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cruelfeline · 4 years

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In light of all that we’ve learned with this most wonderful final season, some people have asked me to reassess Hordak’s backstory monologue. To see how Hordak’s narrative fits with what we now know about his home. To try to discern exactly what its discrepancies are, and why.

I’m going to do that! But before I do, I would remind everyone: this is a little difficult to fully untangle because, given that Hordak is not a main character and thus does not have the focus that we’d like, we really don’t know a whole lot about the Horde in terms of function, social roles, and general history. So this is going to be very much limited by what I can glean from exactly what the show gives us.

That said, it’ll hopefully still be interesting. So!

During season three, after recovering from his syncopal episode, Hordak describes to Entrapta what he is, what he was, and how he came to be on Etheria. He describes himself as a defective clone who, once upon a time, was the top general in the galactic Horde. When his defect became too much of a burden, he was apparently demoted, sent to the front lines to fight until death, and arrived on Etheria by way of unexplained portal.

This is what Hordak tells us, and, as far as we know, he’s not lying. Hordak, as portrayed in the show, is a very honest person, both in his own actions and in the actions he expects of others. He greatly dislikes deception and does not appear skillfully capable of it himself (save for that one time). Knowing this, we generally have to assume that, in his own mind, what Hordak is saying is true.

So. What gives, right?

After all, once we see the galactic Horde in action, we learn that it is a played-straight, honest-to-the-gods cult. There’s nothing distinctly military about it. It’s not a bigger, grander version of Hordak’s Etherian Horde.

It is a cult with a god-brother-creator at the helm, commanding countless identical acolytes who live their lives in slavish devotion to their master. There do not appear to be any ranks. We hear nothing about any generals, let alone a “top general.” There doesn’t even appear to be a need for anything like that, because Prime doesn’t seem to really delegate to his brothers in a way that singles them out or relies on real autonomy from them.

He can, after all, read their minds at will and slip into their bodies whenever he fancies. If he needs to make a decision about a battle on a planet at the other edge of the galaxy, he can just take over a body on that planet and make said decision himself. Or, at the very least, enter the relevant clone’s mind and influence the decision as needed. He doesn’t need, and certainly doesn’t appear to tolerate, clones taking their own initiative.

So, again: what gives? What does Hordak mean by “top general”? Why does he think he has this elevated role when we can see that Prime considers all of his clones the equivalent of faceless bodies to be used a he likes?

Well, while we will likely never know the full truth, given the lack of Horde background detail, we can safely assume some things from what canon shows us.

Namely that, while all clones appear indistinguishable and do not seem to have named rank, there are definitely clone positions that work more closely with Prime than others. His attendants are one example. Those who are in his throne room feeding him information while he is working are another. (Hordak actually appears to be one of these, at least while Prime is trying to hack the Heart of Etheria, when Entrapta is captured.) And then, of course, there are the chosen vessels that will one day house Prime’s consciousness.

All of these positions can likely be occupied by any clone, with bodies switched out as needed (likely what happened when Hordak got sick). I doubt that individual clones have any sort of real rank. Prime knows this. Hordak and his brothers, I suspect, may not fully understand it.

Rather, I would not be surprised if Hordak, deceived and indoctrinated into believing things about himself and about Prime that are not true, misinterprets the nature of his purpose and the truth of his relationship with his Brother. He believes that, fulfilling whatever role he was fulfilling for Prime, he was a general, an individual of note, an individual that Prime specially valued. Perhaps he fulfilled the role long enough that, in all but name, it became “his.” Perhaps he even fulfilled it well enough that Prime praised him frequently, cementing this unfortunate delusion. Perhaps Prime gave him legitimate favor - a false thing, of course; simply a controlling tool, but Hordak did not realize that.

Without canon confirmation, we can really only speculate, but these ideas seem reasonable.

Details aside, the point of the matter is that Hordak sees himself as “top general” because he sadly doesn’t understand that he is an interchangeable piece of a utilitarian machine. He truly thinks that he has this coveted position, that he is particularly useful, special, of great value. It’s a tragic misunderstanding that simply fuels his misguided devotion to Prime and prevents him from seeking freedom when he is given the opportunity.

It’s something, I think, that people in very controlling religious organizations often end up thinking: that they are especially valued, worthy in some way that others are not. It’s part of how the organization controls them.

By the by, there is also the theory that Hordak has suffered memory erasure before and is thus doubly confused, filling in blanks with fantasy, but given that we have no direct evidence of that, I’m not really going to go into it; it’s a popular bit of speculation, though.

Now, however, let us examine a different aspect of this. Labels aside, delusions aside, we are left with another conundrum: however Hordak interprets his position, it is very clear to us that said position does not actually offer the power or respect that a legitimate high military rank would offer. It does not appear to provide Hordak with any special treatment.

Once upon a time, back when we first learned of Hordak’s backstory, it was somewhat assumed that the position would do something like this. Numerous fans speculated about how it might be a position that gave a clone dominion over others, or over their own personal ships or planets; some fans suggested that it might give a clone the right to a name. Now, of course, we know that none of these speculations are true: all of Prime’s clones are essentially interchangeable; all are part of a hive mind that eliminates the need for certain clones directing others; no clone is allowed a name, no matter what their current job might be.

So. What, exactly, is Hordak practically gaining here? Despite this position appearing to hold zero effective esteem, despite it necessitating Hordak giving up his self and his autonomy, it is abundantly clear that he desperately wants it back. Why?

What about this position, whatever it may or may not be called, would provide Hordak with this sense of value, of specialness, of personal worth? After all, Hordak may be deluded, but he’s not stupid; even indoctrinated, he can tell that he doesn’t hold dominion over other clones, or have a right to his own name. He can tell that he doesn’t receive any functional privileges, that his own sense of value doesn’t translate into anything that you or I would think is “worth the price of admission,” so to speak.

In light of that incredibly steep price, what does this position offer, in a world where military rank appears irrelevant? What does it offer, in exchange for Hordak’s name and his bodily autonomy and his freedom? In short, what does it offer that makes Hordak think it worth sacrificing so much for?

Well.

It offers closeness to Prime, doesn’t it? It offers the chance to work near him, to bask in his presence, to be spoken to and looked upon and touched by him. It offers the chance to receive his praise, personally. It offers the chance to perhaps - hopefully, wishfully - receive his love.

Because that’s what Hordak really wants. Not dominion over others, or a fancy military title. He wants that emotional connection. He wants that approval and validation. He wants love. And for so much of the series, for so much of his life, he believes that love comes only from Prime. That working closely with him, being of use to him, will provide him with that sense of belonging and acceptance and affectionate care that he hungers for. That it will make him worthy and loved.

(There’s a line in the deleted Entrapdak scene, where Prime calls Hordak the “most unloved and unworthy” among his brothers that really cements the idea that worthiness is synonymous with love within the galactic Horde)

This is what marks the position as “special” in Hordak’s eyes: it is special because it stands the greatest chance of providing him with Prime’s love.

All of it is a lie, of course. Because Prime only “loves” his brothers as extensions of himself, and even then, only if they are physically useful to him. Once Hordak starts to lag behind due to his illness, he is quickly removed from Prime’s presence and sent to the front lines, destined to fight until defect or battle kills him. And yet it is a lie so powerful, and the clones’ need for Prime’s love so great, that he is able to use it to control them even when they are separated from him. To the point that a sickly clone trapped in a shadow dimension will forgo freedom in his desperate bid to feel wanted and treasured by his cruel god.

Eventually, thankfully, Hordak finds a true version of the connection he craves, someone who looks at him and acknowledges him, values him and loves him as he is, without him needing to prove himself useful. He finds Entrapta, and she provides that love that he sought from Prime.

This is why, even though Hordak actually ends up working in Prime’s throne room again, ends up close to him once more, he breaks free from control and kills his Brother. Throughout season five, Hordak remembers Entrapta. He remembers how she makes him feel. He remembers her love... and he realizes that it is not the same as Prime's. It is sincere. It is unconditional. It accepts him as his own flawed person, rather than the perfect drone Prime wants him to be. It is deeper and more true and more real than the hollow sham Prime offers.

And so Hordak rejects this once-coveted position, rejects Prime, and frees himself. He makes the choice between a false, controlling “love” and the real, heartfelt thing. He makes the choice, and he chooses Entrapta.

In the end, the greatest disconnect between what Hordak tells us in season three and what is true isn’t the word “general,” or even the cruel difference between how Prime views the clones, and how they view him. It is the impression of why Hordak wants such a position at all, of what it means to him. What initially comes off as a disgraced military man seeking to regain former glory is actually a lost, unloved soul desperately searching for the emotional connection he needs.

And, after many mistakes, after much hardship, he finally finds it.

#hordak #horde prime #entrapta #entrapdak #she ra

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nothorses · 3 years

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Alright I want to ask you this because I have thoughts but you're significantly more well read than me so maybe you'll have better insight and explanation:

I was going on a terf blocking spree, and lots of them are currently dealing with the idea that trans people are trying to say genital attraction isn't real. Now, I have heard this a few times on Tumblr, and I've heard people call it "genital preferences" and similar things, and I've seen the posts about people trying to get others cancelled for not dating them because they're trans. But for the most part I would say this is the minority of trans people?

Most of my experience with these sorts of conversations is from Reddit and not Tumblr, in these discussions people all agreed genital attraction was a real thing. Also, people (generally) agreed that sometimes trans people need to accept someone won't date them because of their genitalia (in reference to their agab genitals), yet some people will and it's not okay to be angry with someone who won't. There was also the idea that if they won't date someone with their agab genitals or after grs then there's an argument for ableism but not necessarily transphobia (although it's sometimes transphobia, not always).

I don't really know how to word the question, but basically do you have any thoughts you're willing to share on this issue? You always seem to have well thought out and historically referenced analysis of issues and provide nuance as needed, so I thought maybe you'd be a good person to ask. Of course if you don't want to answer this that's completely fine as well, it's just I can see the issue a bit from both sides and I just don't think I know enough on this subject to arrive to a conclusion yet personally, I also hope this is worded in a way where you understand what I'm trying to say

I think there’s two sides to this issue- the people making these decisions, and the people impacted by them- and my opinion really differs depending on what side you’re talking about.

When we’re talking about “genital preference” and the people making these decisions, I honestly have to say that I don’t think this is a Thing the way these folks talk about it. I understand comfort levels with different types of genitalia, I understand having different sexual relationships with different types of genitalia, I understand finding different qualities attractive in different types of genitalia (penis size/hair/labia/etc.). But that isn’t the same as your entire sense of attraction to someone or your entire orientation being based on genitalia.

If you’re uncomfortable with one genital configuration, there are plenty of ways to have sex with someone who has it that do not involve interacting with that genital configuration in ways that make you uncomfortable. If you prefer the role you default to with one genital configuration, you can talk to a partner with a different configuration about how to accommodate that. If you find certain qualities unattractive in someone’s genitals, well, why is that so different from something like hair length?

Ultimately, “genital preference” isn’t about that. It’s just a reason for refusing to consider dating or having sex with certain people- and lo and behold, it just so happens that it’s always trans people that “genital preferences” exclude. (Ask these people if they’d consider trans people who’ve had bottom surgery & watch them scramble.)

It’s a transphobic dogwhistle used by cis people to excuse their transphobic dating habits. It’s the “socially acceptable” way of saying they don’t want to deal with their internalized transphobia, that they don’t find trans people “fuckable”. Not to mention the rampant, blatant exclusion of intersex people with conditions affecting their genitals.

Which is why, on the side of those impacted, responses are usually based on the assumption that this is about transphobia.

If someone tells me they don’t want to be with me because they have a “genital preference”, I also, in fact, have zero interest in them. I don’t want to be with someone who’s transphobic, and I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t see me as a man.

I don’t think it’s safe or healthy for trans people to push that issue with individuals. I also don’t think it’s okay, in any capacity, to force yourself on someone because you (rightfully, in this case) disagree with the reasons behind their rejection. I also think it’s perfectly fair to point out and be upset about the transphobia inherent in the situation.

The closest thing to a legitimate “genital preference” is one founded in trauma, and as I’ve said before, these are intensely personal situations. I believe folks who’s trauma has caused this association between Danger and a certain genital configuration have a lot of healing and growing to do. They should understand that trans people may feel uncomfortable and unsafe around them until then. And they should have their boundaries respected, regardless of the reasons behind them, in the meantime.

#long post #if this starts discourse on this shit again im gonna run screaming into the forest #full-tilt naruto run sonic fast #transphobia tw #discussion of sex #discussion of genitals #Anon #Ask

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pettyprocrastination · 4 years

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for the love of god please give us some austin powers!whiskey headcanons o queen of au's 😔we're just sluts for ur content

My mf babe boo lee validating this dumb au that i love so fucking much aksksks i have like two hours before all the thanksgiving stuff happens so if anybody wants to send me whiskey shit for this au DO IT!!!

warnings: uhh talk of sex and porn, foul language. theres zero organization or skill put into these i just threw ‘em out there lmao

So the general consensus of this au for those who dont know, is an austin powers au. Yes i said that.

Jack “whiskey” Daniels is an statesmen from the 70’s who is hailed as a legend for all the lives hes saved and ploys for global terrorism he’d stopped. In his prime, he was cryogenically frozen until the statesmen would need him at a later date (reasoning behind this is vague, even whiskey himself doesnt remember why. He get flashes of distant memories and emotions around it all, but they're gone as soon as they come.)

Cut to modern time, you’re scotch. One of the best agents who’s known for getting the job done with little to no issues, but not known to be a socializer. You are tasked as agent whiskey’s new partner as he is unfrozen and helping him adapt to the new world.

Now lets get into the fun stuff

With adapting to the new world, you had to teach whiskey about the internet and my god was that tiring.

He still doesn't get the point of dating apps. “I don’t need a little device to help me get laid, i do just fine with my charms and southern hospitality.” you're pretty sure he only says that because he cant figure out how the fuck to use tinder but you let it go.

Whiskey hates porn. Like DESPISES it. This is something he decided to tell you with an “urgent” phone call at three in the fucking morning.

“She’s faking! Thayer all faking!! What’s the point if she doesn’t enjoy it? It’s all a lie! This poor woman looks like she’s in pain!! They’ve made sex a production!! What has this world come to!?!”

You hang up and go back to sleep.

But yeah whiskey hates it. It’s all fake and over the top and just...not what he thinks sex should be.

To him sex isn’t a production or a race. It’s a celebration of attraction between consenting adults.

He enjoys the ametur made stuff, where there’s legitimate attraction between those involved

This doesn't mean he’s vanilla in anyway, he just hates that porn isnt really...sex. Its not mutual pleasure, its all jarring categories, fake moaning and very sexist foundation.

Once he finds the animal video part of the internet? Oh he’s as good as gone. He thin begins to send you links to videos' showcasing friendships between unlikely pairs, such as a sea lion and a horse, or a monkey and a ferret. You don’t tell him that you watch them all late at night when you cant sleep.

He fucking loves nature documentaries. Especially deep sea ones, focusing on fish that light up or are see-through and shit like that.

If you watch them with him you admit its...kind of adorable. Like seeing a kid all wide-eyed at the aquarium.

“You know what’d make this really interesting??”

“We aren’t doing lsd while watching blue planet, stop asking me that.”

He’s done drugs, like, a lot back in the day. Statesmen is stricter now, with regular mandatory drug tests so whiskey cant go out, partying like a madman and taking whatever he pleases.

Whiskey is bisexual . As is basically everybody i write so when you tell him same sex marriage is legal in all 50 states he legit tears up.

“Never thought I’d live to see the day.” hes so overjoyed at the news. He knows there's still a long way to go but seeing that, something he’d only dreamed and fantasize about while drawing shapes on the chest of his lover? Oh it makes his heart soar.

Whiskey is a man with brazen sexuality but of course aware of boundaries. First day you met him you turned down his advances, he accepted this and then decided to latch on as your best friend AND wingman! :D

You cannot escape this fate you're stuck with him now.

Anytime you go out to a bar he scouts for potential suitors. “How about the blonde at the counter, they're your style!” and before you can tell him NO he’s already swaggering over and chatting you up to them.

Whiskey, although you hate to say it, is a charming man. Hes kind and suave and will sing the praises of somebody hed only just met and have them melting in a puddle right in front of him. It’s annoying really. You have to listen to all the women at work swoon over him and talk about how youre soooo lucky to be working with him. He must be such a dream in the field. What's it like?

You plainly tell them that the other day you saw him get stuck in a revolving door and he asked for your help.

To get out

Of a door.

You will NEVER admit this to him but when you were a green agent?? Just starting out?? You had a major crush on the legendary agent whiskey. You’d only seen the photos and heard the stories but god you thought he was amazing.

Then you became a skilled agent yourself (perhaps also talented with a whip and lasso) and finally met the man himself when he was unfrozen.

Whiskey calls you “little filly” and will make jokes about how you need to respect your elders. You know since he’s technically like 89 years old lmao.

Whiskey hates that women gotta shave, he thinks you should do it if you want but the societal pressure of it? He hates it.

And lets be real, he’s a man of the 70’s so he fucking worships bush. (the pussy not the president) (i have a lot of thoughts on this)

He can and will go down for hours on end, almost selfish with it because he gets as much pleasure from it as you. Pressing kisses and nips on your thighs, mumbling praise against you, homeboy gets straight up pussy drunk and doesn’t know how to speak coherent sentences anymore.

He’s a cuddler. Even before you started dating he was just very affectionate and touchy. You once had to sleep together for warmth on a mission where you were stuck in the middle of nowhere during winter and he nuzzled and cuddled you all night long with a dazed smile. (he’s also your own personal space heater so that’s nice)

You thought you were over the hype and worship of agent whiskey,and you are, but when you get to know him as a friend and not an agent. As Jack, the fool who cuddles and tries to pair you up and sings out of key while cooking? God help you, your heart starts beating when you see his dimples and big goofy smile and all you can think is. “Oh fuck.”

anyways i reall y love this au and have many thoughts please sedn requests or hcs or anything you want me to expand on <3

#ask #asks #jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #jack daniels x reader #statesmen #kingsmen the golden circle #kingsmen golden circle #jack austin powers au #this is so dumb but fun #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

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eagle-feather-2014 · 3 years

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BLM/BNHA: “True Heroes”

A hero is tasked with protecting the public from threats that they are no match for. They uphold the peace and enforce the laws that govern the land so that order was maintained, and when the air filled with tear gas, all bets were off.

Sometimes, peace is met with violence, and when that violence is sanctioned by the government, well… a hero has to stand for justice, and class 1-A were heroes that wouldn’t stand by just because the very people who paid their salary were the ones playing the role of the villain. The front lines of protests changed after the first instance of lethal force being authorized occurred. Pro-heroes began to publicly attend protests in full gear and stand at the front line of the crowd, right between the civilians and the police. If lethal force would be authorized, well, they’d have to get through them before they could touch the citizens, and what could police without quirk authorization do to the kids that took down national criminal organizations and the League of Villains?

No large protest took place without at least three 1-A students present. They insisted that the protesters stay calm and peaceful, and in return, the heroes would ensure that no one got hurt or arrested. They made grand statements, blocking roads and highways, surrounding buildings like the police stations and city halls of the places the protests took place. The world began to take notice as word spread that Pro-heroes were refusing orders to stand down when police tried to dispatch crowds with force.

Interviews with heroes like Deku, Ground Zero, Shouto, and Red Riot make a clear, cohesive statement that the protesters were fighting a legitimate battle in a way that they had every right to do, and that the heroes were there to keep peaceful protests from becoming a scene of police brutality to quiet a dissenting opinion.

“You can’t uphold a system of systemic racism and abuse and expect people to not want things to change. You also can’t punish them for using their Constitutional rights to peaceful protest because they are drawing attention to a failure in the system.” The world clung to what Deku said on live national news as the rallying cry for more people to get involved. The heroes were protecting them if they were using their rights properly. He was recorded to be at many events, passing out water and bandanas to those needing them, and helping to make signs from old cardboard and permanent markers. Many pictures showed him holding back riot gear police from the crowds, insisting that they stop following orders and instead use their humanity.

“It’s bullshit! The fact that violence has been authorized against these people by the government is all a bullshit political move! Fuck re-election! People are being hurt! If they fire me for refusing orders and throwing tear gas canisters back at them, then they can all just die and go to hell!” Social media blew up, echoing the sentiment Ground Zero offered a news team after an incident where he took a rubber bullet to the brow and had an eye swollen shut for days. His statement, bruised eye and all, became evidence that the police were mistreating the people the heroes were protecting. The Internet flooded with videos taken by protesters of Ground Zero bare handed picking up tear gas canisters and blasting them to pieces with his quirk or otherwise lobbing them back at the police who had fired them in the first place, screaming that they “picked the wrong fight, assholes.”

“No one deserves the mistreatment that the African Americans have faced. There is a reason people are here, and that reason is that they see people being treated differently in the modern world. Everyone here cares that people are being hurt, arrested, and killed because of the color of their skin. They want the injustice to stop. This isn’t about one person like the media tries to say it is, but rather about a people struggling to survive against hate.” The leaders of the Black Lives Matter movement chose Red Riot to be their hero advocate voice, because he understood their beliefs and had been at their sides before any other hero had. Video after video depicted him at the front of crowds, black paint smeared across his face and carrying a sign with the symbol of the movement on it proudly, leading the crowd in chants and being a human shield against rubber bullets. Media tried to play on the irony that the hero Red Riot was leading “peaceful protests” in order to try to turn away their support, but evidence that Shouto and Hagakure managed to compile of the truth of the police staging and anarchists and looters being unrelated to the movement was a good way to gut the argument.

“I have resources, and not a lot of protesters do, so I’ve been working to help fund programs and gather evidence of the underhanded tactics that the police, government, and media are using to damage this movement’s very real credibility. The amount of cherry picking, undercover cops, and government corruption is appalling, and I want it on every news station that is willing to air the truth. People need to know that they are being lied to about these protests,” Shouto explained in an interview, boosting public interest in the findings that he was publishing. Whole websites popped up to add to the evidence, listing people’s experiences, and to provide video and document proof to the general public for free.

Their efforts made it so no one could ignore what was happening. They risked their health and jobs to stand in defense of the protesters as the government tried to silence the whistleblowing of the corruption and systemic racism that was inherent in the procedures and trainings that were widespread. Their chants were echoed around the world by online supporters, and funds began to pour into the charities aiding the protests. Supplies were donated to help the cause, and the very fact that the world was watching and listening put pressure on the government that had been authorizing lethal force. No one could deny the images and videos of the Pro-heroes being injured and wounded in trying to protect innocents practicing their rights. They couldn’t deny the fact that Pro-heroes were being hit with rubber bullets until black and blue in order to keep children from being hit. They used their quirks only when violence broke out, and only until the police conceded to no longer using force.

The police were no match for the few Pro-heroes at each event. They could try to use lethal force to dispatch the crowd, but with Pro-heroes between them and the crowd, authorized to use their quirks to protect civilians, they never got to the crowd before being forced to call off the attack or leave. Protester injuries dropped, and the movement was being forced to be taken seriously, even as the government tried stripping titles from the kids. Even without their Pro-hero status, they didn’t stop supporting the movement or protecting people at the events when police tried to hurt people to scare them off.

They would bring supplies like shin guards and goggles to pass out, and they would rob police of riot shields and redistribute them to those civilians being attacked. The world watched on the edge of their seats as the movement only grew louder and louder as Pro-heroes stood behind them against every injustice and every attempt to make them stop. They weren’t going to stop as long as people were being hurt and injustice remained. It was their duty to protect people from threats, with or without the license, and that was just what they would do. They would go beyond plus ultra to make a difference, and this was where they were making their stand.

So, throw the tear gas, it’ll be thrown back. So, bring riot shields, they’ll be taken for protecting the vulnerable. So, strip their ranks, they’ll still be standing there between both sides. So, fire rubber bullets, they’ll wear black and blue with pride. So, do whatever you want, but know that they won’t be backing down until real change hits, because a real hero protects people now and in the future.

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#bnha #writing #blm #blacklivesmatter #izuku midoryia #izuku #deku #midoryia #katsuki bakugo #bakugo #shoto todoroki #shoto #todoroki #eijirou kirishima #eijiro #kirishima #social justice #fanfic

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freudensteins-monster · 3 years

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You Say “Mad Scientist” Like It’s A Bad Thing

Based on my own tumblr post: 3am thoughts… Has anyone written Jane Foster as a mad scientist, I mean like a villain?

Chaotic neutral Darcy and Jane featuring modern/human SHIELD Agent Bucky.

Available on AO3.

Content Warnings: Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Amnesia, Memory Suppressing Machine | The Chair (Marvel), Dark, Sort Of, Ambiguous/Open Ending...

In a world full of megalomaniacs, straight up supervillains, and fricking aliens, mad scientists were a dime a dozen. Dr Foster was one such scientist who was quickly moving from mildly irritating to SHIELD’s Most Wanted.

Dr Foster’s gimmick was portals. She first gained international attention when she claimed responsibility (via an untraceable Instagram account, @dr-mthrfckng-foster) for diverting LA’s 405 to a dirt road in rural Australia. Then came a string of impossible robberies – bank vaults and the private collections of the world's richest assholes stripped bare in seconds. Then she created a portal that caused an Indonesian typhoon to bear down on Wall Street, flooding the trading floor. And then she robbed a top secret government black site of some classified technology.

And that’s when Director Nick Fury made finding and stopping Dr Foster SHIELD’s number one priority.

Agent James Barnes had been stuck on suspension for two weeks, with two more to go, and was itching to get back into the field. He had way too much free time on his hands: he’d caught up on his sleep and everything in his Netflix queue. He’d cleaned out his refrigerator, done laundry and enough meal prep to last him until next month. He’d caught up with his family, cleaned his whole goddamn apartment twice, and now he was well and truly bored.

He was out for his fifth run of the week (and it wasn’t even Wednesday) when his work phone rang.

“Thank Christ,” he muttered before answering.

“Barnes.”

“It’s Hill. How’s the arm?”

“Fine,” Barnes grunted, rotating his metal shoulder irritably. “You got something for me?”

“Are you up for a recon mission?”

Usually he would have protested. He headed tactical units. He was an elite ‘first through the door’ kind of field agent. Not that he couldn’t be stealthy and patient - he’d been a sniper in the army for christ's sake - but going unnoticed in public was kind of a problem for him these days; he’d have to wear jackets and gloves in the middle of August to hide his prosthetic for starters.

On the other hand, his mother had been calling him every second day to feed him carb-heavy meals in exchange for help around the house, all while dropping not-so-subtle hints that he should start dating again. Requests for more grandchildren couldn’t be far behind.

“I’ll be there in thirty.”

Thirty-five minutes later Agent Barnes was back at his desk at SHIELD HQ perusing through the increasingly large file of one Dr Jane Foster.

She had been a brilliant student and had earned a PhD in Astrophysics from Culver University by the age of 25. By all accounts she should have been one of the leading researchers in her field, and if doctoral programs handed out superlatives Dr Foster’s would have been “Most Likely To Win a Nobel Prize By 30”.

Unfortunately for Dr Foster, and the rest of the world, she had been forced from that path by a sexist tenured professor who publicly denounced her theories, and the woman herself, as crazy, discredited her published work, and used his influence to ensure she was denied all of the more lucrative research grants.

When federal agents went to interview him after the 405 incident they found his office looking like a tornado had gone through it and the professor himself was nowhere to be found. A few weeks later he stumbled into a US Embassy in Russia after being found wandering in from the forests outside Vladivostok, half mad and still decrying the evils of allowing women into scientific fields.

He had been placed into witness protection and promptly admitted into a psychiatric facility under his new name, and was being monitored by several undercover agents in case Dr Foster felt like punishing him some more.

Anyone else who had a part in ruining Dr Foster’s legitimate career was also under surveillance, as was her mother in London, a terrified ex-boyfriend in Boston, and a handful of known associates, though Dr Foster hadn’t been in contact with any of them in years.

SHIELD and other federal agencies had tried the usual methods of tracking down a rogue mad scientist. They tried to find out where her base of operations was, firstly by looking for any properties in her name, but Dr Foster had been a broke student with an impressive amount of debt (until the day she decided to wipe it, and the rest of Culver’s student debt, out). So if she had property it would definitely not be in her legal name and all but impossible to trace back to her. Then they tried to look for drains on the powergrid. However she managed to generate her portals - SHIELD scientists still hadn’t figured that out - it surely had to be using huge amounts of electricity. So far they’d found six grow labs and two server rooms running illegal god-knows-what, but no Dr Foster.

Agent Barnes read the file twice, reviewed all the transcripts of the interviews with her known associates, and came to one very important conclusion: she had an accomplice.

As smart as Dr Foster was there was nothing in her academic history to suggest that she had a background in computer science that would account for the notable hacks and the untraceable nature of her activities. To add to that several interviewees had made passing remarks about her not having a cell phone for most of her academic career, and how she had zero interest in social media.

Two days later, after getting the okay for a field trip from Hill, Agent Barnes made his way to Culver University to speak to anyone who had even the vaguest recollection of Dr Foster. And that’s how he learnt about the intern.

He’d started by dropping by one of the physics labs where Dr Foster had spent most of her time, and by pure chance met a doctoral candidate who remembered her, and her intern.

“I think her name was Darlene. Glasses. Always on her phone.”

…which led him to the academic advisor who put the two of them together...

“Darcy. Darcy Lewis. She was actually a PoliSci major but left it too late and Dr Foster’s internship was the only one available. She had only been working with her for a few weeks before… before Dr Foster’s funding was revoked and she was asked to leave.”

...who pointed him to one of Darcy’s former professors…

“Average student. Good debater. Often late, and always had a coffee in her hand.”

...who gave him a few names of some former classmates who might remember her…

“Not the worst person to be stuck with on a group assignment. Pulled her weight. Obsessed with her stupid iPod.”

“I swear she lived off pop tarts and coffee. And not Starbucks either. Some stupid hipster chain.”

“Deja Brew. Serious problem. Went through one of those loyalty punch cards every week. Always complained about having to go home for the holidays and resort to big chain coffee shops.”

...which had him driving out to Darcy Lewis’ hometown, located a few hours south of Roanoke, Virginia, stopping first at the local high school to speak to the school principal…

“She’d always been good with computers but wasn’t allowed to use them at home for some reason so she spent a lot of time at the local library using theirs. We had to suspend her once. One of her classmates accused her of accepting payment from other students to hack the school’s records and alter their grades. Their grades were definitely getting altered, but we couldn’t get any concrete proof it was her.”

...who was able to find a photo of 16 year old Darcy in an old yearbook and told him what bar he could find Darcy’s mother in.

“She knows not to come to me if she’s in the shit, because I would call the cops in a heartbeat. Especially after that stunt she pulled before she went off to college…”

“What stunt was that, Ms Bennett?” Agent Barnes asked patiently, hoping he wouldn’t have to enable her alcoholism to get some useful information.

“I made some mistakes, okay,” she slurred defensively. “I was having an affair with my boss. Don’t know how Darcy knew. She told her stepfather but he didn’t believe her. Then a few weeks later we went out to dinner for my boss’s birthday... all the tv’s in the bar start showing security camera footage of us falling into offices and motel rooms. Took her all of a minute to ruin two marriages and a law firm.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied diplomatically. “Is there anyone she could turn to for help? Her father, perhaps.”

“He died when she was about twelve. They were as thick as thieves,” she recalled with a tinge of bitterness.

“Was there any place that was special to them? Someone she might go to ground?”

She shook her head. “He used to rent this old cabin near the Catskills off a buddy of his every other year. Winter or summer, Darcy loved it. But it's long gone. Forest fire, I think, the year before his accident.”

Back in his car Agent Barnes reviewed the data points.

Dr Foster had a base of operations somewhere. Had to be private, and as best SHIELD could guess it must be off the grid and Dr Foster must be generating her own power.

Dr Foster was a space nut at heart, and while an abandoned observatory might be too much to ask for, she’d probably want somewhere with minimal light pollution.

And while they could portal anywhere, neither of them spoke any other languages and had no familiarity with any international locations, so they were most likely still State-side. (Dr Foster’s mother had moved to London when Jane was twenty-three, but she’d never found the time to visit.)

Miss Lewis was familiar with the Catskills area. A base of operations there could be very isolated.

Dr Foster was most likely building and modifying her own own equipment so she had to be able to access materials. Sure, she could portal to her local hardware store, but having Darcy drive into the nearest town for supplies would attract less attention.

Miss Lewis had an addiction to coffee procured from Deja Brew, a small hipster chain with only a handful of locations along on the east coast. While she could have found another way to get her caffeine fix, people were creatures of habit.

Miss Lewis was also known for stocking up on poptarts. In one of the only images of the other side of one of Dr Foster’s portals there was what appeared to be, if one squinted, a box of limited edition pop tarts on a counter.

He plugged it all into SHIELD fancy search engines and got a few results back. The most promising was an abandoned ski chalet turned abandoned research station halfway up a mountain, an hour drive away from an up and coming tourist town, whose main street hosted a Deja Brew cafe. They also had a small mom and pop hardware store, as well as a post office, and a grocery store that had still been selling pumpkin pie pop tarts around the time Dr Foster’s portal had been caught on camera.

Agent Barnes came to with a groan. The flesh of his shoulder where it met his prosthetic felt like it was on fire, and he was pretty sure he could smell fried wiring.

The research station had come up in SHIELD’s initial search for a potential mad scientist's lair, but had been dismissed for not using any power and for not sending back any heat signature readings. Perhaps they’d found a way to fool the scanners. Or maybe they just weren’t in the day the readings were taken. Whatever the reason, Agent Barnes had a good feeling about it. He filled his tank up at the nearest gas station and got on the highway, forgoing checking in at the Triskelion on his way past in favour of driving all night. He’d call Hill when he had something solid.

** *** **

“Fuck…”

He willed his eyes open and came face to face with Darth Vader.

Barnes reeled back at the sound of the synthesized voice. “Who sent you? Who do you work for?! The Rebellion?”

“What the fuck!”

It took him until his eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lighting to realise that Darth Vader was wearing a grey knit dress and black tights. Darth Vader laughed and ripped off his mask to reveal a smiling bespectacled brunette underneath. The accomplice. Darcy Lewis.

“Sorry, I was just messing with you, dude,” she teased, tossing the mask over her shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to do that. But seriously, who do you work for? Who knows you’re here?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he lied. “I was just camping in the woods, man. I saw the lights and decided to check it out,” he rambled in a lazy Canadian accent. “How the hell did I get here? Did you electrocute me?”

He used his not-quite fake panic to test the limits of his restraints. He’d been strapped into some sort of junkstore barber chair, with thick metal shackles locked around his wrists, ankles, and chest. His metal arm could probably make quick work of them but the damn thing was not responding. His panic became a little less fake.

“Just camping, huh?” she echoed back with a raised eyebrow, leaning forward to the point where Barnes couldn’t avoid getting a good look down her top and the 15-carat pink diamond (worth about 40mil and reported stolen in one of Dr Foster’s vault heists two months ago) hanging around her neck. “So that wasn’t you poking around town this morning?” she asked pointedly, drawing his attention to the wall of monitors he hadn’t noticed showing various street cameras around the town. “I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, dude. You got into town bright and early in a beat up looking truck with plates that didn’t exist two weeks ago and started flashing my yearbook photo around. So, who do you work for?”

He levelled his best steely-eyed agent stare at her and switched back to his native pissed-off Brooklynite accent. “I ain’t tellin you shit, sweetheart.”

“C’mon now,” she cooed, taking a seat on his lap. “Who do you work for? FBI? Interpol? SHIELD? Crawford County Library Services? Listen, I was totally going to return Eat Pray Love, but we had to skip town in a hurry and it got lost in the move. I will totally pay to replace it.”

Years of training (and regular poker games with the Black Widow) had taught him to school his features, even if that last one threw him for a loop.

“Nothing? You sure you don’t want to talk to me? Fine,” she whined. “Jane!”

It was only then that Barnes switched his focus from his captor to his surroundings and realised that there was another occupant puttering about on the other side of the large telescope that took pride of place on a hydraulic platform underneath the research station's retractable roof. The infamous Dr Foster.

“Jane!”

“What?” came the irritated reply.

“Come over here and practise your monologue. Look! You’ve got a captive audience and everything!” she announced, laughing at her own joke.

“I don’t have time, Darcy,” the disgruntled voice argued.

“Hey! I spent two days writing up that monologue, the least you can do is spend twenty-five minutes reading it out loud so I can make sure it doesn’t make you sound too much like a cartoon villain.”

“Twenty-five minutes?! Are you kidding me?” Dr Foster stormed out from behind the telescope to wave a wrench at her assistant. She looked less put together than her ID photo, appearing to be long overdue for both a shower and a nap. “I’m in the middle of something. I’ve almost figured the problem with the mobile portal generator, and… Darcy, why is there a man tied to a chair in my lab?”

“This man?” Darcy snorted, taking Barnes’s chin in her hands and wiggling it about. “This is the intruder. You remember the intruder alert, like fifteen minutes ago? Lots of flashing lights and alarms? Well, I found this guy passed out on the lawn. For most people, hitting my force field would be like getting lightly tased, but this bad boy,” she continued, tapping a fingernail against his dead metal arm, “meant you ended up getting the full 50,000 volts to your heart. Thanks for letting me practice my CPR by the way,” she added with a wink.

“It’s not a force field, Darcy. It’s a glorified invisible pet fence, upsized and modified so it reacts to the electrical impulses in the human body.”

“It keeps people out; I’m calling it a force field.”

This was definitely the weirdest interrogation he had endured by a large margin, Barnes mused as he followed their bickering like a pingpong game.

“Who is he, Darcy?” Jane sighed wearily. “What is he doing here?”

“Fiiiine. Janey, meet Agent James Barnes of SHIELD.”

“What?! SHIELD?!!”Jane screeched. “Why did you bring him here?”

“He found us, Jane. What was I supposed to do?”

“Something other than bringing him inside our secret hideout.”

“I am not killing him and burying him in the woods; I just did my nails.”

Jane scowled, turning the full force of her overtired fury on James. “Why can’t you SHIELD issue jackbooted thugs just leave me alone? Can’t you understand how important my work is? I am challenging the very foundations of modern science - of the laws of the universe! I am on the verge of a breakthrough! And if you or Nick Fury think you can stop me, you’ve got another thing coming!”

Before his mouth could betray him and ask how the hell they knew his boss Darcy spoke up.

“A little off script, but I like the energy, Jane. Very much the mad scientist vibe we’re going for. But next time, try not to make it so personal – we’ve got to hide the target of our frustrations, remember? Instead of saying “SHIELD” say “government”, instead of saying “Nick Fury” say “president”.”

“Right, right,” Jane nodded absently, tapping the side of her head with the wrench she had just been waving around like a weapon.

“Now, go back to work. I’ll handle this.”

“Okay, thanks Darce. Oh, have you seen my soldering iron around?”

“It’s in the locked cabinet because you’re not allowed to use it unsupervised, you know that. Gimme ten minutes, I’ll bring it to you.”

Jane wandered back to her side of the observatory, muttering under her breath, leaving Barnes at Darcy’s mercy.

“She’s not the criminal mastermind here, is she?” he wondered, his eyes roaming over the strange cupcake of a woman in his lap.

“Not exactly,” Darcy admitted. “I mean, it’s not like she set out to be a mad scientist. I kind of rebranded her after that little freeway incident.”

“Rebranded?”

“Yeah. She was in a bad way after New Mexico and then when the first live test of her portal engine went a little sideways I didn’t want dudebros on the internet coming after her, so I changed the narrative. Instead of ‘girl scientist makes mistake, should stick to making sandwiches’ I changed it to ‘Dr Foster, genius astrophysicist, causes chaos, totally on purpose.’”

“And all those robberies?”

“I may have encouraged that. I’m all for sticking it to the one percenters, and Jane needed to fund her experiments somehow,” she added with a shrug.

“So Jane’s the absent-minded professor and you’re the brains behind this operation, huh?”

Darcy laughed and slid out of his lap causing a distracting amount of friction. “I’m really not. So you, Coulson, and Fury should be really, really scared.”

“How do you know those names?” he had to know, cover be damned.

“You don’t know? Of course you don’t,” she huffed. “Fury and his clearance levels. I’d tell you to ask him about New Mexico sometime, but you’re not going to be able to.”

“Why not? What are you going to do to me?” Barnes fretted, unable to ignore the sinking feeling that he was in big trouble; she wouldn’t have told him anything if she intended on letting him walk out of here.

“Oh, relax. I’m not going to kill you. I’m just gonna scramble your brain a little.”

She circled his chair, flipping switches as she went, and something behind him started humming ominously.

“So, admittedly I didn’t major in hard sciences. I had an ex who did, but he also fancied himself something of a cat burglar, so when he went to jail I liberated all his college textbooks and gave myself a crash course in electrical engineering. And it helped that those HYDRA designs were really easy to follow.”

“HYDRA?” Barnes cursed.

HYDRA had been the scientific branch of the Nazi regime and believed that discovery required (human) experimentation. They were supposedly eradicated at the end of WWII but Project Paperclip saved some of HYDRA’s greatest minds, giving them immunity in exchange for their genius. If Foster or, more worryingly, Darcy had aligned themselves with some surviving HYDRA faction the results could be catastrophic.

“Yeah, I found them in that SHIELD warehouse when we recovered Jane’s stolen research.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They just call it ‘The Chair’, which is totally not creepy at all,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And this is the Halo,” she added, drawing Barnes’s attention to the whirring circle of metal that was lowering itself over his head.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, renewing his efforts to break free of his restraints. “Get that piece of scrap metal the fuck away from me!”

“Hey! Don’t mock my work. It may look like I raided a junkyard for the components - and I did - but my welding game is on point. It’s totally safe. Mostly safe. It’s just going to send focused electrical pulses to your…” she paused to consult some smudged writing on her hand, “hippocampus and prefrontal cortex.”

The Halo stopped moving and two metal plates extended, pressing against the sides of his head, holding it like a vice.

“Please… don’t do this,” he begged as she approached him with a rubber mouthguard.

“C’mon, open wide. You don’t want to end up braindead and unable to chew your food,” she jested, waving the thing in front of him. “Oh, just one question before I fry your brain,” she added just when he was about to give in. “How did you find us? I was so careful,” she whined.

Agent Barnes, terrified as he was, still managed to look smug at his small, short lived success. “Deja Brew coffee.”

“Curses!” she wailed theatrically. “Betrayed by my one true love!”

Darcy huffed and quickly returned her attention to the matter at hand.

“Thanks for that,” she said with a smile as she forced him to bite down on the mouthguard. “I’ll know better for next time. Start making my own coffee at home… but it never tastes as good,” she muttered to herself.

She stepped away from him and bent down to pick up a similarly frankensteined industrial remote with long wires snaking back to the chair and a clichéd big red button at its centre. He began struggling anew, screaming around the foul tasting rubber, begging for mercy.

She took great delight in his terrified expression and put on her best supervillain voice, “Give my regards to Nick Fury.”

Nick Fury observed his agent from behind a two way mirror as he sat behind a table in an interrogation room. Barnes had been sitting there for the past hour as still as a statue, except for his unfocused eyes which flitted about the room.

In true horror movie fashion, Agent Barnes’ screams echoed down the mountainside like an avalanche, sending animals fleeing in terror for miles around.

** *** **

Local LEO’s had found him wandering aimlessly down a stretch of highway just outside the ruins of what had previously been Puente Antiguo, New Mexico, and ten minutes after they ran his prints Agent Romanoff had been on a quinjet to collect him. She’d been directed to the nearest hospital and found him sitting up on a bed but not responding or reacting to any of the medical staff as they buzzed around him. Agent Romanoff took a cautious step forward and held her breath as his unfocused eyes settled on her.

“Hello James...”

An excruciating minute later the veil lifted and he attempted a smile.

“Hey Tasha.”

She’d brought him back to base and dragged him to SHIELD’s medical bay for more tests - not that Barnes put up much of a fight, in fact he was terrifyingly compliant. The SHIELD doctors confirmed what the New Mexico doctors suspected: the bruising and electrical burns around his temples and his memory loss were indicative of some back alley version of electroshock therapy. His memories should come back in time - how long was anybody’s guess - but for the moment Agent James Barnes had no memory of the last four weeks.

Fury picked up a tablet with depressingly little information on its screen and stepped into the room, waiting for Barnes eyes to focus on him before taking a seat.

“Agent Barnes.”

“Director.”

“I know you’re probably sick of questions by now, but I have a few more for you, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, sure…”

It rankled Fury to no end how meak and passive Barnes seemed. Heaven help him, he missed the argumentative sonofabitch.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Being called into your office.”

“What for?”

“I punched Rumlow.”

“Why?”

“He was bragging about taking advantage of a drunk woman at a club when he was last on leave. He didn’t like me calling out his shitty behaviour. He punched me, I punched him back.”

Fury sighed. He hadn't gotten a straight answer out of Barnes at the time of the incident and he couldn’t feel happy about getting one now.

“Do you remember what happened once I called you into my office?”

His brow creased and his eyes zipped back and forth like the carriage of a printer as his mind searched for the elusive memory.

“You suspended me?”

“I did,” Fury confirmed. “For a whole month. But two weeks into it I pulled you in for a special assignment.”

Barnes tensed, shrinking in on himself. The confusion about his lost time seemed to be the only thing that got under his skin, but only when someone brought it up. Once the moment passed he forgot to be concerned about it.

Fury took pity on him. “For the past two weeks I had you running down leads on the whereabouts of Dr Jane Foster.”

“The scientist with the portals? Did she do this to me?”

“It’s not exactly her MO, but then again no law enforcement agency’s ever managed to have a confrontation with her. Never had the chance. Those portals of hers let her keep at a distance. You might have been the first person to have a face to face with her, but I can’t confirm it because I don’t know where the hell you were when this happened,” he grumbled, letting a little more of his usual exasperated tone filter through. “You missed check in by two days. The last we heard from you, you were at Culver running down leads on what you said was a potential accomplice. We found your car in Tromso, Norway, a day after you were found on the side of a road in New Mexico. You don’t appear on any security footage or speed cameras in the area. There’s no activity on your work or personal credit cards. Your activity logs on our highly secure system for the last two weeks are nonexistent, as are your call logs on your work phone. Even the messages you sent Romanoff from your personal phone complaining about your assignment have since been deleted - from her phone too. She’s real pissed about it. As far as your digital footprint is concerned you disappeared from a gas station outside Roanoke, Virginia, last week - do you know how weird it is to know you were headed out towards a place called Roanoke only to up and vanish?” He sighed at Barnes’ painful silence. “Is there anything you can remember, anything at all about Dr Foster or her accomplice? Anything that will help us catch up to you without talking to everyone on campus to figure out what you discovered?”

Barnes’ brow creased in painful confusion.

“I think… I think I saw Darth Vadar.”

Director Fury blinked. “Right…” He took a deep breath to stop himself from venting his frustrations at Barnes, the sorry bastard looked like a kicked puppy as it was. Instead he got up and tapped the tablet against the metal tabletop harder than strictly necessary. “Well, I’ll just go put out a BOLO out for Darth Vadar then.”

“Okay,” Barnes murmured, and promptly zoned out again.

Agent Romanoff exited the viewing room looking uncharacteristically unsettled.

“I want a full detail on him at all times,” Fury ordered as he stormed off towards the elevators. Hill had just stepped off and was looking even more grim than usual. “Until his memories come back he’s vulnerable, and once they do he’ll be a target.”

“I’ll get a STRIKE team on it. Not Rumlow’s.”

“Get another one along with any assets currently not on assignment. Flood that campus, interrogate everybody. I wanna know who the hell Dr Foster’s accomplice is, and I wanna know yesterday. Understood?”

“I think we might have more pressing concerns, sir,” Hill reported, tapping at her tablet as it beeped erratically. “Coulson’s said there’s an issue with the Tesseract. Dr. Selvig read an energy surge from it fifteen minutes ago.”

“NASA didn't authorise Selvig to test phase,” he grunted, taking the tablet from Hill.

“He wasn't testing it, he wasn't even in the room. Spontaneous advancement.”

“Motherfucker.”

#you say mad scientist like it's a bad thing #freudensteins-fics #mad scientist jane foster #competent assistant darcy lewis #shield agent bucky barnes #torture #aftermath of torture #amnesia #winter soldier memory wipe chair #darcy lewis #jane foster #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #nick fury #maria hill

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hiriajuu-suffering · 3 years

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Reasons I believe in Polyamory

I’ll preface this by saying I’m not attractive enough to be able to have more than a single partner at once, but there is a reason for that, and really, the thesis of this wall of text below: heteronormative relationship standards in every culture have always been, and will continue to always be, more about possession than love in a post-imperialistic world.

Personally, I’m a huge proponent of engendered sexuality variance to the tone of males have a constant slow drip of libido and a female’s sex drive hits them like a freight train once a month (in mammalian bioepigenetics, this makes sense). I’m inclined to infer, because I’m not idyllically normatively attractive, only a fraction of a percentage of women will be attracted to me 24-27 days of any given month. As a cisgendered man who is regrettably straight, having the least attractive genoethnic identity intersection (South Asian Muslim) in Western culture, I’m never actually presented with the choices to act on a poly mindset (in fact, I would be ridiculed for it because people think it aligns with some other gross tribal stereotype when it couldn’t be further from the truth). In retrospect, I have everything to gain from interpreting the main benefit of an intimate relationship as ownership like heteronormative culture generally does yet I still think disavowing poly as a legitimate personal choice is immoral.

I know saying monogamous relationships are more about possession than love will offend lots of people, so before you throw hate at me for your emotionally defensive skepticism, hear me out. An unflinching, unyielding love is seen as the highest parameter in any type of romance. So why is it cheating is so much of a bigger problem than a dry spell specifically? Is it because it’s legitimately a breach of trust, or is it more about “if I can’t have you, no one can”? More importantly, does it go a step further and say “if I don’t want you, no one should”? To me, any sort of dry spell (whether physically, emotionally, mentally) signifies a much larger breach of trust than simply having been shared because it shows said commitment in the relationship was not unflinching, not unyielding. The monogamous lens looks at others like: I want to have the best partner, not just so that I’m happy, but no one else can receive the specific happiness I get. Doesn’t that whole mindset come off as brutish? Just me? Well, maybe your pitchforks will start coming down when you realize monogamy is a function of toxic patriarchy on both feminine and masculine ends.

There are bioevolutionary reasons for toxic femininity to value the possession aspect of a relationship over its substantive “quality of life” components, the birth-giving gender in any animalistic specie always had to be beheld to a provider they reproduce with. Does it not then represent a sense of feminine fragility when a single mother immediately demands a long-term relationship and nothing else? If I’m to believe said woman is capable of genuine lust in her system, having a child shouldn’t evaporate all carnal desires completely and, therefore, should leave room for compromise. Said stance also indicates she made some sort of error in judgment of her chosen reproductive mate and feels entitled another man ought remedy her strife even though, evolutionarily speaking, he has nothing to gain from helping to rear offspring not of his kin. Harsh, to be sure, but it does show in the obnoxiousness of the connotation of becoming a stepdad being a positive one and becoming a stepmom assumes the motivation of some gain in status (wealth, fame, power, etc.) which I would argue is negative. Where does toxic masculinity come into play? Desire for possession on the part of a male promotes the viability and exclusivity of his own children with his most desirable partner. While that’s damn near nowhere as compelling, it has to be stated because there are always two benefactors to patriarchy. Patriarchy is not a zero sum game, patriarchy seeks to concentrate all familial social benefits in the monogamously-driven, heteronormative genus, away from those who deviate from the ideal picture of stereotypical gender roles. The ill effects of patriarchal standards exist in every human civilization, but the ontological root to the specific brand of patriarchy that oppresses all genders today was spread by a culture that uniquely preached monogamy.

Polygamy, in a historical sense, was a testament to the more status a person of the provider gender could achieve, the more their genetics would proliferate. Many cultures globally practiced this, the issue is, the ones that didn’t were the ones who, often violently, “conquered” the ones that did. Christian fundamentalism is in every fiber of international morality, whether the nation in question believes in Christianity or not is often irrelevant. Monogamy is enforced, anything outside of that is deemed as necessarily being deviant (whether choosing to be alone or choosing more connections than a monocule). Fetishization of the step relation is eluding to this deviance in a not-so-subtle way because it’s something where its allure is derived from its forbiddenness moreso than its convenience, every one of these scenarios has a subtext of implicit gain, not loss, in engagement. Meaning, the idea is planted because a hot person is there not because a person in general is there and can satiate an urge. Tl;dr - we believe polyamory is a morally negative act because the Holy Roman Empire did and every nation that spawned from it spread, imparted, and coerced that ideal on every culture it came into contact with. Before the Holy Roman Empire, no historical documents made distinctions to behest multiple lovers as desanctifying of life itself, not even the coalescing of nations that made up the Holy Roman Empire before its inception.

We are now in an era when women have access to full reproductive control, yet we still see men lust more than women, e.g. archetypal lesbian tendencies versus archetypal gay male tendencies. Do we not question why this is the case? All lifeforms are hardwired with a desire to survive and reproduce, so why does that drive not reach equity when risk does? There are two answers, and it could even be both: women are only socially conditioned to have sex via patriarchal pressures and don’t have as much inherent desire to reproduce OR sex is a means-to-an-end to exclusively possess a desired provider, whatever said person provides. If said person has a trait valuable enough to want to possess, is it not self-contrived to keep that quality to oneself, not share it with the world where it can provide more utility? Heteronormative relationships, in a sense, are anti-altruistic at their very core. As facetious as this sounds, either of these trains of thought are validated by men being more willing to engage in polyamory than women, not because men are somehow any less loyal than women. On its own, I feel this line of reasoning is enough to justify a vehement disgust of polyamory as immoral, but I want to conclude on the most pivotal facet to this conversation and not just heavily imply monogamy encroachment on moral turpitude is problematic at best.

As I mentioned a few times, I am likely to be a spoke on a polycule, not a member with multiple connections. Exclusive possession is something I probably stand more to gain from than any woman, logically and realistically, given the current social climate and general global beauty standards. My advocacy of polyamory stems from me accepting I may not be enough to be the full extent of happiness my romantic interest desires. That doesn’t even come from a place of insecurity, it comes from a place knowing I could never be perfect even if its pursuit is a righteous cause. I see real insecurity as a fear of loss when the rules of engagement you put into place were exclusivity: you don’t want your partner looking at anyone else because it’s disadvantageous to you, meaning you’re not fixated on their best interest and looking at relationships in said manner is deliberately selfish. To me, the best frame of reference to morality in interpersonal social connections is altruism. Yeah, self-love is important and knowing your own boundaries is beneficial but everyone else’s boundaries don’t have to match yours. I’m not anti-monogamist, really. I’m more anti-polyamorist discontent.

Not having thought this deeply isn’t an excuse, either.

#personal #polyamory #polyamourous #polyandry #polycule #polyam life #polyam relationship #polyamourus pride #polyam tag #polyamorous #polyamoury #polyamorus

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mopeytropey · 4 years

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a beer buds series: chapter 10

author’s note: When I originally told my wife of the idea for this series, she immediately suggested an entire rewrite of 'a pleasant undoing' but told from Lexa's perspective. So I'm counting chapters 9 and 10 as honoring her wishes. The continuation of this series will reprise our almost strictly Lincoln + Lexa formula, but I'm not naive enough to think that at least 99% of you weren't going into this also hoping for some premium Clarke + Lexa content. (Forgive me for the deviation ... and the smut)

Timeline: essentially, we're just picking up where chapter 9 left off ...

Beer: Lil’ Heaven: Two Roads Brewing (Stratford, CT) SESSION IPA

Made with three exotic hops - Azacca, Mosaic and Equinox. Taste is of tropical fruits, specifically passion fruit, grapefruit and apricots. Finishes with just enough toasted malt character to balance.

ABV 4.8%

Posted on AO3 here, or below the cut:

:::

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

“I saw you two days ago.” Lexa affectionately rolls her eyes, nevertheless smiling while accepting an exaggerated hug from Lincoln as if they are reuniting after a long separation.

“Work doesn’t count. You’ve been completely off the radar for a week, socially speaking.”

They’ve met for an impromptu breakfast at a local diner not far from Lexa’s apartment. She’s back in her neighborhood for practicality reasons, having left the idyllic bubble of Clarke’s bedroom in order to do some loads of laundry. But, it’s also a nice excuse to see her friend.

Lincoln has already procured them steaming cups of coffee and a pair of red vinyl stools at the breakfast counter that faces the busy griddle top. He is grinning at her as they sit, awaiting her response.

“I’ve just been … busy,” she says, not even able to curb the bashful smile that follows as she removes her coat and hat.

Lexa pretends not to blush, knowing full well her time spent with Clarke has superseded any other social obligations as they have begun a long overdue exploration of new and exciting facets of their relationship.

Namely sex. A good portion of her week has, in fact, been absorbed by unspeakably good sex.

“Uh-huh,” Lincoln laughs warmly. “I wasn’t even sure you two had remembered how to physically separate at this point. Thought maybe Clarke would be joining us as well based solely on the fact that you two haven’t surfaced for anything other than work responsibilities in a full week.”

Lexa sips her coffee through a growing grin to prolong any acknowledgement of Lincoln’s playful accusation.

“Morning, hon’.” A familiar waitress says in passing, leaving two menus beside Lincoln’s coffee cup. “Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

“Thanks, Helen,” Lexa smiles. It’s not often that she indulges in big breakfast meals, preferring her protein smoothies or avocado toast, but Lexa has nevertheless fallen into a routine of frequenting the diner as a way of establishing new roots.

In her old Brooklyn borough it had been the Chilo’s taco bar where she and Anya would meet every Friday to decompress from the work week over carnitas tacos and cheap beer. In her new portside life in Massachusetts, it’s Angie’s Diner. The coffee is palatable, at best, but the atmosphere is welcoming and Lexa has always enjoyed seeing familiar faces when forced to dine alone. Helen’s gruff, New England endearments in a seasoned, smoker’s voice, have consistently been a comforting presence.

When the woman shuffles off to tend to the other, early morning diners, Lexa turns to see Lincoln still watching her expectantly. “Clarke had some tasks at Dockside to attend to, and I really need clean clothes.”

“And, you’re functioning okay in her absence? Breathing okay and everything?”

Lexa laughs at his continued teasing, but easily concedes to an honest answer. So much uninterrupted time spent in Clarke’s company, sharing the myriad truths about their feelings, has apparently begun to bleed into her other relationships as well.

Lexa has almost always been able to leave herself unguarded in Lincoln’s presence anyway.

“I’m probably more dysfunctional when she’s around, actually.”

Lincoln stifles a laugh around a sip of his coffee. “That sounds like a fair assessment. Everything’s going as well as expected then?”

“Yeah, it’s—” Lexa tries, and instantly fails, not to picture Clarke lathered and laughing in the shower while Lexa fights to stand beneath the warm, steaming spray; Clarke pressing her against the kitchen countertops with hands roaming while the coffee steeps; Clarke cuddling into her on the sofa with the lights dim and the TV volume low “—it’s been really good.”

“Oh no.”

“What?” Lexa smiles unsurely, eyes widening at Lincoln’s grave expression.

“What’s with the hesitation?”

“What hesitation? I did not hesitate.”

“I know that hesitation.” Lincoln narrows his gaze at her, dark eyes assessing for signs of Lexa’s concession. “What are you in your head about now?”

She really needs to stop associating with people who can read her like a book.

“Okay, fine,” Lexa exhales. She flips open the worn menu, its once glossy, laminate pages now dulled from years of loyal patronage. “I’m just adjusting to the intensity of it all.”

“You’ve made a major life change. Totally normal to feel overwhelmed,” Lincoln shrugs.

“I know. You’re right. I haven’t even slept at my apartment in almost a week.”

“And, this is somehow a bad thing?” Lincoln laughs.

“No, I have absolutely zero complaints,” Lexa clarifies. “But, we’re spending literally all of our free time together—and portions of our work days, too.”

Lincoln chuckles after another sip of coffee. “Also totally normal. In the beginning, Octavia used to impose all of these ridiculous sleepover schedules—like, spending three nights a week together is the maximum, or whatever—only to completely abandon her own, dumb rule and would end up sleeping at mine for weeks at a time.” Lincoln thinks better of it a second later and warns, “Don’t ever tell her I told you that.”

The legitimate fear she can see in his eyes makes her laugh, and suddenly she doesn’t feel quite so overwhelmed. “I’ve always considered it wise not to let on that I know just how obsessed Octavia is with you.”

“Smart woman,” Lincoln winks. “So, other than acclimating to new sleeping arrangements, what is it that’s stressing you out? You think you’re spending too much time together?”

“That’s the thing—I like being able to be with Clarke as much as possible. This past week, spending time with her, I’ve felt calmer and happier and more settled than I have in ages.”

Lincoln smiles so warmly, Lexa can feel it in her chest. “Don’t you think Clarke feels exactly the same way?”

“I’m pretty confident that Clarke enjoys having me around, yes. It’s not like she’s trying to kick me out of her house or anything yet.”

“But?”

“But, I keep wondering what the long-term implications are. Because the way that everything is changing between us: it feels … significant.”

“Yeah. That’s because you’re in l—”

Lexa looks away with a groan that drowns out the rest of Lincoln’s statement, rubbing a hand against her forehead. “Oh my god, please stop saying that.”

“Okay, okay,” Lincoln laughs. And then, after a moment while clearing his throat, he not-so-subtly reiterates: “But, you are.”

Lexa studiously ignores any truth in Lincoln’s playful accusation and further expounds, “I guess if anything is stressing me out, it’s not knowing if Clarke is experiencing something similar to what I am right now.”

“Knowing Clarke like I do, and having had the pleasure of a front row seat to all of this from day one, I can confidently assure you that she is right there with you. That being said, have you ever considered—I don’t know—asking her yourself instead of sitting here having a hypothetical conversation about it with me?”

“I do plan to speak with her about this,” Lexa assures an openly skeptical Lincoln. “I do.”

“I mean, you’re in the first week of a new relationship, Lex. I get it. That is usually not time that’s predominantly spent talking.”

Lexa is saved from her sudden flush of embarrassment by the return of their waitress, Helen, who kindly disregards the red tint on Lexa’s cheeks as she orders her scrambled eggs and rye toast.

“The point is,” Lincoln continues once their orders have been placed, “you guys have this really solid and established friendship going into this thing. In my experience, that can sort of push you ahead at a faster clip than you’re probably accustomed to in relationships.” He drains his coffee, placing it back onto the counter with a dull clink. “So, what would make you feel better about the rate at which you and Clarke are headed?”

Lincoln has a uniquely comforting way of simplifying Lexa’s life. He’s so genuine and forthcoming, and she could hug him again for all his supportive logic. Instead, she takes a deep breath to clear her head and pledges to hug him later.

“I want to be up front with her about where I see this going, to determine whether or not she and I are on the same page. I want her to know that I’m—”

“—in love with her?” Lincoln grins.

Lexa punches him, with unintentional force, and regrets it only when Helen—a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper curls and kind eyes—glances at them in mild concern as she refills their coffee. “I would ask if he’s bothering you, hon’, but I have a feeling you’re more than capable of handling yourself.”

“Don’t worry, I deserved that,” Lincoln assures their waitress, laughing at Lexa’s menacing scowl while rubbing his arm.

“I was going to say, I want Clarke to know that I’m not interested in dating anyone else.”

“Oh, right, right,” Lincoln nods, still smiling. “See, I just keep forgetting you two haven’t already been dating exclusively for, like, six months.”

“Why do I hang out with you again?”

For all her feigned exasperation, she is instantly wrapped up in an embrace, not unlike an older brother might lovingly harass his younger sibling. “Because you love me.” He pulls her in closely for a monstrous hug—right there at the diner counter—despite Lexa’s sharp elbow to his abdomen as she playfully fights against the forced affection.

:::

Clarke emerges from her silver Saab just as Lexa ambles across the snow-dusted gravel of the marina, icy rocks crunching beneath her boots. Cars are parked at odd, misfitted angles wherever they can find space between the boats set up on large blocks in their bright white winter wrappings. Clarke is wearing her plaid scarf and bulky winter parka, and Lexa’s chest tightens with equal amounts of excitement and trepidation at seeing her again after a short span apart.

“You should have let me pick you up,” Clarke says by way of a greeting.

“It’s not a bad walk from my apartment.”

Their breaths dissipate in the air between them after briefly appearing in frozen clouds. Lexa can feel her teeth about to chatter because the air on the water is properly freezing, but she attributes the chill along her spine to the nervous energy of being near Clarke.

Clarke’s gaze narrows in judgement. “Stubborn.”

“Those in glass houses,” Lexa counters, arching her brow in a way that brings that pleasant tint of blush to Clarke’s cheeks.

It could very well be the wind; except Lexa knows that it isn’t.

“Okay can we further reprimand each other once we’re inside where it’s warm?”

Clarke’s gloved hand wraps around her coat sleeve and tugs until they are both headed towards the blue front door of the coffee shop. A welcomed gush of warm air envelopes them instantly, and Lexa’s skin begins to tingle where the harsh winds had chilled her face. There isn’t much of a line, nor is the shop crowded with other people. The moderately-sized open room is sparse with patrons, enjoying their steaming drinks under natural lighting and softly playing music.

It’s been six days—not that Lexa has been meticulously keeping track, but it’s been six days—of near-constant kissing and unrestrained touch; of perpetual orgasms and an intentionally precise exploration of Clarke’s body; of general sensory overload when it comes to redefining her relationship with her best friend. Hardly a week has transpired since they began testing the waters of this mutual attraction, which has nevertheless consumed Lexa entirely.

Maybe it’s only been six days, an insignificant length of time under normal circumstances, but it feels much more weighted than that.

Between the kissing and the touching and the orgasms, nevermind the sudden influx of unveiled honesty, she can hardly keep her head above water. Her mind hasn’t stopped spinning since that first kiss on Clarke’s doorstep, and she’s only slightly concerned with contracting vertigo if they don’t stop and address what is happening between them sooner rather than later. Lexa needs to sit in a familiar, public space in the light of day with her best friend to discuss the implications on their relationship as it progresses at full tilt.

Lincoln’s advice rings in her ears as they enter the shop: just talk to Clarke.

“Hey, strangers!” A barista greets them happily as she and Clarke approach the cash register. Her name slips from Lexa’s memory, but Clarke returns her greeting for them both.

“Hey, Morgan.”

“Oh my god, I thought you two got lost at sea or something. We haven’t seen you in ages.” Morgan is young, perhaps just out of college, with bright pink hair and a septum piercing.

Clarke’s head shifts so that she can give Lexa a strange look, which Lexa promptly returns before offering a brief smile. “Oh, um, yeah. Just busy during the holidays,” Clarke answers.

Lexa gives her order and Clarke pays, brushing off Lexa’s insistence on paying her share. In seven months, if she’s learned anything, it is not to question Clarke’s generosity. They move to a deserted sofa beside an old wood stove fireplace to wait for their drinks and begin removing their coats and hats. Lexa’s toes begin to tingle and thaw within her leather boots as the heat from the fire permeates.

The harborside shop is the same as always: natural light streaming through the windows facing the water; a smattering of locally produced art hanging on brightly colored walls; and, a handful of other patrons sitting in mismatched furniture with computers or paperbacks. Everything is the same, except for her and Clarke.

They sit closely, quickly finding small, innocuous points of contact. Clarke tucks into one end of the sofa so that her knees rest gently against Lexa’s legs. Their hands seek touch as the barista delivers their drinks, separating only briefly to accept the steaming mugs and offer their gratitude. Once Morgan leaves them to attend other customers, Lexa falls into the comfort of their secluded, sun-drenched pocket of the shop.

“It’s so cold outside. I think my feet are still thawing.”

“It feels nice in here,” Lexa responds, smiling because Clarke inches closer to her anyway and she was only outside for under two minutes as it is.

Lexa senses a buzzing from her coat where it sits beside her and reaches into one of its deep pockets to check her phone. A text from Lincoln confirms their plans to meet up later for drinks. She types a quick, one-handed response before replacing her phone and returning her full attention to Clarke.

“Lincoln,” she explains, although Clarke doesn’t look poised to ask.

“Does he miss you already?”

Lexa laughs, shaking her head. “No, he’s not nearly as codependent as you.”

Clarke attempts to withdraw her fingers from where they are slotted between Lexa’s, but Lexa tightens her grasp with a widening grin at Clarke’s dropped jaw and feigned affront.

“Are you still hanging out later?”

“Yeah, he was just confirming the time.” Lexa’s thumb smooths across the back of Clarke’s hand in a slow, repetitive arch. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

Clarke shakes her head firmly. “No, this is your sacred time together—I can’t encroach on that.”

“It’s beers and appetizers, Clarke. I wouldn’t call it sacred.”

Clarke’s eyes widen dramatically. “I’m gonna tell him you said that.”

The empty threat makes Lexa smile again. They’ve always had a particular talent for banter, and the added layer of their recent sexual experiences makes it all the more delightful to trade taunts and harmless barbs.

“How was your laundry adventure?” Clarke asks while reaching for her coffee, and Lexa smirks.

“Thrilling.”

Despite her instincts to stay within reach of Clarke at all times as much as physically possible, there is also the issue of personal hygiene. In this case, it was Lexa’s growing pile of clothes that needed attending.

“And breakfast with Lincoln?”

She can’t tell Clarke how she is actually reconsidering a lifelong friendship with Lincoln because he had spent a majority of the morning brutally teasing her. To reveal that would require Lexa to also elaborate on his specific proclamations about her feelings for Clarke.

And so, Lexa tells her, “It was good.”

“You can always do laundry at mine, you know.”

“Is this just another ploy to keep me tethered to your house for longer intervals?”

An exasperated look flashes across Clarke’s face while she swallows down a mouthful of steaming coffee. “Yes. Have you not been paying attention at all over the past week?”

Lexa swallows through a grin of her own. There’s really only one, notable thing they’ve been engaged in over the past week, and to think of it now has Lexa’s face warming as she becomes acutely aware of Clarke’s proximity in a public space.

“I’ve been a little preoccupied lately.”

Light laughter escapes her as Lexa’s right hand fiddles the ribbing of Clarke’s sweater between her fingers. She is dressed in something off-white and oversized that cuts at a low vee below her neck so that Lexa’s eyes begin to wander to its shadowed opening. It’s a sweater she remembers from the time before—when all of Lexa’s cultivated interest in Clarke (including her wardrobe) was something unspoken and dutifully ignored.

Lexa remembers that Clarke had been dressed for a dinner at her mother’s house, and Lexa had been granted a chance encounter for quick minutes in which they danced around a thrumming attraction. She can feel it sparking in the air between them now, their pocket of relative privacy threatening to implode from the calculated looks Clarke is giving her.

“Busy week?” she further teases, eyeing Lexa’s blush over the rim of her coffee mug as she takes another sip.

Lexa purses her lips and narrows her gaze at Clarke’s self-satisfaction. “Exactly how much joy does it bring you to torture me?”

“So much,” Clarke laughs. She slips her fingers between Lexa’s so that they are loosely held together. “But only because you’re so adorable when you’re exasperated.”

“Flattery is supposed to absolve you?”

“Obviously.” Clarke rolls her eyes, bringing Lexa’s fingers to her mouth and brushing them quickly with a kiss.

With affections such as this, Lexa would forgive her of almost anything.

“So,” Clarke says through a sigh while bringing their joined hands to rest again on her knee. “What did you want to talk about?”

Now that Clarke has given her the floor, Lexa practically swallows her tongue in nervous vacillation. She had strategized a few, well-devised talking points during the process of cleaning her clothes, not to mention procuring some sound advice from Lincoln over breakfast, but sitting here in front of Clarke has made Lexa forget how to string together words and phrases to construct complete thoughts.

In a desperate attempt to find her resolve, she reaches for the cup of english black tea she’d ordered. Lexa takes her first sip, wishing she’d asked for a pinch more sugar but nevertheless hoping it will soothe her racing thoughts.

“I just wanted to … check in.”

Pathetically underwhelming start. Lincoln would be so disappointed. She takes another sip that is more like a gulp.

Clarke nods slowly. “Okay.”

“About us.”

“Okay,” Clarke repeats, her smile looking apprehensive at best.

“Our friendship has evolved significantly over the past week, and rapidly, at that. I just thought we should—” Lexa wavers and Clarke comes to her rescue.

“Check in?”

“Yeah,” Lexa nods.

“Okay. Are you—are you feeling okay about everything?”

Lexa begins to tangle her fingers around Clarke’s more fervently. “Things with you are almost too good.”

Clarke’s smile changes instantly, full and bright and genuinely pleased. “I feel the same. I’m actually feeling incredibly, fucking lucky, to put a finer point on it.”

“Good,” Lexa smiles, exhaling a modicum of relief. “I do too.”

“Oh my god, you had me scared.” Clarke leans back into the couch, dislodging their hands to run her fingers through her hair. “I thought you were going to say you want to date other people or something.”

“What? No.” Lexa’s breath has been lost to a vacuum of panic so that her ask is hardly audible. “Do you?”

“No! No. I’ve dated, Lexa. I’ve dated plenty,” Clarke laughs lightly, reaching for a surer hold on Lexa’s fingers. “But, you—I mean, you’re single for the first time in over three years. You must have thought about it.”

Not single, Lexa says to herself before thinking better of it and rephrasing aloud:

“Clarke, I could date a hundred women and none of them would be you.”

“Yes, I am fairly certain I’ve yet to be cloned.”

“Are you going to stop being a smartass so I can say this?” Lexa smiles in mock irritation.

“Sorry, sorry.” Clarke pinches her lips together, attentive. “Continue.”

“What I mean is, no one else would compare. I’ve never met anyone like you—this connection I feel with you, I’ve never experienced anything like it.” Lexa takes a breath, licking her lips before forging onward. “I can’t say where this is going, but I can say, unquestionably, that I have no interest in dating anyone else for the foreseeable future.”

The words leave her in a rush of honesty. It feels like she’s said too much too soon, but Clarke leans forward with a smile and Lexa interprets the gentle press of her lips as having said exactly the right thing.

“Do you think we can take these drinks to-go and finish this conversation elsewhere?” Clarke’s voice is pitched low and seductive, and Lexa senses a chill tingling at the back of her neck.

She resolves to stop doubting her honesty, if also to reconsider hanging out with Clarke in public spaces for a while until they can get their rampant sexual urges under control long enough to enjoy a cup of tea.

“Did you have a specific location in mind?” she grins in response as if the gleam in Clarke’s eyes isn’t a clear enough indication.

:::

Part 2

:::

The sex is consistently noteworthy, and Lexa had never really doubted that she and Clarke would be compatible in that way, but so is the intimacy alongside it. Lexa has never before distinguished between the two so markedly. But, with Clarke, the intimacy is so distinct. When she is coming around Clarke’s fingers, letting her watch the strains of pleasure in her face and shoulders, Lexa registers the vulnerability of being caught in Clarke’s gaze as an orgasm ricochets through her.

Ordinarily, a week into any new relationship and Lexa would still be clinging to well-practiced safeguards. She would be withholding some parts of herself for safekeeping and ultimate preservation should things go sideways.

But, not with Clarke.

She likes that Clarke watches her so carefully. The way that she feels when held by Clarke’s gaze is a kind of certain safety that Lexa hasn’t known before. She kisses Clarke fully, holding nothing back as the pulsating aftershocks of her orgasm begin to ebb. When Clarke slowly removes her fingers, Lexa bites Clarke’s lip, swallowing the soft moan that follows.

“Does this mean you want to be exclusive?” Lexa asks, still breathless, when their lips have parted.

She feels Clarke’s laughter against her face before she’s being kissed again. “Yes, you idiot.”

“Good. Because I want to take you out.”

“Tonight?”

“Not tonight. It’s going to require some planning. I’d like it to be a proper date.”

Clarke’s elation is instantly visible. “Okay. I’m going to be honest, I’m highly intrigued to find out what a proper Lexa date looks like.”

Lexa kisses her again and considers, not for the first time, if she’ll be able to stop now that she’s started. Clarke’s warm tongue and soft lips are now vital to Lexa’s existence. She craves the sensation of their mouths sliding together at random intervals throughout her days.

“Kissing you has not been a disappointment,” she says, bringing more of Clarke’s bright laughter as they shift their limbs to reposition against the mattress.

Clarke’s leg wraps around her waist as Lexa brushes stray hair from Clarke’s face where they now lay facing side-by-side. “Oh, my god, I’ll second that. I knew you would be a good kisser.”

“Did you?” Lexa smiles at the confession. She likes that Clarke had thought of her in similar ways. She had not been the only one lost in questionably scandalous daydreams over the course of their friendship.

“Yes. I may have thought about it, once or twice.”

“I had a pretty good feeling about your talents as well.”

It’s such a simple, shared admission that nevertheless makes Lexa’s heart trip in its rhythm. “And now, I think about it constantly.”

For that, she is rewarded with another press of Clarke’s lips. “Me too. I’m pretty sure I’m regressing into a terrible excuse for a restaurant manager as a result of constant distraction.”

“And the bar for your professionalism was already set so low as it is.”

“Hey!” For that she gets a finger plunged sharply between her ribs, and Lexa squirms away from Clarke’s violent tickling.

“I’m kidding. You are an elite and respected paragon of your field.”

“You’re damn right I am,” Clarke affirms with pride.

“Honestly, I was so lost in thought the other day, I dropped a six pack on my foot.”

“Lexa!” Clarke laughs, kissing Lexa again anyway. “Oh no.”

“No permanent damage,” Lexa smiles. “Can I tell you what else I really like?”

Clarke could not look more delighted. “Yes, please.”

“I really like your sweater.”

“Wait—which sweater?”

Lexa props up onto an elbow, separating their warm skin as she casts her eyes around the room before locating the sweater in question. It sits near the foot of the bed where it had been discarded moments before. “That one,” she says. “It looks really good on you.”

Clarke seems both surprised and amused by the compliment. “Come here.”

Lexa allows herself to be pulled closer when Clarke wraps both hands around the back of her neck and their limbs slot back into place. They kiss lazily as if time doesn’t exist while Lexa’s hands begin to drift along the pathways she has started to chart across Clarke’s skin.

“I like seeing you in such a good mood,” Clarke eventually tells her.

“The effect of midafternoon orgasms cannot be underrated.” The frank sentiment makes Clarke laugh again as she rests their foreheads together and begins smoothing over Lexa’s skin with the tips of her fingers. “Also, I like being able to tell you things—things I wouldn’t have been able to say before.”

“I like when you tell me things.” Clarke tucks a strand of loose curls around Lexa’s ear. “Anything else in that busy head of yours you feel like sharing?”

Three words ring prominently in Lexa’s ears, and she fully blames Lincoln’s stupid taunting for the sentiment being at the forefront of her mind. It has nothing to do with the soft, swirling blue of Clarke’s eyes, or the subtle tilt of her mouth, or the fact that Lexa has memorized the sound of Clarke’s laugh. She swallows roughly and presses her lips to Clarke’s, sealing the unspoken words between them for good measure.

She instead tells Clarke a different truth, “I’m feeling much better since we talked.”

“I’m glad,” Clarke smiles. “I feel better, too.” She runs a hand down Lexa’s arm, finding her fingers.

“I was sort of anxious to say anything,” Lexa admits, feeling brave while cocooned in Clarke’s bed despite her earlier insecurities. She had worried, yet again, about saying too much. There was always the risk of Clarke pulling away if Lexa revealed too much. “I spent at least two days debating with myself.”

Clarke’s exaggerated surprise results in Lexa’s quiet giggles. “No, you did? You tortured yourself for days with unnecessary internal debates? That is highly out-of-character, Lexa.”

“You really are a lot more like Lincoln than I ever realized.”

Clarke’s laughter somehow brings them closer together, and Lexa shifts her legs where they are staggered between Clarke’s. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And, I’m glad you finally talked to me about this. I mean, I wasn’t totally expecting you to propose in the way that you did, but—”

“Clarke.” Lexa buries her face into the pillow and clenches her eyes to stave off her creeping mortification. So much for embracing her honesty.

Of course, Clarke is endlessly humored by watching Lexa suffer and only continues her assault on Lexa’s heartfelt admission. “I mean, correct me if I’m misquoting, but you said: ‘for the foreseeable future,’ which basically translates into asking me to date you, but like, forever.”

“Oh my god,” Lexa mumbles, her face still pressed into the soft cotton of Clarke’s pillowcase.

Clarke is not deterred by Lexa’s mounting humiliation, pressing kisses full of laughter into her neck and shoulder until Lexa finally turns to face her. Using the leverage of her leg wrapped around Lexa’s hips, Clarke has since wrestled her onto her back.

“See?” she says, running an index finger down the slope of Lexa’s nose and effectively smoothing the furrow of embarrassment between her eyebrows. “So adorable.”

It’s hard to keep hold of her ire when Clarke is naked above her and straddling her hips. Perhaps Clarke knows this as well because even as she shifts imperceptibly, Lexa feels it straight through her core. Her hands come to rest on the tops of Clarke’s thighs, and though she senses a residual scowl tugging at her lips, most of her regret for being too honest has faded.

“I’m sorry for making fun,” Clarke says while her thumbs rub circular patterns on Lexa’s ribs.

Lexa has never seen anyone look less apologetic in her life. “I would be more inclined to believe you if you weren’t actively trying not to laugh.”

“No, no, I’m serious,” Clarke reiterates, although she is fully laughing now. She clears her throat, aiming valiantly for composure. “What you said was so sweet, and, I mean, in case you couldn’t tell, I sort of plan on dating you for a really long time, too.”

Lexa fights her own smile rather poorly. “Well, that’s very convenient.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Clarke nods.

It’s the perfect segue into more unrestrained fondling, more languid kisses, and Clarke seems to be on the same wavelength as she leans her weight onto her hands and begins to roll her hips. It’s easier falling into this rhythm when for six days they have perpetually cycled the same routine: intimate talks bookended by multiple orgasms that are interspersed with brief intervals reserved for sleep and nourishment.

Lexa gasps into their first kiss from their well-timed movements—the feeling of them sliding together in that way has a heated sensation building quick and low. Just the pressure of Clarke on top of her and the way her slow, purposed movements are hitting Lexa in the all the right spots, has her close to a second orgasm in minutes.

She can hear Clarke’s breathing accelerate as well, the forced puffs of air through her nose that Lexa feels against her cheeks as their kisses grow more urgent. Clarke’s hand moves first, skating down Lexa’s abdomen as she lifts her hips to slide her fingers towards Lexa’s clit. It’s been no more than twenty minutes since her last orgasm, but Lexa’s body instantly responds to the circulating pressure of Clarke’s fingers moving against her.

They are still figuring things out, learning how the other responds to physical arousal, but this—Clarke on top of her, easily working her towards climax with deft fingers and filthy, open-mouth kisses—will do the trick every, single time. Lexa could probably come with much less stimulation at this point, when brushing touches while fully clothed are sometimes too much for her to function. Never mind the visual currently hovering over her—Clarke’s bouncing chest, grinding hips, and blown pupils. An image of her fingers sunk into Clarke in this position is enough to send Lexa over the edge. Her back arches off the mattress as the orgasm rolls up her spine, and Lexa catches her breath only after Clarke starts kissing her again.

A familiar dilemma has Lexa torn between using her hands or her mouth as the tingling sensations of her own orgasm have barely begun to fade. In the end, her urgency to feel Clarke’s arousal, and see it to completion, has Lexa moving a hand between their bodies to slide eager fingers into Clarke’s folds. There will always be time later to bury her face between Clarke’s legs.

Her breath always stutters at that first touch—it’s slick and warm and Clarke groans appreciatively when Lexa extends two fingers just as Clarke sinks onto Lexa’s hand. That she is open and intimate with Clarke in a way she never thought possible has not fully registered as her new reality, and for a brief second, Lexa’s mind goes blank.

In another breath, Lexa shifts, guiding Clarke to change her position just enough that she can take one of Clarke’s nipples into her mouth. The quick suction and slow laps of her tongue produce a groan from Clarke that Lexa will be thinking about days later.

“Fuck, Lexa,” Clarke pants, her hips now thrusting quicker against Lexa’s hand, pressing harder against her fingers as they slide in an out.

Clarke’s arms shift, palms flat against the mattress on either side of Lexa’s head where she is still holding her weight.

“Are your arms getting tired? Do you want to switch positions?” Lexa absently moves her hand that had been massaging one of Clarke’s breasts to lightly hold her bicep.

“No.” Clarke smiles and kisses her softly, in direct contrast to the way she is currently riding Lexa’s fingers. “You’re very sweet, but I’m good.”

“Okay, good. Because I’m really appreciating this view,” Lexa grins, moving her hand again to swipe a thumb across Clarke’s nipple.

“Do you think you can—”

She doesn’t let Clarke finish, relying instead on her still-developing intuitions, and takes the other nipple into her mouth.

“Yes, fuck.”

Lexa celebrates her victory of predicting Clarke’s needs by altering the position of her hand to reach Clarke’s clit with her thumb, the result of which has Clarke nearly collapsing onto her as her elbows buckle and her hips jerk forward. Lexa finds a well-practiced rhythm after that and works Clarke all the way to climax until the movement of her hips becomes erratic and she is no longer able to string together coherent profanity.

The comedown is soft and fun, quiet giggles and breathless kisses. Clarke collapses onto the mattress beside her, arms and legs finally relieved of their tension, and Lexa curls onto her side so that she can rest a hand onto Clarke’s stomach where she lies flat on her back.

Lexa is so content, she feels like her body might levitate in a boneless mass above the bed. Clarke’s breathing is still coming to rest, and Lexa watches her hand rise and fall with each inhale and exhale.

Into the greying stillness of the bedroom, Clarke asks, “Hey, what time are you supposed to meet Lincoln?”

The serenity Lexa had felt shatters in an instant. “Oh shit!” She flails about for a moment in search of her phone, having completely forgotten about her plans. “What time is it?”

She locates her phone before Clarke can answer. It’s already half past three, and Lexa’s stomach plummets. The text from Lincoln says: where you at?

“Are you late?” Clarke has come to sit behind her where Lexa’s legs hang off the mattress near the bedside table where she’d found her phone. Lexa feels soft kisses against her shoulderblade. “What did he say?”

Below Lincoln’s text is a picture of two full pints of beer sitting on a bar counter. She holds her phone at an angle so that Clarke can see Lincoln’s texts.

Lexa runs a hand through her hair as her heart hammers from the sudden jolt of adrenaline. “Shit.”

More than the shame of accidentally standing up one of her closest friends, Lexa dreads the fallout of this enormous misstep because Lincoln is never going to let her live this down. Worse yet, there is a good chance that he’ll share the story with Anya, which will mean, essentially, Lexa can never again return home.

“Why don’t you get dressed and go? I can drop you off,” Clarke offers sweetly, still pressing reassuring kisses along her back.

“I’m going to ask him if we can reschedule,” Lexa decides.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Lexa answers, turning her head to smile at Clarke over her shoulder. “I don’t

really feel like putting on pants at the moment.”

Clarke kisses her shoulder cap and grins in return. “You’ll get no argument from me there.”

“Let me give him a call really quickly.” Lexa reaches for a shirt on the floor—something of Clarke’s she’d worn to bed the night before—and stands to slip it over her head. Something about calling a close friend while completely naked and still coming down from an orgasm makes her slightly uncomfortable.

“Take your time,” Clarke tells her, also rising from the unkept sheets and blankets to pull her hair back into its messy bun. “I’m going to go downstairs and reheat our drinks from earlier.” She tugs at the hem of Lexa’s tee shirt and places a kiss at the corner of her mouth on her way to the bathroom. “Do you want a snack, too?”

“Okay.”

Lexa grins, following after Clarke’s lips as she starts to move away. A soft hold on her wrist is enough encouragement for Clarke to lean up into another kiss, reminding Lexa just how shaky her legs still feel from their exertions in bed. Perhaps sustenance to replenish her blood sugar is necessary instead of relying solely on a steady drip of oxytocins.

Lexa appreciates the view of Clarke’s retreating backside even in the fading light of the bedroom as the sun has started to move towards the horizon. She runs a hand through her wild curls and exhales, preparing to make her phone call while perched on the edge of the mattress.

Lincoln answers on the first ring. “Hey, buddy. Did you get lost?”

“Something like that,” Lexa says. “Clarke and I went for coffee, and then I sort of … lost track of time.”

“Say no more,” Lincoln laughs. “It’s your turn to ditch me for a girl now, right? I hope the sex was worth it.”

The fact that she is wearing nothing more than a thin tee shirt has Lexa covering her face with her hand. “Lincoln, I didn’t—”

His laughter persists, and Lexa wonders how loud it must be within the confines of the bar. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It’s totally fine. Honestly, I’d be more upset if you weren’t standing me up for time with Clarke right now.”

“I’m really sorry, Linc. I can be down there in like fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t you dare.” For the first time since he’s answered the call, Lincoln’s voice takes on a serious tone. “I swear to god, if you show up here, I’m frogmarching your ass right back to Clarke’s house.”

“Okay, fine,” Lexa laughs. “Let’s hang out early next week though. Beers on me.”

“Don’t even worry about it. I’m serious. I actually ran into some people from the gym plus the rep from Two Roads is here doing a tasting—I’m good, I promise.”

“I’m going to make this up to you,” Lexa reiterates. Despite Lincoln’s assurances, her guilt does not fully dissipate.

Clarke chooses this moment to step out of the bathroom, wearing just as much clothing as when she’d gone in, and Lexa’s brain lags at the sight. Her expression seems to be asking if everything is okay, and Lexa smiles in response.

“Lex, would you stop? Tell Clarke I said hi, and I’ll see you at work on Monday. Oh, hey, ask her if she’s tried the new session IPA from Two Roads. It’s intensely enjoyable.”

“Okay. I will.” She smiles up at Clarke, who has stopped to stand in front of her after slipping into a tee shirt and sweatpants. Lexa’s hand settles on Clarke’s hip like a magnet snapping into place. “Clarke says hi, too.”

“Sorry, Lincoln!” Clarke says, projecting her voice towards the receiver while tucking strands of curls behind Lexa’s ear. “It’s all my fault.”

There is more laughter down the line before Lincoln reiterates that everything is fine and he could never actually be angry with either of them.

:::

“So, since when do you source your unhealthy caffeine intake from elsewhere?”

“Huh?” Clarke smiles.

They’ve taken up seats at Clarke’s kitchen island with their reheated drinks from the coffee shop and Clarke’s version of a snack: smoked turkey and cheddar sandwiches on toasted potato rolls with homemade aioli.

They’re both wearing slightly altered versions of the same outfit—soft tee shirts and loose sweatpants, Clarke’s cut off into shorts so that Lexa’s fingers are continuously tempted to trail across all of the exposed skin within reach.

She sips her tea and returns Clarke’s smile.

“The barista at the coffee shop seemed shocked to see you,” she clarifies. “Don’t you practically pay rent there by spending so much of your time buying their coffee?”

For a brief moment, Clarke can’t seem to find her voice. She practically chokes on her sandwich, taking longer than expected to swallow her first bite. Lexa raises an eyebrow expectantly as their drinks emit swirling strands of steam into the air between them.

“I—I could ask you the same,” Clarke volleys back, not unkindly, as she dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin and reaches for her coffee. “Morgan seemed just as surprised to see you there.”

Lexa bites her lip and looks away. She had asked out of genuine curiosity and confusion, and now it seems yet another bout of confessions is forthcoming.

She clears her throat. “Do you have any beer, actually?”

Clarke laughs lightly before shifting her expression into something like mild offense.

“Um, hi. My entire existence is practically centered around craft beer—do you even know me?”

“Right,” Lexa laughs. “Stupid question. Would you like one?”

“Again: do you even know me?”

Lexa starts to slide off her stool with a bright smile that belies the low buzz of nerves she is withstanding as an unspoken conversation simmers between them. Clarke is dislodging their legs from where they had sat in a close tangle at the island. “Stay,” she directs her, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll get them.”

Once Lexa has pulled open the fridge door, she turns to look at Clarke over her shoulder. “Do you have a preference? Lincoln was asking if you’d tried the new IPA from Two Roads.”

“Are you actively avoiding answering my question by distracting me with beer inquiries?”

Lexa pinches her lips together to ward off a sheepish admission, and Clarke rolls her eyes affectionately. “Look on the left hand side, bottom shelf.”

Lexa ducks down to retrieve two brightly colored cans of IPA before closing the fridge door and returning to the island. “Not to split hairs, but technically, you avoided my question first.”

“Okay, fine,” Clarke sighs dramatically. She takes one last dreg from her coffee before shoving it away in favor of the can of beer Lexa has just opened for her. “I was—” Clarke actually ducks her head so that Lexa can see her thick eyelashes fluttering “—I was afraid I would run into you during the, uh, when we—”

“Broke up?” Lexa supplies. She is still holding a small smile for Clarke when blue eyes finally snap up to meet hers.

It had felt like that. A relationship ending—a significant one at that. And, Lexa had been left broken in the aftermath.

“I was going to say when we stopped talking,” Clarke continues. “But, it was more than that. It did feel like a break up. And, we didn’t decide anything—I cut communications all on my own.”

“Clarke—”

“I’m really sorry, Lexa.”

Lexa is already shaking her head, part disbelief at what she’s hearing, part exasperation that Clarke has mistakenly absorbed all of the blame.

“Clarke, I know you have this bizarre obsession with always being right, but I can assure you—what happened in November was all on me.”

“I just vanished, Lexa. I didn’t even tell you why or allow you to explain anything.” Clarke’s eyes are downcast and her voice softens in unmistakable regret as she fiddles the silver tab on her beer. “I freaked out and hid away. And, it was really shitty.”

Lexa can’t help the way her mind creates distinctions between Clarke and Costia—the contrast of Costia’s distance from their relationship to Clarke’s sudden disappearance. With Costia, it had often felt like abandonment and disregard. The space between them had been a disappointment, a mild discomfort that Lexa sustained over time. Losing Clarke—and it had felt like that, as if she turned around one day and panicked to find Clarke had vanished—left her devastated and painfully bereft.

“Not seeing you was horrible. Not being able to talk to you was even worse. But, I’m glad you stepped back and took that space. It was shitty, but not because you did anything wrong.”

“I hated not seeing you, too,” Clarke admits, and they share another small smile across the kitchen island, tinged with a distant, remembered sadness.

“I couldn’t avoid Dockside, contractually, but I—I didn’t want to encroach upon your other spaces.”

“So, you stopped going to the coffee shop.”

Lexa confirms with a short nod and takes the first sip of her beer. She’s glad they’ve had this talk, but she’s also more than eager to segue out of November’s gloom that is better left in the past. She takes a cleansing breath and sets down her beer.

“In the end, I was glad you created that barrier between us, Clarke. I was miserable, and Lincoln will tell you that I was insufferable to be around, but it made me realize what a massive idiot I’d been.”

Her admission elicits an actual laugh, and Clarke shakes her head fondly. “So much for that Ivy League education.”

There’s a lot more that could be said, and it’s a much longer conversation that they will likely parse out at some point. But, today has been exceptionally good, and Lexa isn’t quite ready to lose the momentum of their good moods. Even for the sake of honesty.

“I’m a slow learner,” Lexa shrugs.

“Based on the activities that occurred in my bedroom this afternoon, I can attest to that being entirely untrue,” Clarke says, voice pitched low and taunting.

At the return of Clarke’s brazen flirting and sly smile, Lexa ducks her head as her cheeks warm. Because, despite the fact that they have spent a good portion of the afternoon swapping orgasms, she still sees Clarke as her best friend, in many ways, who she has only recently had the distinct pleasure of seeing naked.

“I’m sort of a quick study in that department,” Lexa smirks.

“I’ve noticed,” Clarke laughs. They sip their beers in weighted silence for a few beats, sharing glances as they drink, and then Clarke adds to the mounting tension by asking, “So, when do I get to hear more about this date?”

“The details of the date itself are highly classified,” Lexa explains in all seriousness, despite her stomach swooping.

“Classified, huh?” Clarke laughs into another sip of beer.

“Do I honestly strike you as someone who is going to halfass a first date?”

“You don’t strike me as a person who has halfassed anything in their entire life.”

“Correct,” Lexa smiles. She shifts smoothly along the island’s edge until she is again stood on the same side as Clarke, who accepts Lexa’s proximity with a slow-spreading smile. “You know, I could potentially be persuaded to provide a sneak peek of some post-date activities,” she offers, already moving to enter Clarke’s space more fully as their drinks are gingerly slid a good distance away.

She slowly spins Clarke’s stool just enough that she can slot between her legs, and Clarke is already leaning into the touch as Lexa’s hands curve around her jaw. The kiss is like regaining breath after being submerged under water. Their conversation on past events hadn’t been strenuous, by any means, but Lexa registers a sense of relief to have resumed their previous activities all the same.

She sinks into the warmth of Clarke’s lips and tongue, exhaling after several, languid moments. When her hands move to slide up the length of Clarke’s thighs, eliciting a distinctly strained exhale as Lexa teases her fingers beneath the cut-off edge of Clarke’s shorts, it’s abundantly clear where they’re both headed.

They make it as far as the sofa.

Lexa can’t be bothered to maneuver the stairs when there are so many other available surfaces on which to make Clarke slowly shake apart. She does so on her knees while making good on her earlier intents to spend a long stretch of time between Clarke’s legs. The last shards of sunlight are nearly gone, leaving them in golden shadows and dim light from the kitchen while Clarke moans soft encouragements and cards her fingers through Lexa’s hair. There is no rush, no urgency, hardly a sense of time moving at all. Lexa feels calm and confident, content to bring Clarke closer to release at a measured pace as she begins to gently rock against the pressure of Lexa’s tongue. Everything feels languid and slow, like running through water.

It’s not lost on her, as Clarke’s orgasm eventually echoes through the quiet house, heels pressing into her back and Clarke’s fingers threaded into her hair, that this very sofa had been the impetus for their time apart. The innocence of that encounter, as she and Clarke gave in to the comforts of shared sleep, had propelled them toward a shift in their relationship. Looking back, everything that has transpired between them since that singular event seems inevitable.

Falling asleep with Clarke that first time had been rife with implications that they would eventually end up right back here: a cozy, nondescript, weekend night spent on Clarke’s couch with nowhere to go.

The insignificance of an otherwise mundane Saturday is outweighed by the way Lexa’s mouth curves into an easy smile as she kisses the warm skin of Clarke’s inner thigh. Clarke is coming down from the aftershocks of a slow-rolling orgasm when Lexa registers a sharp uptick in her heart rate as they lock eyes while Clarke is still catching her breath.

And, this too holds weight—for all their recent honesty, there are still things Lexa has left unsaid.

“Get up here,” Clarke gently demands. Lexa complies without pause.

Clarke’s sated and satisfied groans melt into scratched laughter that dovetails with their kiss, and the magnitude of what Lexa feels is underscored as their mouths meet.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Clarke tells her some breath of time later, when Lexa has moved from the floor to the sofa at Clarke’s urging. “If this type of activity is in the cards for date night, I don’t really give a shit what the actual date itself looks like.”

They lay along the length of the sofa, limbs over lapping at certain intervals, and Lexa’s hand flat against Clarke’s stomach beneath her tee shirt.

“Good to know I can scale back my efforts,” Lexa smirks, feeling no less satisfied that she has reduced Clarke’s expectations with one, albeit exemplary, late-afternoon orgasm.

Clarke’s laughter echoes Lexa’s contentment, and her smile grows. She can feel the subtle shaking of Clarke’s diaphragm beneath her fingertips.

“This has been such a good day,” Clarke says, adding further reinforcement to Lexa’s equally satisfied mood. “I really like having your here. Have I mentioned that?”

Lexa grins into Clarke’s close gaze and presses her lips to the edges of Clarke’s smile. “Once or twice.”

“Lincoln is the kindest, most-deserving creature on the planet, but I’m really glad you stayed here instead. Just this once.”

Lexa’s contented smile slips and she nearly groans as her head falls onto the armrest. “I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

“What do you mean?” Clarke laughs.

“I pride myself in being reliable—no excuses. If I say I’ll be there, I’ll be there. Especially when it comes to Lincoln or Anya.” Lexa exhales and glances up to find Clarke’s eyes. “The fact that I neglected our plans for—”

“The best sex of your life?” Clarke supplies with swagger. Lexa’s smile returns without her consent. “I mean, you looked like you were about to say: the best sex of your life.”

As laughter bubbles up from her chest, it vanquishes Lexa’s lingering criticisms about her snap decision to break plans with Lincoln. Clarke’s commentary is a reductive synopsis, at best, but also not entirely untrue. “Yes. Something like that.”

A beat of silence passes and then Clarke says, “If you’re worried he’s going to give you a hard time about breaking plans, wait until you tell him you proposed.”

She buries her face against Clarke’s shoulder to the delighted rasp of Clarke’s giggling laughter and concludes, yet again, that it is the absolute best sound in the world, even at her own expense.

:::

#a pleasant undoing #brewkru!#a beer bud series #clexa fic

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army-of-mai-lovers · 4 years

Text

Why Amon Should Have Been An Android

(spoilers for LoK and Young Justice season 1)

If you followed my LoK liveblog at all you may have noticed that I theorized at one point or another that all four major villains of LoK (Amon, Unalaq, Zaheer, and Kuvira) were secretly robots/androids (the term I used was robot, but the more accurate term would have been android.) Now, with Unalaq it was definitely just because I found him boring, with Zaheer it was to make fun of the fact that he was an Airbending prodigy with zero training, and with Kuvira it was because it was a thing at that point for me to predict that an LoK villain was a robot (and I was kind of right that time!!)

But with Amon? I was completely serious. We never see his face, his cause is stupid (and the perfect way for his programmers to start some trouble in Republic City), and he was able to resist bloodbending, which, if you’ll recall, requires that the victim have blood for it to work. You know who doesn’t have blood? That’s right, androids/robots.

But there’s another reason that I sincerely thought Amon was going to be a robot (android), and it’s the reason I’m writing this. There was something naggingly familiar about LoK to me, and no, it wasn’t that it was a sequel series to ATLA. To me, LoK doesn’t really feel a lot like ATLA (barring, of course, the very poorly shoehorned in fanservice cameos of Iroh, three times, like he’s a recurring character or something.) I struggled to pinpoint exactly what it was, but in my own observations and the observations of other people that I was talking to while liveblogging, a couple key differences became clear:

[ID: an image of Korra from the back looking out towards Republic City, which is shown to have large white skyscrapers, a bay, and numerous smaller buildings. Much of it is obscured by fog and clouds. The city is built in the middle of a sprawling bay. /End ID]

1. the setting of LoK is incredibly Americanized and Eurocentric. While ATLA displays a lot of cultural insensitivity towards the cultures it borrows from in choosing how to depict them, LoK...doesn’t really depict other cultures. Republic City to me felt very similar to how 1920s New York is typically depicted in media, and no setting in the Earth Kingdom or Water Tribe was explored enough to really explore the unique cultures of those settings. While you can tell in ATLA that bryke was somewhat interested in (a vague, exoticized, unrealistic vision of) East Asian culture, LoK is very clearly inspired by America and Europe, with very little else influencing how the setting was depicted.

2. there are no “unimportant” people in LoK. Everybody is related to somebody we know from ATLA (or somebody from ATLA), a powerful business mogul, military, somebody high up in the government, a celebrity, and/or the Avatar. The only character I can really think of that’s an exception to this is Kai, who really does not have much of a role. (I guess you could argue that Mako is an exception but y’know...he was a famous pro-bender for a while there) You don’t just get to meet a regular person living in a village anymore. Every character in LoK has political, social, or cultural power.

These points, put together with the technological prowess of the world of LoK (which is different season to season and sometimes even episode to episode depending on how the writers are feeling that day), made the show feel very distant from ATLA, but very, very close to another show that I have watched and loved. And that show is Young Justice.

[ID: an image, from left to right, of Batgirl, Blue Beetle, Bumblebee, Beast Boy, Miss Martian, Nightwing, Superboy, Wondergirl, Robin, and Red Arrow in the foreground, posing together. Above them and in the background are the adult heroes, obscured in shadow. From left to right, Red Tornado, Aquaman, Martian Manhunter, Batman, Superman, the Flash, Green Arrow, and Wonder Woman. They are all against a gradient blue background. /End ID]

For those not in the know, Young Justice is a DC animated cartoon focusing on the teen sidekicks, proteges, and relatives of superheroes like Batman, Superman the Flash, Green Arrow, Aquaman, Martian Manhunter, and others banding together to form their own superhero team. YJ is set in America, vaguely, with characters residing in cities with names like Gotham City, Star City, and Central City (a naming convention that Republic City fits right into). And as is apparent from the premise, most of the characters you’ll meet in YJ are superheroes, related to superheroes, or otherwise important business moguls, celebrities, or political figures. And while the world of YJ is of course significantly more technologically advanced than that of LoK, there’s more overlap than you’d think. Besides spaceships, teleportation, smartphones, and genetic engineering, there’s really not a lot of tech that YJ seasons 1 and 2 have that LoK doesn’t.

So you may be thinking, “ok Arthur, we get it, you’re a fucking nerd, what does this have to do with robots?” I’m glad you asked! One of the storylines of YJ focuses on the war between rival tech moguls Tio Morro and Professor Ivo, in which they build increasingly sophisticated androids. Ivo’s are pretty much just designed to kill supers, but Morro’s are expressly designed to mirror the human psyche, and desire to be a part of human society. Amon very clearly also desires a community, and does much of what he does to integrate himself into a community of nonbenders where he really doesn’t belong. Further, Morro’s androids are immune to threats that humans are not immune to because they are not made up of organic matter. For example, in season 1, episode 3, Miss Martian attempts to read Red Tornado’s mind, to no avail, because she can only read the minds of organic beings. In a similar vein, Amon was able to resist bloodbending, and while unfortunately that was not because he was an android, it would have made sense given the conventions of the cartoon android genre. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my previous YJ knowledge very much influenced the way I read that scene. The way Amon’s body was animated very much mirrored the animation of Morro’s androids trying to resist their evil creator’s programming.

So, I’ve taken you through the what, the how, but I promised that I’d say why Amon being an android would have been better, and I plan to deliver. First, it needs be remarked that while Amon being an android wouldn’t have made much sense, it would have only made slightly less sense than the canon explanation of Amon being Tarrlok’s secret brother. In fact, I’d argue that, if handled correctly, Amon being an android could make more sense and be more impactful. Here’s how I envision it: android! Amon would be pretty similar to Red Tornado, in that he would know that he was an android and be programmed to help people. He was of course, built by Hiroshi Sato (that man designed and likely built all the Equalists’ weapons he has the range), who sees himself as a sort of father to Amon. Hiroshi tells Amon about the systemic disenfranchisement of nonbenders and how a Firebender killed his wife, and Amon, being programmed to want to help people and to desire participation in human society, decides he wants to lead a revolution against benders. However, an android can’t very well openly lead a revolution (you could add a bit in the backstory episodes about how humans don’t trust androids or something), so Hiroshi and Amon come up with the story that Firebenders burned his face and hands, which is what prompted him to lead the revolution. Thus, his whole body, including his face, is covered, and his followers assume that it’s because the burns are so bad, and they follow him. In the latter half of the season, the krew would uncover Hiroshi’s involvement with the Equalists, but Asami would be the one to realize that Amon is an android that Hiroshi built. Amon being Hiroshi’s “son” of sorts would be another element of Asami coming to terms with the evils of her family, as Amon in this case would be a machine programmed to be easily manipulated to follow Hiroshi’s cause and would consider himself her brother, and she would have to reckon what to do with both of them. The nonbenders’ cause would still be legitimate after Amon was exposed as an android (unlike it is when the literal figurehead of their movement is also antithetical to their movement) and the heroes would have to reckon with the realities of bender supremacy and the hurt it caused. Amon could even get a redemption arc and work with world leaders to make a better society for nonbenders and androids like himself (I’m sure there’s some parallel you can draw between nonbender oppression and android oppression, though I can’t think of one atm) As an added bonus, Amon wouldn’t be able to bend, so he couldn’t bloodbend Korra, which would be one less time that an LoK villain took away Korra’s bodily autonomy. Amon could even be a recurring character in the later books, because really, wouldn’t LoK have been more fun with a newly-redeemed android sidekick still learning about what the world is outside of his creator’s narrow worldview? Plus, that would give Asami more to do in books 2 and 3 than meet Varrick and participate in love triangle drama (Amon is of course replacing Varrick’s presence on the show), and getting to know and bond with Amon could be the catalyst for her visiting her father in prison in book 4.

Remember, I didn’t claim that this would be good, I claimed that it would be better, and since the bar was on the ground with that secret brothers twist that wasn’t too hard to accomplish. tl;dr bryke are cowards, take the plunge and make him an android.

#still don't understand why bryke cut pro bending after b1 #it was genuinely brilliant #i know amon's not a bender but i would want him to be involved in a pro bending storyline post book 1 somehow #longpost #meta #ehhhhh is this a meta tho?#genuinely kind of a stupid meta but once my brain made the republic city star city central city gotham city connection this genuinely #would not leave my brain until i made it #amon #lok #idk honestly i feel like what i wrote is actually more thematically appropriate for an atla sequel series #like found family and redemption and that junk #plus asami could potentially get an arc #if i were writing it she'd get an arc #well generally if i were writing the show asami would get an arc but also specifically with this android thing #tbh if you ask me how much of this is a joke i couldn't even tell you #it is a thing that exists and you can interpret it as a high effort joke or as sincere #it's 2020 cringe is dead

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coevolveposts1 · 2 years

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aabidhussainn1000 · 2 years

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itsbenedict · 3 years

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Two-Faced Jewel: Session 1-A

I've been playing tabletop games for TOO LONG without actually playing any D&D, and the time for that to change is now.

Zero and @eternalfarnham are Looseleaf and Saelhen du Fishercrown, a mothfolk animist and a half-elf conwoman whose travels take them to Blacksky University, where the discovery of an unknown magical artifact sets them on the path to discovering the secrets of a shattered world.

Oyashio, 親潮市, is known as the Crossroad City. It sits on the closest point between the two major continents of the world, alongside the swift currents of the fierce river-ocean that separates the two. People from all over the Jewel come here to find their fortunes.

Looseleaf is a new arrival to Blacksky University, the institution of higher learning that terrorizes the city with its warball hooligans and dangerous magical experiments. She's left her reclusive village to learn more about the cultures and peoples of the world, and has enrolled in the School of Natural Arts to pursue her dream.

The Lady Noeru de la Surplus is the down-on-her-luck scion of an elven noble family, here to complete her rite of succession and restore the good name of her clan.

Saelhen du Fishercrown is a half-elf disgrace who fled the stifling elven capital of Kanzentokai to escape its byzantine social order- and strike it rich by pretending to be the down-on-her-luck scion of an elven noble family and conning a bunch of elfaboo suckers out of their hard-earned gold. She's out to get rich and prove that elves can be assholes too, dammit!

Looseleaf leaves her room to discover- not her roommate, but a large half-orc woman rummaging through her oven.

She asks where Looseleaf keeps the swords.

It becomes clear that Bud Chestplate, here, is a friend of Oyobi Yamatake, Looseleaf's roommate, and Oyobi sent her to pick up some swords from the dorm. They make some small talk while searching, but Looseleaf fails her Investigation roll and can't find the swords for her. She leaves Bud to her business, since she needs to catch her meeting with the Dean.

Benedict I. (GM): So... you get to the Dean's office. It's a pretty large room- not because the Dean is particularly showoffy, but because Dean Mogher is a loxodon, and his office sort of needs to be big. Them elephant people, y'know. You've been asked to meet for an "academic consultation", and aren't sure what to expect.

Seems like Looseleaf needs to do some sort of independent study- and the Dean has something lined up for her, if she's interested. It's an artifact they recently got their hands on thanks to a rich donor, who wanted to learn more about it. It's super magic, so he had to pull some strings to keep it out of the hands of the School of Arcane Arts.

Looseleaf is excited about this!

Looseleaf: Looseleaf vibrates, shaking her wings kind of in the way that a dog might shake their body to remove dirt. This is moth body language for 'FUCK YES I AM SO READY FOR THIS I WAS BORN FOR THIS'.

Meanwhile... Saelhen has arrived in town. She's set herself up with a room in the city, made some public appearances to sell the story, and...

Saelhen has a plan. She'll pretend that this object is rightfully hers, as part of an arcane elven ritual to succeed the headship of her family- and hopefully badger the school into letting her get her hands on it.

She enters the school grounds via the student village, and meets a half-orc woman carrying a bunch of swords around for some reason- who she asks for directions. Bud obliges, despite being preoccupied.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Ah, I'm sorry! I didn't realize you were occupied by all those weapons." She bows at the prescribed angle for a small favor asked from a foreigner. "Your words are as 出鱈目外人向け. Thank you." Benedict I. (GM):出鱈目 is like, nonsense, bullshit, 外人 is gaijin, 向け is a suffix that means "for" bullshit for foreigners i love it

(Elven is Japanese here, for reasons.)

Saelhen follows the directions to the School of Arcane arts, and asks the receptionist- a tired-looking goblin girl named Two-Brains- where the Dean's office is.

Two-Brains directs her to the Moon Annex, a wing of the building identifiable by the river of moon symbols flowing along the floor. She reaches what is clearly the Dean's office, and hears a conversation within, that she opts to sneakily listen in on.

Benedict I. (GM): That'll do- you hear a whispered argument, fairly clearly. "...is he blackmailing you? Bribing you? This is clearly our department!" The voice is old and slightly screechy. A younger but still mature voice replies. "Please don't attack my character, Variable. Is my reasoning really that hard to understand?" "Yes," the older voice says. "It's the most magically powerful artifact that's ever come into our possession! How is this not of immediate concern to our department?" "You're failing to consider Coast's concerns, and those of our continuing research," the younger voice says. "Yes, this object is powerful- but learning its magic will scarcely tell us where it comes from. If we could find its source, we could find many more specimens of its kind for study."

It seems like Dean Variable Velocity of Arcane Arts (an elderly owl aarakocra in a wheelchair) really wanted to get her hands on the magic item, but Dean Coast Mogher of Natural Arts got this person to decide in his favor, instead.

Saelhen eventually opts to knock, and sees in the room with the Dean... an elf. Very tall, adorned in jewels, and wearing a very very large hoop dress that goes all the way down to the floor. This would be a problem for Saelhen, because actual elven nobility would see right through her disguise- but luckily, this woman- the provost of the university- is a drow, and not exactly welcome in the circles of elven high society.

The provost takes her leave, and Saelhen spins her sob story for Dean Velocity:

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Madam Dean, I am sure that any matter requiring your attention might very well overrule my own. If your affairs require that you delay our discussion of the provenance of your college's recent acquisition, then my honor demands that I comply." Benedict I. (GM): "The provenance of our recent acquisiton?" "Wait- are you here about that thing?" "The bracer?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Ah, yes." Saelhen ducks her head a bit sheepishly. "I can come back." "Perhaps I have misunderstood what time I was meant to arrive." Benedict I. (GM): "No, no, come in! Come in, I'm sure we can address your concerns." "What time you were- you mentioned an appointment, who told you there was an appointment?" "Never mind, no, it's- please, come in." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "I spoke with a Madam Two-Brains? But information may have been lost in the shuffle -- I gather it was a busy day." Saelhen sits. Benedict I. (GM): "...The student receptionist? Why would- no, never mind. What's this about the bracer?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: Whoops. "I have neglected to introduce myself, and for that I apologize. I am the Lady Noeru de la Surplus, sixth of her name." Saelhen lowers her head. "Your... bracer is an item of some significance to my family." Benedict I. (GM): Her eyes light up. "Is that so?" "What significance, would you say?"

After a little more bullshitting and some great Deception rolls, she has the dean completely sold on her story. It helps that she quite badly wanted to believe it- since if it were true, her rival wouldn't have legitimate claim to it. Dean Velocity offers to help recover the item, if Lady Noeru would agree to let her study it briefly.

Meanwhile, below the School of Arcane Arts, Looseleaf is shown a special hands-free containment device for the magical item.

Benedict I. (GM): Inside the glass case hovers what looks like a stone bracer. It's inset with thirteen large sapphires, at seemingly random locations, little rhyme or reason. There's one region of the bracer that doesn't have sapphires- a flat, circular raised bit with a symbol engraved on it. It's not one you're familiar with, but matches the pattern of the emblems of the gods. Looseleaf: Is it a divine symbol? Yeeeep. Benedict I. (GM): A circle, with horizontal lines across it, growing denser towards the wearer.

Looseleaf makes some investigation and history checks to find out more about it. She observes that the sapphires are connected to one another, and that its craftsmanship doesn't match anything she's ever seen or read about. She's still taking a look at it when Saelhen and Dean Velocity show up.

Dean Velocity badgers Dean Mogher into hearing Saelhen out, and she continues to knock her deception checks out of the park. He doesn't want to give it up without a fight, but he believes her intentions are true. He proposes a compromise: Looseleaf will represent both schools (as she's taking courses in both and is undecided on a major) and accompany Saelhen on her supposed succession rite, asking lots of questions and writing a report that they might be able to publish.

This compromise is more or less amenable to all, and Saelhen is allowed to touch the bracer.

It immediately jumps onto her arm and sticks there, and projects a holographic wayfinding arrow out of one of the sapphires. The bracer begins pulling her arm in that direction. She can't get it off- and can't just run. She's forced to keep up the charade, and let Looseleaf try some magic on it.

Looseleaf is a homebrew class Zero found called the Animist, a caster themed around the idea that all things have "spirits". One of the things it can do is called Soul Glean, which basically lets you... read the mind of an inanimate object.

Lesser Soul Glean: You may peer into the things the soul of an object has witnessed. Make an int (arcana) check to determine the amount of information gleaned from the object. The more recent or emotionally volatile the event, the easier it is to glean information from, while the more distance the harder it is. Senses of emotions, vague intentions, and the sight of auras of can generally be gleaned from this reading.

And what she gets from that is...

Looseleaf:“It’s lost,” Looseleaf says. “It has a purpose and has been unable to fulfill that purpose for a very long time. It’s not epistemologically correct to assign emotions to items through divinations, I think, but if this thing had an emotion I imagine it would be sad.” ”Most importantly, it does not feel fulfilled. It is not behaving the way that objects reunited with their lost owners would be have.” “Given this, I hope you will forgive me for my indiscretion in this next act.” Looseleaf... shifts her arm, the arm touching the bracer, sliding off it and onto the elvish lady’s arm, and Lesser Soul Reads her.

Now Soul Read is for living things, and only sort of gets you mood and general intentions- for now. Saelhen, though, won't be having any of that- she passes her dex save to pull away before Looseleaf can read her. (This, of course, only makes Looseleaf more suspicious.)

Tumblr has new post restrictions that force me to keep these posts short, so here's:

[Part B]

#twofaced jewel #tfj log

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