#who commits war crimes

[kivaember]

woe, ftm walter be upon ye (yes this is actually canon to apv btw)

Somedays, Carla had to laugh at how far she'd fallen.

Well-respected Institute scientist, lauded for her efforts in the C-weapon project and incorporating Coral into AI neural networks... reduced to a penniless scrapper in the underbelly of one of Ganymede's colonies, barely making ends meet because of the UEG's broken form of capitalism.

It was intentional to an extent, though. If it had just been her, riding the massive wave of Rubiconian refugees after the Fires had slagged their planet to smouldering ash, she would've thrust her hand up high and declared her credentials at the immigration office. The UEG had hoovered up every single scientist or technician it could get its greedy little paws on in the aftermath, and from what Carla had seen they were living it large right now. A luxurious little corporate cage as they regurgitated all of Rubicon's little technological miracles for the UEG to warp and manipulate.

She hoped they choked on their feed, honestly, but she was self-aware enough to know that would've been her too, if she'd been alone. But she wasn't.

"Hey, Walter! It's time to close up shop!"

Her voice rang across their large, open garage, cluttered with broken down machinery and mechs alike, a literal maze of trip hazards and health violations that would've gotten her shutdown if this was on the surface. But it wasn't. No one gave a shit what anyone did down here in the slums, so long as their little worker bees kept on working, kept on producing... and didn't, gasp, form unions.

Carla was a one-man show, though- okay, technically three, if you counted Walter and Chatty, but she was wisely keeping away from that business. All power to the people and all that, fuck the bourgeois, eat the rich, etc, etc, but Carla had a purpose she was gunning for, and social liberation didn't come under that. So, for now, it was just her and Walter, working in a deathtrap of a scrapper garage, with Chatty sitting quietly in the background pretending to be dumb security system rather than a fully fledged AI (that can and has ran circles around the security AIs on Ganymede - lots of dirty laundry in many people's drawers on this moon).

A groaning, screeching rattle echoed through the garage, signifying the shutter doors being closed. Carla pushed herself up from where she'd been squatting over a dismembered construction mech arm, trying to extract the intact gyroscopes inside. These things sold pretty sell second hand... or third... or fourth... well, you got the idea.

"Oof, all this bending over is ruining my back..." she grumbled, pressing her oil-stained hands against her lower back and applying pressure, feeling how tight and knotted it was. "I feel old as shit."

"You are old as shit."

Carla scoffed and turned to see Walter lurking in the shadows like the anti-social freak that he was. His brown hair was a little flyaway than usual, darkened from where he'd accidentally rubbed oil into it from his hands, and his mechanic jumpsuit was partially unzipped, his pale skin faintly flushed from exertion and damp with sweat.

He was a lot more modest about the unzipping, though. Carla had whacked hers down all the way to the midriff, because this shitty garage got hot no matter how much she tried finangling some kind of air conditioning down here. The air was too full of smog and other pollutants that trapped heat and discouraged the human way of cooling down via sweat evaporation. It was a torturous existence... and made Carla and Walter walk around like they were auditioning for some kind of "Mechanics Gone Wild!" calendar.

"Hey, you shouldn't be backtalking your boss like that!" Carla mock-scolded, planting her hands on her hips. "What if I decided to dock your pay?"

"Well, you'd have to pay me first," Walter said flatly, pinching the front of his jumpsuit and flapping it slightly to cool himself down. "I'm working here for free, remember?"

"Oh yeah. That's true," Carla hummed, cupping her jaw thoughtfully. "Well! Carry on, then! Can't control you if I'm not in charge of your pay, haha!"

Walter rolled his eyes, forever unimpressed with her cavalier attitude and jokes, despite her best attempts. He was too much like his father sometimes, though Carla knew better than to say that. Walter had more daddy issues than an entire soap opera cast combined, and the one time she'd made a comment about how Walter was looking more like his father now that he was a little older and.... brrrrr! The dark side of the moon had been tropical in comparison!

this kid, she thought exasperatedly, he needs to loosen up...

"Got any plans tonight?" she asked as they made their way to the rear of the garage, where they both lived out of. It wasn't anything impressive compared to their immaculate lodgings on the Xylem in another lifetime, but compared to the rest of the gutter rats around here, they were living it up large. Two bedrooms for privacy and their own kitchen and bathroom with functioning plumbing? They were like royalty! Royal rats, the pair of them, hah.

"None," Walter replied. "Why, do you need me for something?"

"Yeah, as a chaperone," Carla teased, nudging him with her elbow. "We should hit up the bars. You're an adult now, you should be living it large before we've gotta focus on the job."

Walter's expression said he'd rather belly crawl over barbed wire.

"I'd rather belly crawl over barbed wire," he said.

"Aw, c'mon! Stop being a Debbie Downer." Carla nudged him with her elbow, and weaved out of the way when he tried to nudge her back. "You're really going to leave me hanging? Leave your old as shit guardian to wander the bars alone... defenceless... helpless against any ne'er-do-wells-"

Walter snorted. "You're anything but helpless. If anything I should be protecting the local population from you, cougar."

"Cougar! Well, you're right. I do like my men young and cute," Carla teased with a wink, just to see his reaction. Which was....!!! Nothing. Guy didn't even flinch.

"Right. So, I'd just cramp your cougar style," Walter said simply. "Being a cute young man and all. They'd all think you're taken... or asking for a threesome. I wouldn't want to ruin your night like that."

"Hm." Carla was reluctantly amused. "You've gotten very sassy, Walter."

"That's your fault."

Yup, and she was proud of it. Walter had been such a humourless little thing as a child - through no fault of his own, admittedly. Growing up in the Xylem had been a lonely, neglectful existence, and being uprooted from that to flee to a colony that viewed him as nothing but an unwanted mouth to feed just compounded whatever fucked up issues that childhood of neglect had lain the foundations for. It made sense that whatever sense of humour Carla tried to impart in him turned all warped and twisted and a little mean.

But! Humour was humour! When things got bad, all you had to do was laugh! Walter wasn't the laughing type, but she'd take this! Better than nothing!

"Well, you're coming out anyway," she said. "No ifs or buts! You've just been rotting away in your room, brooding about pointless crap. Just come out and have a few drinks. Unwind a little."

"No."

"I'll have Chatty recite all the poetry I wrote since we left-"

"Okay, just a few drinks," Walter immediately u-turned.

Hah. Gottem.

-

If growing up with Carla taught Walter one thing, it was learning how to pick his battles.

He wasn't a drinker, and the bars down in the slums were as seedy as you'd expected: the alcohol was moonshine or contrabrand, drugs were commonly traded in the background, and there was always a risk of the Ganymede Guards crashing the party to arrest a few people for encouraging socialist gatherings. Walter just didn't see the point in getting involved in that crap, but Carla always was seduced by dangerous or ill-advised things.

She also had a short attention span. As they stood at the bar, knocking back the probably toxic swill being sold, Carla eventually got pulled away by some people she knew in the scrapping business, her obnoxiously loud laughter audible even over the ambient chatter.

Walter took that as his cue to finish his drink and leave.

Broken glass crunched under his boots as he stepped out into the street, burying his hands into the pockets of his mechanic jumpsuit. The air was smoggy and thick with a wet, unpleasant smell, making him feel like he was in a rancid sauna, and he unzipped his jumpsuit that little bit more, fanning himself.

He couldn't wait to leave this place.

From the moment he had stepped foot on this damned moon, he had despised every inch of it. The Xylem had been cold and loveless, yes, but the air hadn't stank of exhaust, it wasn't constantly hot and humid, with changing seasons and weather, he could see the sky and watch the birds fly, his hands would only have the callouses from holding a pen, rather than being rough and worn like leather from constant handling of scrapping tools and sticky oil. Walter's life would be very different, if his father hadn't ruined everything.

He stopped in front of the door to his and Carla's living quarters in the garage, digging out the key from his pocket and slotting it in. When he stepped inside, he was greeted with Chatty saying: "Welcome back, kid. Is the Chief still out?"

"Yeah." Walter kicked the door shut behind him. "Talking shop with some people."

"Understood."

And that was that. Despite the name Chatty was pretty quiet, which was why he and Walter got along well. He headed up the narrow staircase to his room, which was sandwiched between Carla's room and the bathroom, and just wide enough to slot a single-man bed in there with enough room for him to actually get in and out of it.

Walter felt grimy as hell, so he shed his boots and jumpsuit entirely, tossing the soiled clothing onto the floor before walking, completely naked, to the bathroom, yanking the cord to turn the light on. As he shut the door behind him, he looked at the cracked mirror Carla had broken when bolting onto the wall. She'd laughed that her luck was already so bad that this should cancel it out.

His reflection was uncomfortably familiar.

As a child, he'd been told often that he looked a lot like his mother. Standard biases, of course: for a considerable chunk of his childhood, he'd stayed as his assigned sex, a quiet little daughter that was easily forgotten about by most people. The moment he'd stepped out of that easily assigned box, became a son hungry for attention instead of the quiet daughter, people immediately switched to well, he's looking a lot like his father nowadays, isn't he?

Truth was, Walter had looked like both of them. He had his mother's bone structure, but his father's eyes, and his hair was a combination of them both: slightly wavy where his mother's was curly and his father's completely straight. He hadn't really put much stock into his appearance back then, anyways. He'd been ten. He just wanted people to call him Walter. What did it matter who he looked more like at the time?

Now, though, he looked in the mirror and saw his father.

What lingering remnants of his mother were easily overlooked by the sharp line of his jaw and the shape of his eyes, his hair cropped short enough that it was hard to see the slight waviness. He lowered his gaze, to his body which was well-toned with muscle from years of hauling heavy machinery and scrap, his shoulders broad and his trunk solid enough that it partially hid the slight curve of his hips. Didn't do anything to hide his breasts, but he already had a plan for those, if this Furlong Dynamics pilot recruitment programme worked out.

It was strange, though. The more he carved away the parts that were like his mother, the more his father shone through, and the more complicated Walter felt about the whole thing. He hated his father, despised him from the very depths of his soul, regretted every day his failed attempt to kill him before everything went completely pear-shaped... and now he was even tainting this, having Walter's stomach clench and his face tighten at his reflection, at the ghost of his father hidden in there.

He wasn't the same as him, though... he was going to put to rights what Dr Kohler had done wrong. He'd make it so he could look himself at the mirror without wanting to flinch... either because he'd succeed in destroying the Coral for good, or because he'd die in the process. Either or.

"Kid. You've been staring at the mirror for five minutes."

"I'm fine," Walter said, anticipating Chatty's follow up question. He turned away and turned on the shower, watching as the metallic smelling water spluttered out of the showerhead sluggishly. "Just thinking."

"Hm."

Chatty left it there, and Walter neatly compartmentalised his complicated feelings and stuffed them under the figurative bed. It was a pointless thing to brood about, didn't contribute at all towards his mission. Being Walter was a selfish self-indulgence anyways, the one thing he allowed himself, despite the looming pressure of the trials to come.

What did it matter who he looked liked? That legacy was going to be buried, one way or another.

[daenerysies]

99.999% of arguments used against rhaenyra are the definition of bullshit btw

why should i give a shit about the random man DAEMON killed to use as laenor’s body double when alicent was complicit in the murders of named characters like lyonel and harwin? or the brothel house that she had larys burn down (that most likely had innocent women and children inside)? or when criston murdered joffrey (over him trying to broker a deal with him)? or when aegon sexually harassed serving girls as a teen and we see the aftermath of him raping dyana as an adult? or when aemond murdered luke over a debt that he claimed had already been paid AND singlehandedly started a war that killed thousands?

idgaf about the nameless extra that only had 30 secs of screen time get over yourself

[historicity-was-already-taken]

howlerofthemoon2, in regard to this post:

Genuine question cause I've been seeing posts of this nature on my dash. Why is this the focus? When we have a clear perpetrator and clear victims, why do we need to focus on how to heal the perpetrators (Zionist Israelis) as they are still harming people (Palestinians) and not actively removing the club from their hand

This is a history blog written by an American Jewish Holocaust historian who is concerned with memory and attitudes within her own community, and this is what I choose to write about in relation to my observations of the discourse surrounding recent events.

You're seeing posts of this nature because people like you are going around leaving comments implying that all Jews are right wing Israelis complicit in murdering babies in Gaza, and it's traumatizing us. Because that is rhetoric which has been violently deployed against us for centuries. You're seeing posts of this nature because people like you are going around policing the conversations Jewish creators choose to have in relation to their lived experiences since Oct 7. We would love not to be having these conversations, but we have to, because of users like you.

I am presently choosing to use my knowledge as a historian to call in parts of my community, and help explain some of our communal responses to things to outsiders. If you would like to see me screaming about how much I h8 Israel and what a Good, Righteous, anti-Zionist Left Wing Jew I am, there are plenty of posts like that. And if you don't like what I write about on my history blog as an American Jewish Holocaust historian, then don't follow me.

Finally, I don't believe that this WAS a genuine question. It's so cartoonishly stepped in hostile, anti-Semitic, fifth-columnist, global JudeoZionist hivemind undertones and assumptions that it's difficult to believe it wasn't intentional. Also your blog only has one post. But, in case you are being genuine, please understand that people just like you are the reason why Jews like me and so many of the Jews who follow this blog feel deeply unsafe participating in non-Jewish pro-Palestinian activist spaces.

[zeb-z]

on a less serious side, bad and foolish having witnesses who are somewhat normal and regular to their usual strange and deranged antics is so hysterical. bad playing the role of kidnapped and felon this time around, letting himself get captured, pretending to be soooo guilty and talking like he’s actually gonna snitch. foolish doing it half for fun, half for show, because he knows cellbit is the killer already - he just needs nails for bad’s coffin because he’s gonna be the scapegoat, and he’s bored. if they were alone maybe they’d trade more intel - they’re on the same page but can’t exactly confirm nor allude to that with an audience, so it just devolves into their usual antics. meanwhile bagi is sweating and convinced bad is definitely about to spill everything she’s told him, falling for bad’s little ‘oh I’m so easily caught and convinced’ act harder than anyone else, trying to avoid bad’s arrest or worse, cellbit’s - while really what’s going on is bad and foolish’s homoerotic batshit insane cop and robber routine, where you’re not sure if someone’s getting arrested or if they’re about to make out. and aypierre is just there

[leikeliscomet]

It's okay to admit Martha was mistreated. It's okay to admit the comments Ten made about her hurt her feelings. It's okay to admit Martha went through traumatic shit. Yeah, the "Martha should get to fuck the Doctor too!" Stans don't really sound like they care about her character like that by making it sound like S3 and RTD's worst and only offence, plus I've already gave them a little whack in previous posts. But this doesn't mean Martha was completely fine either. This is just misogynoir in a different font. Yh she became strong, but this was out of survival and maintaining her wellbeing. She was upset by John and Joan. She cried on the Valiant. She cried at a dying Hath. She's not invincible. Martha's main trait isn't just how well she copes with trauma and mistreatment and that shouldn't be her best or most likeable trait either. Its not sitting right w/ me how "Martha's deserves something" is considered going against her character. In a sci-fi show where anything can and does happen Martha is the exception. I'm not saying she needs a Ten clone, or to look into the Time Vortex or grab her own TARDIS. Deserving more to be compared to your predecessor and prove you're worth being a full time companion... as a full time companion is the bare minimum. She deserves to deserve things.

[lesbianshepard]

tumblr is the best social media platform regarding classics because if you see someone on other sites post about ancient roman stuff you gotta do some digging to see if they're a white supremacist.

but on tumblr if you click the blog and the first post is a painting/sculpture/etc of two roman guys and the comment is like "prev tags: #they should have fucked nasty and avoided the whole war thing bestie the sex being bad is why they started a civil war"

[neon-virus]

I love this little goober

[schizophrenic-klept-hoe-maniac]

One of my coolest lifts to date! I was so proud that day. Haul from last month.

EVERYTHING pictured/in the frame was lifted within 2 hours including the stacks of coloring books.

I am way too lazy to add up the total on this one, but it’s definitely …

Around <$3k~

[thetwelfthcrow]

m'kay i've seen people reblog this one (see below) with different memes under it but let's do it the official tumblr way:

please reblog for ye olde greater sample size (break maxblr containment)

[tbcanary]

the thing I always forget is that the whole “I trust oracle implicitly despite not knowing who they are” arc of dinahbabs was like. a dozen or so issues. bop (1999) ran for so many years and that particular dynamic was such a small sliver of it. but it was also the best thing it ever did for us, so to me, it feels like it should have been 50-70 issues of just that. the blind trust. the faith. the leaping without looking. what do you mean they knew each other almost the whole time.

[wildechildwrites]

Sweet Wine and Rain Checks

Pink Mugs and Painful Expressions Part Two

John Price/Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Smut and the softest Captain Price

No use of Y/N

Summary: You invite John over for dinner and he wants to return the favor

Can be read as a stand alone :)

A/N: I swear this was going to be a slow burn but we all deserve to have Johnathan Price hopelessly head over heels romcom love at first sight in love with us honestly.

AO3 Link: Sweet Wine and Rain Checks

You had invited Price over for dinner, and he was raised better than to arrive empty handed. He came bearing flowers and a bottle of sweet wine, and the smile you graced him with when you opened the door could've put a perfect summer day to shame with the way it warmed him, inside and out. You wrap your arms around his neck, and he returns the hug as best he can with his hands full.

"Thanks for coming over," you say. You're nervous, verging on giddy, your flat much neater than he'd seen it last. Something delicious smelling is simmering on the stove, and there are candles on the kitchen table. 

John sits while you whirl around him, a tornado of productivity, haphazardly plating food and spilling sauce. He thinks you’re lovely like this, nose scrunched and brow furrowed in concentration, like the salad you’re tossing is a bomb you’re trying to disarm. When you finally sit down, he pours you a glass of wine, and you laugh, settling into yourself.

“I’m always paranoid that I'm going to burn something or use sugar instead of salt when I cook for others,” you say. John quirks an eyebrow, putting a forkful of food in his mouth with an exaggerated amount of cautiousness as you giggle, rolling your eyes at him. The food is delicious, and John proves it by eating two servings. 

He starts the dishes without you asking, dodging your attempts to fuss him out of the kitchen. A dishrag thrown over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up showing off sturdy forearms, two hands on his hips as he tells— orders you, really, to get out of the kitchen. You refuse, lingering just out of reach. Warm light bathes you both in a sunset glow. You tell him about your day and ask about his, and when the dishes are done and dry, order restored to your kitchen, you lead him to the couch. 

You put on a movie, something John's seen before but can't quite remember, an old classic that reveals your nostalgic side. He wraps a strong arm around you, an action more confident than he feels. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat pick up when you lean in, warm head against his chest. You smell wonderful, soft and warm. 

Halfway through the movie you’re dozing off, head nodding as you curl deeper into his side. John reaches for the remote and turns the movie down, gently pulling you into his lap so he can lay down with you. Your weight on his chest is comforting, and soon he feels himself following you into unconsciousness.

It’s dark and his back hurts. You’ve shifted, your legs wrapped around his, your head on his chest, and John makes a mental note to never tell you that you drool. He sits up, trying not to jostle you, but you open up your eyes, looking up at him sleepily. 

“What time s’it?” you murmur. John checks his watch. 

“Just past two, love.” He lifts you off his lap, watching you yawn. “I’m goin’ home, you get yourself to bed.”

He stands, and you let him help you to your feet. 

“Do you wanna see me again?” You ask, your voice scratchy from sleep. Your eyes are droopy, staring up at him, fingers still intertwined with his own. John wonders if it’s possible for his chest to get any tighter, and briefly considers the possibility that he’s having a heart attack. 

He swallows the feeling, instead smiling at you softly. “How about I host next week? I can’t promise I cook as well as you do, but I’ll keep it close to edible.”

You smile back then reach up, grabbing his shirt collar and pulling him down for a kiss. Your lips are soft, your mouth warm, and John places a gentle hand on your face, thumb tracing along your jawline. The night is warm, but the dark street is a painfully lonely contrast to the bright interior of your flat. John keeps an eye on your window until he watches the warm yellow light flicker off. 

The night before you're coming over, he gets the call, a mission that needs to be handled by his team immediately. He’s told to report early the next day. It’s late, nearing two in the morning, but his bags are packed and he's got an itch under his skin to see you. John loads up his car and heads to your flat. He can imagine you kicking him out, sending him away, put off by his bizarre behavior and the late hour, but he follows the impulse, letting muscle memory pull him back into your orbit. He knocks firmly on your door, hiding his nerves. 

You open the door, your eyes hazy, your hair messy, and John wishes he could take this moment and frame it. Instead he captures it in his fluttering heart, locks it away. 

"I know it's late," he says quickly, "but I've just been called out for a mission and I wanted to— I had to say goodbye. I'm not sure when I'll be back."

You say nothing, still half asleep, just yawn and open your arms invitingly. He sweeps you into a tight hug, nuzzling his cheek against your hair. John lifts you off the ground and spins you around, shutting the door.

You let out a happy noise, high in your throat, and mumble against his chest. “You should leave more often if I get hugs like these.” 

He laughs, and you giggle with him as he pulls you in tighter, crushing you against him. He wants you to feel his heartbeat, wants to feel yours, to know that you’re real, that there’s blood and bones and you’re not just some lovely dream. 

John pulls back and kisses you, harder than the times before, wanting to taste you, to have something to hold onto when he's alone, breathes deep so he can remember the way you smell. You’re minty from your toothpaste, clean from your shower, and he thinks how desperately he wants to be here forever, in your beautiful flat, flowers he bought you sitting on the kitchen table, two sets of dishes in the sink. 

You pull back from him, your cheeks flushed and your lips swollen. “Come to bed, John,” you say shyly, and Price is certain that he’s dreaming, that he’ll wake up alone in his cold flat, but your soft hand in his own keeps him tethered, an anchor in his stormy sea. 

You pull him down with you, tossing his hat away haphazardly, your arms snaking around his neck. He’s desperately trying not to crush you under his weight, trying to hide the lightning bolt of want he feels, hovering over you. You're beautiful like this, too tired to be self conscious, staring up at him like you need him just as bad as he needs you. 

“You’re a vision,” he murmurs, just to watch you blush. He kisses along your jaw, nipping at your neck, and you gasp, pulling him closer to you. He feels like he’s going crazy. He wants to touch you everywhere, lets his hands wander, trying to maintain a level head, resisting the urge to pin you down and consume you entirely. He pulls off your shirt, humming lowly when you let him, when you lift your hips so he can pull off your sweatpants. He kisses down your chest, pausing to suck at the soft skin of your breasts before continuing lower. He nips at your hip, using a large hand to hold you down as he sucks a bruise into the stretch of skin next to your hip bones. You squirm and whimper at the sensation. He wants to taste you, wants to feel you cum on his face, so he pulls your legs apart, scraping your sensitive thighs with his facial hair, placing gentle kisses along your legs. He pulls your panties off and you’re suddenly shy again, legs closing slightly. 

“You alright, darling?” he asks, and you nod, looking down at him with wide eyes. John moves his hands to your thighs, spreading you open. He eats you out like it’s something he needs, sloppy and slow, wanting to be able to remember the taste of you. Your hands are in his hair, egging him on, and you moan when he slips one thick finger into you, finding a tempo that makes your thighs shake. He pulls you over the edge, keeps licking until you're squirming away from him, weak hands attempting to push his shoulders back as you stutter out a soft "w-wait w-wait." 

His beard is soaked when he pulls himself up, kissing you and laughing when you scrunch your nose at the moisture. He reaches down to quickly undo his belt, and you lean up to pepper soft kisses across his nose and cheeks as he awkwardly shoves his pants down and off.

 You both let out a breath when the head of his cock bumps against your clit, and he thrusts his hips lightly, dragging himself across your wetness. When he catches against your entrance, he leans down and kisses you passionately. John watches your face as he slowly slides into you, watching you wince at the stretch when he's fully inside you. He gives you a moment to adjust, kissing you softly, tongue moving against yours. He feels you start to squirm, searching for friction, and he thrusts into you.

"Oh sweet girl," he groans, dropping his head into your shoulder. He's fucking you open, soft and slow, noises slipping out of him with ever thrust. John places soft kisses on your shoulders, nipping at your collarbones, making you gasp. You've got your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and for a moment there's nothing but you two, nothing but warm skin against warm skin and the sweet things he whispers, the feeling of you clenching around his cock. John feels himself coming undone and speeds up, making you moan as his hips slam against yours. For just a few moments, he fucks you like he wants to break you, and you feel yourself being pulled over the edge again when he reaches a hand down to rub your clit without losing his punishing rhythm. He calls out your name and you feel his hips stutter, his dick twitching as he cums.

John gets up and gets a towel, cleans you both up. You reach for him, pulling him back into bed and letting him wrap his arms around you. You're still sticky but seem unbothered, exuding contentment as you nuzzle into his chest. He pulls you close, his eyes on the clock near your bed.

When the time comes, John gently shifts you, untangling himself and stepping off the bed quietly. He watches your face as he gets dressed. You look so peaceful, hair a mess and blankets tucked tight around you. Your eyelids flutter softly, and he gently reaches out, placing a hand on your cheek. You nuzzle into him unconsciously, and he feels the iceberg in his chest crack and shift. He picks up his hat from the floor, and quietly lets himself out of your apartment. 

[eliasdrid]

little doodle I decided to color 🌧

[existentialcrisisetcetera]

did you know that in ancient greece tattoos were typically used as marks of punishment and shame, typically inflicted on criminals and prisoners of war that were allowed to live?

did you know that kratos had deimos' birthmark tattooed onto his own body, when deimos' kidnapping by the gods is something he very clearly feels severe guilt over?

[collagedotorg]

chris rodriguez collage perhaps 🥺

Chris Rodriguez

[bonebabbles]

Slash's Famous Scene

Here we are, lads. Everyone's favorite scene in the totally best arc of WC. The one where Slash pins a pregnant woman to the ground and licks her face, while threatening her fetuses and cutting her cheek open so Clear Sky can have more man pain.

So far I've been using "fridging" as synonymous with the brutal killing of a female character to advance a male character's arc; but I do want to remind everyone that the term "fridging" describes disproportionate violence done to women in the service of their husband/brother/father/son's arcs. It doesn't HAVE to be death; it can also be battery, maiming, depowering, or sexual assault.

So far, 8 women have died to serve male arcs, most of them for Clear Sky specifically. Fluttering Bird, Bright Stream, Storm, Misty, Bumble, Turtle Tail, Rainswept Flower, and Petal. Now Star Flower gets sexually harassed and kidnapped, bringing the arc's fridge total to 9.

Anyway content warning, obviously. It's still Warrior Cats and doesn't get too graphic, but this bag contains a dead dove.

First, Clear Sky gets another toesucking from the ghost of his wife who died after leaving his controlling ass. Specifically, after he threw his disabled brother out of his Clan, and after his lust for seeing random people (including his brother) get mauled at the border resulted in the death of Fox.

She tells him that his behavior never drove anyone away, it was all totally not his fault. I'm waiting for a laugh track and it never comes. The apologetics in this arc are unrivaled.

Then, Clear Sky wakes up and his pregnant wife is not next to him. So he goes looking for her and sees her being flanked by Slash and his memorable minions, Grunt 1 and Grunt 2. Star Flower is so possessed by fear that she doesn't move.

They REALLY need to sell that Slash is TRUE evil, PURE evil, because of the wet fart that is Clear Sky's redemption arc. They're saying that Clear Sky ISN'T bad, because he is not this. A dirty, sadistic monster who coos evilly about how he's going to hurt the kittens in his wife's belly and cruelly twitches his whiskers.

(as a petty side detail, please also note that this passage cannot even keep Slash's fur color straight. Behold, a cat so evil that he cannot even remain a brown tabby! He turns gray when he commits nefarious deeds! Ashfurification included!)

Star Flower is the one being pinned to the ground and having her face cut open as Slash screams about how she promised her father she'd be his mate, but this scene is about Clear Sky's distress. Star Flower is an object to this narrative, which these two men are in conflict over.

The pinning, the violence, the sexual implications, are being done to make Slash as monstrous as possible to contrast to Clear Sky. Slash doesn't kill anyone, so the narrative needs to make you SO UPSET your emotions are thrown into overdrive, so you'll accept how truly terrible he is.

The simple truth that this rancid book is trying to make you ignore, is that Clear Sky is exponentially more deadly. He has caused harm so unspeakable that they have to describe his bloody murders in passive voice. They "died" now, instead of "were killed," and the violent system he created is presented as "making up" for the trauma he's caused to the survivors.

"Pushing his muzzle close to her injured cheek, he licked the blood from her fur with a long, lingering lap."

Think critically about the characters they are presenting and the actions they make them do. None of these are real people. They are writing choices. They have portrayed Slash as a perverted, domineering, child-abusing savage, so Clear Sky the Settler can look good in comparison.

then Star Flower gets dragged off, kicking and struggling, feeble and completely unable to defend herself as clear sky thinks about how she might die along with his fetuses.

Obviously Clear Sky is so very stressed out by all this and needs to blow off some steam, so he smacks the nearest woman and starts screeching about how Star Flower is more loyal than the son he abuses

The first thing he does after the Slash event was physically assault the nearest woman. I can't... I don't have the words. Are you seeing this. Do you see what I am fucking dealing with. literally the first woman he sees.

"DOES THAT FEEL LIKE AN ACT??" He bellowed like a fucking wifebeater at the girl whose face is bleeding because he cut her in a fit of rage. That's fine as long as you don't lustfully lick it afterwards I guess!!!

[anxiously-sidequesting]

you see Girls, i have this chronic clinical condition that has me vulnerable to sympathizing with irredeemable villains we as the audience are supposed to reject and despise in according to the narrative. it's called Woobifyitis. it's fatal and when i inevitably die in six days im going to be buried right inbetween malistaire and morganthe where i belong