#okay I won’t actually be that embarrassed this is kind of hyperbole

[heyclickadee]

Also, I’ll have y’all know that in the (as far as I’m concerned) unlikely event that Tech actually is dead, I won’t be upset, exactly. I felt my feelings about it and that’s dealt with. I mean, yeah, I’ll be a little sad and angry, but I’ll mostly be:

1. Confused, because what the hell was all that then?

2. Embarrassed. Really embarrassed. I spent so much time arguing Tech’s alive that at this point I’m slightly attached to the idea of being right. If I’m not I’m going to have to, like, disappear and become a hermit on Internet Dagobah.

Edit: 3. I cannot emphasize how confused I’d be.

#okay I won’t actually be that embarrassed this is kind of hyperbole #but I do want to be right dang it

[scabopolis]

the gift of gab, the gift of you

Here it is @thisonesatellite! your 2020 CS Secret Santa gift. It was a complete and total delight to get to be your gift giver this year. That is not hyperbole - you are a gosh dang delight! Each of your message responses left me in stitches and while I will NEVER try and convince you a movie you think is bunk is good, I am delighted at the opportunity to recommend rom coms that don’t make you want to gouge your eyes out. 

This fic is heavily inspired by your love of coffee shops AUs (except...you know, a pub), your travel stories (which I shamelessly incorporated into the fic) and I believe rates about a 4 on the reindeer scale of Christmas cheer.  You’re a total eagle eye, so I just need to say I am well aware that Colin O’Donoghue’s accent in no way resembles an accent from Cork, but I just need that to be ignored, please and thank you.

Also, I’ve decided we’re fandom friends now. Okay? Okay! Finally, thank you to @cssecretsanta2020 for organizing this exchange and being the actual best and most patient fandom soul. 

*** Title: the gift of gab, the gift of you

Summary: Emma needs an Irish man. Wait! No! It’s not what it sounds like. And then the universe just has to go and provide her with the world’s chattiest, flirtiest, blue-eyesiest Irish man in existence. 

Available on AO3. ***

Emma is in no position to complain. From where she sits both literally – (perched upon a comfy barstool in the world’s coziest pub) – as well as existentially – (traveling abroad for the first time in her life) — she is fortunate and blessed. 

It’s just – 

It’s just it would be easier to enjoy it all if she didn’t have to deal with a rather annoying request from her rather annoyingly persistent mother. 

Her headphones are in but Emma still takes great care to speak in hushed tones over video chat. There’s nothing she wants less than to be the loud American who shares her private conversation with an entire establishment. The pub she found is at the end of a quiet lane off of Cork’s high street. The customers within the pub appear to be locals well known by the staff who tend the pub. In truth, she wouldn’t even be having this conversation if it wasn’t for —

“Who have you talked to today?” her mother asks. 

“Uh, I’m pretty sure I thanked the barista who made my coffee. And I ordered a pint in this pub.” 

“That’s not talking.” 

“It is by definition talking.” 

“That’s not what I meant. How else are you going to get to know the city?” Her mom interrupts before Emma can properly formulate a snarky reply. “And don’t you dare say ‘guidebooks.’ Your father and I raised you better than that.”

“Mom, please don’t make me do this.” 

“You said I could have anything I wanted as a souvenir.”  

“What about a mug? I bought Grandma Ruth one with a big fat sheep on it.” 

“Sounds lovely, sweetie, but no.” 

“Mom.” Emma realizes that as a twenty-six year old woman it is probably unbecoming to whine, but her mother is being absolutely ridiculous. Where is her dad when she needs him to rescue her? All he requested was a bottle of whiskey. What a sensible person!

“No. It’s fine. If you don’t want to get your mother the one thing she asked for on this trip that’s okay. I won’t say one word about paying for this celebration trip, or paying for graduate school, or —” 

“Shit, mom. Did you take a Guilt Trip 101 class or just Google how to?”

“Oh, this is natural talent. My present, please.” 

“Fine.” There’s a group of bearded men, the ones she pegged as locals, tucked into one corner of the pub. They’re probably her best bet, but she just arrived last night, and the combination of jet lag and travel nerves make her feel not yet up for that. Which leaves the staff working the bar. 

One of the two men she’s seen pouring pints and serving up food has gone missing. Besides, Emma wouldn’t trust herself in her sleep-deprived state to not say something utterly absurd to the blue-eyed, dark-haired, scruffy bartender. Probably a good thing he’s gone. Much safer is the other man working the bar – the one who refused to serve her Guinness but was very kind about it. While arguably attractive, he is a decidedly less intimidating sort of handsome. Unfortunately, he is in the midst of a heated discussion with one of the patrons, the two of them gesticulating to something happening with a football match on the screen. Which leaves the blonde haired woman currently polishing glasses. 

Emma lightly clears her throat. “Excuse me, ma’am?” When the woman turns to look at her, Emma smiles, and signals her over. She sets aside the pint glasses and tucks the polishing rag into her apron. Her mother, on the other end of the video call, is not satisfied. 

“Did you say ma’am?” 

“Mom,” Emma whispers.

“I said an Irish man, Emma Blanchard Nolan. Man.”

“No. You said person.” 

“The man was implied.” 

“Then you should have been more specific.” 

“Ready for another?” the woman at the bar asks. 

Emma looks down at her half-full pint. “Not quite.” She frowns. “And, uh, you’re not Irish, are you?” 

“No. Canadian.” 

“Ah. Okay.” Emma lowers her voice again and looks at her phone screen. Her mother remains unimpressed. “That’s foreign. Technically she’s a foreigner.” 

The sternness of Mary-Margaret’s expression is evident even over the video call. “Emmaline —” 

“Not my name, mother.” 

“Emmaline Blanchard Nolan, you promised me.” 

“I’ll find an Irish person tomorrow.” It’s about this time Emma realizes she’s rudely ignoring the very kind and apparently Canadian bartender. The one she asked to speak with. What’s more, the very kind and apparently Canadian bartender has been joined by the curly haired bartender. Both of whom peer at her with matching expressions of amused befuddlement. Emma removes her headphones and addresses the man. “You’re Irish, right?” 

“Well, miss,” and the gentle brogue of his accent, even with those two short words, is quite evident, “you are in Ireland.” 

“Excellent! Can you talk to my mom?” She detaches the headphones from her phone and turns the camera around to face the man and woman. “My mom wants to have a conversation with an Irish person.” 

“Irish man,” her mother corrects.

“An Irish man. Out in the wild.” The bartenders stare at her, nonplussed. “It’s her souvenir.” 

The woman presses her lips together – an obvious attempt to stifle a laugh. 

“Well, uh, aye.” The man tugs at his ear. “I guess I could —” He’s interrupted from his stuttering by the return of the blue-eyed, stubbly bartender, hauling a new keg into the back of the bar. 

“Actually,” the woman cuts in. “My husband,” she hip checks the curly-haired man, “needs to replace the keg.” 

“I do?” he asks. 

“He does?” This from tall, dark, and holy hell! also possesses an Irish accent. 

“But Killian is in the middle—”

“Shh,” the blonde woman interrupts her husband. 

“Yeah. Killian is—”

She goes on to shush the man Emma now knows to be Killian. 

“Oh no,” Mary Margaret whispers over the video call, “there’s two of them.” 

“What is happening?” Emma’s not sure which of the two men asked, this whole interaction spinning rather absurdly out of control. 

“I don’t know,” Emma says.

The woman ignores all of them. “I’m Elsa, this is Liam, and that,” she points to Killian, frozen with a hand on the keg like he’s uncertain what to do, “is my very single, very Irish brother-in-law.” And all at once it becomes clear what Elsa’s intentions are. “Killian, can you come over here and help our lovely patron and her lovely mother?” 

“Oh, Emma, Killian even sounds like an Irish name.” 

“Mom!” Originally she found her mother’s request to be silly but harmless. The more people who become involved, however, the quicker it approaches mortifying. Emma watches as Elsa whispers something to her brother-in-law, likely explaining the unconventional request. 

“I’m very friendly,” Mary-Margaret reassures anyone who might be listening. 

“You are a flirt, is what you are,” Emma scolds. “And what would dad say if he found out about this?”

“He asked for whiskey. I asked for this.” 

“Come on, lass. Don’t deprive me of a dashing rescue.” Killian leans across the bar, his hand reaching out for her phone. All that stubble and the blue-eyes and the accent are worse when directed directly at her. “Besides, your mum sounds like a woman after my own heart.” 

“If you’re sure—?”

“Absolutely.”

To her abject horror, the moment she hands Killian the phone, he walks away with it in hand. 

“As requested, milady,” he says to the screen, “one genuine Irish man.”

Her mother’s delighted giggle is embarrassing for all Americans everywhere but it seems to delight Killian. She can just makeout her mother’s question about where he grew up when he rounds the corner, out of her hearing. 

“Where is he going?” Emma asks, craning her neck. “Where is he taking my phone?” 

“If I know Killian, your mum is probably about to get the most thorough oral history of Irish pubs she could have asked for,” Liam says, tossing a towel over his shoulder. 

“Oh. Okay.” She drums her fingertips on her glass. “I’m sorry about all the trouble.” 

“Nonsense,” he waves her off. “This is the most exciting thing to happen in our pub since Seamus and Willy hosted their wedding reception here.” He jerks his chin towards the group of bearded men she noticed earlier, though which one is Seamus and which is Willy she can’t be certain. 

After another fifteen minutes, Emma has finished her pint and Killian still has possession of her phone. He crossed through the room once, merrily chatting with her mother as he regaled  her with the story of how he got the scar on his cheek. 

Elsa is filling a series of pint glasses for a group of women standing at the bar, and Emma feels the need to apologize again. “This isn’t what I expected,” she explains. 

“What’s that?” Elsa asks. 

“I was kind of thinking, best case scenario, there’d be an exchange of hellos and that would be that.” 

Elsa nods, hands the pints off to the women, and then fills one more. “Are you familiar with the legend of the Blarney stone?” 

Emma nods. She has absolutely no intention of kissing the dang thing (her research indicates local teens do all manner of ungodly things to the stone, knowing that tourists intend to kiss it), but it’s on her list to go see. 

“Well, Jones family legend —”

“I take it your husband and his brother are Jones’?” 

“And me by marriage. Jones family legend has it that Killian must have been birthed upon the stone because never has there been a man more endowed with the gift of gab.” Elsa finishes pouring the pint and sets it in front of her. 

“Oh, I didn’t order this.” Right at that moment, Liam returns to the bar and sets a turkey sandwich in front of her. “Or this,” Emma says. 

“Knowing my brother, you might be here a while,” Liam explains. 

“Gift of gab?” 

He nods, pleased that the Jones family lore has reached her. “Gift of gab.”

Liam proves to be correct, which means Emma has ample time to get to know both Elsa and Liam. The two of them are freakishly adept at juggling bartending, interacting with their customers, and keeping up a steady flow of conversation with her. The highlight is hearing the full story of Seamus and Willy (she is able to identify them by their matching navy sweaters – sweaters which Willy apparently handknits for the both of them), two men who worked on the same fishing boat for decades before realizing they were in love. 

“Once they sorted that bit out, they got married three weeks later,” Elsa says. 

“So which one of them is the designated driver?” Emma asks. 

“That whole lot lives down the street.” Liam raises his voice so the group can hear them. “And they do nothing but hassle me every day of my life!” The group all raise their pint glasses and cheer, indicating this kind of teasing is something central to the pub’s dynamic. 

Killian returns from wherever it was he was busy flirting with her mother and sets her phone on the bartop. She looks down at the display only to find it blank.

“Uh, your mum had to run to the market, but she indicated she’ll call you later.” 

“She didn’t even say goodbye? Unbelievable.” As Emma gears herself up for peak mom-annoyance, she gets a text message. “Speak of the devil.” 

4:38 PM - Mom to Emma hubba hubba

“Ah, geez, mom,” she grumbles. 

“What’d she say about me?” Killian asks. 

“What makes you think that text was about you?” 

“Because you have roses in your cheeks.” Emma frowns. She what? “You’re blushing,” Killian says. 

“No I’m not.” 

“It’s getting deeper, I’m afraid.” He takes away her empty pint glass. “Another?” 

“Yes, please.” 

He sets another pint of Murphy’s in front of her (Liam was the one to inform her that one drinks Murphy’s when one is in Cork). “Your mother is lovely.” 

“Yeah, she’s something alright.” She sips the beer and licks the foam off her lip. “What were the two of you talking about for so long?”

“Oh, just having a chat. She wanted to know about the pub and how Elsa and Liam met.” 

“The gift of gab.” 

“Ah,” he says, “Elsa told you of that, then?” 

“Like my mom didn’t tell you anything about me?” 

“It was all good, Emma.” 

She snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“Why a conversation with an Irish man?” Emma frowns at Killian, not quite certain of what he’s asking. “For a souvenir. That’s truly all your mum wanted?” 

“Oh, that. In between flirting, did she tell you anything about her and my dad?” Killian shakes his head. “It’s kind of a long story.” 

As if waiting for his cue, Liam comes up behind Killian and slings an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “My dear little brother has time.” 

“Younger brother,” Killian corrects. 

“Shorter brother.” Liam bumps Killian towards the other side of the bar. “Why don’t you keep Emma company?” 

“I have another three hours on my shift.” 

“I think Elsa and I can handle it until Will arrives.” 

“Liam.” 

“Don’t make me fire you.” 

“You can’t fire me. We’re co-owners.” 

“Fine. Don’t make me quit.” 

Killian rolls his eyes but slides out from under Liam’s arm. He crosses to the other side of the bar and sits beside Emma. “I’ll take a pint, then.” He raps his knuckles on the bartop. “And make it quick.” 

Emma hides her smile in her pint glass. Both Liam and Elsa have been so lovely. There’s no reason to switch allegiances at this point. Regardless of how much she might be tempted by the stubbly-faced, blue-eyed flirty Irish man sitting beside her. 

“Between the two of them and my mother,” Emma says. 

“Yeah, not the most subtle lot.” Liam shoots Killian a glare as he sets the pint down to which Killian responds with the cheekiest grin Emma has ever seen. The interaction has older and baby brother written all over it. “So, your mom and Irishmen. Go.” 

“Oh, that.” Unlike her mother, and even her father, Emma holds the details of her life close to her chest. She’s made the mistake in the past of sharing too much too fast. When people leave her, either by choice or circumstance, it physically pains her to know there are people out in the world with knowledge of her worries, fears and dreams. But maybe it’s the sandwich sitting warm in her stomach, or the jet lag, or simply the buzz of international travel, because she feels inclined to share at least a few details of her life with Killian. 

“My mom and dad both took a gap year after high school and met while backpacking across Europe. They met at the Roman Colosseum, decided to match up their itineraries, and by the time they arrived in Budapest five months later they were in love and my mom was pregnant.” 

“And they’ve been together ever since?” 

“Almost 27 years.”

“That’s quite the story.” 

She nods. “They cut their year of travel short, and went to live with my Grandma Ruth, my dad’s mom. They always talked about returning to Europe, finishing their trip at some point, but by the time I was old enough to leave behind with my grandma, dad was in vet school, mom was teaching, and they were running a wildlife rescue from the family farm. They kept making new plans to travel but they just kept getting pushed back and back and back. Until, one day, they decided to put all that money towards sending me on my first trip instead. So, as much as I fight every silly request she has of me, I would do anything if it made her smile.”

“Your mum and dad never made it to Ireland?” 

“Nope.”

“Thus the strange request.” 

“Thus the strange request.” 

“Well, it gave me a reason to chat with the lovely lass at the bar, so for that I’ll be forever grateful.” 

Her Grandma Ruth, Aunt Ruby, and frankly everyone who knows her parents well, routinely comment on the resemblance between Emma and her dad. Apparently in temperament and affectation they are almost identical. But maybe she’s more like her mom than anyone knows because the conversation between her and Killian flows fast and easy. Easy enough that she barely notices when she and Killian finish their pints and Elsa slides new glasses in front of them. Emma’s head is feeling a little buzzy, and that turkey sandwich was more than a couple hours ago. Maybe she can hint at Killian that she wants to go to the Christmas market. Hint even more specifically that she wouldn’t hate if he went with her. 

No, she can’t do that. To even think such a thing would be ridiculous. 

She can’t possibly ask a practical stranger to walk up and down the stalls of the festive market with her. She can’t expect him to want to sample all the baked goods and food they can handle. Or to hold her hand while they drink spiked apple cider. That kind of thinking is romantic, and hopeful, and not at all her brand. 

“This is really your first trip out of the states?” Killian asks.

“I mean, Canada, but that’s so close to home it doesn’t count.” Emma catches herself, eyes darting to Elsa. “Don’t tell your sister.” 

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Killian angles his body on the stool to face her more directly. Without Emma realizing it, they’ve drifted close enough together over the past hour or so that the move makes it so their knees knock together. Emma could move away, put some distance between them, but everything is foggy and hazy in that delicious way, and she can’t bring herself to move. “What does that make me, then? The ruggedly handsome foreigner you intend to seduce as a notch on your bedpost?” 

“Who said anything about seduction?”

“You’re giving me bedroom eyes.” 

“I do not make eyes of any kind. Especially bedroom eyes.” 

Elsa jumps in, setting glasses of water down for each of them. “Yeah, but Killian does. And he needs to put them away.”

Emma tries to react quickly enough to Elsa’s teasing to evade Killian’s detection, to turn away and hide her smile in her shoulder so he can’t see, but the gentle tug on the end of her braid indicates he caught her. 

“Think that’s funny, do you?” 

“You and my mom ganged up against me. I deserve to join with your family against you.” 

“Your mum is great.” He shrugs. “Well, based on the little I know.”  

“I know she can be a little intense. I hope she didn’t—”

“She was as lovely as her daughter.” Before his words can fully sink in, perhaps bringing that blush back to her cheeks, he’s moved on. “You’ll have to bring her with you when you return.” 

She rests her chin on palm, blinking up at him. Okay, maybe she sometimes makes eyes. “What makes you think I have any plans to come back?”

“Ireland gets in your blood. You’ll be back.” 

This time they’re interrupted by Liam. He swipes away the pint glasses in front of them, remaining beer and all. “That’s about all I can stomach of that.”

“What do you mean?” Killian asks. 

“You’ve been flirting with the kind tourist long enough. Time to go.” 

Oh. Emma looks down at her boots. A surge of deep embarrassment heating her cheeks and causing her stomach to churn. “Sorry,” she says quietly, her eyes turned down. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No!” The twin cries from both Liam and Killian startle her. She’s not sure which one appears more stricken by her announcement she intended to leave.   

“Apologies, Emma, I wasn’t clear,” Liam says. He extends his hand to Killian. “Apron.” It takes Killian a moment to react but when Liam stays in his place, his hand extended, Killian removes his apron and hands it to him. “See you tomorrow, little brother.” 

“Younger.”

“Dumber.” 

“Stubborner.”

“Not a word.” Liam stalks back over to Elsa who is shaking her head at the whole display. “They’re both idiots,” Liam says, and Emma is just going to pretend she didn’t hear that, thank you very much. 

“Have you been to the Christmas market yet, Emma?” Killian’s voice brings her back to the pub, and this particular bar stool, with this particular man. This particular man who has somehow intuited the secret desire of her heart to go to the town’s Christmas market with him. 

“No. No. Not yet.” 

Killian jumps down from his seat and extends a hand to Emma to help her down. “Come on, love. Let’s sail away.” 

There’s 100 ways Emma could respond to that. She could tell Killian she isn’t his love. She could jump down from the stool on her own. She could insist she’s fine going to the market by herself. But she tries to channel a little magic, that particular magic which for her mom and dad turned one day in Rome into a lifetime, and chooses differently. 

(Not that she’s saying she expects—)

She takes Killian’s offered hand and his answering grin is all the confirmation she needs she made the right decision. 

And so they go to the Christmas market, and at Killian’s insistence she tries mulled wine but quickly trades it in for a cup of boozy cider. They ride the ferris wheel, the cold stinging her cheeks from the top, the lights of Cork spread out before her, and that thrum of love for this place beats loudly in her veins. Suddenly every travel story her parents have ever told her makes sense and maybe Killian is right  – maybe Ireland is in her blood. 

They walk together side-by-side and at a point Emma can’t remember – somewhere between sampling whiskey, buying several bottles for her dad, and licking salt and malt vinegar from hot chips off her fingers – they transition to walking hand-in-hand. The heat of Killian’s skin, even through two layers of gloves, is what she blames for the fact that she actually starts humming along to Christmas carols. Where’s that deep cynicism she has been committed to for her life when she needs it? 

“Told you,” Killian says after the two of them step away from a stall with handmade ornaments. She must have been channeling her mom because she couldn’t stop herself from striking up a conversation with the vendor. Somehow by the end of the interaction she’d agreed to join him and his wife for their annual holiday pub crawl the following night. 

“Told me what?” 

“That you would fall for Ireland.” 

“You get the honor and privilege of keeping me company on my first full night on my first real trip out of the country and all you can say is ‘I told you so’?” 

“I believe what I am trying to say, love, is you appear very much at home here.” 

The sentiment makes everything in Emma buzz, but she does what she does best and works to diffuse it. “Well, uh, I don’t know. Does it ever snow here?” 

“Eh, we get about 50 mm every year?” At her look of confusion Killian smiles. “Not much.” 

“Have you ever had a white Christmas?” 

“Can’t say I have. They’re pretty rare in Ireland.” 

“In that case, I think this means you should come to Maine. We do a great white Christmas.” 

“Maybe I will.” 

“Great. Next year sound good?” 

Killian laughs and squeezes her hand. “Sounds great.”

She hears the faint echo of advice her dad once gave her. It was right when she was fresh off her heartbreak with Neal and wasn’t sure she had it in her to apply for grad school. He said something to her about moments. About the need to notice good moments even in the midst of bad ones. 

Standing here hand-in-hand with a man she met only five hours ago, the glow of Christmas lights dancing in technicolor hues against his cheeks and hair, Emma is absolutely certain this is a good moment. 

“Emma?” 

She answers Killian’s question by rising up on her toes and kissing him. It’s quick and fleeting, barely a brush of her lips against his, but the look on his face as she pulls away, all bright eyed-wonder, deserves to be classified as a good moment all on its own. 

It takes self-control Emma wasn’t aware she possessed to not drop their shopping bags to the ground, grip him by the lapels of his jacket, and kiss the crap out of him. Instead she loops her arm in his. 

“It’s getting late,” she says. “Want to walk me back to my hotel?” 

He swallows, that poleaxed expression still on his face. “Aye.” 

The next morning, Emma is woken up by the sound of her video call alert and boy it was a mistake to not extend her do not disturb until noon. She reaches out and blindly bats at the bedside table until she makes contact with her phone. As soon as she swipes up on her mom’s call, she squeezes her eyes shut again. 

“Hello?”

“Oh, sweetie. Are you still jet lagged?” 

“And a little hungover.”

“Sounds like you had a very eventful night.”

Killian grumbles from somewhere behind her. “What time is it?” he asks.

It’s right about this moment Emma realizes her error. Her mom goes quiet and Emma considers taking the opportunity to end the call. And then maybe ignore every call thereafter for the next five days. 

“Emma Nolan. Is there a man in bed with you?” 

“No,” Emma answers, though it’s perfunctory and not at all convincing. 

Killian presses closer to her, and shifts so his chin rests on her shoulder. “Hello again, Mrs. Nolan. And this must be Mr. Nolan.” 

That gets Emma’s attention and she opens her eyes enough to see her mom and dad sitting beside one another on the couch. While her mom is positively gleeful, her dad looks as though he wishes he could melt into the couch cushions and disappear. 

“There are certain things I don’t care to see,” her dad says. “Certain things I don’t care to know.” 

Emma rotates in bed and onto her back, holding the phone above her head so both she and Killian are still in view of the camera. “Oh hush, Dad, you and mom did it the first night you met.” 

“You told her that?” 

In response, her mom shrugs. “She asked.” 

“And not that it matters, but Killian and I didn’t have sex.” 

Though it didn’t stop them from trading long, slow kisses that left her dizzy and wanting more, more, and more. Killian must have felt the same because it took little to no convincing to get him to stay the night. Perhaps most remarkably, after extending the invitation, Emma had no desire to retract it or pretend it didn’t mean anything. 

“Your daughter was far too drunk to have sex.” Emma turns her head so fast in Killian’s direction she hears something crack. 

“That, for instance, is one of the things I don't want to know about,” her dad says.  

Killian cheerfully waves at the camera, ignoring both her father’s indignation and her glare. “I’m Killian, by the way. Happy to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Nolan.” 

Emma elbows Killian. The man is a total menace. “I’ll call you guys back when I’ve had coffee,” 

“I want details,” her mom says. 

“And I want no details.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Emma hangs up the phone and tosses it in the direction of the foot of the bed. She flips over onto her side and Killian mirrors her, reaching out to trace the freckles on the bridge of her nose. “So that was my dad.” 

“He seems a charming fellow.” 

“Don’t let the responsible tough guy act fool you,” she says, and snuggles closer to Killian. He responds just as she hoped, by wrapping his arms tight around her. “He once spent all his money on a cross country train ride and stole oyster crackers from the dining car for food. And during a California road trip, my mom almost froze to death sleeping in her wet bathing suit on the side of the road.” 

Killian chuckles, the vibrations of his laugh making her feel even warmer. “You’re saying they can deal with a half naked man in their daughter’s hotel room?”  

“Yeah, they can deal.” After a moment’s hesitation, Emma slips her hands up and under Killian’s shirt. It’s the one he wore to work, and she can still smell the faint aromas of beer and fried food that linger. She presses her palms against his back and bunches the shirt up, up, and then over his head. 

“Emma?” 

A girl could get used to the way his voice moves over the syllables of her name. “They might have a problem with a fully naked one, though.” She kisses his bare shoulder.

Killian’s hands move under her shirt to span her waist. Goosebumps breakout across her skin. By the slight twist of his lips, Killian notices. “So you’re saying—?” 

“I’m saying you should quit gabbing and kiss me before they call again.” 

“As you wish.”

And a week later, when she is back in Maine celebrating Christmas with her family and Killian is in Ireland with his, Emma convinces herself she imagined it. She must have. She must have imagined how safe she felt in the presence of another person. Imagined the comfort she felt as he joined her for a quick road trip to Dublin. Imagined that it could feel like your heart was split in two, half residing in the chest of a person you just met. 

But the week of New Year’s Eve, when he arrives in Maine to celebrate with her, she’s startled to find it was all real. 

The morning after Killian arrives, she sits with her mom in her parents’ breakfast nook, the two of them sipping coffee as Killian and her dad make waffles. 

“Not such a dumb souvenir after all, huh?” her mom whispers.

Emma shakes her head, too happy to even react to her mom’s shameless gloating. “No. Not so dumb.” 

#csss2020 #cssecretsanta2020 #cs ff #ouat ff #killian jones #emma swan #cs secret santa 2020 #p: emma x killian #thisonesatellite

[lobstersaresecretlygods]

Rant about a friend who makes suicide jokes

I have a friend who makes suicide jokes, and the first few times I heard them say this kinda shit i was very worried. You see, in the past whenever my friends would make consistently suicide jokes, they were, you know, actively thinking of suicide. They were using these jokes as either a coping mechanism or a goddamn call for help. Either way, these types of jokes were a huge red flag that a friend was not okay. That’s the first thing I think of when I hear someone make a suicide joke. 

But then I came across something that really irked me with a friend. Here’s an example of their jokes:

Me: *says something that friend found embarrassing* 

Friend: brb imma go kill myself lol

So they’ve been sayin this typa shit. I take this as a huge red flag and pull them aside, reminding them that I care deeply about them and that I’m always here for them. They then say that they know and that they’re just joking... being hyperbolic...

Part of me gets that, its supposed to be a funny, ‘haha look at me, taking some small inconvenience and blowing it out of proportion by saying I’m going to kill myself!’ 

But no. I don’t get it. I’ve actually been having suicidal thoughts and self harm urges and hearing someone say this type of bullshit is really fucking triggering for me. I’ve had multiple panic attacks because heard them say that and I started getting a lot of suicidal thoughts. And it’s supposed to be funny, i t ‘ s  s u p p o s e d  t o  b e  f u n n y ! I cannot find humor in it, these types of thoughts scare the living shit out of me and for someone to just throw it around willy nilly pisses me off to no fucking end. 

When you say that shit you embody my intrusive thoughts, you summon them from the depths of my mind and they won’t leave me alone. That make me associate all this bullshit with you. So now whenever I get a message from the DnD group chat, I compulsively think ‘I want to kill myself’. Every. Single. Message. It scares me. It makes me kind of hate you, that your words made me associate these horrible feelings with something I love. You’re taking lightly something that has been tormented me and terrified me and repeatedly throwing it around like a punchline. A ‘hyperbole’. I understand getting so embarrassed you want to disappear, but you’re a fucking toddler playing with fire. Except you’re not the one getting hurt by your fucking around, I am. Fuck you.  

#rant #angery #angry #tw suidice #tw suicude #tw self harm #tw intrusive thoughts #suicide jokes #jokes #I am the punch line #fuck you #stop #just stop #I told them what was going on #They took it okay #They were nonchalant about it though #that irriated me

[incarnateirony]

Democratic Debates, Day 1

So a few ground rules:

If you’re going to reply, be an adult about it, and don’t try to read everything in bad faith default lens. Ask questions of anyone who engages rather than accusing. And not in that presumptuous white guy bad faith questioning that isn’t a question tone.

If replying, put your comments with a lead in no longer than two (reasonable) sentences behind a cut. Because

some of us are fandom blogs first or whatever interests and our followers aren’t deeply invested

I just don’t want goddamn pillars of text on my reblog wall if I respond to discussions.

Literally if you’re a republican out to just be a shitlord and start whining or complaining or insulting or “no u”ing, see rule 4

I will not reblog or reply to any commentary that doesn’t fit these very basic guidelines, because internet trolling etc is not worth the future of our country. And that’s very much at stake now.

If you don’t want to see this, blacklist #politics and/or #democratic debates. Now, my takeaways on this, some surprising.

So, I’ll start with some disclaimers: I’m pretty much “vote for my dog over Trump” party line right now but we need to figure out a mix of “our best chance of winning” along of “award for the least tool” with hopefully a side of “I really like them and their policies”

Honestly, I entered this without being fond of Warren. She had some... establishment backing and other things that were just rubbing me wrong. I actually went in to day one looking to hear about Tulsi since I heard great buzz about her but honestly had only pulled up a few pages that sounded great on paper, but wanted to see her in action. Everyone else was littered policy ideas disembodied and, as a very visual person, I need to be able to connect to how they handle their podium beyond writing nice policy platitudes or listening to the toss back and forth online with everybody screaming at everybody else.

I’m also going to get something out of the way, and BEFORE you flame me on my marks on the image, read why I selected one that... I generally wouldn’t. First, this was my original graphic I released.

Okay so sore thumb here: De Blasio. The reason for the circling being simple: if you took every semi-valid idea of every other white guy’s platform on this lineup, gave it a little bit of meat, and showed ACTUAL LIVING PROOF OF HAVING ENACTED IT ALL IN HIS TENURE AND MAKING THE IDEAS WORK, you get De Blasio. A lot of the ideas of the other nominees is basically *hand raise* “I did that.” So like. That’s that.

Anyone with no mark whatsoever is kinda like “you’re there and not trump so good for you” but there’s some updates further down this conversation on one of those.

The internet keeps acting like Klobuchar did well and I really don’t get why. It kinda feels like our token non-canuck trying to appeal to them-there northern hunter-type and cheese folks to reach out as a middle ground without actually committing to much and honestly, she’s just not going to last.

Booker caught my eye even if I was kind of head tilting because that is quite literally the whitest black man I have ever fucking seen, but he made a point about intersectionality, marginalized groups, and held his ground. He was all but unknown to me but I at least looked at him now. On the other hand, a lot of it felt like borderline pandering. I don’t know. I’ll keep an eye on him, but he actually stood out a bit at least. Not hard with the mayo jars up there but whatever.

It’s not a rare take online that Castro took the internet by storm. I love him. Everyone loves him. I do have some concerns long-term though; it’s less having actual problems with his ideas and more knowing that ... our country is too fucked for him right now. He’s advocating some pretty heavily open borders and while in principle I enjoyed watching him stomp on Beto about that, I honestly feel like if we put him against Trump, we’d lose. 

There’s people in the red party that ARE tired of Trump, that ARE experiencing a crisis about the inhumane shit going on at the border, that WOULD be willing to crossvote to make it end -- but we can’t forget that a lot of them initially voted for Trump BECAUSE of a deep seeded Xenophobia, and the level of aggression -- again, the kind of aggression I personally agree with -- Castro had may end up being very dangerous long term in getting that vote. Pretty much everyone up there agrees we need very comprehensive immigration reform and immediate action about the travesty, but I feel like unless Castro smooths his roll a bit we’re in for a long term faceplant that gives us another four years of Trumpian hell by people pulling back into their xenophobic mindset and -- if not voting for Trump -- abstaining from voting for him, which I think several other candidates have in their court.

Castro made a bit of a gaffe about switching trans genders but the fact that he tried, I guess. And considered trans in the discussion of choice and birth control etc. It could have very easily just been a stupid fumble. He’s still trying to take it into account. I can forgive that, in the scale of it, even if it has a bit of performer aspect.

Also I’m left to wonder where Castro was when they needed help running in Texas to begin with. I also just don’t see the passion in his eyes of several candidates, it’s strangely calculating on most topics. I like his platform, in theory, but I’m very cautious. 

Jay Insley is just weird even if everyone likes him.

Dulaney is a meme and I don’t know why he’s even here.

Tim Ryan accidentally wandered in on his way to the Republican debates as best I can gather.

Tulsi was the one that I was watching. All in all, I was underwhelmed. And then... it got worse.

The better part of her time was spent repeating her time in the military. And while it was great watching her school Tim Ryan, that’s not exactly hard to do. The fact that she lit his ass on fire when he just about self combusted in front of the party without her help -- I mean, it was the highlight of her showcasing aside from the snazzy Rogue hair.

Somehow, for as woke as tumblr is, and the progressives that had me looking her way, I hadn’t heard of her anti-LGBT past which she’s mostly couched her opinions on and held as recently as 2014 or THE FACT THAT I HAVE FOUND OUT THAT SHE WAS VETTED BY THE FUCKING TRUMP ADMINISTRATION TO BE ON THEIR CABINET, I’M FUCKING HORRIFIED.

BUT THEN THERE WAS THIS LITTLE GEM THAT I FOUND BEFORE ACTUALLY DISCOVERING THE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH.

What the FUCK? What are you, seven? That’s literal pre-emptive “my sister stole my phone lol sorry” level tweets. YOU’RE A FUCKING PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE TALKING ABOUT IMPORTANT NATIONAL MATTERS LOCK YOUR GODDAMN PHONE.

Because THAT’S just what we need, we’ll go from Trump impulse-tweeting to like “LOL fuck korea - lmao sorry my sister texted that”???? 

Neverminding how STATISTICALLY INCORRECT that is. Depending on exactly HOW you count time Warren got 2nd or 3rd most time -- yes, more than Tulsi. She did not have the most. She did not have “more than all the other candidates combined.” And Tulsi did not have the least time, but center-ground on time. She wasted a bunch of it endlessly reciting her time in the military, scoring an okay shot on Ryan, and... well, vagueblogging about her opinion on LGBT to the vein of “something something equality my bad I was raised conservative” great. Great selling point. Great couching there. Five years ago you were fighting against me having rights and now you’re basically against government deciding what people can’t do but what the fuck is your opinion on me as a human being?

Doubling back from that problem though, that’s when I dug in her LGBT history and ended up tripping over the Trump stuff. AND THIS IS THE CANDIDATE I WENT IN TO HEAR FROM TONIGHT LIKE “YES PLZ LET ME HEAR MORE” because people I knew LIKED her, but then I find out she’s a Trump frand that has Trump-like hyperbolic meltdowns on twitter? NO I DO NOT WANT FEMALE TRUMP WITH ROGUE HAIR THANKS BUT NO THANKS. 

Back to Warren, who I started with a MEH on, she came out WICKEDLY strong out of the gate. Her second half was weaker, she kinda has next to no active plan beyond talking/passing around more research on gun reform, but everything else, yes. Do I think she has the potential weight to pull it off, yes. And most of all, watching as she gets mad, upset, or emotional, do I believe she believes everything she said tonight, yes. Look, I know there’s STUFF about her claiming she had Native American heritage or whatever but I’m honestly so far past giving a fuck about the obscure shit like that if they have decent policies because our country is so FUCKED right now that I DONT CARE. She held her ground.

So in the end my spread ends up looking more like

of day 1 contenders, Warren still maintains her strong chance. Castro kind of sprouted up out of the earth and I really goddamn like him, but I do hold caution for my reasons above, because again, our country is THAT FUCKED.  

Booker really turned some heads and I liked him Booker... Booker’s very concerned about a lot of marginalized intersectional issues and it took him from “who the fuck is that” onto my radar which is a leap, but he didn’t drill in as hard as Castro did to my mind and I feel like he’s just... I dunno, I could be wrong but I feel like he’s gonna fade. Beto, IDK, still exists, isn’t an embarrassment and doesn’t just morph in with the other white guys up there. He’s not Trump. So I won’t delete him, but let’s say he barely, and I mean BARELY hedged into my consideration in this image, I almost just cropped it over to Warren.

De Blasio is just sort of “status quo, but actually enacts it” but I wouldn’t weep to see him vanish, either. In the end out of this debate though, I see like

Everyone else go home.

ON THE OTHER HAND, MOST CANDIDATES I’M ACTIVELY INTERESTED IN ARE ON THE FLOOR TOMORROW, WHICH BY THE LINEUP IS SLATED TO BE A BLOODBATH.

I’m really, REALLY hoping everybody has the common sense to make such an ass of Biden he’s knocked out early. Like that’s part of why I’m so goddamn interested in day 2. If we end up with Trump vs Biden we might as well all just put on our goddamn clown suits but he has the fiscal backing to push through even if he shouldn’t unless he’s utterly DECIMATED early on.

I don’t like Kamala Harris’ prison industrial complex CRAP but I’d be HAPPY to watch her drag Biden around like a wet rag. Sanders is a given point of interest. Buttigieg is another one to watch. Yang... isn’t... gonna last. But is just sort of a ... fun thing to watch I guess in this mix up. Someone else may surprise me, I don’t know.

#politics #democratic debates

[duhragonball]

Dragon Ball Z 166

Cell Games Saga!    This is probably my all-time favorite part of DBZ.   I have a hard time deciding between this and the Perfect Cell Saga that preceded it.   This is probably because it was the Perfect Cell arc where I finally got hooked on DBZ, and the Cell Games was the payoff to the cliffhanger.   

Here’s the thing: Cell has already won.    Twice, really.    He was the last warrior standing in the post-apocalyptic future he came from, then he went back in time to this era to fulfill the true purpose of his design.    Actually absorbing 17 and 18 to become his final form involved a lot of extra battles that he didn’t have to fight in his own time, but like he told Piccolo in his debut, he was created to do it.    He had to do it.   

I suppose that’s the core concept of Cell as a character.  Winning alone isn’t enough for him.  He enjoys winning, but he wants it to be on his own terms.    Dare I say it, he wants his victory to be perfect.     So moping around in his native era, a world where the androids and Z-Figthers have all been killed, held no satisfaction for him.    The Imperfect and Perfect Cell Sagas were his chance at a do-over.   You’d think beating Piccolo, 16, Tien, Vegeta, and Trunks to reach his perfect form would be enough for him, but it’s not.    And so he spared Trunks, and promised to arrange a tournament where they could fight all over again.  

The other thing to keep in mind about Cell is that he only seems to enjoy winning for its own sake.    Reaching his perfect form seems to have been his only major objective.   In the last episode, he admitted to Trunks that he’s really only out to enjoy himself now.    He was created to kill Goku, but that no longer holds any particular interest for him.   He wants to fight Goku, but that’s probably because Goku’s the only major player he hasn’t beaten yet.   But Goku’s probably not going to offer much more sport than the other Super Saiyans he’s fought, so that’s why he’s planning a tournament, so he can fight all his enemies in one go.  

Except, that’s kind of what he just did in the last 17 episodes.   It says a lot about Cell that he won that gauntlet, and all he knows to do with himself is to clap his hands and say “Again!”.    Team Four Star observed that Cell is only six years old, which sounds about right.    For all his power and intellect, Cell lacks emotional maturity in a lot of ways.    All he knows is fighting, but he has no interest in conquest or spoils.   There’s no raddish farm Cell can go to between battles.  

So this leaves the Z-Fighters in the awkward position of losing a battle for the fate of the world, but still being alive to deal with the consequences.   Vegeta and Krillin meet up with Trunks, and he fills them in.   Vegeta scolds Trunks for trying to fight Perfect Cell alone and this just might be peak Vegeta right here.    Does he even listen to himself?  

Krillin tries to put Geets in his place by revealing that Trunks surpassed him, but Trunks shushes him.   When I first saw this episode, I thought maybe Trunks was still trying to protect his father’s pride, but over the years I’ve realized that Trunks was just trying to spare himself the embarrassment.   He had thought he had surpassed Vegeta, but his increased strength was illusory, and it’s just as well that Vegeta never knew about it, since he would have dismissed it as such.  

Actually, that’s kind of the tragedy of the time these two spent in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber.   They had to share the room, but they clearly spent very little time working together, or Trunks could have shown Vegeta his Dummy Thicc form, and Vegeta would have told him why it was a blind alley.  To be sure, Vegeta probably wouldn’t have been very kind about it, but it would have been less painful than learning the lesson from Cell.   

In contrast, we saw Goku and Gohan have that exact conversation in the previous episode, and it was pretty early on during their time in the HTC.   Gohan was all “This will work”, and Goku was like “No, it can’t.    We need to try something else.”     Vegeta and Trunks could have shared that same exchange of ideas, but they didn’t because Vegeta insisted on training alone.  

From the Lookout, Piccolo starts planning his own session in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber.    You’d think this would do the trick, since he was much, much stronger than Goku or Vegeta before they went in.    In theory, a year to train would push Piccolo over the top, but it never actually works out that way.   

Likewise, Trunks and Vegeta decide to do the same thing.    Krillin was pretty upset to hear about Cell’s tournament, because who could even enter the thing after Cell beat everyone?   But Piccolo and the Saiyans are game for one more round.    After all, they still have the time chamber, and this was what Cell was counting on, even though he doesn’t know about the chamber specifically.    He saw for himself that Vegeta and Trunks improved very dramatically, and apparently Goku’s doing something similar, so he’s hoping that if he gives them ten days, they’ll be even better opponents.   

Android 16 also wants in the tournament, and he steps forward to ask the Z-Fighters to take him in for repairs so he can fight on their side.    Trunks hates that idea, because he still regards the androids as enemies of the Earth, but Krillin agrees to help, because he believes 16 isn’t really a bad guy.   He doesn’t understand why the androids are worse in Trunks’ world, but in this world they all share a common enemy in Cell, and that’s good enough to help 16.

Hyperbolic Time Chamber Update: Goku tries to put Gohan in bed for the night, but Gohan wakes up and apologizes for passing out during their training.    Goku wants him to rest, but Gohan pleads to keep training with Goku, so Goku decides he’s going to turn in for the night as well, if only to convince Gohan to get the rest he needs.  

At Capsule Corp., everyone meets up to discuss the situation.    Trunks explains Cell’s tournament, and Yamcha gets all nostalgic for the Tenkaichi Budokai.  Oolong reminds him that he lost the first round of every tourney he entered.   Well, let’s see how that compares to Oolong’s win-loss record, which currently stands at oh wait Oolong never fought in any tournaments because he’s just a one-off gag villain who never did anything useful after that one time he wished for panties.   It’s almost like Oolong is a perverted jackass who needs to shut his mouth and stay in his own damn lane.  At least Yamcha shows up for these kinds of things, and he accomplishes his own personal growth, even if it doesn’t actually turn the tide of the battles.   What’s Oolong ever done for the world except drool and support the child-size suspender industry?   

On the other hand, Yamcha’s been in exactly zero suitcases full of panties, so I guess Oolong has him beat there.    In case you can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic.    Fuck you, Oolong.    

Vegeta, Trunks, and Bulma’s parents have never heard of the Tenkaichi Budokai, so Roshi explains it to them, while also noting that he was a former champion.   Puar’s all “Wait, when did you win the Tenkaichi Budokai?”    So I guess Roshi’s secret identity as Jackie Chun is still in effect?   I feel like there was some point where it was implied that the others knew the truth.    Or maybe I just thought that because Roshi keeps alluding to his Jackie Chun work without actually spelling it out.  

Vegeta mocks the tournament, which seems pretty stupid, since it was a long time ago, back when everyone was weaker.    I mean, he calls them “lower-level fights”, but by that logic, the scrap with the Ginyu Force was a lower level fight, and everyon in this room could kick Recoome’s ass today.   Except Oolong, he’d get killed in seconds.    Puar would shapeshift into a bug and burrow into his brain through his eyes and kill him that way.    Puar doesn’t mess around.   

According to Roshi, they stopped holding the tournament after Piccolo and Goku’s match destroyed the “fighting ring”.   I find that weird, because it buries the lead.    Piccolo destroyed the whole city the tournament was held in.   Of course, we would later learn that a 24th Budokai was held without the Z-Fighters’ knowledge, but we’ll get to that later.   

By the time Roshi finishes his story, everyone but Dr. Brief has left the room.    I kind of like this gag, because Roshi sort of got lost in his own exposition.   Most of the characters already knew what the Budokai was, and the ones who didn’t were only interested in how it relates to Cell’s version, which Roshi doesn’t know yet.  

Outside, Vegeta insists that the human fighters won’t matter in Cell’s tournament.   That’s kind of B.S., because when I first watched these episodes, I really thought they were going to do some sort of thing where Cell would fight each good guy one-on-one, and by the time he got to Krillin he’d be pretty tired, to the point where Krillin would have a real chance of making a difference.  I mean, 16′s no match for Perfect Cell either, but they’re still taking the time to repair him.    The more guys they bring to this party, the better their chances.   

Chi-Chi, for one, is relieved to hear about the tournament, because Cell will finally have to follow some rules, even if they’re rules he made up himself.   Killing your opponent was illegal in the Tenkaichi Budokai, and so she’s expecting a similar no-killing rule at the Cell Games.   

That being the case, she refuses to allow Gohan to participate in the tournment, because in her mind it’s voluntary, as opposed to the previous crisis, where the androids and Cell went around attacking everyone.  

Here’s a cute picture of baby Gohan, from a flashback to where Chi-Chi first declared that Gohan wouldn’t become a martial artist.    When he was born, the world as at peace, so Chi-Chi believed it would be a waste for Gohan to learn martial arts.    The last 166 episodes o this show suggest otherwise, but Chi-Chi’s sticking to her guns.  

Then she tells the others that she doesn’t want Gohan to become a delinquent like all of them, and they take offense to that.    Okay, from left to right:

Yamcha was a literal bandit.  

Chiaotzu grifted yokels for free corn.   He also cheats at things.

Krillin destroyed the remote, thereby allowing Cell to become perfect.   

Master Roshi belongs in jail.  

Oolong grifted yokels for free child brides.   

I mean, the shoe fits.  

On the other hand, let’s check in on Cell, who is literally murdering a guy so he can flatten his property and build a tournament ring over it.   I love Chi-Chi, but she’s like every overwrought crusader on the internet.     Cell’s out here dumping toxic waste into the ocean, and she’s calling out Krillin for using a plastic straw.   

This whole scene is bad ass.   Cell lifts a hill out of the ground with telekinesis, sort of like how Frieza did on Namek, except he carves it into a stone block, then slices it into tiles, and arranges them into a larger replica of the Tenkaichi Budokai stage.   This event hasn’t even started yet, and it’s already way better than those piece of shit Frieza Games from a few years ago.    Two hundred bucks a seat, and you get there and Frieza just sits in his stupid hoverchair and chatters while Zarbon and Dodoria fight people for him.   For six hours.  

A lot of this episode was a waste of time, because Cell pretty well explained the tournament idea to Trunks in the previous episode, and he’s going to announce the full details in the next episode.   So there’s not much point in having a bunch of good guys talk about it here.    This was probably just an excuse to do a flashback to some of the old Budokai episodes, but I still like this one because of Cell making the ring, and the gang chilling out on Bulma’s balcony.    Good times.  

#2019dbliveblog #dragon ball #cell games saga #cell #perfect cell #trunks #krillin #vegeta #goku #gohan #android 16 #master roshi #dr brief #bulma's mother #bulma #oolong #yamcha #puar #chiaotzu

[dukeofriven]

Hussie, Hitler, And Boy I’m Tired

I said earlier that I didn’t want to put on my hip waders and muck about in the Homestuck tags. *pulls off hip waders* I went anyways. I went even though I was feeling pretty good because I had a nice dinner and got to watch the New Years Bake-Off special. I went anyways, and I did it for you, my eight followers who aren’t pornbots. It turns out the Homestuck fandom of Tumblr is as scary and hyperbolic as ever, and has taken one lousy bit of badly written crap and extrapolated that backwards into ‘Homestuck has always been a racist anti-semetic pile of garbage and everything about it is terrible and Andrew Hussie needs to die.” I’m not paraphrasing, by the way. Someone out there is chanting ‘die Andrew Hussie die,’ because he had the gall to... clumsily dunk on Hitler like a fifteen year old trying to impress his English teacher with edgy comedy? This new stuff is too dumb to be offensive, especially in an era with, y’know, Hitler-praising alt-right Neo Nazis actually being mainstream media figures.  Hey Tumblr fandom? Can you... mm not chill, chill’s not the word I’m looking for what is it... oh yes. Can y’all fuck off for once?

Tumblr doesn’t deserve to enjoy things because it doesn’t know how to enjoy things responsibly. It lurches from adoration to hatred without pause, and as a writer it gives me nothing but an anxiety. I cannot produce anything imperfect, I cannot ever write crap because if I do then all my work will be tainted by it forever. On Tumblr you are always judged by your worst effort, which is a fucking god-awful standard for large media franchises of any kind. You know who one of the greatest, most thoughtful, socially-driven authors of the twentieth century was? Terry Pratchett. You know what’s kind of sexist and lazy and awful? The Colour of Magic. You know what’s weirdly colonialist and smug and all-around shit? Snuff! Neither of those shitty books invalidate the forty other Discworld novels. The existence of Anchorman’s bloviating nothingness doesn’t erase Will Ferrel’s warm and desperately human performance in Stranger Than Fiction. The Forced Kiss Equal Romance kiss in Blade Runner doesn’t erase the rest of the movie piercing question on the nature of what it means to be human. And on and on and on. Andrew Hussie’s sneeze-shart dogshit history rewrite that was so embarrassingly bad it got pulled from the internet didn’t erase Rose/Kanaya, or gay Dave, or Joey Claire tap-dancing her little heart out to try and defeat a monster. And even if Andrew Hussie does a JK Rowling and produces nothing but ill-thought-out crap from here until the day we all die in the great Disney Final Merger of 2023, it still won’t invalidate the good moments that made you happy. I mean if Andrew Hussie toddles out of retirement onto a talk show in a bathrobe to discuss his new revelations on the Puppetgrandmasters of Scion who all have worryingly Semetic names, I’m not going to be so naive as to pretend that his earlier media can be consumed in some kind of vacuum, that the future cannot affect the past. but I am saying that the good that happened in it - the things that affected you in positive ways - are not ethereal. It mattered to you then, and that’s okay. Tumblr’s hyperbolic responses seem to be rooted in embarrassment and self-flagellation. People seem so terrified by the thought that anyone might associate them as a fan of something - gasp - linked to controversy that they... well, they say shit like “die andrew hussie die.” Hey dude. Hey. You need to redirect that anger, my friend. There’s actual Neo-Nazis in the streets. On the TV. In the US government. I guess what I’m trying to say is... Woof. Okay. You know, to give Andrew Hussie partial credit here, its nice to see someone actually write Adolf Hitler the way he really was - a pant-shitting constantly whiny toddler of a human being who endlessly threw tantrums and got to where he was largely on the strength of other people’s bad decisions. Remember kids: the biggest myth Neo-Nazis have ever perpetrated is that Germany under Hitler was well-run, well-organized, and anything other than a collection of squabbling dysfunctional fiefdoms run by party hacks propped up by a bureaucracy and military too bound by inertia, ego, and cultural racism to do anything to stop a lunatic from ripping their country to shreds. That whole ‘trains running on time’ thing? It’s nonsense. Go study the conduct of the war once Germany had exhausted all its pre-war stockpiled resources and ran out of useful shit to loot, once it had to start relying on its leadership for the things that make wars winnable - supplies, reinforcements, fuel, winter clothing. Watch the way from 1942 onwards Germany stumbled from one disaster to the next, as Hitler fired more and more generals and drew more and more authority to himself and his fellow party cronies. Hitler should not be feared as a man of competence or skill - he was a buffoon, a clown of a human being fuelled entirely by petty, vindictive spite and an unlimited capacity for cruelty. And before anyone goes ‘well if he was so objectively pathetic how the fuck did he take over Germany’ I direct you to google the last two years of American politics and the words ‘Donald Fucking Trump.’ [I recommend, on these war subjects particularly, Sir Antony Beevor’s bleak and sobering works, particularly Stalingrad, Berlin: The Downfall 1945, and Ardennes 1944: Hitler's Last Gamble.]  Sorry this... kind of got away from me somewhat, but I really hate it when people get mad that someone didn’t take Hitler seriously (and, to be strictly fair, this is not what everyone is mad about in regards to Andrew Hussie, either). You should never take Hitler seriously. Take hate seriously - take violent words, and calls for purity, take his ideas of superiority and racial preeminence and anti-semitism seriously as the evils, the horrors as they are. But the man himself? He literally stank - a combination of his halitosis, chronic flatulence, and was constant diarrhea. [I am not exaggerating] He was a sad pathetic clown, and Andrew Hussie chose to write him as such. He just... went too far. It happens. It’s not good writing. It’s fucking shit, to be honest. Boring shit. The Minions movie decided to have the Minions sit out the entirety of WWII by having them get stuck in a cave or some such. Honestly that’s a better option than what Andrew Hussie went with - and ‘be more like the Minions movie’ isn’t advice I give that often. You want to be disgruntled that an author wrote something this bafflingly tone deaf and tedious? Sure. I know I am. But to chant for his death? Are you fucking kidding me? Look! Look out your window at those marching Neo-Nazis trying to establish a white supremacist state? What the ever-loving fuck are you people doing in here getting ready to string-up a man whose crime was making Adolf Friggen Hitler too petty???????? Tumblr. Tumblr, for the love of god this has to stop. This ‘Ceasar’s wife must be above reproach’ shit has to stop - it’s killing fandom, it’s killing good media critique, it’s burying proportional fan response, and its just exhausting. Why can’t you ever just let something be lousy without it being literal death warrant? There’s real demons out there - I can see them out the window, and every time I turn on the TV. Maybe - just bloody maybe - not every single crime deserves the exact same level of disapprobation and punishment? Maybe we could read some content and say “boy that sure had some lousy implications and also was just really poorly written” and then... stop there? Wouldn’t that be nice, for a change? We could dislike something without feeling like it required activism on our part. We could say ‘this piece of media was shit, but it didn’t advocate for a white ethno-state, so I will continue to think of it only until the end of this sentence.’ I am not advocating for an end to media criticism for anything that isn’t openly hate speech (but if you think that I am I am going to assume you’re already so needlessly enraged about this whole matter that I’m a bit puzzled why you’ve bothered to read this far since its obvious we don’t agree on many fundamental issues.) What I am calling for is the end to death threats against people who don’t mean you harm. Because that’s lunacy. That’s beyond the pale, actually, that’s really disturbing and sickening and you should seriously reconsider your relationship with media. Because there are people out there who do want to hurt you. Their lives are fuelled by hate, their philosophies are driven by it, as are their politics. I assure you that when a time traveller steps through a portal trying to prevent the rise of ‘the great Trump War of 2020′ the inciting incident will not be ‘Andrew Hussie trivialized the holocaust by citing its origins as a grudge Adolf Hitler bore Albert Einstein over a rivalry in secret clown ninja school before being taken on as an agent of a baking-obsessed alien space witch and bumped into power by the Peters principle.’ Because just by writing that sentence I have already reaffirmed a very simple truth: this is way, way too stupid to give the slightest shit about. So let’s tell Andrew Hussie that his new work is... mmm.... kind of like a shit if a shit had a shit that was itself shat out by a shit and then vomited on by another shit who had eaten nothing but shit since Sunday. Let’s tel lhim “hey dude, your clownish work summoned the spectre of anti-semetism, and you can do better.” Frankly, I think that message was already sent, since in the two hours between me going to make and eat dinner and then coming back to my computer, the new material was discovered, read, disseminated, and removed. Two hours. Sure, maybe a bit of lag due to what does and does not hit my feed but come on - this all took place in an afternoon. It’s already down. Our voices were heard - we didn’t think this was very good, and apparently Whatpumpkin agrees enough that they didn’t mount a defence of it. Rather than take the next logical step, though - which seems to be calling for the death of Andrew Hussie and removing all of Homestuck from the internet and maybe nuking Toby Fox from orbit just to be extra-sure? - we could do... something else. Talk about the release date for Stranger Things, maybe. Track down some local Neo-Nazis and punch them. Read some Antony Beevor books and really educate ourselves on what a smelly fuck-up Hitler was so we can chant that at Neo Nazis at their next rally. Or you could watch the New Years Bake-Off special. It was pretty good.

#homestuck #andrew hussie #hitler #hiveswap #hiveswap friendsim #whatpumpkin #skaianet #bake-off #terry pratchett #homestuck analysis

[simplyoriginalcharacters]

Jedi Knight Jaran Val (Revised Version)

This is the revision of my Jedi Padawan Jaran Val into a Jedi KNIGHT.  He’s still a little shaky, because I don’t feel I have a grasp on all of his aspects, so pointing out any weak spots or hyperbole would be appreciated.

(Hi! Mod D here. Your profile review is under the cut!)

Name: Jaran Val Aliases: Hazard Gender: Male Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Age: 29 Occupation: Jedi Knight and General of the Grand Army of the Republic, 429th Infantry.

Group/Organizational Affiliations: Jedi Order, Grand Army of the Republic, 429th Infantry. Family: The Val Clan Best Friends: Knights Naomi Talis and Jeza Nomar Relationship Status: Single Significant Other: N/A Other Relationships: Master Jeanette Starsoul, Knight Kara Saje, Healer Sarisa Ven, Master Ki-Adi Mundi Height: 5’8” Weight: 160 lbs Build: Athletic body with defined muscles Skin Tone: Dark brown Hair: Black Eyes: Grey Identifying Marks: On his left jaw, there is a scar that looks like three crescent moons that connect on the curve with the points facing outwards, left from a punch with a ring.  He also has a sky blue tattoo that is shaped like two acute triangles that connect on his nose and point downward under his eyes, which is the mark of Clan Val and was tattooed on his face shortly after he was born. As well as a tattoo on his left bicep that mimics the crescent moon scar, but with three right triangles, each pointed to the center of the tattoo with the base between the points of the moon. Appearance: Jaran is an active guy with a big presence.  Not only is he a skilled duelist with a lightsaber, but he’s the sort who loves to get involved with various pick-up games wherever he ends up.  Jaran has a mobile face, quick to show his emotions as he feels them, even after years of instruction on presenting an aura of serenity.  His face is narrow and sharp, the kind of face people might compare to a fox on Earth, with a narrow, upturned nose and ears that stick out a bit. 

He keeps his hair in dreads which fall to down to about his mid-back when he leaves it lose, but he usually wears it styled out of his face and so it won’t get caught in his lightsaber. Again.  He taught himself to do that, using mirrors and the Force, which does get him some twitting about vanity, but is more about Jaran’s need to control things in his environment.  Jaran favors wearing Clone Trooper style armor in combat, painted in the same blue as his tattoos with the moons and triangles on his left breast and back of his helmet, as well as the clan mark under the eyes of the helmet.  Off duty, he either wears the black under armor of his combat gear or dark brown and black Jedi robes.

No matter what he wears, Jaran always wears gloves, his favorite pair have hard ridges on the back over the knuckles that are useful in a fight and have specially designed fingertips that let him use touch screens and translate textures to a point.  He could maybe read braille with them, but wouldn’t feel all the details of, say, grains of wood.  He also prefers long sleeves in almost all weather and avoids planets with high heat and/or humidity to minimize the need for clothing that does not cover him from his neck down.

Species/Planet: Jaran is a Kiffar from Kiffu. They are near standard-human, save that their blood is distinctly scarlet, and their facial tattoos, which represent their clan affiliations on Kiffu. Also, one in a hundred Kiffar have psychometric abilities, regardless of other force sensitivities. Personality: Jaran doesn’t think of himself as a good Jedi Knight because he has control issues.  His psychometric abilities are very strong, so he is careful about what he comes in contact with, which has translated over to being very possessive and territorial about his personal space and living quarters.  He doesn’t invite contact from people he doesn’t know, and gets anxious in close quarters.

Jaran is not a natural diplomat or a good actor.  He has something of a reputation for being taciturn and stern with people, which is how he masks his discomfort and anxiety over what he can or cannot control around him.  He’s not carefree or easy going, but he’s got a sense of humor and appreciation of the absurd as it affects others.  His few friends are hard won and sometimes endure because they are far more flexible than he is in regard to his control issues and anxieties.

Jaran does try to do things outside his comfort zone, but the further out he gets, the more tense and uncomfortable he gets.  It’s a struggle between two sides of his nature, the fear of his abilities versus his desire for social interaction.

Jaran was captured during the war and held hostage for several weeks.  In the aftermath, he’s had to deal with his increased claustrophobia, and being tied or otherwise having his arms restrained.  He actually spent six months working with mind healers to be able to use his armor again because it reminded him of aspects of his captivity.  He was kept restrained in an inadequately heated basement on a planet that has a lot in common with northern Alaska, so things like snow, cold, dripping water, and inadequately lit spaces can make him twitchy, if not actually trigger him, although he’s generally okay with total darkness.  He does have nightmares, usually about hearing voices he can’t quite understand, and laughter, or about being completely abandoned to starve by unknown people.  He’s working on dealing with his issues with a mind healer.

Motivations: To avoid another battlefield like the one that cost him over half the 429th, to stop setting off Jedi relics with the Force. To heal from the damage from his captivity.

Current Goal: To protect his brother-warriors (the clone troopers) and be a good partner with Kara. Life Goal: To find his balance back and be a credit to his Master. Motto: To fear is one thing.  To let fear grab you by the tail and swing you around is another.  ~Katherine Paterson, Jacob Have I Loved   Best Quality: His ability to roll with the absurd. Worst Quality: His obsession with control and his fear Fears: Falling (to Darkness), killing his own people, getting kicked out of the Order Hobbies: Sports (He knows and played a variety of them, and uses them as a way to connect with the troopers), philosophy, history Talents: Hand eye coordination, excellent sense of balance, and a pleasant singing voice Skills: Sharp shooting, parkour, general athleticism, and a general knowledge of how to read body language and to use Lorrdian kinetic communication. Abilities: Psychometry (the ability to read empathic residue from inanimate objects), telekinesis, mental shielding, and minor clairvoyance (ability to see current events from a distance) Weapons: Lightsaber, blaster  Weaknesses: His psychometry is very strong, he doesn’t have to concentrate to pick up empathic residue from objects, even an accidental touch can fill his mind with the thoughts and emotions of previous handlers, however his general empathy is lower than average which gives him trouble in trying to find people and utilize training bonds (although people don’t realize this because he is exceptional at reading body language and reacting to that instead), and he sometimes accidentally activates Force imbued objects (which earned him the Hazard nickname) Fighting Style: Jar’Kai, the use of two lightsabers is his preferred, but he also studied Soresu from Master Jeanette. Secret: Jaran almost left the Order while still a Padawan after a disastrous mission, only convinced to stay by Master Jeanette and Master Mundi during his recovery in the Healer’s Wing in the aftermath.  Sometimes he wonders if he should have followed through on the thought. Influential Memory: Meeting Master Jeanette for the first time after his Padawan Trials (a series of tests and demonstrations to show an initiate has the knowledge and skill for the more advanced teaching.) Role Model: Quinlan Vos and Master Jeanette Crush: Clone Commander Wolffe from Master Plo Koon’s battalion Source of Embarrassment: How many times has he accidentally picked up the empathic residue from shower sex in hotels?  Too many.  Source of Pride: His work on mastering Jar’Kai, even if he’s not a master of the form yet.

Backstory:

Jaran was born on Kiffar and was sent to the Temple at eighteen months.  The Jedi Order and Kiffar have strong but distant ties, so Jaran has very few memories of his family outside of a few letters sent by his mother.  His life was good, he got into the usual Youngling troubles, played a prank or two, and he was considered a bright, gifted lightsaber student.  He got in trouble a few times as a child for trying Jar’Kai before he was considered ready for the lessons, but other than that he had a pretty average childhood for a youngling.  His only struggle was emotion control, but since his was a happy nature, it was considered a minor flaw and not an actual defect.

At age ten, Jaran completed his Padawan trials and became Master Jeanette Starsoul’s Padawan within two weeks.  At first, he wondered if Master Jeanette had actually chosen him, or if she had taken him on at the behest of the Jedi Council because she was reserved with him, and her praise was difficult to earn.  It wasn’t until just after his eleventh birthday that he learned the truth.  He had contracted a persistent fever during one of their missions that landed him in the Halls of Healing at the Temple, delirious, for nearly two weeks.  He doesn’t remember much besides being miserable and a few hallucinations, but the one thing he has never doubted, no matter what, was that Master Jeanette was with him almost the whole time.  There were a few times when he knew it was Master Ki-Adi Mundi watching over him in a bio-hazard suit, but the rest of the time it was Master Jeanette.  Afterwards, she was still reserved with him, her praise still difficult to earn, but Jaran knew that she cared for him.

When Jaran was twelve, his psychometric abilities expanded rather suddenly.  Where before he’d been slowly getting better at picking up emotional residue and sorting through what it told him, he was trying to get a sense of the last person to handle a vibroblade connected to a series of murders when he suddenly was slammed with everything, not only the killer’s feelings and thoughts in the murder, but the feelings of the victims as well.  In a fit of panic, he managed to broadcast all of it so loudly that Master Jeanette got all of it, as did two members of Judicial who were sensitive to the Force, but not so strong that they would have qualified to become Initiatives.  After the broadcast, Jaran passed out for almost a full day, before waking up to find that he couldn’t STOP experiencing the sensations of emotional residue, which left a very severe impression on him.  Master Vos, being the strongest available Kiffar Jedi, was brought in to try to teach Jaran to control his out-of-control powers, but even with tutelage, Jaran only managed to learn how to recognize and sort through images, and to release their intensity to the Force afterwards, not how to prevent his mind from being overwhelmed in the first place.  Gloves and concealing clothes were a last resort type option that none of them were happy with.

The first six years of his Padawan instruction, Master Jeanette took him on missions that spanned the spectrum of Jedi tasks, including visiting one of the ancient Jedi Temples that was being investigated by archeologists and Jedi scholars on his sixteenth birthday, where he was allowed a week to indulge in his love of history.  Jaran almost switched his classes to be more geared to an archival or scholar role after that, but after he returned to the Temple and spent nearly an hour debating with Master Jocasta Nu about what he’d learned at the ancient temple, he realized that being a scholar of any sort would mean more of dealing with her and chose to continue on as an armchair historian.  Part of that was that Master Nu never did forgive him for being in the Archive the day two of the Youngling Clans, including his own, reenacted one of the battles of the Great Sith War using the Archives as their battle ground.  Not that Jaran was involved, but he was there, and Bear Clan, and that was enough for Master Nu.

After he turned sixteen, Master Jeanette began taking missions that involved more possibility of combat, with numerous bodyguard jobs.  She never exactly explained why, saying only that sometimes the Force had odd ideas about its chosen guardians.  Jaran learned a lot, both about the use of Jar’Kai in combat, the actual value of Soresu, and even began branching a bit into the Form V’s blaster deflection techniques, adapted to his preferred dual weld.  He also learned how to interact with the people he protected, including how to firmly suggest things that would keep them safe without violating their cultural taboo.  Not that he was always successful, but he tried, and would earn forgiveness later on after they were safe.

Jaran earned his Knighthood at age 24, five years before the Battle of Geonosis, and has been working mostly on solo missions since then.  He’s developing a reputation as a body guard, with a successful string of kidnapping and assassination prevention under his belt.  For the time being, he’s managed to leverage his dangerous missions as a reason for not taking a Padawan learner yet, but he’s pretty sure that Master Yoda has someone picked out and is plotting on how to force the issue between them.  Jaran isn’t sure he is ideal for training a Padawan because of his control issues.  He survived living with Master Jeanette well enough because his room was his personal space and sacrosanct, bringing a Padawan into his personal space would be a much more difficult proposition, especially considering that Jaran’s favorite thing about his rooms was the ability to go barefoot, not wear gloves, or even wander around completely naked without worrying about anything more than his own traces of empathic residue.

Jaran was not present for the Battle of Geonosis, arriving at the Temple hours after Master Windu had left with his recruits.  He was patched up and sent out to take control of the 429th within days of the Clone Wars beginning, assigned to a battle group under the command of Jedi Master Eeth Koth working to preserve control of one of the hyperspace lanes.  During the course of the multiple battles, Jaran found himself a dismal strategist in terms of using the full battalion to its greatest effect, often relying on his Commander to ensure that whatever happened, it wouldn’t be a blood bath.  The strategy was marginally successful until the end of the campaign, when the 429th was assigned to the Aurin system to assist the local defense forces in protecting their access to a hyperspace lane.  Four months into the assignment, Commander Gill was killed in battle, which led to the death of nearly half his battalion.  In the course of that campaign, Jaran and two squads are trapped underground for eight days in extremely close quarters.  Jaran’s mental issues were so prominent during that time that he actively hindered their attempts to free themselves until one of the troopers managed to knock him unconscious.

As a result of that incident, Jaran sought out help from the Healers to deal with his worsening mental health issues, which is when he formally met Healer Sarisa Ven, who became his primary mind healer.  They do most of their work over the holonet because Sarisa is Temple-bound and Jaran’s issues do not currently prevent him from leading his troops, so long as certain accommodations are made.

Jaran was recently kidnapped while on Aurin, prompting the 425th to come to his rescue.  In the aftermath, he has been returned to Coruscant for some intense one on one sessions with Sarisa before returning to take command of the 429th as they work alongside the 425th in some of their more dangerous missions.  In some ways he’s less obsessed with control, but he’s a lot harder to break out of his shell.  Working with the 425th is actually easier for him than the front line fighting he was doing.  There are more opportunities to work with Sarisa, and given that the 425th and 429th operate out of a space station, Sarisa has even been able to come to him for their sessions on a regular basis.

Relationships:

Master Jeanette Starsoul- Jaran’s Master, a quiet, reticent Lorrdian.  Given her people’s propensity for kinetic communication, which is similar to sign language, but involves a lot of subtle movements, facial expressions, and more, she isn’t one to say much out loud, but if you know how to understand kinetic communication, you’d know that she adores her Padawan as a favored nephew.  (Never as a son.  She made that mistake only once, and never again.  Her Padawans are her nieces and nephews.)  She taught Jaran all she knew, including the kinetic communication of her people, to prepare him for whatever the Force lead him to.

Master Ki-Adi Mundi- Master Jeanette’s former Master and long-time friend, Master Ki-Adi had been a part of Jaran’s Padawan life from the beginning.  At Master Jeanette’s request, Master Ki-Adi often took the time to tutor Jaran in politics and debate philosophy with him.  (Ki-Adi Mundi is the Jedi Council member with the… cone shaped head in the prequel trilogy.)

Naomi Talis and Jeza Nomar are Knights that Jaran knew from Bear Clan when he was a youngling.  Naomi’s family hails from Alderraan, and Jeza is a Twi’lek from Ryloth.  The three of them became friends because they all loved playing physical games, and did at times get in trouble for playing Limmie (soccer) instead of doing something else.  For them, it’s not a limmie game if they use the Force, it’s all about the skill.

Naomi is a Healer and is stationed at the Temple for the time being.  She specializes in limb replacement and rehabilitation. She isn’t a violent person, but she already has a handle on the proper attitude necessary to her job, firm, implacable, and compassionate.

Jeza is stationed with her former master, a Nautolan Jedi named Ami Dessa, (Like Kit Fisto, with the green skin and lekku/tentacles instead of hair) and they are currently stationed with one of the fleets on the Outer Rim.  Ami and Jeza both favor Soresu style fighting and a habit of speaking in riddles.  Jeza has adopted her master’s laid back attitude, and while she doesn’t have her master’s aura of perpetual amusement, she is pretty upbeat herself.

Kara Saje was never exactly in Jaran’s peer group, although they were known to each other and could peacefully coexist in the Temple.  Now, they’re a bit more combative to each other, Kara’s drive to make the 425th a valued and respected part of the GAR versus Jaran’s ongoing control issues lead them to butt heads on any number of issues.  It’s harder because Kara is technically the CO of their joint taskforce, but Jaran is the more experienced Knight and would have been in charge if they had been teamed up for a more standard mission.  Learning to work together is an uphill battle on both sides.

From the Task Force:

Commander Saneone- the Commander assigned to the 425th at the Council’s behest and ordered by Kara to oversee the space station they operate out of.  He connects well with Jaran, both because he is a passive individual in the face of the Jedi, while being a firm hand for the Troopers under his command, and because they both struggle to connect and work with Kara.  Saneone has a calming influence on people; although he’s a great straight man for any number of jokes, he’s also a restraining influence on some instruments of chaos.  (Later on, he will formally be transferred to the 429th, and Captain Zip will get promoted to Commander of the 425th.)

Imp, Trickster, Mayhem, and Mischief are Saneone’s personal unit, while technically a part of the 425th, they are the core of Saneone’s personal command.  Like Saneone, they get along well with Jaran in their own way, generally related to his acceptance of them as a cohesive unit and as individuals.  Although, Jaran did take a quick and decisive preemptive action to impress upon the foursome what the acceptable boundaries were for pranking him.  (They also transfer to the 429th.)

As for the 429th itself, Jaran has a generally cordial relationship with most of them, although he isn’t particularly close to any of them.  The two squads who survived the underground ordeal with him are in some ways the closest to him, and generally rotate the role of his back up after Kara makes it mandatory, but while Jaran can identify his officers and interact with them in a genial manner in a more social setting, he isn’t particularly attached to individuals.  Although that might change as his work with Healer Sarisa goes onward.

Other:

Sarisa Ven is Jaran’s mind healer, a Twi’lek Jedi Healer who is Temple bound after losing the use of her legs on a mission before the Clone Wars began.  While her legs are paralyzed, there is nothing wrong with Sarisa’s mind, or her sharp tongue and she is considered one of the best Mind Healers for dealing with pervasive anxiety issues related to long standing trauma.

  I’m in the process of writing Jaran’s captivity story, so the future stuff is coming from my outline and notes (also known as thin air sometimes) but the idea is that he’ll have ongoing struggles with both sides of his issues, the PTSD lingering from Aurin and the control habits of behavior stemming from controlling his gift.  Again, because there is a six month gap between Aurin and the next story, some of the first reactions to Aurin have happened and will come up in hindsight.  For instance, his issues with his armor, which would allow me to display some of the adjusting dynamics between Jaran and his men, as well as the strain between Kara and Jaran if I do it right.

Hi! This is Mod D with your character re-review. Since the vast majority of Jaran's profile has been unchanged, I'll keep the focus on the alterations.

First and foremost, I think the decision to age up Jaran and establish him as a Jedi Knight make his issues with taking command (as well as his prowess as a Jedi) that much more influential on his character. As a higher ranking member of the Oder it makes sense that he's entrusted with more responsibility and naturally held to a higher standard. Combining that with Jaran's tweaked history of not-so-successfully leading troops (in-particular with the death of Commander Gill and Jaran’s subsequent entrapment), it gives his fear of leadership that much more weight. It also links back even more strongly with his desire to connect with the clone troopers themselves, and better highlights how he views them as brothers rather than just a disposable military.

In the same vein, removing Jeanette Starsoul's death from Jaran's story helps to keep the focus on Jaran's issues with command. While the context surrounding the death of his former master made the impact on Jaran's emotional state understandable, this change keeps the spotlight on Jaran's own agency. The mention of how badly the outcomes of these battles affected Jaran become that much more poignant knowing he played a more active role in how things went, rather than just having his mind damaged by a psychic link.

Speaking of, I also liked the additional mentions of how Jaran has handled attempting to avoid leadership roles. In-particular how he has refused to take a padawan of his own and wears Trooper armor so the clones won't look to him for instruction. These are hugely characterizing additions that do a lot to show the impact of Jaran's revised history, beyond just the mentions of his seeking out a therapist for his PTSD. Personally, I also just find them really interesting choices to make. The 'dress up as a trooper' disguise is old hat in Star Wars, but Jaran doing it as sort of coping mechanism is really unique.

I also liked the additional touches regarding how Jaran learned about his powers. Specifically the mention of having another Kiffar attempt to give him additional tutelage to help him better control his empathic abilities. Including how Jaran likes to relax in his own space and not be constrained by gloves and boots also added additional touches to just how closed off he has to be to avoiding getting unwanted memories. Though I think the best one was Jaran having to effectively relearn how to use his armor after his capture, due to how claustrophobic it made him feel. It’s not something I think most people would have considered, and makes the impact not only about Jaran himself but about his capability as a Jedi Knight as well.

Beyond that, I don't have much else to comment on. I like all of the changes that you've made (including the altered focus on the clone troopers on Jaran's Relationships section). Everything else is still fine, and the tweaks you made did a lot to tighten up the focus on Jaran's character arc. The impact of Jaran's involvement in the war has a greater context now (both for his own agency and how it’s influences his identity), and I think that'll provide a much stronger foundation to build on for future dynamics. There’s a lot more room for innate conflict here with both the troopers and Kara.

He doesn’t come across as shaky to me, and has no weak spots that I could discern. As is, Jaran looks like an exceptionally solid character with a clear arc and a well-rounded personality. I hope this helps assuage some of your concerns, and if you have any specific questions (or would like clarification) please fell free to send in an Ask.

I hope this helps!

-D

#SOC Critique #OC Critique #Backstory Help #Development Help #General Help #submission #guardian-of-hope

[yoolee]

Compliments | SLBP {Shigezane x MC}

A/N:  Shigezane fluff. This was supposed to be dirty, but, whoops, it went to fluff instead and I’m okay with that and hope you will be too! That said, they’re naked, so, maybe don’t read this at work? As always, the wordsmithing queen and tremendously talented @juniperotome is wonderful and edited this for me! So, thank you!

“Hey.” Though they had been closed in a brief moment of embarrassed hesitation, you opened your eyes at the gentle tone of Shigezane’s voice. The hand he wasn’t using to support himself cupped your cheek.  His thumb stroked smooth skin once, twice, before he withdrew his hand and leaned in to nuzzle your nose. His touch was light and slowly, he pulled away from you to sit back on his heels. Whatever you had expected, it wasn’t a retreat, not from him, and not after what you had both just started, and you cursed your earlier moment of hesitation, knowing that was why he paused now.

“Listen,” His voice was still light, but gentle where teasing was usually to be found, and though his hand darted up to tweak your nose, his tone betrayed an earnest need to be heard for the truth it contained, “You need to know, whether we do this or not, that I think you’re beautiful.”

Your cheeks burned, knowing he’d caught it, your moment of insecurity that came from knowing he’d had others, far fancier and more experienced; you’d seen them yourself, leaving the room Lord Masamune kept available for his use when the nights stretched out too late to travel. “Hey, I mean it!” He said, grinning. You believed that he meant it, but couldn’t keep from pulling a face in response.

The humor in his smile faded to simple sweetness. The bright mischief in his gaze warmed to sincerity, as though when he looked at you he saw something familiar and loved, like the hearth of a home he’d been away from for too long.

“It’s not just me, Doll.” His head lolled to the side, allowing an exaggerated, exasperated sigh to escape. Then he sat up straight, his eyes meeting yours. “Kojuro thinks you’re just precious, and even Masamune—who, you may recall, isn’t the world’s biggest fan of the fairer sex at all—would tell you the same.” Shigezane reminded himself that he’d have to deal with his lingering guilt over that particular point later, and instead, for now, focused completely on you.

He leaned forward and insisted, “We could do a survey. Ask everyone in the castle, and the results would be unanimous. ‘Oh her’? They would say, ‘She’s as lovely as the moon!’”

You snorted, slightly indelicately, but he ignored it.

Imitating another retainer, he pressed, “'Stunning creature, really. Puts Izumi no whatsit to shame.”

You giggled, unoffended by his hyperbole, and your mirth elicited his in return. Shigezane’s hands reached, gently pulling you upright—his hands first featherlight on yours before wrapping around your waist and pulling you into his lap.

Shigezane then continued in a grandiose voice, “She has eyes that sparkle like a thousand shining jewels in the sky.” Nasally, with enthusiasm, “And hips to send a man to his knees.” He squeezed them gently for emphasis, adding an appreciative groan.

Amused, you swatted his shoulder and wrinkled your nose in indication that he should hush, lips curling onto one another as you tried to keep them closed, muffling the laughter that threatened to escape.

But this only caused the sparkle of mischief in his gaze to grow brighter. A bellow of sound, from the belly, then high and sweet as fine lady’s, his voice conjured pictures of friends and imaginative strangers alike, alongside the rather colorful commentary, “She has grace to make a tiger weep in envy! She has hair with the enviable shine of…” he trailed off, blinking, and turned to ask you in his normal voice, “Aaaah, I already used shine, didn’t I?”

You were giggling too hard to confirm, attempting to gasp that you were quite certain it had been sparkle, actually, but he continued without the confirmation, nonplussed.

“Doesn’t count, those were eyes!” Shigezane drew a great breath before pronouncing, in a pitch with the gentle rasp from years of a kiseru pipe’s use “Her hair, now, her hair shines with the enviable glisten of Bontenmaru’s shell in the morning dew—”

“What?” You manage to interject, utterly off-guard. But oh! A turtle! And to imagine—but he was still going, and you had no time to linger on the image his imitation produced.

“—She has legs that stretch to the heavens!” His hands traveled down them now, then back up, tickling mercilessly in a way that had you helplessly lost to laughter. “Skin that glows like fireflies in the night, breasts that—”

You whirled in his lap, straddling him to clap a hand over his mouth, quite certain that if your hair shone like turtleshells, then you could certainly do without whatever descriptive comparison your breasts might warrant. There was a moment of stillness, then his hands flew from your legs to the area in question, content to playfully explore for himself if he was going to be denied an opportunity for verbal description. His hands remained there, cheerfully occupied until you leaned in against him, still lost in waves of laughter. Somehow, you manage to get out, “Shigezane—enough! Stop!”

You meant his words, but his hands stopped too. He drooped like a scolded puppy, pulling his hands sulkily away from your chest, only to send them up to cradle the hand of yours that was claiming his silence— capturing and turning it with aching gentleness to brush his lips against its back. He kept his lips against your skin as his eyes held yours, quiet and still. You felt your laughter catch and stop in your throat, silent.

Shigezane pressed a final kiss to your hand, before pulling it over his heart and holding it there, “She carries the sun in her heart, and shares it freely. And all her warmth in this world gives yearning to weak men that covet her kindness for their own, in fear of being abandoned to starless night, should she leave.”

“Oh…” You hadn’t expected that, “Oh, Shigezane,” Your voice rasped, barely sound at all, and if your heart stopped in that moment, it only meant you could feel his with even greater clarity, fluttering in nervous truth against the fingers he held warmly against it.

And then he winked, moment gone, and mouthed in a too-loud stage whisper, “Psst, this is the part where you say, 'Take me, Shigezane! Take me now!’”

You gaped, barely recovered from the last swing in tone. But he only barreled on, voice light and eyelashes fluttering, “You could add, 'you’ve set my maidenly heart aflutter!’” He wrapped you in a hug, flopping to his back and pulling you along as you dissolve once more into helpless fits of giggles. In an even higher pitch he persisted, “Shigezane, you charming, gloriously handsome and sweet-tongued man, you, you’ve stoked the flames of desire, oh! Ravish me!”

“Ravish me?” Equal parts astonished and amused, you still couldn’t help but imagine it, and your cheeks burned, though not unpleasantly. This hardly escaped Shigezane’s notice, ardent eyes sharply watching yours and catching when they darkened.

His hands took their pleasant time sliding back down to your hips, pulling them to meet his, and he raised his eyebrows, waggling them with suggestive enthusiasm. “I,” he announced proudly, “Am an excellent ravisher. Date Shigezane, professional and proficient ravisher, expert services rendered include virulent, lustful bodice-ripping—"

“Stop!” You could barely breathe, laughter or lust at this point you didn’t know, or you did, you supposed, because it was both, because both were him. Shigezane rolled, flipping your positions. His body was above yours, letting you bear just enough of his weight to know he was real, though he held the rest off with chaste patience lasting precisely a second. Then he was nibbling on your collarbones, warmth in his lips, clearly unwilling to wait for you to finish your fits of laughter. It was only when he found the space where the curve of your neck went hollow, and bit, that a moan mixed with the high, gasping humor, and, grinning wickedly, he pulled back once more. He rested on his elbows for a moment, gazing softly at your shaking frame, hands clapped over your own mouth now in futile attempts at stifling sounds from his words and actions alike.

“Want me to ravish you, Doll?”

Oh, but what else was there to say? You pulled him down for a kiss, feeling as breathless as the laughter preceding it, and right before his lips met yours you murmured, as clear and bright as the light in your lover’s eyes, “Oh yes.”

taglist: @jemchew @shioune If you ever want to be added (or removed!) from my taglist, just say so - I won’t be offended, I promise :) 

If you enjoyed this, I’ve written other things too! You can find them here.

#date shigezane #slbp #samurai love ballad party #samurai love ballad #slbp shigezane #shigezane slbp #shigezane #uuuugh is this too long does it need a read more? #aw fuck it I added it a read more #innocent eyes that may be wandering about and all

[slugmanslime]

Reunion

Pairings: N/A; OC Shenanigans Warnings: mentions of violence, cursing, angst Word Count: 1,904 Fic Type: Oneshot Drabble okay so not that anyone wants to read this but I thought I oughta put it up anyway just in case

A fic with mine and @lilacboii ‘s OC’s Aspara and Tatsoi! this is taking place at a rough patch in their friendship 

The first thing that she noticed was how different the air was. It was much crisper, and didn’t have that strange stale lilt to it that she doubted anyone but her noticed. The same heaviness that had weighed upon her shoulders when she passed through the doorway into the Hyperbolic Time Chamber vanished as if it had never existed at all. Hell, maybe it hadn’t. There were a lot of things that Aspara was beginning to pick up on, that didn’t quite seem to exist. Mere inches out of the doorjamb and it was as if her feet were cemented to the ground when every doubt, every fear, every thought that had been quelled and assuaged by her training was pushing at the surface, looking to break free once more.

Three years it had been for the young woman and her surly Namekian mentor; three grueling years of mental and physical battle, emotional bonding, and all around healing. But to the rest of their companions, a mere 3 days had come and gone. A few simple days of fighting, eating, sharing laughs, and getting fully into the swing of having two more children around with Saiyan blood. One of whom Aspara despised and couldn’t get away from and the other… A heavy, clawed hand descended on her shoulder and startled her from her reverie.

“You would think after all that time you could control your ki better. Stop being so nervous.” She responds with a scowl, gazing up at Piccolo over her shoulder.

“I’m not nervous! I’m anxious, there’s a difference.” Aspara smirked and finally forced herself forwards, drinking in the halls of Kami’s Lookout with fresh eyes. Perhaps now that they were finished with the first leg of her training, she could spend some time here with Dende and practice her meditation. Piccolo would have her hide if she stopped working with her ki.

There were times when her predisposed Saiyan rage would win through and she nearly caused a brawl with her mentor due to his natural knack for testing her patience. As much as Aspara loved learning new languages and studying the history of planets, there was something about exchanging blows and learning difficult sets of kata that satisfied her like nothing else. Of course, these were all important in Piccolos opinion—a strong mind worked the best with a strong body—but to try and reach her full potential they would spend hours upon hours at a time simply meditating. He would sit stoically, silently, murmuring to her mentally how she much reach within herself to the core and feel how her life force flowed—coursing through her like the ocean yet standing as firm as a mountain. It was a fifty-fifty chance that Aspara would get frustrated and think about swimming or hiking instead, much to her mentor’s annoyance.

The stone of the outer patio was warm under the soft soles of her shoes, and Aspara blinks slowly, adjusting her eyes to the natural sunlight she had been starving for. Too busy marveling at a blue sky that she knew wouldn’t turn into a blank slate, she didn’t have time to register the lanky princeling lurking in the same area, braced with his back against one of the large marble pillars a handful of yards away. An airy voice fills the void between them, something familiar that’d taken on a foreign hardness.

“You look older,” Aspara whipped her head towards the source of the voice, brows furrowing. “Not much taller though. Shame.”

Tatsoi was expressionless, and she hadn’t expected any less from him considering the circumstances of their last meeting. She can’t suppress a small wince, drawing her arms to fold across her chest as she eyes him sorrowfully.

“Yes, well, older and wiser, I guess they say. You’re still here? I would’ve thought you’d be rendezvousing with my br—with Argus.” The scowl felt natural on her face at this point, and she attributed the fact to the only person she had spent the last three years with. Speaking of the devil (demon, rather), Aspara sensed his ki lingering behind her, in the depths of the hallways. He must have sensed Tatsoi before she did and wanted to give them… quality time.

She didn’t want quality time with this version of her friend.

Though his crimson locks glinted in the dying sunlight, his incompatible eyes did not have the same luster as he stood tall, very tall. He and Vegeta had spent their three years in the chamber before them, and she had hardly had time to grow accustomed to his new self before engaging in the same training. A sigh graces her lips, puffing into the muggy air without much gusto.

Tatsoi took his time strolling up to her, but was still giving her a few feet of personal space as he studied her. She wasn’t supposed to feel self-conscious, but the way he had last spoken to her brooked much confusion on how he viewed her now. “I already have. Things have changed dramatically over the last week, for all three of us, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re kind of forcing me to agree. I couldn’t care less about that brat though, but I’m sure he was thrilled with your transition, thanks to Vegeta’s… training.” Disdain was thick in her voice, her words dripping with them, and despite his calloused remark about her height, she only had to tilt her head marginally to hold his gaze.

“Thrilled is one way to describe it. He even acted like he’d missed me. I’m still flattered.” If she hadn’t been so close to his face she would have missed the way his lips quirked upwards for a millisecond, hinting at more than he was letting on. Fine. Let him have his secrets.

“I would be disgusted if I were you. Good thing I’m not. You that is.” Aspara tosses her head to the side, unused to having to be so calloused with him. “I still am kind of disgusted, actually, I won’t lie to you.”

Hands firmly in his pockets, the princeling blinks at her slowly—she couldn’t tell if he was getting bored with her or simply didn’t care. Aspara didn’t know which one infuriated her more. “I know you are. Its debatable whether its righteous but, then again, you’ve never really been able to let things go, have you?”

Her lips peeled back into a snarl, arms lashing to her side with clenched fists. “And just what do you think you know about me, Tatsoi?” The way she uttered his name is only a step above a spit. “How many months were we friends before you disappeared with that lunatic and came back some—some hoity-toity snobbish jerk? You don’t know me. I doubt you ever even wanted to!”

“Of course I wanted to. But I was broken, and all you wanted to do was fix me. I wanted to know you, to know true friendship, but it’s like you saw how desperate I was and…” Tatsoi’s throat flexed at this first display of emotion. “I never had a mother, and I damn sure didn’t need you to become one.”

Bile rose in her throat and her mask of anger morphed into one of shock and embarrassment. How unfair it was of her former friend to throw such low blows—it wasn’t as if she had been trying to smother him with any maternal instincts. And yet, the shame remained. Was Aspara really so far gone that she couldn’t form normal platonic friendships with people, even those of her own race? Her arms return to their protective position across her chest, and she damn near chokes on an apology that she can’t seem to spit out.

“You didn’t need a mother, you’re right Tatsoi. What you needed was love, and compassion, and I’m sorry I ever tried to give that to you. I’m just thankful that dear Prince Vegeta rejected me, or I may have ended up like you.”

Like him? Tatsoi clamped his jaw shut, anger flaring wildly for a moment before he reigns it in, and stared coldly down his nose at her. He was better now, better than all of them! Aspara, Argus, Piccolo—he had a clear mind that could focus, he could separate his emotions from battle, and he didn’t need her fucking compassion.

“What, you mean stronger? Faster, more honed, vicious, and precise? Yes, how terrible that would have been, wouldn’t it?” The words rolled off his tongue in a droll manner, as if he was having to explain all of this to a child. Which is funny, considering the fact that she was even more his senior now. There was a little voice in the back of his head, the one that was telling him that he was being petulant and she cared about him, but he shut it down fast. The princeling remarks quietly to himself that he’s getting good at that.

Something akin to pride swells in his chest at the look of complete indignation and enraged longing that overcomes the older Saiyans features; it served her right for thinking that they could both train to become stronger and still stay so open with each other. Maybe if the princeling was being fair he would say something about the plan that he and his mate had hatched, but why should he? This planet was a proverbial gold mine—and would stay that way depending on if they could capture and kill the beast they had accidentally brought as a house-warming gift. Regardless, there was an odd sensation smothering the smugness that was all too familiar and unwelcome at the same time. His thoughts were mingling with his feelings, regret and contempt battling for a stronger hold. He doesn’t allow either to be victorious however, turning on heel and using a leisurely gait to carry him across the cobbled patio until he reached the steps.

“It would serve you well to stay away from us, from now on. Unless you’re looking for a fight.” Stunning mismatched sapphire eyes lock with damson ones for a moment before flickering forwards again. “Not that you would win, if my memory serves me right.”

“Ha!” The simple, barked laughter was scorned and sour. “That was three years ago, soldier. Next time our paths cross, I may just have to remind you of that.”

Distantly, he heard Aspara’s footsteps retreating haughtily as she sought out her mentor, and the quavering of her ki alerted him to her heightened emotional state. Pathetic; not even three years with the gruffest alien on the planet could teach the girl how to control her energy.

He continued sensing her ki spikes for miles after he jettisons from the Lookout’s steps. The voice whispered once more in his mind that he wouldn’t be able to feel her so vividly if he didn’t still care for her. With a cool, collected mental flick of the wrist, he quieted his mother for the last time that day. Tatsoi was sick unto death of shutting her up.

#Aspara-chan OC #Tatsoi #DBZ OC #fanfiction #any comments and criticism are welcome!! #ari writes

[newsnigeria]

Check out New Post published on Ọmọ Oòduà

New Post has been published on http://ooduarere.com/news-from-nigeria/world-news/what-happened-1963/

What happened to the West where I was born in in 1963?

Frankly, I am awed, amazed and even embarrassed.  I was born in Switzerland, lived most of my life there, I also visited most of Europe, and I lived in the USA for over 20 years.  Yet in my worst nightmares I could not have imagined the West sinking as low as it does now.  I mean, yes, I know about the false flags, the corruption, the colonial wars, the NATO lies, the abject subservience of East Europeans, etc.  I wrote about all that many times.  But imperfect as they were, and that is putting it mildly, I remember Helmut Schmidt, Maggie Thatcher, Reagan, Mitterrand, even Chirac!  And I remember what the Canard Enchaîné used to be, or even the BBC.  During the Cold War the West was hardly a knight in white shining armor, but still – rule of law did matter, as did at least some degree of critical thinking.

I am now deeply embarrassed for the West.  And very, very afraid.

All I see today is a submissive herd lead by true, bona fide, psychopaths (in a clinical sense of the word)

And that is not the worst thing.

The worst thing is the deafening silence, the way everybody just looks away, pretends like “ain’t my business” or, worse, actually takes all this grotesque spectacle seriously.  What the fuck is wrong with you people?!  Have you all been turned into zombies?!  WAKE UP!!!!!!!

Let me carefully measure my words here and tell you the blunt truth.

Since the Neocon coup against Trump the West is now on exactly the same course as Nazi Germany was in, roughly, the mid 1930s.

Oh sure, the ideology is different, the designated scapegoat also.  But the mindset is *exactly* the same.

Same causes produce the same effects.  But this time around, there are weapons on both sides which make the Dresden Holocaust looks like a minor spark.

So now we have this touching display of “western solidarity” not with UK or the British people, but with the City of London.  Now ain’t that touching?!

Let me ask you this: what has been the central feature of Britain’s policies towards Europe, oh, let’s say since the Middle-Ages?

That’s right: starting wars in Europe.

And this time around you think it’s different?

Does: “the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior” somehow not apply to the UK?!

Let me also tell you this: when Napoleon and Hitler attacked Russia she was undergoing deep crises and was objectively weak (really! research it for yourself!).  In both cases Russian society was deeply torn by internal contradictions and the time for attack as ideal.

Not today.

So I ask this simple question: do you really want to go to war against a fully united nuclear Russia?

You think that this is hyperbole?

Think again.

The truth is that the situation today is infinitely worse than the Cuban missile crisis. First, during the Cuban missile crisis there were rational people on both side.  Today there is NOT ONE SINGLE RATIONAL PERSON LEFT IN A POSITION OF POWER IN THE USA.  Not ONE!  Second, during the Cuban missile crisis all the new was reporting on was the crisis, the entire planet felt like we were standing at the edge of the abyss.

Today nobody seems to be aware that we are about to go to war, possibly a thermonuclear war, where casualties will be counted in the hundreds of millions.

All because of what?

Because the people of the West have accepted, or don’t even know, that they are ruled by an ugly gang of ignorant, arrogant psychopaths.

At the very least this situation shows this:

Representative democracy does not work.

The rule of law only applies to the weak and poor.

Western values have now been reduced to a sad joke.

Capitalism needs war and a world hegemony to survive.

The AngloZionist Empire is about to collapse, the only open question is how and at what cost.

Right now they are expelling Russian diplomats en masse and they are feeling very strong and manly. Polish and Ukrainian politicians are undergoing a truly historical surge in courage and self-confidence! (hiding, as they do, behind Anglo firepower)

The truth is that this is only the tip of a much bigger iceberg.  In reality, crucial expert-level consultations, which are so vitally important between nuclear superpowers, have all but stopped a long time ago.  We are down to top level telephone calls.  That kind of stuff happens when two sides are about to go to war.  For many months now Russia and NATO have made preparations for war in Europe.  And Russia is ready.  NATO sure ain’t!  Oh, they have the numbers and they think they are strong.  The truth is that these NATO midgets have no idea of what is about to hit them, when the Russians go to war these NATO statelets won’t even understand what is happening to them.  Very rapidly the real action will be left to the USA and Russia.  Thus any conflict will go nuclear very fast.  And, for the first time in history, the USA will be hit very, very hard, not only in Europe, the Middle-East or Asia, but also on the continental US.

I was born in a Russian military family and I studied Russian and Soviet military affairs all my life. I can absolutely promise you this, please don’t doubt it for one second: Russia will not back down and, if cornered, she will wipe out your entire civilization. The Russians really don’t want war, they fear it (as they should!) and they will do everything to avoid it.  But if attacked then expect a response of absolutely devastating violence.  Don’t take it from me, take it from Putin who clearly said so himself and who, at least on that issue, is supported by about 95% of the population.  From the Eastern Crusades to the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union, enough is enough, and the Russians will not take one more western attack, especially not one backed by nuclear firepower.  Again, please ponder Putin’s words very, very carefully: “what need would we have a world if there is no Russia?“

All that for what?  The USA and Russia have NO objective reasons to do anything but to collaborate (the Russians are absolutely baffled the fact the leaders of the USA seem to be completely oblivious to this simple fact).  Okay, the City of London does have a lot of reasons to want Russia gone and silent. As Gavin Williamson, the little soy-boy in charge of UK “defense”, so elegantly put it, Russia should “go away and shut up”.  Right.  Let me tell you – it ain’t happening!  Britannia will be turned into a heap of radioactive ashes long before Russian goes away or shuts up.  That is simply a fact.

What baffles me is this: do American leaders really want to lose their country in behalf of a small nasty clique of arrogant British pompous asses who think that they still are an Empire?  Did you even take a look at Boris Johnson, Theresa May and Gavin Williamson?  Are you really ready to die in defense of the interest of these degenerates?!

I don’t get it and nobody in Russia does.

Yeah, I know, all they did is expel some diplomats.  And the Russians will do the same.  So what?  But that’s missing the point!

LOOK NOT WHERE WE ARE BUT WHERE WE ARE HEADING!!

You can get 200,000 anti–gun (sigh, rolleyes) protesters in DC but NOBODY AT ALL ABOUT NUCLEAR WAR?!

What is wrong with you people?!

What happened to the West where I was born in in 1963?

My God, is this really the end of it all?

Am I the only one who sees this slow-motion train-wreck taking us all over the precipice?

If you can, please give a reason to still hope.

Right now I don’t see many.

The Saker

PS: yes, I know. The rules of the blog prohibit CAPS as this is considered shouting.  Okay, but this time around I AM TRYING TO SHOUT!  So, for this one time only, feel free to use caps if you want.  The world badly needs some shouting right now, even virtual shouting.

#u.k #U.S.A