#no hate towards body positivity folks

[sirfrogsworth]

These folks watched a whole ass movie not realizing the main character was transgender and it was a 2 second kiss between men that made them lose their ever-loving minds.

It's amazing to me that if it weren't for those 2 seconds, many of these folks would have given this movie a 4 or 5 star review. But two seconds of the most vanilla, non-sexy, yet genuine and loving kiss somehow ruined every moment of enjoyment the previous 90 minutes brought them.

Imagine if they realized the trans allegory. I wish I had a way to tell them. I wish I had a way to make them realize they related to a trans character. That they rooted for them. That they accidentally empathized with a trans story.

This was a beautiful movie. In every sense. I really hope between this and Spider-Verse, we can have a moratorium on every 3D animated movie using this style of character design.

It's time to let go of the rubber toy look.

I love Toy Story, but its success kind of doomed 3D animation to never take any risks. I thought maybe it was just a limitation of the medium, and perhaps it was for a time... but after seeing Love Death + Robots and Arcane...

I realized they can make 3D animation look however the hell they want now.

The rubber people were just risk avoidance.

"That's what people are used to and so we're sticking with it."

But the real beauty of Nimona was the story. I won't spoil it but the plot is pretty much, "If you get to know a trans person, you probably won't hate them anymore."

Not knowing any trans people is one of the biggest factors in anti-trans bigotry. And so this movie uses allegory to let an audience get to know a trans person. And you get to experience someone slowly start to understand what it is to be trans from an outside perspective.

It's sad that will probably be lost on those folks above because all they will remember is the kiss. Seriously, it was such a harmless, mundane, blink-and-you-miss-it kiss. But I'm hoping that others will take the lesson of this movie to heart. That you should get to know people before you judge them.

Part of me does wish we could tell trans stories without allegory. That we could just have overt trans characters. But I think this is the best representation possible right now.

It's crazy that Supergirl was one of the bravest shows as far as modern trans representation. It wasn't an edgy HBO drama trying to push boundaries. It was a family-friendly superhero show and they were just like, "Here is a transgender woman with superpowers and it's fine." And I loved that it was part of the character but it wasn't all the character was. Though I think they just missed the manufactured "moral panic" window where that choice would have been extremely controversial causing boycotts of Warner Bros. and whatnot.

My only complaint about Nimona was a small penis joke. It went by very quickly and many may even miss it. But I was surprised to see it in this movie in particular. Especially since those jokes can have collateral damage toward trans folks. With all of the positive messages, wasting a joke on body shaming was a tad disappointing. I mean, it was a fairly lighthearted "Is it cold in here?" joke. I don't want to make it sound worse than it was. But it still registered on my Richter scale of things that bother me.

Anyway, I wholeheartedly give Nimona a 5 out of 5. It helped me understand my friends on a deeper level and it was warm and funny and entertaining. There was a scene at the end that was so beautiful and heart-wrenching and I was crying my eyes out. The animation and the symbolism and the acting were just so perfect.

It's a shame Disney tried to kill this movie. But I am so glad it was allowed to exist despite that.

[tanadrin]

What’s the case for an upper and lower chamber?

In my opinion, none.

The historical situation is that the upper chamber had more power and the lower was a sop to the common folk and petty nobility: this is why the House of Commons was formed (originally from knights of the shire and the representatives of cities that had been granted special rights by the Crown), and only later, after a very long process of constitutional evolution in Britain, did the Lords transform into a consultative body that was adjunct to the Commons, where the real power lay. For a while, even after you started to have something that looked like modern government in Britain, you still frequently had PMs drawn from the Lords--and still could, in theory, except that the convention is they come from the Commons.

In the U.S. example, the goal was simply to split the difference between a popular chamber (the House) and a chamber representing state governments (the Senate, whose members could be chosen by any method provided for under state law, but originally were usually chosen by state legislatures). This is because the people who drafted the U.S. constitution hated and were suspicious of popular democracy, because they were rich landowners and slaveholders whose positions were untenable in the long run if everyone in the country could vote and was equally represented.

Obviously they didn't put it like that--they spoke of the hotheaded hoi polloi, the changeable will of the people--but they were massive Romeaboos, and all the populist leaders who whittled away at the Roman republic managed to do so because they were willing to centralize power, to take it away from the baronial elite of the Republic, and to use that power in service of people further down the org chart. In service of themselves too, of course--these were not altruists--but it was the particularly Roman instantiation of the crown-vs-barons struggle, where the common folk usually side with the Crown, because the barons are bastards who abuse them directly.

(Very many "tyrants" in history were "tyrants" only in that they gave a raw deal to the barons in their particular social order, and very many events which we now describe as movements toward a more equitable distribution of power were in fact a very shitty deal for the majority of the population--the peasants--because it gave the barons even more license to abuse their serfs.)

And the American founders knew all this, and they were all barons, and they didn't like the idea of a federal government that was too effective, so they sprinkled it with veto points and also totally failed to anticipate the rise of modern political parties. (Which weren't exactly what they had in mind when they warned against factionalism--that was more about sectional interests. But still, they did totally fail to anticipate how this system would work as party politics developed.)

In a system of democratic government like the U.S. has now, where it is widely acknowledged the rule should be "one adult citizen never convicted of a felony who can get the day off work to stand in line and has a photo ID = one vote" the U.S. Senate is an inexcusable anachronism. Indeed, the Supreme Court has ruled that state senates modeled on the exact same principle as the U.S. senate (say, one county one senator, as the constitution of my home state Tennessee has it) are unconstitutional, because they violate the equal protection clause.

More recently, many countries have approached the idea of an upper chamber as a sort of "chamber of experts" meant to review and advise on legislation. This kind of makes sense in theory, I guess, but if voters want subject-matter experts to make policy, they can vote them in; in practice, any system of appointment or ex officio qualification is going to select for political lackeys without democratic mandates, and it's also just a bad idea to have people with significant power over the legislative process who do not have democratic accountability. The problem of creating legislation is never that we don't have enough smart people willing to offer their opinions; the problem is brokering functional compromises between interest groups and resolving incentives that push the process toward dysfunctional outcomes, which isn't really something you can fix just by fiddling with the composition of your upper house.

So in most modern parliamentary democracies, upper houses are reduced in power. Either they can't veto bills permanently (Lords), they can't originate money bills (Lords again), they only have input on certain matters (German Bundesrat), they're full of government appointees to ensure the government always has a majority in them (Irish Seanad), or the lower house can overrule them on most matters (Japanese House of Councillors). And the reason why is obvious: if your democratic mandate comes from the lower house, if that's where your government is being formed in a parliamentary system, if the whole principle of government is meant to be collective self-rule by the body of citizens, an upper house that is a check on that power is either definitionally redundant or a brake on democracy.

There are ways to ensure that a lower house is both representative and does not devolve into factional chaos. Proportional representation, four-year terms, constructive motions of no confidence (again, parliamentary systems only), etc. Plenty of countries and subnational entities have unicameral legislatures and are perfectly stable: Sweden, Norway, the Baltics, Portugal, Mongolia, South Korea, Peru [ok bad example nvm], all the states of Germany, all the provinces of Canada, most of the provinces of Argentina, Queensland, the vast majority of the states of India, and the three devolved legislatures in the United Kingdom.

Therefore in my opinion there is no good democratic case for an upper house. And all the undemocratic reasons why you'd want one are bad. Too much democracy is, in fact, a very rare problem for systems of government to have!

[billthedrake]

THE SALES GUY

Business travel is OK, until it's not.

Thunderstorms back east had cancelled one flight and seriously delayed another. Even with the time difference, it was almost 9 when we landed in Denver. At least Carson and I had status and were upgraded to business class. We were the first off the plane, rolling our business carry ons behind us through the airport, making our way toward the rental car area.

Carson Wells is one of the sales guys in our group. The dude's young, about 30, but he's good at his job and moreover has a crazy ambition. It's why he was paired with me on a prospect this big.

I'll be honest, I used to hate the folks in Sales. I felt like we did the work, and they cashed in their commission checks. And Carson was the very type who annoyed the crap out of me. Fratty, capable only of small talk, nice almost to the point of seeming fake. But times like this I was grateful I was paired with him: the guy didn't get stressed out about travel hiccups.

"I love Denver, man," he said in a tone that would sound chipper if it weren't such a masculine bro kind of voice. "Shame we don't have the time to go hiking or anything while we're out here."

For some reason, I was in the mood for Wells' small talk. "You into outdoor sports? I pictured you as more a country club guy," I teased.

"That too," Carson said as he flashed his smile. Pearly white teeth, fucking perfectly formed dimples, well trimmed blondish-brown beard. Yeah, one reason my defenses were down was because Carson Wells was stunningly cute and stunningly hot.

Down boy, I thought to myself. It's not like my dick was chubbing or anything, but I knew how to be a professional at work, and with colleagues. Even ones as hot as Carson. Besides, the dude was grade-A hetero.

Carson had reserved the car and we strutted right over to pick up the key. Of course, Carson went for an upgraded model. I thought of lecturing him about costs, but figured I'd let his manager deal with that headache. Besides, if we reeled this big fish in, no one would give a fuck how much Carson ran up on his business credit card this trip.

We were both tired from the long day and once we checked into the hotel it was time to go to our respective rooms and call it a night.

If you've seen one Marriott you've seen them all. At least this one had a good view of the mountains, though it would be morning before I'd have time to appreciate it. For now, I undressed and brushed my teeth and slipped into bed. I didn't even have my daily masturbation time, I was so tired.

***

The presentation the next day went well. Really well. Carson brought the dynamic sales pitch, and I brought the gravitas. Of course we didn't know what they'd decide yet, but you sometimes get a vibe from a prospect, and that vibe was positive.

Carson was getting it too. We stopped at a trendy restaurant near our hotel that was half steak house, half small plate kind of place. Carson joked it was the kind of place he'd take chicks to if he wanted to impress them. Honestly, I didn't care where we ate. I don't eat a lot on the day of a sales call, and now my appetite was catching up with me.

"I think this calls for the good stuff," Carson announced as he strutted up to the bar, me a couple paces behind. God, he was so sexy in that post-pitch mode, his 5'11" body filling out his trim-cut tailored suit just right, and those thick thighs leading up to an amazing ass...

"Best bourbon you have," he asked the bartender. Then, he flashed those dimples as he turned to me. "Oh I forgot, you gay guys don't drink bourbon, right?"

I rolled my eyes. "It sounds like you're scripting the next HR compliance video, Wells."

He chuckled. "Is that a yes or no, Boss?" I technically wasn't his boss, but I was an officer and somehow Boss had become his playful nickname for me.

"Sure," I said, adding that the prospect was ultimately gonna pay for this round.

"Damn straight," Carson grinned, his green eyes twinkling.

We sat the bar, sipping some pretty damn amazing whiskey. Carson had his legs spread, effortlessly manspreading. I didn't stare or scope him out or anything, but let's say I enjoyed the view.

Our conversation was all business as our food arrived, and even as we ordered another drink.

"Maybe grab another back at the hotel bar?" he asked as we nearly finished that round. It was getting dark out but still wasn't too late. "I'm in the mood to celebrate."

I nodded, signalling for the check. "Sounds good. Only we haven't won the client yet."

"We're gonna win 'em, Bill. You know it, too."

I shrugged. "Yeah," I conceded.

Carson laughed. "Didn't think you'd be so superstitious."

I nudged my leg against his. Hopefully more a buddy nudge than a flirty one, but the booze was loosening me up. "I'm surprised you're not, Wells."

We paid up and made our way back to the boring bar at our boring hotel. It felt great to unwind there. I knew Carson was eager to have more than one other drink, and I wouldn't mind getting a little tight myself. It had been a tough week.

"You're buying this time, Boss," he said. "Just don't order me some well-liquor shit."

I was tempted to get him a cheap domestic beer, just for being a smart ass, but ended up splurging on another top-shelf bourbon.

"Here's to the Dream Team," he toasted as we clinked our glasses. We were just about the only ones in the bar area, seated on one of the couches.

"You did great, man," I said.

He smiled again. Fuck, those pearly whites. "Man, that's probably the first time you've ever thrown me a compliment."

"No it isn't..." I objected. Now that I was in a managerial role, I knew it was my job to provide positive feedback to everyone on my team.

"For real," he said, with a smile that said he wasn't too upset. Or maybe Carson was just being his frat-boy nice. "You're kind of intense, Boss."

"Oh," I said. Not sure what to make of it. Though Carson wasn't the first person with that opinion of me.

He nodded. "I'm gonna say something that's not HR-approved... but you've mellowed out a lot since you broke up with Rob."

Rob was my ex-husband. I still couldn't tell if it ended amicably or bitterly. But it had been a big shift in my life. "It was a divorce," I corrected Carson.

"Yeah, divorce. Sorry. I know that was an asshole thing to say. It's just, well, you seem happier now. I hope you are, Bill."

Something about his sincerity, combined with the booze, had me opening up unexpectedly. "There's good and bad," I replied in a measured way. "But the freedom is nicer than I expected."

Carson nudged my knee with his, in what I would have guessed was a flirtation, and gave ne a "you dog" kind of look. "I bet," he smirked. Then he got an impish look on his cute face. "Maybe I shouldn't admit this to you, man, but I sometimes have fun with guys."

I gulped. This was major HR-inappropriate territory. "Is that right?" I asked with my best poker face.

The man nodded. The sexual part of my brain was just thinking how incredibly fuckable my coworker was. His voice made him even hotter, I thought. "Not the whole nine yards like you gay guys, but yeah..."

"How do you know what I do in bed?" I had to tease.

He laughed and shrugeed. Again, flashing that killer smile. "You got me there, Boss. Guess I shouldn't make assumptions." We paused and, fuck, our eyes met, like really met. I wasn't imagining it: Carson Wells was fucking flirting with me. "Can I trust you with this, man?" he asked.

I gave some motion of my hand that was some combo of crossing my heart and scout's honor.

He bit his lip nervously, playfully, and then lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "Um, yeah, I'm into sucking a guy's dick." He blushed as he said it, but I had to be impressed by how forthright he was. It was the last thing I expected from Carson's mouth. His nervousness carried him on. "I mean, just the feel of a hard cock in my mouth.... it's wild, kind of a taboo you know for a guy like me."

"I can imagine," I said. Not wanting to either encourage or discourage Carson. My dick was getting rock hard in my suit. And there was no way it was going down soon.

"Yeah," Carson beamed, glad I wasn't judging him or giving him any flak for his bi streak. "I mean it's crazy, I don't even need my dick sucked or anything, just that act is enough to get me going, you know?"

I nodded but replied. "Not exactly, Carson. I guess I'm more a receiving is better than giving kind of guy," I joked.

"Did Rob do that for you?" he asked.

This was definitely inappropriate conversation. But fuck it. "That and more," I replied. "Rob was a big ol' bottom."

"Hot," Carson said. There was something weird about our dynamic now. Buddy-buddy, but also like lusty. Carson took a sip of bourbon, but he was nearing the bottom of his glass. "Another round, Boss?"

I held mine up and swirled the last half centimeter of brown liquid in the rocks glass. "I shouldn't, man." I was already pretty buzzed.

"Come on," he urged. "We're the fucking Dream Team."

I caved and nodded. If my boner was riding a good ridge in my trousers it downright throbbed watching Carson's hot suited body get up and strut over to the bar. I needed to find some self control, in case Wells was actually gonna proposition me. Maybe he just wanted someone to talk to about his bi side. Or maybe he liked teasing me as an ego boost.

He was all smiles when he came back with two more drinks. We clinked glasses and had our first sips. "To a killer day," he smirked.

"Yep," I said. I wasn't drunk at least. But I was starting to feel really nice.

He looked around. I thought he was just idly checking out our environment, but I realized he was seeing if the coast was clear. His eyes flitted back to my crotch.

"You look like you're packing a lot down there, Boss," he said. That sexual edge somehow changing his frat-bro voice.

"Sorry," I muttered. Trying to cross my legs.

"Don't hide it, man," he urged. "No one can see it from a distance, not in those pants."

I blushed as I spread my legs again, manspreading as I faced this hunky sales guy. This was so wild and wrong, but my dick was rock hard.

"Nice boner, Boss," he smirked.

"Thanks," I said. Maybe I thought if I limited my words there'd be less cause to get me fired.

"How big is it?" he asked.

"How big?" I chuckled. Wells was the last dude I imagined to be asking me for my dick size. "7 and a half," I replied. "I've not measured the width."

"It's pretty thick," Carson put out there, his eyes back on my boner. "But not too fat to suck."

"Jesus," I exhaled.

Carson's green eyes twinkled. "Am I getting you worked up, Boss?" Jesus, he loved flirting all right.

"You know you are, damnit."

"This is just between us, right?" he clarified.

"It better be," I hissed. "Not how I expected this trip to go..."

"You upset?" he felt me out.

"Depends on if I'm thinking with my brain or my dick," I answered honestly.

That made Carson smile. "How bout your dick?"

"My dick wants to get sucked," I said bluntly.

Carson nodded, almost serious, maybe the reality was making him less chipper. "Let's do this, Bill," he grunted and tossed back of the liquor, like he was building up courage.

I didn't do mine like a frat boy shot, but sipped a good amount of the remainder and set the glass down before standing up, just hoping my erection wasn't too obvious.

I couldn't believe this was actually gonna happen. Carson didn't seem to believe it either. We rode the elevator silently, almost scared to look at one another. Then he followed me to my room.

My heart pounded, because I didn't know how this was actually going to go down. I didn't want anything messy with my coworker - hell, I'd probably be the senior investment guy brought in for half of Wells's prospects - but it was probably too late for that.

I tried to think of how this would go down. For a half minute, a part deep in my brain wanted to put a stop to this. But as I walked to where our rooms were, adjacent to one another, I stopped at mine and Carson looked at me with a look of horny expectation behind his straight-bro smile. I tapped the key card and ushered him inside.

The thing that helped my conscience somehow was that Wells didn't kiss me or make any move to make out with me. Like he'd had some practice he crouched in front of me, looking incredible in his slim-cut suit and gym-toned build, wasting no time reaching forward ot unbuckle my nelt. This wasn't gonna be a messy office place romance, this was just going to be a blowjob. As no-strings as they get.

"Fuck!" I hissed as the zipper came down and Carson tugged my boxer briefs below my hard prick. My dick jerked to attention, harder than I recall it ever being. This felt naughty and sexual in a way that half made me glad to be a divorced man.

"You sold yourself short, Boss," Carson teased as he ran his finger up and down my bone. "You got an amazing cock."

And like that, the sales guy was taking me into his mouth.

This wasn't Carson's first dick. It wasn't his fifth. The dude wasn't lying, he loved sucking cock, and it was clear he'd had some practice. I just stood there, hands on my hips and let him do his stuff. I got off on the mind-fuck of co-worker sex and the straight-dude fantasy come to life. I mean, Carson Wells clearly wasn't 100% straight but he was as close as I'd get to having a hetero guy blow me.

And the fact he loved this, really loved this, meant I was getting quality head. Regular, half-suction mouth strokes up and down about four or five inches of my cock, with increasing base.

"It's not gonna take me long," I warned him. If it hadn't been for the bourbon I would have nutted already. Wells was that good.

He was going for it now, kind of twisting the base of my cock with his fist as he bobbed more frantically. I placed my hand on the top of his skull, and that got an excited, deep moan from the guy. I started small thrusts timed with his sucking. Nothing too intense, I'm not an asshole. But I was getting real close, and my excitement was pushing me over that finish line.

"Oh shit! Oh fuck!" I hissed, trying not to be too loud. My cum was incredible. Maybe because Carson did this sucking thing all through my ejaculation that just added to the pleasure. My knees buckled a little.

I was finally was spent, and Carson gave one final lick at the tip before pulling back. "That was hot, Boss," he hissed, mouth full of cum and saliva.

"Damn... it was, man." I looked down. "Need me to get you off?" Once I cum I'm usually out of sex mode. But I know how to take care of a guy's needs.

He shook his head as he stood up. For real, Carson had a hardon riding up his suit pants. Not as big as mine but showing a good tent. "Nah, I'm good... I'm gonna go back to my room now, if that's OK."

It wasn't awkward as it seemed for some reason. Maybe because my swimmers were in Carson's belly now. "Yeah, that's fine... if you're sure." I felt a little guilty for the no-recip thing. But not too guilty, I suppose.

He flashed a grin. "Yeah, I'm sure. See ya bright and early tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I nodded, tucking back in and pulling up my trousers. "Have a good night, Wells. And thanks again." I was tipsy but maybe sobering up some now.

"My pleasure, Boss," he said. He paused and looked at me, and God I half expected a kiss to come right then. But he patted my arm and then walked past to the door. And left me in my room.

"Fuck!" I growled, and had to laugh at how crazy it was I just let that happen. I knew I'd made a terrible mistake, but Carson seemed game to make it with me. And I knew if I had that chance, I'd make it again.

[fatcowboys]

i rlly kinda need fat liberation or body positivity or whatever to be so so so So much better about includong masculine folks in their resources and conversations.

ive rarely been femme even before i knew i wasnt a woman so its not like ive really had a bountiful access to fat resources aimed towards femme folks but god damn i have felt my options shrink even smaller the less comfortable i am with femme aimed resources and how out of place my body seems within so many of those spaces and resources. ESPECIALLY ones that can accomodate my trans body, tits (that i don't hate! and don't foresee going anywhere anytime soon!) and all.

i know how few plus sized clothing brands there are (not even getting into affordable + ethically made etc etc) but if the ones that exist its an OVERWHELMINGLY femme aligned majority that i feel miserable wearing without a lot of extra styling and modification work. or the amount of masc clothes in stock at plus size resale stores vs femme clothes. or if i am looking for style inspiration or folks speaking about fat liberation finding fit insp for fat women is easy! but i have a much smaller pool of fat masculine folks (who i treasure dearly!) that ive found and return to their content regularly because its so valuable to me because its often hidden under content that, while important, has limited usefulness for me

i find this extra prevalent in body positivity spaces, where it often feels like resources and information is shared with the assumption that its been shared to other femme folks and women without specifying that is who its usefulness is aimed towards. what triggered this post right now (although its honestly always lurking around the corner, watch out if you have a single conversation with me about fat liberation) was a post about body positivity where someone shared a resource of a website where you can put in your height, weight, other info and see people who might look like you (and make it easier to appreciate their body where you find it difficult to appreciate your own). and i thought thats a cool resource! i dont get to see people who look like me, hardly ever! lets check it out!

unfortunately what wasnt included was that the subtitle for this site is "what real women look like" so while there wasn't any info stating identities of the people shown on the photos, of the few i clicked through they all were femme and while they looked great, i didnt see anyone who i felt looked like me to get what i hoped out of that site. this would have been fine if the person had posted it had stated its target audience up front, but this isnt the first time, and wont be the last time, that i got excited about a resource only to learn it actually has very little that applies to me.

if you are someone who shares content about fat liberation, PLEASE consider how much content and resources you share that can be utilized by your masculine followers as well - and at the very least, please don't state something as universally beneficially if its not. i understand why there is such a focus on this considering the history of beauty standards applied to femme folks (and more). however im unlearning those too and now also dealing with new ones as i transition that are far less talked about and i just ask we give some space for fat men, masculine people, butches and more to also create space to deal with these struggles within fat liberation spaces. especially especially especially for fellow folks larger than small fats because the need only grows.

[yourdreamysalamander]

"Be A Lover" Here is a quote from Eden Ahbez, when he was asked about racism, he replied, "Some white people hate black people, and some white people love black people, some black people hate white people, and some black people love white people. So you see it's not an issue of black and white, it's an issue of Lovers and Haters." Hate is a disgusting toxic bacteria that multiplies and plagues the human environment and psyche. When two opposing forces hate one an other, it contributes to the poison of our world. It fixes nothing. Hate breeds more hate. Only love is the antidote. It's a paradigm shift. A hard one. Hate is easy. Love is hard and challenging in difficult circumstances. It is a shift in mindset. Bring in a fiery fighting spirit for love. I started making a practice early in the morning, when I drum to energize my spiritual/astral/dream/magickal/chi body, to visual people that I don't get a long with too well in a positive state. I hope they have a good day to bring their spirits up. I send them healthy and positive vibes. I visualize them at their happiest and best. In a position where they are learning. When people come in with high spirits it can be a wonderful thing. High spirits burn away all the negative energy. Folks have a lot in their lives that deprive or steal energy from their spirits. Then those same folks come from that place into the environment. I have to be the one with the high spirit. A flame to burn away everything around if not by anyone else. What I have noticed as well, that my resentment towards some of these folks has burnt away for the day. I am sensing a rewiring and a paradigm shift in how I am personally interacting with these specific people. It's a positive rewiring of my own self and my own negativity that I pick from my environment into my own psyche. This is a very positive and nice way going forward to protect my own well being and boundaries to generate positivity and a healthy impact where there may not be much around. This is an excellent way forward and I am sure there is much to explore on this path.

[mekanikaltrifle]

On request for a little Opinions Post By Meka(tm), something about Clan Nosferatu.

This one’s about clan PR, looking like a smacked ass, and the nastier side of everyone’s favourite bat babies.

I find that the Sewer Rats are often rightly characterised as having had a rough time, what with their curse physically transforming and often disfiguring them. Asides from the obvious iffiness of playing close to the wire with body/beauty image politics there, this curse of monstrousness has at times shown them to look anywhere from eerie and inhuman to outright insanely creature-like. Cool! Awesome. The Nosferatu Embrace is described as being prolonged, painful and incredibly disorienting as their bodies change forcibly under the will of a darkness they could never have understood in life. On top of that, iirc the Curse cannot be lifted by Vicissitude, and may ilicit disastrous effects if someone tries to change it with said Discipline. However, it can be changed (sort of) by using the Mask of a Thousand Faces power of Obfuscate, but this is a fleeting thing only in the minds of those around them-- i.e, it’s not real. What we have here is a very clear multi-layered cake of suffering with body image issues icing on top. Delicious! Now, one would assume that means that if the Nosferatu clan suffer so much on the outside, they must be better on the inside than their less-monstrous-looking peers, right? Certainly their clan PR team and a lot of newer media likes to paint them that way. I think plenty of folks would like their players to be better on the inside than your average vampire because they go through a harrowing change like that. Of course, that’s fine, literally play them how you like. But. I wonder if people have forgotten about clan Nosferatu’s favourite nasty little pastime: creating Cleopatras. For those not in the know, Cleopatras are people Embraced into clan Nosferatu, because of their beauty. In many cases the Cleopatra-to-be is arrogant, prideful or vain, or otherwise making other peoples’ lives worse by having a way too high opinion of their own beauty. In some cases, making a Cleopatra could be a form of comeuppance, if you want to be nasty like that. However, there’s no clan-wide agreement on exactly why a Nossie should make a Cleopatra, and it stands to reason it’s not alwasy comeuppance driving that choice.

Many Nossies (especially in VtM:B and older white wolf books) are explicitly hateful towards beautiful things. Whether that’s from jealousy, an inhuman need to destroy something they feel they can never have again, or projecting the horror of being a vampire onto something tangible they can scrape together a justification for hating, is not solid. What is clear is it often seems to be entirely subjective, and often selfish as well. The clan rivalry between Nosferatu and Toreador is obvious and noted, and makes complete sense from both a shallow and deep look at the clans’ respective positions in the final nights.

Combine this nasty tendency towards getting into peoples’ business, as spymasters and information brokers it is literally their job, and this hatred or revulsion for beautiful things and you have a recipe for some truly cruel behaviour. I wonder how many Cleopatras were just pretty people who crossed a Nossie by accident, or were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Of course, the one most notable Cleopatra, Imalia, is a total dick so... not saying they’re innocent at all. But it makes one wonder.

There’s this beautiful well of psychological torment and traditional-gothic melodramatic nastiness just sitting there, ready to be unleashed on storyteller and player characters alike... maybe next time you try making a morally-dubious Nossie, think about the Cleopatras and their agonies and traumas...

[judeandcardan]

"You wanted to kiss me,” she breathed, looking down at his lips. Cardan’s eyes widened but he didn’t dare to move, waiting for Jude to finish her sentence. “And I told you that you were drunk.”

“Well, I’m not drunk anymore.” He found himself whispering before he could stop himself.

Read it on ao3

(Thank/blame @golden-notebook-thinking for this)

The High King of Elfhame woke up with a pounding head, his thoughts scattered. He blinked blearily, looking up at the ceiling of his chambers which was tastefully adorned with gold patterns. Across his stomach lay a petite fairie with hair as white as snow with her mouth flaked in gold. Cardan watched as she took deep breaths, obviously very much asleep. He looked around his chambers and sure enough there were three more sleeping fair folk draped across his room in various state of undress.

He gingerly got up, swatting the white-headed fairy’s arm until she blinked up in alarm at him. “Get off me,” He snarled in disgust. The fairie quickly scurried away from him. Perhaps, he should have been nicer, he mused but as he watched her cower, he felt the familiar thrill of having power so wicked and cruel over someone that he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He got up from his bed and walked towards the door, careful to avoid the bodies of other fairies currently lying on his bedroom floor. He breathed a sigh of relief as he silently closed the door behind him. It wasn’t dawn yet, so all the other residents of the palace were fast asleep. The silence hung heavily around him, suffocating him. He hated being alone. He strode towards the garden just outside the palace longing for some fresh air.

It was strange how his steps seemed to be eerily silent even in the quiet. Jude’s steps would not have been this silent, this ghostly. The thought came unbidden to him startling him as he opened the grand doors leading to the garden. He shook his head, disgusted by himself for thinking of his seneschal for such a trivial matter.

The warm humid air hit his cool skin immediately as he stepped outside. The breeze blowing his raven curls that were a mess from yesterday’s party and what followed after that. He moved towards the riverbank overlooking the river flowing gaily and hastily in a blur of blue.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he saw her. Jude. She was sitting at the edge of the river, leaning on her arms, her feet dipped in the cold water. It was reckless behavior, being so close to those treacherous waves, but Jude had always been foolishly reckless.

Her hair hung loose around her, a rarity, as her hair was always in one or another tight knot or braid. Her head was thrown back, exposing the long pale column of her neck. Her pink lips parted. Her eyes shut. She wore a loose flimsy white dress that reached till her knees but due to her sitting with one of her knees bent, it hiked up, showing the skin of her thigh. Cardan gulped, looking away but then almost immediately, as if under a spell he looked back at her. She was looking straight at him.

“Seneschal,” He said loftily, trying to mask his embarrassment at being caught staring.

“My King,” Jude replied with a slight snarl of her lip, getting up from her position.

“Oh, no need for that.” Cardan said quickly, too quickly. “Keep sitting. I shall join you. After all, you wouldn’t dare to refuse your High King, would you, Jude?” His tone took a threatening tilt at the end, daring her to refuse. Anger flared across her face, but she simply shook her head.

“No, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She said lowly, in a controlled voice. Cardan smirked and sat down beside her.

“You know, you shouldn’t do that,” He said, pointing towards her feet with one longer finger adorned with glittering rings.

“What?” She asked half-heartedly, her eyes closed.

“Dip your feet in water,” He clarified, “there are many a killer beneath these waves.”

She cracked an eye open, narrowing her eyes at him. “They are probably sleeping, right now.” But Cardan didn’t miss it as Jude became more alert, her eyes open, her back straighter.

“Hmm,” Cardan said turning away from Jude, “it’s just that I would like it if my Seneschal was alive.”

Jude scowled, begrudgingly retracting her feet from the water. “Happy now?”

“Very much so.” He said with a small smile. Jude rolled her eyes at him and that made him smile even more.

After a pause Jude said softly, “You look like a mess.” Cardan blinked slowly, looking down at himself. He truly was a mess. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned and tousled, stained with amber wine. He was wearing no boots. His breeches were scattered with gold powder. He was sure his hair looked quite wild too.

“I do.” He said, nodding his head slowly, looking up at her.

Jude snorted, “Of course, you do.” She opened her mouth then paused as if debating internally whether to speak what was on her mind or not. The sight unnerved Cardan. Jude wasn't like this.

“Go ahead, speak what’s on your mind.”

Jude hesitated then said, “I was just going to say…of course you look like a mess, you were so drunk and stupid last night. Wild. Brazen. Reckless. Careless. A High King shouldn’t behave like that, Cardan.”

Cardan ignored the latter half of what Jude said and instead asked, “Jude, what did I do?”

Jude jumped a little at her spot, not quite meeting his eyes. “Cardan—”

He cut her off. “Jude. What. Did. I. Do?” He asked, emphasizing on every word. Jude laughed nervously, the sound all high and wrong. This wasn’t how Jude laughed, he knew that for sure by the other two times he made her laugh before.

“Well, you did a lot of things. You got drunk. You inhaled all sorts of powder. You bedded a fairie—or for what I know many fairies. Then you—”

“Jude,” He said, stopping her ramblings, “that all is usual.” Jude remained silent.

“Now tell me,” he said, lifting her chin up with one of his slender fingers. Jude gulped. “What did I do?”

“You wanted to kiss me,” she breathed, looking down at his lips. Cardan’s eyes widened but he didn’t dare to move, waiting for Jude to finish her sentence. “And I told you that you were drunk.”

Cardan blinked in alarm and embarrassment. He couldn’t have—could he? Surely, he wouldn’t be foolish enough to want to kiss Jude, again? Despite her betrayal? Despite her mortality? Despite her controlling his every move?

“Well, I’m not drunk anymore.” He found himself whispering before he could stop himself.

Jude looked up in alarm, frozen. Then, hesitantly, leaned closer to him. Cardan inhaled sharply, not quite believing what was happening.

"Cardan, kiss me...please." She said looking up at him, her eyes hooded and clouded with lust and longing. He was sure he looked the same.

"I—"

"Kiss me." And he did. He pressed his mouth firmly against hers. Sliding his lips over hers as she did the same. He gripped her by the head bringing her closer but it wasn't enough. Never enough.

"Jude," he breathed his voice coarse, "straddle me."

Jude complied, her eyes dark with want. Cardan whimpered as she settled herself over his lap.

“My dear Seneschal,” he breathed, leaning closer to her once again, “you don't know how long I’ve longed for this.” He said bringing his mouth to hers once again.  

[bodiesonbodiesonbodieson]

Sometimes I think about how life would be like if I was born a girl and I always get reminded how misogynistic my parents were. I'd probably be more isolated, since my sisters would pit against me more than they already did when they were younger. Or maybe Im a litte too pessimistic? I dont think so. I could see myself throwing my life away for this boy I had a crush on when I was a teenager. I could see myself get put into dangerous positions. No different then being a gay teen i guess? Of course, being a girl has its own dangers, especially considering the desperation i developed throughout my childhood. Maybe Id hate my body more? Maybe i wont? Im not sure. Im not sure how different i'd be different. Secretly, ive been perceiving myself internally as a girl my whole life. I dont like what I see outside, even if I am attractive, as what has been said by enough folks. I am deeply insecure over the fact that I'm not attractive to straight men, because I am not a woman. Feelings for gay men feel awkward, because it's like Im constantly having my maleness be reinforced by their attraction towards me. Then again, who else should I go for?

[dhalsimxhonda]

HONSIM ; SOCIAL MEDIA

by dhalsimxhonda on tumblr

SUMMARY : edmond honda finds out on social media talking trash about him, and dhalsim tries to calm him down.

SETTINGS : street fighter 6

dhalsim came back to his apartment after picking up anishk from high school. he took his time to enter the door until he heard edmond frowning as he held the phone. “i brought anishk home, please give him some love.” the teenager walked towards the sumo wrestler chef as he closed his phone, smiling at his son as he gave him a kiss in the cheeks. “hello, my chicken katsu. any homeworks?”

“no, thank agni it gives me time to study for the test tomorrow.” anishk replied with a smile. “i’ll take a break and work on it later.” edmond let him go as the teenager went to his room to rest and study. dhalsim went to the couch and sat next to his husband. “i can see that you’re upset. are you alright?” edmond sighed and looked away. “i’m fine. i had to take a break from work.” dhalsim knew what was going on and knew that edmond was upset. he caressed his husband’s cheeks, trying to catch his attention. “no, you’re not fine. is it social media?” edmond tried not to breathe in and lied once again to his husband as many times. “i said that i’m fine.”

dhalsim sighed. “i know you well, honda.” honda sniffled as the yoga master hushed him quietly. “i know you very well.” he was earnest and edmond tried to lie once again that he didn’t feel like venting. “no, sim… it’s nothing.” tears were falling on the sumo wrestler chef’s cheeks, making it obvious that he was not okay. “no, edmond.” dhalsim said. “what did they say?” dhalsim knows his husband too well that something is bothering him. the sumo wrestler chef sighed and handed dhalsim his phone after opening to the comments from his social media post.

the yoga master spotted the comments as he read them carefully. “honda should stay on the ground, el-oh-el… that ‘sumo headbutt’ move of his isn’t even a legal sumo finishing move… are we sure he’s not not inflated? anyone try sticking him on a pin yet? and… honda’s got the showmanship down pat, but it sure ain’t sumo wrestling…” dhalsim spotted as many hate comments in the post, no longer reading anything else out loud. he closed it down and left the app.

“this is everything they’re saying about you? who told you all of this?” he asked as he closed his husband’s phone and handed it back. “a young fella who’s on his sumo training under me. he heard the scuttlebutts and revealed that they were talking trash about me.” edmond took it back and placed it far on the table. “maybe i blew it. i tried so hard to find at least a positive comment for me, but it’s hopeless. maybe the glory of sumo wrestling ain’t makin’ it through folks.”

he started to cry as dhalsim embraced his arms as he hushed him down. “hush, my darling. you may have blown the passion of sumo wrestling, but the world doesn’t see it yet.” he brushed his husband’s hair gently in the ears, not minding every tear of edmond’s cries onto his body. “if you keep blowing up and show your legacy of the sumo wrestling, there are tons of fans praising your inner work.” honda’s facepaint was all ruined from his sorrow. “oh, dhalsim-kun! but how will i get over from them? maybe i’m not doing enough for the legacy!” he cried. “my darling. you can’t let social media affect you. take a break from social media and ignore the negative comments. you have a purpose.”

“you’re right…” edmond gave dhalsim as many kisses on his forehead, as tears kept running over his eyes. “i’m sorry, dhalsim-kun!” he kept crying as dhalsim kept hushing his husband and brushing his hair.

LINKS FOR THE PROMPTS !

AO3 , WATTPAD .

[jgvfhl]

The Number Lad Is A Menace

And of course by Thee Number Lad, I mean my darling Sevenset :) This is one more chapter of silliness for everyone to enjoy! I'll be honest, the next chapter might come a little later than April 1st because of my chock-a-block full schedule right now, but it will happen in April!!! We gotta start the next arc!!! I'm so excited!! Thank you to everyone who's been reading these chapters, I really appreciate it.

Words: ~4100 Warnings: None Link to the Masterlist of Chapters Link to the story on Ao3 if that's easier for folks (it's still 1 chapter behind, but it'll be up to date by the next installment)

Sevenset looked up from his little sketchbook, finally noticing the bunks around him in the temporary barracks on Rancor’s Venator cruiser were filling up. He checked the time on his vambrace.

Huh.

Okay, well, he hadn’t meant to spend almost two hours designing his next tattoo, but these things happened. He added the last few lines and snapped the book shut around his pencil, wrapping the elastic band around the book and tucking it under his pillow.

Upon attempting to stand, his body informed him he had been sitting in a horrible position for almost two hours, and standing so quickly was not possible right now.

“Ow,” he muttered, stretching his legs out and leaning down to touch the toes of his boots.

“Yeah, it looked like you were doing your best impression of an ithorian down there.”

Sevenset looked up, finding his squadmate Buster lying in his bunk, prepped for sleep cycle, which was due to start for them in a few minutes.

“Was it any good?” he asked, finally standing up slowly to stretch his back.

Buster frowned. “Dunno, you don’t quite have the face for it.”

A lump in the bunk underneath Buster grumbled. “Would you shut up ‘n sleep?”

Buster smiled, leaning over the side to look down. His field partner Sketch valued his sleep like a dragon did its hoard, and right now, only the man’s mohawk and little strips of the pink-dyed buzzed hair either side were visible over the edge of the blanket pulled up over his face.

“Sorry, Sketch,” Sevenset said, a little quieter. “I’ll leave you to your beauty rest.”

Sketch grumbled again and Buster gave a small smile before settling back on his mattress. “Have fun on the night shift,” he said.

“Oh, I always do,” Sevenset replied, finding his kit and putting it on. He wasn’t being sarcastic, for once. He really did enjoy the night shift. He’d always been a bit… off as far as circadian rhythm (his squad on Kamino had hated it), so it made perfect sense to him to take the later shifts while he was at his best, and rest when the weirdo “morning people” were up and functional.

He was by the door when Buster called his name–quietly still, so he didn’t wake anyone.

“What?”

Buster held up a datapad. “I forgot to drop this off with the commanders,” he said, handing it down to him. “Do you think you can do that?”

Sevenset considered it. “Well, as long as I know which room I’m going to, shouldn’t be a problem.”

The other ARC rubbed his head, squinting in efforts to recall. “I think Colt is in one-eighteen C? It’s near the bridge, one level up from us.”

He stared at Buster, knowing very well he had no idea the gift he had just given him. He nodded solemnly. “Consider it done, vod,” he said as seriously as he could muster, adding a sharp salute as well.

Buster just rolled his eyes and lay down, shuffling his blanket around as he got comfortable. “Maker help us, you’re somethin’ else, Sevens,” he smiled.

Sevenset grinned back, turning off the lights as he left the room and headed to the briefing room for his shift assignments. Nothing too dramatic, considering they were hurtling through hyperspace, and the truly important people—the engineers, the navigators, the bridge officers—were all taking shifts as well, keeping them on track towards Kamino. But, his light duties did mean he had plenty of time to get them done in a timely fashion, then go see about room 118C and hope its occupant was out of the room…

As was often the case, Sevenset was given inspection duties. He had notable attention to detail and a quick eye for making sure everything was ship-shape in no time, so the COs had no issues handing it off to him time and time again, and he had no issues completing it time and time again. Tonight, it was weapons lock-up with Tracer, one of many ARF troopers that had accompanied this most recent mission.

It was good to have company, given the sheer number of weapons on the cruiser. They divided the work between them and went to it. There was something incredibly satisfying about checking all the boxes off as he went down the racks of blasters and ammunition lining the room. He was done before he’d even had time to properly enjoy the mindlessness of it all.

Tracer glanced over at him when he’d been standing still for too long. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything’s accounted for.”

Tracer blinked. He was almost done, maybe a few racks away from completion. “You’re done?”

“Yeah, I like this kinda gig,” he explained as simply as he could. “Figure it’s why I keep getting the same assignments,” he added with a grin. “Listen, I gotta go drop something with Commander Colt, do you mind if I head out?”

Tracer shook his head. “Nah, go for it.”

So he did. He dropped off the datapad with the inventory with one of the lieutenants, then made his way to a lift and went up the level and towards the bridge in hopes of finding his commander’s room empty and unguarded.

Hopefully.

Force, if he managed to pull this off… He grinned to himself wickedly.

Would it undoubtedly result in disciplinary actions? Yes.

Would pranking Colt be worth it?

Oh hells yeah.

He found room 118C right where Buster had told him. Now, it was normal for a commander’s door to be locked or otherwise secured from the outside, and Sevenset respected this and knew why it was the case. It hadn’t stopped him from creating a device capable of slicing a simple door panel as a one-time-only deal in case of emergency urges to start some shit.

Colt might kill him.

It was a worthy sacrifice.

He knocked on the door and waited, listening intently for a response. Just to be sure, he knocked again, louder, throwing glances down the corridor in either direction to take stock of how many people were around. Not many. When no one answered the door the second time, he tried pushing the button to open it, on the off chance the door was unlocked. It wasn’t.

Time for plan B.

He reached into one of the compartments in his utility belt and found a small electronic device which he stuck to the door control panel. He did his best to be quick, not wanting to attract undue attention while messing with the commander’s door. He pressed the device’s singular button and knocked a third time, waiting for the device to do its work.

In a few seconds, the door slid open, and he snatched the device from the panel and stepped inside.

This ship wasn’t often used, so most of the living and sleeping quarters onboard were sparsely decorated if at all. Troopers were much more likely to leave anything of real sentimental value on Kamino; it was considerably safer. Commander Colt was no exception, and might have had even less stuff in his room than some of his subordinates.

Sevenset set the datapad from Buster down on the desk. He wasn’t a complete asshole: he wasn’t going to get Buster in trouble by making his report hard to find. Surveying the desk, he found a couple stacks of similar datapads, a few crumpled pieces of flimsi, a few loose pencils and styluses, and a mug of stone-cold caff from the mess. Hm…

Looking over to the bed in the same room, he saw it was impeccably made to regulation, the corners tucked in just so, the blanket pulled up and over the pillow. Oh, now that was an idea….

Without waiting to think (because the commander could be back any second), he went to the bed and picked up the entire mattress, awkwardly maneuvering it until he could put it back down 180 degrees from its original position. He tucked the blanket and sheet back in, making the bed up fit to make any CO proud.

Any CO but Colt, actually.

Next, he went to the desk, knowing it would be bad on a few levels to rearrange the datapads and paper on the desk, so he settled for moving the entire piece of furniture two or three inches farther away from the wall. It was a little tricky, because the desk had to be secured to the floor for safety’s sake. But, it was easy enough to unhitch it and slide it down the tracks in the floor a little bit, then fasten it back down. He pushed the chair to the same relative position he’d found it in, and then quickly rearranged the writing utensils and the mug on the desk, leaving the datapads and filmsi untouched.

Stepping back, he took in his handiwork, his mind whirring as he sought out anything else he might be able to do in the precious few seconds he was allowing himself.

His eye fell on the doorway leading to the refresher. Lucky bastards with their own showers, commanders. Well…. He hurried over, his eyes flicking around the room in a heartbeat until they landed on the bar of soap in the shower, and the mirror over the sink.

Perfect.

-scene break-

Sevenset was still buzzing with happy anticipation as he grabbed his “midnight meal” from the mess and found a table to sit down. The night shift was light, as usual, and truthfully, among those present, he wasn’t sure how many would really appreciate his company. He was an acquired taste. So, he found a table along one wall and sat there people-watching while he ate, his eyes always drifting back to the doors, waiting for the inevitable storm his latest prank would bring down.

He finished his meal in peace, dropping the tray and utensils off to be cleaned before heading out again. Until his shift was officially over, he didn’t have much to do except to stay awake and make sure the others not on shift got their rest. Maybe he’d go find a viewport and draw…. Changing trajectory, he started off down the hall back to his barracks room to get his sketchbook and pencils, already planning to take his clunkiest armor pieces off outside the room so he wouldn’t make too much noise. Stealth training could only do so much with all this plastoid clattering around. No one else seemed to notice how loud it was, though. Maybe it was just in his head.

When he turned the corner into the corridor with his room in it, he just as quickly slammed his body back around the corner out of sight upon seeing Commander Colt at his barracks door.

He heard the door slide open, and stuck his head around the corner to see Colt march into the room, switch the lights on, and yell, “Buster! Get up! On your feet, double time, trooper, let’s go!”

Sevenset winced slightly. The commander wouldn’t have known Buster had told him to deliver his report. In reality, he would have walked in, seen the upset, seen a report that had not been there before the upset, and would have immediately sought out the author of said report.

So much for not getting him in trouble.

He crept around the corner and quickly and quietly made his way down the hall until he was just outside the room. He could hear grumbling and creaking bunks from inside, as well as Colt demanding Buster’s explanation as to why his room had been tampered with around the same time his report had appeared on his desk.

Buster, Maker bless him, was not a morning person, and was having considerable difficulty processing the situation.

“I didn’ do anything, sir! I did the report, it’s there–”

“The report is not the karking problem, ARC!”

Plastering an easy smile on his face, he slipped into the room as quietly as he could. Buster was standing at rigid attention looking completely baffled at the commander, who was standing with his fists on his hips, looming over him. Other disgruntled faces poked out from blankets in the other bunks. Sketch looked positively murderous.

“The problem is in fact everything other than the report!” the commander went on, his attention undivided.

Sevenset saw his sketchbook sticking out from under his pillow just to Buster’s left, so he feigned innocent ignorance and went to step around the commander, watching his arms in case his tirade grew more animated all of a sudden.

“You had the audacity–the utter stupidity–to think that was funny–” Commander Colt froze, his helmet turning slowly as he registered Sevenset’s sudden presence at his right shoulder.

“Evening, Commander,” Sevenset chirped, giving a small salute. “Just here for my sketchbook.” He crept closer to it. “Oh, Buster,” he added, “I got that report on his desk just like you asked, don’t worry about it.”

Buster’s rigid stance relaxed out of pure shock for an instant, before jolting back when the commander opened his mouth.

“You.” His hand shot out and grabbed the collar of Sevenset's chestplate. “You did this?”

“Uh… I have been known to do a lot of things, sir,” Sevenset replied. “Some specificity would be greatly appreci–”

“Did you rearrange my kriffing room, Sevenset?” the commander growled, pulling him even closer.

Sevenset made a great show of scrunching his face up as he seemed to think about his answer. “Eh… I’m not sure what I did truly constitutes rearranging, sir. Maybe a little redecoration, a little–auck!”

His response was cut off by the commander turning and dragging him bodily out of the room. He managed to hit the lights on the way out, apologizing to his squadmates as best as he could with the commander’s knuckles pressing into his throat.

When they were outside and half-way down the hall, Commander Colt finally released him. Sevenset had just reached up to adjust his armor back to where it sat most comfortably when he found the commander’s gloved hands grabbing either side of his face.

“What the ever-loving kriff is wrong with you?”

“That’s a loaded question, sir,” he grinned, a little thrown by the odd method of restraint. “You didn’t appreciate the little affirmation I left you?”

The commander’s helmet tilted to one side. “You wrote, ‘Hey there, handsome,’ on the mirror with my bar of soap.”

“It’s always good to start your day with a compliment, sir!”

Commander Colt let go of his face, then flicked his nose, and he yelped.

“Laps,” he said. “Five of them. Now.”

Five wasn’t so bad. He’d be done in no time. He saluted sharply. “Can do, sir!”

As he started to jog down the corridor, he heard the commander call, “This is supposed to be a punishment! Don’t look so kriffing happy about it!”

-scene break-

Rancor Battalion was back on Kamino in another rotation or so, most of the troopers returning immediately to the barracks or to requisition replacement gear for the damage suffered on the mission. Standard practice, at this point. Sevenset was used to the routine, and he liked that it never changed too much, a bit like the Guard back on Coruscant. He went with his squad back to their barracks to put his things away, give Beskar a pat on the dome for taking care of their space in their absence, and maybe grab a snack. Everyone else was settling in for the night, hoping to readjust their internal clocks as fast as possible, and Sevenset reasoned he could do the same, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.

He’d told Do-si-do he’d have to host the Numbers meeting this time around, because he’d had no idea if he would have been back in time, and he hadn’t been. Not quite. He could still catch the tail-end of the meeting, if he was lucky. He got to his usual hidey-hole in a rarely-used conference room and lit up the holotable, tuning it to the correct frequency with barely a thought.

Various holograms appeared at once as he connected to the transmission. It appeared the 212th and the Wolfies were on duty, because the meeting was missing Nines and Loops, but everyone else was there, including the commander.

“Sevenset!” Do-si-do beamed. “Dude, you’re just in time. Elevens was gonna tell us about Commander Thire messing with the Chancellor!”

Oh well, this he had to hear. “I am all ears, little bro,” he grinned, leaning on the table in front of him.

Elevensies smiled back. “Okay, so, I heard this from one of my squadmates, who heard it from Captain Iode when he was talking to Commander Stone,” he began. “So it might not be quite what happened.”

“Does it seem like we’ll care if it’s true?” Fives asked. He and Echo were smushed together at one end of a bunk, presumably so Echo could rest his leg on the mattress. “We just care if it’s funny.”

“Okay, yeah.” Elevensies went on. “So, Commander Thire was leading the Chancellor’s escort this morning–like his security detail, right?”

Sevenset nodded, remembering serving exactly one day on that detail before Fox promptly moved him elsewhere. He never did find out if that was because the Chancellor had asked, or if Fox had gotten pissed off…

“So, it’s a lot of standing still while people talk to the Chancellor, and following him around the Senate building and his office–not very exciting.”

He vividly remembered that.

“Commander Thire was standing right next to the Chancellor at some point,” Elevensies continued. “I dunno, maybe the hallway was small, but that doesn’t matter. What matters,” he said with a grin, “is the Chancellor’s robe had a thread loose on the hem.”

Sevenset’s mouth dropped open. “He didn’t.”

Commander Sixes shook his head, rubbing his face. “He absolutely did.”

“He totally did!” Elevensies laughed, throwing his hands up and leaning back against the wall behind him. “He stepped on the thread and unraveled the Chancellor’s robe half-way to his knees!”

Sevenset and most of the others there joined him in cackling at the mental image of the ever-cool and collected Chancellor Palpatine suddenly finding himself bare-legged from the calves down. Oh, he would have paid to have been on that escort. Actual credits. The man probably hadn’t even blinked! He probably had just been politely shocked and been swept off to a room to wait for a new robe to be delivered, but holy Force, that was hilarious.

When the group had largely collected themselves again, wiping damp eyes and suppressing the remaining giggles, Do-si-do raised a hand. “So what kind of shoes does the Chancellor wear?”

That set Sevenset off again–Maker only knew why. “Why do you wanna know?” he asked through the new fit of laughter.

“So I can judge him!” his friend shot back. “Please tell me he wears old person shoes.”

Elevensies was giggling again too, and he shook his head and shrugged. “I dunno, I didn’t hear that part.”

“What if he wears sandals?” Fives asked. “Like sandals with socks?”

Do-si-do snorted, slumping further in his pilot’s seat. “No! No one should do that! I will call the fashion police!”

“No, no, no,” Sevenset cut in, “hear him out. I think he’s onto something.”

“No!”

Echo smirked. “What if he wears sandals without socks and just had his wrinkly old toes sticking out for everyone to see?”

A chorus of groans erupted after that remark, Sevenset not hesitating to join them. No one needed that image haunting their nightmares. Not even Fox!

“What if it’s boots?” Trees hazarded.

Sevenset might have been more tired than he’d originally thought, but it was okay, because Do-si-do was apparently right there with him on a lack of verbal filter and a severe lack of situational awareness.

“Like stripper boots?” they both said in unison.

While everyone else (except the commander) started wheezing with laughter again, Trees just stared at them like they were the most concerning specimens he’d seen to date. Sevenset caught Do-si-do’s eye, and they both lost it again, laughing until tears came and Sevenset found it difficult to stand upright.

“No, not like stripper boots!” Trees replied indignantly once the noise had died down a little. “That was kriffing creepy, you two!”

It only made them laugh harder, and Sevenset found he could no longer keep himself upright. Finally, he managed to pull himself back up and steady himself against the table, wiping tears from his face and feeling his face start to ache from smiling. This group had been his best idea ever. Where else was he going to get a debate about the Chancellor’s footwear? With a commander in the room not stopping them? It was a miracle.

Speaking of…. “Hey, Commander,” he said, his voice a little raw from laughing.

“What?”

“How–how is it,” he said around a hiccup of laughter, “we’re all dying, and you haven’t broken a sweat, sir? You gotta admit, the Chancellor in stripper boots is funny.”

“Try harder next time,” the commander replied, with a faint but distinct upward curve to his mouth.

Oh it was like that, was it?

“Alright I will,” he said, pointing at the hologram. “I will find something to crack that prickly ol’ shell you’ve set up, mark my words.”

“I’m shaking in my boots.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Should I start a tally?” Zero offered. “Keep track of what he doesn’t laugh at, see if we can narrow it down?”

“Absolutely, Zero,” he said. “We’re gonna science the kark outta this.”

The commander raised an eyebrow at them, one of his scars buckling on his forehead. “You’ll fail.”

“Why?” Sevenset challenged. Was the commander worried they’d actually find something? Was he truly that confident they wouldn’t?

Before he got an answer, someone else appeared behind Commander Sixes.

Zero waved. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, Zero,” Commander Nero said like nothing had happened. That would be a fun joke for Colt…

“Something wrong?” Commander Sixes asked, looking up at him.

The other commander knelt down next to his chair, placing a datapad on the surface out of frame. “Yeah, nothing big. Got the new recon intel, we might have to shimmy up the positions a bit for the first assault.”

“Wait, really?” Zero asked, and was ignored.

“Okay.” The commander blinked at him.

Commander Nero stared back, completely serious. “I’d suggest banana.”

Sevenset looked around, glancing over the other faces present. Most of the other Numbers wore similar expressions of vague confusion, with the odd flicker of mirth because who the hell called battle strategies banana?

But then he saw it. It was faint, but he saw Commander Sixes’ mustache twitch like he was trying to fight back a smile. The muscles in his neck flexed almost imperceptibly. Commander Nero remained stony, staring him down, like he was daring him to break.

That couldn’t be it… Commander Death’s weakness couldn’t be…

After what felt like an eon of strained silence, Commander Sixes spoke. “You little bastard.” His voice cracked on the last word, an unmistakable grin fighting its way onto his face as he tried to hold himself together.

“You don’t wanna use banana?” Commander Nero said innocently, his eyes flicking towards the holoprojector beside them.

The dam broke. Commander Sixes leaned his elbow on the desk beside him, putting his face in his hand, his shoulders shaking as he laughed. It was quiet and rough, like the rest of his personality, but no one could deny that was laughter.

“Oh, Maker help you,” he breathed, looking to the other commander, who was grinning like a loth cat who’d found the fish. Sevenset found himself riveted to the hologram in front of him, drinking in the biggest smile he’d ever seen on the commander’s face since he’d met the man.

“Help me?” Commander Nero said.

“Yeah. ‘Cause I’m gonna get a banana and shove it so far down your throat, you’ll be seeing yellow for weeks.” The threat lost a bit of an edge due to the huge grin still stuck on Commander Sixes’ face and the repressed bursts of laughter that had almost cut him off, and the fact that the other commander burst out laughing as soon as he said it, disappearing from view as he collapsed to the floor. “Karking hell,” Commander Sixes muttered, reaching over and turning off his holoprojector, disappearing from the meeting.

There was silence for a moment, even from Zero.

Finally, after a generous moment to process what they had all witnessed, Sevenset addressed the main point.

“Banana jokes?” he said, putting his hands on his hips in mock severity. “That’s all it would have taken? Bananas?”

“Well, they are very a-peel-ing to some people,” Echo replied without hesitation.

Fives shoved him off the bunk gracelessly.

Ta-da!! Sevenset being a menace! I hope you enjoyed! @23-bears @theultimatesandwich @mercurydancer @rndmpeep @beskarmermaid @persimminwrites @darth-void @soclonely

[episodicnostalgia]

Star Trek: The Next Generation, 119 (Mar. 21, 1988) - “Heart of Glory”

Teleplay by: Maurice Hurley Story by: Maurice Hurley, Herbert Wright & D.C. Fontana Directed by: Rob Bowman

The Breakdown

The Federation orders Picard to investigate evidence of a battle in the dreaded Neutral Zone (a forbidden expanse that serves as the federation/Romulan border).  Upon arrival, the Enterprise finds only a single Talarian Freighter stranded within the zone.  Since Worf’s scans indicate possible life signs, a rescue team is sent over to retrieve any survivors before the ship explodes; but much to their surprise, the team finds three Klingons (one of whom is critically wounded).  Tasha beams everyone back just as the freighter’s engine detonates, and the Klingons are brought to sickbay.

Worf accompanies Picard to meet the Klingons, arriving just as his injured kinsman croaks; and that’s when things get… a bit weird.  The other two Klingons (Korris and Konmel) lean over their dead comarade, stare into his eyes, and then scream into the ceiling, rousing Worf to join their guttural display of manly-mourning (because if growling with rage in lieu of tears is a part of your culture, no one can criticize it).  Meanwhile, Picard and Crusher just kind of awkwardly observe the whole thing, presumably hoping that it doesn’t escalate towards violence.   Shortly thereafter we find out the screaming is meant to warn the dead that another warrior is joining them in the after life.  Standard wholesome Klingon stuff. 

After the boys have calmed down, Picard inquires as why the Klingons were even on a Talarian Ship, and to the nature of the battle that preceded it’s destruction.  Korris explains they were initially just passengers who offered tactical assistance when the Talarians were attacked by Ferengi, but obviously that’s a lie because otherwise this would be a boring episode.  The truth is, they hijacked the ship in hopes of finding a quiet little world where they could peacefully die in glorious battle.  It turns out that not EVERY Klingon is happy about their alliance with the federation, with our boys Kor n’ Kon being two such folks; furthermore they want Worf to join them on the assumption that he must be going stir crazy living amongst humans.  Apparently they aren’t wrong, though, as Worf does seem to at least entertain the idea of joining them. We find out Worf’s parents were killed in a Romulan attack when he was a child, leaving him for dead until he was found and rescued by the human couple who raised him.  Growing up as an outsider, Worf has felt stifled by the lack of violence in his life, and doesn’t hate the idea of finally indulging those instincts.

As Worf flirts with becoming radicalized, Picard receives a transmission from a Klingon Commander named K’nera with some alarming news.  Korris and Konmel are wanted criminals, and not to be trusted under any circumstances.  Picard has the good sense immediately lock them in the brig, but not enough to have them properly searched for weapons, so they promptly break out and start killing people.  Konmel gets shot down pretty quickly, but Koriss manages to breaks into engineering, threatening to discharge his phaser at the warp core, which would destroy the Enterprise (an action that would apparently constitute an honourable death).  Worf tries to talk him down, but Koriss isn’t having any of it, so Worf shoots him dead.

After another tender ritualistic-death-growl over Korris’ body, Worf addresses commander K’nera, informing him that the fugitives were KIA, but not to feel sad because they died doing what they loved.  But fuck those security guards who they murdered, AM I RIGHT?  Another happy ending!

The Verdict

There’s a lot to like here, and overall I quite enjoyed this outing.  After eighteen episodes of angry snarling and imposing stares, Worf finally gets to take centre stage, to largely positive effect.  Even more pertinently ‘Heart of Glory’ makes good work of developing the Klingon lore, which has always been one of my favourite aspects of Star Trek as a whole.  Many people will cite ‘ST: The Motion Picture’ as the introduction to “the modern Klingon”, and while that is the undeniable the origin of their current design aesthetic, I’d be inclined to credit this episode with establishing the defining charictaristics that would cultivate their larger mythology.  In TOS the Klingons were a sort of bloodthirsty fascist/USSR hybrid, with some possible yellow-peril-iconography thrown in for “good” measure.  By the time we got to ‘ST3: The Search for Spock’ the Klingon’s behaved more like pillage-and-plunder Vikings, in that they had a vicious appetite for glorious battle, but weren’t especially honourable.  But only four years later, ‘Heart of Glory’ has a moment that is as defining as it is ridiculous.  In the scene I’m referring to, Koriss and Konmel have an opportunity to take a human child hostage, but instead allow her to go free and unharmed, as they consider such an action to be devoid of honour.  The scene plays out so comically cheesy that it would be easy to dismiss, but it’s a moment that highlights a major facet of  the Klingon values that Star Trek still continues to emphasize today.

As for Worf, I’ve stated before that he’s a character I came to love through his tenure on DS9, but it’s nice to finally see the episode that started him on the path to becoming that character.  At the end of the episode K’nera suggests that one day Worf should rejoin his people when he’s finished his commission on the Enterprise.  Worf assures Picard that he’s not seriously considering it, but neither I nor the crew are fully buying it, and I appreciate them leaving that open.  Both TNG and DS9 will return to this theme, as Worf struggles to fit in with other Klingons almost as much as he does with humans, and this is a strong start to that aspect of his character arch.

For all the positives, this episode still exhibits plenty of the standard season one growing pains.  The melodrama is so over-the-top in places that it could almost classify as a comedy, and the characters regularly make bafflingly ill-advised choices.  Also, the entire Enterprise crew is alarmingly ineffective against two Klingons.  I know their species is supposed to be battle hardened and generally stronger than humans, but the Enterprise supposedly harbours Startfleet’s best-and-brightest (I shudder to think how a lesser crew would fare).  Either way, Picard really needs to mandate running the crew through some drills after this dismal performance.  If it wasn’t for these issues, I almost would have rated this episode higher.  There’s ultimately more good than bad here, but only just barely, which puts ‘Heart of Glory’ at…

3 stars (out of 5)

Additional Observations

Picard sends Geordie with the rescue team so they can try patching a visual from Geordi’s visor through to the viewscreen (which only has a range of a few kilometers).  As far as concepts go, I have nothing against it, but it takes up a good chunk of the first act without adding anything to the actual plot. Much like the Enterprise’s separating saucer section, this segment largely amounts to a flashy gimmick, only to be utilized a couple more times in future episodes.

I will say the cinematography is admittedly more dynamic than most of these early episodes, which results in some nice shots in the engineering scene.

Korris, and Konmel are pursued by the Klingon K’t’inga cruiser under the command of K’nera. The Klingons must lose their minds whenever Sesame Street features the letter ‘K’.

[crimsonbathed]

A mutter under his breath " crazy old bitch...."

TW: BODY HORROR, VIOLENCE, ANIMAL VIOLENCE/DEATH

Delicate hands cradled a fresh skull, a prize from her most recent hunt. Her chest heaved, rising and falling in tune with her rapid, heavy breaths.

Black beady eyes reflected the predatory smile that had made its home upon Carrion's features. All six of her canines staring back at her, with an air of pride surrounding the small folk. Warmth dripped down her face as crimson trails decorated fair skin, painting itself upon her canvas. Like leaves being blanketed with golden rays, Carrion's eyes glimmered, in awe of her prize. A rare moment where, if one could look past all of the blood upon her features, she looked genuinely happy. Her tongue flicked out, running across her swollen lower lip. A familiar metallic taste danced on the tip of her tongue, a bemused chuckle escaping from her. How curious. She had tried so hard to prevent such a mess from happening, and yet her cobweb shirt and skirt had been stained, given a new pattern against her will. Who knows how much blood was lost, now seeping in to the soil of the island. It wasn't all puddled together in her typical fashion, but it would have to do. The body would provide a fair amount, though it might not be enough to wash her more than twice, given how much was lost. The idea of the crimson warmth running down her figure was an intoxicating fantasy, hair falling wildly as she washes away the filth that stains her being from the giants. Their stench, a horrendous thing. Slim digits had reached out, petting the rabbits head and running across its ears. "Thank you, gentle one. For your sacrifice." A whisper, as though she was consoling someone who had just lost a loved one. True appreciation for the life given to sustain hers.

Within the reflection of the creatures eyes, Carrion spotted one of the giants. A swell of fear greeted her, tightening in her throat as she attempted to discern whether or not it was a pirate, or a lost boy. Bloodied digits wrapped around the hilt of a wolfs incisor she had been using as a dagger. Tightening her grip upon the threaded hilt, she stole a glance over her shoulder, a familiar face. It must have been her lucky day. For she could get him to carry the heavier nature of the creatures body back to the graveyard for her. If he behaved himself, perhaps she would even reward him for his efforts. Perhaps, though most likely not. He was but a thrall to the island, and what did he truly do to stay within the islands good graces? How many gallons of blood must she have watered the ground beneath their feet with over the course of her many, long, delightful years here? Even if he did not readily offer his help, she would secure her position over him. The minds of giants were always so fragile. They scream to the winds, begging for help, for someone, ANYONE to save them, and yet they never dare to try and save themselves. A funny thing that. What it must feel like to rely on others to fight your battles for you. Knowing that your mind is being taken over, and yet they still call for help as though someone else could rid them of the parasite whispering within their ears as it takes over.

"Bandit, child. Your timing is grand. I require you." That twisted smile lingered on her lips as she gingerly set the skull down. Taking to the air, she pointed towards the prize of her hunt. "You shall carry this for me, I would hate to have to make numerous trips to salvage this. Would take me half the day." His help would prevent her from many hours wasted away in the open. Instead of sectioning pieces where anything that might catch the sweet scent, could come running, she could do so from the safety of her own home, where she could keep an eye on her dearest Chrysanthemum. Such a sizeable haul would last her throughout the next month or so, and her dear Chrysanthemum would have nothing to worry about for such a long time. She needed to expand her dearests palate, and this would surely be a wonderful start. Carrion turned her attention from the Bandit child, towards her prize and began her descent to retrieve the skull. What she had not expected, was to hear the Bandit murmur beneath his breath. Whispered words that gave her pause. A fine line forming upon her lips, brows furrowing together as the she hovered in place.

"Crazy old bitch." Bandits own voice greeted them, distorted as though he was gasping for air between words. It bounced around them, filling the air. Crazy was not something Carrion was unfamiliar with, so many of her own kind had called her crazy, demented, a monster, when they discovered what she was doing to those who had perished in the colony due to the cold. When they had exiled her from the very colony she had built up and made safe for them all. The ungrateful wretches. It was the last two words that truly fanned the flame within her that had been dying out after her hunt. Old. Centuries meant nothing to her, as she had lived a good life, and a very short one considering the time span of her people. Were wrinkles massacring her features? Crows feet upon her eyes that gave her an unappealing visage? Even now, adorned in blood splatters that pooled in her collarbones and spilled over, she believed herself to be able to make a grown man swoon, human or of her own kind. But Bandit was no man, he was but a child. Foolish- idiotic and delusional in his view of the world. A giant who refuses to see the beauty in the world, the world that will outlive him ten times over. Such mindless accusations must not go unpunished, such a hypocritical remark from a gangling creature. Arms far too long for their being, as though they had been pulled and stretched. Giants were one of the most unsightly things she ever had the displeasure of turning her gaze upon. No means of hiding, from those which hunt them, and for creatures that seem to call themselves the 'apex predators' they were so very low on the food chain. It was a miracle the island hadn't sucked these disgusting creatures up, chewing them up and spitting out their bones. The only way they could ever seem even slightly appealing, would be if their heads were left to rot away on sticks, jutting out of the ground.

"Bitch." The Bandit child's voice rang out again. Yelling the word with raw anger. Vicious. The word burned, searing the smallfolk's insides. Ribs aching as though an animal were pushing against the cage to escape. To sink its teeth into the child's shoulder and hear him truly scream out in pain. Watching his eyes fill with terror as he witnessed his own body fall to pieces right before him. There was but a brief moment where Carrion turned to look at the boy. The forest surrounding them shifted as she turned, the trees forming a large circle around the two. Such a FOUL word to throw around. To direct at HER. A pitiful lost child, expendable in every way, daring to insult her. To turn up his nose at the gifts she presented him. The ability to be in her presence, the fact she had caused him no serious harm, no missing appendages. She even allowed the fool to hold conversation with her, and what does he do? Insult her three separate ways all at once. For it was brave of him to even whisper the words, but bravery only ever led idiotic children to their dooms. Within but a moment of the forest blocking out the sun above them, Carrion made her escape to the shadows.

"Ungrateful. You selfish fool. How much will you test my patience?" Her words were sharp, harsh. The smallfolk watched the Bandit, her hands forming tight fists that shook ever so slightly. A fire burned within her that was threatening to burn her alive, raging against her insides until nothing but charred wood remained. He would not simply walk away from this, from her. A child must learn their lesson when they step out of line. To insult her pride is to truly forfeit your life. Through the trees, a wind began to kick up. Branches groaning in pain as they bent, some snapping and crashing to the ground near the Lost Boy. "You have lied to me, how many times? How many more will you risk leaving your life to chance? To the mercy of MY good graces?" The words swirled, circling him. A wolf hunting its prey, stalking, planning. At the Bandit child's feet, the body of Carrion's hunt, twitched. The rabbits feet kicking as it adjusted to it's new found center of balance. "I should flay you for your insolence. Leave your body for the birds to pick apart and feast upon." Carrion boomed. The warmth upon her lips tingled, a desperate, silent call for fresh warmth. Sage hues eyed the bare skin of the Lost Boy. Chops salivating at the idea of a meal, the flesh of a giant. Something she only ever got in small doses to ensure none of the Lost Boys would catch on. Oh how hungry she was. Hunger mixed with anger, it left her electrified. Such an invigorating sensation. The thrill of the hunt, a cat playing with a cornered mouse. The rabbits body charged towards Bandit's feet, and at the same time, Carrion swooped down. Her teeth made sweet contact with the skin of his neck. Sinking into the soft flesh, and with a feral rip, a small piece tore away. No sooner than she had come, was she retreating back to the shadows. It was warm, and the smell that enveloped her was intoxicating. Blindingly so.

The trees moaned in agony as the wind grew stronger. An invisible howling accompanying the mischievous laughter that passed through Carrion's lips. How long it has been since she was able to rip the flesh of a giant straight from the source. To feel the warmth rush to the surface of new wounds, lingering on her lips as she moved away. The rabbits feet kicked against the ground as it circled Bandit. The still, detached head watched him. Beady black eyes focused on his figure as though it was staring straight through him. A loud thump that served as a distraction for Carrion to rush the boy again. Sharpened nails caught his bare arm, piercing the skin. "The only crazy thing here-" She cooed, her claws ripping upwards. Her nails were far from clean and smooth, instead they were jagged and pointed in an intricate pattern. Like razor wire being dragged across the flesh. The fresh scent of metal was overwhelming for the smallfolk. It left her desperate for more. It left her mouth salivating, she wanted more. That sweet, indescribable flavor on her tongue. "-are those who believe it is survival of the fittest, instead of survival of the worst." Shrill giggles filled the Lost Boys ears, the winds high pitched whine taunting him. No matter how long she stayed here and tormented the child, it would never be enough to satisfy her, for he would draw his last breath before she felt as though her pride had been honored. "What if I buried that dagger of yours beneath your flesh? Would your ribs protect it so? Would you writhe in agony as it destroyed you from the inside out?" The idea of her crude sewing being the only thing that protects him from his insides spilling out, was enough to send a shiver of pure ecstasy down her back.

A vine slowly crawled up the Bandit's leg, wrapping around his ankle. Carrion had gotten so caught up in the idea of keeping her little game going, that she allowed her personal glamour spell to fade away. The untamed, mess of black curls, returned to their natural state of gold. An appearance she hadn't allowed others to see since she had been exiled from her own colony, but the power would be better used to keep the Lost Boy, a withering wild force, prisoner in her game. Another quick dive, canines meeting the tougher flesh of his elbow. For a sizable chunk had gotten pierced from her bite, and as she ripped her head, thrashing like a wild dog, the blood slinging 'round, his skin ripped. Chewy, fatty bits dangled from her mouth as she flew away. "So is that what you believe me to be? Crazy? Oh Bandit you have seen nothing of the sort. I can be most creative. Perhaps I should see if I could get the wolves to come to us? They could lend me their teeth and create a glove for you. One where every time you flinch, or squirm, they tighten their grip and allow you to be in charge of your own fate. Oh I wonder what kind of scars you would earn?" Carrion's voice bounced, distorted and low. A mutilated echo of her normal tone.

The rabbits body fell limp once more as Carrion released her hold over it, turning her attention to something . . . bigger. "Bandits must have a sharp tongue, though you are more likely to meet a sharpened edge upon yours." The sensation of fingers creeping up from beneath the Bandits skin, tapping against the underneath of his skull. Sharpened nails tap tap tapping away, touching the back of his eyes. Demented laughter rang out, like a voice that speaks only within your own head. "Do remember, that you will not always be the one in charge of this vessel." Carrion's words were but a soft whisper within his mind. Her fingers could be felt beneath his skin as she fought her way in. Threatening to take a hold of his form. Fingers pressing along the underneath of his arms as they trailed down to his fingertips. A new host getting used to its skin. "One day, it might just be me." The words were sickeningly sweet as Carrion allowed a soft laugh to escape her. Moments passed as she felt her way around his skin, a potential coat for her. Within a moment, she released him. The trees returned to normal, sunlight dancing upon the ground once more. Golden rays casting a light on the Lost Boy, and the small folk who fluttered before him, ever out of arms reach. Outstretching her arms towards the Lost boy, a feigned hurt pout dancing across her lips, Carrion tilted her head to the side.

"Now, what is it you shall call me? Was it, bitch?"

[franciskirkland]

Fic Characterization Post

Howdy y'all! So this is a post describing the traits of the main characters in my different AUs. This includes body/appearance, age, identity, family, and past relationships. I just wanted to clarify these things so my characters can come alive on the page for my readers!

Note: contains brief mentions of abuse, eating disorders, substances, religion and death. François can be called Francis if you prefer anglicized spelling! His middle name is Pierre. My middle name for Arthur is Gordon bc Gordon's gin and it just seems to fit him? idk sorry I know it's a dork ass name

Dancing With A Stranger

Arthur Kirkland:

30 years old. Paralegal recently turned lawyer.

Heteroflexible/Bi cis man, mostly attracted to femininity. Has only been with Amelia before François.

Cat dad to Petunia, a white British longhair. Has twin sons, Al and Matt, 5 yrs old, with Amelia. Came to America from London England for school. Met Amelia in law school, he ideally wanted to get married, she did not, they have been broken up for 2 years. He is the second youngest of 5 brothers and his parents had him quite late in life. His family is fairly upper middle class though not wealthy. He and his folks are on good terms and communicate occasionally. Went to religious school as a lad, now indifferent to religion, sometimes gives François a hard time but is coming around to his faith.

Medium-short true blonde hair, a bit shaggy. A handsome face, though not particularly striking. Gentle eyes and a charming smile. Freckles along his nose. He is 5'9 and average weight, used to be lanky. Is still thin, but leaning towards burly as he ages. Stronger than he looks, but doesn't look weak! Broad shoulders and and chest, a very square frame. Hank Hill Ass Syndrome, like all of my Arthurs. A decent amount of dark blonde hair on most parts of his body. Not a twink not a werewolf but closer to a werewolf! He doesn't really care for maintaining his appearance. Has zero fashion sense, typically wears a sweater (vest) with shirt, tie and khakis, or sometimes a suit for work. Grandpacore icon.

Pretty averse to substances with the exception of a bit of scotch or beer, hates the smell of cigarettes, but smokes 1 (one) of François' when he's stressed.

François Bonnefoy:

29. Writes columns and op-eds for newspapers.

Pansexual but heavily androsexual, genderfluid/bigender, confident in his body and likes to switch things up with his expression.

Practicing Catholic despite a penchant for sinning. Roommates and besties with Anneliese since childhood. Has lived in America for 5 years. Extremely flirtatious and romantic. The only child of doting, supportive parents who live nearby, and had him fairly young. Pierre, a chef, and Paulette, an artist. Happy, although humble childhood in Paris France, very positive relationship with his folks. Various mostly short lived past relationships, including an arrangement with Lovino.

Although I always write François as fairly feminine, this is my most masculine characterization of him. This is also ironic bc Arthur mistook him for a woman at first. He will certainly wear dresses and makeup, though enjoys showing off his hairy chest in button downs with fancy ties and trousers as well. Mostly lazes about in yoga pants and pajamas tho. Shoulder length golden blonde hair, can and does grow a beautiful beard. Sparkling blue eyes that crinkle when he smiles. Sometimes wears glasses due to terrible night vision! A good dusting of dark blonde hair on most parts of his body, will very occasionally shave to pull off an outfit better, but prefers not to. He is also 5'9, lithe and well built (toned, not muscular) slender, though far from underweight. Has long legs and defined shoulders but is very narrow compared to Arthur. Gorgeous forearms when he rolls up his sleeves. Wears lots of cologne or perfume. Sometimes goes all out in an evening gown and thick makeup. Soft skin, tans well in summer. Nice round hips and big, firm ass.

Not quite an alcoholic but loves wine, liquor and cigarettes and the occasional pot brownie. Has a Xanax prescription.

Boys Don't Cry

Arthur Kirkland:

27, bartender/manager.

Bi cis man. Toxic masculinity for days.

Has 6 year old twins Al and Matt, with Amelia who has passed away. They were together for about 7 years or so, meeting when Arthur arrived in America from London and seriously dating/engaged until her untimely death. Best friends with Gilbert for 8 years, and has worked at his bar for just as long. Popular in his recovery community. His family has not been discussed, he comes from a rather rough part of London, probably grew up in poverty and got into trouble a lot as a youngin. Let's say he has 4 brothers (UK bros) and a late father, and a mother who is worried sick about him but has given up. He probably isn't a huge fan of religion, but is respectful nonetheless.

TALL. Taller than canon. 5'11 - 6'. Fit and muscular everywhere and covered in old school/sailor tattoos on chest, arms, hands, etc. Has some hair on his chest/elsewhere on body + hairy legs. Super hairy pits. Choppy blonde hair, pale enough to occasionally dye fun colors like pink and green. Multiple piercings in ears, lips, eyebrows, and nose. Has Crazy Eyes™ but kind of a smug baby face thing going on. His teeth are in terrible shape and he washes with drain cleaner, probably. Mostly wears some combo of jeans and band t-shirts with Doc Martens and different leather jackets, plus leather cuff bracelets sometimes. The kind of guy to hold onto threadbare socks and underwear with holes in them. Likes to paint nails black.

Recovering addict, smokes cigs like a chimney. Sober from hard drugs and alcohol since Amelia's death.

François Bonnefoy:

30, first grade teacher.

Androsexual, mostly femme bigender/genderfluid. Doesn't mind she/her or he/him pronouns, will often refer to him/herself as a woman.

Also very Catholic. Was in a serious relationship with Antonio for many years in his 20s, has now been single for a year after being abandoned. Work friends with Feliciano. His familial relationships are very strained but he still has some contact. Abusive alcoholic father, Jean-Claude, enabler mother, Mathilde. An older brother Philippe and older sister Marianne. They are middle class and live in Paris.

The most feminine of my characterizations. Like I said, mostly lives as a woman but uses either pronoun, and wears a beard on his chin. Big blue doe eyes, long eyelashes and perfect plump lips. Long wavy blonde hair, sometimes wears it up. Has moderate body hair, it doesn't bother him but he will shave on occasion depending how he feels. Needs his drugstore-fancy products to survive. Very petite (5'3 to 5'4) and fairly slim with a curvy hourglass/pear shape, so wide hips and ample bottom, short legs. Delicate but not ultraskinny. Soft and plump in the right places, with velvety skin. He is romantic, but more reserved now after the breakup, and acts/dresses pretty modestly. Likes to wear skirts and dresses, though this is controversial at work and he often gets harassed for it by his boss or coworkers who know he is AMAB.

Enjoys a moderate amount of wine. His dad is a severe alcoholic so he's careful with it. Smokes cigarettes despite worsening his asthma.

Sugar, We're Going Down

Arthur Kirkland:

54 years old, CEO of conglomerate corporation

Heteroflexible cis male I guess? Bicurious, more attracted to femininity.

Father to Al and Matt, 22, and married to Amelia for 24 years. In an unhappy marriage for at least a few years now. Not much is said of his extended family, assuming his parents or at least his father have passed away. Most personally successful of the UK bros and came from old money, generational wealth. Kiku is his assistant, and Ludwig is his driver. Practices Capitalism and worships money.

A striking, serious face, wicked eyes. Will often wear reading glasses. Messy, graying blonde hair, sometimes he'll slick it back. Very average frame, 5'9 or 5'10, strong and somewhat thin but closer to broad than lanky. Freckles on shoulders. He takes meticulous care of himself since being with François, and likes expensive designer products, clothes and watches. Not excessively hairy, has moderate amounts of body hair especially in his middle age, will usually shave his chest for a more professional appearance. Has beefy, hairy Daddy forearms. Wears suits pretty much every day.

Drinks Scotch religiously. Likes cigars, will have a cigarette once in a while, or a cheeky line of coke when partying with his Sugar Baby.

François Bonnefoy:

24, Barista turned Sugar Baby and dog/cat Mama

Androsexual flirt, genderfluid bigender femboy who certainly doesn't mind being referred to femininely

Best friends with Alfred and Matthew, his Sugar Daddy's sons. Met them in college. Friends with their boyfriends, Ivan and Carlos as well. Used to be friends with Gilbert and Antonio, but they didn't approve of him dating an older married man. Not much is said of his family, but his parents live in Paris. They're fairly supportive of his choices and he's gone to see them since being with Arthur. Maybe younger siblings? Probably raised Catholic, but certainly not acting Godly.

Also pretty small, maybe 5'5 or 5'6? Slim bordering on underweight bc he doesn't eat much. Curvy bone structure and tiny waist, somewhat defined chest and shoulders but no muscle. Nice juicy booty and hips. Shoulder length wavy, naturally golden blonde hair, sometimes gets it lightened to platinum or curls it. Currently growing it out longer. Usually keeps some body hair incl his armpits and little chin beard; like other characterizations, will sometimes shave if he needs or wants to. Has a baby face and flawless skin, flashes his puppy dog eyes or bats eyelashes to get what he wants. A very bold dresser, always wearing designer. A fancy lil boy in fitted designer tops, slacks, and loafers, or a dolled up lil girl in tight dressers, Louboutins, and lots of jewelry. Owns probably millions in makeup and skincare.

Pills and wine for dinner ass bitch. Drinks too much and also smokes cigs, loves to get stoned with his friends, snorts coke, over-dependent on prescription sedatives and would probably do anything someone handed to him.

American Boy

Alfred F. Jones:

23, Junior Investment Banking Associate

Pan/bisexual cis metrosexual Zoomer boy

Has a twin brother, Matthew, who is his best bro and text each other 'ily' every day. Friends with Matt's fiance, Carlos, though they sometimes compete for his attention. Probably popular with the ladies in school, but no past relationships (he's a virgin) maaaybe had a fling with Ivan but it didn't go anywhere? His mom, Amelia, died in childbirth. His father, Arthur, raised him and Matt alone and lives fairly close by. Their relationship isn't necessarily bad, they just don't talk much. Middle class upbringing, now has a well paying job. Identifies with Christianity although not super religious, probably some flavor of protestant. He's 1/8th Native American (Wampanoag) on his mom's side.

Golden retriever puppy dog himbo football player all American boy. 6 feet tall, 200 lbs of muscle, biceps and ABS and a firm juicy little man butt. Tans easily and clean shaven above the belt. Twinkling blue eyes, a perfect set of teeth and kissable lips. Sandy blonde hair with a very slight strawberry tint. Takes fairly good care of his hygiene for a guy in his early 20s. Likes mid-luxury brand names like Calvin Klein and Tommy Hilfiger. Usually wearing a bit too much cologne and thinks he's the shit. At work, ties and crisp shirts, at home, sweats and graphic t-shirts.

Hates cigarettes but loves vaping his Juul. Will sometimes have a joint with Carlos and Matt, who are stoners. Likes energy drinks, but François is getting him hooked on lattés.

François Bonnefoy:

38, Former housewife, painter.

Androsexual but appreciates the feminine, non-binary/genderfluid/bigender but isn't a huge fan of labels! Any pronouns, he/him default but she/her is fine too.

Newly divorced from Jean-Jacques, who is 17 years his senior. They were married almost 16 years. Stepmother to Michelle, mid 20s, who is estranged. Not much is said about his family, but he grew up fairly humble in Paris and has roots in the countryside as well. Catholic, but removed from his faith since his ex-husband disagreed with it. Is now rediscovering it. I see him having a large family, but being kind of removed from them since he was married to an obscenely wealthy man for so long.

I haven't decided on a set height for François in this, he is fairly petite especially compared to Alfred. I want to say maybe 5'6? Since the divorce, he's been depressed and not eating, so he's rather skinny and lanky. He has a defined waist and nice curves, wide hips and a shapely bum even though he's lost so much weight. Gentle, tired eyes. Long blonde hair that he often wears up especially if he's painting. Grows a chin beard definitely, sometimes a light beard on his jaw too. Some body hair. Smooth soft skin, especially for his age. Has a brilliant fashion sense, loves designer clothing but isn't too flashy about it. Will often laze about in lingerie or robes. His ex-husband's initials, JJB, are tattooed on/above his left buttock, and he has a cross tattoo on his thigh.

Dislikes drugs and drug culture. Drinks plenty of wine and chainsmokes cigarettes, also needs his coffee and chocolate to function.

[aftonfamilyvalues]

My mother was an abusive narcissist. Basically she knew I was being sexually abused by my father and was too afraid to leave him/hated me for the fact he was gross towards me and denied it, both parents spread lies to hide the abuse.

Once I was an adult and I’m 21 being threatened by my father over making a savings account, yea I’m reaching out to social workers (who ended up not believing me/took advantage of me as their new cash cow/I’m on disability…. Benefits initially went into my mother’s account. Guess that made her like a pimp I mean she didn’t work, stealing my benefit… they never had any intention of giving it to me.)

Talking to regular women and feminist women online is what got me out of that situation. Like telling me my rights and what resources.

I planned no contact. Father was stalking me via proxy and his police position. I was glad when she died. She obeyed him. She as an obedient slave, I would’ve had a stalker for life.

When my mom died, my Father made comments like “she won’t have to worry about wrinkles now. “ and “she was only 110 pounds.” Or “I’ll have 2 wives in the celestial kingdom now.”

I use to fantasize about killing them both. Sometimes I feel like I killed my mother, like I was her oxygen, she claimed I had special needs ; mormon church says women need to get married? But I’m too scared my father will violate me for having a bf/I dare in secret then ghost because I’m terrified he’s clearly painting a message that I’m “his.” Just tell everyone I’m autistic and don’t like to be touched and may never get married.

I feel anguish and sad I never experienced romantic love, wish I did as a teenager (because obvious men are unsafe, ) but murderous rage that basically my father felt entitled to my body, and humiliated about what that must say about me and my own mother didn’t care but she died because she was scared of folks finding out she was a horrible mother; nothing showed in the autopsy. Prior to her death she manically went around asking if I was talking about me, read my diary, started hitting me, etc.

This feel violated and my therapist suggested I needed romance to heal which makes me cringe because she didn’t get it, the concept of romantic love to me growing up was the concept of “pure” verses damaged Good’s. I did feel “clean” when I’d engage in sexuality at one point, (and the froze up and ghosted and felt guilty for hurting his feelings but I was scared/conscious I was being abused/had been molested and could go through that again, during intimate touching/never lead to sex or kissing because j froze. I feel a sense of sadness and regret and regret of never experienced a healthy sexuality or been the gate keeper of my own sexually.

I basically can never heal cause it all happened while I was developing. They claimed I was developmentally delayed.

My mother carried it to her grave but I think she died because I started telling the truth. I feel betrayed and angry even at her dying to preserve her image, as if she died on purpose.

I don’t think I’ll ever have a healthy sexuality, or ever feel good enough, and hate that I never got to grieve cause Instead seen as crazy for grieving/ evidently I just need to get over it and be “normal.” As if I even ever got to be normal in the first place.

I’m glad my mom died, somehow I always felt it was my job to save her when she abondoned me, constantly wanted her to like me, but she didn’t , felt guilty about going no contact, and scared, but it was a massive relief. And angry, cause now there no closure. I wish I had let her hit me, let her beat me, she couldn’t hid it anymore so she died.

this is one of the most awful things ive ever read, im so sorry you went through all this

[topgunruinedme]

Robert’BOB’ Floyd

✨Likes and Dislikes✨

He can be insecure about himself sometimes, he knows he doesn’t have to six pack the rest of the crew do.

He sometimes dreads beach trips, it can set of his body dysmorphia. But you always seamed to know when it was getting to him and distracting him.

You hated when he came home and just broke down in your lap after that day playing dog fighting football. Hangman had made a comment on him wearing a shirt, and she silently ranged at the mans thoughtless comment.

Likes

He loves to be curled around you, he has to be touching you somehow always.

He completely has a size kink, we all agree he’s packing he absolutely loves to praise you as he takes you.

Missionary is his go to position, to be able to watch you as you withering and cry out. Watching you moan and beg, as he splits you open. It’s his favourite position behind having you in his arms.

Your an artist, before you were dating he bought some of his favourite pieces and embarrassingly admitted to having his favourite piece a self portrait of her hanging above his bed. She just laughs and tells him he could have just asked.

He loves to cook, especially for you. He’s done it every morning since you started dating. Even going as far as being late on base until he gets his morning thank you kiss.

He hates that he can’t take care of you when he’s deployed, but he secretly has a deal with his sister to check in on you and have a girls day on him.

He loves your baking, he didn’t know how he lived before without it.

He secretly loves when you take control in the bedroom, to be able to come home and just let you use his body as you need it.

He sends her a letter every day of their lives until the day they die, it doesn’t matter where he is. You don’t know how he does it but every morning regardless if theirs post or not there’s a letter waiting. You keep it in a little woven box he got you on your second anniversary so you could keep them.

The day he asked you to marry you he did it in the graveyard in-front of the graves of your parents. It was morbid, it wasn’t the nice dinner and the walk on the beach. But she didn’t want it any other way, she was so happy he had included her family, even if they weren’t living.

Robby adopted a dog to keep you company, he surprised you with it. Well Buba ruined the surprise when he jumped up on the bed waking you, with a slightly panicked Robby in the doorway on your room, “suprise?” He says weakly.

They had a private ceremony a year later. Robby’s parents and sister came, Buba was your faithful flower boy walking down the isle with a proud strut with the basket of rose petals hanging from his jaw. Robby sister was your bride of honour .

He loves his squadron, they were his now. Together permanently. But he couldn’t tell them about you, you were his. He didn’t want to shatter that illusion of their happy life because of Hangman.

Phoenix knows of cause, you called Robby while he was on base to ask about dinner with his folks. He had been busy checking the planes, having made the mistake of leaving his phone out. She snatched it before Hangman could and stormed out towards your husband.

Dislikes

He hates being away from you, he would prefer to be laying on the couch cuddling while watching your shitty Ron cons.

He hates when someone else hits on you, he makes up his possessiveness in the bedroom after; ensuring you know who you belong to.

He hates when other admiral’s or COs ask about you, he knew it was because you were on his file as an emergency contact. But he just wanted to keep you safe.

He begged the nurse for an hour straight not to call you when he was involved in the bird strike. They do anyway and he manages to, console you enough over text not to come in. But he spends the entire time messaging ignoring the people around him.

He hates when your in pain, it doesn’t matter if it’s from a stubbed toe or a serious injury he’s by your side in seconds checking you over.

The previous act was prompted when you were 17, and he took you out horse riding on his family ranch and the horse bucked. You needed four stitches and a wrist brace, he never took you horse riding again.

He hated his past being brought up. He didn’t have anything against it, but he didn’t like be gawked at. He may be a champion bull rider in his home state, but that life was left behind when he joined the Navy.

He hated the sad look you got every time you saw a baby, having to other option but to hug you when it becomes to much. Why can’t we have a baby Robby? Why us?, it hurts to admit it hurt him as well not being able to provide you with a family, not from the lack of trying. It just hadn’t happened yet.

He hated holding you when you were crying, wanting nothing then wanting to hunt down the son of a bitch who made you cry. He hates that your hurt and sad. Even more when he’s the reason.

He hates fighting with you. He has a rule that you can’t go to bed angry. Which admittedly has solves some issues.

He absolutely hates being the centre of attention, happy to blend into the background. He almost strangled his new pilot that fist day at hard deck.

He hated himself, he hated that he loved you so much. He hated that if you left before him, he wasn’t sure if he could go on. He hated you because you made him believe in the afterlife. He hated you because he loved you so much that he would risk everything for you. He hated that he loved you, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

@ahopelessromanticwritersworld

[jenthepen]

Eavesdropping

My parents are getting divorced and it’s my father’s fault. I stood in the small two-bed motel room and listened as my father apologized profusely to my mom about his infidelities. They sat outside the motel balcony, disregarding the hot July weather as they were adorned in long sleeved clothing. My 4’2, slim frame went unnoticed as I watched them talking through the sliding glass door. They would have ceased the conversation had they known I was no longer at the pool with my older brother, who was supposed to keep an eye on me but got distracted by the cute lifeguard on duty. I slipped away not because I needed anything from the room, but earlier I overheard my mom telling my dad that they needed to talk, and they agreed to do it while “the kids” were occupied at the pool. It was the way that my mother spoke to my dad that I knew I needed to listen to whatever it was that they “needed” to talk about. My position matched that of the chair that stood a few inches away from me, stiff and uncomfortable.

“Marge please, I think we can make this work!” My father pleaded.

My mother picked up a glass cup from a table that separated the two and took a long sip. She paused and took another sip then leaned to the side of her chair and pulled out a tall bottle and poured into her cup.

I was trying not to hate my dad, but my mind started racing. All those late nights working, missed birthdays and unreal excuses and was breaking up our family. My head was starting to hurt, and I stared at the chair, suddenly wishing to be in its place. Sure, it was just a chair but at least it didn’t have to worry about its parents divorcing and spending holidays at two different households. The chair can take in all this news and not do anything once the conversation was over. It could go on with its day being a stiff, uncomfortable white motel chair that would see other happy families come and go, together. I heard my parents babbling about something, but I was fixated on what life would be like if I were a chair. The old air conditioner in the room roared as it randomly picked up speed, but I didn’t feel any chills, even though my long red hair was soaking wet, and water dripped from my bathing suit. My body was growing hot as more words filled my ears. I had heard things my thirteen-year-old little ears could not fathom. I loved my dad but at this moment he was a disgusting human and I wanted nothing more than a fairy to appear and turn me into a motel room chair.

“I’m sick of your bullshit Rich.” My mother spoke calmly.

“You have embarrassed me for the last time. I have tried and tried relentlessly and now..a child! How will I explain this to the kids? Jamie is starting high school this fall, and James is starting his freshman year in college, how can you even afford this with a new baby?”

I don’t know if my father heard me gasp or if he saw my sudden movement as I placed my hand on the uncomfortable motel chair, trying to keep my balance as I felt a burst of dizziness. He stared at me in dismay, tears filled my eyes quickly. My body quivered as my mother turned her head, black mascara stained her eyes, but she didn’t stand, she simply stared as I assumed she was at a loss of words. I saw a flash of anger in her eyeeyes,d I wasn’t sure if it was directed towards my dad or the fact that I was listening in on “Grown folks” business, as she would call it. My older brother, Jamesburst through the room door and breathlessly said, “There you are.” He ran his fingers through his brunette hair, “Did you grab those extra towels?” He asked, trying to hide the fact that he had lost me and now lying about a nonexistent task. “What’s wrong?” He asked while staring at my tear-stained face then peered at my mom who took another long swig from her glass cup then rested his gaze on my dad who was now crying. James sat in the chair and shifted a bit, trying to find comfort as he awaited answers.