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#for legal reasons the last sentence is intended in a humorous way
bogkeep · 2 years
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i feel like i've had the "kids can handle dark topics in stories" conversation on three separate occasions in the past month, what's up with that??? my impression of children's/young teen literature is that it's always been SURPRISINGLY DARK and that it FUCKING SLAPS.
like yeah, my trump card is that i can answer almost every "but what about [HEAVY TOPIC]" with "Animorphs did that actually," which makes animorphs sound super edgy, but the thing is... it didn't feel edgy? it felt like a substantial adventure with drama, tension, goofs, stakes, and a vibrant cast of characters. it was one of the first book series i ever read, so there was nothing that tipped me off that This Series Is So Dark And Gruesome - and i think it's because it wasn't, comparatively. one of my other early reads was Deltora Quest, and like, what school library didn't have Goosebumps? i never got my hands on warrior cats, but like, that series is just one installation in a WHOLE GENRE - the silverwing trilogy, wings of fire, guardians of ga'hoole... groups of animals dealing with war and exile and battle and grief and ridiculously tragic backstories and whatever was going on in these series, ripe for self-insert characters and scenarios for play pretend during lunch break. even the HTTYD books, which are completely different from the movies - they look childish, especially with the illustrated charcoal drawings - hiccup gets captured as a slave at some point, and there's a dragon rebellion that seeks to eradicate all of humanity. it has a lot of goofy moments and some incredibly over-the-top villains, but it doesn't flinch from how gruesome it gets, either.
i think kids genuinely love this stuff!!! not all kids, sure, but i definitely did!!! like!!! have you SEEN the edgy OCs kids and teens will make? the finely crafted horrific backstories? you know how small kids have traditionally played with barbies, right, with beheadings and torture and shakespearean plots? how a lot of kids and teens sought out creepypastas???
i absolutely think it's much easier for BOOKS to go into dark topics than visual media, and i think that's why a lot of people don't realize how much is happening below the surface. we live in a post gravity falls world now, so cartoons for teens are finally allowed to be a little more twisted and "wow i can't believe they went there," but ALSO... from what i can remember from being a Child, the most scarring and horrifying moments in stories for kids were not the existential concept of "oh no you're ten years old and bad guys want to kill you!" but stuff like, the groke from the moomins cartoon, old puppet shows, moments that were viscerally horrifying without being gory in any way...
maybe you don't understand all the Complexities of Heavy Topics when you're nine. but some things will stick with you, and as you grow older and gain more context and knowledge about the world around you, i think those moments can become very valuable. i haven't read animorphs for almost two decades and so much of it has stayed with me. maybe i saw princess mononoke a bit earlier than i "should have," but to this day it's still one of my favourite movies of all time, and my understanding of it grows every time i rewatch it. i don't think it's possible for every story to handle every topic perfectly or even well, but it might still be worthwhile to have engaged with it. i mean, that's the Discourse, isn't it, stories tell you stuff and we can't control what other people take from it.
anyway yeah kids crave blood and carnage and we should give it to them sometimes
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leupagus · 6 years
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“No,” Poe repeats, decisive. “Everyone you date turns out to be a spy, or possessed, or something.” from this part to whenever you want to stop :P
I’ll actually start a little earlier: 
“Don’t you like me?” he asks, and he hates how he sounds, hates it.
One of my betas—I think it was spatz—advised me to cut the line I’d originally written for this scene, which was... I can’t even remember now, actually, but I can never read that line without being grateful that she told me to change it. Betas are the best, guys, don’t ever forget it.
“I do,” Luke says, taking both of Poe’s hands and clasping them in his. “I like you tremendously, Poe. You’re a wonderful young man.” He hesitates. “And you are very, very young.”
YES HE IS. I get a fair amount of shit for this moment, and perhaps deservedly so, since the correct thing in this day and age is definitely not to hold hands with the child in your bed offering his virginity to you. But this was a tricky moment that needed to be shown as one where Luke was turning him down, but entirely from Poe’s perspective—with all of his internal biases interpreting Luke’s behavior in the most optimistic way possible.
“I’m sixteen years old,” Poe points out. “I’m not a child anymore.”
lolllllllll
Luke smiles at him. “You’re right.”
And legally, this is true; age of consent on Yavin is 16. But Luke has many, MANY reasons to say no, even if he was attracted to Poe (which, as we see later, at this time he very much was not), and so the legality of the situation has never really been a factor. It was important for me to show that not only will Luke do illegal things that are moral—something he’s shown doing in canon pretty frequently, and are intended to be lauded and praiseworthy—but he also refuses to do perfectly legal things that are, to him, immoral. This is something less flashy, but equally important.
“Then why not?”
I wanted Poe to sound as whiny as possible here and I think I succeeded.
“Would you believe me if I said I was seeing someone?” he asks, like it’s just occurred to him.
It was really fun to write a scene where Luke is trying to lie, because he’s just SO BAD AT IT ALL THE TIME EVERYWHERE. Like, he doesn’t even lie here, he asks if his lie will be believed. Just like... it’s such a good thing he’s an all-powerful Jedi because kid is dumber than rocks. 
“No,” Poe scoffs, before he can stop himself.
Just because 16 is technically of age doesn’t mean he’s not a twerpy teenager still.
Luke looks offended. “I could be.”
I mean, could he though.
“No,” Poe repeats, decisive. “Everyone you date turns out to be a spy, or possessed, or something.”
This is a blatant and gleeful rip-off of the Extended Universe books, which in addition to being of...varying quality, also feature Luke with a looooooooooong string of love interests that are spies, or possessed, or something. There’s one woman from like, a warrior clan, who takes him as her husband because she thinks he’ll breed well or something? I am unclear on the specifics, but Luke seems to fall dick-first into a LOT of shenaniganery in the EU. (Although apparently very little action occurred, which may account for a lot of his attitude tbh.) And from a practical standpoint, the tales of Luke Skywalker, Dating Disaster would definitely be page 6 type gossip, if only amongst academy kids.
“I’ll have you know my last girlfriend was very nice.”
Looking back I can’t remember which on this references—probably not Mara, let’s be real.
Privately, Poe thinks it’s just a matter of time before they find out she was really a Sith lord or an evil goddess. “And the one before that?”
Both women who at one point were positioned as love interests. Just saying.
Now Luke is looking uncomfortable, and he lets go of Poe’s hands to lean back in the chair. “Poe,” he sighs.
This was an important moment for me, even though again it is Tres Problematique and I accept censure for that, but I wanted Luke to forget for a moment that he was the Grown-Up In The Room Saving A Young Man From Poor Choices and treat Poe as a friend again. For me, Poe and Luke’s friendship was always more interesting than their romantic or sexual relationship; despite the age difference, they’re equals in many ways, even now, and I wanted Luke’s exasperation with his friend to temporarily override his sense of duty. Which is a bad thing for a person to do, but an interesting thing for a character to do.
“Luke, I’ve been wanting this since—“
Someday Luke is going to hear the end of that sentence and it’s going to horrify him probably.
Luke lunges forward again to clap his hand over his mouth. “For the sake of your mother’s memory and the fact that somewhere out there, your father is probably having a stroke,” he orders, “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Again, showing Luke as a friend rather than an elder here, despite how much you wouldn’t want this kind of conduct in real life, because along with Luke realizing that Poe has HUGELY different ideas about their relationship, this scene is also permanently changing how they relate to each other.
Poe grins, and bites at Luke’s hand. Luke swears and pulls it away. “You don’t have a girlfriend,” Poe tells him. “Or a boyfriend. Or anybody.” Then the implications of that set in. “So — so why don’t you want to—“
It’s telling that Poe a) only thinks Luke wouldn’t sleep with him if he was seeing someone and b) feels that being in a relationship is a reason not to sleep with someone else. B may sound obvious, but Poe is portrayed a lot in fic as someone who just sleeps around and doesn’t care who’s in a relationship, including him. It’s not the characterization I prefer.
“I really can’t have this conversation with you while you’re naked and in my bed,” Luke announces abruptly. He gets up and goes to his closet, pulling open drawers and throwing clothing over his shoulder at Poe’s face. “Get dressed. How did you even get in here?”
This was meant as a funny moment—certainly I can imagine Luke saying this in a really irritated way—but rereading it, I don’t know how many people actually see the humor in Luke being like “STOP BEING NAKED” at Poe. I have been frequently told that my sense of humor wrt this fic is mega bad.
None of Poe’s friends would appreciate getting involved in this. “I’ve got talents,” he says, and pulls on a soft grey shirt and the worn brown trousers in his lap. He has a sudden pang of longing for the stark all-black getup Luke used to wear, instead of the neutral colors he favors now. The hard-on has mostly gone away — getting slapped by a pair of pants will do that — so he risks looking up to gauge Luke’s reaction.
Poe’s loyalty to his friends is a bedrock part of who he is, so not even Luke could get him to squeal on them. Also of course Poe has something to say about Luke’s fashion choices.
Luke still hasn’t turned around. The line of his back is one long cord under tension, and Poe wonders if he pressed his fingers into the small of his back, softly, if everything in Luke would give way.
This was a fun moment to write, because it’s so clearly unreliable narrator—or just horny narrator—who’s interpreting Luke’s irritation and stress as some kind of secret longing for him. Because of course this asshole thinks he’s irresistible at age 16. Serves him right for falling in love with the only dude in the galaxy who will actually resist him.
But Luke said “Stop,” and so Poe knots his hands behind his back and adds, “I’m dressed. Promise.”
HEY LOOK IT’S POE’S FEELINGS ABOUT CONSENT. With the caveat that of course Poe doesn’t actually have any power in this scene, I wanted to set Poe up as the type who is always about consent, who takes people at their word about boundaries and who tries his best to honor even the unspoken boundaries. Weirdly I’m reminded of the scene where he and Finn fly off of the destroyer and they introduce themselves, and Poe says, “I’m gonna call you finn, is that all right?” 
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regrettablewritings · 7 years
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Pink (Rafael Barba x Reader)
@ohbelieveyoume This wasn’t the Barba fluff I initially intended on writing … But I thought of this this morning and had to write it! … Even though I wound up doing so in a tired stupor. I think it shows … Either way, I hope I did your favorite color justice! *crosses fingers* @xemopeachx Thanks for checking this out!
Pink: For centuries, it was presented as a rich, raw color, one suited best for boys in its relation to the lively red. At some point in the early to mid-1900s, however, the shift from pink boys and blue girls to blue boys and pink girls happened, and it was socially suggested that pink, now standing for femininity, was a weak, delicate color best reserved for the decidedly more docile sex. Any man who dared to wear pink was either a sissy, or had to be a real, robust and rugged man to be able to pull it off.
While his personality was more sleek than robust and his appearance classy rather than gritty, you had no doubts whatsoever that Rafael was as real of a man as they came. You didn’t need his pink attire and accessories to tell you this, but the way he wore them surely didn’t slow down your belief in this whatsoever.
If you liked pink before, dating and eventually marrying Rafael had made you adore it: It striped some of his shirts and dominated others; it was the color of one of his many suspenders; it speckled quite a few ties in intricate designs, muted in pastel form on his pocket square. A bright, electric hue as his yachting shirt, much to your amusement. It was the color your cheeks would assume every time he complimented you, the color his face would turn whenever you praised your beloved husband for how incredible you found his work ethic. It was the color of the tie you’d picked out for him that morning as he dressed himself up for work, and it was the color of the roses he’d had delivered to your workplace yesterday, which were now placed in a glass vase centered at the kitchen table.
It was also the color of the two lines on the stick you’d been staring at for the past ten minutes.
It was funny, how pink was now commonly associated as being a more gentle, weaker color. Had the result of the test been blue, you would have shrugged it off, carried on with your day. But pink? That was a whole other situation. Pink was a strong color, one with the power to knock you to the floor, where you had been sitting for what seemed like ages, saying absolutely nothing. It winded you.
“… Holy shit.” The whisper, crude as it was, barely registered as a sound, yet it broke the silence of your bathroom like a sledgehammer to glass. Needless to say, a lot of seemingly small things were causing big impacts of sorts today. Starting with the little, jelly bean-sized thing that the test stated was dwelling inside you.
You and Rafael had spoken about the idea of starting a family, of course. It was simply the proper thing to do when intending to stick together for the long run. And while neither party was against the prospect, it wasn’t necessarily something you were actively looking to accomplish: “Que sera sera,” Rafi stated. All you had to do was wait and see what would happen, when it happened.
Well, as signified by the pink of the pregnancy test, it happened. Soon, your cheeks, too, became rosy. Had the people from the apartment building across from yours looked at your dwelling space, they would have been able to observe you performing a rhythmless, aimless dance spanning from the bedroom to the living room.
But how to tell Rafi? you pondered. After your silly little joy dance had inevitably winded you, you decided to replenish your energy with a gracious helping of snacks. Particularly, the ones that Rafael would’ve scolded you for eating rather than a healthy lunch like any regular person would. You reasoned that it was fine for you to eat in such a way, being that you were now carrying for two.
Even more reason for you to eat healthily, Cariño, the Rafael part of your mind chided.
Leave me alone, Rafi, lemme eat my Frosted Flakes in peace, you fussed right back. It was between crunches that you remembered what kind of man you married: Rafael may have been reasonable, but he was also a rather fussy man and one that was a bit hard to impress. He barely cracked a smile even when his toughest cases had breakthroughs for God’s sake! You had no doubts that Rafael would be excited about your little announcement, but you still wanted something impressionable. Something that’d knock the color right into his cheeks the way it knocked you to the floor for nearly twenty whole minutes. You didn’t even want to tempt the subsequent fussing you’d receive if you handed him the pregnancy test – that would only result in 10% excitement and 90% “You-Peed-on-This!”-ment.
You inwardly cursed yourself for marrying such a sophisticated man. If only he weren’t so uppity or with high expectations, maybe –  
“… Wait …”
“They need me in court tomorrow morning,” Rafael sighed, collapsing onto the couch next to you. “But the case is basically open and shut at this point.”
“Mhmm,” you responded, eyes trained on your book. You hadn’t meant to come off as blasé, you really didn’t. Usually, you enjoyed offering an ear for Rafael to speak into. But you weren’t usually pregnant. The thrill and anxiousness of something new would always and forever cause an excitement within you that made everything else seem so … small. It was funny to think that your spouse’s work now seemed smaller compared to something that was only the size of a tiny piece of candy, but that was the truth. A very funny truth that threatened to be prematurely spilled if you didn’t try your darndest to keep your mouth shut long enough to suffocate the giggles that had been accumulating with every passing moment.
Unfortunately, Rafael’s legal eagle eyes caught your expression. He might be off the clock at the moment, but his lawyer mode was still very much active. Not that he needed much to notice that there was something … off about you this evening. You were reading, which wasn’t unusual at all, but he highly doubted that there was anything in A Clockwork Orange that would warrant the smile you were just barely able to bite back. But even beyond that, there was something else about you. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was almost as if what he was trying to place wasn’t even on the same wavelength as you and himself. Nevertheless, Rafael was never one to just let something of intrigue pass by.
“Cariño? You feeling alright?” His brows furrowed, concern seeping into his green eyes. You didn’t want to look into them to offer a reply, fearful that you’d snap and burst into laughter if you did. But if you wanted the plan to play out as you intended, you had to play the part.
You glanced at Rafael, skillfully morphing your potentially mischievous smile into an assuring one. “I’m fine, Rafi,” you gently insisted. “Why do you ask?”
You watched him press his mouth into a thin line of disbelief.
“Well, for starters, you’ve barely said anything in response to whatever I’ve been saying –”
“The case is in the bag – your bag. You know I’m proud of you without having to say anything.”
“And that’s what’s weird: Usually you practically smother me with praises in these situations,” Rafael pointed out. The small smirk that played along his lips coaxed an eye roll from you.
“So you think something’s up because I’m not feeding your ‘big brass ego’?” was your sarcasm-coated response. I’m already going to be dealing with someone big-headed, was what you really wanted to say.
With what you did say, however, Rafael gently huffed and continued his previous argument. “Anyway … What puzzles me most, mi amor, is that you seem a little … different.” The grin that threatened to practically break your face was presented as an intrigued smirk
“ ‘Different’? How so?” Now you’re getting it, you mentally cooed.
Rafael licked his lips in thought. “Dunno. Did you switch lotions or something?”
“No, still the same lotion,” you responded. You returned your attention back to your literature in the hopes that it would pose as a buffer.
“Shampoo?”
You shook your head, “I didn’t even wash my hair today, Rafi.”
“… Did something happen?”
“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p.’
“Something you’re not telling me?”
You hummed a ‘no.’
“Mírame a los ojos y dilo,” he demanded, making you shudder. Dammit. He knew what speaking Spanish did to you. Especially when he used that demanding, lawyer tone of his.
You prayed that he mistook the shudder for one of your usual pleasure, rather than one born out of anxiousness that you had been cornered. In the meantime, all you could do for yourself was turn to him, look him in his suspecting eyes, and calmly insist, “Rafael: I am fine. I just enjoyed my day off is all.” Before he could respond with anything else, you returned back to A Clockwork Orange, signifying the end of that particular discussion.
Despite reading over the same sentence over and over for the last couple of minutes, you turned the page. You needed to land this façade just long enough. It was when you heard your husband sigh with exasperation that you knew your bid had been bought.
“Whatever,” he muttered. Getting himself up from the couch, he continued, “If you’re not going to tell me anything, then that’s your decision. I’m not going to humor this.”
You pouted, “Awwww. Don’t be grumpy, Rafaelito.” You glanced up from your book just long enough to see him try and fight off a somewhat amused grin.
“I’m not grumpy …” your better half said as he began to beeline for the bedroom. As soon as he was out of your sight and you his, you stopped trying to fight the smile that had been threatening to bloom all this time. Your brought your knees up to your chest so you could excitedly tap your feet against the couch cushions as if to perform the quietest dance imaginable.
Rafael was a creature of habit, something that especially applied when in the comfort of his own home. You knew his morning routine to his eating habits to his evening routine. This meant knowing how he preferred to plot out most of his outfits for the next day the night before, suits, suspenders, etc. He’d usually let you choose the tie, but your tie of choice almost always correlated with the colorful socks he’d chosen to wear when he laid out his outfit in the first place. Like clockwork, you heard him entering his closet, shuffling things around. You heard the screech of hangers sliding across the support bar, the click of his tongue as he contemplated suit jackets and dress shirts.
Normally, these sounds would fall on deaf ears. But right now, they were blaring. They were agonizing, a mere obstacle.
Then you heard the soft click of Rafael opening up his cufflink trunk, followed by the quiet tingling sound of fingers brushing over the tiny accessories. The clack of his selection being placed on the dresser told you that what you were waiting most on was set to occur.
It was the hushed, dragging noise of his sock drawer that caused your heart to skip more than just a single beat. By the time your heart returned back to beating at all, it was sputtering and sprinting with eagerness. You inhaled deeply and held your breath in, not wanting a single noise to distract from what you had been evening for. Straining your ears, you heard the expected sounds: The soft rearranging of socks as Rafael inspected pair after pair to search for the perfect ones to coordinate with tomorrow’s attire. Maybe the low knock of his knuckle hitting the tray’s wooden wall. It was a lenient, yet still purposeful pace. One that had been ritualized by its performer for eons to the point of being almost completely blasé about the action.
It was therefore quite telling when you heard the shuffling suddenly stop.
You inhaled sharply, causing your lungs to practically beg you to stop as they had long since reached capacity. Your heart and mind, on the other hand, screamed in giddy unison. The exhale that shuttered out of your body was the only noise that was made for what felt like longer than a minute. No noise came from you, otherwise. And certainly no noise came from the bedroom. Not even the sound of the sock drawer closing.
And then, footsteps. Not slow ones, and not running ones. But ones filled with drive. Ones that practically thundered down the small hallway, growing louder and louder until they stopped right where the threshold between the living room and the corridor met.
“Ca … Cariño,” you heard Rafael whisper. You didn’t dare turn around, but you also couldn’t pretend for much longer. You opted for hiding your face in your knees, gently biting your bottom lip to keep it from quivering into a smile.
“Cariño, I …” He stopped talking, taking a silent gulp. You took note in the tone with which he spoke: It was present, and yet on a different plane. If glazed eyes could be in a voice, that was the voice Rafael was speaking in. It was weird. It was uncharacteristic… . It was exactly what you wanted!
“Yes, Rafaelito?” you said quietly. It was then that you allowed yourself to finally smile. As you slowly turned to face your husband, it threatened to become a slightly wettened one.
There he stood, eyes directed unblinkingly at you, yet spacious all at once. It was an unusual look for Rafael, who usually looked so well-grounded and calm. Making the sight before you all the more peculiar was the pair of itty, bitty, pink-brown-and-cream argyle socks he held delicately in his hands.
Rafael continued to stare at you with glassy eyes, continued to gulp and open and shut his mouth in a constant struggle of finding the right words.
“I … I think my socks might’ve shrunk in … in the wash …” was the final result. And you couldn’t be happier with it.
You giggled and shook your head, “No, Rafael. I don’t think those socks are yours.” You watched and heard the sharp intake of breath that followed in heed of your response.
“… An … And these are real?” he pressed. His voice picked up an octave near the sentence’s end, accompanying a corner of his mouth turning up.
At this point, the toothy smile you had been bearing before closed itself tightly. If it didn’t, then the tears beginning to streak down your face would’ve gotten into it. You couldn’t speak, due to the lump in your throat. But based on the completion of Rafael’s smile, your high pitched hum of approval and the slow nod of your head was enough.
You were a little too preoccupied with wiping away your tears to notice when Rafael had gone to your side, tiny dress socks in hand. It only came to your acknowledgment once you felt his hands cup your face, the teensy socks still in their grasp. You didn’t mind having the soft, pastel cotton against your face, making you feel delicate and warm. The pleasant feeling was only enhanced as kisses began to speckle your cheeks, forehead, and lips in a fervent manner, leaving no part of your face untouched. Between every peck was an assortment of phrases going in and out of English, the excitement apparently flustering your husband into elated Spanish. You couldn’t understand much of what he said (mainly because it was said so rapidly that you didn’t have time to piece it together before the next kiss). But for now, it didn’t matter.
You just wanted to bask in this moment, where you were embraced in your wonderful husband’s arms, getting smothered by kisses, gazing lovingly at the tiny pair of socks you two held together, both of your faces glowing with jubilation.
Pink: In modern society, it was associated with being delicate and undesirable for deepened impact. But you knew better. Pink was the color of Rafael’s tie that day, the color of the roses that he’d sent to you the day before. It was the color his cheeks turned out of absolute joy and pride that evening as he continued to hold you in his adoring embrace, as well as your own with every kiss he continued to give you for the next few hours. It was the color of newborns, the color of a few diamonds on what would be your child’s first pair of socks (which prompted Rafael to insist that you would have the best dressed baby in New York). Pink meant fresh starts, love, and exhilaration.
Pink, you determined, was a very strong, beautiful color indeed.
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