This is the dumbest shit to complain about but i absolutely fucking hate seeing ppls art tutorials on tiktok explaining shading and then immediately being like "make sure you use this color to shade X" NO!;!!!;$*%(%(,%^?,%% I DHDJJG nobody who watches these is going to learn how colors work and how to shade on their own they'll just default to this same preset every single time "ah shade this with purple, shade this with pink" EVEN WHEN THE MOOD OF THE DRAWING OR THE OTHER COLORS DONT FIT THIS maybe ill explode

Like like idk i feel like an important thing to understand is how colors relate to each other and knowing that in theory you can use any color for anything as long as it fits the values and relates well to the other colors. You can use the same value of blue and yellow in a single drawing but blue is cool and yellow is warm it will most likely be read as blue being the shadow. Even if the blue and yellow are just as dark or light as each other. AND YOU FUSUSKSHDKFHSKFNVN DONT LEARN THINGS LIKE THIS FROM THAT

Raindrops in the Wind - Chapter 5

Chapter Rating: 18+ (Explicit)

Work Rating: 18+ (Explicit)

Pairing: Jango Fett x F!Reader

Word count: Approx. 2.1k

Warnings: Whooo boy. 18+ is finally here. Jango is a manipulative shit. Imagined PinV, imagined oral (m!receiving), imagined overstimulation, male masturbation, spit as lube.

“Are you CT-4138?”

The designation roll off your tongue easily, and a part of you wondered how it became so easy to refer to people by a number instead of a name. The man waiting to be seen didn't appear bothered by this, none of them ever did. Most of them sat quiet and still on the examination table whenever you entered, the older clones occasionally trying their hands at a very charming, if rough, attempt at flirting with you. You get it, you do. It's hard to learn how to flirt when you don't have the opportunity to try your hand. It doesn't make you cringe any less when they make the effort, though.

This one tilts his head and smirks at the question. 'Great, another flirt', you think to yourself.

“I am. You must be the pretty trainer.”

'Geez, this one is laying it on thick already.' You mentally roll your eyes before taking a few more steps in the door.  “So you're a playboy?”

At your question, he rose from the examination table and walked forward, stopping only when he was nearly toe to toe with you. Then he leaned his head down next to your ear and whispered, his voice deep and tinged with lust. “Not too many people here I want to play with, Mesh'la, unless you're interested in a little fun?”

Fire shot straight to your core and your heart pounded in your ears. The room was too hot and too small, and he was far too close. You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat.

“What's the matter? Loth-cat got your tongue?” The smirk on his face was downright sinful.

'Damn him, he's good.'

He still hadn't stepped back, instead he crowded you more, taking another two steps forward, forcing you backward until your back hit the door and putting a finger underneath your chin, tipping your head back to make you look him in the eyes. “I need you to speak to me, mesh'la. I need to hear your voice.”

You had to make a concerted effort to speak, and the breathy voice that came from your throat sounding nothing like the sure voice you expected.

“CT-41-” “Call me Flank”, he drawled, leaning close, so close you could smell the soap on his skin. It made your head swim, and you closed your eyes again, trying to will away the images your overactive mind was conjuring of the man in front of you as you lay with him between your legs. Flank was nothing like the others who had taken their chances in flirting with you. Flank was dangerous, and you were quickly falling under his spell, to your dismay.

“CT-4138, the time for your appointment is limited. Please return to the examination table.” You silently thank all the Gods that the medical droid decided to speak and do its job, allowing you to move to the side and get away from the overly flirtatious clone.

If droids could be killed by looks alone, the medical droid would have been on the ground in a smoking heap, executed by the glare Flank sent its way.

“How about we finish this after my checkup?” he said, sitting up on the table.“ How about we don't and say that we did?” “Where's the fun in that? I thought we had something for a second.” You narrowed your eyes at him, thoroughly done with his antics. “We don't have anything but an appointment to finish up, and it will end at the scheduled time whether you behave or not.”

He didn't miss a beat. “I'll behave for you if you do something for me.” A little voice in your head told you to say no, but the demon on your shoulder said 'what harm can be done by hearing him out?' “What do you want?”

His dark eyes gleamed in the examination light as the medical droid zipped around him, oblivious to push and pull happening between the room's human occupants. “Walk with me a bit. Let me get to know you. No pressure.”

“I can't.”

“Why not? There's no rule against it. We clones aren't forbidden from seeking out friendships. ”“Is that all you're looking for? Friendship?” He cocked an eyebrow at your reply, then called your bluff with his own. “I could ask you the same thing.”

You couldn't deny that you found the older clones you worked with were attractive, with their golden brown skin and easy smiles. But Flank was something else entirely, his eyes filled with a fierceness and hunger that you had seen in no other man.

You were intrigued. Rules be damned.

“Perhaps, but we'll walk first, and not today. I'm far too busy.” You hoped that you didn't sound too eager in your reply. You were clearly interested, but you needed to at least keep a way out if the walk moved in a direction that you weren't comfortable, plus you wanted to learn more about Flank before spending more time with him.

“Then tomorrow, after you've finished work.”

“Tomorrow.”

~~~

The “checkup” went much better than Jango ever expected. He had you wrapped around his finger before he even opened his mouth. 'If I play my cards right, I might actually have some fun', he thought to himself, as he left the room and made his way back to his apartment.

You obviously didn't belong here, too sweet and naïve to realize you were being played. You were taking everything you saw and heard at face value, in Jango's opinion, just a ripe piece of fruit ready to be devoured, having no true purpose but existing for the pleasure of the eater.

Later that evening, after he and Boba had eaten dinner and Boba was safe and asleep in his bed, Jango began to plan in earnest. Having a physical reaction to him was one thing, but you could only get so far fucking information out of your target. He had to make a “real” connection with you. You had to actually like Flank and want to spend time with him. You had to trust him. Your trust was the lynch pin in his plan.

He was going to make you fall in love.

The question now was, how? All he really knew about you was who you appeared to be here on Kamino. Sure, he had been provided some background information, like where you originated from and the work you did there, but there was little about the person you were. You helped people, to your own detriment at times, and that was about it. No family. No close friends. No lovers. Just you and a deeply ingrained will to survive.

It wasn't much to work with, but he's worked with less when the needed results were much more important. He'll just have to be careful to make sure he doesn't push too far and scare you away. The last thing he wanted to do was humble himself for a fictional relationship. He wanted this to be perfect. He wanted you to hang off his arm and hang on to his every word. He wanted you to spy for him without you being aware you were a spy.

And blast it to all the moons of the Galaxy, he wanted you, and that's a problem. When he leaned close to gauge your interest in him, the sweet gasp that came from your lips had him quickly hardening under his codpiece. If not for that blasted droid he would have been buried in your heat, hearing you scream his name as your voice bounced around the small observation room. Well, you would be screaming out Flank's name, but what difference was there, really?

Jango had spent the rest of his day half hard, thinking about how you would look beneath him, cumming on his cock over and over, writhing in pleasure as he pushes you over the edge again and again until you beg him to stop. When he tipped your chin to look in your eyes in the examination room he decided then he wanted to see those same eyes clouded over in lust, tears streaming down your cheeks as he fucks your face.

He wants to ruin you.

He was fully hard now, and aching for release as his hand snaked down his chest and underneath the the waistband of his pants. With his other hand he lowered his pants enough to remove his stiffened cock, before spitting in his palm and moving his fist up and down his length. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, imagining you on your knees with his cock in your mouth, struggling to swallow him down. “That's it. Just like that.” Jango's ears were filled with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, and he imagined running his fingers through your hair before curling them in your scalp and holding you still as he fucked up into your sweet mouth.

Less than a dozen strokes later and he was spilling his thick release over his knuckles, his warm spend dripping from his clenched fist onto his shirt and pants. He slipped his shirt over his head and cleaned the cum from his hand before throwing the soiled garment in a pile of laundry waiting to be cleaned.

~~~

The rest of your appointments that day didn't go as well as you had hoped. Your mind kept slipping back to Flank, and daydreams were ruining your attention, and more than one cadet caught you staring off into space when you should have been making small talk with him. How is it your fault when you can still feel Flank's breath fan over your shoulder, his lips nearly brushing your ears?

'Stop it. Just stop it', you tried to will your brain, but it was working in overdrive, and instead of heading to the mess like you usually did at the end of your day you headed down the hallways that lead to your room. You continued up and down the hallways of Tipoca City, passing young cadets drilling in straight lines, learning the basics side by side with their brothers. There was so much order in everything they did, each sharing a handful of haircuts between them, most having the exact same hair and eye color, though every now and then you would see a cadet with close shorn blonde hair or piercing blue eyes, but they were the exception. But you knew how different each of them could be.

Flank was the most “different” clone you had the pleasure of meeting. Confidence seemed to pour from his body with a natural ease. There had been others that tried to get your attention, human women were a rare luxury on Kamino after all, but none had pulled you into his orbit as easily as Flank. It was as if he was born to seduce others. 'He would make a great politician', you thought absentmindedly as you turned another corner, nearing your room and passing two clones chatting.

“...well, I heard that Prime was walking around the medical rooms this afternoon in clone armor, and that came from Rack himself, and you know his word is as good credits in your hand.” The two older cadets continued as you walked past, their voices slowly getting lower until you were nearing yet another turn. “Yeah, but he doesn't really bother himself with clone affairs outside of training...”

Prime? Who is Prime, and why would a trainer be wearing clone armor if they're, presumably, not a clone? Why was Prime the subject of clone rumors? Maybe you were reading too much into what you were hearing. There were a lot of different trainers and staff here, and there were clones who did trainer duties as well, you had met a few, but they had all been in armor when you met them. That seemed to be the standard when they were working, so a trainer, who was potentially a clone, out of armor enough that other clones thought it was out of the ordinary, that was an interesting bit of information.

But that was something for you to investigate some other time.

For now, there had been a dull, consistent ache between your legs since your encounter with the cocky clone Flank, and your need to relieve it was pressing harder and harder on you the closer you got to your room. You feared it would take much more than your own fingers to satisfy the need that was quickly growing within you.

~~~

Taglist:

@ashotofspotchka @gummywurme @bobabitch88 @the-empress-strikes-back @tacticalsparkles @rebelpitstop @14mcmd1122

A New Day

CHAPTER 2

Summary: Captain Syverson finishes his latest tour and returns to his hometown only to find that things have changed since he’s been gone.

Warnings:  Cursing, Slight angst, Mentions of alcohol, Mentions of religion, Bad coffee, General confusion

Word count: 1,466

Chapters: 1 , 2

**Hi.  This is my first fanfiction ever, so bear with me.  I don’t know what I’m doing or how to tag things.  Also, I’ve never shared a story before it’s finished, and I’m doing this chapter by chapter and it’s giving me hella anxiety. I’m sorry if this sucks! I don’t own anything related to the SandCastle movie or its characters.  However, this is my original writing and I do not give permission for use of the idea or reposting without credit.**

*Also also, I’m trying my best to avoid any grammatical errors but if you see any, please let me know. I’m having a lot of fun getting to write in my own accent but spellcheck is having an absolute aneurysm over it so I’ve gone a bit blind to all the red lines.*

Sy’s morning walk through town was unusual, to say the least.  Waking up with a throbbing headache wasn’t making him feel the most chipper to begin with, and finding the only coffee available to him at the local convenience store was cold from a bottle had him scowling.  He was getting restless.  He’d known things would feel odd at first, given how long he’d been away.  But this?  Fresh paint, manicured lawns, nothing out of place anywhere he looked. Every street corner, every billboard, shop window, and newspaper had some advertisement for the local church. His parents had been pretty religious, but it hadn’t been something the whole town was engrossed in.  Seemed his brother was right about one thing, it definitely was a new day.  

Shrugging to himself, he made his way down to the shops in the small downtown area. Pushing open the door to the closest clothing shop, he was greeted by the ring of the bell above the door and the startled “oh” of the diminutive woman behind the counter.

“Good morning sir. What can I help you find today?”

“Call me Sy,” he said, “and I’m just gonna have a browse around if that’s okay?”

“Of course, sir,” she said quietly.

He quickly selected a few pairs of Levi’s in his size and a few plain tees in varied colors, and made his way to the counter.  

“Will that be all, sir?” she woman intoned.

“Sy, and yes, just a few things to get me by darlin’.” His usually charming grin was missed as the woman kept her eyes trained on the shop counter as she rang up his purchases.

“Vera! How’s a woman like yourself gonna forget your manners?” came the voice of a man approaching the front of the store.  “Syverson here has been away so long he probably near forgot what hospitality feels like!”

Sy recognized the older man as one of his father’s old buddies.  If he remembered correctly, old Jim Cade and his father used to play a similar tune at their favorite bar in town, loosening up and tossing their money at the bartender most of the evening before coming home a’stumblin to their families.  

“Jim.  How ya been?” Sy asked.  “Still keepin’ the waterin’ hole in business?”

“Oh definitely not,” Jim replied seriously. “Bar’s been out of business for over a year now, Sy. Ain’t none of us drinkers anymore. Church’s set me straight.  My only problem now is keepin’ old Vera here in line,” he smirked.

“Keep hearin’ a lot about this church.  Didn’t know y’all got so spirited while I’ve been away,” Sy said delicately.

“The church damn near saved this town Sy.  We was all lost and sinnin’ before they came along.  We learn the ways, keep to the roles we’re s’pose to, the church provides. It’s a new day, son.  This town’s learned to value a good hard workin’ day. It’s only too bad your daddy isn’t here to see it.”

Sy grunted in reply, not knowing what to say to that.  All this “new day” business had a ring to it that didn’t sit well with him.

“Well, Jim, Vera, thank you.  Best be on my way.”

Jim waved at him as he walked away, but Vera remained quiet, staring down at the shop counter.

_________

After stopping in at the local diner for lunch and yet another bottled coffee, then grabbing a newspaper to look at the classifieds, Sy drove his rental car on toward the local car dealership.

He approached the door expecting to be jumped on by one of the salesmen, but beyond a few friendly smiles, they left him to his own devices.  He found what he was looking for with little fuss.  He considered himself a simple man.  A good solid truck would be just fine by him.  As he inspected the blue F150, a flutter of yellow floral fabric caught the corner of his eye.  He turned his head fully and what he set his eyes upon made his breath hitch in his throat.  If he had one regret about disappearing, he was looking at it.

“HOO-LYY shit,” he drew out the syllables as his face broke into a shit-eating grin. “Little Olivia Harper. What a beautiful sight for sore eyes.  How the hell have ya been?”

Delicate fingers trailing over the side of a black version of the same truck Sy had been looking at, Olivia turned slowly, her short yellow sundress and long wavy auburn hair moving in the small summer breeze.

She looked up into his eyes at his question, a slightly confused smile crossing her face, as though she was trying to drag recognition up from deep in her memory.  

“…….Jude?” She sounded as if she was unsure if that was really his name.

What a punch in the gut.

“Uh…yeah Liv, it’s me. I’m back home for a while,” Sy replied, feeling more awkward by the minute as she watched him quietly.  

The Liv he remembered would have immediately given him shit for calling her “little”.  He always had, even though she was only a few years younger. He’d tease her constantly, but she would always throw it right back.  They had been friends all throughout high school and up until he’d left on his first deployment.  Troublemakers, the both of them.  He would never have told her at the time, but if he hadn’t been so desperate to run away from this town, he would have gone beyond their one single, forbidden kiss, shared one night after sneaking out to lay in the bed of his truck and watch the stars.  Her father had always hated Sy.  In his eyes the loser son of a drunk would never be good enough for his daughter, so when Sy left, he figured it was best to leave things the way they were.

Olivia stared and stared at the large man.  Something felt familiar about him. Something was tugging at her memory but it was hard to focus.  Always so hard to focus.  His voice made her feel warm inside, like she was basking in sunlight.  Sunlight?  Oh yes, she was outside in summer. Of course.  Who was this man talking to her again?  What was she supposed to be doing?  Blake would tell her.  Her eyes met the man’s blue gaze and she felt that tug again.   “Jude.” She said again, in confirmation.  This man’s name was Jude.  She was certain of it somehow, but it still felt off.  Her eyebrows furrowed slightly.  Had she called him by some other name before?  “Sy?”

His name on her lips held so much uncertainty that he was positive a small piece of his heart just chipped off.  

“Olivia!” A well-dressed man stepped out from around the other vehicles and up to her side. “Olivia, what are you doing over here?” He said testily, but stopped short when he saw Sy. “If you’re quite done wandering, we have a purchase to complete.” He handed her a bottle of water.  “Drink.”

Drink.  Blake.  Yes. She was supposed to be waiting with Blake.  Something had caused her to wander over to the truck she was standing by.  She touched it again.  Wouldn’t it be nice to lay in the back and watch the stars?  Drink. Yes, she should drink.  

Sy observed the exchange, completely bewildered and concerned.  Had something happened to Liv while he was gone?  Something requiring a caretaker?

The man looked Sy over, taking in the fatigue pants he was still wearing, giving him a winning smile, then stuck out his hand.  “Blake Turner.  You must be Captain Syverson.  Your brother told me you would be coming home.  Welcome back, and thank you for your service to our great country.”

Blake Turner was a smooth operator.  Too smooth. Sy hated him already.

“Nice to meet ya,” he said, accepting the proffered hand. “How do you know my brother?”

“Jonah works for my company. A great man, we love having him on board.  He really embodies the values we aim to represent within our company.  We can really do some good in this town with more men like him.”

“Yeah?  He didn’t tell me much about what he’s been doing for work now.  We didn’t have a lot of time to catch up yesterday.”

“Well,” Blake said, taking Liv’s arm in his grasp, “we have to go finish up.  Nice to meet you.  If you’re looking for work now that you’re back, have your brother contact me.” Sy knew instantly that he would do no such thing.  Blake steered Liv away and she followed with one more slightly confused glance back over her shoulder.  

Sy’s blue eyes met her green ones, and he found himself determined to find out what was going on.

Some Observations On Talking About Race With White People:

Context: I am a white person. I studied anthropology and then went and traveled all around the US and talked to a lot of people about race. With so many people urging white people to use their voice and privilege to begin discussions with other white people in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, here are some things that I’ve learned:

1. It is exhausting. 

You have to start from the most simple kernels of truth and work backwards from there with a lot of people. Many of whom have never in their lives thought about their skin color and what it means or says, who have never questioned their position as a majority or been in a society that asks them to. You start with the basic pieces and talk in circles for them or else they dismiss you. You feel like shit but laugh at some of their jokes so that you can talk about the issues or else they’ll just leave and dismiss the idea as liberal or you as a millennial, you understand the push and pull and the tug-of-war game you’re playing, but it’s still exhausting. Maybe you have a breakthrough and it’s worth it. But it doesn’t end. You might make progress one day and the person reverts back to old habits the next. But you keep going. You keep trying. 

Keep trying. People change.

2. Keep trying, but stay safe. 

There’s a lot of psychology involved, and knowing how to get through to someone is a skill but can be dangerous. Facing that obligation to talk to people in the face of racism and violence can give your courage, but sometimes it can make you stupid. Sometimes walking away is important. Sometimes simply not laughing at the joke is enough because there is no place to start. Sometimes you wish you could peel off your own skin because you don’t want to look like them, you are horrified at the idea that someone might think you are like them, there is a dread and that’s okay. It’s good, it means you are not like them because of your fear. When challenging people, especially in their psychology and philosophy and the way they think about life and the world around them, it is enough to keep trying. Sometimes to keep trying, you have to walk away.

3. Context matters.

In order to romanticize eras and think nostalgically of times when they were not alive or don’t have full context of, some white people will ignore the extra efforts minorities had to go through to fit in, and the silenced violence and struggle. For many older white people, individualism is a threat and they value homogenous cultural identities, romanticizing pop-culture eras like the 20s or 50s without stopping to reflect on the media/historical interpretation vs reality. There is a pervasive view that there was less racism in the 80s, or another era around then, because there was a predominant popular culture, without ever taking the time to stop and consider the extra lengths minorities had to go through to fit that culture, or how they were limited in representation and ability by a larger oppressive system. I really like the quote going around by Will Smith that “racism isn’t getting worse, it’s getting filmed.” But for many white Americans, what they see in the evening news and on their personalized social media feeds does not challenge them, but reinforces their bubbles to say “no, it wasn’t like this in the 50s/60s/70s/80s.” 

There are plenty of ways to trick our minds into believing our own world views to avoid challenge or growth, and for some white people, reminding them of the biases of their context with details like: in 1929, Martin Luther King Jr., Anne Frank, and Barbara Walters were all born; with something as simple as that, contemporary familiarity has been added and placed over two names so heavily associated with the Civil Rights Movement and WWII for American-educated white people. Or talking about Ruby Bridges walking into a white school in 1960 and how many of our parents and grandparents were alive at the time, helps recognize that this isn’t new and it’s not that old. Explaining why the southwest US is so “Mexican” because when the US bought the land there were people living there, and asking about why they thought the land was empty (”history books/class”) and what they thought happened to the people (”I never thought about it”) has been the beginning of a redemption arc for several people. 

Talking to ignorant white people about what’s currently happening in the world when they ignore it forces them to think about it. Keeping police brutality and racism in conversation forces people to look into it for fear of not contributing to social conversations or not being in the know, and having those conversations face-to-face means they are more than random tweets or social media opinions. Talking matters, conversations matter, context matters, and challenging people (and yourself) and their ideas and world views matters.

4. Sometimes you lose.

There is a comfort in a homogenous society, an easy way to spot the outsider. Many of the most racist people I’ve met and chatted with retain an us-vs-them mentality that happily accepts POC who they know personally, while generalizing and labelling all others as a threat and outsiders. There is a fear perpetuated by false information and lack of context that takes so long to dismantle it hardly feels worth it.

This mentality is often recognizable by its discomfort with language it doesn’t know, obsession with brands and their perceived identity, and patronizing explanations of just about everything. It takes so much patience to get through the arrogance and sometimes the other person is “just having fun” or “playing devil’s advocate to see what you really think” or “you should read x, y, and z, then you’ll get it.” There’s an arrogance sometimes and wading through that muck to get to the bigger problems can take a while. Spotting the hypocrisy can be infuriating. 

It’s okay to stop and take a step back out of fear that you might hurt someone else by changing the person’s limited-accepting view. For example: by challenging a racist person ranting about “China is bad” and asking then why they accept their kid’s Chinese friend, you may fear risking that child’s friendship as the racist person talks themselves into believing they shouldn’t be friends. Sometimes letting a person rant about the exceptions to their view is a place to start a conversation about diversity and tolerance and acceptance and culture, but sometimes walking away defeated is more important and okay.

5. You are combatting fear and it isn’t rational.

The fear of losing authority extends a strong arm into political language, rhetoric, discourse and control. The fear of being controlled by masses and not having individualism, even while forcing others to conform, is an irony many willingly admit and agree with through that paternal view: I can be contradictory and demand free speech without consequence while telling you to stop with threats of government/legal action, but you can’t. There is a paternalism that stems from privilege and religion. It is exhausting to combat. It says drug users need to be locked up because it’s what’s best for them; it says abortion is wrong because I believe in a soul, because I am Christian, because my church says there is a soul present, and so my religion says it is wrong, therefore I want it illegal because of that and I know what is best for women. It says girls who are assaulted asked for it because paternalism requires a solid foundation of black-and-white truths in order to determine right or wrong and good or bad. That mentality struggles to see grey, to understand their own biases and why the political language matters in the first place. 

This means it is often in favor of other black-or-white extremes such as strict gender roles, anti LGBTQ+, or anything else like race that involves a spectrum of identity values rather than a scale of one side or another. This also means there is more room for conspiracy and ungrounded theory to fill in, because a black-or-white mentality demands explanations for things it can no longer explain through the denial of spectrums – if you look at the color purple and have to decide if it’s red or blue and those are your only options, you have to have a reason to put it one place or the other, but regardless of the reason, both may be true since color doesn’t exist on a one-or-the-ther scale but a spectrum. This means there are reasons for their way of thinking, but they are often not logical or expressible in language that makes sense or discourse that can be dissected; it is devoid of introspection and often projects and lashes out at language and the way something is presented rather than the thing itself. Learning to get around that with simple examples of context and explanations that don’t rely on academic language is crucial to communicating with some people.

6. Being an ally is not easy, you have to listen and be willing to fail and grow.

I was ignorant at first, when talking to POC friends (and probably still am in some ways). I didn’t understand that I was unfamiliar, as a white person talking about racism and social issues, until a POC friend confided that they’ve never heard a white person capable of talking about race or understanding the complexities of the scale before. Suddenly I understood the generalization that white people are stupid and privileged. We built a bridge between us, simply by being open to a conversation about race, and then by later realizing and respecting that my openness will be challenged at first, because the majority of experiences for my own POC friends at the time were white people being ignorant or dismissive of race. I am not infallible, I make mistakes, but looking at how and why is the part that matters, and realizing that I also represent an experience and a race, and that I also have expectations, was an important moment for me. Understanding the balance of influence and being able to face it without the intent to take, but with the intent to understand, is important. Starting from the understanding that we all have biases, we are all racist based on our context in the sense that we judge people to protect ourselves, and that skin is a visible marker we often use for culture and heritage, we begin understand race’s role in modern society, and then we can talk about it. 

I will also admit this was a point of pride for me. I am white, but I tan well and have dark wavy hair and my grandparents are immigrants so I know my heritage cultures. I have been mistaken for many ethnicities based on my location and other identity markers like clothing and body language, which initially made it easier for me to personally talk about race with others without waiting for permission, because I can relate. White women have walked up and grabbed my hair before, I have been in embarrassing situations where I didn’t match the expected environment or was judged for not properly coding-switching my language. I have been the only white person in many rooms, growing up in a black neighborhood; I have experience with poverty and was on the same free hot-lunch programs as my neighbors, and we avoided the same corners and colors together; I have been accused of trying too hard and not enough, talked to in random languages on the street with expected understanding, and I have a conservative family to remind me over and over again how hard I had to work at building this mentality and how oddly lucky I am that the world around me and my own curiosity made me constantly question those views. 

It’s important to choose your battles and learn from your mistakes, to recognize your growth, to question and doubt yourself, but one of the most important things I’ve come to learn about being white and talking about race with POC is the ability to empathize without needing to relate. You don’t need permission to talk about race. You are one. Everything I said about my experiences just now? At the end of the day, I learned, none of it matters. It doesn’t matter where I grew up or what my experiences are, because I can’t relate to everything and knowing the limits is important. But the other side of that is knowing how to relate to the end emotion with empathy, even in your limitations. You can’t relate with everything and that’s true for everyone, but you can try to understand people and their emotion, you can empathize without first-hand experience by being vulnerable.

Many conversations that I’ve had with white people involve the insistence that they are more than white, like what I just did above, to prove that I can have a seat at the table: look at all these exceptions I have, validate my experience. That’s not important, and I’ve found time and time again that white people (myself included at one point) value that, first out of fear of being insensitive and racist, but also out of a fear of being rejected and invalidated. The best conversations I’ve had with POC about race had to start with me validating myself and my own experiences with an open mind, ready to understand theirs. 

If you are white and you look to join or start a conversation about race with validation from others, that’s not starting from vulnerability or the potential that you’re wrong, it’s starting with the expectation that they give you something, and that never invites understanding or sincerity from either side. You have to be willing to learn and be wrong and know where you stand on your own, with your own validation, before you can begin to talk with others about their experiences or understand and empathize and grow.

You have to be willing to shine a light instead of be the voice. The best example I have of this is the 1968 Black Power salute. Sympathetic to the cause of fellow athletes Tommie Smith and John Carlos, Peter Norman, the bronze medalist and a white Australian, asked what he could do and he listened. They asked him not to raise his fist. In solidarity, he wore a pin, opening himself up to the harsh criticism of conservatives at the time. He was willing to suffer the backlash without demanding a role in the symbol, and I think that by doing that, he shows how to be an ally, how to talk about racism and listen and understand the meanings behind things. When Peter Norman died, Tommie Smith and John Carlos were pallbearers at his funeral, and I think that says a lot about friendship and alliance. Sometimes, you can’t relate to POC experiences, but you can listen, and you can understand.

7. Fear is the root. 

Fear of sharing, of not having enough, of being tricked or taken advantage of. It is manufactured and created through our own context bubbles and media, and some of it is naturally culminated because of those propagating pieces, so people think it’s okay, that their racism is important, that it protects them. 

We fear unfamiliar things, but pointing out to people that they are the ones who are ignorant and naive is tricky. The psychology that makes people deny and exist on a black-vs-white spectrum is nearly 100% a protection from feeling out of control, based on fears and a lack of personal context. Meaning that the most racist and judgmental people often rarely see people who are different from them in skin color (or when they are different in skin color, they blend in economic class or religion, etc.). They don’t have context to things outside of themselves, their familiarity is limited. 

This is where the issues of white people thinking all [insert any minority here] “look alike.” Because of their lack of context, the key traits they notice are those in contrast to other white people rather than other people in general; rather than noticing a pointed chin or square face, a heavy brow or long nose, a white person without diverse contexts of faces or people might simply notice skin complexion or epicanthic folds and nothing else, they might not even consider body shape, because they are around other people of diverse shapes and heights. This is not an excuse, it’s sad, but it helped me understand where to start several conversations with racist people ranting about race, by considering their own lack of personal context. Starting with race being a cultural construct often, in my experience, does not work here, though I often found myself starting there and working backwards until I learned more about fear and politics and how people use them together to retain control in their lives. 

Explaining how minority cultures are “good” can help, but often there is that rebounding psychology that says familiar is good, unfamiliar = bad. The fear of losing the majority, the upper-hand, the paternalist authority of determining right/wrong based on their views and forcing assimilation on others is deep-seated and rampantly unconscious, and that’s the dangerous part. In some conversations a simple “oh, you’re scared of losing your power” has changed an already-introspective person for the better in such an epiphany moment that reaffirms starting at the very basics with many white people - do you recognize that you have power here? And in many cases they recognize the existence of privilege but not the details of it, discussing those details can also add important context. But fear often makes people reluctant to understand, so looking at their own fears can be a place to start.

There is also a fear of losing parts of the self. For some white people, their travels or appropriative behaviors are the most interesting things about them (according to them), and so the idea of talking about race becomes a conversation challenging their own identities, which encompasses a fear of losing those identities. This is a tricky road for me, because I understand the exciting allure of learning new things and exploring new cultures. I think I can be susceptible to exoticism and tokenism, but that’s also what makes it important to talk about, because I challenge myself at the same time. That becomes a conversation about intent and meaning and culture, and I think it’s important to remember, as a white person talking to other white people, that you do not wear a badge of honor giving you permission to accuse and assume. 

It can be easy to generalize and build assumptions about people, but there are other white people willing to talk about race, there are people who look white and are not at all, and by assuming people’s fears or intentions or consequences, you can easily become the asshole. For example: shamefully, I will admit that I talked to a “white girl” who was really into yoga once, and I made an internal judgement about her, but in conversation, it came up that she grew up in India, speaks Hindi and a bunch of other languages, and works as a translator. That was embarrassing for me, though I never said anything out loud, and I think that’s important too – that we analyze our internal judgements and think about them. I spent some time thinking about my initial judgement, what changed, and what I considered “acceptable” appropriation or identifiable appropriation and “acceptable” displays of culture and value, and I found that it’s complicated. It’s important to be aware of ourselves and not fall into a self-righteousness that ends up demanding to be the voice of others, but to listen and have conversations with those around us. 

8. Context matters part II.

Talking proud white people through the history of European cultures before Rome, and explaining their own heritage, if available, has continually seen those white Americans stop and question what they know of their history and timeline. Talking about tribes and clans and nomadic groups, basically anything during the Roman Empire that wasn’t Rome, has forced many people to pause and question what they know of empire and colonization and conquest and all that they know of “right” and “good” and resource stockpiling, because suddenly there is a before, where they had only ever learned of the after. 

Positioning their own heritage in a perspective that adamantly opposes the idea that guns and colonization were a natural progression of society, and instead asks why and answers: because they were built to invade and take, has made many people pause, and others simply nod and say yes, and that’s why it’s mine now. Which is chilling and frustrating, but does shed light on where to go next. Many white Americans were taught history in the context of victories and kings and presidents and drama, not slavery, servitude, or lives of normal people. Positioning their heritage as one of a conquered people enslaved by Rome suddenly has them questioning that same story they learned about the Trail of Tears and Native American history. And those moments of questioning, of being offered new information that challenges their familiar order of thoughts and cultural context, that can make all the difference.

9. People look different for #reasons.

The single most efficient tool that I have found to really make a difference in the way people see other people is educating them on what the differences mean. Because, in the same way that understanding why someone hurt you makes forgiving them easier, understanding why someone looks different from you makes seeing them as a whole easier.

Explaining to people things like: how skin color works, what it does to protect us, how history and culture and things like slavery and migration impact it, how hair works, what coils, kinks, and curls do for heat dispersion, what big lips or rounded jaws or epicanthic folds or big noses or curvy booties mean, how a human population’s general shape is impacted by their environment, and that it’s ALL IN THE NAME OF THERMOREGULATION, has made so many people go “oh wow, I never knew that, that’s so cool!” And suddenly skin color, hair texture, body shape, etc. are not longer a single reflection of a person’s culture or heritage, but an organ their body is using to maintain their health and keep them alive. 

Telling someone that, based on genetic diversity of populations and a bunch of other stuff like migration and cultural mating habits, they are more likely to find a doppelgänger that looks most like them in another race, has also helped. Out of all your human traits and phenotypic markers, you are more likely to find another human with your similar body/face shapes and structure, but with a different skin color. Showing people these pictures and talking about two friends I had in college who looked exactly alike but one was from Afghanistan and the other from Mexico generally gets people interested in looking at people more intently.

[Note: sometimes it can be harder to find obvious pictures of women/LGBTQ+ individuals with different-race doppelgängers because of the use of makeup, cultural expectations of beauty, and general oppression and erasure of minority cultures, POC, and women, so these are mostly white men who look like other men.]

There you go, some observations about talking about race with white people as a white person. This is all I can do right now, in the midst of the suffering and grief, the fear and continual horror. A few observations stitched together, a little encouragement, some hot tips that have worked for me, and a whole lot of defeated sighing that I know isn’t fair. At the end of the day, I know it’s not all I can do, that it is what I can do. It is a position I take up because I know how easily I can walk through the door of the “white club,” and I have accepted the responsibility of stirring it up and getting people talking about social issues like racism. 

It’s a strange thing, to automatically belong and hate it, to not fit an ideology but be expected to from the outside; I suspect we’ve all felt that one way or another, since it’s the subject of pretty much every popular franchise and story, it has to resonate in a big way somehow. So I know I’m not alone there, I know we’re all exhausted and feeling that there is no progress, that there’s nothing to do, that talking isn’t enough, that we’re stuck inside while people outside are suffering and there’s not a goddamned thing we can do, but it’s a lie. 

We can talk to people. It takes a long time, and you can be tired, and you can be down about it, and you can be frustrated, but it matters, so you can’t give up. The urging of white people to talk to other white people is important. It makes a difference. You might not see it right away, but it matters. 

If you keep at it, you’ll see some of the changes you can make: one day, that racist person starts to tell a joke and you see them stop and think for a minute and then say “you know, actually maybe that’s inappropriate.” Or you see that racist person start to get uncomfortable around their racist friends, or they start asking more complex questions about society, their opinions take longer to form, they ask for sources on information, they slowly grow more comfortable talking about social topics. There are some people I’ve been talking to regularly about this stuff for over a decade and they have not changed in anyway, but in the process of talking to them, in person or on social media, people around them noticed and began to think and question, messaging me to talk more or to say thank you. Changes happen, and people change.... slowly.

It can be scary to talk to white people about race, but if you are white, it is what you can do. Because no matter how you feel about it, at the end of the day, you walk in the door of the white club unbarred. That is a privilege, and that’s what people mean when they say “use your privilege.” 

I hope this helps someone a little bit, because even though I keep at it, even though I know it’s what I can do, it still feels like all I can do, and it never feels like enough.

Textures

(Hayffie and Everlark 💕. Effie’s first post-revolution visit to District 12. Haymitch and Effie have an agreement to keep their relationship secret, but Katniss and Peeta are observant. This fic began as a set up to a *little piece of a scene* I wanted to write. But I became intrigued by what I imagine of the inner world of each of the characters, and the story became dear to me. Then the I-love-writing-Effie-all-soft-and-gorgeous-and-amazing factor came into play, and the story grew long — 9 mini chapters. So if you make it all the way through this, then wow. Thanks for caring about the characters to go the distance with me, and let me know if you have a guess about the *little piece of a scene* that inspired the full story.)

“Let’s keep this casual,” had been one of their agreements. “This is nobody’s business but ours,” had been another.

In the middle of the revolution, nobody noticed *them* anyway. No one paid attention when they’d ducked out in the middle of Finnick and Annie’s wedding reception, or when they’d eaten meals in the dining hall with their legs touching beneath the table. During their final days in 13, nobody thought anything of Haymitch returning to his quarters long after curfew nor wondered where he’d been.

The sex had been a welcomed distraction. Covertness and privacy effected an intimacy between them which was unexpected and surprisingly not terrifying.

When the revolution ended, secrecy became more complicated.

“Can you feed the geese this weekend?” Haymitch asked Peeta at least once a month, twice if he wanted to push it, which he usually did.

“Sure. Where are you going?” The question was getting harder to answer.

“Buying liquor. That white shit gets dull when there are other drinks in other places and no borders keeping me from them.” That standard response, though not untrue, was becoming less believable as the months passed and more people, supplies, and goods made their way to 12.

Eventually Peeta stopped asking Haymitch where he was going, though occasionally the boy mentioned having seen bourbon or some other whiskey at the reconstructed Hob. Among Peeta’s many qualities were his helpfulness and his unassuming capacity to mind his own business, even while observant.

Katniss, on the other hand, was resuming her former tendency to express opinions about whatever she observed. Haymitch never asked HER to feed the geese when he took the train to the Capitol.

He was attempting to mend a wire fence on the day Katniss approached him with an announcement. “We’ve invited Effie to visit this weekend.”

Haymitch narrowly missed hitting his thumb with the hammer. He covered his affectedness with sarcasm. “Sweetheart, it’s not wise to sneak up on me when I’m holding a weapon.”

“I can see how lethal you are to that fence. I don’t think the odds are in its favor.” Trauma had left Katniss with dark humor always ready on her tongue. She and Haymitch were similar in this regard. Their banter was biting, but their hearts had grown in mutual understanding, shared survival, and compassion for one another.

A goose approached Katniss, looking for a handout. “I’ve got nothing for you.”

“This fence will keep the odds in YOUR favor, otherwise you might lose a finger to these gals. They don’t like it when the neighbors show up without snacks.”

“Maybe that’s because you ask *the neighbors* to feed them so often.”

“Peeta doesn’t seem to mind, especially in exchange for eggs for those cakes he bakes.”

Katniss couldn’t argue with that. “He’s making one Saturday. Would you like to join us for supper?”

“Your guest will be there...” He sought confirmation without asking the question. He tried to sound light, as if he was talking about the walls or their sofas, not the person he’d been having sex with for months.

“She’ll be there.”

Haymitch tried to keep a straight face. Failing at that he returned his attention to the fence. “I do enjoy a moist cake.”

“I figured.” Katniss smirked. “...And bring a bottle, not a flask. As much as I care about Effie, her company is easier to enjoy with my brain slightly altered.”

I enjoy her more when I’m sober, he didn’t say. There’s no way in hell he’d admit that. But what’s a dinner party without liquor? It’s basically just walls and sofas. “A bottle,” he agreed.

“A FULL bottle — of something good.”

“So demanding,” he chuckled. It was comforting to see Katniss wanting to engage with life beyond Peeta and the woods.

“It’s a fair trade,” she said, “For the pleasure of the company.”

Since clearly she suspected too much, Haymitch changed the subject, “If you want to gab all afternoon, then how about you help me fix this fence.”

“You and your ‘weapon’ are on your own with that. I’ll see you Saturday.” The goose waddled after her, “And no freeloaders, or I’ll turn you into in a soup.”

“I don’t taste very good.” Haymitch joked.

“Certain people might disagree with that.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” He hollered after her. Damn, those kids were too sharp to keep secrets from anymore.

His thoughts turned to Effie, and he tried to focus on the fence enough to avoid murdering his thumb.

***

Effie was on edge about returning to 12. Her last trip there had been before the third Quarter Quell, well over a year ago — a lifetime. She’d thrown up on the train that Reaping Day, unable to keep down her rising terror and disgust. It took every ounce of false positivity she’d cultivated throughout her life to do her job that day and pull her victors names from those glass balls. Katniss and Peeta had offered her more than validation of her own existence. They’d shown her the raw beauty that could come from unscripted humanity. They’d lifted the corner of a veil she couldn’t pull back over her eyes, no matter how hard she tried. It was almost like marrying death.

She’d worn butterflies to that reaping. Monarchs. Such a regal name for a creature transformed from a grub in a prison of its own making. She remembered the fleeting moment of relief she felt in pulling Haymitch’s name — relief that the slip of paper didn’t say ‘Peeta.’

What about now? She wondered. How would she feel now to be the agent of fate and injustice who sentenced people’s loved ones to their deaths? There would be no glamor or honor in that. Looking back, there never had been. How would she feel now pulling Haymitch’s name? Acid bubbled up her throat, and she sipped it down with water. Terror and disgust lived within the memory, same as the feelings she’d vomited up the last time on her way to 12.

This thing with Haymitch wasn’t casual for her. She hadn’t meant to feel so much. She wouldn’t give a name to the feelings. That wasn’t part of the deal. This intensity hadn’t been one of their agreements. She was haunted by the memory of pulling his name and haunted by that fleeting moment of relief. In the haunting, her feelings for him kept growing. It was unveiled madness, and she walked the edge in high heeled shoes. She’d never known any other way to walk. She missed Katniss and Peeta fiercely, and they’d invited her to their home. So she’d face 12, without wearing a mask.

There would be no lavish makeup or wigs, no corset of armor, nothing resembling the veiled self who’d pulled names from the Reaping Ball. She wouldn’t face 12 that way. People’s memories deserved more from her than ostentatiousness. Nothing black of course; she wasn’t in mourning. She’d never really known the dead. Soft orange and green were the best choices, the children’s favorite colors. Most people couldn’t pull off a green and orange outfit without resembling an enormous tulip, but Effie wasn’t most people.

As she smoothed her dress, awareness dawned. She rubbed her fingertips together, feeling the fabric covering her hands. Soft cotton. Is that really what she wanted to touch today? The question came because the answer was ‘no.’ She wanted textures beyond herself, even things that may be uncomfortable to touch, like sorrow. She peeled off her gloves, folded them neatly, and slipped them into her bag. “So beautiful. For another day.”

***

Peeta had pushed Katniss a bit for Effie’s visit. His strongest memories of her were colorful and warm, in contrast with the memories of his mother. When Effie had hugged him goodbye last winter, she’d held on until he was ready to let go. Not many people in his life had ever offered him that opportunity to be the one to stop hugging first. That’s the truth he reminded Katniss about when she initially rejected the idea of inviting Effie for the weekend.

Katniss’ mother hadn’t had the capacity to give her those kinds of hugs in the years since her father’s death, but Prim had held on a thousand fold. The ache of her sister’s absence was sharp. She would prefer endless Tracker Jacker stings to the pain of grief. At least their venom would put her to sleep. Grief was a nightmare she still couldn’t sleep through or wake up from.

Peeta grieved his family too, and part of his grief was for the closeness he hadn’t experienced with them when they were alive. Katniss held him when she thought in those terms. She held him until he was ready to let go. It was a simple gift to offer a person.

Effie still had truths to learn beyond the Capitol propaganda which had shaped her, but long ago someone had taught her the value of holding on. The lesson came from either that person’s presence or their absence. Katniss didn’t know which it was or who had been the teacher. Effie hadn’t shared her personal stories. Katniss was curious about her and empathetic for Peeta, so she agreed it was time to invite Effie to visit.

“Let’s meet her at the station,” she suggested, “It’ll be better that way. Different. This isn’t the Victors’ Village anymore. It’s our home.”

Every visit Effie made previously to those houses had been under force. She was an agent of the Capitol then. She had to be there, and they had to invite her in. There was no choice or celebration, despite Effie’s excessive use of “wonderful” as an exclamation.

“She’ll like that. ...She cried for us before the Quarter Quell... Real or not real?”

“Real. She was proud. She wanted something better for us.”

Peeta reached for Katniss’ hand, threaded their fingers together, and held on. “Then let’s show her what we have.”

Peeta had lost memories, but he hadn’t lost his capacity to find words so perfect that even Caesar would be envious.

***

After the train arrived, Haymitch watched the kids’ doorstep through the window of the guest room upstairs. It was either that or from the yard. A few weeks had passed since he’d seen her, and he didn’t want to wait until supper. Katniss and Peeta had been the ones to invite Effie to 12, which is more than he had done. If he invited her, then that would be opening the can of worms they were trying to keep closed. Right? And if there was one thing Effie hated, it was worms crawling all over the place. Real or metaphorical. She preferred containment or at least control when something was uncontainable.

Watching from inside would delay dealing with the lid on the can. But if the kids already knew he spent those Saturdays with Effie, then what did it mattter? It was nobody’s business but his and hers, but if the kids already knew, then they just knew. And if so, he could go out in the yard and kiss her, then the geese could eat any spilled worms, and the jig would be up.

But even if the kids knew, then Effie didn’t know that they knew. And it would probably be better for her to hear it from them than from him because he had no interest in sitting through a dinner party with her pissed at him. Sex with her angry was great, but sitting on sofas in awkward conversation with her fuming at him for revealing their connection didn’t sound like a desirable evening.

So he watched through a rip in the sheet covering the window as the kids walked with her from the station. Effie’s arm was wrapped around Katniss, holding her loosely at the waist. Haymitch and Effie had talked before about burns and how the pain could linger a long time in new skin. Effie was gentle. He knew that better than anyone. Katniss held Effie’s waist too, so the kid must be feeling okay with the connection. Peeta and Effie chatted as he rolled her bag behind him. Haymitch might have thought to open the window to hear their conversation, but it was too late now. Besides, this was already more spying than he felt comfortable doing.

Mostly he just wanted to see her, and the bit of subterfuge was worth it. She was different. Her hair was soft, real, pulled back in some sort of twist. He’d never seen this dress before. The top was orange, but not bright like the fruit. It was like rainbow sherbet melted in a bowl: orange, pink, and white blended together. In the former days of the Capitol, melted ice cream would have gone to waste. But he would drink her up if he could. Her neck, her collarbones, her shoulders, everything her clothes didn’t touch. A dark green band circled her waist, and below it the fabric changed as it hugged from her hips to her knees. The green was covered in tiny flowers, mostly the color of the melted sherbet and also pink, gold, purple, and yellow-green scattered here and there. The flowers laid on top of the dress rather than being part of the fabric itself. He didn’t have the right words to describe it. Just gorgeous. She could have anyone. Anyone would have her if they could. And for at least the hundredth time he wondered what this goddess was doing with a drunk like him.

She turned her head toward his porch and smiled before stepping inside the kids’ house. Before joining them for supper, he needed a shower. A cold one would be best.

***

Effie shivered on the short walk from the station. She was dressed for late summer, but fall was already in the air in 12. The air was changed, permeated by fragrances of the adjacent forest instead of the coal mines. Not enough people had returned for that industry to resume. Reconstruction was slow, and the nation was relying on other sources for fuel. Effie breathed in deeply, surprised by the scents of life. Human bones, charred and weathered a year, had lost the smell of rotting flesh. They smelled like nothing, which was a relief and a strange sadness. She knew thousands of corpses were there, but she didn’t look. She knew her limits. Bearing witness to such death would have been too much.

She was grateful for the children’s hugs and for the warmth of their home. The place had looked cold when she’d seen it last, almost not lived in. But now it was alive, with scuffs on the furniture and food in the oven. Katniss brewed tea from mint leaves she gathered in the woods, and Peeta brought a plate of cookies to the coffee table. Effie’s stomach was not settled enough yet to eat, but she felt welcomed there. The three of them sat on the sofas for conversation.

Katniss curled up her knees, and Peeta leaned toward her with unconscious familiarity. This was their life now — her victors. Tears pooled in Effie’s eyes, and she let one spill over without wiping it away.

“Effie?” Peeta worried.

“I’m so relieved. So relieved to see you both looking well.”

Wellness is a relative concept. When she’d last seen them several months ago, Peeta had little between his skin and his bones. Most of Katniss’ skin was burned, and she’d grown thin from protracted stress. They were healing now as best as they could and filling out into their adult selves.

“We feed each other.” Katniss was straightforward. “That helps.”

Peeta brushed her palm with his fingertips. Satiation is a relative concept too. There were many hungers, unfolding with time.

“This peace helps,” he said, “It makes it easier to quiet the voices inside.”

Katniss curled her fingers around his. This was still their way — protecting each other. Back and forth, exchanging breath.

Effie finally wiped away the tear. Peace was something she felt far from in her inner life. “It’s quiet here, aside from the construction equipment down the road... and the geese next door.”

“The geese are decent neighbors.” Peeta had developed a fondness for them. “They only get riled up around feeding time.”

Katniss looked to her bow and quiver of arrows by the door. “If Haymitch had decided to raise chickens, I can assure you the roosters wouldn’t have lasted long.”

Effie snickered. “Haymitch probably would have had to buy back his dead roosters at the Hob.”

“Exactly.”

“His mother raised geese,” Effie added, “So the choice makes sense. There are different ways to find peace. He only talks about his family when he’s been drinking. It’s probably easier that way. They were close. 26 years is a long time, but some wounds are too deep for time to heal.”

Katniss and Peeta glanced at each other. Effie’s words were telling — full of intimacy and introspection.

“Oh, my darlings. I’m sorry. Here I am going on about grief when the two of you already understand better than I ever will.”

“There’s no need to apologize...” Peeta began.

“...Snow taught us all grief.” Katniss finished the thought.

Effie sighed. “I’m so proud of you both. I recognize I have no right to be, but still I am.”

“You’ve always been supportive of us. Anyone can see that. Without you and Haymitch securing sponsors, we wouldn’t have even survived the Games.”

“Dear boy, you are too kind.”

“He’s honest.” Katniss agreed simply.

The tea had cooled enough to drink, and Effie sipped hers, tasting a bit of their life here. The flavor was good.

***

Haymitch hadn’t asked when supper would be ready. That gave him the flexibility to show up whenever he wanted. He figured they’d spend at least an hour saying things he already knew about all of them. Waiting an hour should be good.

Unfortunately an hour gave him too much time to think about things he didn’t like to think about... What clothes to wear to look good, but not so good that it was obvious he’d thought about what clothes to wear to look good... Which liquor was tasty enough to share but not so tasty that he didn’t want to share it... What time the clock read.

He kicked himself for watching the clock, then he watched the clock again, then kicked himself again, and so on. All the while, he didn’t drink because he wanted to show up sober, and hold her waist sober, and kiss her sober when the kids were distracted. Then he wanted to drink with her and watch her cheeks turn pink and wait for her to touch him in some inconspicuous way that he would feel but nobody else would see.

It was a long hour.

***

“I invited Haymitch to supper,” Katniss said in response to the knock at the door.

“Wonderful!” Effie replied in a rehearsed way that masked however she actually felt about it.

As Peeta shifted to stand, she interrupted. “I’ll get it. I’ve been sitting all day.”

The kids watched her straighten her dress and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear before opening the door.

Haymitch greeted her at the doorstep with a basket in one hand, a bottle of liquor in the other, and a smile big enough to show the gap between his teeth, which she was eager to caress with her tongue.

“It’s good to see you, sweetheart.” he leaned in, kissed the soft patch below her ear, and whispered, “You look incredible.”

She pressed her hand to the tender spot below his sternum. Her touch was reflexive. Their knowing each other’s bodies was difficult to conceal. “I’m glad to see you too.” She loved this particular shirt, grey and form-fitting. She wanted to touch more than his stomach, but she’d already lingered too long, so she pulled away reluctantly. “Come in! Come in before the flies do!”

Haymitch moved toward the sofa before the kids had a chance to get up. “Presents...” He handed Peeta the basket of eggs, and Katniss got the brandy. He lowered his voice, “A full bottle... as requested.”

“Thanks, Haymitch.” and “Perfect.”

“Katniss, I’ll put these away,” Peeta suggested, “And let’s get some glasses.”

Katniss was more interested in what was going on between Haymitch and Effie.

“Hey.” Peeta cocked his head in the direction of the kitchen.

She acquiesced. “Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll be back.”

The moment the kids left the room, Haymitch wrapped his arms around Effie’s waist and kissed her without hesitation or slowness. She responded in kind with her tongue sliding along his teeth, then tasting more deeply. Her hands played over his chest to the hollow between his collarbones where she stroked just once, gently, so gently.

“Jesus, Effie,” he murmured, “You feel...”

No word was enough, so he kissed from her neck along her jaw. Her skin was smooth with so little makeup. He drank her in like melted rainbow sherbet.

“Haymitch...” She was almost too breathless to protest. “We should stop. The children are just in the kitchen.”

“They said to make ourselves comfortable.” He pulled her hips close.

“‘Make yourselves comfortable’ does not translate to ‘Fuck in our living room.’” Her whisper flooded him with desire for exactly that.

“It does in my house.”

“Then how about if I slip over there later for that translation.” She kissed him once more then ran her thumb across his lips to wipe away remnants of her lipstick.

“I’d love to *translate* the fuck out of you, honey.” He adjusted the neckline of her dress which had slipped sideways and was showing a sliver of her bra. “No corset today.”

She shook her head ‘no.’

“Thank god.”

He pulled her to the sofa and sat beside her, close but not too close. “Respectable?”

“We’ll see.” Beneath the coffee table she rested the toe of her stiletto against his boot. They fit together in a way that she could feel so strongly but didn’t yet understand.

***

“Are they done making out in there, or should I drink this brandy in the kitchen?”

“Shhh.” Peeta listened. “Give them a few minutes. What if we hadn’t seen each other in three weeks? Imagine how we’d be feeling.”

“Point taken.” Katniss was still barely able to let Peeta out of her sight. His presence was one of the things keeping her sane. “But this is ridiculous. Why don’t we just tell them that we know?”

“Maybe they don’t want to know that we know. We should let them tell us when they’re ready.”

“Shhh,” she said this time. “I think I hear them talking about Effie’s work.”

“Then lets bring in the drinks.”

“Quickly before they change topics and have sex on our couch.”

“Katniss, they wouldn’t...”

She rolled her eyes.

“Okay. They would. Let’s go.”

***

“...And Paylor’s on board?”

“The president is supportive.” Effie affirmed, “She’ll bring the proposal before Congress when they’re in session.”

“On board with what?” Katniss asked as she opened the bottle of brandy, and Peeta set the glasses on the coffee table.

“If all goes as planned there will be sites in each district designated as national memorials and a memorial museum in the Capitol.”

“Congress isn’t even in session. How did you secure an advocate?” Haymitch asked.

“Several Senators and Representatives are interested. Cressida and Pollux contributed footage of destruction in the districts and filmed the proposal. Since she refused payment, I made a donation to the film she’s producing. The Trinkets don’t have deep pockets, but we have enough. And considering everything Cressida has done for us. For all of us...” Effie’s eyes held tears like old glass — solid fluidity.

“Would you like a drink, sweetheart?”

“I still have my tea.”

Haymitch poured brandy for Katniss and himself. “Peeta?”

“Not yet, thanks.”

Haymitch took a cookie from the plate, dunked it in the brandy, and ate it in two bites.

“And of course they wouldn’t give the proposal coming from me a skerrick of attention if it weren’t for you...” She looked at Katniss and Peeta. ...My victors, she didn’t say the words, but they spilled onto her cheeks.

Haymitch slid his hand between the sofa and her back, drawing circles at the base of her spine, offering her this small comfort and pleasure.

“This work will mean so much to the country, Effie.” Peeta assured her.

“It’s wonderful that you’re involved with this. I had no idea...” Katniss glared then at Haymitch, “You tell me nothing. Still!”

“I told you if you want to gab, then help me fix my fence.”

“That’s extortion.” She grinned.

Effie reached for Haymitch’s glass and took a sip. She did it absentmindedly, as if sharing a glass was a common occurrence.

The kids noticed.

The next time Haymitch picked up the glass, he turned it and drank from the spot where Effie’s lipstick had left a mark. It was an act of unmistakable intimacy, almost communion.

Katniss bit her tongue. Whatever was going on between those two was serious. It occurred to her that maybe they weren’t talking about it because maybe they didn’t know yet what it was.

Her own awareness of love wasn’t unfolding all at once. It was like a primrose opening to the sun, each petal, bit by bit. So why expect someone else’s awareness to be any way other than that?

The brandy was delicious. Katniss drank in contentment rather than to dull an annoyance. Right now, there was no annoyance. Her family was here. Even the ones who weren’t here she felt as more than persistent echoes. She felt them in the flowers appliquéd on Effie’s dress.

“Primroses.” Katniss realized. “Are you wearing them for us?”

“Yes, my dear.”

Haymitch’s hand stilled on Effie’s back. She was remarkable. He had no idea how they were going to keep this casual, when it was already so much more. He had no idea how they were going to keep this private when their feelings were so close to the surface and already running so deep.

Rev Recaps Hard Contact (Chapter 4)

CW: Main character directly killing someone, some implications of food insecurity, animals destroying a corpse. LONG ASS POST beneath the cut.

TL;DR Recap: Niner regroups with the rest of Omega, and is upset by Atin’s perceived callousness towards Darman’s fate. (Although the callousness is actually heartbreaking if you know the entirety of his backstory.) Etain observes the crash site and realizes Republic forces have landed. Darman has his first negative reaction to killing someone.Also, the blogger begins the Kal Count (tm) in this post. 

Starting Kal Count: 0. Ending Kal Count: 2.

So we start off right after Darman’s crash landing into some trees with Niner’s reaction to Darman literally shoulder charging him off a crashing airplane space ship. Rather than being (rightfully) angry, Niner sees the transport they had been on explode, and his immediate thought is that Darman must be dead. But he’s in sergeant mode, so he hurries to gather up what equipment he can and regroup with the rest of Omega.

The g’dan (which again are supposed to be like a foot tall but I’m still imagining as venemous, furry, sharp-teethed gizka because that’s the imagery my brain decided on) do attempt to eat him in the process which gives me one of my favorite small/throw-away lines:

It is really interesting to me how quickly Omega makes character judgements about each other. Niner decides here that Darman would have found the g’dan fascinating (not knowing of course that the g’dan are trying to eat Dar, too). Later Atin tells Etain that Dar is fussy about the wiring on his explosives, which is likely accurate, but also comes after a very short window of association. You could dismiss Niner’s line as projection, but together I think it just kind of drives home how closely clones are able to read one another and how attuned to very small behavioral clues the have to be, having grown up on Kamino the way they did.

Anyway, Niner is slightly distressed by the fact that he’s just lost another squad member, so in what’s going to become an unfortunate pattern, he flashes back to the Words of Wisdom of Kal Skirata. Hard Contact is the only Republic Commando novel not to have a Dramatis Personae, but if it did, it would have to list Kal Skirata even though he physically is elsewhere and uninvolved in the plot. 

Thus begins my Kal Count. We currently stand at 1 Flasback/Words of Wisdom. The immediately after we get:

I wasn’t sure to count this as a separate entry in the Kal Count. But it is a separate memory and topic, so I went ahead. We currently stand at 2 Flashbacks/Words of Wisdom. Also, incidentally, google says that Niner is carrying “nearly” 165 pounds at the moment. The commandos could pick me up and carry me, I’m just saying.

Anyway, Niner is pissed about the grey armor’s lack of disguisability in a rural setting. He meets up with Fi and Atin, and updates them about Dar.

Notice Niner stressing that he didn’t see Darman jump but he didn’t abandon him either. After his conversation with Fi and given his worries about being abandoned in True Colors and Order 66, I really think this is a major hang up/fear of Niner’s.

But Atin is a good deal less... emotional, I guess? about the situation that either Fi or Niner are comfortable with. It’s all an act, but we’ll find that out later in his arc.

Seriously, Niner has a thing about abandonment.

On the other hand, if you’re someone who’s already read Triple Zero and knows that Atin was raised by Vau and knows what Vau did to Atin immediately before this mission and that Atin lost a squad in training as well... this is kind of heartbreaking.

Because he just lost everything, again, his sergeant cut his face open for not being good enough and “wallowing” about the loss, and he remembers what happened when his squad tried to rescue him. The guilt from both incidents has to be terrible- and this is his attempt to deal with it, because what if Vau was right? But neither Niner nor Fi know that yet, so they’re upset with him and he’s not getting the firm shake on the shoulder he needs to let him know that it’s Vau who’s wrong.

Anyway, after that upsetting realization I just had, we skip to Etain with Birhan investigating the crash site of Omega’s transport. 

Today in worldbuilding things that annoy the shit out of Rev: this is the only time Qiilura having its own language ever comes up, and all the characters speak perfect Basic for the rest of the novel. 

“starved”. I’m just saying, Etain is called “gaunt” and “starved” repeatedly through out this book, so... whatever happened in the three months she was on Qiilura before Omega got there, she probably still needs some therapy for it. But at least it makes some sense here, unlike when she’s back on the planet as a General in True Colors and only weighs 100 lbs while pregnant.

Again with the mention of food. Also I 1000% do not blame her for being paranoid at this point, but I’m just saying, Qiilura is probably the place she goes back to in her nightmares. Also probably not the best place to send her while already anxious/afraid/pregnant, even just looking at it from a mental health stand point rather than a “it’s an active fucking battle field” pov, but what do I know.

She sees the remains of the commando’s R5 droid with its republic markings and knows Birhan was right: it’s the Republic. The scene then cuts to Darman, who is waking up from the first of many unfriendly landings involving trees. :)

He’s survived his hostile arboreal encounter and chased off the g’dan who want to eat him, but is realizing that he tore a muscle or tendon somewhere in the leg above his right knee. I am unduly pleased by this specificity because I headcanoned him having a leg injury later in life and now I can just headcanon it as him re-injuring this same spot. I don’t know why that pleases me.

Minor quibbles here: why is it Kilo and Delta first using the HUD with live ordinance when Darman was Theta squad, and he’s recounting his own experience with learning the system? Also, I’m not sure whether to read this as “they got the HUDs and later were trained with them using live rounds which is when it sunk in” or “they got the HUDs and got shot at with live rounds on the same day”.

Anyway, Darman is trying to hide off the side of the road, but the path made by the g’dans who wanted to eat him gives him away, so injured and disoriented, he’s forced to kill two of Hokan’s Weequay militia. I’m not going to screenshot the actual death, but it is important to know that while he head shots the second one, the first he initially attacks by shoving the vibroblade in the Weequay’s throat. The g’dans start eating the second Weequay’s body, because the g’dans are just a thing at this point. Like the sewer smells KT is so fond of in this book.

But anyway, the chapter ends with this fairly emotional scene:

“And he hadn’t managed a clean kill. It was wrong. They had drilled him to kill, and kill, and kill, but nobody had thought to teach him what he was supposed to feel afterward. He did feel something, and he wasn’t certain what it was. He’d think about it later.”

There’s a lot of really great characterization and thematics in this scene. It’s very quietly heartbreaking, but not in a way that calls attention to itself. It also really mirrors a scene Darman gets in the third novel, True Colors, which kind of drives home that this is an ongoing struggle for him.

What I don’t get is why it also directly contradicts a scene later in the book where Etain is struggling emotionally after sending Guta-Nay to his death. In that scene, Darman asserts that he’s already killed people as part of his training (which... really isn’t consistent with the timber of this scene?) and that he’s never had time to think about it. I guess you can handwave it to yourself as Darman refusing to acknowledge what he felt upon killing the Weequay, even to himself, as a result of fear/the values reinforced on Qiilura.

 But Darman is the viewpoint character in that scene, and even though he’s immediately protective of Etain, he doesn’t empathize with her, and it comes off as the narrative yet again being harsh towards Etain and all her failings.

I don’t know. We’ll see if I have more thoughts when we actually get to that chapter.

Author: Juniperhoot

Preferred Name: Jenny

Have any events in your personal life ever influenced the things that you've written? Absolutely. STRAP IN.

Sometimes I rework something that happened to me, or to someone I know, and use it as a template for filling in personal details. See also: Carisi’s tale of molten aluminum burning holes in his ma’s kitchen flooring. That’s something that actually happened to me (well, it happened to my second husband, who got distracted while playing CounterStrike and let the pan boil dry). In one of my Stony stories, Steve tells Tony about a comforting gesture he learned from his mother - three squeezes of the hand, to silently say “I love you.” That’s something I learned from my Mema.

Beyond those bits of color, there are things that have made their way into my writing that come directly from my experiences. My interest in Sonny as a queer Catholic who once considered the religious life is something deeply personal to me, because that was my life, too. Even though I’m an atheist now, the church still holds some fascination for me, and I’m keenly interested in people who find a way to walk that line, and retain some belief while also retaining their autonomy and sense of self. The way I write Sonny is, in many ways, the way I think I would be, if I still believed. Okay, if I still believed AND were also a tall, noodly, bisexual man.

The way I write Rafael’s overthinking interior life is partly me, partly the things I’ve observed in people I’ve loved. The carefully chosen words, the moments of retreating from revealing too much of himself, the guardedness and tendency toward self-preservation that comes from growing up in an abusive home… all very relatable and possibly part of why I mostly write from his perspective, even though I generally consider myself more like Sonny. The shadows in Rafael’s heart are in my heart, too. My empathy is built on those shadows.

I wrote a Stony breakup fic years ago during a difficult time in my life. I’d reached a point where I had to remove some people from my life, because my priorities and theirs were so radically divergent. It felt like a big breakup. It reopened some feelings from my second divorce, and compounded what I was going through with another more recent breakup. Somehow, I used the pain and disillusionment of all that to write about two dudes in love, who found themselves in a crisis of trust and faith in one another. Of course, I also wrote them coming back together, and the work it takes to do that, because in my heart, I want to see good people work things out, if possible. And at least in my story, and in the way I view both of those characters, they ARE good people. In real life, some people really do need to be cut loose, when their values are wholly incompatible with your own. Some relationships can’t be mended. Some friendships turn out to be mostly one-sided. But hey, if they can be mined for material, they were worth it, right?

I’m in a less volatile emotional space these days, so my fics tend to reflect that. I’m the queen of domesticity and cute banter, and love that I’m getting to explore the quieter side of drama. I know I’ve said this before, but it’s worth saying again. It’s not all slamming doors and WE’RE THROUGH!, you know? There’s a marvelous sense of drama in the ways we try to negotiate cohabitation, or meeting the families of our romantic partners. There’s drama in supporting one another’s goals and ideals. At least, I think there is? And I hope my stories achieve that.

Do you have a favorite movie? I have a few, and they’re very different movies, because they reflect different aspects of my heart.

Pee-wee’s Big Adventure (1985) is one of the most ridiculous things I have ever seen, and it still makes me laugh, 35 years after its release. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen it. The stupid characters, the kitschy aesthetic, the score… it’s so very silly. I love it.

Singin’ in the Rain (1952) is, in my opinion, the most perfect Hollywood movie musical of all time. Everything about it works. The entire cast is outrageously talented, and attractive, and the songs are all memorable. The title song and dance routine never fails to elicit chills and a thrill of giddy joy in my heart. When Gene Kelly does that spin in the street, with the umbrella held out before him like a dance partner? Aaaaaiiiieeee. This is the movie that makes me wish I could dance.

A Room With A View (1985) is the sort of quiet, clever, understated romantic (in every sense of the word) movie I turn to again and again. It’s a gorgeous adaptation of a really smart, surprising book that left a mark on me when I first encountered it in high school. The score is lush and inviting, the cast is beautiful (and oh, those costumes!), the script is just fucking delicious, and of course, the scenery, from Florence to Kent, is exquisite. Plus, we get interplay between sincere humanism (the Emersons), religious belief (the Reverends Beebe and Eager), and the religious-by-default stances of so many of the other characters, whose participation in the religious life of the community seems to be more for societal expectations than anything else. It’s just beautiful, and one of the only movies I urge everyone to sit through to the very end, not because there’s a post-credits scene, but because the closing track that plays over the credits is fantastic.  

Who is your favorite author? E.M. Forster, partly because of what I said above about A Room With A View. The novel is short, but crammed with interesting ideas and engaging dialogue. He has a unique voice that spoke to me as a teenager, and my appreciation for his writing has only increased over the many years since. Read Howards End. Read Maurice. Read Where Angels Fear to Tread. Read A Passage to India. But start with A Room With A View.

I know a lot of people would say Howards End is his masterpiece, and they’re probably right about that, but I’m telling you, the book that has meant the most to me over the years is A Room With A View. I’ve kept a copy of it with me since I first read it in 1985, and it’s traveled with me from Minnesota to Seattle and back again. Lucy Honeychurch’s ongoing muddle is something I’ve lived, and survived, and it means more to me every time I read the book. More than anything, it’s a book about authenticity vs hypocrisy, and that just fucking speaks to me, you know?

How did you start getting involved in fanfiction? Several years ago, I read a Sherlock fic called “The Road Less Traveled.” It was during the long, painful, post-Reichenbach Fall hiatus between series 2 and 3, and I found myself looking for something to read that would fill the gap. I’d never had much interest in fanfic before, but this thing did something to me.

I didn’t start writing fanfic until I saw an episode of Supernatural that I found upsetting. (Don’t get me started…) I started writing a little thing to try to fix the stupidity. I wrote a couple of things, but the show did everything in its power to kill my interest in it, so I drifted away. (That said, I am very proud of my short Destiel Christmas fic, which I still think is very cute and makes me wish things had played out differently.)

From there, I started writing Stony (Steve/Tony, mostly based on the MCU, but with some elements of various Marvel comics I’ve read over the years). I wrote several things in that fandom, and most of it was extremely stupid, but there are bits and pieces that I’m still rather fond of. I still want to finish my long fic that’s been gathering dust for a couple of years now. Oops.

How did you get involved with Barisi? Barisi is probably the first fandom that I’ve written for that really seemed to embrace me and encourage me to keep doing this. A friend of mine has been watching SVU forever, and would reference things occasionally on chat while she was watching it. (See also: SEX PARTY MEASLES BABY, an intriguing statement that I didn’t actually understand for YEARS.) I started watching SVU off and on, a few episodes here or there, sometime in 2018. I started at the beginning, and worked my way through the whole thing. When I started it, I was mostly in it for Olivia Benson. But I knew Raúl Esparza had been on the show at some point, and at the time, I was in the “oh, I think I remember seeing him in something, he’s good” camp.

It wasn’t until I got to season 14 that I lost my mind over the show. Rafael Barba is one of the greatest characters ever written for tv, and I’m so thrilled he came along and blew my frickin’ mind. My appreciation for Raúl Esparza went through the roof, and it made me go look for him in other things, which fed into my spiraling appreciation.

Fast forward to season 16. Sonny Carisi walks in, and is… a beautiful, mustachioed mess. I love him from the moment I see him, and I say, “Oh shit, this is the love of Rafael Barba’s life, isn’t it?” This is even before they’ve shared a scene. This is before they’ve blatantly checked each other out. This is just me recognizing the potential, and craving it. Then he shaves that stache and starts dressing better, and he’s shadowing Barba and they’re working cases together and Barba’s being KIND TO HIM? COME ON.

Naturally, I started thinking about writing them. And it wasn’t coming from a place of “I need to fix this episode” or “I need to work out a recent trauma” driving me. It was just “ugh, they have an amazing dynamic and I want to explore it and I want to see what their home life would look like.” That’s how I ended up writing Carisi’s Goddamn Legs. Suddenly I was being bombarded with thoughtful comments from readers. In one such comment, Maxi (mforpaul) asked me where I could be reached on other platforms, and messaged me privately about the story, and made a big deal out of tracking me down on Twitter, introducing me to the rest of the fandom. And that fandom turned out to be filled with really amazing people, who think about big issues like justice and queerness and representation. Those same people are also wonderfully silly and down to earth. The power of this fandom!

What inspires you to write? Lots of things. Life, because it is weird and messy and wonderful. My closest friend, who is a springboard for a lot of my nonsense, is always eager for me to write something new. My love of a ridiculous turn of phrase. The quest for dialogue that sounds in-character and natural. Sometimes, it’s just the seed of an idea, a thought that won’t leave me alone, like, “I bet a short king would be obsessed with those long, noodly legs.” Because I, a short queen, am similarly obsessed.

Sometimes, when the writing fever is upon me, it’s hard to sleep, hard to think of anything other than the story I’m working on. I just want to get it all out and done. If I’m writing something that I really enjoy, or feel very closely connected to, I physically tremble as I write. When that happens, I know I’m on the right track, and I don’t want to stop writing. I just want to inhabit that space, and wallow in that feeling.

What is your favorite fic that you have written?  Carisi's Goddamn Legs is really something. The pining, the uncertainty, the slowly dawning realization, but most of all, that scene at Lorenzo’s, where it all comes to a head and the way it creeps to the edge of intimacy and then is interrupted by Lorenzo and a retreat to the casual, only to be sent right back to the edge… I’ve re-read the damn thing several times since I wrote it, and that scene gets to me every time. I really like it a lot. I like the dynamic between them so very much, and the way the truth tumbles out of Carisi literally makes me shake.

What is your favorite quote from a fic of yours? Ooh, yikes, this is hard. I have a couple of lines I really like. One is short, one is longer. Just like Barisi.

One of them (from Carisi's Goddamn Legs ) was something I gave to Olivia, as she tries to counsel Rafael on his worries that his emotional armor isn’t protecting him the way it used to. 

“Wear and tear, I guess. Armor was never meant to be worn all the time.”

It’s a line that means something to me, personally, because I spent a substantial chunk of my life in armor, hiding who I was and trying to settle for “the best you can expect” rather than my actual heart’s desire. When I dismantled that wall, things got chaotic for a while, but I also realized I was capable of emotional depths and soaring heights I didn’t think possible for me. It’s something that the Jenny of today wants to whisper (or shout) at the Jenny of 25-30 years ago, and it’s that part of me that relates to Rafael’s journey from a lifetime of SHIELDS UP! to embracing vulnerability and intimacy. (I actually really like that whole scene between them, because I love their friendship and think it’s beautiful, and crave more of that dynamic. Platonic intimacy is gorgeous, and woefully underappreciated in most entertainment. I could go on for hours about that, but I won’t. Not right now, anyway.)

And from Staten Island Serenade, this passage of Rafael gazing at a sleeping Sonny really gets to me.

“As hard as it was some days, Rafael knew without question he wanted to be right here with him, because Sonny was worth the effort. He was a bewildering mess of contradictions and weirdness, too smart for his own good but capable of saying the most ridiculous shit Rafael had ever heard. Somehow everything about him was beautiful, and inspired something in Rafael that felt pure, and almost holy, or would be if he believed in holiness. Like Cymon of old, transformed in every way by the exquisite sight of sleeping Iphigenia, Rafael found himself similarly transformed; ennobled by the nearness of Sonny Carisi, someone so decent, so kind, so truly beautiful inside and out that it would have been a sacrilege not to strive to be a better man.”

What is your personal favorite fanfic? 

Again with the hard questions. I don’t even know where to begin. I honestly can’t point to ONE and say, “This is it! THE FAVE.” I’m so sorry I’m not able to narrow down my faves on anything. I’m terrible at this.

There are several Sherlock fics that I’ve read and re-read over the years, which I think really nailed their voices and their characters, and gave me things to think about. The Road Less Traveled will always be a favorite of mine, because it was the first, and because it is beautiful.

Pass Here And Go On by abogadobarba hits all the right notes for me. It rocketed to the top of my list the moment I read it. I’ve read it about ten times so far. I am ridiculous.

So Far in a Few Blocks by PhillyStrega is one of the only AUs I’ve ever read and loved. I’m not really an AU person, but shut UP, I love this story.

You Made Them Feel Like They Had the Devil Inside Them by cypress_tree really got to me. It’s about one of those issues that hits very close to home, and I think it’s a beautifully-written story about something that matters.

Anything else you would like to add?

I just want to say how much I love this fandom. I love my fellow inhabitants of Barisi Nation. I love that I get to obsess over things like the intersections of faith and queerness and humanism and sex and domesticity and justice and goodness. Even if nobody else wanted to read my stories, I think I’d still be over here, writing like mad, because I love these characters and it’s a genuine joy for me to spend time in their heads. But gosh, it’s gratifying to know the hours I spend on this silliness actually pay off for other people, too. I love hearing from people who’ve read my stories and found something meaningful in them, or giggled at something ridiculous Sonny said, or thought a sex scene was… well, anyway. You know.

I’m so grateful to get to do this. And I appreciate the hell out of all you lovely humans. You make me happy.

Appetence [1/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn't expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #haunting #relics

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

Author’s Note(s): My attention span was really terrible today and I couldn't focus on either of my two other fics even though the next chapters of both are completely planned out. So I'm posting the start of the third (and final) story that I'm doing for the JayTimWeek/Month challenge. Also, I'm really excited about this one. I spent more time planning this than either of the other two and I can't wait to hear what you guys think!I've got work stuff to do tomorrow so there may not be anything updated until Friday.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

The Bat-Signal cuts through the dark and hazy clouds lingering above Gotham City, and for a split-second, Jason Todd has the urge to drop everything and race for the roof of the GCPD Headquarters. It’s hard to ignore the nervous jump of excitement in his stomach, the phantom sensation of a domino mask on his face and the heavy drag of a cape at his shoulders.

Which makes no sense, since it’s been at least five years since I even wore that shit.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the familiar summer smog, Jason turns his back on Gotham’s literal beacon of hope and steels himself against nocturnal threats of his own. The city is for the caped crew—because apparently, the Bat has a posse now, he thinks with only a hint of a bitter sneer—and Jason has been fighting in a different arena for quite some time now.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, and then grinds it beneath his boots, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It’s a weathered and worn thing that reminds him of one Willis Todd wore in one of the few memories Jason has of him that doesn’t involve alcohol or fists. He thinks it’s less pretentious looking than a trench coat and probably gives off fewer ‘creepy motherfucker’ vibes like the sartorial choices of certain other people. It’s also less likely to snag on things when he needs to make a quick exit while digging up graves.

Yeah, it’s a thing in his line of work.

Gotham Cemetery is a sprawling necropolis, as dark and forbidding now as it was the night he dug himself out of his own grave. Half a decade of Gotham-style tender, loving negligence has left the somber green hills overgrown and the majority of the old tombstones fallen or rotting.

You’d think in a city with the highest homicide rate in the country, the mayor would spring for better maintenance. Then again, it’s Gotham. The dead don’t pay taxes, so fuck ‘em.

Which…enough said.

Gotham and the world think Jason Todd-Wayne is dead and has been for five years now; in a way, it’s the truth. He’s no longer anything like the boy that was beaten to death by a psychotic clown, no longer the shrimp who fastidiously dyed his hair black and jumped into someone else’s cape and pixie boots just so he didn’t have to be his own screwup self anymore. He outgrew wanting to be Dick a long time ago, outgrew wanting to be Bruce, too, and embraced a whole new other set of skills to put him apart from them.

Most occultists and even homo magi need to put conscious effort and intent into calling up or even seeing a spirit. Ever since Jason died and then mysteriously got better, the dead appear to him as blatantly and a solid as the living.

John told him he was a fool to come back here.

“Someone with your gifts, they’ll drive you bloody mad,” his mentor warned him when he left London. “And I ain’t talking about the dead ones, neither.”

“You’re just saying that because Batman wouldn’t hold your hand that one time,” Jason retorted, shrugging off the concern. He is Gotham born and bred, his blood is in those streets, and he has always wanted to come home, even if it wasn’t necessarily to a stately manor or its inhabitants.

He clenches his fists.

Inhabitants that wasted no time in replacing him after he died. Jason was rotting away in fucking Arkham, and Bruce was shoving another kid into the tights.

If it didn’t involve seeing him, I would hunt him down and break his jaw.

He surveys the graveyard proper. The everyday observer considers cemeteries to be places of peace and eternal rest; quiet, if a little bit spooky. To Jason, they’re as gruesome as any major battlefield.

Spirits pack the way before him; some of them look relatively normal if dated by their clothes; many others are disfigured and bloody from whatever killed them, whether natural or unnatural. They clamor and crowd, eternally shouting to be heard, or screaming as they relive their deaths in their own personal purgatories.

In the beginning, that din almost drove Jason insane. Bruce’s teachings kept him rational as long as it could in the months after he woke up, and then John’s training helped him temper his own awareness further. By now, he can function almost normally, automatically filtering the voices out as he goes about his daily business; it’s only in places like this, where the dead outnumber the living, where it’s harder.

Jason reaches up, adjusting the noise filters in his ears—mechanical devices that need regular winding but are still more reliable than anything running on electricity of batteries. They’re like steampunk hearing aids, only instead of magnifying sound, they drown out the constant moan of the ghosts when he can’t do it himself. Just one of many methods of protection he’s learned over the years. Some are physical, like the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist or the bottle of holy water in his pocket; others—spells and symbols and mantras—are carved all over his body in tattoos and blood writing. Anything to keep the otherworld away.

“Personal space is a key to a medium’s sanity,” John told him once. “That and a good bottle of single malt scotch.”  

Jason ignores the moss-covered path that winds through the larger and more prominent mausoleums. He deliberately doesn’t search out the one in the distance bearing the Wayne crest—

(Still remembers the feel of his fingernails splitting against the wood of the coffin, choking on clumps of soil and insects.)

—and instead seeks a small structure much farther away. It’s in the furthest part of the cemetery, the shabby section almost hidden by overgrown willows. Half of the name above the doorway is obscured by vines, but it’s easy for him to make out the name etched into the stone with bold letters.

HAYWOOD.

According to the public record, Sheila Haywood’s body was returned to Gotham at the same time as Jason Todd’s. Bruce paid for her funeral and internment, which was just as well since she had no other family, and then she was promptly forgotten about.

By everyone except Jason, it seems.

It took some doing and a few weeks tracking down everyone that had worked at the same refugee camp as his mother, but he’d finally managed to collect what possessions she left behind. A colleague of hers had put them aside when there appeared to be nothing of actual monetary value in them.

A gold coin, small bone carvings of stylized animals, dainty trinkets of garnets, amber and lapis lazuli, a compact mirror, some seashells, a decorative fan, quartz paperweight, and a brightly colored feather. There was a picture of Willis in there, too, young and almost Jason’s double. No picture of Jason, though, but he hadn’t expected it.

He kept the picture but left the rest in the small wooden box, which he now removes from his messenger bag and sets down in front of the stone bearing his mother’s name. He follows that with various tools and ingredients. Black candles arranged in a star shape around the box, a chalice, a jar of detritus—teff seeds, driftwood and soil, all from the place where she died—that he sprinkles around in a circle, a handful of smooth obsidian stones to mark a pentagram joining the candles, the dagger John gave him for his last birthday, vials of oil and holy water.

Murmuring a few protection oaths, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving his arms bare, and then digs out a pack of matches to light the candles; flickering shadows dance across the mausoleum walls. He takes up the chalice to combine the water and oil, and then reaches for the dagger.

Hate this part.

Training to ignore pain doesn’t mean it goes away, and he grits his teeth a little as he draws his blade across his forearm, not deep enough to nick anything vital, but enough that the blood runs easily into the chalice. Without bothering to bandage the wound, Jason holds up the chalice in front of him and centers himself.

“Phantasma inrequietum, te voco,” he intones. “Eloguiorum mei audi: Sheila Haywood, te nominas!“ The stagnant air in the mausoleum starts to pick up. “In nominee creatricis, te impero, hic locum decede.” Hand over the top of the chalice, he swirls the liquid within, and then tips it into the open keepsake box. “Per sanguinem hominis et per sanguinem filii tui, non remane et apage! ”He strikes a match and lobs it into the box, not even flinching as the whole thing flares into flame; he intends to watch it until it burns to nothing.

“That’s not going to work, you know.”

“Jesus fuck!” Jason explodes, whirling to the right and glaring at the interrupter. “What did I say about sneaking up on me? Or just—showing up around me in general?”

The apparition in front of him doesn’t look impressed.

Sheila is still beautiful—or, at least, the side of her body that isn’t covered with third-degree burns and sections of pulverized bone—and still sharp. Cold, untouchable and self-interested.

But unlike the way she was before, she’s all-too present in Jason’s life now.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls, and against every lesson John has ever given him, lashes out and knocks the candles and detritus hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. “What the hell. I’ve done everything. You had last rites, your body was cremated, I just torched the things that had any value to you, why the hell won’t you just move on?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Sheila replies, as always.

Jason scowls. “And of course, you can’t just tell me.”

She gazes at him balefully, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Sheila, we’ve been over this. You can’t stay here. One, you know spirits that stick around past their time go Dark Side, and I really don’t want to have to exorcise your spectral ass. Two, it’s fucking creepy for a twenty-year-old guy to be followed around by his mother wherever he goes. What the hell is keeping you here? What more do you want from me?”

“Your forgiveness,” she tells him patiently.

“I already forgave you. Years ago.”

“You still call me Sheila.”

“That’s your name.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Who sold me out and got me murdered.”

“See? You haven’t forgiven me.”

“I have. I’m just stating a fact, Jesus…”

“Apparently the cosmic balance doesn’t agree enough to let me move on,” the ghost says dryly. “And to think, I used to be an atheist.”

“This is total bullshit,” Jason snaps, grabbing his jacket and stalking out of the mausoleum in frustration.

Three years of this mediumship crap, and neither he nor John have ever been able to figure out why the ghost of Jason’s dead mother won’t stop haunting him. Wards and sutras that keep even the nastiest spirits away from Jason don’t even phase her, and she’s inexplicably coherent.

And persistent.

As Jason stalks back through the cemetery, he can sense her in his periphery, gliding along beside him, unconcerned with his irritation.

“Can you just…stay away from me? Like you did in the beginning?” he grumbles.

“You were just learning how to communicate without going insane. I wasn’t about to disrupt that.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I try.”

“Look, I’ve had enough of the ghost-stalker thing for today. I went out of my way for this, you know. I didn’t even want to come back here. And now I’m back to the fucking drawing board.”

“It may not have been a waste of a trip,” she replies and vanishes.

“Oh, you can fuck off when it’s convenient for you,” he grumbles, though he already senses what she was speaking of.

Several yards away, a small boy, maybe eight, is clinging forlornly to an angel headstone. Translucent tears stream down his cheeks, but every now and again his face shifts, like a television caught between two channels, and his mouth widens into an unnatural smile.

Jason could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that smile again.

Still, he sighs and heads toward the kid.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and maintaining a safe distance from the boy, whose head whips up to stare at Jason in sudden fear.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice thick with tears.

“I’m Jason. You okay, kid?”

“I can’t find my mom,” the boy murmurs, wiping at his face. “I keep going looking, but I forget the way home. And then…I always end up back here.”

He sounds on the verge of tears again; it’s something Jason can understand.

With the puzzling exception of Sheila, who appears to come and go as she pleases, most ghosts are stuck in certain patterns and paths when they die, frozen in an infinite loop until they break themselves out of it or until some arbitrary higher power decides they’ve suffered enough. And for some reason, Jason can break them out of it.

“You could always try again,” he suggests. “I think you’ll manage it this time.”

The boy shudders. “There’s scary people here.”

No arguing with that.

“I know. I see them, too.” Jason glances at the headstone, scanning the name and dates. “Your name’s Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re missing, there are probably people looking for you. They might have posted something online about it. I’ll check it out, but it could take a bit.” He holds up his phone, glad to see it’s at full charge and bars; that’s hit or miss around so many ghosts. “Can you hang around here until I’m done?”

The boy nods, silent, face flicking back and forth between sadness and the unnatural smile.

Fucking Joker…

Jason does a quick search of the kid’s name, pulling up obituaries in the Gotham Gazette in the past year. It doesn’t take long for an article to pop up concerning the Joker’s latest escape and a list of the dead.

He narrows his eyes, startling the kid.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “The internet is just really slow.”

“Or our phone is really bad,” Cole tells him with the blunt honesty of a kid that grew up constantly surrounded by functional technology.

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Another quick search for the parents, phone lists and social media, and he’s got an address. Crime Alley, of course. He brings it up on his map and enables a view of the street, holding the phone out to the boy. “Is this your house?”

Relief settles and settles over his face. “Yeah.”

“What if I helped you find your way home?”

Cole makes a suspicious face. “I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

“Which is really smart. But you see, I’m not really a stranger.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Jason bends down, conspiratorial, and Cole’s eyes gleam the way any kid gets when hearing a secret. “When I was a little older than you…I was Robin.”

The boy gapes. “Like…Batman and Robin?”

“Exactly.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Jason smirks, crossing his arms. “And I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your house. Including the time that I stole the wheels off the Batmobile.”

“No way!”

Despite his scandalized disbelief, the kid is obviously hooked.

Jason’s heart clenches a bit at the open curiosity on Cole’s face, the reality hitting him that this boy will never have a chance to do anything mischievous or fun ever again.

From one dead boy to another, this sucks…

As he leads him out of the cemetery, Jason starts to tell the little ghost about his life. He edits out the less pleasant bits, like dying and returning to life half brain dead with the ability to see and hear ghosts.

He figures a good story is the least he can do for the boy.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

Fragments from “Sister Outsider” Essays & Speeches by Audre Lorde

“Sister Outsider” was probably one of the most soul-fucking-searching book I ever read in my life. It made me question what I stand for so many times, that it made me sick to my stomach. I realized that I am not that good at this self-reflective-shit.

That my efforts of doing better are not anywhere close to where they should be. Audre Lorde taught me through her works that I got a lot of work to do. Like a lot. Her truth cuts deep. She has no mercy and her opinions are raw. They are hard to swallow. There were moments when I had to pause, because I wasn’t fully understanding it and weird enought I finished to read it today, February 18, 2020, on her birthday. Audre would’ve turn today 86 yo. Here are just a few fragments from the book, but, please, if you can read the whole thing. 

Biography:

Audre Lorde is an American writer, feminist, womanist, librarian, and civil rights activist. As a poet, she is best known for technical mastery and emotional expression, as well as her poems that express anger and outrage at civil and social injustices she observed throughout her life. Her poems and prose largely deal with issues related to civil rights, feminism, lesbianism, illness and disability, and the exploration of black female identity via Wikipedia.

⁃ Poetry Is Not a Luxury

We are all more blind to what we have than to what we have not. The white fathers told us: I think therefore I am. The Black mother within each of us-the poet-whispers in our dreams: I feel, therefore I can be free. ⁃ The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action For within living structures defined by profit, by linear power, by institutional dehumanization, our feelings were not meant to survive. Kept around as unavoidable adjuncts or pleasant pastimes, feelings were expected to kneel to thought as women were expect to kneel to men. But women have survived. As poets. And there are no new pains. We have felt them all already. We have hidden that fact in the same place where we have hidden our power. They surface in our dreams, and it is our dreams that point the way to freedom. In becoming forcibly and essentially aware of my mortality, and of what I wished and wanted for my life, however short it might be, priorities and omissions became strongly etched in a merciless light, and what I most regretted were my silences. And I began to recognize a source of power within myself that comes from the knowledge that while it is most desirable not to be afraid, learning to put fear into a perspective gave me great strength. “Tell them about how you’re never really a whole person if you remain silent, because there’s always that one little piece inside you that wants to be spoken out, and if you keep ignoring it, it gets madder and madder and hotter, and if you don’t speak it out one day it will punch you in the mouth from the inside.” Because the machine will try to grind you into dust anyway, whether or not we speak. We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters and our selves are wasted, while our children are distorted, while our earth is poisoned; we can sit in our safe corners mute as bottles, and we will still be no less afraid. ⁃ Scratching the Surface: Some Notes on Barriers to Women and Loving The above forms of human blindness (racism, sexism, heterosexism and homophobia) stem from the same root - an inability to recognize the notion of difference as a dynamic human force, one which is enriching rather than threatening to define self, when there are shared goals. This kind of action is a prevalent error among oppressed peoples. It is based upon the false notion that there is only a limited and particular amount of freedom that must be divided up between us, with the largest and juiciest pieces of liberty going as spoils to the victor or the strongest. So instead of joining together to fight for more, we quarrel between ourselves for a larger slice of the one pie. ⁃ Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power* In order to perpetuate itself, every oppression must corrupt or distort those various sources of power within the culture of oppressed that can provide energy for change. The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings. It is an internal sense of satisfaction to which, once we experienced it, we know we can aspire. The principal horror of any system which defines the good in terms of profit rather than in terms of human need, or which defines human need to the exclusion of the psychic and emotional components of that need - the principal horror of such a s system is that it robs our work of its erotic value, it’s erotic power and life appeal and fulfillment. Such a system reduces work to a travesty of necessities, a duty by which we earn bread or oblivion for ourselves and those we love. But this is tantamount to blinding a painter and then telling her to improve her work, and to enjoy the act of painting. It is not only next to impossible, it is also profoundly cruel. That self-connection shared is a measure of the joy which I know myself to be capable of feeling, a reminder of my capacity for feeling. And that deep and irreplaceable knowledge of my capacity for joy comes to demand from all of my life that it be lived within the knowledge that such satisfaction is possible, and does not have to be called marriage , nor god , nor an afterlife. ⁃ Sexism: An American Disease in Blackface Black feminism is not white feminism in blackface. Black women have particular and legitimate issues which affect our lives as Black women, and addressing those issues does not make us any less Black. Now I am sure there are still some Black men who marry white women because they feel a white woman can better fit the model of “femininity” set forth in this country. As Black women and men, we cannot hope to begin dialogue by denying the oppressive nature of male privilege. And if Black makes choose to assume that privilege for whatever reason- raping,brutalizing, and killing Black women- then ignoring these acts of Black male oppression within our communities can only serve our destroyers. One oppression does not justify another. As people, we most certainly must work together. It would be shortsighted to believe that Black men alone are to blame for the above situations in a society dominated by white male privilege. But the Black male consciousness must be raised to the realization that sexism and woman-hating are critically dysfunctional to his liberation as Black man because they arise out of the same constellation that engenders racism and homophobia. ⁃ Man Child: A Black Lesbian Feminist’s Response Men who are afraid to feel must keep women around to do their feeling for them while dismissing us for the same supposedly “inferior “ capacity to feel deeply. But in this way also, men deny themselves their own essential humanity, becoming trapped in dependency and fear. “The next time you come in here crying ...,” and I suddenly caught myself in horror. This is the way we allow the destruction of our sons to begin in the name of protection and to ease our own pain. My son get beaten up? I was about to demand that he buy that first lesson in the corruption of power, that might makes right I could hear my cell beginning to perpetuate the age old distortions about what strength and ready bravery really are. It is hard for our children to believe that we are not only potent as it is for us to know it, as parents. But that knowledge is necessary as the first step in the reassessment of power as something other than might, age, privilege, or the lack of fear. It is important to step for a boy, whose societal destruction begins when he’s forced to believe that he can only be strong if he doesn’t feel, or if he wins. ⁃ An interview: Audre Lorde and Adrienne Rich They were very streetwise, but they had done very little work with themselves as Black women. They had done it only in relation to, against, whitey. The enemy was always outside. I did that course in the same way I did all the others, which was learning as I went along, asking the hard questions, not knowing what was coming next. The learning process is something you can incite, literally incite, like a riot. And then, just possibly, hopefully, it goes home, or on. I knew, as I had always known, that the only way you can head people off from using who you are against you is to be honest and open first, to talk about yourself before they talk about you. It wasn’t even courage. Speaking up was a protective mechanism for myself. The Black mother who is the poet exists in everyone of us. Now when males or patriarchal thinkers (whether male or a female) reject a combination, then we are truncated. Rationality is not necessary. It serves the chaos of knowledge. It serves feeling. It servers to get from this place to that place. But if you don’t honor those places, then the road is meaningless. Because we cannot fight old power in old power terms only. The only way we can do it is by creating another whole structure that touches every aspect of our existence, at the same time as we are resisting. There are different choices facing Black and white women in life, certain specifically different pitfalls surrounding us because of our experiences, our color. Not only are some of the problems that face us dissimilate, but some of the entrapments in the weapons used to neutralizers are not the same. I wish we could explore this more , about you and me, but also in general. I think it needs to be talked about, written about it: the differences in alternatives or choices we are offered as black and white women. There is a danger of seeing it in an all or nothing way. I think it’s very complex thing done what women are constantly offer choices or the appearance of choices but also real choices that are undeniable. We don’t always perceive the difference between the two. But documentation does not help one perceive. At best it only analyzes the perception that at worst, it provides a screen by which to avoid concentrating on the court revelation, following it down to how it feels. Again, knowledge and understanding. They can function in concert, but they don’t replace each other. But I am not rejecting your need for documentation. I can document the road to Abomey for you, and true, you might not get there without that information. I can respect what you are saying. But once you get there, only you know why, what you came for, as you search for it and perhaps find it. So at certain stages that request documentation as a blinder, a questioning of my perceptions. Someone once said to me that I hadn’t documented the goddess in Africa, the woman bond that moves throughout The Black Unicorn. I had to laugh. I am a poet, not a historian. I’ve shared my knowledge, I hope. Now you go documented it, if you, if you wish. I was holding back because I had not asked myself the question: “Why is women loving women so frightening to black men unless they want to assume the white male position?” It was a question of how much I could bear, and of not realizing I could bear more than I thought I could at the time. It was also a question of how could I use that perception other than just in rage or destruction. What understanding begins to do is to make knowledge available for use, and that’s the urgency, that’s the push , that’s the drive. That you had to understand what you knew and also make it available to others. ⁃ Master’s Tools For women, the need and desire to nurture each other is not pathological but redemptive, and it is within that knowledge that our real power is rediscovered. It is this real connection which is so feared by a patriarchal world. Only within a patriarchal structure is maternity the only social power open to women. Interdependency between women is the way to a freedom which allows the I to be, not in order to be used, but in order to be creative. This is the difference between the passive be and the active being. For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support. If white American feminist theory need not deal with the difference in oppressions, then how do you deal with the fact that the women who clean your houses and tend your children while you attend conferences on feminist theory are, for the most part, poor women and women of color? What is the theory behind racist feminism. The failure of academic feminists to recognize difference as a crucial strength is a failure to reach beyond the first patriarchal lesson. In our world, divide and conquer must become define and empower. In academic feminist circles, the answer to these questions is often, “We did not know who to ask.” But that is the same evasion of responsibility, the same cop-out, that keeps Black women’s art out of women’s exhibitions, Black women’s work out of most feminist publications except for the occasional “Special Third World Women’s Issue,” and Black women’s texts off your reading lists. But as Adrienne Rich pointed out in a recent talk, white feminists have educated themselves about such an enormous amount over the past ten years, how come you haven’t also educated yourselves about Black women and the difference between us-white and Black-when it is key to our survival as a movement? Women of today are still being called upon to stretch across the gap of male ignorance and to educate men as to our existence and our needs. This is an old and primary tool of all oppressors to keep the oppressed occupied with the master’s concerns. Now we hear that it is the task of women of Color to educate white women-in the face of tremendous resistance-as to our existence, our differences, our relative roles in our joint survival. This is a diversion of energies and a tragical repetition of racist patriarchal thought. Simone de Beauvoir once said: “It is in the knowledge of the genuine conditions of our lives that we must draw our strength to live and our reasons for acting.” Racism and homophobia are real conditions of all our lives in this place and time. I urge each one of us here to reach down into that deep place of knowledge inside herself and touch that terror and loathing of any difference that lives there. See whose face it wears. Then the personal as the political can begin to illuminate all our choices. ⁃ Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference Black and Third World people are expected to educate white people as to our humanity. Women are expected to educate men. Lesbians and gay men are expected to educate the heterosexual world. The oppressors maintain their position and evade responsibility for their own actions. There is a constant drain of energy which might be better used in redefining ourselves and devising realistic scenarios for altering the present and constructing the future. Too often , we pour the energy needed for recognizing and exploring difference into pretending those differences are insourmountable barriers, or that they do you not exist at all. The results in a voluntary isolation or false and treacherous connections. Either way, we did not develop tools for using human difference as a springboard for a creative change within our lives. We speak not of human difference but if human deviance. By and large within the women’s movement today, white women focus upon their oppression as women and ignore differences of race, sexual preference, class, and age. There is a pretense to a homogeneity of experience covered by the world sisterhood that does not in fact exist. Unacknowledged class differences rob women of each other’s energy and creative insight. By ignoring the past, we are encouraged to repeat its mistakes. The “generation gap” is an important social tool for any repressive society. If the younger members of a community view the older members as contemptible or suspect or excess, they will never be able to join hands and examine the living memories of the community nor ask the all important question, “Why?” This gives rise to a historical amnesia that keeps us working to invent the wheel every time we have to go to the store for bread. Ignoring the differences of race between women and the implications of those differences presents the most serious threat to the mobilization of women’s joint power. As white women ignore their built-in privilege of whiteness and define and woman in terms of their own experience alone then women of color become “other,” the outsider whose experience and tradition is too “alien” to comprehend. Refusing to recognize differences makes it impossible to see the different problems and pitfalls facing us as women. The tokenism that is sometimes extended to us is not an invitation to join power; our racial “otherness” is a visible reality that makes that quite clear. For white women there is a wider range of pretended choices and rewards for identifying with patriarchical power and its tools. Today, with the defeat of ERA, the tightening economy, and increased conservatism It is easier once again for white women to believe the dangerous fantasy that if you are good enough pretty enough sweet enough quite enough teach the children to behave hate the right people and married the right man then you will be allowed to coexist with patriarchy in relative peace at least until a man needs your job or the neighborhood rapist happens along and true unless one lives in loves in the trenches it is difficult to remember that the war against dehumanization is senseless. Some problems we share as women, some we do not. You fear your children will grow up to join the patriarchy and testify against you we fear our children will be dragged from a car and shut down in the street and you turn your backs up on the reasons why they’re dying. Within black communities where racism is a living reality, differences among us often seem dangerous and suspect. The need for unity is often misnamed as a need for homogeneity, and a black feminist vision mistaken for betrayal of our common interests as people. Because of the continuous battle against a racial erasure the black women and black men share, some black women still refused to recognize that we are also opressed as women and that sexual hostility against black women as practiced not only by the white racist society but implemented within our black communities as well. It is a disease striking the heart of black nation of hood and silence will not make it disappear. Exacerbated by racism and the pressures of powerlessness, violence against black women and children often becomes a standard within our communities, one by which manliness can be measured. But this woman-hating acts are rarely discussed as crimes against black women. “As long as male domination exists, rape will exist. Only women revolting and men made conscience of their responsibility to fight sexism can collectively stop rape.” - Kalamu ya Salaam, a black male writer Black women who once insisted that lesbianism was a white woman’s problem now insist that black lesbians are a threat to black nationhood, are consorting with the enemy, are basically on un-black. These accusations, coming from the very women to whom we look for deep and real understanding, have served to keep many black lesbians in hiding, caught between the racism of white women and the homophobia of their sisters. What are the particular details within each of our lives that can be scrutinized and altered to help bring about change? How do we redefine difference for all women? It is not our differences which separate women, but our reluctance to recognize those differences and to deal effectively with the distortion which have resulted from the ignoring and misnaming of those differences. All of us have had to learn to live or work Or coexist with men from our fathers on. We have recognized and negotiated this differences, even when this recognition only continued the old dominant/subordinate mode of human relationship, where the oppressed must recognize the masters’ difference in order to survive. But our future survival predicated upon our ability to relate within equality. As women we must root our internalize patterns of oppression within ourselves if we are to move beyond the most superficial aspects of social change. Now we must recognize differences among women who are our equals, neither inferior nor superior, and devise ways to each to others’ difference to enrich our visions and our joint struggles. ⁃ The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism Guilt and defensiveness are bricks in a wall against which we all flounder; they serve none of our futures. ⁃ Learning from the 60s When we disagreed with one another about the solution to a particular problem, we were often far more vicious to each other than to the originators of our common problem. We forget that the necessary ingredients needed to make the past work for the future is our energy in the present, metabolizing one into the other. Continuity does not happen automatically, nor is it a passive process. That is how I learned that if I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive. My poetry, my life, my work, my energies for struggle were not acceptable unless I pretended to match somebody’s else’s norm. I learned that not only couldn’t I succeed at that game, but the energy needed for that masquerade would be lost to my work. We are functioning under government ready to repeat in El Salvador and Nicaragua the tragedy of Vietnam, a government which stands on the wrong side of every single battle for liberation taking place upon this globe. Decisions to cut aid for the terminally eel, for the elderly, for dependent children, for food stamps, even school lunches, are being made by men with full stomachs who live in comfortable houses with two cars and umpteen tax shelters. None of them go hungry to bed at night. Recently, it was suggested that senior citizens be hired to work in atomic plants because they’re close to the end of their lives anyway. Revolution is not a one time event. It is becoming always vigilant for the smallest opportunity to make a genuine change in established, outgrown responses; for instants, it is learning to address each other’s difference with respect. You do not have to be me in order for us to fight alongside each other.I do not have to be you to recognize that they were Warriors are the same.what we must do is commit ourselves to some future that can include each other and to work toward that future it with the particular strength of our individual identities dot and the other in an order to do this, we must allow each other our differences at the same time as we recognize our sameness. ⁃ Eye to Eye: Black Women, Hatred and Anger It is easier to deal with the external manifestations of racism and sexism then it is to deal with the results of those distortions internalized within our consciousness of ourselves and one another. Anger - a passion of displeasure that may be excessive or misplaced but not necessarily harmful. Hatred - and emotional habit or attitude of mine in which aversion is coupled with ill will. Anger, used, does not destroy. Hatred does. Growing up, metabolizing hatred like a daily bread. Because I’m black, because I’m a woman, because I’m not black enough, because I am not some particular fantasy of a woman, because I AM. On such a consistent diet one can eventually come to value the hatred of one’s enemies more than one values the love of friends, for that hatred becomes the source of anger, and anger as a powerful fuel. Anger is useful to help clarify our differences, but in the long run, strength that is bred by anger alone as a blind fours which cannot create the future. It can only demolish the past. Such strength does not focus upon what lies ahead, but up on what lies behind, upon what created it - hatred. And hatred is a deathwish for the hated, not to a lifewish for anything else. For example: At this point in time, were racism to be totally eradicated from those middle range relationships between black women and white women, those relationships might become deeper, but they would still never satisfy our particular black woman’s need for one another, given our shared knowledge and traditions and history. There are two very different struggles involved here. One is the war against racism in white people, and the other is the need for black women to confront and wade through the racist constructs underlying our deprivation of each other. and this battles are not at all the same. Most of the black women I know think I cry too much, or that I am to public about it. I’ve been told that crying makes me seem soft and therefore of little consequence. As if our softness has to be the price we pay out for power, rather than simply the one that’s paid most easily and most often. “Don’t trust white people because they mean us no good and don’t trust anyone darker than you because they are hearts are as black as their faces.” (And where did that leave me, the darkest one?) it is painful even now to write it down. How many messages like that come down to all of us, and in how many different voices, how many different ways? And how can we expunge these messages from our consciousness without first recognizing what it was they were saying, and how destructive they were? When there is no connection at all between people, then anger is a way of bringing them closer together, of making contact. but when there is a great deal of connectedness that is problematic or threatening or acknowledged, then anger is a way of keeping people separate and putting distance between us. That’s because we sometimes rise to each other‘s defense against outsiders, we do not need to look at devaluation and dismissal among ourselves. Support against outsider is very different from cherishing each other. We refused to give up the artificial distances between us, or to examine all real differences for creative exchange. I am too different for us to communicate. Meaning, I must establish myself as not you. And the road to anger is paid with our unexpressed fear of each other’s judgment. ⁃ Grenada Revisited: An Interim Report This short, undeclared, and cynical weren’t against Granada is not a new direction for American foreign policy. It is merely a blatant example of 160 year old course of action called the Monroe doctrine. In its name America has invaded small Caribbean and Central American countries over and over again since 1823, cloaking this invasion is under a variety of names. 38 such invasion secured prior to 1917 before the Soviet Union even existed. I am only a relative. I must listen long and hard and ponder the implications of what I have heard, or be guilty of the same quick arrogance of the US government in believing their external solutions to Granados future.

696.

If money was no object, would you change your wardrobe? >> If money were no object, absolutely, because I could then stop settling for clothing that doesn’t quite fit well or has bad textures just because they’re within my budget or because I can’t afford replacements. Also, maybe I could get stuff custom-made instead of dealing with whatever the stores deign to sell.

How do you/did you get to school? >> I took a bus for most years, but for junior and senior year I lived in a town with no school bus system so I walked.

Have you ever been in trouble for something you honestly didn't do? >> Yeah, a lot when I was young. I guess I make a great scapegoat.

Is the idea of having a secret admirer creepy or romantic? >> If an admirer doesn’t overstep my boundaries and doesn’t expect me to reciprocate whatever it is they’re feeling, then it’s fine, I don’t care. I’ll take any positive attention I can get.

What was the last song you sung out loud? >> I don’t remember.

Have you ever had to have a pet put down? >> No.

Were you excited to learn to drive, or scared? >> I never had this experience. I did drive Sparrow’s car around a school parking lot once, and that was pretty fun.

What was the last book you read? >> Recursion by Blake Crouch.

Did you enjoy it, or were you glad to be finished? >> I enjoyed it immensely.

Do you ever wonder what other people are thinking when they stare at you? >> Yes, because I’m quick to assume they’re thinking something negative but I’m aware enough to know that I might be wrong. But to be honest, I really don’t like being stared at for any reason, so I mostly just wish they’d stop.

Have you ever gone out of your way to get someone's attention? >> I don’t think so.

When was the last time you felt desperate? >> Earlier last week.

When was the last time you felt incredibly tired? >> This morning, before I had a galaxy-brain moment and put on a pair of sunglasses to mitigate the overwhelming amount of daylight streaming into the apartment and overloading my nervous system. Just because I know I’m sensory-defensive doesn’t mean I always remember to, like, defend my senses. lmao.

What candy cane flavor is your favorite? >> I don’t have a favourite.

What is one thing a guy can do, but a woman shouldn't? >> ---

In your opinion, who doesn't deserve to be famous? >> ---

Do you get angry when fast food restaurants mess up your order? >> I get upset, because it upsets me to have the Wrong food. But most of the time when I’m really upset about it it’s because I’d only noticed by the time we got home, or something, and I can’t do anything about it. If I notice while we’re still in or near the restaurant, then I don’t get nearly as upset because I can just... go fix it.

Have you ever had a ridiculous hair cut? >> I mean, probably.

What was your favorite elective class in high school? >> ---

Did you ever wish you could be homeschooled? >> No. Was it hard for you to get up this morning? >> Not really.

Have you ever had a dream so realistic you could've sworn it happened? >> Yeah.

When was the last time you colored with crayons or colored pencils? >> I don’t remember the last time I coloured in general (I usually colour with markers, anyway).

Can you remember the first survey you filled out? >> No way, lol.

Do you have any mental disorders? >> I could probably be diagnosed with a couple, but formal diagnosis really doesn’t interest me at this point. I have enough of an idea of what psychological criteria I fit that I can look up resources to help myself (and I have a direction to point SSI towards when it’s time to Prove My Disability To The Government), and that’s really all that matters right now.

Do you feel comfortable talking about these disorders, if you have them? >> *shrug* I mean, I guess you could say that.

Where did you go on your last field trip? >> ---

What do you do when someone pushes their views on you? >> No one does that, really. I mean, I don’t even know how they would, considering how unfazed by social pressure I usually am. Dogma just doesn’t stick to me.

Are you able to agree to disagree? Or do you have to have the last word? >> I’m perfectly willing to agree to disagree.

Do you think you make a good first impression? >> Not always.

Do other people's first impressions stick with you? >> It depends on what my first impression was. If it was like “oh my god this person really comes off like a bigot”, yeah, that’s going to stick until explicitly proven otherwise. If it was like “oh hmm this person seems to be in a bad mood” then like, whatever. Moods change. Sometimes you just catch people on a bad day and that doesn’t mean they hate you forever.

Are you friends who you thought they were when you first met? >> ---

How have you changed in the past year? >> I really don’t know how to track this.

How about in the past five years? >> This is a little easier to track, because five years ago I didn’t even live here. But I don’t really have the energy to like, lay it all out in words right now.

What do you do when you feel like giving up on something? >> Sometimes I just give up on it. Other times I take a break. Other times I have a meltdown. Other times I push through.

Have you ever had to give up on someone? >> Yeah.

Would you rather break up with someone, or them break up with you? >> ---

Is there a cover song you like better than the original version? >> There are quite a few songs like that for me.

Do you think it's okay to like a cover more than an original? >> Who the fuck is going to stop me...?

What band do you wish was still making music? >> Meh.

Do you still watch any cartoons? >> Sure, I watch cartoons.

Are you just too lazy to recycle? >> I guess, more or less. I also don’t really see the value in it anymore. Reducing and reusing seem to have more immediate effects that I can observe in my own life; recycling is just another industry with its own emissions problems at this point.

Think of the last person you talked to--do you love him/her? >> Sure.

Do you fit your zodiac sign? >> My natal chart seems to be an astute character sheet for me.

What is one of your weak points? >> I don’t know.

What is one of your strong points? >> Meh.

Are you calm in emergency situations? >> More often than not, yeah. Unless said emergency situation includes a lot of environmental stimuli, in which case that will frazzle me (although the situation itself might not).

When was the last time you cursed at someone? >> As in, with the intent of being mean, not just cursing in conversation? I really don’t remember.

Are you afraid of losing someone you love? >> I’m always afraid of losing Can Calah.

Who are you most attached to? >> ^

What do you depend on other people for? >> Most of my quality of life, seeing as I can’t live off this government income alone.

Are you good at reading other people's body language? >> I don’t know, maybe.

Do you like facial hair? How about chest hair? >> It’s fine.

If you have a favorite number, how did you choose it? >> I didn’t really choose it, it’s kind of just... I don’t know. It’s part of the fabric of my reality or something blah blah blah.

What goes through your mind when someone breaks up with you? >> I mean... wouldn’t that depend on the specific breakup...

What goes through your mind when someone asks you out? >> ^ (But also in general, I’m going to react defensively to being asked out because... I don’t date, and anyone asking me out either doesn’t know me well enough to even initiate that sort of intimacy or doesn’t care that I’m aromantic, which is not a good look either way.)

Do you match your shoes with your outfit? >> My shoes match with all my outfits.

Do you style your hair daily? >> No.

Who was the last person to compliment your appearance? What'd they say? >> I don’t remember. I think the only person that really compliments my appearance these days is Sparrow, anyway. Is there any movie you just can't stand to watch? >> Yeah.

What do you think of pornography? >> I mean, it serves a purpose.

What hair products do you use regularly? >> Shampoo. Also this tea tree oil stuff that I don’t know if it works or not but I don’t have a better idea.

Does it bother you when people use extremely bad grammar? >> No. Most of the time “bad” grammar isn’t an impedence to communication, so I don’t see what the big deal is. (Obviously if you’re writing for, say, an academic journal, there is a certain standard of writing one should be following. But people are always complaining about bad grammar on, like, tumblr, and who fucking cares? Ain’t nobody being graded on mastery of Strunk’s Elements of Style here.)

Do you have a hard time talking about sex with the opposite gender? >> Er, one’s gender isn’t what determines how comfortable I am talking about sex with them.

Do you feel more comfortable with a male or female doctor/nurse? >> There’s something to be said about the lack of compassion that male doctors often display towards people who are perceived as female, which I do take into account, but ultimately I figure it’s still about the individual doctor and not whatever configuration their chromosomes are in. I’ll take a competent, compassionate male doctor just like I’d take a competent, compassionate female doctor.

Have you ever had major surgery? >> No.

Could you go a month without speaking? >> I think it would be rather inconsiderate for me to go a month without speaking to Sparrow. I have had periods of selective mutism, of course, especially during depressions, but if it lasted long enough I would eventually have to make some attempt to work around it.

What goes through your mind when you see someone very obese? >> I mean, nothing specific.

How about when you see someone very thin? >> Once again, nothing specific.

Is there any food you don't like that a lot of others do? >> Yeah, milk chocolate.

Have you ever followed a trend? If so, what was it? >> When I was younger, certainly. You know, when I actually paid attention to trends. I have no idea what’s even trendy right now, except like... VSCO? Is that still a thing? Shit moves too fast these days, man.

Have you ever started a trend, even a small one? >> Not to my knowledge.

What was the last thing you bragged about? >> I don’t know.

NSFW SCENARIO REQUEST: ❝jealous, much?❞

[ Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia ] [ Characters: Bakugou Katsuki ]

jealousy (noun.) ― is defined as a defensive reaction to a perceived threat to a valued relationship, arising from a situation in which the partner's involvement with an activity and/or another person 「NSFW scenario where Bakugou gets jealous because Midoriya is being handsy with his S/O」 ❝I am not fucking jealous.❞  [ NSFW under the cut! ]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI

Bakugou couldn’t even remember why he agreed to this in the first place. With his leg bouncing impatiently and eyebrows knitted, he observed the scene in front of him with his permanent scowl on his face. Standing next to him was Kirishima who followed his friend’s gaze. While he and Bakugou were showering, you and Midoriya decided to train together. The red head teen wasn’t that all surprised when he realized that the ash blonde was staring at you and Midoriya sparing together. Jealousy, irritation and annoyance was written all over his face. As much as Bakugou wanted to drag you away, he knew that you needed this. Both you and Midoriya had similar quirks and it was natural that you would ask the viridian haired male to assist with your training.

Even though everyone knew how Midoriya had little to no control over his quirk at the beginning of the year but he has shown great progression over the months. At the present, he was able to use his quirk more efficiently. You were always training with Bakugou to increase your endurance. Your parents had been the one to teach you to master your quirk so you had no problems with using it. What’s more, Midoriya and you are close friends and seeing how much he had improved in such a short amount of time, you wanted some advice from him. Currently, you were stretching your limbs to loosen up your muscles. Midoriya was doing the same, bending down and reaching his toes.

“Thank you for helping me, Midoriya-kun. I’ve been trying to increase my endurance for the past few weeks that I didn’t think about making super moves. Thanks to Katsuki-kun, I can last longer in combat now! But I still want to work on my super moves.” you said with a small, determined smile.

“N-No, it’s not a big deal, [Last Name]-san. I’m happy to help you. I also know a few things about your quirk” Midoriya muttered meekly, rubbing the back of his head.

“Alright, let's get this started then! Let's do a little warm up together." you said enthusiastically. 

Bakugou watched the whole scene, keeping his gaze trained on you and Midoriya. You looked like you were enjoying yourself―talking so heatedly about what you could do with your quirk. Midoriya proved to be a great help, he was observant and curious by nature. All his questions gave you a few ideas you could test out on the field in class. The ash blonde looked over to his side when he felt a few taps. Beaming at him was Kirishima who handed him a sports drink. Bakugou twisted the cap open and took big swigs from the bottle.

“You gotta stop staring at them so intensely. Why are you so irritated and jealous?” the red head questioned, leaning forward and tying his shoelaces.

“I’m not fucking irritated nor am I jealous.” Bakugou placed his drink back onto the bench.

“Yes, you are. You look more than ready to kill Midoriya, bro.” Kirishima pointed out.

“No, I’m not.” the male childishly denied.

“Yes you are.” Kirishima teased. Bakugou clicked his tongue in annoyance, decided not to say anything back because he knew he couldn’t win against his friend’s teasing. He stayed silent and turned his attention towards you again. What his saw made his patience run on thin ice.

“So like this?” you looked over your shoulder for confirmation. Midoriya stood behind you with his hand under his chin, observing your posture for a few moments. He stepped forward and placed his hands over yours, pressing himself against your back. Neither of you noticed Bakugou’s gaze, far too occupied with the task at hand. You pressed your lips together, letting Midoriya move your arms. Once he fixed your posture, you used your quirk. Lucky for you, you had managed to learn more of your quirk.

“Thank you, Midoriya-kun! It was a pleasure training with you!” you thanked him.

Bakugou watched as you slowly make your way over, beaming at him and telling him that you were ready to go back. It took all he could to not drag you into the nearest closet and take you there. Instead, he pulled you into his room to have his way with you.

You were pushed down to his bed, his lips claiming yours the instant you tried to ask him what was wrong. It started tender and loving, his body heat and the feeling of his lips starting to overwhelm your senses. You held onto his arms for leverage as his trailed his own hands up your shirt and you mentally thanked the Gods above that you weren’t sweating that much. You pulled away and greedily inhaled before running your hands through his hair. He pressed his hips against yours and you gasped at the feeling of his boner against your shorts. The quiet moan that left your lips didn’t go unnoticed.

“What’s got you so riled up Katsuki?” you whispered into his ear as he got rid of the shirt and shorts you were wearing. The male hovered above you, hands placed on either side of your head to show dominance. He stared at your form, laying on his bed with a sports bra that accentuated your breasts and underwear that matched the color of your bra. The male brought his hands to your bra and pushed his hands from underneath, kneading the mounds and pinching your nipples.

“Katsu....Aaah....Mhmm, slow down please.....Aaah.” you moaned, gazing at him with lust evident in your eyes.

He remained silent, letting a hiss when he felt your hand brush against his clothed erection. Being a little bit experienced with sex, you easily pulled down his hands and boxers so his erection was set free from its confines. He was painfully hard and you could tell that he was sporting this boner before you even got to his room. You took off your bra before things got too heated. Bakugou attacked your neck with his mouth, biting at the exposed flesh. You gasped loudly at the sharp pain but moaned lewdly when you felt his tongue flick over the bruises and his lips leaving soft, fleeting kisses.

“Aaah! Katsuki! S-Stop, I can’t hide them all if you leave so many.....” you tugged his hair lightly, hoping that he will come to his senses and stop his ministrations. Your pleads fell on deaf ears and after a few bites, Bakugou pulled away with a shit-eating smirk on his face.

“You’re fucking mine. All these marks prove it.” the male said with a proud tone. You watched as he slowly moved down, chomping lightly on your nipples. Your body instinctively leaned into his face, body twitched in pleasure.

“W-Wait.....Let’s all calm down....Nyaahnn......”

“Do you think I’m going to let you go so easily?” he looked up at you, moving his free hand south, slipping into your panties and rubbing your clit. He removed your panties, lifting your legs and tossing the article aside. Bakugou pushed in two of your fingers, stretching you apart and drawing out moans.

“Katsuki.....wait, stop....there’s people on the floor......” you moaned, shutting your eyes, senses focused on the sounds of squelching as his fingers thrust into your wet cunt. You began thrashing underneath him violently, hips moving on their own to meet the thrusts of his finger.

"You say that but your hips are moving on their own." he smirked deviously at you. Instantly, you bashfully looked away, covering up your face, fully aware of all the embarrassing expressions you were making. Sex with with Bakugou tend to be between soft and rough. He preferred to keep it that way but there were times where little things triggered him to go rough and this is definitely one of the times. A small squeak tore out from your lips when he pulled out his fingers.

"Look, you're already so wet." he stretched his fingers a little. You looked down onto your stomach bashfully. When you heard the clicking of a belt and the rustle of clothing, you gazed at your boyfriend who began to strip himself, tossing his clothes to the ground. The mere sight of your boyfriend hovering over you with nothing on was arousing, causing you to instinctively close your legs. Bakugou forcefully pushed your legs apart, baring you to him.

When you felt the tip of his dick rubbing against your clit and entrance, you whimpered softly at the tingling pleasure. Much to your surprise, he pushed in without a warning. A loud gasp tore out from your lips and you found yourself shutting your eyes tightly and clenching onto the bed sheets for your dear life. Bakugou stilled, moving his hand to cup your cheeks, a wave of guilt washing over him when he saw the discomfort on your face. The warmth from his hand had you slowly fluttering your eyes open, meeting with his slightly apologetic gaze.

It took you a while to calm down from the shock and with a squeeze of his hand, you motioned him to move. He started slow, pushing into you with such precision and detail. Your gasps turned into pleasurable moaning. The feeling of his dick pumping into you gave you nothing but pleasure now.

“K-Ka―Aaah―tsuki! Please, faster.....Aaaah!” you moaned helplessly.

Bakugou slammed into you over and over, keeping his vice-like grip on your hips. His pace was relentless and had you moaning his name like it was the only thing you knew. Despite going so rough on you, he seemed to be as accurate as ever, the tip of his cock was brushing against that delicious spot inside you that had your eyes rolling back in pleasure. Your whole body jerked forward with each thrust and you pressed your face against the pillow to muffle your noises. A disapproving grunt left the ash blonde’s lips as he moved his hand to rub at your clit.

“Don’t you fucking keep your moans to yourself. There’s no one on this floor right now. Moan as loud as you can. Moan my name, tell me who you belong to, [First Name].” he slowed down his pace, prolonging your orgasm. Your eyes were brimming with tears as a bit of drool came from the side of your mouth. You looked back at your boyfriend, cheeks flushed a scarlet red.

“You’re fucking mine and mine only! No one will ever get to see you like this, a hot mess. This sight is just for me and me only.” he growled possessively. There was something about his demeanor that turned you on even more. 

“I belong to you, Katsuki.....only you and no one else.” you panted. He began thrusting again, making your entire body jerk and your body tingle with pleasure. Bakugou groaned at the feeling of your walls wrapping around his cock, it was warm and welcoming. The bed creaked lightly at the intense movement as you clenched onto the sheets till your fists trembled. The sound of skin slapping, your moans and his groans filled the room.

“F-Fuck, you’re so fucking tight every goddamn time.” he grunted. It only took a few more thrusts for you to moan his name loudly.

“Katsuki! I’m so―close! I’m cumming! I’m gonna cum! Aaaaah!” with one last moan and your head tossed back, you came around his cock. Just as he was about to come, he pulled out of you and pumped his erection with his hand. With a groan of your name, he came on your back, painting your skin with strings of his release. His heart nearly stopped at the sight of you looking at him with loving eyes. Bakugou helped you clean up and watched as you roll over, face still red and your breathing slightly ragged. 

He laid down next to you and almost instantly, you cuddling up to him, resting your head against his chest. Bakugou wrapped an arm around your form and kissed your head, earning a soft giggle from you.

“Well, that was some great jealous sex.”

“I am not fucking jealous!”

You shut him up with a quick peck on his lips, giggling at the sight of his flustered face. The male muttered incoherent curses under his breath and felt you lean closer to him, wrapping your arms around his body and relishing his warmth. When he looked down at you, he was met with the sight of your sleeping face. He sighed softly and tangled his legs with yours.

“You’re fucking lucky I love you.”

Total: 2086 words Published: 16.01.2019

Thank you for requesting! *｡٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و*｡ It’s been a year, seriously, a whole year since we posted requests on tumblr. I’m surprised at the amount of attention our reposts are getting. It makes me happy to see that people are enjoying our work. I have finally finished my assignment and decided to use my time to work on this with Natsuki. Have a nice day everyone! ― author Lou

Thank you for requesting! I haven’t touched tumblr in ages because I’ve been very busy with university. This actually serves as a way for me to let out some stress. Same with Lou, I’m really happy to see that a lot of people are reading our work. I hope you didn’t wait for too long anon. We both hope you enjoyed it! ― author Natsuki

Please do not mind the grammar mistakes and typos.

I was tagged by @viiavi! <33

Rules: Post 57 facts about yourself and tag at least ten people. When posting include the tag “57 facts” in order for people to find out more about you and perhaps find a kindred spirit to talk to.

I used to pretend that I was Stevie Nicks when I was a kid. I’d take my mom’s scarves and necklaces and twirl around like a maniac mouthing the words to Timespace.

I didn’t leave the island I grew up on for twenty years (not even for vacations or trips). When I left, I didn’t have any intention of ever going back. 

My brother and I are seven years apart and he is my closest friend. Coincidentally, we are both libras (my mom used to joke that we balance the family out).

Drinking coffee is a huge part of my creative process. 

I’m right handed and definitely right-brained.

I tend to form better relationships with people who are older than me. As a adult, all of my irl friendships/relationships have been with people who are slightly-to-significantly older than me. 

I get lost in daydreams often. 

I’m 5′ 6′‘.

I can’t drive and never wanted to learn. It’s a legitimate problem.

I’m slowly learning to cook and I really enjoy it.

I hate the taste of alcohol. If I drink, it has to be something sugary + frozen or wine-----otherwise I’ll probably vomit.

My lucky numbers are 4 and 6. I don’t really know why? I just associate those numbers with good things. 

Proud Hufflepuff. 

My little brother and I were once being stupid at home (I was probably around 10 or 11) and thought it would be hilarious to “pretend to call 911″. My dumbass accidentally did (and hung up quickly after that). Two cops showed up. They asked a couple questions and left after a few minutes of sussing us out. Not even five minutes after they left, my mom pulled into the parking lot. Close call. 

I’m a romantic and thrive on affection and love.

I’m the kind of person who will spend an hour on my makeup and virtually none on my hair. 

My first fictional crush was on Shaggy from Scooby Doo. Both animated and in the live-action movies, lmao.

I thought that I was a cat person until I adopted my dog! Now, I definitely consider myself a dog person (who still loves cats).

My circulation is shit. I get cold super easily.

I love rainy weather and storms. 

My favorite food is spaghetti.

I’m a very sentimental person and put a lot of value on gifts/cards/personal objects.

Christmas and Halloween are my two favorite holidays! With an emphasis on Christmas, lol.

I had a truly amazing experience when I took shrooms. Not trying to endorse drug use, but psychedelics are fascinating. 

I love movies so much. Film-making and cinematography are such incredible things to me. I would love to be part of that creative process.

If I could have lunch with one famous person, I would definitely choose Lana del Rey. She’s been such a massive inspiration for my writing and personal aesthetic....I would love to meet her and have a conversation.

Tied to that last fact, LDR has been the only artist I’ve seen live! I went back in February and I’m still not over it!

I haven’t had any close IRL friends in years. I only vibe with certain types of people and am very picky when it comes to who I let in.

I used to write fanfiction. Big yikes.

My middle name is Ray.

I love pretty clothes but I hate wearing them because I feel like I’m going to ruin them.

I really love the vibe of airports. Not flying, getting through check-in, the stress around it, or any of that, though! Just the feeling of walking to your terminal, of the air conditioning, the smell of black coffee in the air......it just really ticks something for me?

Aliens are real and so is magic.

I desperately want to meet and hang out with an alpaca.

I’ve never been to a wedding.

I almost drowned in the ocean and it was the single most terrifying thing that has ever happened to me. 

I saw Wicked in NYC at the Gershwin Theater and it was magical.

I love the idea of getting a tattoo but I also can’t commit to any tattoo concept, so I’m not sure if I’ll ever get one. 

However, if I was to get a tattoo, I think I’d get a portrait of my dog and a sleeve featuring different cryptids!

My least favorite foods are oranges and purple grapes (yes, I think there’s a distinction between purple and green grapes, and YES, I prefer green grapes).

I want to have a duck once I own a house.

^^This is because I used to be an Aquatics Specialist at a pet store and I had one client come in often to buy crickets. She’d bring her pet duck (I think his name was Percy) in and I’d give him little scratches and head pats. I LOVED HIM. He’d wiggle his lil butt when he’d see me and...……..wow, what a guy.

I think my handwriting is horrendous but other people seem to like it.

I’m very observant and detail oriented. 

In elementary school, I used to be a JPO (Junior Police Officer), which is basically a mini-traffic director. 

This is the only social media platform I have. You won’t find me on Facebook/Instagram/Twitter....they kind of squick me out.

I got my CPR + First Aid certification twice----only to never use it for a job. It has long since expired. RIP.

I have a large oval brown birthmark on my upper leg.

I love red lipstick but I haven’t found my perfect shade yet.

I’ve never broken any of my bones. I am sincerely surprised, tbh.

My favorite color is pastel pink.

I wish there were more opportunities to wear costumes/fancy clothes because I love looking Extra Af.

I used to collect Pullip dolls and BPAL perfumes. 

When I’m sick, I will marathon Twilight Zone episodes until I fall asleep.

I can be extremely stubborn and set in my ways. 

I turn 22 next week Wednesday. 

I’m 110% positive that my dog is my soulmate.

Not tagging anyone bc this is pretty intense and I don’t want anyone to murder me lmao!! 

On Art Museums and Irrational Fears

Needles, public speaking, oblivion, and visual art are my greatest fears. Not one is scarier than the other, on a scale of one to ten they are all a ten. They are rotated through in each moment when my demise seems most imminent. When I visit the doctor’s office and I’m told I’m going to need bloodwork done, needles go to the top of my list. Seconds before I have to give a speech or a presentation, I realize just how important the opinions are of thirty people I barely know. Oblivion is inevitable, in life, in work, in art, and I think nothing is quite as beautiful or significant if we aren’t constantly fearing it. As for visual art, well... as I stood outside the Chicago Art Institute a few weeks back, I debated my fear once again before taking a deep breath and walking in. I feel emotionally impaired when looking at things I can’t comprehend. Especially, when those things don’t abide by the rules of logic and fact. Art, for example-- the really good kind, the kind that makes you go creating answers for unanswerable questions--is downright one of the most terrifying things I know. But it’s also the reason that if I’m given the opportunity to look at something that scares me, I will skip a Field Museum or the Adler Planetarium and go to the place with the thing I fear most. Okay, weird way to start an essay, but since this is a paper on curiosity and I'm curious: Why did you decide to bite the bullet on this one and go look at art if it freaks you out so much? And the answer to that is perspective. One thing more frightening than maybe all my stupid fears is this idea I’m trapped in seeing things one way. There’s a great quote in the film Dead Poets Society where John Keating (Robin Williams) says, “I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way.” Because as artists it’s true. It’s far too easy to settle into a style. We find our voice, we write in it, live by it and bleed for it, creating something entirely our own in doing so. But I think the reason lots of art students never become "artists" is that we allow ourselves to put that final nail in our coffin the moment we stop trying to find new ways of seeing the world. Because with finding our voice we also find a formula to a momentary success, which is the worlds cheapest drug and shortest high. If we use it too much, we become dependent on our own opinions, drain ourselves of all our blood and we will start to question the point of what we’re doing. Without ever trying to gain a new perspective of the world around us, we’ve allowed ourselves to be consumed by oblivion. So I force myself to do things like take surrealism classes, continuously watch avant-garde films and occasionally make an ass out of myself by going to an art museum. Not so I can go drink wine when I’m older and act as a museum tour guide for people at parties, telling them everything they couldn’t see by reading the caption on the side of a painting, but to challenge my own perspective by indulging my fear and fascination. After wandering around for a while, I decided to go look at the Impressionists. None of the art in the exhibit seemed so abstract I couldn’t understand what I was looking at it, but it also wasn’t something that I could definitely say, “That’s what that’s supposed to mean.” Impressionism is perfect because “it’s an artistic style that seeks to capture a feeling or experience through the shifting effect of light and color.” It is rough and personal. Good Will Hunting, another fantastic Robin Williams movie, shows this idea in a scene where Sean (Williams) and Will (Matt Damon) are sitting on a park bench talking after Will told Sean that his wife’s painting is “shit.” Understandably Sean isn’t happy by the remark but it leads to a discussion between the two bringing them together, “If I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling.”Stephen Asma does a great job of defining this in his piece, 'Monsters on the Brain: An Evolutionary Epistemology of Horror.' “Why does art communicate, explore, and even reprogram values better than science? Because art is a secret language that speaks directly to the limbic system. Art doesn’t just tell us about emotional conflicts or clashes of values, it actually speaks directly to our effective system—bypassing the discursive rationality. Art triggers the emotions in us directly, it doesn’t represent them to us. The story of a novel or a film may be a representation of another place and time, but the emotional content is a direct infection in Tolstoy’s sense ‘powerful art should “infect” the audience with specific emotional content’ it is not a representation of a feeling,” but cognition of that feeling. Jean Claude Monet and Vincent van Gogh were the two artists in the exhibit that stuck out to me the most. In a number of paintings featured (‘Waterloo Bridge’ and ‘Sunlight Effect’), the context of the painting was fairly evident upon looking at it. Meaning and emotion are not in the formal analysis, but the contextual. Who was the person who made it and why? In a Writing and Rhetoric class a few weeks back we discussed how words and images tell a story and how often the two are unbalanced. We were asked to analyze two pieces of work. It wasn’t anything big, the first thing we looked at was Kevin Carter's Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph from Sudan, showing a small child huddled on the ground in the sun, with a vulture looming over her. At first glance, our class described everything we saw at the moment which the photos was taken, slowly working our way out to the unseen questions like, Who is taking the photo? Was this staged? Where are this child’s parents? The further we asked, the more our perspective shifted. We went from artists to concerned observers, to critics of ethics and humanity, people who were sickened by the idea that no one ever found out what happened to that kid. The photographer, Kevin Carter, ended up killing himself from guilt and the overall and underlying lesson of the day was that we no longer knew what to think. The second piece that we looked at was, oddly enough, Vincent Van Gogh's ‘Wheatfield with Crows’ finished in July 1890. Van Gogh had become obsessed with "the immense plain against the hills, boundless as the sea, delicate yellow.” Captivated by the fields in May when the wheat was young and green. The weather worsened in July, and he wrote to a friend that the "vast fields of wheat under troubled skies," adding that he did not "need to go out on (his) way to try and express sadness and extreme loneliness.” This not only plagued the paintings dark and dreary sky but also Van Gough's mind. It was the last painting he did before killing himself. Okay less about fear and more so about perspective, but why? Fear seems like the easiest thing to draw curiosity from, so why does it change our perception and our constantly changing perspective through impressionism and other forms of art?” I think about how I often have no idea what I’ve written until after I’ve written it. I go into writing with an idea before a theme of it all will kind of come together in the end. I guess that's what I'm curious about. How do we go into writing papers or walking around museums with this idea we know what we're talking about only to end up walking out of these places more uncertain than before? Stephen Asma’s article, 'Monsters on the Brain' gives reasoning behind this. “The point is that these emotional responses are not instincts in the sense of pre-wired or genetically engraved responses. The effective systems are ancient in the sense that they have many homologies with nonhuman animals, but in our individual lives they are idiosyncratically assigned and have significant plasticity. Emotional tendencies and values can help us make fast appropriate responses to environmental challenges, but they can also be retrained or re-educated.” How perspective is developed through our impressions coming into something, gaining information, and our immediate reaction through our emotions is something I never considered as a type of curiosity. Walking out of the Art Institute, I realized I still didn’t fully grasp this idea that our lens is not only used in a form of art but as something that can be manipulated through constant change of what we’re told. Learning. And in that aspect, it is a reassuring sign that my fears, however much I don’t like them, are trivial. Because from a different perspective a needle is something you fix things with, in a crowd of people who are too concerned with their own opinions the person grading you is probably the only one listening, art is a delicate balance of pictures and their context, and oblivion is only inevitable so long as you chose not to see it.

Critical Thinking is Hard

I’m lucky: I grew up in a family where thinking was encouraged. My parents treated me and my brother like we were brilliant, which makes you want to be brilliant, and come up with your own ideas. They liked to talk about stuff, and, while they definitely treated us like kids, they also didn’t really shelter us too much. My mother was always ruining TV shows for me by pointing out the sexist moments in television, from reruns of The Brady Bunch and Star Trek, to Charlie’s Angels, Three’s Company and, well, it was the 70s and 80s, so pretty much all TV shows. But they still let us watch them, as well as R-rated movies which may not have been age-appropriate, and while they told us not to smoke pot, when we found out that they smoked pot, they gave us reasons for why it was okay for them and not us (since they “weren’t going to have any more children,” which seemed to make sense at the time). Another thing they did was encourage us to take responsibility for our own decisions from a fairly young age, which meant that you could stay up until 10 or 11 pm on a school night if you really wanted to, but it’d be your fault when you felt like shit all the next day. One can debate the pros and cons of this method of child-rearing (pro: de-mystifying drug use and other taboo behaviors to the degree that they actually start to seem uncool; encouraging kids to develop strong ethical compass and think through their actions; con: kids are even more weird compared to their peers, and precociously develop anxiety and guilt about their own actions). Nevertheless, it did start me on the road to learning the value of thinking for myself.

I didn’t really come into my own as a critical thinker until junior high, however, when I spent two years in a program for gifted students. First, isolation from my peers at a time when I was supposed to be learning the social skills of adulthood and the bullying that naturally flowed from that taught me to look for other people’s faults as a means of self-defense. That made me critical, if not necessarily thoughtful. But then I also had two years of Mr. Snyder teaching me social studies. Many of us in the gifted program had all of the same teachers for all of our academic subjects two years running. This meant that we got to know those teachers really well, and, in the case of Mr. Snyder, came to greatly admire and be shaped by his worldview. Mr. Snyder wasn’t an obvious candidate for intellectual guru to early adolescents. He wasn’t particularly handsome, and he’d had polio as a child and walked with a prominent limp. But he was funny and charismatic, gave terrific lectures that were like brilliant comedy monologues or TED talks, and knew how to make his students feel smart and special — in part because we had made it into his class, but still. We liked him so much that several of us would get to class early every day so that we could draw cartoons of him on the blackboard with clever word bubble-jokes, and he loved that. Too see him come into the room and look at our clever depictions of him and smile and make jokes right back at us, to feel appreciated for our intelligence and creativity, a sensation could be hard to come by as a suburban New Jersey youngster, was wonderful. The class was a mutual admiration society and a bit of a cult of personality that I think hugely affected all of us who took it.

I learned a lot there, as we studied political systems, geography and the history of the ancient world, among other things. We were assigned projects that were unlike anything you’d typically get in junior high or even high school, a combination of fun, self-driven exploration, and out-of-control amounts of work. We had to make a map of the world that included every single country, city, major mountain range and body of water, using color-coded overlays — something that I would have enjoyed, and sort of did, except that, since I was in 7th grade, I was terrible at judging how long it would take and left it until the last minute, and had to repeatedly re-letter the smudged plastic to make it readable in my 12-year-old handwriting. The following year, when we did separate units on Greece and Rome, we had to either fill in an entire outline that he provided with a paragraph or more on every subject, or do a handful of more creative projects designed to help us probe the topics in more interesting detail. After choosing to do the outline for Greece, thinking it would be easier, and ending up with several pounds of handwritten paper (I could not type) on everything from Sparta to Socrates to Doric columns that was probably 75+ pages long, Mr. Snyder had stared at the pile and admitted to me that he hadn’t really expected anyone to choose that option, that he’d made the outline so absurdly long to encourage people to do the creative projects. I probably got an A more because he didn’t want to read the whole damn thing than anything else, and on Rome, I did the projects, like going to a Roman-Catholic service and writing about it — which I did by interviewing my Catholic friend, Tara, instead of actually going to the service myself — or going to the Met to observe and then expound upon the differences one observed between the Greek and Roman statues — which I did after 15 minutes of taking furious notes on a Sunday when we arrived just as they were getting ready to close. Just because I loved Mr. Snyder didn’t mean that I, like any other kid, wasn’t always trying to get out of doing homework in any way I could.

The thing I learned and remember best, however, was not the facts, but the method. We had a class about political and economic systems — communism, socialism, capitalism, authoritarianism — and the first thing Mr. Snyder did was define these terms for us, explaining that they weren’t what we’d been told they were. Specifically, “communism,” the way it was looked at in the budding Reagan Era of the early 1980s, wasn’t actually communism at all. Real communism was an economic system that someone named Karl Marx had come up with, in which everyone owned everything, nobody was rich or poor or more powerful than anyone else, and that was, in fact, kind of the opposite of what the Soviet Union had become. This somewhat blew my mind. Here was the boogeyman that everyone talked about as the great evil threatening us with destruction — and remember, in the world of an American kid who had trouble sleeping at night because she obsessed with how we were one button push away from nuclear war, that meant genuine annihilation —  and it wasn’t even what it really was. How was this possible? How was everything that we saw on TV and in the newspapers and at the movies just plain wrong? It turned out that, once you delved into it, the evolution of the term “communism” in the popular vernacular was an education in how concepts entered the public consciousness and then were propagated endlessly in the echo chamber of the media and society until they became something else entirely, usually in the service of some political or social end. Sound familiar? It wasn’t the same then as it is now that we have the Wild West known as the Internet, in some ways it was easier to get an entire culture to basically think one incorrect thing rather than many insane things, but the ability to miseducate a huge swath a people without their questioning it? Yes, that existed, and understanding that was a very big deal to me. It meant that you always had to look deeper than the surface of things to be sure you understood the reality, even when it came to what those things were called.

Why doesn’t everyone get taught to think this way? Well, like most things in life, it gets increasingly harder to learn as you get older. The more set in our ways we get, the tougher it becomes to look at ourselves critically (which is essential to critical thinking, because to truly get that you must dissect and assess the viability of ideas, you have to start with your own assumptions), much less change the way our brains function in terms of adopting new ways of doing anything that’s really embedded in there, much less ways of doing everything, which is kind what it means to change the way you think. Plus, it’s in the best interest of those in power to keep the bulk of the human race from doing it. It’s tough to build an army of people who don’t automatically follow orders, or have a religion made up of people who are always questioning the word of God, or build a movement if the followers are continually asking the leaders, “Is that really true?” And so we’ve arrived at this situation where we have so much information out there now to make sense out of, and the bulk of us without the tools to figure out how to do that — and many who reject those tools because they’re told education is just liberal elite brainwashing. Instead, you see a lot of people turn to a kind of twisted, easy version of “critical” “thinking” espoused on the fringes of the left and right, which disposes with the thinking part and instead just espouses wholesale rejection of anything dubbed “establishment” or “mainstream,” no matter how awful the alternative may be (and at this point we know: it’s pretty awful). Add to that the folks who skillfully exploit the overwhelm of information and lack of analytical skills to support their own greed, lust for power and desire to win at all cost, and you end up with an awesome new and different kind of embedded orthodoxy, that encourages us to silo ourselves within “our” (really their) belief systems, walled in with “alternative facts” and media that support them, and defending it all tooth and nail with false equivalencies that encourage us not to critique thoughtfully based on evidence, but to to pick apart every idea that doesn’t fit or even makes us uncomfortable (“Well, every politician lies” was one of the most egregious ones I heard used recently to defend the president). 

And, when it comes right down to it, can you blame people? Thinking is exhausting, especially in this environment, and even human beings with the best intentions manage to ruin everything good anyway. Like, even though my parents didn’t make us believe their ideas, of course they still managed to inculcate in us their most mundane opinions. My father was particularly good at doing this, particularly when it came to eating (yup, Jews), like how fast food and chain restaurants should be avoided not based on nutrition but on lack of flavor (which I guess is why we still ate at White Castle), or how chocolate was really the only kind of acceptable dessert. It’s amazing that, no matter how far I’ve come as an adult, I still find it really hard to shake these ideas — like I saw a conversation on Facebook about how pie was superior to cake, and I just thought, Huh? But there aren’t any good chocolate pies. Another case in point: by the time I was a senior, Mr. Snyder had moved up to the high school, and was teaching an AP history class that I had the option to take. I decided to take economics instead, because I had never studied it, because one of my best friends was taking it, and, on some level I’m sure, to show that I didn’t need the wisdom of this idol of my 7th and 8th grade self, now that I was all of 16. I heard from people who took Snyder’s class that in his first opening monologue of the year he mocked those of his former students who had decided not to take his class — which I think might have just been me. That wasn’t really an appropriate thing for a teacher to do, especially since I was kind of doing what he’d taught us: to move on, do my own thinking and evaluate him critically. But as a human being, it’s hard to be a charismatic leader and just let that go — which is why the world has so many despots, and celebrities, and despotic celebrities. On other hand, my economics class was a terrible waste of time because it turned out that I didn’t like economics and the teacher was boring, so perhaps my premature rejection of Mr. Snyder and my 8th grade way of thinking, just to prove that I could do it, hadn’t been the best decision either. It’s hard not to wonder if I’d be just a slightly better, smarter person today if I’d accepted one more opportunity to take his class.

I’ll never know, but I guess the fact that I’m telling you this story means I haven’t given up on critical thinking. Maybe it’s because self-flagellating comes naturally to me, but these days, more than ever, I try to employ those skills as much as I can, even as it grows increasingly fucking hard. On top of all that media landscape stuff I mentioned a few paragraphs back, I also have this stupid menopause business I mentioned in my last blog post, which just amplifies all of the emotion that drives me as a human to err on the side of insanity, as if there weren’t already enough bad news, and bad “news,” out there driving a person in that direction. There are so many bad actors with so many tools that can be used to manipulate our fear and greed and lust into steamrolling our thinking these days, and all we have to fight back are these little broken piles of poop in our heads. And yet, we all do have them, aka brains, and so we have the ability to use them. And as one of those cynical-on-top-but-at-bottom-idealistic folks who believes we all also have the capacity to change, no matter how hard it might seem, until the day we die, I think we all have the ability to learn how to use them better. And yes, that means you, and your friends, and your kids, and even your cousins in Florida maybe, if we all just try a little harder.

I’m not sure what Mr. Snyder would say about me now, as I try to get people to think about stuff with this blog that almost nobody reads, but considering how many years he spent trying to teach adolescents about Platonic ideals, I’d imagine he’d approve. So in honor of him, and any teacher you’ve had who inspired you to think more, and more better, let’s advocate in 2019 not just for “our values,” but for the value of intelligent thought, even if we have to do it one mind at a time.

The Bestiary Revamped: Wyville’s Crownjelly

Disclaimer: While this article is founded in scientific fact, it contains hyberbole and conscious exaggerations for the sake of comedy. Do not take my ramblings at face value. You can find the sources at the end of the article and tools for scientific fact-checking under the “Learn more” link on my blog.

The old article can be read here.

At long last, today we finally return under the waves, and while we’re at it, why not go full fucking overboard? Here at the Terrible Tentacle Theatre, we pride ourselves on not having any idea what “moderation” means. If we return to the sea, there is only one place to go: down. Way, way down.

Say hello to the bathypelagic zone, the expanse of watery void stretching from 1000 to 4000 meters. Our passengers might want to look out their windows and observe the breathtaking scenery below:

Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong. That’s not your internet being shit again. That’s genuinely how it looks, in real life, when you descend to a depth of 3000 or so meters. Nature documentaries like to put more bioluminescent flecks of organic matter in it than a love-starved grandma does lights on the Christmas tree when her grandkids are visiting. However, in reality, making a 24/7 lightshow out of yourself is a preeeeetty bad idea, since it attracts the immediate attention of pretty much everything with huge fucking teeth in the vicinity. Hint: you’ll get eaten, pretty fast. In fact, this is the actual reason why anglerfishes do their little thing with the glowing lures, because anything and everything bigger than said lures will be attracted to it, allowing the anglerfish to basically pull a “gotcha” and eat them in turn.

My point being, if you see something shiny in the deep sea, do not go to investigate. Whatever is shining that light wants you to go there.

And that is also the prime tactic of today’s specimen, which takes the incredible freedom that comes with living in a realm of eternal darkness and emptiness and uses it to fulfill it’s lifelong dream of being a goddamn Pokemon master. Come with me on today’s adventure and you’ll soon see what I mean by that.

I often joke around about how some particularly strange species we review here look like aliens. However, if aliens did decide to visit Earth, Wyville’s crownjelly (Atolla wyvillei), also known as the atolla jellyfish or coronate medusa, wouldn’t be one of the aliens. It would be the fucking spaceship.

I mean, look at this damn thing. I can’t tell where it begins or ends, but I sure can tell where the fucking cockpit is. That is not how a jellyfish should operate; they should be controlled by a decentralized nervous system, not little green men from Planet Piss Off out to steal our hotdogs and happy thoughts because their planet doesn’t have any.

Of course, the scare factor of a glowing organic UFO mothership straight out of Roswelltunguska, Arizona swimming around in our oceans is somewhat mitigated by the fact that it’s tiny as shit. Standing at a diameter of about 15 centimeters (~6 inches), it’s either not a serious harm to humankind at large or the mothership of the smallest aliens ever. I’m inclined to believe the latter.

*squeaky helium voice* BOW DOWN TO ME PUNY EARTHLINGS

AND STOP LAUGHING DAMMIT

Of course, there is a very good reason for the crownjelly being as small as it is. In the deep sea, you can’t throw a brick without hitting absolute darkness and empty water. You take two steps to the left and BAM- you’ve just ran headfirst into fucking nothing at all. The bathypelagic zone where this thing hangs out on the regular is a really food-scarce place is what I’m getting at. And big bodies being as expensive to upkeep as they are, most deep-sea creatures are actually much smaller than nature documentaries would have you believe.

Another aspect of the deep ocean besides being empty also being darker than a Morlock’s asshole inside a cave. Therefore, any light sticks out like a sore thumb, drawing attention like Kim Kardashian did with that one photoshoot of hers. (Doesn’t matter which one, actually. All of them drew attention.) Wyville’s crownjelly exploits this to show us that these particular aliens aren’t interested in meeting our leader, only in playing Pokemon Go.

The whole entire process of capturing a shiny begins with the jellyfish carelessly frolicking across the deep sea, like all of them youngster with their fancy phones and smartwatches. For some inscrutable reason, this movement is accompanied by a steady red pulsing on the underside of its bell. For what reason, I cannot determine seeing as most creatures at that depth are completely fucking blind to the color red. The one species that can actually see red is one that you really don’t want to attract the attention of. In fact, messing with this guy is such a bad idea that its existence was literally what prompted me to start writing this blog in the first place and it served as the subject of my first Bestiary article.

Wyville’s crownjelly swimming, also known as Local Suicidal Idiot Takes a Walk. I mean seriously, you can’t even say that it doesn’t live in the same place as the loosejaw because both species are cosmopolitan. The only saving throw for the crownjelly is that it lives an average 2000 meters deeper than the loosejaw, otherwise this blaring red light would be the evolutionary equivalent of putting a big flashing “KICK ME” sign around your neck.

The first method of capturing sea creatures to train them and become the very best (like no one ever was) is the series of tendrils hanging from its bell, which the jellyfish uses to filter out and capture small prey animals that have the supreme bad luck to be in its vicinity. The alien abduction parallels are uncanny.

However, a second and much more impressive weapon in its arsenal is the long, trailing tentacle that is clearly visible on the above gif. This is coated in enough adhesive to make a hagfish gag, and the crownjelly uses it to its full extent to sate its rumbling belly. Streaming in the water like the latest shit-tier waifu harem show on Crunchyroll, it becomes an effective hunting tool for the benefit of the jellyfish. Anything snared by this appendage will be subjected to similar treatment that one might expect the villains in a Conan the Barbarian movie to do, being dragged after Wyville’s ruthless motherfucking crownjelly, sometimes for minutes, before it does an acrobatic little pirouette and swallows its helpless, snagged prey. Lovely feeding tactic.

Pictured: Wyville’s crownjelly on the hunt. Sadly it can’t really go “YEEHAW” under the water. Even if it had a voicebox all it would be good for would be gurgling.

However, that is not the most unusual feature about this cruel little cnidarian. There is yet one more trick that this deep-sea flying saucer holds, a trick which catapults it from “moderately interesting predator” right into “Kanto Elite Four” position. And that thing is its lights.

See, vicious as it is towards smaller animals, the crownjelly is actually a dirty, dishonorable coward, being equally afraid of bigger predators. Apparently this tiny creature composed of somewhere around 97% water counts as a delicious treat for some reason, seeing as even large active predators such as deepwater sharks munch on it regularly. (Then again, it is also possible that they’re simply too hungry to care about their record as gourmets with refined taste. This is the desolation that is the abyssal zone, afterall.)

Running from a sufficiently large and starved predator in the middle of a flat-empty expanse of water is, of course, hopeless, especially if you’re small as shit and your method of locomotion is the jellyfish equivalent of flapping your arms really fast to try to fly. Clearly, a different tactic must be employed here since this one is a one-way ticket to the town of Stomach, United States of Shark. And employ a different tactic it does.

Oh, boy, does it ever.

I have previously mentioned that the crownjelly is bioluminescent, and employs this attribute for some nefarous purpose. Of course, this is not the red pulsing I already mentioned, this is a whole ‘nother can of worms entirely. This is one of the most ingenious methods of defense I’ve ever seen.

If some foolish predator gives the atolla chase and inevitably catches it, the jellyfish activates its second, blue set of lights. Once again the UFO analogues become eeriely appropriate as the slightest touch sends the saucer-shaped animal into a frantic siren-like light show.

Recommended listening

This strange eruption of light is no mere panic response. It is a powerful and weird weapon of self-defense, carefully evolved to be as tacky and eye-catching as possible. It’s like a ganguro girl, only bioluminescent.

Of course, you might ask “why would the jellyfish want to be eye-catching? Isn’t being devoured by one predator a big enough problem for it already?” Well obviously it is, but this lightshow is actually its own circuitous path to freedom.

To understand this, picture the following. You are some big mean motherfucker making a living in the deep sea by eating as much as you can find. One day while taking your regular stroll through the absolute crushing darkness, you catch sight of a distinct, circular light in the distance; very flashy and very tasty-looking. You approach to investigate, and find a small jellyfish being caught by a larger and meatier animal.

What do you do?

Eat the jellyfish like a fucking idiot.

Eat the meatier, tastier predator.

If you answered “eat the predator”, congratulations! You’re at least as smart as a fish. And that is, in fact, exactly what Wyville’s crownjelly is counting on. While you’re busy making a meal of its predator, the jellyfish quietly and sneakily fucks off into the abyss before you could think about having it as dessert. And so, Wyville’s crownjelly will live to swim another day, thanks to the power of summoning a big tough animal and pitting it against another ani- OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE IT’S A POKEMON TRAINER.

Do you see why I thought that? If you sail out to sea with Pokemon Go open on your phone, and all gyms on the world oceans are captured by Team Instinct, you know who to blame.

Wyville’s motherfucking crownjelly.

Sources

Encyclopedia of Life

WoRMS - World Register of Marine Species

Ocean Biogeography Information System (OBIS)

Global Biotic Interactions

Widder, E. A. Eye in the Sea, NOAA Operation Deep Scope 2005.

Hunt, J.C. & D.J. Lindsay, 1998. Observations on the behavior of Atolla (Scyphozoa: Coronatae) and Nanomia (Hydrozoa: Physonectae): use of the hypertrophied tentacle in prey capture. Plankton Biology and Ecology, 45, 239-242.

Herring, P.J. & E.A. Widder, 2004. Bioluminescence of deep-sea coronate medusae (Cnidaria: Scyphozoa). Marine Biology, 146: 39-51