#oppressions don't just disappear because you don't see them

[bloomingbluebell]

would REALLY love for people to not start rambling about politics and then get surprised/upset/disappointed when i walk out after a certain point

i'm tired of having to correct people and STILL getting shut down

#and people around me seem to think that because they don't see prejudices means they don't exist/they're not common #i am always fucking diligent about these things #because if i say or do the wrong thing it could mean my life #and yes we are arguably safer here in canada #but that doesn't mean people don't have guns or other weapons #there was an assassination last year literally down the road from where i live now #there were anti-MOGAI protests across the country last year #disabled people are routinely treated with hostility and disrespect #oppressions don't just disappear because you don't see them #in fact you may be contributing to them if you don't see them happening #*coughcough glares at my aunt coughcough* #and what am i even supposed to say about it? sorry you're offending me? they'll just argue against it #im not supposed to get offended because they actually meant y instead of x #fuck right off. honestly.

[headspace-hotel]

Many people, especially USAmericans, are very resistant to knowing the plants and living according to the ways of the plants. They lash out with a mix of arrogance and fear: "Don't you know what bad things would happen if we lived a different way? There is a REASON for living this way. Would you have us go Back—backward to the time without vaccines or antibiotics????"

Ah, yes, the two immutable categories that all proposals for change fit into: Backward Change and Forward Change! Either we must invent a a futuristic, entirely new solution with SCIENCE and TECHNOLOGY that further industrializes and increases the productivity of our world, or we must give up vaccines and antibiotics and become starving illiterate medieval peasants.

Every human practice anywhere on Earth that has declined, stopped, or become displaced by another practice, was clearly objectively worse than whatever replaced it. You see, the only possible reason a way of life could decline or disappear is that it sucked and had it coming anyway!!! Pre-industrial human history is worthless except as a cautionary tale about how miserable we would all be without *checks notes* factories, fossil fuels and colonialism. Obviously!

Anyway, who do you think benefits from the idea that pesticide-dependent, corporate-controlled industrialized monoculture farming liberates us all from spending our short, painful lives as filthy, miserable peasants toiling in the fields?

First of all, I think it's silly to act like farming is a uniquely awful way to live. I can't believe I have to say this, but the awful part of being a medieval peasant was the oppression and poverty, not the fact that harvesting wheat is a lot of work and cows are stinky. Same goes for farm labor in the modern USA: the bad part is that most people working farms are undocumented migrant workers that are getting treated like garbage and who can't complain about it because their boss will rat them out to ICE.

Work is just work. Any work has dignity when the people doing it are paid properly and not being abused. Abuse and human trafficking is rampant in agriculture, but industrialization and consolidation of small farms into gigantic corporate owned farms sure as hell isn't making it better.

Is working on a farm somehow more miserable than working in a factory, a fast food restaurant, or a retail store? Give me a break. "At least I'm not doing physical labor in the sun," you say, at your job where you're forced to stand on concrete for 8 hours and develop chronic pain by age 24.

When you read about small farmers going out of business because of huge corporations, none of them are going "Yay! Now that Giant Corporation has swallowed up all the farms in the area, we can all enjoy the luxurious privileges of the industrial era, like working RETAIL!" What you do see a lot of is farmers bitterly grieving the loss of their way of life.

And also, the fact is, sustainable forms of polyculture farming that create a functional ecosystem made up of many different useful and edible plants are actually way MORE efficient at producing food than a monoculture. The reason we don't do it as much, is that it can't be industrialized where everything is harvested with machines.

Some places folks are starting to get the idea and planting two crops together in alternating rows, letting the mutualistic relationship between plants boost the yields of both, but indigenous people in many parts of the world have been doing this stuff basically forever. I read about a style of agroforestry from Central America that has TWENTY crops all together on the same field.

Our modern system of farming is necessary for feeding the world? Bullshit! Our technology is very powerful and useful, but our harmful monocultures, dangerous pesticides, and wasteful usage of land and resources are making the system very inefficient and severely degrading nature's ability to provide for us.

What is needed, is a SYNTHESIS of the power and insights of technology and science, with the ancient wisdom and knowledge gained by closely and carefully observing Nature. We do not need to reject one, to embrace the other! They should be friends!

Our system thinks land is only used for one thing at a time. Even our science often thinks this way. A corn field has the purpose of producing corn, and no other purpose, so all other plants in the corn must be killed, and it must be a monoculture of only corn.

But this means that the symbiosis between different plants that help each other is destroyed, so we must pollute the earth with fertilizers that wash into bodies of water and cause eutrophication, where algae explode in number and turn the water to green goo. Nature always has variety and diversity with many plants sharing the same space. It supports much more animal life (we are animals!) this way. The Three Sisters" are the perfect example of mutualism between plants being used in an agricultural environment. The planting of corn, beans, and squash together has been traditionally used clear across the North American continent.

And in North America, the weeds we have here are mostly edible plants too. Some of them were even domesticated themselves! Imagine a garden where every weed that pops up is also an edible or otherwise useful crop, and therefore a welcomed friend! So when weeds like Amaranth and Sunflower pop up in your field, that should not be a cause for alarm, but rather the system of symbiosis working as it should.

A field of one single crop is limited in how much it can produce, because one crop fits into a single niche in what should be a whole ecosystem, and worse, it requires artificial inputs to make up for what the rest of the plant community would normally provide. The field with twenty crops does not produce the same amount as the monoculture field divided in twenty ways, but instead produces much more while being a habitat for wild animals, because each plant has its own niche.

#plants #plantarchy #the ways of the plants

[im-not-your-nice-jewish-boy]

we've got long memories

I am not the least bit surprised by any of the tidal wave of antisemitism the left has spewed since October 7th. Every single post saying Hamas did nothing wrong; every single targeted attack on my fellow Jewish people on this site; the number of people who proudly paraded misinformation and disinformation to the extent of funding organizations actual Palestinians have said outright don't help them in any way just because it's against Israel which means that it must be good. None of this is surprising to me.

Now, maybe you could say that I'm a cynical bastard, and you'd be right. But you'd also completely be missing why I'm a cynical bastard. I learned this from my mother, who was beaten up just for being Jewish as a child. I learned this from family who disappeared between my ancestors fleeing the countries they came from and looking to see who made it with them. I learned this from the story of one of my grandfathers picking a new birthday because his birth certificate had been burned when the Shul was destroyed so he had no idea when it was. I learned this from people using "Jewish" as an insult in school and watching a girl I knew break down in tears because people were calling her a Jew when she wasn't. I learned this from holiday after holiday that repeated the same verse of people trying to destroy us and us celebrating our survival.

We remember these things because the rest of the world is very good at deliberately forgetting them.

"It's not that bad because it happened to the Jews. It's not an actual problem because Jews are white anyway. Was the Holocaust really even so terrible? Why do you want to be oppressed so badly if not to use it as a weapon against people who you're oppressing yourselves?"

Some variety of every single one of those is something I've seen in recent memory.

So, dear Passionate Goy Internet Leftists who have spent the last few months attacking and accosting every single Jewish person who dares to speak on the issue in any way that doesn't make them a Good Jew?

My dear friend, just know that we will remember you. You can try to go back to normal. You can try to just sweep it under the rug. You can try to act like it was all just business as usual and there was no harm done to any "Good Jews" and just to the "Evil Zionists" (both of which deserve their own rant post and have multiple of them from people a lot smarter than I am).

We will remember what you did

You will never be able to make us forget you calling for our deaths

And most of all, we will outlive you, just like everyone else who ever bayed for our blood

#antisemitism #leftist antisemitism #jewblr #jewish and proud #never forget #free palestine from hamas #am yisrael chai

[byproducts-of-my-imagination]

Star Platinum Stalking (He Means Well!)

Stands are manifestations of the user’s desires right?  Haha I feel like Star would be much more forward than Jotaro, only because he knows no shame.

I’m writing with Part 3 Joot in mind

Stalker Star Platinum and Jotaro x reader 

There it is again.  Out of the corner of your eye, you see movement, you see it... or him?  A large purple-skinned man.  He disappears every time you so much as blink, but you figured out recently that if you pretend like you don't see it and don't directly look in its direction it will stay.  The first time you saw it, you thought you were going crazy.  The second time too.  And the third.  The fourth time you spotted a flash of purple you were forced out of denial.  The feeling of eyes on you gets more and more oppressive every day.  There’s faint chill shuddering down your spine, but something else accompanies it, a sense of familiarity.  It's been a week, and you finally decide to voice your concerns so at least someone knows something when you inexplicably get kidnapped.  On the way home from school, you bring up the topic.

"Hey Jojo?  I think I have a stalker…" Jotaro adjusts his hat, and spares you his signature stoic look.

Jotaro’s mind is racing.  He feels like he's back on the trip to Egypt, paranoia taking over.  Anyone and everyone is a threat and possible stand user.  How could he be so foolish to think that he was safe after he killed Dio?  Who is it?  Who found out?  He was so careful to hide his feelings.  Jotaro Kujo doesn't need love.  Jotaro Kujo doesn't need a weakness like that.  Women are annoying bitches that's all.  Every last one of them.  But he looks at your bright eyes and finds his heart clenching.  Squashing the feeling, he vows to catch whoever is stalking you.  At the very least, he will protect you.  If he can't give you love, he'll make sure you’re safe.  

"I'll keep you safe."  And that’s the end of it.  You wonder if Jotaro just wants to shut you up so you stall a bit out of nervousness before speaking up again.  

"I know this sounds crazy… but I keep seeing a large purple man out of the corner of my eye"

Of everything he was preparing himself for, this came out of left field.  

"Jojo?" You look back at your friend, who has come to a full stop.  

"Yare yare." he pulls the brim of his hat lower and pulls out a cigarette.  The pieces have come together.  After all, the saying that stands are a manifestation of the user's desires aren’t based off nothing.

"I'll take care of it."

#Jotaro Kujo #jotaro #jotaro x reader #jojo #jojo x reader #jjba #jjba x reader #jojo's bizarre adventure #yandere jojo #yandere jjba #yandere jotaro #joot #star platinum #star platinum x reader #yandere star platinum #star plat #yandere jotaro x reader #stalker star plat

[auteurdelabre]

Those who cannot do - Frankie!Morales x f!reader - CHAPTER ONE: ACCELERATION

words: 3.2

pairings: Frankie x f!Reader / Santiago x f!Reader

tags: love triangle (in later chapters), angst, smut, mentions of addictive substances, romance, nicknames,

Reader: Is a CIS woman, able-bodied, gainfully employed as a teacher, has hair long enough to pull, wears both skirts and jeans. Other than that, she is a blank canvas cuz she's you!

Summary: Frankie and Santiago have been through a lot during their friendship and have always come out the other side. But when both of them fall for the pretty new schoolteacher (YOU), it pushes them both to their breaking point.

notes: dividers by @saradika-graphics

Chapter One: Acceleration

Acceleration: A change in velocity; a change in either speed or direction or both.

Cocaine is a helluva drug as they say. 

Francisco "Catfish" Morales can attest to such a statement because while the rest of his sleepy neighborhood bunkers down for the night, he stalks to his truck. 

The Florida night is muggy, cloying and oppressive, causing his weathered grey t-shirt to stick to his spine. It reminds him of that horrible time back in Columbia. 

His truck ambles down the winding side streets for thirty minutes, a new location because apparently Reggie moved. 

Reggie is a nice enough guy, known Frankie about five years. Friends with Santi and Tom first. Wasn't always a dealer, he actually used to sell houses with Tom until the market went belly up. 

Tom. Frankie tries not to think about Tom. Tries not to think about Columbia. Tries not to think of his wife's disdainful face when he came home empty handed.

I should turn around and go home.

But then Frankie thinks about the empty house waiting for him, he thinks of how cold it will be and he keeps driving.

He pulls up along the curb, turning off the engine. The area is a much nicer suburb than Frankie lives in, in the classy part of Florida. 

He glances around and he knows he looks like a junkie. But he's not. He just needs a hit every now and then. Just once in a while when life gets unbearable. 

Hey I'm here.

Frankie frowns, typing hurriedly. 

Where?

Front of the house along the curb. 

Frankie holds his phone in hand, eyes skimming the ... That appear and disappear several times. 

There's a sudden knock at his truck window, stern. It makes his eyes jump from his phone to his left and he feels his heart sink as a familiar pair of dark brown eyes stare back at him. 

Santiago "Pope" Garcia. Best friend. Best man at his be wedding. Best man he's ever known, full stop. 

Fuck.

"Let me in, Fish."

Frankie feels the cold thread begin in his torso. That frantic pull that tells him he's not getting a hit tonight even though he needs it, desperately. Frankie unlocks the car, watching from behind shame-filled eyes as his friend pulls himself into the seat next to him. 

"How did you-"

"Reggie doesn't deal anymore. Sent me a message when you texted him."

Fucking rat.

Pope watches his friends brows furrow, can see the flex of Frankie's lean neck.

"Fish I know you and your lady are having a bad time- "

"More than a bad time," Frankie spits out, body full of tension just begging to be released. "She's divorcing me, Pope. Got the papers today. She says she's done."

"But the counseling-"

"Don't mean shit when you're fucking someone else," Frankie says with teeth bared. "Some guy at her work."

Pope's eyes fall to his friends' broad hand tightening around the steering wheel. Recognizes that hollow look in Frankie's endless eyes, the kind that comes after a kill. The kind he recognizes from Columbia. 

"Shit Frank, I'm sorry."

Frankie shrugs, eyes closing briefly. The air in the truck is tense, filled with the acrid scent of sweat and Pope's cheap cologne. 

"When did you get back?"

"Last week," Pope smiles. "Just in time I guess."

"Australia?"

"Too hot," Pope shrugs. 

"And Yovanna?"

"Too complicated."

Frankie scratches absently at his patchy facial hair, hears it rasp against his fingers in the quiet space. He knows better than to push Pope about this. Knows that Pope will never settle down, not really, even if he tries to convince everyone that's what he wants. 

"I really am sorry Fish, but do you think you're gonna get split custody if you're high on coke?" Pope says from beside him, voice tight. Disappointed. "Or maybe you don't want custody."

"Of course I do," Frankie says with a flash of grief in his expressive face. "I don't wanna lose my fucking daughter."

"Then wise up and get the fuck outta here idiota," Pope demands. He pulls his cell from his pocket, tapping away. "I'm calling a taxi to pick me up from your place."

And like a good soldier Frankie obeys. He turns over the engine and he drives his truck back home to the sad little house with darkened windows. He does it because Pope told him to and Pope has always been there. A born leader. Someone that Frankie would and has followed into battle. 

Someone who arrives every time Frankie falls. Who seems to know just when the load is too much to bear. 

From behind his front door Frankie watches him load onto the taxi musing that this isn't the first time Pope has saved his life.

Three years later

"Daddy!"

Frankie gives a good natured groan as his daughter sails into the bedroom, eyes wide. 

"What is it Mija?"

"Mommy is here!" Emilia cries, dark eyes wide and unblinking. Her cheek and pyjama top is smeared with blueberry jam. 

"I'm up I'm up," Frankie insists, pulling himself to a sit. He looks at the alarm clock next to his bed. Seven am. 

Jesus.

Maria is standing at his door, holding the screen door open with one hand and looking into Frankie's place with a critical eye. 

He thinks she must inventory the sparse furniture, the children's toys scattered everywhere, the empty pizza box stained with grease propped on the coffee table.  

His ex wife looks him over as he ambles to the front door, sees the days worth of stubble, the ratty t-shirt over sweatpants. He thinks she's relieved she no longer has to deal with him.  

"What the fuck is this?" Frankie says, voice low. "It's my weekend with her."

"I know," Maria says, voice less acidic than usual. She holds out a Dunkin' coffee cup to him which he takes warily. He and Maria are civil to one another for the sake of Emilia but they don't do things like bring coffee for each other. 

"What's up?"

Maria waits for Emilia to settle in front of the television with the muffin from her mother. When the blast of Peppa Pig sounds out behind them she begins talking. 

"It's my mom," Maria says after a beat. "She's uh... She's not good Frankie. Doctor gives her three months."

Animosity is left at the door. Frankie immediately softens, brows saddling as he thinks of his ex mother in law. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry." 

Frankie means it. He'd always liked Gloria, even after the divorce. A woman strong like Maria but without the stubborn streak. 

"She doesn't have anyone to take care of her and she's too sick to come here." Maria's eyes fill with tears and she blinks them back. "I gotta go stay with her."

"In Venezuela?"

Maria nods. "I need to be with her."

"Of course," Frankie nods, empathy pouring from him. "But what about Emmy?"

Maria looks around Frankie's frame to see her daughter parked in front of the tv eating toast. She smiles before looking back at Frankie. 

"I can't take her out of school for three months," Maria says rubbing at her damp eyes. "She's supposed to start the first grade with all her friends on Monday." 

"I know, she keeps talking about it."

"So I'm thinking she can stay here with you full time until I get back."

Frankie is blown away by this development. He has Emmy for two weekends a month and two evenings per week. It's not an ideal schedule but it works with his NA meetings and flights.

Talking her full time sounds like a dream in some ways, getting to wake up to her sweet little face every day? But scheduling will be hard. He doesn't get off until late some days. His mind goes over these details, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. 

Maria sees him hesitate and the look he's long associated with her comes flying back to her features. Disdainful. Angry. 

"I don't ask you for anything Frankie," Maria spits. "I'm asking for this one favor-"

"¡Bájale! " Frankie exclaims, holding his free hand out in front of him like she's a wild animal he needs to soothe. "I'm not saying no."

"Then you're saying yes?"

Frankie swallows, thoughts racing. He watches Maria's temper starting with the tic in her cheek and he finally nods. 

"Yeah, of course."

You're nervous. 

This is your first year at a new school after moving and your first day nerves comes screaming back at you as if it's your first year ever teaching all over again.

You push your hair from your face, finding it already sticky at the temples thanks to the Florida air. You miss the weather back home in Chicago where the seasons change with a shout, not a whimper. 

You try not to think of the reason for your move as you gather up your papers on your desk, smiling as the first mother and child approach your door. 

You give a bright good morning before ushering them inside the classroom where coffee and muffins wait. Educational toys are placed on the far left corner of the classroom, sitting atop a colorful rainbow carpet. 

You've gone to great lengths to make the classroom welcoming. Bright colorful signs, low overhead lighting, large open windows. 

More parents arrive, mothers and fathers who greet you with increasing enthusiasm. Some of them look nervous, others look relieved, most just look bored. 

The morning bell sounds and you're about to close the door when you see a man holding the hand of a little girl looking absolutely lost. 

He's taller, his arms thick and his shoulders broad. Everything about him should be intimidating but he's not in the least. Maybe it's the casual clothes he wears or the baseball cap over his dark curls. Whatever it is, he feels approachable.

"You know where you’re going?"

The man's dark eyes flick to you

"My daughter's first day here," he explains looking flustered. "Got a late start, hair and all that."

He motions to the sullen girl at his left and you hold in a smirk at her lopsided braids. 

Wife probably does everything at home.

"Her mom usually does all this," Frankie says looking sheepish. "I'm kinda learning as I go. This is the right classroom I hope?"

"Depends," you smile. "Are you looking for room 105?" 

"Yep."

"You're in the right place."

He smiles thankfully at you before ushering his daughter inside while you turn to greet some of the other parents. 

"Go on mija," Frankie urges gently. "I can see your friend Melissa is waiting for you."

Frankie waves at Melissa, a girl with wide glasses and curly blond waves. She gives a squeak when she sees Emilia and Frankie's heart un-clenches when he sees his daughter smile and wave. Emilia blinks, still clinging to her father's hand.

"Go on and say hi."

With trepidation Emilia gives a step and her friend’s direction before pausing, turning and throwing her arms around Frankie. 

"Don't want you to go, Daddy!"

Frankie kneels, pressing a tender kiss to his daughter's forehead. 

"You're not staying?"

You're back by the door, welcoming another group in behind them. Frankie shuffles to the side, noting that you're still waiting for his response. 

"Uh no?" Frankie says, a crooked smile on his face. Is this a joke? Why would he be staying? 

"Usually the parents stay for the first day since we end at noon," you explain to the clueless father. "We go over class syllabus and-"

"Syllabus?" Frankie's eyes crinkle in amusement. "This is the first grade right? They color and play jump rope?"

He watches as the gentle amusement drains from your face, replaced with a haughty inference. A face that says oh, you're one of those.

"I assure you I teach more than coloring and jump rope."

Frankie feels heat crawling up the back of his neck at the derision dripping from your words. He realizes now that his joke didn't land. 

"Oh uh, yeah then sure," Frankie says feeling wrong-footed. Like he's a fake parent or something to not know this already. "Course I'll stay."

"Great," you say tightly. "We'll be starting shortly."

Emilia gives a happy cry, throwing her arms around Frankie's neck. Frankie smiles, pulling her up into his arms as he walks over to Melissa and her mother, Angela.

"Hey Frank," she says giving him a smile as he approaches, lifting the Styrofoam cup to her mouth. "Coffee's not bad."

"Had two cups already," Frankie grins, lowering Emmy to the floor. Now that she knows her father will be staying close by Emmy soars over to Melissa and the two begin playing with some of the toys. Angela surveys Emilia's hair and Frankie's tired face. 

"Tough morning?"

"Yeah," Frankie nods feeling frazzled. He's trying to remember if he put on deodorant this morning. He hopes so. 

"Heard about Maria's mom," Angela says with a frown. "If you guys need anything while she's gone you just let me know. Me and Terry are usually around."

"Thanks Angela."

Angela and Terry are one of the few couples that are friends with both Frankie and Maria post-divorce. That's what happens when you're kids are best friends, he supposes. Angela works in IT and Terry is a pharmacist.

Frankie is considering the blueberry muffin across the room when you go to the front, clapping your hands gently. 

"Hello friends," you say enthusiastically beaming when they call out a warbled greeting in return. "Can I have all of you take a seat? You can sit on the floor or at the desk. Totally up to you today."

Thirty pairs of six-year-old feet go thundering across the linoleum, the squeak of chairs dragging and chirping voices swelling until you clap again in pattern, urging them to copy you. They do, many off-beat and giggling. 

Frankie feels as Emmy pulls him down to the carpet, snuggling in the hollow of his legs as he makes himself comfortable there. Most of the other parents including Angela take seats in the back. 

From this angle Frankie can see you up close, see the delicate embroidered roses on your cardigan and the way your jeans curve over your body.

"Alright class, my name is Miss-"

"Can I color?" A child interrupts loudly from the front of the classroom only to be hushed by her mother. Frankie watches as you laugh, no irritation in your features.

"When the big hand is on the two we can," you say enthusiastically. You point at the large clock on the wall. "Speaking of which, does anyone know what time that will be?"

A chorus of voices ring out and you give them all a patient smile before slowly raising a forefinger to your sealed mouth. 

"Inside voices, inside voices," you coo. You wait for the babbling to dim before you continue with a wide grin. 

"I'm so glad I have such a smart classroom! Now, when you want to share something I need you to raise your hand okay? And then you'll wait for me to call on you."

Frankie and the rest of the parents watch as you interact with their children while also informing them of what to expect for the school year. You hand out a prepared syllabus with suggestion reading, citing the children learn much more at home than they do at school. 

"Reading with your child every day is so important for their development," you say with conviction. 

"My Daddy reads to me!" Emilia says excitedly from Frankie's lap. Then she remembers herself and belatedly raises her hand. Frankie smiles when you give a genuine laugh. 

"Well then you can thank your Daddy for helping you grow a big brain," you say, giving Frankie a friendly grin before going back to what you were saying before. 

Frankie isn't expecting the warmth that goes along with seeing that grin. He hopes that with it the stupid comment he made earlier has been forgiven or at the very least, forgotten.

"Thank you for helping my brain grow, daddy," Emilia says earnestly. Frankie grins down at her, running a finger down the bridge of her nose, something he's done since she was an infant. 

"Anytime, mija."

"Wish my teacher had looked like that," Frankie hears one of the father's murmur behind him. "Never would have gotten any work done though."

Several of the father's nearby smirk or give indulgent chuckles as you write something on the board at the front of the class. 

Frankie bristles, shooting a dismissive look over his shoulder at the man before his attention is drawn back to you at the front. 

The rest of the morning passes by quickly and at eleven you insist that parent and child alike take a chance to explore the classroom and all it has to offer. Emmy is very eager to play with the trucks as Frankie walks around the classroom with his hands clasped behind his back, studiously looking at the posters you've hung. 

He hears you laughing and glances over to see you and a young boy chatting about something the boy is drawing. The boy’s mother smiles back at you, relief in her features. 

"I'm just worried he won't make friends," she whispers when her son toddles off towards the water fountain. "He's so shy."

"I was really shy growing up," you promise, clasping the woman's hand in yours. "I promise you, no child is leaving my classroom at the end of this year without making a friend. And I'll keep a special eye out for Oliver."

You sound sincere and Frankie has had extensive experience with having to read people. You're one of those teachers who are in it for all the right reasons, he can tell, and the thought brings him comfort. 

At noon you tell them that they are released until tomorrow morning. You remind them of the allergy list and once more about the nightly book reading. 

"Even though I know some of you are already on top of it," you say flashing Frankie an amused wink. 

Everyone begins to file out of the classroom, the kids chatting loudly as they make their way past you. Some already hug you, some parents commenting that they're excited to have you teach their kids. Frankie holds Emmy in his arms, feeling strangely nervous to talk to you again. 

He approaches you swiftly before another group of kids can dart in front of him. You gaze up at his face, no irritation present. 

"Wanted to introduce myself properly. Frankie Morales," he says shaking your hand, feeling the warmth of it before you slip your grip from his. "I'm sorry for what I said before-"

"Already forgotten," you interrupt with a smile. "It was a pleasure getting to meet you and Emilia today. I'll see you both tomorrow?"

"You will," Frankie says with a nod. He looks in his arms at his daughter. "Say bye, Emmy."

"Bye Emmy," Emilia says with a charming wave. You give a sweet laugh, waving back at her. 

"Goodbye Emilia, goodbye Mr. Morales."

Before Frankie can tell you to call him by his first name another rush of students are calling you over.  

Frankie leaves for his truck feeling his face pink at the realization that at thirty nine years old he has a crush on a teacher. 

#frankie morales x you #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie friday #francisco morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales

[wumblr]

there's this sexual fantasy of the social climber, right? like, in the fantasy, you don't only want to meet someone who's perfect for you, you also, additionally, want them to have the resources to make all of your problems disappear or substantially improve your enjoyment or quality of life

and i would like to point out the recuperative effect this has. much in the same way that the long-shot hope for winning the lottery someday keeps people clocking in to work and participating in upholding status quo, the idea serves to redirect people who otherwise might be looking at routes of escape

of course i've just described everything from fifty shades to pride and prejudice all the way back to at least chivalric romance if not scheherazade too. and i don't know if it says something inherent about human nature as much as it says something about the human response to oppression

unfortunately the fantasy that could actually provide a route of escape is collectivization. so you see the way that this fantasy is recuperative. by excluding every other member of your class from it. it says you, by nature of being so exceptional, deserve to be swept off your feet. that is the unspoken undertone this fantasy whispers in your ear

and while i am saying that i understand this urge, it's been here for thousands of years, and i've engaged in the fantasy myself -- to be honest, i also think it's responsible for some of the greatest evil in the world. you throw another under the bus because you believe yourself to be more deserving than th--

#two posts for the price of one! now reread it in her voice #i am being serious though really i am

[void-thegod]

I've experienced many forms of oppression.

Being treated differently by white folks.

Being treated differently by brown folks.

Being treated differently by men, by women, by queer people.

Being treated differently by abled and neurotypical folks.

I'm treated differently for being male.

That's not 100% my fault.

I'm treated differently for being a trans male.

That's not 100% my fault.

People will literally side eye me or not get into a relationship with me bc I'm trans.

We've all experienced that, if we were unfortunate.

I've heard cis and queer women of color talk Hella shit about cisgender men.

Real bad. Almost as bad as the shit I've heard from men about women.

These perceptions -- both of them -- affect how I'm perceived. By those I want to be friends or romantic partners with.

Stack on the fact I'm brown, neurodivergent af, and conventionally attractive.. I've had A TIME.

SO: Imagine how I feel ... this aspect of my oppression and experiences being denied by my own community?

By others, period?

People who would easily accept that I face all the other forms of oppression and fucked up experiences bc of something I can't help..

Denying that I experience fucked up stuff for being a man and a trans man, at that?

I am one of those trans guys that "always knew"

I grew up as a butch/stud lesbian. Basically as soon as I could say what I wanted to wear. So.. elementary school.

And I SAW.

I saw how everyone was treated differently. Based on skin color. Perceived attractiveness or intelligence. Based on body type. Based on sex and gender. Based on whether they were normal or not.

And I experienced all that shit.

Am still experiencing it.

What do I get?

What do I get for knowing myself and staring into the fucking Abyss?

Ignored. Hassled. Called a narcissist.

Because I've seen what I've seen and I'm speaking on it.

It's not right.

Trans men experience so much shit.

You don't see us. You don't hear us.

And when we disappear you don't give a fuck.

PS: if you read this far and still have the gall to say some stupid monkey shit to me I will just block you. I'm done.

#trans #trans man #transandrophobia #racism #sexism #colorism #ableism #neurodivergent #voidpunk #queer #person of color #mixed #black and white #he/him lesbian #he/him

[neb-art-zeke]

hiiiiii! Please tell us more about Relonoth if you don't mind 👀

How old is he?

What is his DnD alignment?

What's his tent in the camp like?

Does he have a partner(s)?

Hey @razrogue! Thanks for your interest in my TAV!

So fore warning, I'm not as knowledgeable about the larger DnD/Forgotten Realms lore and I've never played the previous Baldur's Gates so a lot of my knowledge comes from just playing Baldur's Gate 3. Also like many of my OCs, he goes through constant change as my knowledge of the lore expands and new ideas in my mind surface. With that being said:

Background: Relonoth is the son of a Seldarine Drow father and a Human Druid Mother. Relonoth lived with his mother and father in his mother's tribe for the first 12 years of his life where he learned the basics of living in the wild before she was killed fighting alongside his father during an attempt of his father’s life by Lolth's Drow. Not wanting to endanger the tribe further, Relonoth's father would take him far away from the tribe where they traveled aimlessly for several months. One day, they managed to stumble upon some helpful monks who were on their way back to their monastery. Sensing the torment inside both Relonoth and his father, the monks invited the two to journey with them back to the monastery to find inner peace. Relonoth and his father spent 7 years learning the ways of the monks and spent one more year traveling with each other after before deciding to continue on separate journeys. Before departing, they promised each other they would reunite for a single week at the place they left every 7 years to share with each other their monastic journeys. BG3 takes place 2 years before another reunion. Some of Relonoth’s experiences and adventures include finding his mother's old tribe, fighting in an underground martial arts tournament, mentoring other young monks, learning the way of the four elements from ancient beings, and putting stops to deadly conspiracies, but his greatest adventure takes place during BG3.

Name Origin: I found a Drow etymology naming convention sheet online and the name roughly translates to "Wind's Path" which I thought sounded cool. The in-lore reason I developed after was that his father named him that name because he wanted his son to have the freedom to become anyone he wanted in his life (Free like the Wind).

Age: 67 (as of BG3 - looks about 33 because of half elf aging)

DnD Aligment: Neutral Good (as a nomadic monk, he'll find himself helping the less fortunate and oppressed and generally respects the rules of the lands he comes across but still has his principles of freedom and choice which sometimes clash with more strict rules of some kingdoms. His nature of helping people and quickly disappearing in a gust of wind after earned him the title of The Wind Walker.)

Tent: His tent is very simple. Being nomadic, he likes to carry light but he's known to collect a few things from his travels and keeps them in his tent space (i.e. small gifts from his friends, rocks and feathers of birds from the different lands he visits and small things he thinks his father would like to see during their next reunion)

Romance: Karlach (I like to imagine that after finding a solution to her infernal engine problem, the two escape Avernus and continue traveling the world with Karlach wanting to experience the grander world after spending years in Avernus and Relonoth wanting to continue his monastic journey with one he loves. She even gets to meet Relonoth's father during the reunion. Really want to get a comic commission of this lol.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 monk #relonoth #half drow #bg3 tav

[invested-in-your-future]

I feel like people wouldn't discriminate openly again after the War. Maybe shops refusing service but they aren't going to imprison people just because they are Faunus. The world has rejected that.

I am sorry but that's naive.

That's now how racism works - bigots don't just shrug and become good when they are told "racism bad" (despite that being the only thing shown happening in the MilesWBY canon, with Yang telling someone racism bad).

Discrimination has layers, and levels of intensity - and people "feeling" that way don't just disappear - they adapt and they prod over and over again to see what's "acceptable" currently.

Sure, smaller discrimination cases will happen, but that's not the "end".

Discrimination always longs to reach its "greatest hits" - there's a reason why lots of ideologies of oppression resort to "Hey, do you want to go back to the Good Old Days when X?"

Smaller cases of intolerance not getting a pushback are treated as "acceptable status quo" - and the bigotry takes a step forward and escalates onto bigger ones.

And before you know it, you have dehumanizing language, restrictions, rights being taken away, laws being walked back upon and repealed.

It's all about moving the window of what's "acceptable" - we have seen it in our world over and over again (for example - the surge of racism and authoritarian surveillance after September 11)

Think about it - in the show, with Volume 3 one of the four largest huntsmen academies got assaulted by White Fang.

Of course, it's not just them, but that only means different people with different prejudices will focus on different parts of what happened - to some, Atlas would be at fault, while to others - Faunus would be at fault.

Discrimination of all kinds would absolutely escalate - bigotry twists facts to its liking to "prove itself right" - mistrust spreads, and tragedy births propaganda.

And yes - White Fang is not the whole species, but to bigots, that wouldn't matter - it's an age-old tradition to take the examples of worst-of and use them as stereotypes, broad brush strokes, and all.

Destruction, discrimination, AND war are largely cyclical in no small part due to complacency and ignorance.

Need I remind you that even in "present-day Remnant" Atlas (and especially Schnees) had literal slave mines? Remnant is nowhere near close to getting rid of the uglier parts of its past.

One of the most disappointing aspects of the show is that there never were any real consequences or shockwaves from what happened at Vale - not just in terms of kingdom relations and tensions, but also in terms of Faunus rights, mistrust, and overall chaos. In a way, the show ended up making Fall of Beacon feel smaller than it actually was because of that.

The shockwaves of what happened at Beacon SHOULD affect all four main leads in different ways due to how the event connects to them as people.

It robbed us of the arc about Ruby dealing with the realities of the world and her idealism as the world around her falls apart and everyone she knows is hurt (and few of her closest friends are dead)

It robbed us of the arc about Weiss having to face the oppressive privileged nature of her family and things in her life she took for granted.

It robbed us of the arc about Blake having to face the increasingly hostile world around her as she struggles to find her path and face her own indecisiveness and hypocrisy.

It robbed us of Yang having to deal with the fallout of the tournament and the uncertain chaotic reality of the world around her as she's searching for a goal of her own.

It's one of the first things I thought about when I started outlining my plans years ago. There are multiple avalanche effects planned out for more than one part of the setting and characterization of the leads.

#rwby #rwde #blake belladonna #rwby rewrite #rwby asks #rwbyr asks #rwby stuff mine #rwbyr stuff mine #ruby rose #weiss schnee #yang xiao long #rwby meta #rwby criticism #rwby analysis #rwby meta stuff mine

[ikemenomegas]

Omega!Fukuzawa x Alpha!Reader

Maybe Every After

For the record Fukuzawa is a zaddy and I don't think anyone is going to argue with me on that. But he wasn't always a zaddy! You have to grow up a lot to earn the title and Fukuzawa had a lot of growing up to do even in his thirties.

Meet cute?-

Fukuzawa met the person who would become his Alpha at some stuffy local function he attended because of his status as one of the five greatest swordsmen.

While they hit it off well, commiserating over the oppressive self-congratulatory nature of these kinds of events, it was not love at first sight. Fukuzawa was able to carry on pleasant, engaging conversation with them

Fukuzawa was by turns a little awkward, eccentric, curious, and the sense of duty, justice and good judgment that characterizes his throughout his life permeated the conversation, leaving a lasting impression on you

Fukuzawa's work and his superiors are all top secret, but despite that, he does not try to make himself come off as an enigma and his intentions and ideology are largely transparent, which in the time of the Great War, the first ability war, and with Fukuzawa's position being what it was, was surprising and refreshing

You meet with him a few times as new friends in between whatever it is he does when he's not with you

Some time after those meetings begin would be around the time that he is ordered to begin assassinating war-hawk ministers

You see him change as those assassinations pile up and see him apparently lose the feeling of rightness that was in him when you first met at that party

He disappears soon after resigning his position in this mission, cutting himself off from the world that had descended into the misery and chaos of war, from the deaths he had caused, and from you, the person who had become important when he was still young and full of naive idealism

Meet again-

It's by chance you meet again when he is spending his work hours as a bodyguard.

Or maybe it's not chance. It's a certain circle of people that can afford the services of someone as skilled as Fukuzawa, as much as he tries to keep apart from those kinds of people. His reputation took a hit after he left his government position, although you don't know the circumstances around his departure, but people say it's because he isn't a patriot. The word makes you disappointed. The are parts of every war that are not about patriotism, where blood is no longer spilled for the love of one's country but because there are those who have lost their way.

Reconnecting is hard but maybe because you understand the rumors this way, it is not as hard as it might have been. Fukuzawa Yukichi is loyal, that you have known almost since you met him. He is loyal to the people who walk down the street and do not know him, he is loyal to all the people of the nation who make their way slowly through life alongside him, he is loyal to some ideal of justice that you don't necessarily understand but that you believe in too. You see sometimes the pain that the rumors cause him, but you believe in him, whatever that might mean, and so he lets the pain wash over him and away in the truth of his intact honor

It comes up at some point that you are still not a mated Alpha. There is no one else waiting for you as your tea times meeting with Fukuzawa continue. It just hadn't felt right, somehow, to try and make that kind of connection in the years that have passed. The great war turned everything upside down, including something inside of your good and most principled friend.

One day, he'll tell you about it, about what turned his heart inside out, but that is many years in the future

For now, you're the one who asks him if he wants to meet and restart first

He seems tired and you're surprised that he accepts, but he does. Once. And then twice. And then a third time. And it's almost like it used to be, even though you're both older and a bit more jaded, maybe with a few more hard edges. The meetings extend longer, and become more frequent. It is no longer tea on his days off or when he has time between jobs. There are late night meals after his employer dismisses him and lunches on the occasions he is released early. On one memorable occasion, you find yourself taking an early morning walk through a dew studded garden watching the sun rise pink and cold after a night on which you could not sleep

One thing led to another-

Eventually, Fukuzawa asks you to be his heat partner. It's a bit of a surprise and something that makes you nervous since Fukuzawa effectively ignored you for years.

You had once slept together in what was essentially a platonic way, or perhaps some kind of experiment. It was fine, oddly peaceful, especially at the end when you just passed a bottle of water back and forth, but you'd sort of wordlessly agreed to not do it again

He tells you he's sure though. His heats aren't frequent because he's on suppressants, but they do happen, and this is one of the different things. Fukuzawa seems to want, to have a restlessness that is more apparent to you, lingering beneath the surface

You already suspect it's the loss of purpose, the loss of public reputation somehow which had carried with it its own sense of purpose. He's a famous swordsman, one of the best in the country. Even a tame wolf desires to hunt.

So you spend his breakthrough heats together.

And you remember why the two of you never had sex after the first time. It makes you wonder if you remember the "silent agreement" wrong, or if he remembers it differently, and reminds you why you didn't dwell on it.

It's not earth shattering, the sex that is. It's just heat sex, just making sure he gets off so that he can sleep through the intervals between his body temperature spiking. Except you're in his home, the gauzy curtains drawn, scent patches off, and it's disturbing how clear the memory of the last time overlaps with this one, even after so many years.

It's like being in the middle of a monsoon storm, pressure and torn leaves, and summer heat and all. And while you thrust into his wanting body, he watches you. The heat-haze is obvious and his eyes are half-lidded in the associated exhaustion, but he tracks you when you lean back to swipe the back of your hand over your forehead and there's something hungry in his gaze when he looks down to where you're connected

You remember the first time and how intrigued you'd been by this particular mannerism of his, how he keeps his eyes open. He had been watchful and curious even as you'd laughed with him over your shared fumblings. His gaze had been heavy and consuming when he'd shown his aikido skills, at your request, and tumbled you from over him to pin you to the floor.

This time there's a lot more kissing because if you're close to his face, you don't have to see his eyes, but the way Fukuzawa opens his mouth for you with trust like you've been doing this for years makes the strategy nearly futile.

You have to work right after that first heat tapers off so he's still in his nest when you're putting on your shoes, weekend duffel in your hands.

It's late afternoon going on evening so the apartment is dark. His hair is splayed out on a pillow. You're satisfied though that he has pre-made meals in the fridge and you've changed out most of his nest bedding so he can rest in a clean spot after you've gone. Fukuzawa's not saying anything, watching while you rub a sore spot on your neck, which makes him smirk. You're convinced this will be another scenario just like last time where you don't talk about it, when he speaks up, stopping your hand on the doorknob. "Same in three months?" he asked instead. Despite the stab of apprehension, you smiled. "Same in three months," and left to catch a flight.

You don't let it get quite that long before you contact him again. You don't see him, but you text him and he texts back, which is at least a relief that he's not going to vanish again into whatever new twilight he inhabits.

It's the same in three months, apart from the weather outside. His eyes, blue like steel and watching you while you bring him over the edge, the sense of being in the eye of a summer storm, that feeling of trusting familiarity when you lick into his mouth and catch the sound he makes when you crook your fingers inside him. It's the same how it's only his response that changes when you kiss him later and are more gentle about it, running your teeth against his jaw before going to cradling his head and kissing the corner of his mouth.

There's laundry in the machine and porridge on the stove. Fukuzawa's heat had settled sometime in the very early hours of the morning and the two of you were more or less clothed for the first time in days. Fukuzawa was however leaning in the door, watching you put shredded seaweed, pickled plums, and katsuo tronçons on small plates already laid out on a tray. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, watching him almost lazily watch you. But, you paused in using a pair of chopsticks to pluck out a single ginko nut from a narrow jar. There was something almost tense in his posture. He was barely out of the thick of heat and you could see the faint tremble in his wrist before he folded his arms to hide it. You checked the pot with the still yet-to-boil rice and then ducked under his jaw to brush your nose against the scent gland there. The way he shivered, still sensitive, was almost enough to make you feel bad. "You should go lie down," you murmured, smiling in apology, "I'll bring the tray over." He hesitated, but then nodded. Something pulled at you behind your navel, similar to that familiar sensation when you had worked him through the heat. Only this time, out of the haze, you followed it and followed Fukuzawa to his nest. Its fresh linens were soft and sweet smelling as you guided him into it. He sighed when he was lying down again, a long exhale that gave nothing away. He was just watching. You tucked a blanket over his hips and let your hand linger a touch too long, feeling like you were falling into his eyes. He made no sound when you pulled away and did not return until the meal was ready. Although you did stand in the doorway he had just vacated, leaning so you could see Fukuzawa, loosely tied deep blue and light grey layers of his yukata falling half open as he rolled over to keep you within line of sight. He ate every bite of food, still maintaining that tense, anticipatory silence. You didn't remember this from the first time. His gaze only flickered from the tray and your hands to your eyes when you accidentally let out an encouraging rumble as he ate and immediately felt heat flash up your neck, mortified. The corner of his mouth twitched as he brought his chopsticks to his lips and nibbled at a bit of fish. You've read romance books, once or twice, seen the pervasive tropes pop up in just about every drama, imported or otherwise. People talk about finding someone that you feel you've known your whole life as something magical. No one talks about how unsettling it can be, how it could get all consuming all too quickly. It's disturbing in some way, the way you can sense the ease with which that could push into entitlement, envy, or just an endless fall. That is why after the first time you and Fukuzawa Yukichi had slept together, passing a bottle of water back and forth after and watching the rim indent into one another's lips when you took a mouthful, throats flexing to swallow, you had never spoken of the event again. You had never invited it happening again, and up until now neither had he. There's something at the bottom of that drop. There's always a hard landing. Somewhere. It felt too easy, being with him. You had fallen in as friends harder than this, feeling out the edges of one anothers' code and ethics, where you could push boundaries into asking about personal and professional interests. Although you never touch them, you knew where one anothers' cracks were.

Just as you never asked him directly about the things he had done in the war, about his suddenly cold reception among the circle you'd met in, he never asked you how you really felt about those people. He never asked if your heart too had broken somewhere during the Great Ability War. The stifling feeling of knowing both too much and too little about someone who trusted you far too much for what you knew suddenly stole all the moisture from your throat. A sip of tea helped, but Fukuzawa's posture had gone back to that waiting. Master swordsman: master at reading any opponent. You told yourself heavily that you were perfectly willing to continue being his heat partner, at least until the way you two distinctly did not push boundaries bored him. He had a competitive spirit to a point. There were goalposts that only he could see, standards to which others were not often held. Stagnancy had never quite suited him. Stillness did. Was that what was at the bottom? Was it the stagnant life of saying nothing and doing nothing and keeping a status quo? Or was it blissful stillness, knowing nothing would catch you and nothing needed to?

It takes almost a year for either of you to bring it up and it's only at the cusp of realizing this is becoming an unhealthy new normal that it happens. It is still incredibly difficult to broach the fact that the physical intimacy makes you feel like strangers but every conversation in between makes you feel like you could get to know him forever.

It's around this time you finally start to really talk. You know how you can know someone for ages, and even be really close to them, but there are long stretches of time where you don't talk about anything important because you're afraid of making the other person do emotional labor for you, and you don't know if they'll mind? That's the first year Fukuzawa and his Alpha have after he comes back.

He acknowledges that you've done things rather in reverse order, as far as the typical trajectory of reconnecting with friends goes. You start to date, more or less, making time to see one another every week or every other week as your schedules allow.

It's a bit strange, to suddenly realize the ways in which you both have changed. Fukuzawa is as principled as ever, but he's unmoored now, without the ties he severed to the military police and the mission it brought. You are somewhat more stable, older and more settled into your own career, but heavier in your soul, sadder. Yokohama is reviving, black towers and tidy apartment buildings rising on the horizon, but it took too much to get here, too much blood before the nation sickened of it.

Fukuzawa won't let you court him.

You're in one of the old cafes that survived all the conscriptions. The owner's son moves around with a tray and a flour dusted apron and the atmosphere is oddly cheerful, despite the recently terrible weather. The last of the summer storms are making a good showing this year and it's limited the places you and Fukuzawa can go. Museums, restaurants, the occasional wander around a particularly well constructed public part of an office building - usually places near your work or his.

You'd tried other things, shopping for food or clothes and paying maybe too much attention to his preferences. You'd tried things like flower viewing or afternoons trying wagashi in specialty shops. While Fukuzawa had seemed to enjoy them and settled easily into the traditional etiquette sometimes called for in these places, he never acknowledged that these might be early attempts at courting.

When you spent time in his apartment he let you scent items in his nest while lounging around or before his heats. If he was at the little rooftop house you were living in, he would sometimes choose one pillow or blanket to curl around and carefully leave it on your spot on the couch when he left.

You looked at him over the rim of your mug and one of his brows went up. When you said nothing, he looked away, tracking the movements of people on the street.

You still partner him when his heat hits, but the sex is worse, as far as that unsettlingly settled intimacy goes. It's wonderful, he's wonderful. Sex itself is not that interesting as a rule, and you're both too aware of the delicacy of the situation to attempt anything like adding toys during his heat or a simple scene to the build up or cool down. But every time after, you want to stay longer.

Fukuzawa shifts his nest, ever so slightly because he is picky about it, but enough so that he can always see you as you move about his home when you need to get food or nesting materials for him, so that you don't have to anxiously flit between the stove and the door in order to sate the need to know that he is safe and comfortable in the aftermath.

You think it's going to end, that the pained distance Fukuzawa now puts between himself and the world is going to pull taught against the growing need to be around one another, to care beyond the dedication of a close intimate friendship.

Everyone can see it-

And then he accidentally adopts a super genius.

This is one of the funnier things that's ever happened to your friend since you've known him and you make sure he knows you think so once or twice.

Once Ranpo is secure in his place as Fukuzawa's ward a few years later, you come up with a way to let Ranpo know he's the best thing to ever happen to your mate and also that you will never ever get tired of imagining the look of shock you know took over Fukuzawa's face when all four and a half feet of teenage whoop-ass came banging through the door of that office.

But that's years from now.

Ranpo peers up at you when you meet Fukuzawa for lunch and a film a week after he's started tagging along with your friend

The boy isn't very tall, but he's got a maturity to his features that you chalk up to either the orphan thing or the child genius thing. He had taken one look at you, seated at the back of the restaurant away from the windows, and it felt like someone crowding into your space even while he touched neither you nor Fukuzawa. You are perhaps overly sensitive of other people's attention. It's another thing that makes being with Fukuzawa comfortable somehow. He's observant, but not oppressive with what he does with that information. Only the second time you'd met he'd helped extricate you from an incredibly uncomfortable conversation with a junior minister in the local commerce department. Now the kid looks at you and at Fukuzawa and pouts impressively. "You're single." He says it like an accusation and an assignment and you could almost laugh at Fukuzawa's wide eyed expression if it weren't for everyone three tables deep around you staring. You raise an eyebrow at him. "He's allowed to be single," you chide, reminding yourself that you are talking to a child still. It's a bit funny, you admit, smiling when the boy glares at you. The waitress comes over when you beckon, bringing tea for Fukuzawa and a sweet layered sort of beverage for the kid. Fukuzawa had told you about the boy's obvious sweet tooth and even though he huffs at you, he takes the tall glass eagerly, poking a straw through the layers. "Does it bother you?" You can't help it. Fukuzawa had said the child was a genius, observant to the point of misunderstanding, his incredible intelligence looping in on itself and making the rest of the world occasionally incomprehensible. It seems unlikely for a child to hold the kind of incredibly conservative prejudice that says omegas should be mated, but he seems put out. Ranpo sulks behind a menu before saying, "I'm never wrong." The meal is quiet, and gradually people stop looking at your table. Fukuzawa excuses himself on the walk to the theater to purchase something from a convenience store. It's there you lean up against the mouth of an alley and look down at the kid. He's really short, you worry someone isn't feeding him enough and the realize that Fukuzawa is going to be that someone. "We're not together," you said. Ranpo looks up at you, clearly still sulking. "You don't have to lie to me," he says, but he sounds a little uncertain. "We're not together in the way you would understand it," you say, "or the way most people understand." Ranpo sees your emotions in your eyes, and suddenly wishes he didn't understand. Your gaze is filled with longing, but he doesn't know how you can't see it's for something you already have. Almost. "He's ashamed of something," Ranpo says quietly. You hunched over a little. "I know. Adults are often ashamed of a lot of things though." He looks at you and wonders what you're ashamed of. "You should probably ask him about this one. He's not very good at saying what he means, but most adults aren't." You're laughing when Fukuzawa reappears.

To everyone's surprise, he actually sits through the movie, happily demolishing the little fortune you'd bought him in caramel popcorn and boxed candies, even if he complains about figuring out the plot five minutes in when you leave

Ranpo doesn't parent trap you two exactly, he doesn't have quite that level of interest in involving himself, but Fukuzawa is good to him, and he sees you often and you are good to him too. Neither of you always understand what he understands, but you show him kindness without ulterior motive, you try and show him how to safely exist around other people.

Fukuzawa is asked to be a bodyguard for Mori Ougai and something about engaging with that man, even though he can't tell you about the job itself, makes him tell you, in a desperate whisper under the moonlight, that it was him who assassinated the war hawk ministers during the peace debates. It's him who is bloodying his blade for something he hopes will be better, even if it turns his stomach, even if it means he doesn't know who he is anymore.

"I know who you are." Fukuzawa tenses in your arms, and you think frantically that you have certainly made a mistake. But you don't take it back. You don't want to. You do know who he is, your friend. You know how lonely what he's done has made him. Only you didn't know what he had done. Now that you know, it doesn't seem to matter. It's distant, the way all bloody things are distant when you don't see them. You've never had all that fond a feeling towards the wealthy people that profit from the abject misery of others. All the hunger and desperation in the world are distant, abstract concepts to them. Why should their deaths not mean the same to you? Of course, you can't say this to your friend, your sometimes lover, lying in your arms. The moonlight drops over his cheeks, turning them pale. His eyes are closed for once, his face turned into your neck, as though he is afraid of what he will see in your eyes. You understand it was not simply one or two storybook villains. There is no human in the world who has done only bad their entire life. Fukuzawa was not prone to exaggeration, even if drama appealed to him. It seems likely he meant it literally when he speaks of wading through blood to put an end to those who whipped up the populace into a frenzy, who wanted for the death never to end. "I know." You stroke your thumb near the corner of his eye, brushing your cheek to his brow, pressing a chaste kiss to the curve of his cheek. "Honor doesn't always mean doing the honorable thing," you say softly. "It means making difficult choices. You regret having to make it, but do you regret the outcome?" He is quiet for a long time. You know he hasn't fallen back asleep, despite the languid warmth between your bodies. He's quiet for long enough that your heart rate returns to normal and you rub your knuckles up and down his back. An occasional burst of deep, faint purring lets you know this is at least appreciated, if not necessarily something he thinks he deserves. You've taken to sleeping together at this point. The mounting danger as different organizations wage new war across the city drives you both to it. Besides, it is simply easier to manage an antsy teenager if you're in the same place, wherever that might be, rather than passing him back and forth like the result of some amicable divorce as you both work to keep him safe and out of the hands of those who would use his intelligence. "No," he says, as you knew he would. "There is nothing to be attained in the way of peace by letting war simply continue until each side is beaten into exhaustion. Withdrawing with our strength intact is the only thing that would save the nation and its people." He says it like he's said it to himself many times. He goes nearly limp in your embrace, pliant as he nudges against you until your forehead is pressed to his. You wonder though- "Is this the first time you've said it out loud?" "What I did is a secret few are aware of." "But the investigations..." "They won't find me," he said, but you felt a shiver go through him, felt gooseflesh rise on his arms. If they did, it could open the possibility for those people to be made martyrs. It was natural for him to be afraid. "They won't," you said lightly. You didn't know what you could do to make that true, but some things needed to be said aloud. "If they catch me, I'll face whatever is decided," he said quietly. "But I won't get caught." "You saved a lot of lives." He sighed. "I know." You rubbed slow circles over the middle of his back. "The sword isn't meant to be used like that. They had lives, families, I-" he swallowed "-I ended that. I enjoyed it. And I have to live with that." His eyelashes too were silvered in the moonlight. "You have to live with it," you agreed, even as he flinched, "but you don't have to punish yourself for it every time you live." You pretend not to feel the wetness on your clothing as Fukuzawa shudders into your collar.

Forever love-

You're truly together and officially courting by the time the Agency is three years old, which is the first more calm year since the Agency opened. Turns out opening a business is a huge pain in the behind and that an ability user Agency with less than half a dozen workers, two of whom are genius teenagers who have totally reasonable problems with authority, is an even bigger pain.

By the time the Agency is four years old, you're mated to Fukuzawa, your mark on his shoulder and his on yours. Ranpo grouches something terrible that the two of you could only get your shit together before he turned eighteen, but he's not a legal adult yet, so you get to officially be one of his guardians for at least a few years. Yosano thinks Ranpo is being ridiculous, but she gives you the biggest bouquet of flowers for your and Fukuzawa's home and insists on choosing the restaurant where you all celebrate.

It's been a very long road. You've known Fukuzawa Yukichi for almost thirteen years, an unexpected friend you made in your adult years now your mate. Now someone who you feel, finally, you've started to earn the feeling you've know them all your life, even though you're still learning about him.

He takes you to his home near Osaka, to his family home on Kyushu. He meets your parents, who consider him a bit quiet, but very dutiful. You meet Natsume-sensei, once, and receive his very feline brand of approval and a quiet gift after your official mating. Fukuzawa takes you back to places he particularly enjoyed during those failed months of courting him. You spend season after season getting to know him, pushing boundaries, debating over philosophies, arguing over interior decorating, agreeing over meals.

Your mate, your partner, a soulmate if you have ever believed such a thing, let alone that it would come to you. You're watching white strands of hair like starlight shoot through his natural grey. The wrinkles around his eyes are deepening. It takes him longer to get up from bed than it used to. His silences are longer, but so are the times when he just looks at you, looks and looks like he can never get his fill. His voice is still strong, but you can feel that layer of age crackling under it. And you love him.

You love the man he has grown into, the one who can bear the weight of hard choices placed upon his shoulders, the one who can bear happily having people who work alongside him. You love his patience with Ranpo and his encouragement of Akiko. You love how he holds his hand out for you if you fall behind on your walks, or how he comes to you and stands close enough for his scent to wrap around you while you point out some small natural beauty.

Love can be horribly consuming, it can stagnate where it was once immediately comfortable or grow jealous at its own ease, unsure if it is charm or affection that ties you together. It can grow desperate and possessive. There are still things that can be so hard to say, old things that left old wounds that are still hard to talk about, but there's something to be said for age and wisdom.

Things aren't perfect, love should not be perfect, and something in you delights in knowing that with Fukuzawa it will always be incomplete. Things will not grow still, there will never be a moment there is nothing to know about him. You have grown into yourselves, the both of you, and this is the love you will grow old with.

#bsd #fukuzawa yukichi #fukuzawa x reader #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse #omega!fukuzawa #alpha!reader #io.omegas #cw: mentions of potential break up (they don't but there's major relationship growing pains) #cw: oc's and fukuzawa's anxiety #cw: mentions of great ability war and likely ptsd in fukuzawa but also probably oc and ranpo #cw: adopting a child? does that deserve a cw? no idea but ranpo is fukuzawa and oc's love child in all but actual physical truth. #I think Alpha low key adopts Yosano too #baby Alpha is their very adopted kid. Yosano was practically raised by Mori (shudders) #so Alpha is very much the foster parent #she's way more independent and suspicious of being coddled compared to ranpo who wants to be mentored/parented #happy return of bsd this is literally my favorite show sorry to everyone who already wants me to shut up about it

[eisforeidolon]

What is the reason for jenmish fans' constant assertion that J2 friendship is a PR stunt?

I mean, short version is that they've decided Jared Padalecki is personally oppressing them by existing and want everything in the universe to validate their insistence he's a Bad Person that No One Likes. He's totally in the way and if he were to disappear tomorrow, both their RPF and SPN ship fantasies would immediately come true!

As to the RPF, it's about winning the "prize" of Jensen in the stupid shipwar back and forth. It doesn't actually matter if they spend half their time talking about how shitty and homophobic (or whatever) Jensen is, they want him to have chosen their fave over the other guy - as surely anyone would given the choice between stinky Jared and saint Misha! But if you look at the way Jensen and Misha interact versus the way Jensen and Jared interact ... well that's a bit of a problem for anyone with eyes and/or ears plus at least two working brain cells. So J2's friendship has to be a PR stunt for them to win. If you're ITK you can see that J2 actually hate each other but continue to be FORCED TOGETHER AGAINST THEIR WILLS while Misha and Jensen are the REAL BFFs!!! It's true, somebody on tumblr.com told me so!

As to SPN itself, it's tied up in their attempts to "prove" SPN's story was no longer about Sam at all but centered on D/C and everybody knew it and wanted it that way. Which of course means they need someone to blame for why it didn't actually happen, but it can't be Jensen's fault because they need him to act out their fantasies when they eventually get their way. So someone has to be at fault for why Jensen can't tell them how he REALLY feels about D/C and Jared/Sam don't matter anyway. Aha! Jensen must only constantly talk about the brothers as the center of the show just because Jared's always there and he has to appease him (just ignore the inconvenient part where he does that if Jared isn't there, too). Obviously he can't actually LIKE Jared who is such a big bully with a giant ego who can't admit he wasn't part of the REAL story of SPN! If they can just expose the farce of J2's friendship, Jensen and everyone else will surely summarily drop Jared as the irrelevant dead weight he is! Then Jensen can finally do all the joint panels with Misha and make the sequel he actually wants sans Jared that's just six hours of making out with Misha!

TLDR: conspiracy batshit, basically.

#askboxery #anonymous #anti actor stans #cockless #Jensen is not your blow up doll #destihellers

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

John Cleese: Helen, I'm so, so happy to have you on this show. And the reason I'm happy is I can't get the woke people to come on and discuss it with me. We've asked over a dozen of them and they've basically refused. So, the way I want you to help me, Helen is that since they won't come on to answer the questions I'd like to ask, if I ask you those questions, will you give me the answers that they would normally give? Because you studied that, and you know how they think and why won't they discuss this with me?

Helen Pluckrose: So, you are coming here from a Marketplace of Ideas approach. The concept of debate, of bringing ideas together, comparing them, seeing which stand up best to critique, qualifying them, having them critique each other, is understood largely as a western white masculinist tradition.

Cleese: So, this is liberalism would you say?

Pluckrose: Yes, liberalism is very explicitly critiqued in what I would call "critical social justice," and most people call wokeness. Liberalism is the big enemy. This idea that if we get people together, we are then rational agents who can evaluate ideas, compare them and replace bad ideas with better ones, or as John Stewart Mill would say, "exchange error for truth."

This is, to the social justice activists, a western philosophy. It does not allow for the lived experience and the different knowledges of marginalized people.

Cleese: As I am a straight, white male, and an imperialist apparently...

Pluckrose: Yes, apparently.

Cleese: ... is that why they won't speak to me?

Pluckrose: It certainly is a big strike against you, yes. But even more than that, have you taken effort to educate yourself, do the work, uncover your own biases, dismantle your whiteness, detoxify your masculinity and decolonize your concepts of knowledge? Because if you have not done any of this, then you are not woke, you are not awake to the systems of power and privilege, you are still asleep and so there is no point in in speaking to you.

Cleese: Okay, but the whole thing sounds to me really quite authoritarian. Slightly like the medieval church. I mean they're very much saying what you can -- not just what you can say, but also really what you can think.

Pluckrose: It certainly is an authoritarian system. But if you truly believe that these systems of oppressive power absolutely exist and permeate everything, that they are perpetuated through language, they are doing harm to marginalized people every minute of every day, then the idea to control what people can say and what they can think and also to subject them to unconscious bias training to retrain their minds, does seem like a an effective way to achieve social justice.

Liberals like me and like you, presumably, will argue with this and say, no we need to argue about these bad ideas, we need to defeat these bad ideas by showing why they are bad. This doesn't work to the critical social justice people.

Cleese: Well one of the women who would not come on the show said that the very fact that we are having a discussion is the problem. I mean...

Pluckrose: Yeah, this this is particularly strong in the postcolonial, decolonial movement. You want to have a debate -- I don't know if you've seen the slogans, "my existence is not up for debate," that comes from the Trans Rights Movement -- if you want to debate...

Cleese: So, to disagree with them means that you're trying to disappear them completely.

Pluckrose: That's what it comes down to, yes. I mean, we saw Linda Sarsour also said, criticism of Islam, for example, is the denial of her right to exist. Now obviously, if Islam didn't exist, Linda still would, but the idea is that by criticizing any Identity or any belief system, you are not allowing people to exist as they are. But they just speak of existing, and even of genocide.

Cleese: I think an awful lot of people have no idea that that's what some aspects of woke are about, because they just say, well being woke is kind to people. And you know that's great.

Pluckrose: This idea that wokeness is about being nice, it is about just being aware of racism, sexism and homophobia and being opposed to it...

Cleese: Well, that's all totally sensible.

Pluckrose: Yes, but of course this is -- wokeness is not the only framework from which this can be done. Liberals also have been opposing racism for a very long time. Marxists oppose it on the grounds that it divides the working class. Conservatives generally oppose this as well, religious believers think that we are all the children of God.

This is what I have argued: any kind of policy needs to allow for people to come from different frameworks in opposing racism, sexism, homophobia or other bigotries. But the critical social justice movement does not accept that other frameworks do this.

Cleese: We mentioned cancel culture earlier. Do you want to add anything to that?

Pluckrose: Cancel culture is something that I've been dealing with for for quite a while. Because a lot of time people think of cancel culture as something that affects celebrities who are being hounded and perhaps not allowed to speak in one particular arena. And they say, "but you're still speaking, you haven't been canceled at all."

But if you look at who is actually being cancelled, the organization that I have worked with looks at blue and white collar workers who are being asked to undergo various kinds of training, are objecting to this training, and are being fired, suffering disciplinary action. Trade unions are very, very wary of even addressing the issue. So, cancel culture affects those who do not have a voice.

Cleese: That's very interesting. So it's the smaller people who suffer the worst, because they lose their jobs. Whereas people like you and me and JK Rowling and so forth, can speak out because they can't actually get us fired.

Pluckrose: This is why I would argue, from an admittedly biased leftwing point of view, that this cannot realistically be seen as a left-wing movement, when it arranges things so that only the independently wealthy can actually speak...

Cleese: That's funny.

Pluckrose: ... and when it supports corporations in putting, inflicting these kind of policies on workers. And then it stands with corporations against workers. This is very much against the whole ethos of the left. In the US, it's an $8 billion a year industry.

Cleese: What is?

Pluckrose: These kinds of trainings for employees.

Cleese: I'm fascinating by the way that corporations have -- they're just frightened of an economic boycott right?

Pluckrose: I am not sure how much a boycott would actually work. I mean, if we look at JK Rowling, her books are not failing to sell, are they? Even though there is such strong opinion. Such a small percentage of people actually adhere to these critical social justice ideas that I don't think a boycott can really work.

Cleese: Well, I'm hoping it doesn't because I'm thinking of the adaptation I'm doing of "Life of Brian."

Pluckrose: Are you going to be problematic again?

Cleese: I love that word!

==

I previously wrote about the whole "genocide" thing myself.

#John Cleese #Helen Pluckrose #The Dinosaur Hour #cancel culture #critical social justice #social justice #woke #wokeness #wokeism #cult of woke #wokeness as religion #woke religion #authoritarianism #woke authoritarianism #religion is a mental illness #genocide #cultural genocide

[bugbuoyx]

I think it's funny when people say trans men don't experience misogyny. I experience it alot as an out and proud and obvious trans person. Most folks are good, they don't blink an eye (even in the rural south) but for some you can see it like a switch. The biggest tell in my experience is they start treating you like the world's biggest idiot. Like you couldn't possibly know more than them about anything. I also tend to get babied, people stop letting me do things I was doing previously such as lifting heavy stuff and outdoorsy type work.

I just think it's ridiculous that the most basic elements of misogyny, elements that have been defined and discussed for years, no longer count as misogyny because it's directed at a trans guy. How do people even claim it's "misdirected" (which is such a bullshit word irt oppression) it's all very clearly directed at me for having formerly been a woman*. And what of my time spent living as a girl? Does all that misogyny mysteriously disappear, all of my former experiences rendered moot by the fact I'm now a guy*.

I haven't even gotten into how cis men can be misogynistic towards each other but rad fems and people who pretend they aren't rad fems but boil misogyny down to "woman only oppression" like to ignore that. What do you call it when a cis guy shames another guy by calling him a pussy? "You hit like a girl" anyone? You can't explain this away as "misdirected" because the intended target is not a girl, is not mistakenly being perceived as a girl, it is a deliberate act of misogyny in order to enforce the patriarchal status quo.

#misogyny #transmasc #transphobia #im bad at tags negl but w/e #i bet if i sniffed out the origins of “misdirected” it would come from rad feminism #like i dont think people realize exactly how much radical feminism has invaded queer spaces its so bad its literally everywhere #its in the heavy separation of gender in the accusations that certain peoples (depending on your flavor of radfem) experiences dont count #its in the black and white view of the world #of misogyny being the only oppression that matters and everything else is coincidental the idea that men cant be oppressed at all ever #of the idea that theres one person who is the most oppressed and collecting and wielding identities like oppression points #except your points dont count if you are actually oppressed such as black trans folks who are regularly silenced #seriously though the idea that no man ever has ever faced oppression especially from a woman is so funny like i live in the rural south -- #-- and i still learned in school that there were black men who were violently murdered bc cis white women accused them of rape #but yallre like wasnt misogyny wasnt a girl he deserved it for being a nasty stinky man uwu #which is disgusting racism but if you point that out youre a misogynist not allowing women to “vent” about their oppression #transandrophobia

[brunchable]

Book of the Damned (Halloween Special Oneshot) || Sinister Strange x Reader

Word Count: 1.9K Warning: Dark Themes, Heavy Violence and Gore, Mentions of blood, Symptoms of Possession. A/N: I dunno who wants to be tagged or not so I just tagged the people who I see in my notifs often hehe.

Demonic Oppression: Activity steps up with physical attacks, sleep disturbances including regular nightmares, frequent and severe illnesses, major depression or anxiety, severe financial or employment problems, and relationship troubles. tags: @goldencherriess @gaitwae @classicrebound @gwephen @thealleydog @lucimorningst4r @allie131313 @dragonqueen89 @xunquish-blog @d0ct0rstrangewife @pinkplayer14 @ironstrange1991 @mirikusashes @strangeobsessed @jyessaminereads @boop-le-snoot @pinkthick

You squeezed toothpaste onto your toothbrush and began brushing. Every move you made these days was tentative, measured and usually uninterrupted. But it would only take one tug on your t-shirt, one jab in your ribs and you'd be packing and running again, looking for the next cheap hotel where you might go unmolested for a few days. But the thing wouldn’t leave you alone for long. It wasn’t as though you lived in a haunted house and could run out the door and be safe. This thing followed you wherever you went.

It had begun when you and some friends had gone to the infamous abandoned Sanctum at the end of the street on Halloween. As kids you've been told to stay away from that house because it used to be the house of a very suspicious man that disappeared without a trace a long time ago. Some say it was because he was a sorcerer and did magic works involving curses and other forms of very dark magic.

Prior to exploring the abandoned sanctum. You had visions of bubbly potions, spell books but what actually awaits your group was something far more powerful.

You and your friends were feeling your way along a corridor where the gloom overwhelmed all of you like a rising tide of black water. You heard what sounded like someone slurping or sucking very close to your ear. It was both disgusting and frightening at the same time. 

“Who’s there?” you yelled, “If that's one of you guys it's not funny!”  You had thought it was one of your friends messing with you. 

"(Y/N)! Over here." You saw your friend peer through down the hallway, waving to you to come over. You jogged to where they were and you found them huddled over a table.

"What did you guys find?" You asked Mavi, halting directly opposite from her on the dusty, circular table.

"Troy thinks it's a spell book. . . I think, It's a souvenir from some random crystal shop." Mavi snorts while she flips the pages and Troy glares at her.

"Who studies ancient languages here? It clearly says Darkhold." Troy traced the words with his finger. 

"Alright then, since you're the expert, why don't you read. . ." Mavi flicked through the book and randomly chose a page, "This." 

"It says it's an awakening spell." Troy held his flashlight towards the book.

"Sigils vicissim, sigils apertas. Et aperi oculos tuos. Carne teneantur tenere tenebras que. Palatium, carcere."

After Troy read those words, silence loomed all around you, not even white noise could be heard. All of your flashlights began malfunctioning and all of you began swearing out of panic as it flickered.

You stood in the darkness for a few moments, just breathing, smacking the light repeatedly in your hand. It was pitch black, your eyes still adjusting after staring at the sickly yellow light for so long. The darkness felt heavy. Really heavy. 

You felt Troy's muffled voice and a gush of wind as if he had been snatched in the dark.

"Troy!?" You and Mavi screamed, but no response.

"Very funny, Troy!" Your voice echoed through the silence. Still, no response.

The pressure on your chest became heavier and you felt like something was watching you and Mavi. The hairs on the back of your neck rise, like a bug buzzing away by your ears, trying to crawl in and get a taste of eardrum. Your head snapping side to side to try and catch a pair of eyes in the shadows. 

You smacked your flashlight again and this time it flickered on. And what you saw made you freeze in fear, causing Mavi to become curious as to what you saw behind her. When she turned around, the entity seized her by her neck and drained her of her soul. You stared at her crumpled body for a moment. The bearded man smiled brightly from across the room with his arm wrapped around her as blood trickled down both his hands and your friend's eyes.

You screamed, of course, and stumbled out, falling back onto the wooden floor and hitting your head. You look back as you heard the loud thud as Mavi's body dripped onto the floor and the man in black had gone like a puff of smoke.

But the thing hadn’t gone away since that day.

You were on the move so much, jobs were hard to hang onto. You had enjoyed the diner job, but after a string of dropped trays and spilled coffees, you had been fired on the spot, even though the owner and his wife liked you. It was the worst thing it had done up to that point.

A party of six sat at a round table in the back of the dining area. You were carrying a tray of plates above your shoulder on one hand when you heard the frightening and familiar intake of breath through moist teeth. It had been right next to your face, like some sick, sex crazed idiot, leaning in, ready to stick his tongue in your ear.

But there was no one there to see. You already knew that. Then you had been struck in the middle of your back with such force that it drove you between two women at the table who only wanted their salisbury steak and mashed potatoes but got you on the slide instead. You landed in the middle of the table. Plates, entrees and sides came raining down on everyone.

Of course no one was going to buy your story about a sinister spectre following you around, terrifying and physically assaulting you at random moments, so you didn’t offer to tell them. You just collected your tips and walked out the door with gravy dripping from the end of your nose.

You finished brushing and wiped your face. It was hot during mid summer that meant it was humid as well. You pulled your thigh length t-shirt over your head and tossed it aside. You tugged on the chain hanging from the ceiling fan and lay down on the bed. The breeze cooled your skin and felt like a stream of cool water running along your body.

You had been sleeping for a couple of hours. What woke you was a tingling on your thigh, like fingertips lightly brushing across your skin. The sensation travelled slowly toward your navel, circled and traversed the valley between your breasts. You kicked the air and threw yourself off the bed. 

“No, stop it, stop it!” you shouted.

But the thing wanted more this time and drove into your abdomen like a lineman on a football team. You landed on your back, the carpet grinding and burning your skin. The thing was on top of you. The sucking sound was next to your ear, and you felt teeth biting your neck. You clawed the air where there should have been a face, but your fingernails found no skin to shred.

You kicked and fought until you were able to scramble to your feet. You grabbed your purse and a robe and bolted out the door. You put the robe on, jumped into your car and left a rooster tail of gravel behind when you exited the parking lot. Hopefully you had left that horrible thing behind as well.

You were on a four lane thoroughfare headed east, trying to obey the speed limit. Your heart had stopped racing and you tried to think about what to do next. Getting another room would be useless. You wouldn’t sleep and that thing would probably show up anyway. You decided you would go home to your apartment. Running wasn’t any safer than home, so you watched for the next off ramp. The traffic was normal, which meant there were a lot of cars on the road.

You felt pressure on her right elbow. The pressure increased, and it grew harder to keep the steering wheel straight. You were drifting toward the centre line dividing your lane from traffic going the opposite direction. The pressure exploded into a solid shove, and you were in the wrong lane with an eighteen wheeler bearing down on you. You screamed and threw all your weight downward onto the right side of the steering wheel. The car veered back to your side of the road, and you recovered control.

You drove for a couple more miles. The lights of a police car were not a total surprise after what just happened. You could imagine the 911 operator trying to handle dozens of incoming calls about a lunatic driver on the expressway.

You pulled to the side of the road, as far away from the speeding traffic as you could. Two officers approached your vehicle. One came to your side, and the other walked around shining a light through your windows.

“Ma’am,” said the first officer in a voice raised so he could be heard above the noise of the traffic. “Could you show me your driver’s licence, registration and proof of insurance, please.”

Your heart was still racing, your hands shook with adrenalin. Sweat rolled down your face and dripped off her chin and nose. 

“Yes, officer. Just…a minute while I try to find it.” you were digging, looking for the envelope that held the documents. You felt the pressure point return again, this time on your upper back. You took the steering wheel in the chest. Cartilage cracked with loud pops, and ribs dislocated. You couldn’t take a full breath to scream.

The officer was stunned. “Ma’am?” He reached for the door handle but instead of stepping toward the car, he was thrust backward into the oncoming traffic. The sound of impact was almost imperceptible due to the speed of the automobile that took him out. His body skidded a few metres with a trail of brains and blood.

The other officer was standing clear of the door, firearm drawn, shouting at you to step out of the car. He kept glancing toward the traffic, hoping against hope for his partner. “Get out of the car, ma’am, get out now!”

“Officer, it wasn’t me, I didn’t do anything,” you screamed back.

The officer’s arm raised slowly and you took a shallow breath of relief. But the arm was bending at the elbow until the barrel was pointed at the officer’s face. Then it was discharged.

You screamed but couldn’t look away.

For one long, horrible second, the police officer stayed standing, trapped in time, his face twisted into something you could nearly call a smile. You could almost look at him and think everything was okay, like there wasn’t a black, finger-thick hole poked in the middle of his forehead. The officer made a horrible gurgling noise and tilted backward and toppled to the ground like a felled tree.

You were frozen in place, sobbing quietly, unable to move, finding it impossible to process the horrible things you'd just witnessed.

Traffic had come to a stop on both sides of the expressway and an eerie silence fell over the scene. You sat in your car, barely able to breathe. You heard the crunching sound of boots on gravel and waited for another officer to step up or maybe an ambulance driver. Have you heard of an ambulance yet? Surely they would come. The crunching stopped. You looked out the window, but there was no one looking back. No one you could see, at least.

“Leave me alone,” you said. The demand came out as a whimper, scared that you were going to be next. Then, for the first time, it spoke.

“Hmmm, broken. I need a new toy.” His deep voice sounded very disappointed and the crunching sound resumed and faded into the night.

#sinister strange x you #sinister strange x reader #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x you #doctor strange #stephen strange #stephen strange imagine #doctor strange imagine #dr stephen strange #doctor strange x you #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange fanfiction #doctor strange fanfic #mcu doctor strange

[juana-the-iguana]

I'd just like to thank you for showing how hamas is also horrible and not to be combined with the palastinian people. Yes, what Israel is doing is horrible, genocide is horrible. But we shouldn't let hamas continue raping the palastinian women and killing them as well. #freepalastine #israel's government doesn't represent the jewish people

If any of this is off base please let me know

I've been debating whether or not to respond to this comment. I think you mean well, and I hope you can see that I have good intentions too. I appreciate your comment and want you to know that most Jews and Israelis know the difference between Hamas and the Palestinian people as a whole. There is more support for Palestinians in Israel (specifically among Jewish Israelis) than I think most people realize.

Hamas does not represent the Palestinian people. The Israeli government does not represent the Jewish people, or the Israeli people at this point in time (one-fifth of which are Palestinians).

But we should be honest: while we should not hold the actions of Hamas against the collective Palestinian people, there is mainstream support for Hamas in Gaza and the West Bank. Similarly, while the majority of Israelis want Netanyahu to retire, he was elected at one point in time (even though strong criticism predates Oct. 7).

You can't have peace without acknowledging these facts.

What is happening in Gaza and the West Bank is tragic and devastating, but it is not genocide. Palestinians have been, and continue to be oppressed in Israel, in the Palestinian Territories (including areas occupied by Israel, and Gaza and parts of the West Bank ruled by the Palestinian Authority), and outside of Israel and Palestine, but it is not genocide. Genocide is a specific crime with a specific definition and not all war is genocide.

Countries that commit genocide don't warn civilians where they will drop bombs in the future. They don't take any steps to preserving life or alleviating the impact of their actions in war, because their goal is to kill as many people as possible. And, I say this with the knowledge that this is of no comfort to the people in Gaza and their families, this has one of the "best" civilian to combatant fatality ratios in modern warfare ("best" in quotation marks because any civilian death is tragic).

I know the point of your message was to highlight that Hamas is mistreating the Palestinian people. I don't want to detract from that statement. Hamas has terrorized Israelis for decades, but no one has suffered more under them than Palestinians. A prime example is the Oct. 7 attack. Not only is it obvious that offensive would start a war that would devastate Palestinians, Hamas wants to have its own people to be killed, because martyrs further their cause (that's also why they have been torturing and murdering civilians in Gaza, preventing evacuations and positioned their weapons to cause as many casualties as possible).

The fact that Hamas still has a lot of support amongst the Palestinian people is itself an indication of both ideology, but also how bad conditions were for Palestinians lived under prior to this war (although support in Gaza is dropping).

The reason I feel the need to correct the "genocide" remark is that, presently, Israel is the only country on Earth fighting Hamas. Hamas took control over Gaza through force and will only be removed through force. And Israel is not disappearing, so if Hamas is to be defeated and eradicated, Israel is going to, inevitably, be involved.

The claims of genocide are not only factually inaccurate, but it is used as a justification to stop this war, which would only help Hamas and prolong this horrible conflict.

#israel #palestine #i/p #hamas is isis

[skepticalarrie]

Sorry this got kinda long but; Do you think that in 1D days when they were told/forced to distance and they were younger and perhaps more naive, it looked like they were kinda raging against the closet/management in whatever way they could and trying to show fans in the best way they could they were together? Rainbow bears, serenading, tattoos ect, whereas nowadays it looks to me as if they want to remain quite private about their relationship and instead of trying to convince people they are together like back in the day, the ‘proof’ we get now; queer coding, bluegreening and clothing coding (like Louis wearing maison shirt for H shirt for example) is less for proving to Larries and fans and just more like Louis making a gesture from himself to H and parallels in lyrics and the way they speak about certain topics so similar isn’t them trying to convince people of anything or intentional it’s just them being themselves and naturally we can all make the connection? Like now they’re Not necessarily trying to piss off their management (especially considering they’re probably more friendly with their individual mangers now than they were with modest) and more just being themselves as best they can. And they know that the people who actually get it will get it and they have nothing to really ‘prove’ because the fans that know, know. Probably just accepted that in order to have successful careers and keep their teams employed they can’t really come out in this still majorly homophobic industry and probably value their relationship enough to keep it for themselves, that they’ll just accept having to stunt for the foreseeable(as much as it sucks, especially lately, bleugh)

Things like the Umbro shirt for example I always thought it was more of an oopsie moment than internationally for fans/Larries. I don’t think Harry specifically went out that particular day to be caught by a random fan wearing it or else he would have worn it somewhere more public or for a media day or something. I think that was like an oops moment for them.

I just feel right now that they’re being quite private and not everything they do is connected to proving ‘Larry’ but naturally we’ll still see the connections because there’s too many. Disappearing at the same time, being so similar in mannerisms and how they define fame and success, lyrics and not wanting to say what they’re about this time around. Of course it could just be because they’re not in the band anymore so naturally the ‘proof’ we get is no longer looks and serenading and instead things you have to piece together and have knowledge of, but anyway those are my thoughts

Hi, anon! I like your thoughts, this is a very interesting discussion. In my opinion, I don't think they ever did it for us or to piss off management. Not really, or not directly. You're making everything a little too much about us, sometimes we forget it's their closeting, their fight, their relationship. We're just watching it, we don't have any active participation in it and what we know doesn't even scratch the surface of what they really have. So I think the way they felt the need to communicate so intensely at times was always about themselves, and how they were feeling. To make what they had valid, acknowledged, and somehow express their love. They were obviously so much more oppressed before, everything was so so so cruel and rough, so I think the natural reaction to this much repression was to scream louder, to fight back. And the fact we got involved, we listened to what they were saying, is just a plus, they ended up feeding from our reaction as well... and I believe that's where the bears came from. They wanted to educate people about the industry about gay rights, they wanted to make sure people were aware that this kind of things were happening and it's still happening. But it was never about us or giving us proof.

Now they're older, their relationship is more solid and mature. They went through hell and back. I fully believe they're much more in control of what they want. So maybe there isn't much need to feel what they have validated or to express that so intensely. Although it is still there, the colours, the songs, the coded clothing. It's their way to make it real and it's lovely, they need to do what they feel like doing. I wonder how many things they do it only for themselves that we have no idea of. The only things we're picking up are the stuff we already have some sort of knowledge about it, there's so much stuff we could never possibly make sense of. It just hit me one of these days that we've seen them more as solo artists than in the same band by now, more separated than together. The only thing we have to piece things together is a few hundreds of videos during 5 years of their relationship. And that's a speck of dust compared to their reality.

I talked about this several times, but I'm sure there are many reasons why they're not out, it's not that simple and I think it's very plausible if privacy is one of these reasons. I fully believe they love to express themselves like that and feel acknowledged by us, but what they have is still theirs. This is the kind of thing you only realise when you get to a certain level of maturity. And to be honest, I would also want to protect that if I was them. They have this fraction of fans who know about it and acknowledge it, and look how complicated that is already. So, good for them!

#ask #communicating #closeting