#side note: I have a hard time fully classifying my politics

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Jewish Song of the Day #28: Arbeter Froyen

Comments:

Okay so this is not my usual thing, but huge shout-out @vaguelybinary for suggesting this one because it sent me down a super fascinating history rabbit hole.

This song's lyrics showcase a Yiddish poem-turned-class struggle song, and this is a modern adaptation of that song.

It also combines themes of socialist feminism with the ideals of the Yiddish Labour Bund.

Anyway, I haven't posted nearly enough klezmer and Daniel Kahn is the musical brilliance behind the Yiddish version of Cohen's Hallelujah.

(And I've also stayed pretty religious in my posts, with very few secular songs. To wit, I mostly do not listen to secular music, so this suggestion was especially helpful.)

So here you go! Enjoy some klezmer, Jewish history, and a fully contemporary message of solidarity with women as workers!

[kitkatopinions]

I should be sleeping, but instead I'm thinking about Qrow just always Having A Spot with Ozpin and James all the time, and other people not getting it fully. And by 'having a spot' I mean:

They both leave an office window at their schools open and they leave a window open at their personal houses for him every hour of the day, even when it rains and even when it snows. So he always has a quick way to get into a warm house if he needs it (using his bird form to fly in.)

They both have guest rooms in their houses that over the years have just become Qrow's. They have items of clothes Qrow has left at their house in drawers, they bought extra pillows because they know Qrow likes that, they keep the room tidy in case Qrow needs it. They also have things they know Qrow likes stocked in their kitchens. Side note, but it's one of Ironwood's favorite things, to wake up and find Qrow unexpectedly in his kitchen, sitting on the counter and eating Apple Jack's in flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt that probably once belonged to Tai and saying 'Morning, Jimmy.'

Qrow has access to their high security level stuff, he can pull up city plans on his scroll and highly classified case files whenever he wants. They casually talk to him about whatever is going on in politics or with security or with national diplomacy, even though he's technically just a Huntsman.

They both are fine with Qrow being with them during pretty much every step of their day. They enjoy having Qrow hanging around in their offices, helping them here and there on things, fetching things for them when they need it. They don't mind Qrow following them while they do their various jobs, having Qrow take things off their plate when he can. And they don't mind if Qrow tags along to meetings (when they can get away with it,) or even just absently follows them home.

They always make time to listen to Qrow talk about his family and show them pictures of Ruby and Yang. They like talking to Qrow about his missions or his weapon or his problems with Raven or which of his students he liked. Even when they don't personally have an interest in a subject, they still have good conversations with Qrow about it.

They keep toolkits (and medkits) handy in their homes and at their schools, ready with quick fixes if things break, and are always quick to assure Qrow they don't mind, knowing that he considers even minor inconveniences to be his fault. They also take precautions, tightening screws and refurbishing things at least semi regularly so they're less likely to break.

They both know Qrow is self-deprecating and also craves closeness, so they're both not stingy with complimenting or expressing appreciation for Qrow most of the time, they try to make it clear that they want Qrow around and care about him without overloading him. They both don't shy away from physical contact when Qrow initiates it, and they both try to give enough physical contact back that Qrow isn't as touch starved, but still won't feel like they're going too out of their way.

Idk, I just love Qrow feeling like he has a space with them, like he fits into place in their lives because they take time and effort in making him feel valued and wanted. Qrow spends a lot of his time lonely and second guessing himself (both in my headcanons and the show proper,) and I just love imagining that during long missions or hard nights, Qrow still knows in the back of his head that he's cared about and wanted at least with Oz and James. I also have most of these same headcanons for Tai, too, but those headcanons are a bit different since they include Yang and Ruby. But yeah, soft James and Oz caring about Qrow headcanons are literally keeping me up at night. XD

[minor-solemnity]

Invention and Intrigue pt.3

Tag List: @jinxqsu @naps-and-lemons​ @riddles-wifey @mainlynonsense @cakesarecute

“You know, my friends call me Tom.” He interrupts you, sounding faintly amused, a small, irritatingly handsome smile curling his lips.

“And that’s what we are? Friends?”

You start meeting him more regularly after that. He finds you after dinner most nights and you spend hours in abandoned classrooms, researching and practising obscure forms of magic. Thankfully, he doesn’t bring any more fluffy animals for practical demonstrations. You swap theories and notes on cursed objects; delve deep into the histories of generational bloodline curses; and break down spells - both light and dark - into their most base forms to learn their mechanisms and constructions.

Honestly, it’s strange how easy it is to sit in companionable silence reading from the ancient tomes that Riddle has somehow managed to source. Riddle is patient and oddly kind when he explains aspects of magical theory that you don’t understand; he’s a good teacher. Given his reputation for being a studious, polite, and unendingly fair young man you don’t think this should shock you, but it does nonetheless. 

More interesting is the gratification that lights his expression when he succeeds in performing a spell for the first time, and the morbid curiosity he has for everything that could be classified as ‘dark’. You think that you should be concerned or nervous or scared but it’s difficult to summon those (very sensible, very reasonable) feelings when you are just as interested in what you’re discovering as he is. 

It’s nearly seven o’clock and you think you should probably be thinking about heading back to your common room in case Melanie starts to wonder where you are. Except… From where you’re sitting on the floor with a large, dark green blanket wrapped around your shoulders that Riddle had conjured for when when you’d complained about being cold, you can watch him without him noticing. You can study the way he curls over the book on legilimency he’s reading, head bowed, dark hair falling into his eyes and casting shadows along the sharp planes of his face. He pauses every so often to scribble down a thought or annotation and you watch the crease that forms on his forehead whenever he reaches a part of his reading that particularly interests him. He looks calm is the thing. Content. Peaceful. 

Unbidden, an image of him stretched out on a sofa, a book in his hands, you curled at his side, springs fully formed to the forefront of your mind. You can picture the way he might absently run a hand through your hair, or maybe it would be you tracing patterns against his chest… It’s a horrendously tempting portrayal of domesticity. You’re so lost in your fantasies that you don’t realise that you’ve been staring until he coughs politely and you’re brought thundering back to reality. He’s watching you with an expression that reads as part amusement and part consideration and you feel your cheeks grow warm under his scrutiny.

You get up and brush yourself off, folding the blanket over your arm and studiously ignore him. “I should… I need to get back. It’s getting late.” You say and are proud that your voice only wavers slightly. 

He hums softly in contemplation and nods. Once you’ve both gathered your things, he offers you his hand and you are reminded of the first time you’d spoken. You slumped against the wall, shivering and scared and him, holding his hand out to you like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Let me walk you back,” He says. Just as before, he doesn’t let go of your hand until you reach the entrance to your common room. When you try to return the blanket, he shakes his head and presses it back into your hands. “I conjured it for you. I’d like for you to keep it.” 

Just as before, he departs and you’re left holding the blanket, soft and warm and deep emerald green. Slytherin colours. His colours.

***

Three days later, you’re ready to take back every nice thought you’ve ever had about Riddle. You are seriously regretting ever having caught his attention. Sure, it’s been fun, you’ve learnt a lot of interesting things, and you’d be lying if you said that you’d not been enjoying getting know Riddle beyond the persona he puts forward to the rest of the school, but none of that can make up for the fact that he is leading you down into the bowels of the castle once more without a care in the world for your comfort or sanity.

“You don’t like the dungeons very much, do you?” He asks, taking in your jumpy demeanour and suspicious gaze with a sardonic smile. “Why is that, I wonder? Too scary for a good little girl like you?” The emphasis on the word ‘good’ serves both to underline the obvious sarcasm in his words and make your stomach clench in a way that is entirely inappropriate for the conversation at hand. You could curse yourself for the incredibly misplaced crush you’ve apparently developed.

You fold your arms over your chest and stare at the floor, unwilling to let him see how much his comment has affected you. You let out a shaky breath and murmur, “Self-preservation is not the same as being scared. Excuse me for not wanting to actively tempt fate and die in some godforsaken dungeon.” You snip, well aware that you’re being a little bit dramatic and not caring in the slightest. 

Riddle purses his lips together in a hard, thin line and it’s not difficult to see that you’re irritating him. “You seemed perfectly capable of defending yourself the last time you ventured down.”

“Just because I can defend myself doesn’t mean I want to have to.” You snap, following him through the door he’s holding open for you and glancing around in case this has all been some elaborate hoax Lestrange is waiting in the shadows to hex you to hell and back.

The door slams shut behind you and you whirl around, your wand outstretched. Riddle leans against the closed door, arms crossed, looking incredibly bored. “I would have hoped you’d have a little more trust in me by this point.” 

And well… He’s right, as much as it pains you to admit it. He’s only ever been kind to you - maybe a little condescending and arrogant at times, but that only serves to add to his charm. With a twinge of embarrassment, you stow your wand away and clench your jaw, unwilling to admit defeat quite so soon. “Yes, well, that was before you decided to lure me into the dungeons, Riddle. Forgive me for being—"

“You know, my friends call me Tom.” He interrupts you, sounding faintly amused, a small, irritatingly handsome smile curling his lips.

“And that’s what we are? Friends?” You stare at him blankly. Because… Well. You’re not. Friends, that is. Up until a few weeks ago, Tom Riddle hasn’t spared you a second glance since first year and why would he? You are… Well, you’re you. Angry at the world, melodramatic, and apparently, a budding dark sorcerer. It’s strangely reassuring to realise that it’s these things that he likes about you.

“Why wouldn’t we be? We’ve been spending plenty of time together, we have similar interests, we know things about each other that no one else does,” He’s circling you now, sweeping closer and closer until he’s right in front of you, perched elegantly against one of the desks. “What else would you call us?” He sounds so… calm. Congenial. Like it’s the most obvious and simple thing in the world. Except that there’s nothing congenial about the heat that flickers in the depths of his eyes. 

He cocks his head to the side, as though considering something very carefully, and then reaches out and catches your hand. With the same surprising strength that he’d displayed the last time you’d been in the dungeons alone with him, he pulls you forwards. Velocity and inertia work in tandem and you stumble towards him, prevented from collapsing against his chest only by his hand that moves to clasp your waist. Unbidden, your hands move to rest on his thighs. You can feel the way his muscles tense under your touch and you wonder if he’s as affected by the sudden proximity as you are. You wonder if his heart is tripping over itself the way yours is. You wonder (and a distant part of your mind laughs at the ridiculousness of the thought even as you think it) if he wants you the way you find yourself wanting him: entirely. You want to wrap yourself around every part of him, insert yourself into every aspect of his being. You’ve never considered yourself to be a possessive person before; you might have to start reconsidering that now.

You feel, more than you hear, his short sharp intake of breath and he spreads his legs just enough to provide a space for you. You press forward, tucking yourself between his legs, hands on his thighs, emotion and heat and, god, want flooding through you with all the unstoppable force of a tsunami crashing over a seawall. His eyes flicker between yours as he brushes a lock of hair away from your eyes, tucking it carefully behind your ear. He tilts your head up and lowers his until his lips are barely grazing yours. There’s something almost tentative about the way he holds himself, as though he’s holding himself back. 

Nervous. You think he might be nervous. And isn’t that just the most delicious thought?

Your heart thrums wildly in your chest and your fingers tighten instinctively against the fabric of his trousers. “Definitely not friends,” You whisper against his lips before you finally give in to the want that’s been building inside of you for weeks. 

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

[frospino]

A Tale of Two Bards

Jaskier x f!Reader

Warning: Porn with feelings. Very vanilla, but: cunnilingus. Unprotected sex (... Insert magic potion here?)

Summary: Reader is a bard who met Geralt and Jaskier in a tavern. Some talk of feelings, but this is mostly smut.

Word count: 2.563

A/N: Hoo boy am I in love with That Bard. I heard his voice and just knew that he would be my new favourite idiot to write about. I‘m a musician, so I leapt at the chance to use as many cliché music metaphors as I could. (I won’t apologise, because this was way too much fun to write. w) I usually don’t write pure smut, and am still trying to find a way to incorporate it into my usual writing style - feedback is appreciated!

The piano produces a nostalgic melody as your fingers dance over the keys. Your body sways, moved by both the rhythm and emotion of your song. It had been a long journey on the road, and finally being able to touch your favourite instrument again is pure bliss. You had joined the famous Geralt of Rivia and the bard Jaskier in a small tavern in the Northern Realms. Jaskier, being ever the faithful companion, had sung hymn over hymn about the adventures he witnessed. You knew from experience not to trust the word of a bard, and you highly doubted he was actually involved in any of the things he sang about, but one thing was certain: Travelling with the Witcher was a deep well of inspiration. The decision to leave the town was made quickly, and you didn’t accept Geralt’s protests at having two useless bards at his side. (You didn’t correct him—you were confident enough in your abilities to quench a political revolt with your words, but swinging a sword? Nope. Not in a thousand years.) Nevertheless, you had hoped to eventually prove less of a nuisance than his current travelling companion. Jaskier, in his baby blue outfit and youthful charm, did not seem like someone made for long tracks in the wilderness. What you had not anticipated was how very little you wanted to get rid of him the more you got to know him. Your hostility towards the other bard soon turned into a friendly rivalry including a few games of “Who can annoy Geralt the most” and “Who is allowed to wash him this time”, turned into friendship, turned into more. A few kisses under the moonlight and a number of disgusted Wither noises at your loving eyes later, you are still unsure about how to classify your relationship with Jaskier. You dread the moment he becomes just another love song in a tavern, a poetic description of what should have been, and a tug at the heartstrings of drunken nobles. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to ask the question that burns in your throat whenever you look at him. So, for now, you fully immerse yourself in the instrument. It is like coming home to family, or like falling into the embrace of a lover. A piano is impossible to carry on the road. Not that you don’t have other instruments to spend the time with, but this is the one you were made to play. You can feel the mood of the room change with every new chord you strike, and you wonder just how long you can make the crowd dance to your heart’s content. You open your eyes to see the faces of your audience, but are instead struck by the piercing gaze of your fellow bard. Jaskier is watching you closely, and you notice a tenseness in him that you hadn’t witnessed before. His arms are folded in front of his chest, as if to build a wall that would protect him from the outside; his lips form a thin line, and his usually bright eyes are darkened—by the dim light in the tavern and the distance between you, or by something else? He has never watched you like this before—you can feel his gaze follow your every movement, and even though he is as much of a music lover as yourself, the notes barely seem to reach him. Now or never, you think. I might not get a chance like this again. You let your song flow into a booming crescendo, feeling the tension in the crowd rise—just to end abruptly, and leave everyone wanting more. You love this tactic, have used it on… more than one occasion, and know just how well it works. You grin, and bow before your audience: “I apologise, but I have pressing matters to attend to. If my esteemed listeners could wait but a little longer, I will be with you again!” You leave the piano and make your way through the crowd, allowing yourself another short moment to revel in the applause and wolf whistles. “We need to talk,” Jaskier says before you have the chance to even open your mouth. Up close, you can see his eyes are still dark; not a trick of lighting and distance, then. Not wishful thinking either. You nod, and follow him upstairs, to the room he and Geralt have rented together. You thank whatever monster the Witcher is currently hunting for his absence. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” “What?” You bat your eyelashes at Jaskier, feigning ignorance. “Playing like that. Moving your body in such—you must know what it does to me.” Jaskier keeps a respectable distance between you two, and you long to be close to him with every fibre of your being. His hair, perfectly styled to look just the right amount of unkempt; his big eyes that betray his every emotion; his voice, almost husky from the tension in his body; his chest hair, just peeking through his not fully buttoned shirt. You have been a fool to think you would be able to get rid of this man. Still, you don’t want to lose the game that quickly. “I don’t know what you mean, Jaskier. Pray tell?” He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if to will you away. Yet you remain there, rooted in your spot, and wait for his answer. Jaskier exhales a long, shaky breath. “I thought my feelings for you were obvious.” “Feelings? Or lust?” Another long exhale, but this time, his eyes are fixed on yours, and an earnest look settles on his face. “Contrary to what people say about me, one does not come without the other in my case. I thought… I thought I had made it clear.” He sounds pleading, and you have the urge to stop your game and release him from his torment. To tell him you feel the same, and turn this moment into something sweet rather than act on the sexual tension filling the room. But you can’t. Your bard routines are hard to suppress, after all. Closing the distance between you with a few wide steps, you grip his shirt and pull him a little closer still. “Why don’t you show me your feelings then?” The encouragement is all Jaskier needs. His lips are on yours, and they feel like fire burning away all the worries and insecurities of the last months. On and on the fire rages, through your chest, where it makes your heart flutter; on to your arms and hands that can’t stay still any longer and have to pull Jaskier in even closer; further still, until it reaches the lower half of your body and makes the wetness between your legs throb. Nothing is left of the man who was so desperate to verify his feelings just a few moments before. Jaskier’s hands roam your body, stroke and pull on your hair until you can’t hold back a moan, fall to your sides and explore every curve there—you are glad for the support, for your legs can hardly keep you up, such is the intensity of his kiss. It is almost impossible to believe that just the touch of his lips can have you quivering and aching and softly cursing under your breath. For the first time in your life, you think no song could ever capture how your body feels in this moment. You feel Jaskier’s tongue ask for entrance and gladly allow it. It is a wet kiss, but not in the way that kisses turn wet after too much wine; it’s sensual, and exploring, and a promise of so much more. You push Jaskier towards one of the beds, hoping—in a hazy but still so pressing way that only the deeply preoccupied know—that it is not the Witcher’s. As you push Jaskier even further back, until he’s situated on the bed and you can comfortably sit on his lap, and you feel his length press against you just so, all thoughts of Geralt are forgotten. Fuck Geralt. You want, need, Jaskier inside you. The sooner the better. Your desperation must show—you hear a quiet chuckle escape the bard. “Not so quick, my dear. I have… things I’ve been dreaming about for a while, and it would be a shame to rush this.” In one skilful motion, Jaskier turns the both of you around. You find yourself lying on the bed, Jaskier above you, resting on one forearm and stroking your cheek with the other. For a moment, you wonder how your positions could have reversed so quickly—weren’t you in control just seconds before?—but then you see the look of complete adoration in Jaskier’s eyes, and nothing else matters. “Do you trust me?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Yes. Yes, I trust you, Jaskier.” Your consent is all the encouragement he needs. His fingers work on your blouse much the same way they do on a lute—a nimble, confident dance that ends with the cold room air meeting your flushed skin, the piece of clothing discarded somewhere on the floor. Your sensitive buds react to the new sensation, and you can see Jaskier’s eyes get ever darker at the sight. One hand comes to touch your breast—slowly, pausing just a moment, in case you change your mind. As you push your torso towards him, needing him to do something, anything at all, he grabs them, kneads, strokes, pinches—always changing his touch, to find out what elicits the most delicious moans from you. He kisses you again, and that and his touches almost make you lose your mind—more, more, more. Your mind races as your heart beats on in a wild rhythm, and Jaskier whispers into your ears—“You sound so delicious. I’m going to devour you, make you scream my name until—“ You don’t let him finish, instead push him further down, and wriggle out of the rest of your clothes. You know you should be doing something to him, but you need to feel his touch, and anyway bard’s trousers are wide enough, and he starts kissing down, between your breasts, to your navel, dipping his tongue in, further down, until he finally reaches the place where you need him most. As his blue eyes look up from between your legs, and his lips touch yours—just watching, breathing against you, pure torment. You push into him, and his tongue finally, finally darts out to touch you. Jaskier takes his time to get to know you—alternates between slow and quick strokes, sucks on your sensitive nub and brings you close, so close—your moans fill the room as you try to hold onto the headboard, the sheets, anything you can grab a hold of. Just then, Jaskier reduces his pace and draws lazy circles instead. Devoid of your high, you start to protest—and feel Jaskier’s grin against you. “You bloody bastard. That is my tactic!” He laughs and pulls himself up so that he rests next to you, head propped up on one head. “More than one bard can play that game, you know.” He kisses you again, and you taste yourself on his lips. Finding your dominance threatened entirely, you decide it’s time to take the lead again. You kiss Jaskier fiercely and rip open his shirt, not bothering to even attempt to be graceful about it. Just as he opens his mouth to protest, you tilt his head back with a soft motion of your hand and lick his throat. That gets the desired reaction—his body shudders, and Jaskier shuts up immediately. You suck and bite your way down to his collarbone, leaving a mark that would be hidden under whatever he decides to wear tomorrow. Just knowing that it’s there is enough for you. You palm Jaskier through his trousers, and it is your turn to watch and grin as his at most times so carefully chosen words turn into moans and curses. His eyes are closed, and you feel him lean into your touch, lost in the sensation. Your wetness drips down your thighs—it’s just plain unfair how good Jaskier sounds even when he isn’t singing. “Jaskier.” The bard opens his eyes. “I want you to fuck me.” You aren’t aware that “just making his pants vanish” is a skill Jaskier possesses, but alas, he does. One second he was clothed, the next, you have a good view of his cock, fully erect, dripping with pre-cum. The sheer anticipation of what is about to come is enough to make you moan again. For weeks and weeks, you have been thinking of this exact moment… You pull Jaskier closer again, until you can feel his heart beating against your chest. “Please, Jaskier. Fuck me.” The bard kisses you as he takes his cock into his hand and slowly, excruciatingly so, pushes into you. Your slick heat welcomes him, and you feel your walls stretch. He gives you a moment to adjust, and when you are ready, you clench the muscles between your legs. It takes Jaskier by surprise, and he hides his face in your shoulder as he fists the sheets. “God, please, do that again.” You do as he asked, and are rewarded with another of his delicious moans. He fills you so good, but you need him to fuck you, and preferably fuck you senseless. You move together, looking into each other’s eyes, listening to the stories your bodies told of lust and passion and desire. The slapping of skin on skin, of moans and curses and begging fill the room, weaving a melody unsuited for anyone’s ears but yours. This, this is what music is, you think to yourself, as Jaskier pushes inside just so and hits the right spot. You cry out his name, and he releases a breathless laugh, proud of the way he makes you feel. He moves faster, and harder, and you are so close again. You pull him in for another kiss, hoping that it communicates how you feel about this man. Jaskier answers by pulling on your bottom lip, and you feel his hand move on your clit, and there is nothing stopping you this time. Heat washes over you, from your toes to the tip of your head, and you throw your head back into the pillows as your orgasm hits you. You feel rather than see Jaskier’s eyes on you. You scream his name again, and want to stretch this moment for as long as you can. As it so often is, the moment does not listen, and the sensation ebbs away into a throbbing between your legs and a content haze falls over your body. Jaskier follows not soon after, pushing inside you one last time with a scream. He pulls out slowly and rests on his forearms again, peppering your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids with soft kisses. Lying down next to you, he pulls you into his arms. His coarse chest hair tickles—it’s not quite as soft as you imagined it to be—but you don’t move. You are content, right in this moment, in the arms of the man you’ve desired for so long.

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

What My Thoughts On Morrissey Today

In response to my writing idea someone gave me I picked this.

So basically, Morrissey’s nationalism in recent years has gotten in the way of me being able to appreciate much that he comes out with. This is wild because a few short years ago, I stood up for Morrissey and actually still feel very moved by a portion of his music. It got me through some really rough patches in my twenties.

I realize he’s human and has faults and I don’t know him completely but just eh, living in Portland and having seen the stuff going on I’m kind of not in the place in my life right now where I want to even try to dissect him. It’s not just a fact that he’s wrong, but that it seems altogether very much in rejection of the things that made his music so special. It was difficult for me to come to terms with it or fully make sense of why someone who’s unashamed expression of witty despair in the 80’s and 90’s, someone who was outcasted from the overall closed mindedness lower working class post ww2 world of northern England, unafraid to be gay and completely the antithesis of some Tory ideal could be bought by some tired nationalist agenda. It’s even more difficult to realize where his alegianced lie in a world that is starting to reject democracy, embrace anti intellectualism in the guise of some form of selective politically motivated skeptism, and I see the world move farther and farther into fascism.

Margaret Thatcher attacked The Smiths. Morrissey was taken in for questioning more than once out of fear for what he represented. Morrissey and The Smiths has some subversive element that really did threaten the establishment and cultural norms, in a way that I feel was a little more multidimensional than even a lot of bands in the English punk scene. I guess for me, even though I grew up in the Inland northwest of the US, I felt there was a lot of parallels in common. I too detest a culture based around animal consumption, was really not a part of the world I grew up in and didn’t want to work in the factories, I liked art and music and nobody around me was really into that stuff.

I still like the Smiths and most of Morrisseys old music. I read his autobiography. I know he is a dramatic self involved individual but I did feel that up till somewhat recently his heart was in the right place and he just liked to be controversial, which is somewhat true still, but now I think there was more to it, some nationalistic self preservation instinct kicking in. Its actually more prevelant than I even realized and I honestly think it’s getting the best of anyone with money or power, even those who once stood for something counter culture. It’s hard to think of him as racist in the traditional sense with his adoration for Latin America, but he might just be so self involved that his popularity in those regions gave him a bias. He probably separates the racism from the nationalism, blindly not wanting to see how the two concepts are quite inseparable. Falling right into it.

Him saying “everyone prefers their own race”, is kind of wild to me. I genuinely even try to entertain this as a possibility like a philosophical thought experiment or a deep dive of some kind into my own subconscious part of me I am avoiding somehow, and it’s not true for me or a lot of people. Who the fuck is he to say who prefers who, and how backwards and dehumanizing. It’s pretty repulsive, and being he is bisexual and felt the discrimination of homophobia growing up, I’m inclined to think he’s not able to see that he’s become the enemy he once represented the antithesis of.

The guy I’ve kinda been with is Mexican. I totally love him. I look into people’s eyes and I talk to and open up to people and if I connect with them I connect with them. Not like I’m trying to play the I gotta friend who is this or that as some kind of example of much, or that I don’t see color or some faulty implication, but I have been in situations where I’m the only white person at a party and I prefer them because they are my friends and I love them, and the idea of classifying who I prefer is to imply that the white race should be my main concern as they are the same as me and therefore superior and they aren’t. There is nothing inherently special to me or a kinship felt with other white people for either their appearance or cultural background. It’s nice to compare notes of pop culture but a lot of stuff people go through is universal. I don’t take too much issue with multiculturalism. My white skin is meaningless to me. I can’t imagine being so inept as a person that the color of my skin actually defines my identity rather than my autonomy or ideas or relationships and what I stand for and my ability to appreciate and connect with other people.

What gets me is that in his support of the far right is not even in line with his hatred of police, or the hatred he had a few years ago. I mean, he has always gone on and on about police brutality, he’s been harassed by them on multiple occasions. He shows them on giant projectors at his shows. Police are a very important staple for fascism and nationalism, and he is now on their side after all this time? What changed? The lost young man he once was in 1981 feels very very different from who he has become and piecing together that transformation has been something I’ve been trying to do for awhile. I try to embrace both but they seem like similar but different people at odds with one another, like an uncle and nephew.

Here is what I imagine happened, and I could be wrong about that but I was a Morrissey fangirl for quite awhile. I literally had his signed autograph above my bed with dried flowers around it like a shrine for a few years, and got a grasp of Morrisseys personality in some ways.

To start off, Morrissey is a very poetic and sharp guy but he’s very miopic about his interests and has always had the tendency to see the world in a black and white framework. This in and of itself is not necessarily bad, but it’s the core framework of who he is as a person. When he was young it was very much more a reflection of his hatred for authoritarianism and deceitful people and phony artists. It’s not bad and it contributed to his music and lyrics and became the thing he was loved/hated for. The way he goes about it really has always been the double edged sword of his charm and vileness all in one and something people have mocked time and time again. He likes to be the guy in the corner that looks fine and smug and believes he sees the virtues/dispicable attributes of everyone in the room and there have been times in his life where he was, and though he won’t ever attack anyone face to face he’s quick to speak his mind about it.

Morrissey is also a very vain person. It’s subtle but he is very singular on certain aesthetics. At times it made him brilliant and poetic and a visionary. The Smiths album covers are beautiful. His look is both elegant and absurd in its grasp for purity. It also makes him seem like a twat and a pretentious prince. The fact that he seems to be these two things at once is what gave him that kind of controversial star quality at times.

Those are just two natural traits he has always been obvious with. And he struggled with it and focused on his passions and dealt with depression in the 80’s. Then fame happened and the smiths ended. He kept to himself more or less in the 80’s and 90’s aside from his disdain for Margaret Thatcher, but he kinda lost his mind a bit when his drummer took him to court in the nineties. Right or wrong he fought for two years and lost a good chunk of his money from The Smiths and when that happened he kind of was forced to start again. He lost his home. He developed that early personalized sense of self preservation and victimhood. I think he lost faith in many of his more naive ideals when he was younger. When you read his autobiography and know what happened it’s like he had to step out of his old life and into something else.

Then, he’s always been a vegetarian superiority type. I liked that he calls it as he sees it but because of his need to black and white think everything he came off as deluded and smug. I mean, to be fair you can’t seem to win with people who want to eat meat and I agreed with a portion of his message, but he never questioned himself. He’s not good at that, or doesn’t appear to be. My personal interpretation of him was to agree with part of it and give him the cred for being not afraid to be a dick and say it, but to see also that he was so dramatic and self absorbed about it to also laugh at him and the way he said it.

Now to go into fascism and why it grew on Morrissey. I see the world as kind of falling into polarization and flux because of the failures of neoliberalism. It’s a long political explanation, but essentially the systems that are in place do not provide answers to a lot of catestrophic issues. Democracy, though the best thing we have, is flawed. I really like philosophy and have studied this and the various arguments that are made, and I don’t have the answer either but fuck if I will ever side with nazis.

People are seaking solace in new ideas that are actually quite old, namely socialism and fascism that provide answers that democracy fails to. Capitalism eats itself and created monopolies and unfair wealth distribution, technology is making human labor obsolete and therefore not a stable means to base our economic system on, those with wealth are hoarding it and trying to separate themselves from the world they helped ruin. We are destroying the planet, running out of natural resources, many of our leaders in the last three or for decades have been flawed, there isn’t a universal safety net for things like natural disasters and pandemics and there are still places stripped of their natural resources where human slavery is prevalent and children starve to death. Neoliberalism has promised some great answer but has actually been the contributor to this entire mess.

We are seeing the beginning of the end now, and I am sure Morrissey isn’t going to waste that without putting himself in the victim shoes, the white traditional quintessentially Englishman of wit, who sees his beautiful world he grew up in disappearing in multiculturalism and seeing himself and the culture of old England as a dying breed, that needs to be preserved at any cost. He probably was on the fence about it for some time, weighing out his disdain for authoritarianism, having a bougouis experience with the seemingly left leaning media that he never managed to win over and called him out for his every misstep. I bet he had a friend who opened him up to the idea that we don’t know about who changed his mind. I bet cuts in taxes for the rich helped him preserve his wealth that he definitely feels entitled to after losing the first portion of it in the court case. He’s rich, famous and old and often times that leads to being quite out of touch, even to the best intellectuals. He lost his mother who was dear to him and I can imagine, even though it’s not political, it created a deep sense of emptiness and dis ease. Nationalism often times gives people a sense of security and identity and purpose. And the idea of having an unpopular opinion excited him just as it always has, gave him the opportunity to be the smug poet in the corner of the party, and he sold out. Hard. And he’s probably proud of it.

He’s irrelevant now. Honestly his latest album wasn’t good, and I like later Morrissey. He doesn’t have the same energy. I just feel like he’s grasping at something that he never fully ever had. What’s weird to me is that I’m writing about him like this when honestly, I could also easily write about how beautiful and meaningful the Smiths and Morrissey has been to me. I can’t explain how it cut through the extreme isolation I’ve been in, not to mention how the Smiths really changed music for the better. There’s always going to be a part of me that wants to defend him. I’m not saying we cancel him. I kinda think he canceled himself. I’m not going to try to not enjoy the smiths or morrissey when I hear him, and I will still hear it and enjoy it but I’m not ever going to spend my own money on filling his pockets. I still nostalgically enjoy the person he was a very long time ago and what he used to represent. I realize at the end of the day he’s just a flawed person. But also fuck fascism, and fuck Morrissey for caving into it.

I mean, at the end of the day the hardest part is that I made him a part of my identity and I just had to stop doing that in a simplistic way. I tossed out a morrissey shirt I had (it’s was a cheesy shirt anyway), and I found new genres of music and while I still love the smiths it’s not like I can’t do without them every day. I break down and listen to them sometimes. I know the songs so well. I listen to Xiu Xiu which is a modern day similar equivalent in some ways but is absolutely better and the singer Jamie Stewart is fucking gold.

[a-stitch-in-time-and-space]

You ask for prompts and I'm here again to seek new content to read: 3. How often do/can they see each other (due to living on different planets, having stressful jobs, etc) with Gashir (/Garakshir) 🤩🤩

 Eyyyyy. I am just gonna… casually fold into this… a little trans-Bashir as a treat…. because it’s trans day of visibility!!! Also I hc Cardassians as intersex, in the sense of they as a species don’t call themselves intersex, but their genders are far more loosely determined at birth, because there’s not really sexual dimorphism (or rather, there is, but it’s so many different factors that it’s not classified) and then gendering comes later in life depending on what role they’re supposed to play in society ahem – different post to make!

Also Garak has a tail in this, also casually.. also this got longer than intended… oops?

—– Letter Analysis ——

1.

Their lives have a sort of normality that many families in this day and age exist with. Space travel, careers that necessitate being off-planet for long stretches at a time, the struggles of being a representative for entire planets or systems, all of this isn’t out of the ordinary.

Still, it takes them a little while to adjust, if only because they spent so long not getting it together that now that they have, well, they want to savour it. On the flip-side their relationship functions much better than so many who enter into partnerships of some kind without fully considering the difficulties of spending so much time apart and inevitably crumble.

Because of all that time they know, without a doubt, that their lives are entwined for good, regardless of how much of it they spend without one another’s physical company.

They fall into letter-writing naturally. After all, they had been doing the same before, why stop now.  

2.

It has become something of a competition at this point: who can write the longest letter. Thus far, Julian is winning and Elim is still in the process of reading his when they see one another again. He pretends to be blasé about it, but Julian can read him easily these days. He wonders at the time when he couldn’t and can’t really picture it.

While Elim is giving him a back-handed compliment at the way he’s managed to fold three words worth of content into whole paragraphs, Julian realises that he’s never known anyone as well as he knows Elim. And every detail of himself is known in turn. From the scars of his chest surgery that he purposefully kept, to the ridges at the base of Elim’s tail, it feels like everything about them was perfectly made for the other.

It’s strange, how many tiny moments are filled with love, they both learn.

(After Elim sends him a letter of 3000 pages, Julian simply answers: You win).

3.

They consider what it would be like to have a family with the way their lives are run. Elim generally lives on Cardassia unless his diplomatic duties take him elsewhere, while Julian is hopping from emergency to medical find to distress call to conference.

Still, they approach the matter on the premise that it will happen. Their letters during these years follow a trajectory of thought with little variation, as they can’t actually be together for the discussion.

They discuss pregnancy – both of them are capable of bearing a child, but the time needed (nine earth months for humans, even longer for cardassians) makes it a challenging prospect. Moreover Julian and Elim, each for their own reason, have issues with concepts surrounding an uncontrollable force fundamentally changing their bodies.

It doesn’t take them long to agree that adoption was always the only option. Still there’s the matter of their careers being incompatible with children. Neither of them wants to put a child in harm’s way and both of their careers contain elements of danger. I believe, writes Elim drily and with an underlying sadness that Julian wishes he could heal, that this sixth assassination attempt may contain a sign that a child would not be particularly safe in my company.

4.

The way this resolves itself is oddly perfect for what they need and who they are and comes through both of their continued work with mixed-species war-orphans, who more often than not are homeless, ostrasized and suffering from any number of easily treatable diseases. Garak opens a series of institutions in the name of Ziyal and habitually lends a hand in their various gardens where he befriends a number of the kids.

This plan also works to ground a lot of Julian’s focus in the space of mixed-species research, specifically writing papers on the future of the galaxy needing to see species integration for the sake of these kids as an inevitability as cultures mix and to understand the medical and cultural implications thereof.

Kira and Ro get heavily involved on the Bajoran side of things – in general a bunch of adults from DS9 days come together to give kids a better chance than they had.  

Beyond that though, they come to realise that they’re okay on family. With these kids – many of whom they get to know personally over the years – with Molly and Yoshi O'Brien and Rebecca Sisko getting older and the two of them functioning as uncles, there’s more than enough for them to be getting on with on the children front: Elim and I were very happy to see you all again – Don’t worry, I’ll keep Yoshi safe – we’ll be making a stop at Bajor where Nerys is very excited to see him again –

Their circle is actually a sizeable, cross-galaxy household. They come to realise that it doesn’t matter if your family is someone you can’t see often, what matters is they’re all inhabiting the same space.

5.

They don’t argue often. With the lack of time they have together, what would be the point of raising petty squabbles. There are things like the time Julian forgot about a very important dinner that Elim was a guest of honour at, which opened up a box of the kind of loneliness Elim thought he’d overcome, but it wasn’t about anger or arguing, it was about the two of them figuring out that sometimes this not seeing one another was actually damned hard. It was about asking for forgiveness and receiving it even before the asking. It was about making sure that they wouldn’t let things ever be unsaid, because their time together – comparative to their whole lives – was always going to be so short.

The actual worst long-standing consequence is that Elim and Julian are political celebrities, and so whatever tabloid-equivalent exists publishes one thousand pieces on their apparently irreconcilable relationship. Julian finds himself referred to as everything from a “heartthrob who found he needed more,” to “a cheater who habitually has several affairs at once.”

It’s amazing, remarks Elim in his latest letter, how these kinds of spurious articles are written even today, and how they still don’t seem to know the facts. On that note I hope you have a wonderful time with Data, and Parmak sends his love from my lap - it’s making it very hard to write this.

6.

They’re both twenty years older by now, but things aren’t slowing down with their work by the looks of things. Julian’s work centres more and more on the various groups whose medical needs are considered less valid or even non-medical, because of their social status and who often have medical issues of kinds that don’t come up in normative societies – mixed-species, augments, A.I. (for awhile his standing suffers, when he argues that mechanical needs for A.I. ought to be taught in Starfleet Medical), non-bipedal species, Ex-B’s, Jem'Hadar, clones.

Elim keeps his Carrington Award on the wall for everyone to see. Partly to mess with him – To The Prestigious Winner of the CA – many of his letters begin for several years after, but mostly out of pride.

(In return and with as much love, Julian addresses him as Ambassador and Castellan – the joke evolves as they find ever more flowery titles for one another. Julian wins this one: My Dearest, the Ambassador to the United Federation of planets, Castellan of the Cardassian Union, Blusher when Being Whispered Compliments about the Length of Your Tail, Not-So-Secret Reader of Austen and Pratchett, Seducer of Doctors (No Doubt Currently Spluttering in Denial), Possessor of Biteable Ridges (Blushing Again, I Hope) and of My Heart… this opening continues a further four pages. The letter itself reads: I expect to land on Cardassia within the next three days. Surprise.)

7.

At the end of it all, Julian finally comes to Cardassia for good. Along the way it’s become his home more than any planet, station, starship, or system, for the simple fact that he’s been returning to Elim, and Elim is home.

There’s a strangeness to all the time they have. The walks they take, the languid mornings, the discussions of books they’ve read whilst in each other’s company, it’s all far more surreal than the years spent wanting to see one another again and catching whatever moments they could.

They can’t shake the habit of writing one another letters, even as they’re sitting in the same room. They don’t need to be long or well-formed any more, although occasionally silly competitions spring up, just for fun.

The one Julian’s reading right now, as Elim’s tail languidly curls around his waist, simply says: I am glad that you’re finally home – E

–— The End ——

Submissions for drabbles are now closed, thank you for sending me asks!

[caligobeltrao]

I for one would love 2 hear ur thoughts on the hannibal novel 👀👀 - bloodybrahms ☺

ahhh thank you BB!! <3 I’m gonna throw it under a cut bc I know people aren’t gonna want my ramblings clogging up their dash lol. 

Edit after I’ve written it: Holy shit this turned into a monster but tbf I did say I was going to rant. I think I miss writing college essays...

Also, I would like to note bc I’m about to bitch, I do still love Hannibal and Clarice and all of the franchise. Hell, I even love book Hannibal because I’m garbage and want to be special. So yeah. It’s a fond bitching. 

Okay where to fuckin begin man... This novel was a fucking Shit Show, my dudes. It was like baby’s first fanfiction. 

Let’s just jump in, shall we? 

So by now, having read both Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, I know Harris injects of lot of sexual shit into his novels, fine whatever, but the amount of pedophilia is insane. Like, Red Dragon with the grandmother threatening to cut his dick off by holding it in between scissors????? And then we have Mason Verger, worst human on the planet. Like jfc I’ll go into him specifically more later but just. Men. Why does it always have to be sexual. 

Like that time Clarice wasn’t wearing a bra and she wanted to prove to Paul Krendler she wasn’t wearing a wire so she flashed him her tits?? Unnecessary, Harris. Bullshit on all counts. 

Next, poor Ardelia Mapp. So he clearly wrote out her accent in Silence, which frankly reads racist since to me it seemed like he did it every time a character of color was met but he didn’t for Clarice’s Southern accent except for this book when she was talking to Ardelia. Now, that’d be a cool way to show how close they are, sure, but it just... She didn’t show up enough to warrant that reaction from me, plus all the other casually racist shit he throws in. 

Ardelia’s literally there as the wise Black best friend to help Clarice along. She doesn’t feel like her own character, she’s only there in conjunction with her, or doing something for her. She was the fucking valedictorian for Christ fucking sake, she also works at the Bureau but if her department was mentioned it was only once in passing. She was not a full character which fucking blows because she could’ve been so cool. 

And real quick before I forget, I hate how she’s treated in the end. I do like she gets a reference and that brainwashed Clarice sent her an emerald ring and a note saying she was okay, but Ardelia was abandoned by her best friend (that she had lived with) with not even a phone call and they will never see each other again and I think Ardelia knows it. It sucks and I’m heartbroken for this woman. 

I’m gonna touch a little bit on the racism too. Now I’m white and not the most qualified to talk about this shit, but I do wanna mention it because it makes me mad. There’s just so many unnecessary slurs, any POC is more of a background helper character to Clarice than anything or a foil. 

For example, Evelda Drumgo. She starts us off. Badass Black woman who runs a drug cartel. She chooses to shoot at Clarice and risk her baby’s life, and we have Clarice wash the baby off and save his life. Then Evelda’s mother is written as irrational when she slaps Clarice for visiting the baby in the hospital; I get Clarice’s impulse, but that woman just lost her daughter because Clarice killed her. I would’ve slapped Clarice too, even if it was a totally justifiable shot. 

The baby himself is used as a foil throughout other parts, most notably to me when Clarice goes to visit Mason the first time. There are two Black boys from a foster home playing in a room with a camera so Mason can watch them, and it shakes Clarice up a lil bit because of the baby, but it says she’s getting more used to it.

Now this is half and half well written and shoddy to me. It’d be a cool moment, if the whole incident wasn’t nearly completely forgotten for the rest of the book shortly afterword. It could show growth, if Clarice had any growth to show. 

And then the Romani people who are literally just used and thrown away. Sickening. Also very broadly used the stereotypes we hear which Sucks; the three we meet in any sort of depth are pickpockets, one was already in jail and Pazzi used his leverage as a police officer to get her to do what he wanted and threatened to have her baby taken away from her permanently, like it was just bad. And then the man got killed. Pazzi let him bleed out. Asshole. 

The slurs. I could take out all of them and pretty much have the same damn thing. Like I get showing negative aspects of characters and just because a character’s racist doesn’t mean the author is, but with the characters already being as shitty as they are, fully didn’t need it to make them worse. Entirely unnecessary. Racism or the character being racist has no impact on the plot is the major thing, I think. And you can replace that with anything along those lines, like sexist, homophobic, transphobic. It didn’t impact the plot, they can still be shitty, you just don’t need to use them. 

This also goes in reference to Margot being a lesbian. And the transphobia holy shit, it was disgusting. Harris had Clarice think something so cruel and unnecessary it’s like my guy why was that even remotely something we needed to hear. We didn’t. I wanted to stop reading because that’s not my Clarice, first and foremost, and second, this is supposed to be the character we LIKE. And now I don’t like ANYBODY in this damn book. 

And he treats Margot like shit too, and Barney. 

Their friendship was beautiful and great and finally for once something nice was happening in Margot’s life and I was happy reading it, and then FOR SOME REASON Margot goes to shower in the same room as Barney after a workout, which makes no sense, and then Barney tries to force a kiss on her (and he was hard, Harris made that very clear) and she had been sexually assaulted by Mason her brother and ruin the whole damn thing and none of it would have changed any other piece of the novel if you removed it!!!!!!!!! Entirely unnecessary!!!!!! And Barney had the gall to say well I couldn’t help myself like none of that was realistic in the slightest, she never would have went in the same room to shower with him. 

Something you need to do is basically get some suspension of disbelief from your reader and maintain and stretch that as you go, right? Well mine was gone at that moment.

Also side note Margot is basically just there to show how shitty Mason is for the umpteenth time. Her whole thing is lesbian sexual assault victim.

Also heavily implied she was a lesbian because of the sexual assault. And we rarely see Judy, her girlfriend, so. Bad. Bad all around. 

Circling back around to Clarice and how disappointing she is in the books as compared to the movies. Well, Clarice is also a poorly written character. She’s 1000x better in the movie. Hell, she’s even better in this book than she was in Silence, but that’s not fucking hard. 

Pretty much all the characters are so flat they don’t even classify as two dimensional. 

Like sure, maybe we wanna say Clarice didn’t really solve much in the first book and was just handed everything because she was a trainee and that’s what Hannibal wanted. 

Like if you remember the John Mulaney sketch of Delta Airlines where he’s just going “Okay!” and running to the next place he’s told, that’s Clarice. 

Okay so why does she get goaded into all this shit now? She should know better. She should know how to handle herself better. Like she messes up basic fucking shit like clearing a room before untying Hannibal, which was stupid, she seems oblivious to some of the politics at work even though she’s been in the FBI for like 7 years now, she would at least have more fucking contacts than Brigham who died in the beginning and Jack Crawford who died at the end by rolling over in his bed to his dead wife’s side and Ardelia who would be near the same level as Clarice I guess but I still don’t know her damn department???? Like you fucking network. 

Plus after her final fall from grace with the FBI, we meet or are told of random side characters that go no where and do nothing just to say “hey look at my special little girl, everyone likes her and looks up to her!!” Why? Because she caught Buffalo Bill 7 years ago and then never got a promotion or even worked with the BAU? Again, it does not make sense. People may pity her? But a random girl in the lab wouldn’t be fangirling. Starling herself said her career had gone nowhere because of the politics and not sleeping with Paul. You need to show me why she’s likable in her actions not others words. 

We spend more time away from her than with her anyways but Jesus. 

AND HER IN THE ENDING. She was fucking BRAINWASHED????? Bull FUCKING SHIT. He completely ruined anything he even remotely might’ve had in this cluster fuck of a novel. 

Case in point, difference from the movie, Hannibal spends weeks (possibly? it’s left purposefully vague and I’m guessing that’s because Harris didn’t know the ins and outs and wanted his novel done) meticulously brainwashing Clarice, he had stolen her father’s bones and she’s so far gone at that point she doesn’t care, and the whole scene where Paul is getting his brain eaten? Yeah, she happily indulges and when he insults her, she asks Hannibal for more. Fuck you, Thomas Harris. 

And Hannibal’s a Gary Stu, fucking fight me. 

In the movie he either is or he’s tap dancing on that line, don’t get me wrong, but in the novels it’s insufferable because it doesn’t seem earned. The pigs didn’t attack him because they didn’t smell fear on him. No. He’s easily able to drug and brainwash Clarice and take her as his lover. No. Go away. He’s so smart and one step ahead and can manipulate anyone and everyone into doing what he wants and blah blah blah shut up! A character being perfect isn’t interesting even if he’s evil!! We all know he’s never truly in danger because of how Harris writes him and that’s boring!! 

And I personally have a pet peeve where the villain is described as a monster or unstoppable. That’s boring and I no longer care about your story. I know 9 times out of 10 your main character is going to find a bullshit way around the impossible and kill it. Or it’s just like a default personality and nothing else is added to it. And that’s Hannibal. 

I’m on Hannibal Rising now and, spoiler alert, he’s very bland as a character. (Also Harris switched some details in the novel which kinda annoys me like get your own canon right my man but whatever.) The plot itself is pretty fun? I guess? Like there’s action and stuff and I’m enjoying that. But it’s the same set up where Harris’s Gary Stu always wins, like he was 13 in the book when he killed the butcher. Let. Your. Characters. Lose. 

Also even more racist shit but what did I expect really. 

Anyways, I have no idea who I’m supposed to root for in the novel because all the characters are just kinda shitty. It really just boils down to Harris not showing any redeeming qualities or actions from any of his characters. I liked Margot for a while out of spite but she never really went anywhere and the way she killed Mason (btw she sodomized him with a cattle prod to get his semen bc side plot and then stuffed his Moray eel down his throat and somehow I still don’t think that’s the worst part of the novel) just. No thanks really. 

All the random little side plots were also pretty not great. How many time does Harris have to say Pazzi of the Pazzis? Like I fucking get what you’re going for, even if I hadn’t watched the movie I’d be like, “Oh this dude’s gonna get hung outta that window, dope,” the literal first time. Stop treating your readers like idiots. 

And then Margot’s side plot was that the will their father left said she needed a biological heir to inherit because he was pissed she’s gay and we needed the homophobia I guess, so Mason got everything, and she was helping him with the Hannibal shit because he’s pretty incapacitated duh, and in return he would give her his jizz so Judy could be artificially inseminated and they could have a child and get some of her inheritance. I don’t care. It was all very gross, and Mason kept saying shit like suck me off you’ve done it before, I won’t be able to feel it anyway, maybe Judy’ll suck me off you think she’d like that. It’s all gross. 

And I guess this is a good a time as any to finally start on Mason. So a great rule of writing to make everything work better and give your story more depth is to give everyone both positive and negative traits right, even and especially the bad guys? Like, rules can always be broken if you’re a good enough writer, but I believe I have established that Harris isn’t quite there yet, to put it nicer than I have. 

Mason is one bad trait after another. It’s like when Harris was bored of constantly writing about plain ole pedophilia, he threw a dart at a board of horrible things and landed on topics such as: pedophilia but make it incest, extreme sadism, sadism but against children now, and good old fashioned racism! Fucking Cordell was supposed to collect the children’s tears after Mason would make them cry and put them in martinis for him. Realism went out the goddamn door real fast with this novel y’all. Like a fucking Scooby Doo villain over here. 

And he loves talking about being a sadistic pedophile, he will literally not shut up about it to Clarice when she first gets there telling her about his trip to Africa and this portable guillotine he has and just. I get it was probably like trying to make her uncomfortable on purpose because he’s a Freak, but it went way too far if only because it was annoying, not even uncomfortable for me as a reader. I was bored real quick. Get to the shit I actually wanna know. 

And it sucks because of the weird, over-the-top way of how he died, I got zero satisfaction from his death. I couldn’t even be like, “Well at least Margot got her revenge,” because that’s not how she originally wanted to kill him!!! She wanted someone else to extract his semen for the insemination but couldn’t find anybody to do it for her, and then Hannibal, whilst tied up, said use a cattle prod and you won’t have to touch him and when you kill him you can blame it on me, and I’m pretty sure even if she hit his prostate right every time and he COULD cum from that alone in addition to how his body is Fucked Up now, it would’ve been a lengthy, gross, and re-traumatizing experience for her because all she wanted to do was avoid seeing and touching her brother’s private parts again, which I think is a totally fair and rational desire. 

So I have to live with the fact that she was desperate enough to not lose the house and business because of her homophobic father to go through her childhood trauma again. There’s no place in this book that has a somewhat positive conclusion. 

Even the very last bit where Barney has a girlfriend and a ton of cash from Margot, all he wants to do is see every Vermeer in the world right? Well, because Hannibal and Clarice are in Buenos Aires where one of them is on display, Barney gets spooked and has him and his girlfriend leave before he can see it and it ends that bit with he never got to see it ever so he didn’t even complete his dream!!! 

Also for good measure, Harris throws in that Hannibal and Clarice enjoy having sex regularly. For no reason. Just letting us know. 

I know this seemed like just a bitch fest, because it was, but I kinda sorta enjoyed it? It kept my attention at the very least. It’s really disappointing because like I said, I love the movies, all of them, and have since I was little. To see the original not stand up to that image in my mind is a little heartbreaking. Especially Clarice. She was a strong female role model to me, but turns out she’s... just kinda there. And her ending is that of her no longer being herself and getting that agency taken away from her. 

There is a reference to her waking up from a sleep, if she is asleep (that’s kind of how he worded it), that kinda let us draw our conclusions on whether she was just brainwashed into being good for him or if she was willingly going along with this and was in love with him I guess and it felt like a slap in the face. She turned from a hardworking, modest country girl working her way up to the FBI into a female Hannibal. Which on the surface sounds kinda cool because we love luxe serial killers, but that’s not what she wanted or who she was set up to be. And to insinuate that she would even remotely consider choosing that path for herself is at its best an insult to her and at its worst a complete erasure of her background, what little character Harris did set up. It also completely erases my own connections to her, as a girl from a small town myself who has bigger dreams than this and also... a good, strong set of morals. He just tossed that out the window. 

Obviously if you’re on this blog, you like slasher x reader shit, and this is a novel with a slasher x a person, right? So why am I so mad about it? Because the whole point of this blog and reader insert fanfiction in general is that you are taken as you are and loved wholly as yourself and that you are worthy of that love (in a fictional setting, not really loving people who are like this, which I think we understand but I want to clarify). She was not taken as she was. He is not in love with her, she is not in love with him. She was transformed into what he wanted out of her. He couldn’t get her to be Mischa, his first plan, so he made her like himself. And the fact that he was so easily able to do it makes me upset, and even more so is that it’s not written like it’s weird or wrong. It’s written like they’re in love and this is a good thing. 

He may have been going for the classic “everyone is capable of doing bad things” stuff we see a lot, but we got that from Margot already. And Barney, for stealing Lecter’s stuff and selling it. And Paul, and the entire FBI for turning on Clarice, and the kidnappers, and Pazzi, and random shitty side characters. And none of it was particularly well written or made some sort of strong statement. It just was. And that’s not a good enough basis for a novel. 

Anyways, if you made it this far holy shit you’re a saint and I love you, let’s be friends?? <3 Have a good day y’all, thank you BB for giving me permission to ramble. 

[117--087]

‘Halo: Allegiances’ - Outline

I’ve kind of had fanfiction on the brain lately, so I thought it might be a good idea to at least type up an outline for the novel-length story I've had in mind for years but will never be able to actually write...

It all started with the question of: “How to do the ‘fake engaged/married’ trope w/ John-117 & Kelly-087?”

But soon spiraled into: “Hey this could be something that 100% works with canon & also explores some really interesting/niche concepts you don’t see in most official Halo stories.”

(I have exactly zero names for any of the secondary characters so far, so apologies if this is hard to follow because of that.)

Basically, here is what I have so far:

Middle of the Human-Covenant War, Spartan-IIs are in their early-mid 30′s, post-Operation: HEMORRHAGE (i.e. that one time Kelly infiltrated a Covie fleet and destroyed it)

J&K are called to meet privately with some UNSC Top Brass & ONI Spooks

Turns out there’s a mole in ONI, and they’re leaking top secret plans for weapons to the Insurrection - MJOLNIR specs included

All attempts to identify and stop this person have proven unsuccessful, and ONI can’t waste any more resources tailing/interrogating everyone on their staff

So it’s been decided that J&K are to go on a blacker-than-black-ops mission to an Insurrectionist Stronghold on a hollow-asteroid (v. similar to Eridanus Secundus) where some of the info leaks have been traced to and is also suspected of being a smuggling depot

The plan is for J&K to openly acknowledge they are super-soldiers and their “cover story” will be that they have actually deserted the UNSC, they’ll have 3 ½ weeks to get the job done (i.e. investigate the base, find The Mole - capture or kill them, get out)

The two of them were chosen because they have the longest operating history together out of everyone on Blue Team, ONI will take care of the necessary document-fudging to keep this all under wrps

John isn’t a fan since S-IIs aren’t really equipped for undercover work like this, but ONI justifies it by saying their knowledge of the UNSC & MJOLNIR will make them too valuable for the Innies to not want to take advantage of it - as well as the fact that no one would suspect them of all people of being spies

Kelly suspects this is also some kind of perverse “test” by ONI & the UNSC to see what sort of “applications” the Spartans have outside of more regular combat (ofc she is right in the end)

John also remembers the Victoria mission and what can happen if/when the enemy has enough intel on the Spartans’ gear, so he relents to go along w/ it

They are dropped off at neutral UEG site, wrangle a ship, get to the base on the asteroid, surrender themselves without a fight, and are brought to The Leader of the people there

J&K give their spiel about how “they are tired of being the UNSC’s dogs” and so on, but no one seems to be 100% buying it - so Kelly throws in at the last second that she and John are lovers and couldn’t be together as they were in the UNSC and that is another primary reason why they ran away

Her deeply personal/sentimental plea tips the scales and J&K are allowed to stay, though with some security restrictions, until The Leader is fully convinced they can be trusted

Note: from here, things can go two ways...

- If I were to go the “my personal headcanon” route, J&K would already be in a clandestine romance and this would just further explore their established feelings for each other in a new setting

- Or I could go the “100% canon compliant” route and make it so this story establishes they have some-unspoken-thing but nothing concrete until this scenario forces them to confront that

Neither route changes the overall story much, but it would be a factor in their conversations about their situation and how/how soon the romance content is executed

J&K settle into their new roles (mostly manual labor: mining, farming, cargo transport, etc.) and start poking around the base for clues as to who The Mole is and why they funnel their info through here, as well as details about what goods are being smuggled

They become acquainted with the citizenry and it becomes clear v. quick this isn’t so much an Insurrectionist Stronghold as it is a self-sufficient refuge for anyone looking to get away & be safe from the wars going on r/n

The Leader himself is actually an honorably-discharged UNSC soldier who has no political leanings whatsoever and doesn’t support military efforts on any side, he’s just a good person trying to help people but feels he can’t do that within The System as it is r/n

The Mole is just a smarmy guy/low-level ONI stooge who has a corrupted Covenant AI he stole from from a lab (ONI found it in some Covie wreckage and were just going to destroy it after they had finished messing w/ it & he faked its termination record)

He found a way to use the AI to contact some Jackals and has brokered a deal with a Shipmistress to trade info, weapons, and resources under the UNSC, Innies, & Covenant’s noses

The Mole moonlights at this base as a know-nothing civilian but is also working behind The Leader’s back to sell classified UNSC info & use the base as a thoroughfare for Insurrection contraband (basically this guy thinks he’s a Halsey-level chess-master & is trying to play everyone he comes across to his own personal enrichment/advantage)

Note: this guy won’t be terribly sympathetic, as I feel this story will have enough moral complexity and ambiguity via the other characters that he doesn’t need to be

The Shipmistress herself has grown disillusioned with the Covenant & doesn’t believe in The Great Journey, but doesn’t desert either out of fear of reprisal by the Prophets against other/all Kig-Yar - so she just keeps a portion of the extra supplies she is trading thanks to The Mole for herself and her crew

J&K have their own misadventures trying to adapt to socializing with “normal” people, some of whom are friendlier than others, as well as act like a “normal” couple

They deal with dancing as a for-fun activity, John has a bout with social anxiety, while Kelly faces becoming too comfortable with the art of deception and also reflecting on why she stays a Spartan and if it is truly worth it

All this on top of how simply being able to openly express and explore their feelings for each other kind of throws them for a loop

They’ll also have to confront some of their own ingrained beliefs about what the UNSC and Insurrection actually are to people outside the conflict, and see firsthand what it is like to not be aligned to either side (a v. foreign concept to them)

John ends up unintentionally winning The Leader’s total trust (thanks to a lucky series of questions), and it becomes increasingly odd that no one has approached the Spartans yet for inside information about MJOLNIR nor can they find any actual smuggling going on via the people on the base

At this point the people on base who have taken a liking to J&K throw them a small “welcome to the community” party that is also doubles as an “unofficial wedding”

J&K use their smarts to start narrowing in on the trail of The Mole - who upon their arrival has been suspicious of them (but also lulled by their cover story) and has started to make plans to close up shop here just to be safe

Up to this point The Mole has only managed to steal & decrypt and bits and pieces of blueprints for MJOLNIR systems - a full workup on the armor is what the Innies want and they are considering terminating their smuggling operations through him entirely unless he can give them their prize

At the same time the supplies The Mole is trading with the Shipmistress, either personally on a private spacecraft or via unmanned probes, are starting to be noticed as missing among the people on the base

The Mole doesn’t know how to safely back out of his deal with the Jackals, so he ultimately decides to desert ONI entirely and strikes a deal for quick escape with the Insurrection by promising to get them the full MJOLNIR specs

The AI in his possession comes to realize its human handler’s whole scheme is collapsing and is still loyal to the Covenant enough (due to its unstable mind) that it sees this as a chance to finally return to its “true masters” - so it alerts the Shipmistress behind The Mole’s back that he is planning to renege on their arrangement without compensating her

In a rage the Shipmistress makes to attack the asteroid base and strip the place

Meanwhile one Jackal on her crew is still a devout believer in The Great Journey in private, and can no longer ignore her “heresy” and actions against the Covenant’s overall orders - so he alerts some high ranking Elites to what she has been doing

Basically everything hits the fan at once after this…

J&K finally lock in on how The Mole has been working with the Innies, which also fully exonerates the civilians on the base of having anything to do with the stolen MJOLNIR specs or the smuggling

Since his final transmission of the MJOLNIR plans is stopped by J&K, The Mole is contacted by the Innies who have had enough and they cut ties with him

This is turn leads to The Mole realizing J&K are actually working undercover

The Shipmistress and her crew storm the base looking for The Mole and don’t care if they have to waste any other humans that get in their way

The Mole then finds out the Covenant AI sold him out, and destroys it

The Elites that were tipped off are hot on the heels of the Jackals, looking to kill or capture them for their transgressions against the Covenant

So the base is completely under siege with J&K + The Leader having to take charge of what few people here that have combat experience in order to get all the civilians out

Plus J&K also have to not let The Mole get away in the chaos too

The Mole comes across The Leader (who was making a final sweep of the base for stragglers) at the same time J&K reach The Mole

The Mole exposes J&K as agents of ONI, while they in turn expose his attempts to play everyone else

A Mexican Standoff ensues

The Leader ends up taking J&K’s side (duh) and helps them apprehend The Mole

They escape, and the Shipmistress decides to cut her losses and retreats with her crew as well

The Elites destroy the asteroid base for good measure

The Leader is upset over how he was deceived, but is also reminded by J&K that his goodness is still a strength and that he still has a responsibility to his group - he’s also grateful for how J&K helped him save his people

The Leader understands he is still a rebel in the eyes of the UNSC but refuses to compromise his morals - he leaves too in the hope of settling elsewhere with his people and continuing their way of life (at least until the UNSC & Innies get their heads out of their butts)

J&K return to UNSC space w/ The Mole and their mission a success - in the end they have to reflect on everything that happened and what it all might mean for them in the future as teammates/best friends/lovers

ONI Spooks discuss the operation and conclude that while their objective was certainly accomplished, it is best to keep the use of the Spartan-IIs centered on open warfare (for now at least - mwahaha)

The Shipmistress is on the run and is contacted by someone claiming to be an emissary for The Banished - they offer her and her crew a place among them as privateers, she accepts

The End!

...Phew. I understand all that is probably A Lot™ to take in, and of course it is still seriously lacking in “connective tissue” to fill in the gaps in the story. But in my head it all comes together and I really just wanted to share the gist of it with you guys. Particularly since the title for it just recently fell into place and got me excited thinking about it. Any questions, comments, or feedback on this idea for a never-to-be Halo book are most welcome. :)

[juniordreamer]

Rumor Has It: a cracky reylo ficlet wherein Rey catches the Supreme Leader reading a trashy tabloid about their maybe-bond. 

Maybe they should be used to it by now—the bond that connects them through the Force.  But still, each time it opens across the Galaxy, it manages to take them by surprise.

This time is no different, only Kylo is so engrossed in the article displayed on his datapad that he doesn’t realize Rey is there until she sighs—loudly and pointedly—from underneath the thin blanket that covers the steel framed bed on her side of the bond.

Kylo jumps at the sound and fumbles with the buttons on the display, dropping the datapad to the ground in the process.

Rey turns to glare at him, fully prepared to lecture him—again—on the pattern of their planets’ shifting sleep cycles, but she stops short when she catches sight of his fumbling hands and burning cheeks.

It’s a lovely shade of red, really, not unlike the spitting crimson of his saber, and it’s slowly creeping from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears, which just barely stick out from under his new Supreme Leader haircut.

Rey moves to a sitting position and narrows her eyes.  

“What were you doing?”

She swears he goes a shade redder as he finally manages to snatch the datapad from the floor and power the screen off.

“Nothing,” he replies coolly, a failed attempt at nonchalance.  “What—what are you doing?”

- Continue reading below the cut or on Ao3 -

“Sleeping,” Rey answers dryly.  “Or trying to at least.  You see, different planets have different light cycles.  Mine is approximately—”

“Four hours and thirty-six minutes ahead of mine,” he cuts in.  “Yes, you’ve told me.”

“And yet here you are, clattering around like a luggabeast.”

“I wasn’t clattering, I was…” He trails off, eyes roaming to the ceiling and then to the floor.

“You were…” Rey prompts.

He pauses, mouth opening, then closing once before opening again.  

“Reading,” he finally says, a bit faintly.

“Reading.”  

“Yes, reading.”

And the flush is back in full force.  Only this time, it spreads down his neck to the sliver of chest Rey can see just above the collar of his night shirt—black as space, as if he would dare wear any other color.

Rey’s gaze moves between that flush and the datapad clutched tight in his hands.  He seems downright uncomfortable, fidgety even.  Something she’s never seen him be before.  Intense?  Yes. Shirtless and unabashed?  Also yes.  But embarrassed?  That one is new.

“Let’s hear it then,” she says, amused—and perhaps a little intrigued—by the idea of a flustered Kylo Ren. “It’s the least you could do, now that I’m awake.”

“No,” he blanches. “It’s, uh, it’s just damage reports. From Hux.  Very dry, lots of numbers.  Bore you to death.”

“Or to sleep?” Rey offers, an impish grin rising on her lips.

Ben’s grip tightens around the datapad and he runs a nervous hand through his hair, though his lips remain firmly shut.  

“You’re hiding something,” she says, placing one bare foot on the floor.  “What is it?”

“Nothing.  It’s—just reports, like I said.  Classified information.”

Her other foot comes to rest next to the other one, freeing her legs from the blanket.

“Liar.”

She stands.

“Really, Rey, I’d rather not do this,” he implores as he takes a step back from her.

“And I rather would,” she replies a second before she pounces, arms raised and hands outstretched.

She’s faster and lighter and she has the element of surprise, but still he manages to wrench the datapad from her grip half a breath after her fingers close around it.

He lifts it in the air, too far above her head for her to reach, so she ducks down instead, swiping one leg across the back of both his knees so that he falls to the ground in a heap.  Rey snatches the datapad and darts to the other side of the room before he has a chance to move.

“Rey,” he warns with all the menace of a porg’s call as he slowly gets to his feet.

But she’s already powering up the screen, heart beating fast and a triumphant smile on her face.

She’s really quite pleased with herself if she’s being honest, but the smug satisfaction quickly dies as she reads the words written across the top of the page:

LOVE ON THE BATTLEFIELD: Are Kylo Ren and Rey of Jakku MORE than Enemies?  A Star-Crossed Story For the Ages.

“What is this?” she manages to croak.

Ben sighs as he runs another hand through his hair.  

“It’s an article.”

Rey’s eyes flit briefly to his.

“About you.  And about me.  About—about us?”  

Now it’s her turn to flush. She can practically feel the splotchy redness rising on her face.

“It’s just gossip, silly rumors.  You shouldn’t read it—”

“Oh, I’m reading it,” she exclaims.  “If people are writing things about me, about us, then I should know what they’re saying.”

He sighs again, a dramatic thing that makes his shoulders sag.  

“Fine,” he relents, crossing his arms.  “I obviously can’t stop you.  Be my guest.”

Rey resists the urge to roll her eyes before turning her gaze once more to the glowing datapad in her hands.  And then she starts to read:

“The Galaxy’s citizens have watched with interest as the First Order has grown from a small political faction to an all-powerful war machine determined to unite the planets in our system under the rule of a singular leader, of the supreme variety—”

“Do you really need to read it out loud?” Ben interjects.

Rey fixes him with a stare.  “I clearly interrupted you, I thought you might like to hear how it ends.”

Ben tips his head to the ceiling, shaking it slightly before gesturing for her to continue.

“While the regime has so far managed to secure control of most planets in the Mid Rim—only because we weren’t prepared for an attack of that size—"

“—It’s not my fault you’re using outdated tech and half-gutted speeders—”

“—Actually, it is!  Or have you forgotten the fact that you destroyed our base?”

“That was Snoke’s call, not mi—"

“—As if you wouldn’t have done the same—"

“—and we’ve so far managed to avoid direct contact with your new base if you haven’t noticed--"

“—far be it from me to question the Supreme Leader’s military strategy—"

“—I don’t give a kriff about strategy, I’m trying to keep you alive!”

Rey’s next words die on her lips as Ben's seem to echo off the walls of his chambers and across the bond.  She licks her lips, suddenly unsure what to say, but Ben takes a single solid breath, ribs expanding and constricting under his shirt as he gestures weakly to the datapad.

“Just—keep reading.”

Rey clears her throat and begins a bit shakily:

“It hasn’t been the smoothest of flying for newly minted Supreme Leader Kylo Ren.  His opposition comes in the form of a small, but mighty group of individuals known as the Resistance—headed up by none other than the Supreme Leader’s mother herself, General Leia Organa.  She’s joined by fresh faced Rey of Jakku, otherwise known as the Last Jedi.

Kylo and Rey have come to blows no less than three times, with the former scavenger directly contributing to the First Order’s defeat on Starkiller Base.  There’s no denying that sparks seem to be flying between the rivals—and not only from their lightsabers.”  Rey looks up from the datapad.  “What does that mean?  ‘Sparks seem to be flying’?”

Ben only shakes his head.  “Just read.”

“Though there have been rumors of a familial connection between the two—”  Rey scoffs. “What, like we’re sisters?”

Ben’s lips spread into a smile—an actual smile with dimples and crinkles around the eyes that Rey tries very hard not to notice.  

“Brother and sister,” he corrects.  “But yes, something like that.  Just keep going.”

“—But those closest to the Supreme Leader say otherwise. ��He’s totally gaga for the sand rat,’ says one unnamed source.  ‘It’s embarrassing, really, not to mention traitorous given her allegiance to the very group of terrorists the First Order is working to eradicate.’”

“Terrorists?” Rey scoffs, choosing to ignore the ‘gaga’ comment. “The Resistance is trying to restore order, not dismantle it.”

“As is the First Order,” Ben shoots back.

“Yes, by brute force and with no regard for personal liberties or the sovereignty of already established nations.”

Ben only sighs.  They’ve had this conversation before after all.  More times than Rey can count.  

“Okay, okay.  Less talking, more reading.  Got it.”

She scrolls further down on the page before continuing, “Another source from the Jedi’s camp disclosed, on the condition of anonymity, that Rey refuses to discuss the series of events which led to her presence on board the Supremacy (a Mega-class Star Dreadnought) where former Supreme Leader Snoke met his untimely end.  ‘She comes back to the Resistance—new outfit, hair down, wearing mascara and tries to tell us nothing happened between her and emo space boy.  Don’t let the good looks fool you, pal, this brain’s firing on all cylinders and I’m telling you something is up.’”

“I was not wearing mascara,” Rey retorts weakly, making a mental note to murder Poe in the morning.  

And is she imagining it or has Ben somehow gotten closer? She could have sworn he was standing on the other side of the room when she started reading.  Now he’s close enough for her to count the beauty marks on his face—not that she would.  But the point is she could, if for some reason that was something she decided to do.

Ben just stares down at her and his eyes are bright even though the room is dark and his tongue slips out to wet his bottom lip before he speaks.

“Your hair was different,” he says, causing Rey to flush again at the memory.

“It came down when I fell in that creepy darkside hole,” she counters, back straight and hands clenched into fists by her side.

He steps a little closer and Rey catches his scent.  Is it possible for someone to smell like the sun when they’re stuck in the endless expanse of space?  Rey isn’t sure, but she breathes it in again anyway.

“It looked nice that way.”

Rey swallows.  “It—it did?”

“Yes,” he breathes and Rey swears she feels it ghost along her face.  “I like it this way too, though,” he continues, raising a hand to tuck a stray lock back behind her ear.

It’s the first time they’ve touched in months.  Since the Supremacy, since her hand gripped around his thigh in the midst of battle.  It’s barely anything, just a stroke of fingers against her temple, but it lights her nerves on fire and she shivers even though she isn’t cold.

“Are you going to keep reading?”

“What?” Rey asks, then remembering the datapad still gripped in her hand.  The article—what did it say?  Something about a spark?  

“Right,” she clears her throat.  “Yes, it seems something is up indeed.  The only question is, will the maybe-star crossed lovers find some middle ground to stand (nay, lay) on?  Or will this galactic will they/won’t they end in tragedy?  It appears the Galaxy will just have to wait and see.”

Silence falls between them as Rey reaches the end of the article.  Loud silence in which she’s sure she can hear her own heart beating much too fast. Or is it Ben’s?

“Well,” she says after a moment.  “That was ridiculous, wasn’t it?”

Ben doesn’t answer.  He just keeps staring down at her with an impossible look on his face and Rey has to try very hard not to step back.  Or maybe she has to try not to step forward, she isn’t quite sure.

“Just gossip,” she continues, a bit hysterically.  “Like you said.  Silly rumors.”

Ben steps closer, closing what little space was left between them.  She has to crane her neck to see into his eyes and is his skin always so warm?  His hand was—that night on Ahch-To—but she can feel it emanating from his chest now.  A delicious heat that jumps from his skin to hers and before she can stop herself, she shivers again.  

Rey’s breath feels stuck in her throat as Ben tilts his head to the side, the way he once did when he still wore a mask.

“And what if it isn’t?” he asks.  “Just rumors, that is.”

“It--,” she tries, stopping to force air into her lungs.  “It would be a very bad idea.”

Ben’s lips quirk around the edges.  

“The worst.”

“We’d probably end up killing each other, blowing up the other’s ship or something.”

“It does seem likely.”

“But—”

“—But?”

And he is very close now.  Too close.  Closer maybe than she’s ever been to another person.  She waits for her instincts to kick in—the ones that tell her to fight or run or both, but they lay dormant, perfectly at ease in whatever part of her brain they live in.  

So when he dips his head to brush his lips against hers, she doesn’t move away.  She leans in to bring him that much closer.

His lips are warm against hers and even if they don’t quite know what they’re doing, they manage to find a rhythm anyway.  A push and pull—sweet and frantic, wet and warm.  Perfect.

The bond pulses, the Force hums around them, and somewhere on the floor, beneath a growing pile of clothes, the light from a datapad flickers and goes out.

[black-strike-otp]

part 43

Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

“What do you mean I can’t go with them?” Novastrike whined, offering her most pitifully pouty pucker.

Guard stared down at her with a gentle smile. No matter how round and pleading those youthful gullible optics were as they stared at him, he wouldn’t budge. He offered his own twinkling gaze in return; soft and easy-going as he was with a touch of warm that came along with his smile.

“We’re going to need bots good at classifying and organizing equipment brought on board to stay here, Novastrike,” he reminded her. “That’s just as important as a duty.”

“Yeah,” a mech agreed, giving her a snooty look. “Besides runt, you can’t exactly carry much. I mean, look at these guns.”

With dramatic flair, the mech flexed his arms over his helm, followed by an unimpressive flex downward as he hunched over.

“I’ll shot you some guns,” Nova threatened.

Chuckling softly, Guard gave a soft wave of his servo. “Show some restraint Nova; and as for you Raid, don’t hassle the femme. I could just as easily swap you for another to head off into the wreckage left behind.”

The mech instantly sobered and bowed his helm. “Of course, commander. My apologies, Novastrike.”

“Can I at least punch him?”

“No, Novastrike. Be polite.”

“Uggghh, finnneee.”

Turning her helm back, Novastrike looked to where Blackout stood near the open hatch. He was speaking with the majority of the group he was taking out with him. From the expressive motion of his servos, the mannerisms he provided, and the individual remarks he gave as he spoke to each mech in the optics, he was enjoying leading the group.

It didn’t seem he was the only one happy. The mechs and femmes hung on his every word. It gave Nova reason to smile. When they’d first rescued him on the ship, little to no one thought he’d make it. Most thought he was already dead despite what the medic stated. Once he’d come around, everyone began to fear he was a traitor that was going to lure them into a Decepticon trap.

Now everyone looked to him with so much reverence. They didn’t speak of the horrible acts he committed but chose to focus on fragments and tales. Maybe they couldn’t fully accept who he’d once been like she could; or like she thought Guard could, but they respected him deeply.

There were few on the ship with as much well-rounded knowledge as Blackout on board the ship. He’d went out of his way to help them on numerous occasions. Of course they’d adore him.

“I’m going to go speak with Blackout about a few things,” Guard commented. “Give him an idea of some non-essentials he can have everyone search for in all this scrap. Mind your manners, Novastrike.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed politely.

The old mech nodded down at her with a treasured smile. His servo reached out, pulling at the mech’s armor that had just been antagonizing her to get him over to the exploration team where he should be.

Placing her servos in front of herself, Nova smiled in her suitor’s direction. She couldn’t be more happy to see how far he’d come being here, too. From the mech she’d encountered on Cybertron now, she could tell some of his hard edges were a bit smoother. He was a bit more willing to communicate, to listen; more open to what was around him.

After the life he may have had prior, he deserved that kind of second-chance. And she was happy to be part of that fresh start in his life, no matter where it took her next.

~

Absently jotting down notes onto her datapad, Novastrike stepped around the pallets and randomly tossed around products the team had thus far brought over. They were already out scavenging through the junk once more but had already managed an impressive haul of energon and medical equipment. Thank Primus for those lessons she’d had with the medic, at least she could identify most of what they discovered.

The medic too had been asked to come down and evaluate the collection and see if anything was beyond saving for her own med-bay. It made it a bit less lonely work having her around, since the only other individuals in the room working weren’t bots Nova felt especially inclined to.

“Oh, look at this!” the large femme stated, brimming with joy as she pulled out a stack of viles. “From the look of these, I’d say they’re sedatives. Let me check their ID code and- yep! Now that’ll come in handy.”

“Not still planning on using those on Blackout, are you?” Novastrike teased.

The medic turned a crafty optic upon Nova. “No, unless you’d like me to?”

Unsure of exactly what the femme was trying to incline to, Nova offered a half-smile. “I’d rather not.”

“Judging by the coloration, I’d say these are a bit old, so I’m going to need to run some tests to see how powerful they still are,” she commented softly. “Nighthawk would have hardly let something go so far pass its expiration date. I’m sure they’re still effective though...”

Twitching her audios, Nova glanced back at the medic. In the most off-handed way she could, she asked quietly, “What’s this about your mentor? Why do you bring him up so much?”

Giving a slight snicker, the femme waved her servo. “Oh, if only you’d known him. Nighthawk was a good looking mech if I do say so myself; a bit on the old side, but I don’t think he’s as old as our dear Guard.”

“He’s a bit of a stiff grump at first but once he warms up to you, he’s absolutely charming. You just have to make sure not to get distracted when around him or the next thing you know you’ll mess something up and he’ll be on you like a scraplet.”

“Oh, dear,” Nova quietly murmured with surprise. She tried comparing this explanation to the brief flashback in the back of her helm meeting the mech. Nothing about the black and red decal seeker said cranky too her. He’d seemed absolutely calm, assertive, sure of his work and very sympathetic.

“It wasn’t bad,” she admitted. “I needed the knee in my aft to keep it together. Honestly if it wasn’t for his tough methods, I wouldn’t have gotten where I was. I thought about giving up entirely a few times, but Nighthawk was determined. Said he saw potential in me. For the best I guess; I love my career, even if it’s just babying a bunch of grouchy rogue bots.”

Nova flashed a smile towards the femme, catching her winking just in time. A soft giggle escaped the little femme in response.

“Grouchy rogue bots, huh?”

“Hey, as my temporary assistant, you’ve seen ‘em.”

“You couldn’t possibly be inferring to Blackout, could you?”

“Not in the least,” the femme hummed playfully. “Not in the least.”

~

Nova was a bit disappointed when Blackout decided to join a refreshed second crew to continue reclaiming things from the debris field instead of recharging that evening. He seemed nervous when she’d brought it up, much to her concern. He didn’t seem concerned up until now with her recharging in the same room with him, or on him, what was the big deal now?

Since he didn’t seem to have the time to talk about it and Guard approved him to continue working, she had no one to recharge with that evening. It made her restless. Sure, she could go sleep alone or back in one of the designated rooms with part of the rogue gang, but she didn’t particularly want to.

Call her needy and pathetic, but she’d rather be snuggled up against her-

Novastrike’s audio receptors burned, glowing softly. Her companion.

Primus just call him boyfriend already.

Or lover.

Okay- not lover- not yet- she thought as the strength of her glowing ears seemed to brighten.

Roaming the halls, Novastrike decided to slide in and make a stop in the med-bay.

Inside, the medic was placing some of her approved and cataloged items away throughout the room in neat order. She turned as the doors opened, half-surprised. It looked like she was expecting an unexpected patient.

Then she laid her optics upon Nova’s tiny form.

“Oh, hello dear one. Sorry I was a bit caught up in what I was doing. What brings you to the med-bay?”

“Just wanted to see if you needed any help,” Nova offered.

“No thanks, dear, I’m nearly finished,” the femme admitted with an apologetic smile. “I’ll be going to recharge after I finish all this up and getting back to it once I wake. By the way, have you seen Guard wandering around anywhere? He’s supposed to come in soon...”

That wasn’t odd. Guard could push anyone to do anything but himself. If someone tried convincing him to see a medic, or get a cube of energon, or even just sit for a moment, he refused. Always a stubborn aft; never taking directions as well as he could deliver them.

“No, I haven’t. Why, do you want me to go look for him?”

“No it’s fine, but if you see him, let him know he’s still welcome to come by.”

Slightly confused by the phrasing, Nova gave a bob of her helm. “Yes ma’am. Ping me if you change your mind and need anything.”

“Will do, assistant!”

Humming to herself, Novastrike moved out of the room and down the hall once again. Trailing past bots here and there, she’d offer a polite word of greeting. As she walked by one of the lengthy spans of glass that looked outside, she’d stare out at all the metal floating. Lonesomely hovering in space without reason. No planet in sight, no star close by. It was simply a darkness with shadows and shapes registering in her vision moving aimlessly around.

Not just junk, but products of war. And even after it was all said and done, even when the war was over, this would be what was left. Areas out in space never recovered. Dead and dying planets sucked of their resources and decimated by battle. Races lost and others forever tarnished by what they’d seen. Debris just floating. Bodies left behind; bots left behind.

Novastrike shuddered violently all over from the tip of her ears to her tail and pedes. It made her tanks seize up to think about it, and left a bad taste in her mouth.

Then she was filled with dread. The dead never to be recovered. The dead mech at her own servos.

She tore her optics away from the crime scene and lowered her audios, venting heavily.

Walking down the empty corridor, Novastrike peered down at the ground. Counting her steps, she tried placing her attention on the present actions rather than the past.

One. Two. Three.

Now she was in a relationship with Blackout. She was still alive, still helping in what she believed was right. Bots were fixed up by her own servos when the medic called upon her for help here and there.

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

They were finally going to replenish their energon and have surplus once again. The rations would be upgraded again for a short time and everyone would be filling a little extra full for a while. Moods would certainly be improved and brightened.

Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four.

The defensive weapons worked, and it was all thanks to her teamwork with Blackout. Sure she didn’t condone violence if she could help it, but they didn’t even need to so long as the shock wave generator continued working.

Sixty-eight. Sixty-nine. Seventy.

Pedes scrapped against the floor ahead. Novastrike looked up, tilting her audios slightly. They shifted by minuscule amounts, pinpointing the position of the sluggish, off-key tempo.

Following the distressing noise a while longer, Nova came upon a door. She looked up at it a moment and then up and down the hall.

But, this was Neutroboost’s door?

Hesitating a moment, Novastrike stepped closer. She lifted a servo as if to knock and was surprised when it opened of its own accord. Clearly the mech hadn’t bothered to lock it the last time he’d stepped in.

At first glance, nobody was inside.

“Commander Neutroboost?” Novastrike spoke up, slowly walking inside. “Sir?”

The lights were off. A faint glow was coming off of the command console set up in his room. As Nova walked further inside, the door shut behind her and she jumped slightly.

Inhaling as the air moved through the room, Nova nearly gagged on the thick fog of smells that invaded her senses. She immediately ceased her ventilation system and blinked rapidly at the tears that invaded her optics.

“Neutroboost?” she repeated in a slightly more raspy voice, moving further in the room.

Her senses felt on edge. Picking up signs of furniture recently sifted around, she could see a florescent glow on the floor.

She moved closer to it.

The pungent odor grew stronger as she breathed in a small air to cool her core. Nova coughed.

Energon.

What was energon doing on the floor?

Nova stepped wide of the energon and peeked around the large-framed case meant to contain memorable, books, and knick-knacks.

Neutroboost was sitting on the floor, his helm hanging limp.

A sharp, strangled gasp escaped Nova. Primus, he was dead.

“Neutro-Neutroboost?” she sputtered.

With a groan, the mech’s helm moved, revealing the shining radiant liquid to be not just on his chassis and neck, but on his chin and from his mouth.

Glancing him up and down, Novastrike spoke softly as she moved closer. She was deeply alarmed by the amount of energon on him and on the floor, but clearly he assumption was incorrect.

“Commander, sir?” she whispered softly. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

He cycled air out and in. The terrible smell exuded from him, Nova realized as she choked to hold back purging.

“Are you sick?”

“Sick?” the mech garbled. “Sick? Nooo...m- m’not sick. Wait, what’r you doin’ in my room?”

The small femme’s ears stood straight up. “Sir, you’re... you’re overcharged, aren’t you?”

Panic settled into Neutroboost’s optics. He suddenly looked down at her, startled.

“Oh- no! No, no I’m... I’m fine. I just had a... a little accident...”

“Sir, pardon me but, you’re drunk.”

“Oi, guess I am.”

Novastrike frowned deeply. Her ears began to slowly fall back against her helm, and she drew her tail closer against her leg. She looked down at the floor a moment, and then up to the confused and unfocused optics of the mech.

“Sir,” she spoke softly. “Have you been stealing energon?”

Guilt flashed across Neutroboost’s faceplate. He shamefully nodded his helm.

“Yes’m,” he slurred. “Needed it to make high-grade.”

“Sir, that’s against-”

“I know what it’s against!” he suddenly roared, slamming a fist down.

It came so close to Novastrike that she jumped back reflexively to avoid being smashed.

“Ya don’t understand. Spoiled and loved. Just look at ya; cuddly face and spitefully adorable frame. No one can deny a wee thing like ya,” he grumbled. “Get what ya want easy, don’t ya?”

“Commander, I don’t-”

“Husssh,” he growled. “Hush ya now. All ya do is blink them optics and what do they all do? Drink up ya stupid words. I’ll give ya this, ya likable too boot. Got even that big fragger trippin over his pedes to please ya. Me? Bots like me ain’t but half a credit or less.”

Novastrike drew her optic ridges together. She didn’t have a clue what he was rambling about, but it sure had a way of making her feel like his state was somehow her fault.

“Neutroboost, sir, maybe I should hail the medic-”

With suddenly blinding optics, the mech turned fully to her. He placed his servos to the floor, physically begging as he slurred, “Aye- I’m sorry there I didn’t mean it, Novastrike. Can- can ya do me a favor? Listen I need this high-grade. It keeps me sane. It relaxes me. Ya wouldn’t take away a mech’s only joy would ya?”

Nova took a step back nervously. “Sir-”

“Please!”

“Sir-”

“I’m begging ya!”

Neutroboost sank lower to the ground as she moved further back. One of his servos caught her arm and she went entirely rigid with fear.

She swallowed a lump of bile in her throat. Giving a tug on her arm, she tried freeing herself of Neutroboost’s grasp. Frankly he wasn’t gripping her too firmly, but it was unnerving nevertheless.

“Let go of me,” she requested quietly. Lord Primus, why did she have to go prying.

Neutroboost went to kiss her servo like a petty servant. She cringed from the contact, more of a slobbery dog than a sophisticated action. Energon and saliva dripped off her servo and arm.

“Can ya just do me this one little favor?” he urged. “Please.”

Novastrike felt her spark twist in sympathy. Every rational part of her said no, but the part of her being held, terrified of what he’d do if she refused and feeling pity on this damaged mech, wanted to please. Or at the least, save herself.

“Yes, okay,” Nova replied stiffly. “I can keep your secret.”

“Thank ya,” the mech breathed with relief.

He went to kiss Novastrike’s servo again, much to her revulsion.

“Sir, can I be excused?” she implored, trying to pull her arm away from the mech. She’d pay weeks of her ration to be free of this mech’s grip.

“O’ course, I ain’t stoppin ya.”

“Sir, my arm.”

“Aye, yes, m’sorry.”

Neutroboost went to release her slowly. There was a goofy smile on his face, but a disturbing light in his optics that made Nova’s protoform crawl.

“Our little secret?” he questioned, although his voice sounded more of a reminder.

“Uh, yes, commander, of course.”

“Good,” he mumbled, slowly nodding his helm. “Good, good, very good, thank you. I’m gonna t’a go back to my recharge now.”

“Of course, sir,” Novastrike coolly answered as she backed away. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Ah a good little helpful femme you are Nova,” he gushed.

She wasn’t sure which was worse, the smell or the invoking light of his optics.

Walking stiffly, Novastrike headed for the door. She gave a flick of her arm, trying to get as much energon off of her as she could before she stepped out.

Pressing her sticky and still slightly goo-covered arm against her chassis, Novastrike wrapped her other arm over top of it and placed her helm down. She hurried in the direction of the shocker racks, her thoughts racing.

“Hey, Novastrike, where you off to in such a rush?” a mech called out as she scurried by him. “You look like you’ve seen a spider-bot,” he joked.

No, she’d seen far worse than a spider-bot. But it had the same trick; ensnaring her in a tangle of lies that she had no way of knowing how she could possibly escape the web before she’d be devoured by her innocent mistake.