it, his future. He has felt his slippery girl slip from him and now it is time for him to breathe new air. He is only left with the remnants of her but that is enough for him to resume his newfound duty. A duty to her, to her memory and to her desires. As he watches the night close, he finally takes acceptance. He accepts peace. Her love is not red, it is not blue. It is in what she has left behind and it is in what she has gifted onto him. Finally he understands what she meant that fated day. She does not own him. He belongs to her.

Her love is her remnants. And he has an army of it. 

Remnants Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @chompchompluke @eyelinerandcigarettes

HOTD Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @wrendermedone @hopelesswritergall @blackdreamspeaks @its-actually-minicika @gettheetoanunneryimmediatly @adelusionalwriter

[txttletale]

Come on now, if you really believe in your position, don't deflect from concerns about its likely effects by saying the current system is bad anyway and you're just Posting. Of course the current state of education is abysmal, but you know that your position is a very radical one and there are plenty of policy proposals that would improve education without going to those lengths. If we're imagining a world where family abolition is even a possibility, then surely we can also imagine a world where schools are better at teaching, less cruel to students, and are protected from right-wing attacks on curriculum. The two options aren't family abolition vs. everything stays exactly the same forever.

Just to be clear, since I'm struggling to tell what's a genuine position and what's just a snarky gotcha, is your position really that if children don't want to learn math (or history, or reading, or whatever else), they just shouldn't have to?

I really do agree with many of the stated goals of your recent explainer post on family abolition, but I don't think I can go with you on this one if I am understanding you correctly.

i feel as though you are assuming things about children that are socially contingent are fixed. of course kids don't want to learn math! would you want to go sit in on an 8th grade math class every day? but there is no "not wanting to learn math-ness" inherent to children. the fact that they do not want to learn math is a byproduct of the social context in which learning exists in society as it is now. the problems with the current system i raised are not a deflection--i specifically linked articles about 'math anxiety', an ingrained aversion to math chiefly created by the education system. if children don't want to learn math because it's unpleasant, the problem is not the children's desires, but that our society has made learning math an unpleasant process (cue obligatory mention of lockhart's lament).

you're asking me to imagine better schools and i'm with you! so is a world where schooling is pleasant rather than gruelling--where children want to go to school, or can at least be incentivised to, and do not have to be forced--so difficult to imagine?

[knybits]

THE HATING GAME — 7

PAIRING —

↳ kochou shinobu x reader

SUMMARY —

↳ Geniuses within the same field yet rivals within each other’s eyes, your colleagues wonder when the sexual tension will break so that you two will become the department’s powerhouse couple so that they can enter you two into the couples contest against the other departments. Some things might have to be done by force.

WARNINGS —

↳ cursing, slight smut

[Navigation]

Shinobu doesn’t want to open her eyes. 

The bright sun has already peaked through her velvet curtains, lighting up the room and causing her to scrunch her little nose in annoyance. She can’t tell what time it is, but she knows for a fact that it’s not the early morning that she’s used to waking up to. 

Shinobu doesn’t want to open her eyes. 

She’s absolutely mortified. Her memory is better than most (maybe slightly lacking compared to you) so she knows what happened last night. She can feel the silk pajamas that glide as she turns, new and spotless after she was changed into them last night. 

Shinobu doesn’t want to open her eyes. 

There’s a stupid report that she has to turn into her supervisor, and she just has to edit it, but she’s supposed to turn it in in-person. And there’s a chance she missed that meeting, so might as well stay in bed. She has to grade a few more labs the undergrads turned in, and she knows that their sloppy work and ChatGPT generated answers will give her a riot of a headache. 

Shinobu doesn’t want to open her eyes, because she doesn’t want to find out if you’ve left or not. 

So she doesn’t open her eyes, and she lays still. She breathes quietly, begging her mind to stop running a thousand miles a second. And then she hears something, breaking the still quiet within her apartment. 

The whistling of a kettle. 

Shinobu opens her eyes, just to see you walk in with one of her porcelain cups balanced on a saucer. 

Your eyes meet her and you quirk a brow at her, gently laying it down by her mahogany nightstand. “I’ll say this every time I come here. Your cups are pretentious.”  

Shinobu doesn’t smile. She sits up to stare at you as you take the finished cup of chamomile and move to lean against the doorframe. She doesn’t even touch the new cup of tea that’s been brewed for her (she can smell the Earl Grey). 

“I didn’t poison it,” you say, then push yourself off the doorframe and walk back to the kitchen to rinse her pretentious teacup. 

So she drinks, smiling to herself for a moment before grimacing at her reflection. 

At least you stayed. 

Once Shinobu is done drinking her tea, she takes it upon herself to get ready for the day. She has certain standards for herself, and her current state is certainly abysmal next to such standards. So she steps into her bathroom, ready to take this new day by storm, but pauses when she sees that the bathroom looks untouched. 

Her serums and lotions (or as you like to call them, potions and poisons) are lined up correctly, as if she didn’t swipe them off her countertops last night in a fit of anguish. There’s no bile on the bathroom floor, and the scent hasn’t remained in the air at all. In fact, the only thing different about the bathroom is the small lavender candle that burns in the corner, overpowering the traces of the previous night. 

Shinobu opts for less than the bare minimum today, which is probably what you do on your day to day. And she remains in her pajamas, though she does wrap herself up in her silk robe for extra comfort. And she runs a hand through her hair, her butterfly pins left on the counter, because her hair is still smooth after you washed it for her last night. 

When she steps into the living room, she’s shocked to see you curled up in her chesterfield chair in the corner, the curtains pulled back behind you to give you ample lighting. There’s a purple pen in one hand, cap in between your teeth, and you’re holding a paper with wrongly written equations on them, silently marking it before giving this poor undergrad a sad 4/10.  

Her laptop is open on her coffee table, and there’s a small sandwich resting next to it. Grilled cheese, because that’s really the only thing you know how to make, but it has apple slices and the cheese is brie and she can see that it glistens slightly with honey; her pretentious grilled cheese. 

“I edited your report. There was a paper that I thought would back your intro a bit more, so I added it in. If you eat fast enough you’ll make it in time for your meeting,” you say into the air. 

“How do you know about my meeting?” 

Without looking up from the next paper that you’re grading, you point at the big monthly calendar that hangs near the hallway. Then you scribble a 9/10 onto the paper, followed by a little butterfly, then toss it into the finished pile. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Because my biggest pet peeve as an undergrad was my TAs handing me back my work weeks after I turned it in,” you smirk to yourself. Shinobu shakes her head and you can see it out of the corner of your eye. She’s on the defensive, because she doesn’t sit to eat and she’s keeping her distance. She’s picking at her nails absentmindedly, and you stop yourself from telling her to stop because she doesn’t like to take orders from you. 

“You know what I mean. We dropped out of the competition, we don’t have to act anymore. And if you’re doing this because you pity me, then leave.” 

“I don’t pity you, Shinobu,” she flinches at the sound of her name. 

“Then what is it?” 

You finally look up at her. Despite the nightmare that was last night, her eyes still shine like amethyst gems. Her hair has been smoothed down but her curtain bangs curl in an awkward way, and she’s wearing some very fluffy socks for some weird reason. 

You purse your lips and shake your head, “Your meeting, Shinobu. And your sandwich is getting cold, I worked really hard on it.” 

“I don’t care about the damn sandwich-” 

“Ouch.” 

“I want to know why you’re doing this to me.” 

“And I want to know why you called me last night.” 

“What does that have to do-” 

“Bullshit! Don’t start with me! It has everything to do with this!” You stand abruptly, throwing the papers and her pen onto the coffee table and raking a hand through your hair in frustration. You take a step towards her and she doesn’t back down, eyebrows scrunched together and staring back at you in defiance. 

“You’re the one who’s hated me since day 1. You’re the one that ended the contract. You’re the one that pulled us out of the competition. You’re the one that’d been ignoring me. You’re the one that wants me to feel like an idiot. And you’re the one that called me. So why are you doing this to me.” 

Shinobu wants to tell you that half of what you said is false and that you’ve done the same to her too, but she bites her tongue as you continue. 

“You’re frustrating, y’know that? My life was quiet and ideal before you. Fuck, I never should’ve gone to the club that night,” you hiss and she finally blinks, shocked as if you just slapped her in the face. 

She opens her mouth but you keep going, and you’ve cornered her against the wall, arm above her head as you stare down at her. “If we never slept together then you wouldn’t be stuck in my head every minute. It’s all still in there, the sound of your moaning and screaming. The feeling of your cunt tightening around me and dripping wet.” 

Your eyes dart down when you see Shinobu shift, trying to discreetly cross her legs. Before you can stop yourself you take your knee and gently push her leg to the side, sliding it up against her and touching the wall. 

Shinobu puts her hands up to your chest but she doesn’t push back. Her eyes are screwed shut and she lets out the prettiest whimper when you lean in close and breathe into her ear. 

“Be a good girl and tell me to stop.” 

“You broke a rule,” she whispers hoarsely. You freeze, hands pausing at her waist. ‘No good girl name calling,’ you remember from the contract. 

Shinobu doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s holding herself back from rubbing against your thigh, your jeans already sporting a wet spot from her cunt. But she wants to talk to you and have this conversation actually go somewhere. 

Ever the genius, her mind comes up with a solution. 

You balk in surprise when she takes her hands and pushes you back until you’ve fallen into the chair. 

“What-” 

“New rule,” Shinobu says with newfound confidence. “For every time you make me cum, I’ll answer one question.” 

Your brain short circuits and your body feels like it's on fire, but you give her the same sardonic grin that you gave her at the club and ask, “How many times did I make you cum last time?” 

“Two,” Shinobu recounts. 

“Guess I need to make my three questions count then.” 

---

PHEW it's been a while. but i think next chapter will actually be the last! i feel like i promised you guys smut for this mini fic series and i havent really delivered, so im going to try my best next chappie lol.

this is also hella unedited but i really want to get this mini fic done bc its been so long and you guys really deserve it

[Next Chapter]

[baronfulmen]

It's only March and I am already losing patience with the "if you vote for Biden you're a bad person" bullshit

I am going to explain this one more time (lie, I will explain it like a hundred more times but probably more pissy each time)

The way the electoral college works, there is NO viable way for a third party candidate to win.

You could REPLACE one of the existing parties in theory, but more likely you would just change the party until you like it more.

This is done starting at the local level, which is also where third party candidates can actually win. Despite this most people totally ignore everything but the presidential election and then bitch about it.

You could fix our elections by working to eliminate gerrymandering and voter suppression and by fighting for ranked choice voting, but again that's not a thing that's going to happen all at once (or ever in an election year).

Biden is awful, duh. All US presidents have been awful. They have all committed war crimes and if hell were real there would be a special section just for US presidents. Yes even whichever one you think was okay, Carter or whoever.

Biden's administration has done a TON of good shit, alongside the bad. No I'm not saying the bad stuff was worth it, I'm just saying it is not all bad stuff which is important because Trump really is basically all bad shit. All of it. He's all the bad shit that comes with Biden AND so so so much more.

Not voting doesn't send a message, because voter turnout is already abysmal and so your protest non-vote is lost in a sea of apathetic non-votes and Republican generated lack of votes due to voter suppression.

Not voting doesn't somehow make you a more virtuous person, nor does voting for Biden make you a bad person even though he's a bad person. You have two options, Biden or Trump. That's it. Not voting is still making a choice, and that choice will STILL RESULT IN EITHER TRUMP OR BIDEN so you might as well be a fucking adult about it and acknowledge that one is less bad than the other.

There are some states that are so OVERWHELMINGLY certain to go to a particular candidate that it's harmless to vote third party, but I have frequently seen people on this site say that applies to them and then mention where they live and it's ABSOLUTELY not one of those places so I don't know what some of you are smoking. Florida, for christ's sake.

I get that a lot of you want to start the bloody revolution or whatever, but please understand that even if you're serious and actually plan on doing that there's no reason you can't ALSO vote.

This isn't that complicated. Grow up and vote for Biden, and be angry and bitter about it the whole time. Work towards change in ways that actually matter and have a chance of making a difference, instead of sitting back and smugly acting like doing nothing makes you a better person you fucking cowardly assholes.

[ysabelmystic]

The focus on voting third party or abstaining from voting in a national election is so troublesome. We have abysmal voter turnout rates in general. We need to be voting more not less. Voting third party in a national election is throwing your vote away under the current system. It sucks and we can acknowledge it sucks without throwing our hands up in the air right at the edge of a cliff a bunch of motherfuckers are salivating to throw us off of. And they absolutely are, I also live in the south and the shit I hear at my job alone is chilling, and that is just the shit people feel comfortable saying around me on the clock, I know it is worse than that around sympathetic company.

Oh and palestinians? They don't give a flying fuck we are talking about 25-55 year olds who all go to the same church they grew up in, believe Isreal has to exist and be maintained in its current form in order for Jesus to come back and take them all to heaven, and still make "make it a parking lot" jokes about the middle east in general. And they will absolutely vote, they always vote and the older ones always vote in local elections. Of course always "R" with no regard to who the candidate is because they don't care. "I just vote how my husband tells me to vote" is also still a sentiment held by the women around me, and no they are not old.

I wish we took the energy to be negative and act like we are going to take intense direct actions (news flash: no one will outside of a few we will sleepwalk our way into facism at this rate) and focus on increasing voter turnout and the other thing too is people need to focus on their local elections more and also if they feel empassioned get involved in the upcoming national election. Canvasing, signing people up to vote, driving people the polls on election day, also running for office. So many local elections have people running unopposed and people should look into that and what they stand for. Even schoolboards, city council, other county boards.

I think local elections have mostly passed but I just want people to remember they exist too. I want to plead to people that Trump isn't going to help Palestine and he has said so himself. His stated policy is a "blank check" approach to give Netanyahu anything he wants. He also recently stated he would "crush" pro palestine protestors if elected and deport any "foreign students" protesting.

👆🏻👆🏻👆🏻100000%

Thank you for writing this

[stabbyfoxandrew]

happy wipwednesday my beloved! i glad to see that you survived yesterday's fight with our angel and came out winning!

i am here to humbly request to know what your other problem child is up after he fucked up his not-date. Can't wait for you to break my heart again but until then:

kith <3

WIP Wednesday (4/3) | Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew AU (Part 126)

The only way Neil can fix this is by explaining himself. And explaining means telling the truth. A lot of it. Pretty much all of it, he thinks. 

How can he possibly do that? 

Neil’s never told anyone the truth. Well, besides the FBI. And that doesn’t really count because he had no choice. That night it was either tell the truth or go to prison for being related to Nathan Wesninski. He chose wisely, of course. But it was no picnic for him. Neil recalls those horrible hours he spent recounting his absolutely abysmal childhood to a government issue thug wearing scuffed loafers and a bored expression.

They didn’t believe him at first. Not totally. They made him rehash everything over and over until his throat was raw from talking so much and they were finally, finally satisfied with his life story. Then they shoved him into witness protection, where he was forced to spend almost a year living in North Dakota under the name Peter Duncan.

God, Neil loathes that state. And he loathed Peter. And that stupid, dinky little apartment with the awful neighbors and shoddy TV service. Sure it was stable. Normal, even. But, as insane as it would seem to anyone else, he prefers being on the road again. Running is something he’s used to. Something that makes sense even though his demons are long buried.

He likes traveling without a destination. He likes free Wi-Fi and complimentary breakfasts and room service and nice people telling him to ‘come again’. He likes his stupid little car and it’s stupid broken radio that’s thankfully stuck on a sports channel.

Hell, he even likes Neil. He likes the man he’s become since crawling out from under his mother’s corpse and his father’s ax. Because despite everything— all the names he’s used and cities he’s seen and things he’s had to do to survive— he’s turned out to be a mostly decent person. Except for the whole… ‘burning down buildings’ thing. But he’s working on it. Sort of. And on the bright side, he hasn’t killed anyone in years. Those were all self defense, of course. So… Do they really count?

Wait a minute, Neil blinks. What was his point? 

Oh. Right. The truth. 

Other than those suited pricks at the bureau, it’s a completely foreign concept to him. Neil runs his fingers through his hair a few dozen times, the curls tangling around his fingers as he does. He rips his fingers through and wonders if he should shave his head again. No. No, it’s about to be winter and he hates when his ears are cold.

And with his hair longer, he looks less like his father.

To prove that, Neil looks into the bathroom mirror and finds Neil Josten there. Not Nathan or Nathaniel. Not even Peter. (Of course not, Peter had black hair.) Neil gives his disassembled phone a glance and wonders if Andrew would’ve wanted to be friends with Peter. Or any of his other aliases with friendly dispositions. 

It wouldn't matter. None of them would ever have even tried. That's one thing that sets him apart from all his past selves. He's trying. Neil lets out a breath. He’ll put his phone back together and tell Andrew… Something.

In a day or two. 

When he figures out what that something is.

[chaifootsteps]

I think we should treat Viv as she is: not a professional. It's not enough to say she acts like one. She is on, as in she isn't anything but a professional. She's not even an indie darling, she's a corporate shell out, a shill. Her shit is owned by Jeff Bazo or what's his name is. And he probably isn't aware of this nor cares. Also Amazon may have some gems, but overall I don't really use Amazon for it's streaming platform and now days don't bother ordering from it. It's subpar. Mid. I can name only two shows that currently exist and have and hold my interest.

The fact Netflix didn't pick her up when it's like the indie darling streaming service and is like known for giving movies and even shows to other previously just indie projects, regardless of being a comic made by an indie artist or a series, like Bee and Puppy Cat and Nemona. Or the loads of the anime made by one of artist and writers of manga. Hell Regular show while on capture Netflix had a NSFW/adult content based pilot made as a thesis film I think and had potential to be an adult show, one that had cut back on its jokes because of higher ups.

The only defense I can give to vivzie is that she isn't a professional, and helluva is just a for fun project, and while I'm afraid of many fans trying to twist this as an excuse why it shouldnt be critized, it's definitely a statement that will take a blow on Viv's ego: she doesnt want to think lowly of her work, and doesnt see iy as a just for fun project she wants people tl take it seriously, but that's all it is: a for fun project shes taking way too seriously and placing on a higher shelf then it needs to be and than it will ever actually be.

Hell some other noteworthy indie shows such as bravest warriors which has lots of adult humor with really good animation lastest for SEASONS and has a huger but less loud and annoying, obnoxious fanbase.

Hard disagree on Vivzie not being a professional and Helluva being a just for fun project. She doesn't behave in a professional way, but this is her job now, her bread and butter, the reason she's able to afford these lavish trips to NYC and Japan. She employs other people to make this happen, and she treats them abysmally.

It's a professional show that both she and her fans consider a revolutionary queer masterpiece, written like a fanfic because that's all she's capable of. That's not something you can do, not forever, and I think she's stating to feel that now.

[thegreenhordes]

Twilight's Notes: Autopsy Report

Subject: Cheerilee Infection Type: Stage 3, Growler Cause of Death: Malnutrition

Important Notes: Food was provided to the Subject through slats in the door to her observation room. It was noted that she refused any non-meat food items, often smelling provided vegetables and fruit before wandering away in an angry huff. When provided with meat the subject devoured it ravenously. (Additional Note: Fluttershy is still Very distraught by the act of feeding meat to a subject, understandably so. The animals butchered were already dead when it was done, but I admit the act turned my stomach as well.)

Results of the Autopsy of Cheerilee: Pustules had a thicker membrane than what has been found in other Growler subjects, this has been noted in the Growler files under 'Secondary Mutations', Section Four, Pustule Growth. Additionally, the fluid inside had developed a thick consistency, atypical of previous tests on samples taken from the subject while still alive. Potentially a postmortem event similar to bloating and blood coagulation. The Cranial region of the subject shows typical deconstruction of the front of the skull where the largest pustules grow over the eyes. Bone was missing and the brain was protected solely by the thick covering of the pustules themselves. This was noted with previous autopsies as being how popping the facial pustules can be used to kill the infected. Oddly enough, Cheerilee is a unique case- in that her eyes were still present. They were nonfunctional and buried beneath the growths, but she is the only Growler so far to have them still intact. They were pushed back into the remainder of the skull and put pressure on her brain. It was noted this may be the reason for some of the subject's atypical behavior. (Note: Cheerilee struggled to walk in a straight line and frequently ran into the walls. Additionally, she had a total of five seizures in the few weeks she was in stage 3.)

The state of the subject's teeth were abysmal, many of them were chipped or shattered due to aggressive clenching and gnawing on bone. Multiple lesions in the mouth reveal a recurring observation that the sharpened teeth of the infected don't fit right in the mouth and will often cut their cheeks. The manner in which the teeth end up in this state is still debated. (Personal Note: I believe there is magic involved in much of the disease's effects, with the transformation of the teeth being one such magic-affected change.)

Internal organs were in poor condition, showing signs typical of extreme malnutrition. There were also several tumors and cysts found throughout, once again not uncommon in Growler cadavers. However there were less within Cheerilee than in previous subjects. I'm noting this as being likely due to Cheerilee being the shortest-lived Type 1 in my care to date. Aside from the growths- Which were later tested and found to be a mix of benign and cancerous- I discovered something I hadn't noticed before, though I suspect that was a simple oversight on my part. The glands that create saliva were engorged, the pores from which saliva is discharged were wider than normal. This almost certainly explains the thick, excessive saliva that often drips from a Type 1's mouth.

Final Notes: Most findings were either typical, or slightly atypical of the Type 1 infected. Though some new things were discovered, overall the autopsy proved to be more useful in the fact that I obtained a significant number of samples that I can use. I'll be taking these to study and try to find anything the may lead me towards an understanding of the mutagenic properties of the infection. I may also compare the samples to early-stage infected, stage 1s, 2s, and recovered ponies. My goal is not just to understand the infected themselves, but how the disease got to where it is now- Perhaps develop some sort of vaccine, or a cure for those still in the first 1-2 weeks where they can be saved.

I will be adding this file to the autopsy logs for future reference.

[ohtobemare]

118, Commander Nathaniel Taylor x fem!OC | Teaser

summary: "For them, it was just the blink of an eye. For us? 118 days." It's a long time to be alone with someone you barely know. 'Lotta days of wondering if this was it, the grandiose dream of Terra Nova they'd all been promised. But it's also a good chunk of time to change minds, to form new opinions. To give —your heart; ideas, your future —away. This is ground zero.

pairings: Commander Nathaniel Taylor x fem!OC

warnings: age gap, complete canon deviation/rewrite, Jurassic Park elements, a whole lot of made up futuristic tech, survival technique based on limited research, convenience marriage to lovers, messing with the Terra Nova timeline, age of the earth/sciencey opinions, conspiracy theories/government enemies.

“In the name of God, I, ….” 

Chem lights at war with the flicker of LEDs overhead spin the room, making the space feel more dreamlike than anything. Like a rough coma. World fades in and out of erratic color, moving as broken pulses of electricity attempt to carry functional light into abysmal, dank blackness. It’s cold in that humidity-ridden kind of way—cold that burrows into the bones, past sweat glands that seep with perspiration that would otherwise sparkle in the light of day. Trying to find the words for this moment, for the haze that’s set over this room—fever dream. Yes, that’s it. 

It’s feverish degrees here—something viral. Setting her on edge. Creeping through her facades, shifting the masks of power a committee and countless weeks of interview and preparations provide. They hardly prepare anyone for this. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Dark and humid, oppressive with the weight of a world of questions that doesn’t even seem fathomable. 

“....to be my lawfully permitted wife; to have….” 

A brush of fingers against the slick leather of her jacket lifts her gaze from the perfect over-under of old combat boots. Her favorites. Traveling companions of the last year, they’ve marched through countless miles of States of American concrete and soil. Chicago, more recently—wretched, disgusting metropolis that it is. Crawling with propaganda for the government's hedonistic vision of tomorrow. The blade of humanism, driven into the almost asystole heart of a once beautiful dream.

Her gaze finds the man, hand still statuesque on her shoulder. He doesn’t move, like she’s porcelain and could break. Maybe she is, because she feels stone cold and bone China-white, despite being riveted to this floor. If you can call it a floor more than a slab—sakrete that’s been lazily mixed with county efforts and resources. Blinking away condensating sweat that’s gathered in her lashes, the man’s  brow lifts. Maybe curiously, if he genuinely wanted to know where her mind had galloped to. But it’s a more worried look, one that’s watching the clock. Has other places to be. 

“....Miss McKinney? You still with us?” 

It’s an odd question. One she can’t readily find the heartbeat to answer. Instead, a small smirk tickles the corner of her mouth, threatening humor if the situation would’ve been appropriate. It wasn’t. Some backalley government holding squat could hardly warrant a snarl much less a smile, but if the weeks leading to this moment had proven anything—well. Nothing was what it seemed. 

The akimbo of confidence doesn’t flinch at her right. He hasn’t, not since being guided to this…this platform. He stood there, in combat blacks and a leather jacket the entire time, like a pillar. A fortress, even. Erected to support the dreams of a future scurrying to rewrite itself, on its last leg of hope. Shoulders down and back, gaze straightforward as if the future had already colored itself from the black and whites of the present. 

“Oh. Um–yes. Yes, thank you. Continue, sir.” 

But the akimbo frame of the man suddenly flinches, ever so slightly—lifts a foot, scuffing the rubbers of his combat boots against the wet sakrete beneath them. Watching as he returns to his motionless state, she manages to swallow a breath thick with nothingness—no words, no compliance, no spit. Looking back to the over-under of her laces, she notices his are the same. He ties his boots the same way—-tight over-under patterns in eye-hooks, the excess laces tied around the back of his leg. It’s an old trick, one from the almost-ancient way of living before everything became disposable. Replaceable, plastic. 

And when her eyes cut to his like a blade, she finds him staring at her from the corner of his eye. Down at her, really, because she’s shorter than he is. And he stands forever, almost. Like a giant. Goliath against David, stones aside and the Philistines coming up fast. For a moment, his eyes are dark and unreadable. Unsearchable. Until he shifts his shoulders a bit, settling into his akimbo stance. Hands folded in front of him, ever the soldier. 

His words hang in the air, unfulfilling. Mandatory. Government-issued, lest the good citizens of 2142 question the ethical implications no one would think, albeit care, to ask. Ringing in the air hollow, she’s not even sure she can remember even hearing him. She’d barely heard him speak in the weeks leading up the First, hadn’t even shaken his hand until this morning when he’d introduced himself. He was capable, sure. On paper. 

But staking her life–her future….

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It shouldn’t be. It was 2142. It was the First. 

She was a First. 

“…Your answer, Miss.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I need your answer, ma’am. For the license.” 

Pounding in her chest reminds her she’s alive. It isn’t a good pounding, an exciting one. It’s one that’s horribly wrong. Screaming at her that this isn’t right. That it shouldn’t be like this—that this is 2142. Nobody actually cares, religions and personal affections aside. This isn’t the frontier, not anymore. Not yet.

Head spinning, knuckles brush against hers. Tenderly. It’s surprising and she starts, looking up into careful eyes weighing every motion; he’s moved to face her. All six foot something of him, hard lines and perfect posture. Reading her like a datapad. Every breath, like he can see through her ribs and into her chest. No wonder this is the man to lead them into tomorrow, into the future—his stare is like an anvil. Crushing, almost. But in a way that demands the truth, that makes her want to sing out every secret she’s ever burdened in the pulling stitches of her own resolve. 

His nod is punctuated. Final. His gaze darts to consider the man standing before them. Nodding once to him, he looks back to her. Waiting. His chin lifts, authoritatively. Impatiently, but he won’t move. And before she can even find her own tongue, his hand on her shoulder squeezes once. Twice. With compassion, empathy. 

“For Terra Nova,” his low voice is calm. Collected. Reeled in like a man with control and wisdom well beyond her years. “For the future, Miss McKinney.” 

And that hits harder than any of her own selfish negotiations. “Yes—” 

Don’t let this be a mistake. For the colony...for hope....

For tomorrow, 2142. 

“—this is my solemn vow." God help her if this is a mistake. There's nothing left.

He'd have it all. One man, one dream. One tomorrow.

"For Terra Nova. For tomorrow.” 

taglist: @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @soulmates8 @chicomonks @books-are-escapes @sarahsmi13s @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @bobby-r2d2-floyd @that-one-random-writer @horseshoegirl @lavenderbradshaw @bradleybeachbabe @roosters-girl @footprintsinthesxnd @chaoticassidy @roosterisdaddy36 @callsignharper @hisredheadedgoddess28 @ohgodnotagainn @moonchild-cupcake @aviatorobsessed @kmc1989 @imp-number-3 @your-local-crzy-lady @horserad-ish @bisexual-watermelons @mongoosesthings @gothidecorem @philcoulson-redtapeninja @itsgoghtime @kmc1989

[megumimania]

cold brews and finals week blues

eren x fem! reader

synopsis: it seems like the dreaded finals week blues has gotten to you, but luckily eren is here to help you get out of it.

a/n: was in an eren mood so i decided to write him, i miss my man 😔

“its the third time she’s come in this week, what’s her deal?” sasha asked whilst changing the coffee filter.

“maybe because it’s literally finals week dumbass, everyone is stressed as fuck and studying till their hands fall off.” jean replied, walking over to wipe down a nearby table.

“and everyone knows trost library is the worst place to be right now, everyone is on edge it’s almost unnerving, do you not remember coffee gate last year?” armin chimed in ,”i almost thought we were about to witness a murder.”

“but if someone spilled coffee on my laptop that contained my essay that made up 30% of my final grade, i’d go psycho too.” jean added to which armin agreed.

eren didn’t get why you kept coming back here, not that he was complaining, it was refreshing to see someone his age that wasn’t one of his three coworkers but the coffee was average at best, the wifi was abysmal, it was a miracle if you were able to load a document in less than five minutes and the aged interior of the cafe was enough to make you feel you were trapped in time, which probably explained why the café was a hit with the older people, but even then business was slow as ever.

the conversation droned on as eren's gaze kept moving back to you hunched over your laptop, your eyebrows becoming increasingly furrowed as you struggled to grasp the material. in frustration you let out a sigh and slammed your laptop shut and stormed out of the cafe in a huff, leaving your stuff behind.

a quick glance over at your table and eren realised that you were in his psychology class with professor ackerman, who was notorious for over complicating simple topics and for creating the most hardest tests known to man, with it being a miracle if you managed to scrape by with a C in his class.

not wanting to pry any further, he returned back to work, serving one of his regulars when he heard the rumble of thunder outside that was accompanied with the harsh sounds of the rain battering against the windowpane. he was growing increasingly concerned, almost ten minutes elapsed since you’ve been gone, not that he was keeping track of course.

with the customer leaving and his co workers already heading out, eren decided to close shop early today, leaving the door unlocked just in case you came back. to keep himself busy, eren alternated between sweeping floors and waiting for you to return. he didn’t know why he was making such a large effort for you, but after seeing you in such a panicked state the least he could do is offer a helping hand.

the shop bell rang for the second time that day as you stepped in, the rain leaving you drenched and shivering. eren's gaze fell onto you as he closed the door behind you, handing you a spare hoodie from the break room along with his notes for the psych final, placing them on the table behind him.

"thank you." you muttered quietly, pulling his hoodie over your shirt, it smelt faintly of fresh linen which brought you an unusual sense of comfort.

"you alright?" he asked, with a genuine expression of worry on his face.

“well…i have my psych final in 72 hours and i barely understand anything, my roommate is a complete asshole and im running on three hours of sleep.” you replied in a somewhat even tone, repeatedly blinking so that he wouldn’t notice the incoming stream of tears that created a glossy sheen on your eyes.

“I can help you study for your psych final, just tell me what you need help with.” he replied coolly, cracking a smile as an attempt to make you feel better. “but we can’t do all this on an empty stomach though, is pizza alright with you?” he asked turning around to face you, his gaze being enough to set your skin on fire.

when the pizza arrived, you and eren went back and forth on who was going to pay but eventually he won. you watched him with a small scowl on your face as he paid and tipped the delivery boy extra. he faced you with a subtle shit eating grin.

"i could've paid for it." you grumbled whilst getting a slice of pizza."i know." eren replied “it’s my way of saying thanks.” you looked at him in confusion, “thanks for what?”

“well for one, it’s not everyday i end up helping a pretty girl study for her finals, usually closing is the most quietest part of my day.” he replied looking away briefly

you were not going to mention how he called you pretty, given that his flustered expression said enough also you were still processing the compliment, not that you weren’t a stranger to a few compliments here and there, but while those were fleeting, eren’s compliment stuck. creating a surge of butterflies in your stomach.

you both sat in silence, finishing the remains of your food. bored of the silence, you turned to eren asking him, “what do you do in your free time other than school and work?”

“I teach karate to kids on weekends.” he replied, looking up at you. “are you any good at it?” you said with a teasing lilt to your voice.

“my trophies and medals hanging up in my room at home says otherwise.” he chuckled before adding, “if you don’t believe me you are more than welcome to come down to the dojo to watch me train.”

“okay sure.” you said calmly trying not to think about how fast your heart was racing. you turned to look outside. the rain eased up leaving nothing but dark clouds as a reminder of it’s looming presence, it was getting late and you wanted to get back to your dorm before it got dark.

“I should get going, its getting late.” you said, finally getting up from your seat. “let me drive you home, i can’t let you walk by yourself this late.” eren said as he grabbed his keys and his jacket before closing the door behind him.

you both got into the car as eren began driving, you turned on a random radio station, trying to fill the endless vacuum of silence. eren was too focused on driving that you took this opportunity to observe his features, from his shiny brown locks, his intoxicating green eyes, to the light freckles that dusted his face.

you felt your face getting hot at the sight of him. suddenly it was too stuffy in the car, you rolled down the window to get some fresh air. eren looked over at you in confusion but you reassured him that you were okay.

after arriving at the university’s parking lot, you got out of his car thanking him for the ride. eren didn’t leave until you reached home safely.

the day of the psych final arrived, you got into class early to do some last minute revision. you spotted eren at the back with his headphones on, looking concentrated as ever while glossing over his notes.

not wanting to disrupt his flow, you chose to sit a couple rows in front of him. you opened your laptop going through your notes and flashcards as you tried to remember the information. you were shitting yourself to say the least, even though the impromptu study session with eren helped a lot, you were scared of failure.

“y/n!” eren whisper shouted, trying to grab your attention. “yes?” you snapped at the voice in frustration, before realising it was eren, “im sorry, i didnt mean—”

“mean what, ms l/n?” professor ackerman interjected, his tone sharp as ever. “you and mr. jaeger know that once you step into this hall, it is strictly exam conditions. luckily you’ve caught me on one of my good days, so i won’t go to the trouble of disqualifying you both from this exam but don’t let this happen again.”

“sorry professor,” you both replied in unison.

you waited for the rest of the students to fill in, as you mentally began to prepare yourself for this test, with a sound of a paper being placed on your desk snapping you out of it. looking around, you spotted eren who gave you a thumbs up, wishing you good luck, you returned it and looked back at your paper with your pen in your slightly trembling hand.

you waited for the rest of the students to fill in, as you mentally began to prepare yourself for this test, with a sound of a paper being placed on your desk snapping you out of it. looking around, you spotted eren who gave you a thumbs up, wishing you good luck, you returned it and looked back at your paper with your pen in your slightly trembling hand.

surprisingly, the test wasn’t that difficult, you managed to get over your nerves and finish the paper within the time with the confidence that you answered each question as best as you can. the rest of it was out of your hands.

“time’s up, please stop writing.” professor ackerman announced further adding, “please leave your paper on my desk in an orderly fashion, you are dismissed.” you left the classroom in a somewhat better mood, now that the biggest thing in your life was over. you headed out on the courtyard, sitting under the large oak tree, basking in the suns rays.

eren spotted you by the oak tree, leaving armin and mikasa to continue their conversation. eren thought you looked like you just stepped out of a painting, the way the sun illuminated your perfect features.

“hey, can i join you?” he asked squinting his eyes from the sun, so that he could see you better.

“yeah sure.” you replied, motioning for him to sit next to you.

“how was it?” eren asked curiously, busying his fingers by pulling out the grass

“it was alright, i managed to finish the paper and everything i studied ended up being on the so i can’t complain.” you replied directing your attention to him, “how did it go for you?”

“it was pretty good, i think.” eren answered before asking, “what do you think you’ll get?”

“eren i am not gonna bet on my grade, i don’t want to jinx anything!” you replied .“but since we’re on this topic i bet that i’ll get an 80, if luck is on my side.”

“okay, i bet that i’ll get an 83, see now both of our grades are in jeopardy!” he jokes as you hit him on the arm. “If you get an 80 i’ll take you on a date.”

you stared at him dumbfounded, “are you fucking with me, jaeger?”

“nope.” he replied with extra emphasis on the p, (seriously eren was confused where this surge of confidence came from).

“so worst case scenario, what if i don’t get the 80?” you asked curiously

“the offer still stands.” he replied with a grin watching your reaction

“that is such a weird way to ask someone out but im in.”you replied with a smile before continuing, “do you enjoy making risky bets, mr jaeger?”

he laughed before replying, “no not really, i only bet on things that i have my heart set on.”

your heart fluttered in response, you took a deep breath before mustering a reply, “i’ve got a class in five minutes so i gotta go, but thanks for everything.” giving him a quick but meaningful hug, before walking off to your class.

a week or two later, you opened your laptop to find an email from professor ackerman, which contained your grade. after a minute of trying to give yourself a pep talk, you clicked the email and your jaw dropped, as you saw that you got an 82 on your psych final.

you texted eren unable to wipe the smile off your face

you: i got an 82 on my psych final

you: professor ackerman must’ve been in a good mood or something

you: yk what im not gonna question it imma just take it as it is!

eren: not be that person but i told you so y/n 🥱 #inerenwetrust🙏

you: yeah yeah, you better have a sick ass date planned! 🙄

eren: of course, only the best for you.

eren: i’m already outside let me in pls, my ass is about to freeze off 😔

you: bro wtf??

[bohemian-nights]

Thoughts on Sara Snow?

I’m mostly going to be focusing on Sara Snow in the context of the show because there is too much in the books about her(all we know is she’s the bastard sister of Cregan Stark) to do any real in-depth analysis of her character.

Let me start by stating that I do believe she’s real, I don’t hate her, and I believe she does serve a purpose(more on this later), but in show context, I understand why some fans don’t want her included.

(By some fans I mean Black women cause those are the only fans I see that have a legitimate concern with her inclusion).

This show(and GOT cause I haven’t forgotten what you guys did to Missandei either🙃) has an abysmal track record when it comes to Blackish women. They are all treated like disposable props for white characters(which is a common trope in media)and aren't allowed to be full characters.

So the optics of having Baela being “left” for a white girl* coming off the heels of what happened to Laena just looks bad.

*I think Sara should be played by a mixed actress, which would take care of the image problem, but it’s pretty clear that if she’s being included she’s probably going to be played by a white girl.

That being said, there are ways in which they can include Sara without it being disrespectful or making it seem like Baela has been slighted in some way.

We have to keep in mind that Jace dies pretty soon into the Dance, he’s weak asf(sorry to any Jace fans but your fave is lame in HOTD), and he and Baela never marry let alone have children. He’s her stepbrother/cousin, but he’s just a blip in her life. He is not her endgame.

That role belongs to the lord in training of f*ckboy’s Alyn Velaryon. He is the one who she married and had children with. He’s her destiny, not Jace.

If they focus on these guys' relationship and have Alyn actively chasing after Baela and Baela is more receptive to him we can avoid her being the jilted would-be girlfriend who doesn’t measure up. Remember Baela and Jace do not know each other well. Unlike in the books, they weren’t raised together and they’ve only presumably met a handful of times since Baela was raised on Driftmark with Granny.

I doubt she’s that attached to Jace so it would be easy enough showing her getting swept up in Alyn(he’s Corlys 2.0 he should be very charming) to the point where she doesn’t really care wherever Jace goes or whoever he is with.

Back to Sara Snow. I know a lot of fans like to say she’s irrelevant, but there are very few truly irrelevant characters(cough Corwyn Cornbread cough Lasagna Radish), during the Dance and Sara isn’t one of them. She has a purpose and that purpose is to be to Jace what Nettles and Alys are to Daemon and Aemond.

Yes, Jace is a bastard, but he’s still a (half) Targaryen bastard. He’s a prince. There is a certain level of respect he is given when even the maesters see him. We see this respect come into play when it comes to Sara Snow.

Like with Nettles and Alys, Jace is thought to be too good for Sara. The maesters(and Mushroom) hurl a bunch of sexist, xenophobic, and classist language her way, calling her half-wild, an unwashed northern bastard, a wolf girl, and a creature.

The maesters do not believe she exists, but they then say that if she did she wasn’t used as anything more than a roll in the hay. A chance for the Prince of Dragonstone to sow his wild oats before he went back to his high-born Valyrian betrothed Baela.

I feel like the point of the Dance is to show the folly in the pride, prejudice, and greed of House Targaryen as well as the other noble houses in general. Sara shows this.

Finally, I’d like to note that most of the outrage regarding Sara Snow being included is being made by the same people who ship Jace with Cregan(cause I guess two men sleeping together doesn’t count as cheating 🙃) or Nettles😒

I’ve already explained why this is, but it’s being done by Dumbnyra stans to “keep” Nettles away from Daemon.

This is less about racism or Baela being shafted and more about just not wanting Sara included.

Honestly, even if Baela was white like her book!counterpart I could still see people arguing against Sara’s inclusion citing that you are trying to take away from gay representation(even though there is nothing to indicate Jace is gay) or an interracial romance(lol again they don’t want Dettles to happen and will use whatever at their disposal to “stop” it).

Sara Snow would be a great inclusion to the show, but time will tell if she’ll be included at all🤷🏽‍♀️