7: I do not believe in love at first sight. But god damn. (Look at you.)
Two things. First,
it’s a very dangerous thing to say ‘whoever I want,’ because I go straight for
the niche fandoms that I love the most.
Thus: Animorphs. Second! It has come to my attention that I
accidentally swapped two prompts—this line is actually prompt 17, and prompt 7
got used for the Sith!Padme AU. Because
I’m a fucking disaster area and my brain likes to pull switches like that on
me. (Math classes suck for this exact
reason.) But like the Sith!Padme AU is
done? And I was halfway through this by the time I realized, so I am VERY sorry but I’m doing this.
Tobias could give you the exact moment he
fell in love with Rachel, as a bruised thirteen-year-old kid in a body he
barely remembered. Love at first sight
was a fairy tale, but he could give every detail of the moment—it was like
light being struck from a match, casting everything in a fresh glow.
Admittedly, he remembered everything about
that night in the construction site, about Elfangor’s serious eyes and Visser
Three’s terrible morph and the desperate giddy feeling in his chest of yes, yes, I knew it, there’s more to this
world. Which made a lot more sense,
in retrospect, but of course at the time he just knew that something had
clicked into place. While everyone else
was standing around being awestruck and wondering, Tobias had been too busy
feeling a wash of relief that, oh God, he wasn’t crazy, there really was something else and it was exactly as
spectacular as he had always believed it would be.
But even in that chaos, Rachel had been like
a beacon.
He’d had a crush on her from the moment he
arrived in town, of course, but then he could guarantee that about every boy at
their school agreed with him, save the ones who were related to her. He could list five girls off the top of his
head who were probably head over heels for Rachel, having a crush on her wasn’t
anything special. She was clever and
funny and fierce, her beautiful face was almost an afterthought.
And Tobias had needed something bright and
strong to hold onto, and just being around Rachel, in the line of her sharp
eyes, was a good start.
So it never did shock him, that he was in
love with her.
It wasn’t her grip on his hand as they
watched Elfangor die, although he was sure everyone would be shocked to hear
it. That was just…Rachel, scared half to
death and still with strength and ferocity to spare. She clutched his hand because it made her
feel better, to steady someone else, and God Tobias had needed it. He’d almost bolted right then, run back to
the Andalite’s side, because he barely had a life to live anyway and he’d felt
something from Elfangor’s thoughts he’d never felt before. Some messy tangle of regret and pride and
grief, all centered around a bright hard thing that made affection look like small fry.
The loss of it hurt like broken glass in Tobias’ throat, sharp and
bloody. And it was Rachel’s grip on his
hand as he cried that kept Tobias hidden behind the wreckage, kept him sane
enough to live through the night.
But it was later, that it really hit him.
They were running and, at the time, Tobias
had desperately wished for wings. It was
almost funny, now, but probably only to him—he’d never told the others how
often he wished he could fly away, before he got a new appreciation for the
dangers of wishes.
Here was something else the others never
knew: he had three cracked ribs that night.
There was no way, even with adrenaline pumping ice through his blood,
that he would be able to outrun the Hork-Bajir on their tail. Tobias’ forgotten human body was tall, but
skinny and out of shape, not strong like Cassie or fast like Jake, he was slow
and hurt and shocky. And he had a moment
of strange clarity, as if he could see the future as clearly as the Ellimist
ever showed it to them. He would die,
and it would be awful, but the others would live and that would be…good. They had people who would miss them, and he
didn’t. They would live to fight the
Andalite’s war, maybe save the world, and Tobias would get to rest.
And then Rachel, tall, athletic Rachel who
could probably have outpaced every last one of them, even Jake, slowed, and
dropped back. She was shouting, arms
outstretched with a wild, ecstatic look of challenge on her face. Tobias could only catch about one word in
three, but they were…vivid.
That was the moment. Tobias, tearing across the rough ground of
the construction site with impossibility on his heels. Rachel, screaming curses in death’s face in
order to protect the people she cared about.
It was more like being struck by lightning than anything so polite as falling
in love, but.
I haven’t quite thought this out enough to have my thoughts totally clear, but I usually clarify my thoughts by writing them down, so I’m gonna try it anyway. For context I am writing as an ethnically Jewish white person.
I have seen some Discourse where person A says something like “We can’t dehumanize the people we’re fighting,” and then Person B goes “Yeah, this was why we shouldn’t have punched that Nazi!” and then Person C goes “Uh, we have to punch Nazis,” and then Person D says “Nazis aren’t people!” and then the whole Discourse Cycle starts up again.
The problem, I think, is that we are taking “don’t dehumanize” as code for “be nice to?” And that’s not what it is. “Don’t dehumanize” means understanding there is not a profound difference between yourself and a person who believes something repugnant. Otherwise, it becomes too tempting to think that a repugnant belief is some kind of monstrous mental defect that we get to just magically Not Have, because we – after all – are people, and Nazis are Not People.
If we believe that we are immune to repugnant beliefs, we become incredibly vulnerable to them. Sorry if I’m being redundant here, but I really want to spell this out: If we think that Nazis aren’t people, we open a door that is going to kill our ability to be useful, effective, intersectional activists. We will absolutely become complacent. Beliefs will creep up slowly in our brains, because that’s what brains do, they gather information and make just whatever crap soup out of it, and we – if we sense the development of these ideas at all – will go “Well, this must NOT be a repugnant belief, because only Not-People have repugnant beliefs, and I am a Person!”
And again, that’s not synonymous with saying that “If you want to punch Nazis in the face YOU’RE JUST AS BAD AS THEM!!!!” That’s crazy and garbage. It’s also not synonymous with “We have to tolerate Nazi beliefs!” I am trying to make a pretty straightforward statement that Nazis are people. They are people, and we have to look that fact dead on, and then we have to punch those people in the face, hard and often.
“They are people, and we have to look that fact dead on, and then we have to punch those people in the face, hard and often.”
just in case anyone was thinking about bombing trump tower or lighting it on fire or something, how about instead you throw paint balloons at the ground floor windows every day
just every single day forever
because cleaning off the paint then becomes a 24/7 job that is super obvious to everyone in the vicinity
and the trumples will freak the fuck out and act like it’s the same as bombing the fucking thing, which is hilarious and embarrassing for everyone else
it will be demanded that the police make it staaaaaaaahp like it’s this huge goddamn deal and the police will be like oh my god stop wasting my time this is excruciating
plus it’s really easy to just have different people do it at different times of day and if you do get caught oh well it’s a misdemeanor vandalism charge, pay a fine and go home
tell me you can’t find 365 people who would cop to a vandalism fine for the privilege of driving merkin von bankrupt absolutely batshit with impotent fury
just an idea
…this is really good, dude. i LIKE it.
“Don’t think of it as criminal, think of it as putting the window washer’s kids through college.”
additional suggestion: the paint should be pink, and glittery. nothing horrifies bigoted men more than their macho status objects being CONTAMINATED by NASTY AWFUL NO GOOD SCARY GROSS FEMME COOTIES. taking danglord turnip’s big metal monument and smearing the girliest possible paintjob across its bottom would be particularly distressing to the guys we wanna distress, while not at all bothering anyone else.
Im just. imagining. As the weeks go on and theres more demand to catch the vandals, stakeouts are happening and the pressure is on. Cop McGee is sitting in the car watching the building with a cold cup of coffee and a warbling radio filled with a WHOLE lot of interesting feedback- car chases they’d rather be doing. The clock is ticking, the vandals haven’t hit yet. Were they going to miss a day? Just the luck of Cop McGee.
Then it happens. A loud splat. There it is… a pink splotch. But smaller than normal, and nobody was running. IN fact there wasn’t anyone near the building just at that moment…. what?
SPLAT SPLAT
Then it begins raining. Paint balls- but from where. Cop McGee whirls around in their seat looking for a perp. Nothing. SPLAT SPLAT. Where is it coming from? what’s happening??
Paint Ball Snipers. It’s Paint Ball Snipers.
Next day someone comes in with a drone hooked up to about eight cans of spray paint rigged to open fire once in range. It’s a swirling, flying disk of feminine justice.
Then there’s the donation of Stuart Semple’s Pinkest Pink pigment that’s released in clouds all over the block on a day fresh after the rain when the walls are all still wet.
Chirrut, Bodhi:
precious cinnamon rolls, too good for this world, too pure
Baze, Cassian:
stale cinnamon rolls, been in this world too long, too cynical
Jyn, K2SO:
would probably figure out how to murder you with a cinnamon roll
[video]
Anonymous asked: Honestly? We should all start saying "hey don't tell anyone the person who punched Rick Spencer was me, alright? y'all some good people" because every single person claiming they were is going to be funny
