#Shakespeare Classes New York

[yujisleftshoe]

Not to beat a dead horse, but LIBRARIES literally will give you online access to TV and movies for free without having to pirate them. They also have recordings of theatre productions!! I just watched David Tennants Richard ii FOR FREE with a really high quality recording FROM THE LIBRARY!!!! Everyone needs to GET A LIBRARY CARD!!!!

My library also has access to programs that can help you make your own legal documents if you can't afford an attorney but need things like wills or bills of sale or lease agreements!!

There is concerts and and documentaries and operas and Ballets from carnegie hall and the Palace of Versailles and other world class theaters!

They have coding courses! IELTS training!! News paper access that usually requires a subscription! Audio books! Music! Tickets to events and museums and aquariums and art galleries and carnivales and park passes and youth programs!!!

There is literally no reason to not have a library card. They're free.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #10

It all started because Clockwork got bored. That was the only reasonable explanation Danny could come up with. One minute he was signing ghost realm tax paperwork—yeah, turns out being Ghost King came with bureaucracy—and the next, Clockwork was swirling his little time-staff like a smug ghostly Gandalf and muttering something about “character growth” and “you’ve gone soft, Daniel.” And then bam, vortex of neon green time-energy, and suddenly Danny Fenton—a.k.a. Danny Phantom, Ghost King, Defender of Amity Park, Sloppy Hot Mess™—woke up in Westchester, New York, in a bed that smelled like lavender detergent and severe academic trauma.

Also, there was a kid across the room with laser eyes. Like, literal laser eyes. Danny dodged the optic blast with a yelp, crashed into a dresser, phased through it out of panic, and immediately got tackled by some blue-furred acrobatic Shakespeare enthusiast named Hank McCoy, who tried to sedate him with a tranquilizer gun the size of a trombone.

The chaos didn’t end there.

After an hour-long misunderstanding involving accidental ghost-punching, a kid phasing through a wall and screaming about “this new spirit trying to possess my Xbox,” and someone named Jean calmly levitating him mid-air like he was a naughty kitten, Danny finally got an audience with Charles Xavier. That guy. The bald one. Professor X. Wheelchair. Mind reader. Wears a turtleneck in July.

And of course, as soon as Danny sat down, Professor X pressed two fingers to his temple and Danny felt his entire mental vault of trauma shatter like a haunted snow globe. “Ah,” the Professor said with the polite cadence of someone realizing they’ve just tuned into a true crime documentary instead of the weather channel. “You have a great deal of… unique experiences.”

Danny laughed. Hysterically. “I died at fourteen and now I run a death monarchy in an alternate dimension. Unique is so last week.”

Turns out Clockwork, that glorified antique grandfather clock with too much free time, had decided that Danny needed to “learn to connect with others his age again” and “gain allies outside the Ghost Zone.” So he dropped Danny off at a mutant boarding school like some sort of half-dead foreign exchange student. And Charles Xavier, either because he’s too nice or secretly thrilled to collect weirdos like Pokémon cards, welcomed him with open arms.

Now, Danny wasn’t a mutant. He made that very clear. He was a half-ghost hybrid from an accident involving his parents’ DIY death portal and a broken sense of safety regulations. But that didn’t stop the other students from assuming he was just a weirdo with very specific powers and a questionable haircut. The moment Rogue tried to absorb him and got an accidental flash of the time Pariah Dark tried to possess his left kidney, she screamed, exploded a tree, and refused to make eye contact with him for a week. Logan thought that was hilarious and called him “Casper with PTSD.” Danny called Logan “Hairy Ferret Man.” A rivalry was born.

Also, it turned out that mutants at Xavier’s School had no chill. None. Zip. Zero. When they found out Danny could go intangible and invisible? Prank war. Full-on, Cold War-style prank war.

Kurt teleported hot sauce into his shoes. Danny replaced Kurt’s shampoo with slime from the Box Ghost. Bobby froze Danny’s underwear drawer. Danny phased into Bobby’s room at 3 a.m. and whispered “I’m always watching” into his ear like a cursed Roomba. Scott tried to discipline them with a “team bonding” exercise. Danny phased his clothes off in front of the entire class during the obstacle course.

He did not know Kitty Pryde could scream that loud. Or punch that hard.

Things escalated.

One day, Jean and Ororo walked into the library to find Danny floating upside down while holding a book with his foot, chewing a pen, and muttering to himself in the Ghost Zone’s dead language. When asked what he was doing, he said he was “reverse engineering a spectral war code to crash the cafeteria’s menu algorithm so they’d bring back pizza bagels.” Jean left the room. Ororo gave him a high five.

That might’ve been the least unhinged thing he did that week.

Because Danny had fans now. The students—bless their hormone-fueled, superpowered hearts—thought he was the coolest thing since Wolverine got into a fistfight with a vending machine. He had followers. A literal cult. Called themselves “The Phantom Phreaks.” They made glow-in-the-dark hoodies with his face on it. One kid tried to dye their hair white using bleach and ghost peppers. It didn’t go well.

It got worse when Peter Parker showed up.

Apparently, he was doing some college-credit tutoring with Xavier’s School because of course the kid with radioactive spider powers and crippling anxiety was the designated Marvel mentor. Peter tried to explain the concept of “laying low” and “not being a public menace” and Danny just blinked, turned intangible, floated through a wall, and popped his head back in to say, “I once bench-pressed a building-sized ghost walrus. I am beyond menace, Peter.”

They became friends instantly.

Peter would swing by to help with science classes and would end up staying for hours, mostly because Danny was a magnet for eldritch ghost disasters. One time, a time-displaced pirate specter named Captain Bloodwhistle tried to possess the student kitchen mixer. Peter got covered in spectral marshmallow fluff. Danny laughed so hard he accidentally ripped a hole into the Astral Plane. Peter got dragged halfway in. Jean had to psychic-yank him back with what she described as “a migraine made of bees.”

Also, Danny started dating one of the Cuckoo sisters.

He wasn’t sure which one. They wouldn’t tell him.

One of them would show up to lunch, sit next to him, hand him a thermos full of ghost chili, kiss his cheek, and then disappear into the crowd. Danny asked once if they were just messing with him. The Cuckoo in question smiled and said, “Maybe. Or maybe we’re all in love with you. Isn’t that romantic?”

He nearly screamed.

That was before the Avengers got involved.

Apparently, Xavier forgot to tell them he’d adopted a literal half-dead godchild of the underworld into his school. So one day Tony Stark landed in the front yard in a red-and-gold panic and tried to “detain the supernatural threat.” Danny responded by phasing into the suit, taking control of it, and flying it into the sky while singing “Let It Go” at full volume. Tony had to eject mid-air. He landed in a bush. Scott filmed it. Jubilee added sparkles in post.

Then Nick Fury showed up and tried to recruit him.

Danny told him he was already King of the Dead and the living were beneath him. Then he tripped on his shoelace and fell into a bush. Same bush Tony had landed in. They bonded. Kind of.

And then Loki showed up, because someone (cough Wanda cough) told him that a teenage ghost king with ancient death powers was living rent-free at Xavier’s. Loki tried to seduce Danny into joining his side. Danny asked if his horns were compensating for something. Loki cursed his shampoo to turn his hair pink. Danny retaliated by summoning an actual ghost bull to chase Loki through the halls while yelling, “Fight me, Party City Maleficent!”

Charles suspended them both for 48 hours.

Danny used the time off to open a haunted lemonade stand in the Danger Room. It made five grand and summoned three minor demons. Hank was not pleased.

And look, Danny was trying. He really was. He went to his classes (when he remembered), tried not to make sarcastic comments during training (he failed), and even got a job at the school paper writing ghost horoscopes. (“Sagittarius: avoid mirrors this week. Capricorn: the undead whisper secrets to you, don’t trust them unless they have snacks.”) But trouble followed him like a clingy poltergeist.

One time a field trip to Central Park ended with a ghost bear rampaging through the zoo. Another time, he got possessed by a Victorian poet ghost and started writing depressing haikus on the bathroom walls. He once accidentally opened a mini-portal in the girl’s dorm by sneezing. No one knew how. Not even Clockwork.

And oh, Clockwork?

He’d drop in occasionally, hovering in midair with that smug look, sipping ghost tea, and muttering things like, “Growth looks good on you,” while Danny was being chased by a ghost goose that had eaten a cursed student ID.

It was chaos.

It was ridiculous.

It was unhinged, feral, terrifying, and oddly heartwarming.

Because for the first time since he’d become half-ghost, since he’d died and come back and been crowned a spectral king with too many responsibilities and not enough hugs, Danny had a home that was weird enough for him. A home full of flying kids, clawed professors, laser eyes, psychic meltdowns, teleporting blue elves, and students who didn’t flinch when he told them his parents once tried to dissect him in a lab accident.

He was just another freak among freaks.

And he kinda loved it.

Even if his bedroom lights occasionally flickered Morse code insults.

Even if Logan kept threatening to shave his head in his sleep.

Even if Peter Parker made a “Ghost King Survival Kit” and stuffed it with snacks, holy water, and emotional support memes.

Even if the Cuckoo sisters left threatening notes in his locker written in glitter glue.

Even if Xavier kept giving him polite but exhausted psychic lectures about “not weaponizing the garden gnomes.”

Even if the Danger Room now had a setting labeled “Phantom Mode” that was literally just a green portal, a pissed-off dragon ghost, and an army of flying textbooks.

Danny Phantom was home.

And Ghost King or not, these mutants had no idea what kind of disaster they’d just adopted.

[rcubens]

He frowns slightly. He doesn’t remember it like that, but isn’t it always the case where younger siblings wish to be around their older siblings and the older ones dismiss them without thought. It even happened to him on occasion. Such is the way of the world he presumes. “I don’t think there was ever a point where at least one of us didn’t hate another, it ebbs and flows,” he shrugs. Despite not suffering the same doppelgänger affliction, he got where she was coming from. People were always expecting him to be one thing or another. Somehow he’s carved a tiny crevice in the world for himself with a prison shiv.

He nods along while she laughs, the corners of his lips twist up into a smile. He recalls graduating from Georgetown with nothing more than a stiff handshake, while his classmates were enveloped in hugs or had families take up entire sections in the stands. He winces slightly at the example. “Not to disregard your feelings or anything but, I don’t think he saw any of us for who we truly were, especially when we were all playing up the best parts for his approval,”

“It might be the furthest thing from easy peasy you’ve ever done, but the sun will rise tomorrow and then again the day after, you kinda’ have to just keep…doing..it,”

"well, it wasn't everyone. but i was always alone for a reason." her shoulders were drawn tight, eyes aimed down. "you guys were too old to see me as anything but a spoiled little kid, and for a long time everyone who was my age preferred to ignore my existence. just ask esti." that might have changed eventually, with age softening the childish distaste, and when people like mickey arrived at woodrow. but for years, it was very much eliza's reality. "and the worst part is that i get it. but for most of my life, people either loved me or hated me because of things that had nothing to do with me."

she laughed at the way reuben put it, though he was right. at least in this. "he did really like the plays." a part of eliza always wondered if that's why she even got into shakespeare, purely out of a necessity to feel closer to richard. but weren't all children influenced by parents, in a way? "but he was proud of everyone. natalie in paris, angus and his big career, esti's phd... c'mon reuben, you went to grad school and all the way to dc! but when he looked at you, that's what he saw. you. when he looked at me..." she shrugged. "it's like a funhouse mirror, i think. two images overlapping."

eliza then shook her head, tried for a laugh that sounded almost too convincing. snap out of it, get it together. "keep living. right. easy peasy."

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Supporting Characters

Supporting character - a person who plays a role in the life of a story’s protagonist.

Novelists and screenwriters don’t anchor a story around supporting characters, but they use them in the process of worldbuilding to create a compelling backdrop to the main character’s story arc.

A well-written supporting character will have:

a character arc,

a strong point of view, and

clear personality traits.

In many cases they will be the types of characters a reader might recognize from their own life and—like main characters—they will grow and change over the course of the storyline.

Characters who don’t change are known as flat characters, and while certain bit parts work just fine as flat characters, the majority of your secondary parts must be dynamic and engaging to a reader or viewer.

Tips for Writing Supporting Characters

Here are 8 key tips from Margaret Atwood on writing supporting characters:

Your secondary characters are formed by their life experiences. Character and event are inseparable because a person is what happens to them. This is true for main characters and minor characters alike. Even if a secondary character only appears sporadically throughout your novel, short story, or screenplay, supporting characters exist insofar as they experience events.

Secondary characters must be three dimensional, just like main characters. Your job as a writer is to learn about your character by observing how they interact with the world around them. Characters—like real people in real life—have hobbies, pets, histories, ruminations, quirks, and obsessions. They also have a backstory, just like the protagonist does. It’s essential to your novel that you understand these aspects of your character so that you are equipped to understand how they may react under the pressures of events they encounter.

Keep a track of your secondary characters with a character chart. When Margaret writes, she makes a character chart on which she writes each character, their birthday, and world events that might be relevant to them. In this way, she keeps track of how old characters are in relation to one another, and also how old they are when certain fictional or historical events occurred.

Make your characters interesting. Characters, like people, are imperfect. They don’t need to be likable, but they must be interesting. For example, Moby-Dick’s Captain Ahab was certainly not likable, but he was compelling, and that is Margaret’s bar for writing characters. Sometimes the characters in supporting roles are the ones who are easiest to push boundaries with. You should aim to create an interesting character that directly abets or stymies the protagonist’s goal but in a way that doesn’t necessarily conform to a worn-out archetype.

Every character needs to speak with purpose. When your characters are speaking, they should be trying to get something from one another or make a power play. As you draft each scene, ask yourself what your characters are trying to get. What are they trying to avoid? How do these wants inflect their speech and guide what they say—or don’t say? As you compose dialogue for your supporting characters, be mindful of their character roles within your primary storyline (as well as any subplots). Use their conversations efficiently to contribute to worldbuilding, character development, and the escalation of plot.

Take time to get dialogue right. To get dialogue right, you must understand how your characters speak. This is likely influenced by where they come from, their social class, upbringing, and myriad other factors. Speech and tone are always bound up in what has happened and is happening to a character. Shakespeare was exceptionally deft at encoding his characters’ speech with these social markers. In your own story, if the lead character is from Colorado and his best friend is from New York, their dialogue shouldn’t sound the same. Just as their worldview and personality traits must be distinct, so too must be their way of speaking. Most first-time authors tend to get their major characters’ dialogue correct, but it’s supporting characters’ dialogue that can separate great authors from those who are merely decent.

Choose secondary character names wisely. Be sure names are distinct, Margaret cautions, so that readers can tell characters apart. In cinema, the original Star Wars trilogy does a great job of this. Assuming Luke Skywalker is the protagonist, supporting character names like Leia, Han Solo, Chewbacca, and Obi-Wan Kenobi are all distinct from one another, which aids a first-time viewer who is new to the Jedi universe.

Surprise your readers with unpredictable supporting characters. Margaret wants characters that surprise her and her readers. She connects this to humans’ evolutionary history: We don’t have to pay attention to things that are stable. But when something unexpected happens—the wolf comes out of the woods—we pay attention. We remain alert. Find ways to subvert your readers’ expectations about what secondary and tertiary characters do in a novel, short story, or film. Place your supporting characters in scenarios your audience could not have seen coming.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[sweetchillipeppers]

Jason Todd x Reader - Teacher AU

Pairing: Jason Todd x Gender Neutral!Reader

A/N: Y’all what if I actually got back into writing fics? I didn’t know I could do that. But write what you want to see. And I want to see English teacher by day, Red Hood by night Jason Todd with History teacher reader so sue me. More importantly, I want to see Damian in reader’s classroom at lunchtime bitching about his brother. I already have part two, so that will be posted soon. (And y’all get to have a look at the Red Hood!)

Also I believe this is gender neutral if anyone sees gendered language let me know and I'll fix it.

Tags: Rivals to lovers, kind of mutual pining, Teacher AU Word Count: 3368

Pt 1 Pt 2

You were warned that teaching would be just like high school all over again. The same cliques and bullies and drama that plagued the halls when you were 15, to be repeated now that you’ve returned to the school as an adult. To think that fully grown human beings are still caught up in the same scandals, doomed to the same behaviour 10 years after they should have grown out of it. You never would have believed it until you saw it yourself. Until even you devolved to your teenage years, developing a deep hatred for a fellow colleague. Okay. Hatred was a strong word for the rivalry but the dislike you held for a certain English teacher was real. And right now, he was the reason you’ve had to delay a test for your students. The email you’d received less than 10 minutes before your class was due to start did nothing but add to the rage you felt.

“10th grade English stream A2 is running over. 7 kids still need to present their projects. They’ll be late for their next class. Sorry for the delay.” 

Attached was a list of students in the class who would be late. All unsurprisingly in your history class. Mr Jason Todd had no respect for you, no respect for your time and no respect for your subject.

As the two youngest teachers at the school, you were often paired together: volunteer work, lunch duty, after school workshops. It didn’t help that your two departments, history and english, also worked closely with one another. You hated that the kids adored him. You hated that the other teachers still adored him, especially after all his flakiness. You knew that he hadn’t appeared at over half the after school volunteer work you had to do, and that he likely had an active social or dating life that was the cause, something you missed since becoming a teacher. So maybe, the hatred was all just jealousy. NOT. As if you’d be so petty.

When you first met Jason, you liked him. Like really liked him. He was pretty and smart and you are oh so attracted to competence. You trapped him in literary discussions from the Brothers York to the Odyssey but he never minded. You threw a couple joint trip ideas around to go see a local Shakespeare play after Christmas or the early 19th century writers exhibition at the museum. He was also the rugby coach and his practice on the field coincided with your volleyball team’s in the hall so twice a week you tidied the equipment cupboard together. You were so certain the two of you would be fast friends. Maybe more. So when the librarian went on paternity leave in October and Jason needed help re-cataloguing the entire library onto the new system you volunteered. A chance to spend time with someone you liked and helping out the school: a win-win. What you hadn’t expected was that what should’ve been a couple hours at most after school for a week turned into a month-long endeavour for you. Only you. Jason would stay for at most 20 minutes before running away with some kind of excuse and vanishing for the rest of the night. By the third week, you’d started cataloguing during your lunch breaks to try speed up the process (and to avoid spending any time with him while your temper simmered under pleasantries). After that you distanced yourself. He clearly had no respect for your time and you by extension. No more literary discussions in the staff room. No more joint tidies in the equipment store and no more library cataloguing. Mr Jason Todd was the most unreliable colleague you had. The bane of your existence. And yet, everyone seems to forget this fact when he flashes a smile or starts talking about classic literature. But not you. No, you could see through his gorgeous face, past those good looks into the depths of his terrible personality. And unfortunately, the only person who agreed with you was a child.

“Todd irritates me far too often. I put in a request at the start of the year that I would not be in any of his classes.” Damian states matter of factly. The two of you were sat in your classroom eating lunch. The youngest Wayne opting to spend time surrounded by history displays instead of braving the lunch hall and eating alone. And, as the teacher, it was your responsibility to encourage him to make friends. After the two of you bitch about Jason of course. 

“I wish I could put in a request to stop seeing him in the staff room. But no, he wanders in with his fancy books and his fancy teas-”

“Those would be Pennyworth’s” He confirms.

“-Flashes a smile and expects me to be nice to him after how flakey he’s been. Can you believe it?”

Damian swallows a bite of his sandwich and nods solemnly. “I can.”

“He’s incredibly unreliable. I mean how do people give him any responsibility after this?” Your arms gesturing wildly.

“Perhaps this is weaponised incompetence. I always say to Father that he is too incompetent for his job.” Damian suggests, shaking his head. “But Father says that he is one of the most competent people he knows”

It’s not too hard to be competent in front of ‘Brucie’ Wayne. But you don’t tell Damian that.

“No, he's definitely competent enough. I know he’s incredibly intelligent and I sat in for one of his classes. He clearly just has zero time management skills.”

“And he lacks respect.”

“And he lacks respect!” You shout, then realise you should probably calm down and sheepishly rub the back of your neck. Although it seems that Damian hadn’t cared about your outburst.

“I am the blood son, he should at least be respectful to the rightful heir. But no, he and Grayson make a habit of tossing me about like a basketball.”

That sounds quite sweet to you, that Damian’s older brothers treat him so nicely and the disagreement must show on your face because Damian scoffs.

“Pennyworth tells me it’s ‘Sibling Bonding’. I do not wish to think of those two imbeciles as related to me.”

“The curse of being the youngest.” you offer in response, “Although it sounds like they want to be playful with you. That they want a good relationship.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending Todd right now.”

You huff at that, changing the subject. “Maybe you should make some other friends, that way you can spend less time with your brothers. Think of it as an escape plan.”

“Are you not my friend?” 

“Um well, yes, but I meant some kids your own age.”

“Ah. Father agrees. He says that Jon is not enough. That I need more than one friend. How many friends do you have? I will achieve the same.” Damian looks determined, which means you’re at least getting through to him. You, on the other hand, feel like a deer in headlights. Honestly you can count the number of friends you have from outside work on one hand. 

“I have lots of friends.” You brag. Damian does not look convinced. “How about you aim to make two more friends? Maybe you should join a club. Ms Song says you excel in her art classes. The art club meets on Tuesday lunchtimes and after school on a Wednesday.”

“I enjoy my lunches in the history room.”

“But this would work for both of us Damian. I start lunchtime duty next week on Tuesdays. I won’t be in my classroom.” A lie, of course, but you really want Damian to make some friends and be more social amongst the other students. You’re not sure who’s timetabled for Tuesday lunchtime duty but you’ll find a way to swap. And luckily, Damian doesn’t call your bluff.

“Fine. I shall join the art club. I suppose it is only fair that I do something uncomfortable as well.”

You have no idea what Damian is talking about but he’s joining the art club so that’s a win for you. He’s putting himself out there socially and that’s all you can hope for. The bell rings and Damian packs up his things, leaving you to get ready for your next class. 

By the end of the day you were still thinking about how much you hated Jason. It’s not like he was the only thing on your mind though. In all honesty the only thing you had learnt from the earlier half of your conversation with Damian is that you were acting like a 14 year old. Not to say neither of your grievances were invalid but you suppose you should maybe give Todd slightly more grace than you do currently. Especially if he already has one enemy in Damian. You think back to the incident this morning. Maybe it really was an accident. Sometimes projects and classes over run. You have to be flexible in teaching. You gather your materials together when the bell rings and your last class rushes out the door. 

“For those of you coming on the trip on Saturday, meet outside the school bright and early!” You call, “The coach leaves at 8.30!”

You sit back down and stretch your arms out as you log into your emails, sending one to the maths teacher asking to switch to her lunchtime duty on Tuesdays. She replies yes and you smile in success. Plan ‘help Damian make friends’ has finished stage one. Wonderful! Scanning the latest reminder from your principal, someone knocks at the door, drawing your attention away. You figure it might be Janice, one of the cleaners or Alejandro the receptionist. “Come in.” you say, and turn back to your emails.

“Where’s good to start setting up?” You would recognise that grating voice in a heartbeat. Jason Todd. You swivel so fast in your chair you almost fall out of it. 

“What are you doing here?” You try to sound as neutral and as unaffected by his very presence as possible. 

“Parents' evening. We’re sharing a classroom. The email went out three weeks ago and a reminder today?” You turn back to the monitor. The last unread email. Damn. You’d agreed to share a classroom when you were still on good terms. 

“I must’ve missed it. I’m ready to start setting up right now.” You smile through gritted teeth.

You were so wrong about giving grace. That man has done nothing but step on your toes all afternoon. That display should be changed, these books should be out, example essays from each subject should have no overlap. And the worst part is that he was right on most counts. But you don’t take lightly to being ordered around by a man who does nothing but infuriate you. In less than an hour the parents will be walking into your room and judging you and the school and you again and Jason still isn’t back. He better be in the toilet having a case of explosive diarrhoea or so help him god, the principal will have to scrape his remains off the teacher car park. It’s been 20 minutes. You suppose the classroom is prepped and ready for the parents so you could just wait anxiously by yourself. You suppose nothing was tethering him here when the displays were done as long as he made it back before the parents. You suppose he wouldn’t want to spend time with someone who had become so hostile and jagged towards him. Maybe he was talking with some of the other teachers, you reasoned. He hadn’t abandoned you again. Not after the promises about turning up and being here. And certainly not after the principal’s second reminder email that seemed more like a warning. Perhaps you should go see if any other teachers needed help last minute as well. To keep your mind busy and away from the failure Jason was setting you up for. You lock your classroom and walk towards the art room.

Jason was running late again. Dick had called in an SOS and he was closest. And to make up for it he figured it wouldn’t matter if he stopped to grab a coffee for you each as a peace offering. He did enjoy your company after all. He knew that your iciness these past few weeks had been well deserved. He didn’t mean to miss all the cataloguing but it was a particularly active week for Black Mask and Penguin and then the week after that he was recovering from a stab wound he’d gotten during a routine drug bust. Getting a second job had taken some getting used to. So he could hardly blame you for your hostility. He knew he deserved it. So in order to make amends, he grabbed you a drink from the cafe two blocks from the school before he joined you in your classroom, ready for parents evening. He signed back into the office before catching a glimpse at the time. Shit. You were going to be so angry if he was late again. So he sprinted like a madman, ignoring all his very new teacher instincts about running in corridors. As Jason rushed towards your classroom he didn't notice the art room door open and you step out, waving goodbye to Ms Song. 

The apology coffee ended up all over you. Seeping through your sweater and your shirt. Your nice, white shirt, ironed and pressed for parents' evening. You take a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to-” Jason starts.

“It's okay Jason, really.” You swallow and turn to keep walking to your class. You were trying not to lose it. Not to cry or yell, when parents could walk through the door at any moment. Jason trailed behind you. When you walk into your classroom he calls your name. 

“What?” You snap. You have run out of patience and out of grace for him. He takes off his knit jumper, passing it to you.

“It’ll help cover the stain.”

“It’ll be weird though won’t it?” You question, eyebrow raised. You knew exactly what the staff room would sound like on Monday if anyone saw you. 

“Is that worse than letting the principal see you talking to parents covered in coffee?”

You don’t reply. He was right, per usual. You take the jumper, unenthusiastically and pull it on. It smells like him. Not that it would mean anything to you of course, it’s just a smell. It has absolutely zero effect on you. Jason was also not faring too well. Seeing you in his jumper was quite endearing. But it had no effect on him either. Everyone looked good in knit. Thankfully, you both hear the parents walking around the corridors and are able to break the awkwardness. 

“Ready to go?” He asks.

“People will like history way better than English.” You promise in response, looking at your display on ancient civilisations, matching your 9th grade class’s current topic. The bright colours and big posters were sure to catch everyone’s eyes.

Jason smirks, “More people like Shakespeare than you think.” He references his own display: a large, badly drawn, picture of Shakespeare with literary technique thought bubbles surrounding him. You roll your eyes, desperately trying to stop any trace of a smile. You were still angry at him. But right now, the parents need your attention.

The two of you finally finished the evening. It had been taxing, no thanks to your revived rivalry. You spent the entire evening one-upping each other to parents, as subtle as possible of course. When the principal had checked in on your pair, you were sweet as saints. No matter how much you disliked the man, even you couldn't deny how well you worked together. He apologised multiple times about the coffee. He really did feel bad about it all. The spill really was an accident. He also apologised for his flakiness, but gave no explanation as to why he had abandoned you for weeks on end. You found no reasonable explanation incredibly hard to believe. So you still didn’t trust him. 

When the final parents left and the two of you began the tedious task of tidying, you walked up to him. “Just because we’ve worked well together tonight does not mean I forgive you. I know you’ve said sorry but until you prove it I don’t believe you.” You used your teacher voice but kept it low enough that the few listening ears wouldn’t have the chance for any gossip. Jason nods, gulping. You continue to work in silence. When the two of you finished packing everything away, highly efficiently you might add, you knew you ought to talk to Jason about Damian. No matter how much his brother disliked him, you knew you needed to talk to him about Damian. You wanted his family to encourage his creativity as both an outlet and a means to relax and socialise. You casually leant against a desk and spoke up. 

“This might be too personal-” Jason perked up at your voice. “-but I was wondering if you could ask your family to encourage Damian’s art and creativity. I’m aware he doesn’t really have many friends-” Jason scoffs and you stare him down. He was a grown man. He needed to act like one.

Jason breaks the silence, “He has one friend, Jon. He lives in Metropolis. They see each other pretty regularly.” Jason shrugs. “Does he really need more?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You need to think like a teacher. Stop looking at him like your kid brother and see him as a child having trouble connecting with his peers. I want him to have someone to talk to while at school. Someone who is not me. And not you.” You add, even though you know Damian likely ignores his entire existence. “I’ve asked him to join the art club and go on Tuesday lunchtimes. I’m sure Ms Song has told you about how talented he is.”

“She hasn’t. You’re the only teacher who knows we’re related.” Jason shrugs again. His nonchalance was getting on your nerves. 

“What?”

“The school board and principal know, obviously. But we thought it would be better that his peers didn’t. We didn’t want him being accused of favouritism.” You suppose that makes sense. That could have isolated him further. Jason stepped towards you. “And you only know because of your bitching sessions.” Your eyes widen. “Yeah I know about those.” Jason taunts. 

This man. The nerve! And after you had graciously half-forgiven him. Surely Damian had not spilled the beans to his asshole brother. No. Jason probably found out by spying or some very nefarious plot. Why would he care anyway? Everyone else at this stupid school adored him. You were indulging his kid brother and helping him talk about his feelings. You were not in the wrong here. Jason was. And he was also far too close to you now. You don’t even know when he got so close. So close to one another that you could see every freckle. Every scar. Every pore on his gorgeous face. You were too close. And you knew you were flushing. You felt so hot. FROM REVITALISED LOATHING AND HATRED OF COURSE. Not from embarrassment. Or any other emotion. You steel your eyes. He would not know how much he affected you. Stupid smirking men do not get to win. You stand up straight and look him eye to eye. “Encourage Damian’s creativity. Your brother deserves more friends.” You dodge past Jason and grab your bag from under your desk. You motion for him to grab his shit. He does so and walks out, heading straight for the office to leave. Allowing you to lock up your classroom by yourself, in the empty school, not thinking about how close the two of you had been. Never thinking about his eyes or his hair or his lips. Peeling off his jumper and staring down the ugly brown coffee stain on your shirt, only thinking about the ways Jason had wronged you.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[theviewer]

I like how every season of Malevolent can be compared to various literature pieces. (Beware I'm not a passionate reader and literature classes were pretty boring to me)

The first season is quite modern in the way it tells the story of the MCs unique condition and what not. More contemporary, the MCs aren't straight up badasses and fuck up many times, very organic.

The Dreamlands arc is VERY lovecraftian. Cheff kiss. At times it reminds me of the american need for putting their heroes in situations that force them to make unethical choices and are easily forgiven due to context (I personally asociarte John and Arthur's time in the pits to some of the MCU backstories).

Now Allison in the first episodes is straight up Dracula. Foreigner goes to some strange isolated place that screams bloody murder and an evil overlord with a connection to the supernatural keeps the population afraid as f

The New York arc it's clearly old jazz and even reminds me of 'a case in scarlet'.

Now the latest season tastes a bit of Edgar Alan Poe and Shakespeare. Altho there have been previous 'shakesperean' happennings throughout the podcast mainly because of the misinterpretated foreshadowing/predictions/signs (à la Hamlet) and the tragic lovers dynamic John and Arthur display at times

I know many of us heard the first episodes of the latest season believing it to be an arthurian legend sort of arc but as things kept hapenning it didn't turn out like that at all ! And i love it for it.

I'm thinking the podcast could have and Odyssey like finale. I long tortuos travel with many stops in the way that eventualy leads to where everything started. Home.

What other classics do you associate Malevolent with?

[queenofnots]

[justforbooks]

Everybody is happy now

A world of genetically modified babies, boundless consumption, casual sex and drugs … How does Aldous Huxley's vision of a totalitarian future stand up 75 years after Brave New World was first published, asks Margaret Atwood

"O brave new world, that has such people in't!" - Miranda, in Shakespeare's The Tempest, on first sighting the shipwrecked courtiers

In the latter half of the 20th century, two visionary books cast their shadows over our futures. One was George Orwell's 1949 novel Nineteen Eighty-Four, with its horrific vision of a brutal, mind-controlling totalitarian state - a book that gave us Big Brother and thoughtcrime and newspeak and the memory hole and the torture palace called the Ministry of Love and the discouraging spectacle of a boot grinding into the human face forever.

The other was Aldous Huxley's Brave New World (1932), which proposed a different and softer form of totalitarianism - one of conformity achieved through engineered, bottle-grown babies and hypnotic persuasion rather than through brutality, of boundless consumption that keeps the wheels of production turning and of officially enforced promiscuity that does away with sexual frustration, of a pre-ordained caste system ranging from a highly intelligent managerial class to a subgroup of dim-witted serfs programmed to love their menial work, and of soma, a drug that confers instant bliss with no side effects.

Which template would win, we wondered. During the cold war, Nineteen Eighty-Four seemed to have the edge. But when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, pundits proclaimed the end of history, shopping reigned triumphant, and there was already lots of quasi-soma percolating through society. True, promiscuity had taken a hit from Aids, but on balance we seemed to be in for a trivial, giggly, drug-enhanced spend-o-rama: Brave New World was winning the race.

That picture changed, too, with the attack on New York's twin towers in 2001. Thoughtcrime and the boot grinding into the human face could not be got rid of so easily, after all. The Ministry of Love is back with us, it appears, though it's no longer limited to the lands behind the former iron curtain: the west has its own versions now.

On the other hand, Brave New World hasn't gone away. Shopping malls stretch as far as the bulldozer can see. On the wilder fringes of the genetic engineering community, there are true believers prattling of the gene-rich and the gene-poor - Huxley's alphas and epsilons - and busily engaging in schemes for genetic enhancement and - to go one better than Brave New World - for immortality.

Would it be possible for both of these futures - the hard and the soft - to exist at the same time, in the same place? And what would that be like?

Surely it's time to look again at Brave New World and to examine its arguments for and against the totally planned society it describes, in which "everybody is happy now". What sort of happiness is on offer, and what is the price we might pay to achieve it?

I first read Brave New World in the early 1950s, when I was 14. It made a deep impression on me, though I didn't fully understand some of what I was reading. It's a tribute to Huxley's writing skills that although I didn't know what knickers were, or camisoles - nor did I know that zippers, when they first appeared, had been denounced from pulpits as lures of the devil because they made clothes so easy to take off - I none the less had a vivid picture of "zippicamiknicks", that female undergarment with a single zipper down the front that could be shucked so easily: "Zip! The rounded pinkness fell apart like a neatly divided apple. A wriggle of the arms, a lifting first of the right foot, then the left: the zippicamiknicks were lying lifeless and as though deflated on the floor."

I myself was living in the era of "elasticised panty girdles" that could not be got out of or indeed into without an epic struggle, so this was heady stuff indeed.

The girl shedding the zippicamiknicks is Lenina Crowne, a blue-eyed beauty both strangely innocent and alluringly voluptuous - or "pneumatic", as her many male admirers call her. Lenina doesn't see why she shouldn't have sex with anyone she likes whenever the occasion offers, as to do so is merely polite behaviour and not to do so is selfish. The man she's trying to seduce by shedding her undergarment is John "the Savage", who's been raised far outside the "civilised" pale on a diet of Shakespeare's chastity/whore speeches, and Zuni cults, and self-flagellation, and who believes in religion and romance, and in suffering to be worthy of one's beloved, and who idolises Lenina until she doffs her zippicamiknicks in such a casual and shameless fashion.

Never were two sets of desiring genitalia so thoroughly at odds. And thereon hangs Huxley's tale.

Brave New World is either a perfect-world utopia or its nasty opposite, a dystopia, depending on your point of view: its inhabitants are beautiful, secure and free from diseases and worries, though in a way we like to think we would find unacceptable. "Utopia" is sometimes said to mean "no place", from the Greek ou-topos; others derive it from eu, as in "eugenics", in which case it would mean "healthy place" or "good place". Sir Thomas More, in his own 16th-century Utopia, may have been punning: utopia is the good place that doesn't exist.

As a literary construct, Brave New World thus has a long list of literary ancestors. Plato's Republic and the Bible's book of Revelations and the myth of Atlantis are the great-great-grandparents of the form; nearer in time are More's Utopia, and the land of the talking-horse, totally rational Houyhnhnms in Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels, and HG Wells's The Time Machine, in which the brainless, pretty "upper classes" play in the sunshine during the day, and the ugly "lower classes" run the underground machinery and emerge at night to eat the social butterflies.

In the 19th century - when improvements in sewage systems, medicine, communication technologies and transportation were opening new doors - many earnest utopias were thrown up by the prevailing mood of optimism, with William Morris's News from Nowhere and Edward Bellamy's Looking Backward foremost among them.

Insofar as they are critical of society as it presently exists, but nevertheless take a dim view of the prospects of the human race, utopias may verge on satire, as do Swift's and More's and Wells's; but insofar as they endorse the view that humanity is perfectible, or can at least be vastly improved, they will resemble idealising romances, as do Bellamy's and Morris's. The first world war marked the end of the romantic-idealistic utopian dream in literature, just as several real-life utopian plans were about to be launched with disastrous effects. The Communist regime in Russia and the Nazi takeover of Germany both began as utopian visions.

But as had already been discovered in literary utopias, perfectibility breaks on the rock of dissent. What do you do with people who don't endorse your views or fit in with your plans? Nathaniel Hawthorne, a disillusioned graduate of the real-life Brooke Farm utopian scheme, pointed out that the Puritan founders of New England - who intended to build the New Jerusalem - began with a prison and a gibbet. Forced re-education, exile and execution are the usual choices on offer in utopias for any who oppose the powers that be. It's rats in the eyes for you - as in Nineteen Eighty-Four - if you won't love Big Brother. Brave New World has its own gentler punishments: for non-conformists, it's exile to Iceland, where Man's Final End can be discussed among like-minded intellects, without pestering "normal" people - in a sort of university, as it were.

Utopias and dystopias from Plato's Republic on have had to cover the same basic ground that real societies do. All must answer the same questions: where do people live, what do they eat, what do they wear, what do they do about sex and child-rearing? Who has the power, who does the work, how do citizens relate to nature, and how does the economy function? Romantic utopias such as Morris's News from Nowhere and WH Hudson's A Crystal Age present a pre-Raphaelite picture, with the inhabitants going in for flowing robes, natural settings in abodes that sound like English country houses with extra stained glass and lots of arts and crafts. Everything would be fine, we're told, if we could only do away with industrialism and get back in tune with nature, and deal with overpopulation. (Hudson solves this last problem by simply eliminating sex, except for one unhappy couple per country house who are doomed to procreate.)

But when Huxley was writing Brave New World at the beginning of the 1930s, he was, in his own words, an "amused, Pyrrhonic aesthete", a member of that group of bright young upstarts that swirled around the Bloomsbury Group and delighted in attacking anything Victorian or Edwardian. So Brave New World tosses out the flowing robes, the crafts, and the tree-hugging. Its architecture is futuristic - electrically lighted towers and softly glowing pink glass - and everything in its cityscape is relentlessly unnatural and just as relentlessly industrialised. Viscose and acetate and imitation leather are its fabrics of choice; apartment buildings, complete with artificial music and taps that flow with perfume, are its dwellings; transportation is by private helicopter. Babies are no longer born, they're grown in hatcheries, their bottles moving along assembly lines, in various types and batches according to the needs of "the hive", and fed on "external secretion" rather than "milk". The word "mother" - so thoroughly worshipped by the Victorians - has become a shocking obscenity; and indiscriminate sex, which was a shocking obscenity for the Victorians, is now de rigueur.

"He patted me on the behind this afternoon," said Lenina.

"There, you see!" Fanny was triumphant. "That shows what he stands for. The strictest conventionality."

Many of Brave New World's nervous jokes turn on these kinds of inversions - more startling to its first audience, perhaps, than to us, but still wry enough. Victorian thrift turns to the obligation to spend, Victorian till-death-do-us-part monogamy has been replaced with "everyone belongs to everyone else", Victorian religiosity has been channelled into the worship of an invented deity - "Our Ford", named after the American car-czar Henry Ford, god of the assembly line - via communal orgies. Even the "Our Ford" chant of "orgy-porgy" is an inversion of the familiar nursery rhyme, in which kissing the girls makes them cry. Now, it's if you refuse to kiss them - as "the Savage" does - that the tears will flow.

Sex is often centre stage in utopias and dystopias - who can do what, with which set of genital organs, and with whom, being one of humanity's main preoccupations. Because sex and procreation have been separated and women no longer give birth - the very idea is yuck-making to them - sex has become a recreation. Little naked children carry on "erotic play" in the shrubberies, so as to get a hand in early. Some women are sterile - "freemartins" - and perfectly nice girls, though a little whiskery. The others practise "Malthusian drill" - a form of birth control - and take "pregnancy surrogate" hormone treatments if they feel broody, and sport sweet little faux-leather fashionista cartridge belts crammed with contraceptives. If they slip up on their Malthusian drill, there's always the lovely pink-glass Abortion Centre. Huxley wrote before the pill, but its advent brought his imagined sexual free-for-all a few steps closer. (What about gays? Does "everyone belongs to everyone else" really mean everyone? We aren't told.)

Huxley himself still had one foot in the 19th century: he could not have dreamed his upside-down morality unless he himself also found it threatening. At the time he was writing Brave New World he was still in shock from a visit to the United States, where he was particularly frightened by mass consumerism, its group mentality and its vulgarities.

I use the word "dreamed" advisedly, because Brave New World - gulped down whole - achieves an effect not unlike a controlled hallucination. All is surface; there is no depth. As you might expect from an author with impaired eyesight, the visual sense predominates: colours are intense, light and darkness vividly described. Sound is next in importance, especially during group ceremonies and orgies, and the viewing of "feelies" - movies in which you feel the sensations of those onscreen, "The Gorillas' Wedding" and "Sperm Whale's Love-Life" being sample titles. Scents are third - perfume wafts everywhere, and is dabbed here and there; one of the most poignant encounters between John the Savage and the lovely Lenina is the one in which he buries his worshipping face in her divinely scented undergarments while she herself is innocently sleeping, zonked out on a strong dose of soma, partly because she can't stand the awful real-life smells of the "reservation" where the new world has not been implemented.

Many utopias and dystopias emphasise food (delicious or awful; or, in the case of Swift's Houyhnhnms, oats), but in Brave New World the menus are not presented. Lenina and her lay-of-the-month, Henry, eat "an excellent meal", but we aren't told what it is. (Beef would be my guess, in view of the huge barns full of cows that provide the external secretions.) Despite the dollops of sex-on-demand, the bodies in Brave New World are oddly disembodied, which serves to underscore one of Huxley's points: in a world in which everything is available, nothing has any meaning.

Meaning has in fact been eliminated, as far as possible. All books except works of technology have been banned - cf Ray Bradbury's 1953 novel Fahrenheit 451; museum-goers have been slaughtered, cf Henry Ford's "History is bunk". As for God, he is present "as an absence; as though he weren't there at all" - except, of course, for the deeply religious John the Savage, who has been raised on the Zuni "reservation", where archaic life carries on, replete with "meaning" of the most intense kinds. John is the only character in the book who has a real body, but he knows it through pain, not through pleasure. "Nothing costs enough here," he says of the perfumed new world, to where he's been brought as an "experiment".

The "comfort" offered by Mustapha Mond - one of the 10 "controllers" of this world, direct descendants of Plato's guardians - is not enough for John. He wants the old world back - dirt, diseases, free will, fear, anguish, blood, sweat, tears and all. He believes he has a soul, and like many an early 20th-century literary possessor of such a thing - think of the missionary in Somerset Maugham's 1921 story, Miss Thompson, who hangs himself after sinning with a prostitute - he is made to pay the price for this belief.

In a foreword to a new edition of Brave New World published in 1946, after the horrors of the second world war and Hitler's "final solution", Huxley criticises himself for having provided only two choices in his 1932 utopia/dystopia - an "insane life in Utopia" or "the life of a primitive in an Indian village, more human in some respects, but in others hardly less queer and abnormal". (He does, in fact, provide a third sort of life - that of the intellectual community of misfits in Iceland - but poor John the Savage isn't allowed to go there, and he wouldn't have liked it anyway, as there are no public flagellations available.) The Huxley of 1946 comes up with another sort of utopia, one in which "sanity" is possible. By this, he means a kind of "high utilitarianism" dedicated to a "conscious and rational" pursuit of man's "final end", which is a kind of union with the immanent "Tao or Logos, the transcendent Godhead or Brahmin". No wonder Huxley subsequently got heavily into the mescaline and wrote The Doors of Perception, thus inspiring a generation of 1960s dopeheads and pop musicians to seek God in altered brain chemistry. His interest in soma, it appears, didn't spring out of nowhere.

Meanwhile, those of us still pottering along on the earthly plane - and thus still able to read books - are left with Brave New World. How does it stand up, 75 years later? And how close have we come, in real life, to the society of vapid consumers, idle pleasure-seekers, inner-space trippers and programmed conformists that it presents?

The answer to the first question, for me, is that it stands up very well. It's still as vibrant, fresh, and somehow shocking as it was when I first read it.

The answer to the second question rests with you. Look in the mirror: do you see Lenina Crowne looking back at you, or do you see John the Savage? Chances are, you'll see something of both, because we've always wanted things both ways. We wish to be as the careless gods, lying around on Olympus, eternally beautiful, having sex and being entertained by the anguish of others. And at the same time we want to be those anguished others, because we believe, with John, that life has meaning beyond the play of the senses, and that immediate gratification will never be enough.

It was Huxley's genius to present us to ourselves in all our ambiguity. Alone among the animals, we suffer from the future perfect tense. Rover the Dog cannot imagine a future world of dogs in which all fleas will have been eliminated and doghood will finally have achieved its full glorious potential. But thanks to our uniquely structured languages, human beings can imagine such enhanced states for themselves, though they can also question their own grandiose constructions. It's these double-sided imaginative abilities that produce masterpieces of speculation such as Brave New World

To quote The Tempest, source of Huxley's title: "We are such stuff / As dreams are made on." He might well have added: "and nightmares".

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[sonderinghiraeth]

Who We Are || Loki/Reader

[ A/N: Hi, I'm vrlouise on AO3. I have decided to reconstruct Drive Me Crazy for the better-viewing pleasures of Tumblr, and for lack of a better term, Drive Me Crazy was something I used as a fun pastime. If I put it on here as a portfolio piece for future commission work, I want it to be something I'm proud of. Happy reading! ]

Chapter One

"Y'all? Y'all. It's all you've said since you've been back. You weren't like this three weeks ago."

Your friend teased you as she untied her apron from the loops of her jeans, strolling down the dimly lit sidewalk scattered with trash and other questionable litter within the hallways of buildings that illuminated New York City.

"Lauren, you wouldn't believe how infuriatingly easy it is to pick the accent back up even after a week." You replied, removing your own apron.

You had just managed to escape your job at one of the cozier coffee shops in New York. It was chaotic and messy, but it was good money. They never failed to be busy at any time of the day, and you already knew many of the people who worked there. The fifteen dollars an hour plus tips soothed your poor college kid soul.

"You sound like Shakespeare if his translator was from Tennessee."

"Hey, aren't you from Utah? The Mormon state?"

She shoved you with a snicker. "I'm not Mormon."

You would think you were some sort of marvel to New York natives. It was an entire conversation within itself trying to get to know someone from here.

"Do you really say y'all? What's Waffle House like? Say Oil. Is it true you fuck your cousins?"

You weren't even truly Southern to begin with. Your grandfather was a New York native who retired to Tennessee. Thankfully for you, this gave way to a rather cozy apartment in his will, and an out from your mother's helicopter arms.

"Oh trust me, I know." You finally answered, slipping the Fireball shooter out of your apron pocket. Your friend mimicked with a Pink Whitney.

"To Sunday doubles?" Your friend smirked, skewing her shooter in your direction. You untwisted the cap of your Fireball, clinking it with her Whitney.

"To Sunday doubles." You sighed out, and down the hatch it went. The burn was something you enjoyed, but it never failed to make your entire body cringe in a cinnamon-flavored fit.

Your friend laughed and stopped near the stoop of her own apartment. "Thanks for staying with me til' close. See you in class tomorrow. First last day!"

"See you in class." You nodded, still recuperating from your fifth nightcap of the night. You failed to mention to your best friend you might have also had a friendly Pina Colada or four at the bar next door while waiting for her to close up shop. You could have, should have called an Uber, but she begged you to stay and walk with her.

You were, soon regrettably, a good friend.

You blinked, and as you came back to your senses you realized you had been walking aimlessly down side paths and alleyways, completely unaware you were completely off the regular route to your apartment.

Either the drinks were already working, or you were as ditzy as everyone made you out to be.

You turned back around, watching for rats and roaches as you weaved through the alleyway you were currently in and down another side path as a shortcut to your apartment. You were nervous about returning to classes. Your professors had thankfully given you the green light to go back home after the battle of New York. Your mother would not have had it any other way.

You'll never forget your mother as you backed out of the driveway to finally come back to New York, teary-eyed and waving her arms hysterically.

"Don't forget to go to church, or the devil will get you!"

You haven't been to church.

"You will listen when I am talking to you!" The voice was blurry, echoing in the river of your now swimming thoughts.

The devil got you.

You knew you weren't just drunkenly hallucinating when two pairs of hands grabbed you, and you immediately reared back, and solar plexus-ed whatever creep was trying to take advantage of you in this alleyway.

"Get the hell off of me! I'm not the one you fucker!"

The man, now in front of you, grunted and caved partly in on himself from a lava-lamp point of view in your glazed eyes. However, he did not immediately go to his knees like most people did.

You fucked up.

You fucked up and now you were going to be on the New York Times as a girl found mutilated and stuffed in a trash bag like how your Mom always said you would end up here. You shouldn't have taken that Fireball shot, you shouldn't have drank all those pina coladas. You shouldn't have walked tonight. You should have just got that Uber instead of being nice. Stupid southern hospitality.

Now periwinkle eyes stared bullets through your skull. Shivers slithered down your spine when you began to convince yourself that maybe you were just blackout and hallucinating that a random homeless man was attacking you. Because right now it looked like that guy who attacked New York just a month ago that you swore was taken back to wherever he came from was giving you the sassiest glare known to man here in a random New York alleyway.

"That was your first mistake, wench." He growled, a lot deeper than you expected. He took your chin into his grasp, pulling you close.

"You will take me to your living, do you understand? You will take me to your home, and you will feed me and clothe me. I am a God, do you understand? I am Loki!" He rambled, but you couldn't process a lick of anything that he said.

You, in fact, said nothing. You just stared at him with your thoughts fluttering off about your possible murder. This caused his eyebrows to furrow.

"Are you dull? I said take me to your home!"

You refused to speak, only seething in a breath when he dragged you closer to him.

"I'll give you to the count of three before I gut you like a fish, understand? I know your race is miserable, fruitless, and primitive, but surely you have enough brains to lead me to shelter. Understand?" He gruffed.

You finally began to follow along to what he was saying, and you grabbed one of his wrists that were now on your shoulders. "God that was threatening." You sighed, completely ignoring the extraterrestrial tyrant threatening your life as you began walking the other way to your apartment, clearly tip-toeing the fence of a blackout.

"Are you taking me to your home?" The man followed you.

"Yeah, yeah." You unknowingly whispered, gesturing him onward. "Just, gotta promise to go home before I wake up. No blowjobs."

"This will be my home." He retorted, ignoring your latter comment.

You hiccupped a laugh. "Yeah, and I'm Michael Jackson."

You took the turn off of the alley, going two buildings down and finally towards the steps of your apartment. How were you walking so straight? Were you walking straight? Were you just convincing yourself you were walking straight? Should you ask him if you're walking straight?

"Am I walking straight?" You finally blurted out.

"Quite." He tersely replied.

You went inside of the lobby, towards the elevator that was melting into itself from your point of view. You pressed for it, slowly turning around to still see the Death-Bringer of New York in tow.

"I don't know why I'm doing this right now." You told him, not knowing if you were trying to convince him or yourself that this was real.

"Because you're weak." He bit back. The elevator door dinged, and he was the one to drag you inside.

You looked down at the mountainous list of buttons to each floor, some of the numbers scratched off and others messily painted on.

"I forgot which floor I'm on."

"You forgot?"

"Yeah, I forgot." You couldn't help but laugh, slowly leaning over the button box as you continued your fit of giggles.

"Remember."

You couldn't stop giggling for the life of you, pressing for the 17th floor and accidentally pressing for the 16th too.

"Oh, my bad." You slurred, covering your mouth to stop yourself from crashing into another laughing fit.

"I hope you're not this egregiously annoying when you're sober." He jabbed, crossing his arms.

You still weren't totally processing what was happening right now. You were standing beside The God of Mischief. No, you were taking the God of Mischief to your apartment, and Lauren, or anyone else for that matter was nowhere in sight.

After waiting impatiently for the elevator door to open and close on the 16th floor, you finally reached the 17th floor. You had better luck remembering which apartment was yours.

Maybe that's because there are only two doors on the floor to begin with.

"Thank you for getting me home, you can go now." You mumbled with a giggle as you unlocked the door and slowly began to close it behind you.

That was until Loki practically pushed you inside and closed the door. "I'm not going anywhere, you insolent mortal." He corrected you, walking in to inspect your apartment and make sure it was up to his standards. He marched all around the living room, trailing off to the bedroom, then the bathroom, then the guest bedroom.

"Your vocabulary is unnecessary." You slurred, stumbling over to the couch and finally being welcomed by the comfy smell of old people and dust that stained the fabric of the twenty-year-old couch.

"I'll be washing up now." He ignored your comment, slamming the door to the bathroom.

There wasn't much to do or say, you still weren't in the mood to process a lick of what was happening. So you did what every drunk person would do in this situation.

You passed out.

-

The morning was brutal to you. The sun unforgivingly shining right down on your eyes from the window of your living room.

You audibly groaned, shading your eyes with your arm. You had fallen asleep jeans and all.

"Oh good, you're awake."

You immediately raised in alarm, snapping your gaze to the side despite the pounding headache on the right side of your head.

There he was. Dark crashing waves in an ocean of raven hair, cheekbones as high as the heavens and carved sharp enough to slice bread, decked out in black sweatpants that were a little too small for him and a Grand Canyon shirt equally too big. He sat with one leg crossed over the other as if he had been watching you for hours, both arms sprawled on either side of the loveseat. As if he were a king.

Loki Laufeyson.

You shrieked in horror, galloping over your couch and making a bullet towards your bedroom.

You could hear his muffled groan as you slammed the door shut and managed to finally lock it with shaky hands.

You were already gasping for air, throat dry, eyes still cruddy, and legs wobbling. You slowly slid down the panel of your door, head drowning with a desperate recall to last night.

It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a stupid blackout dream. Of course, it wasn't a blackout dream!

Clothes were littered on the floor trailing from your closet. The box that kept all of your failed Hinge and Tinder artifacts was dumped out into a pile. That must explain where he got the sweatpants and shirt.

This freak went through your room?

"That was a much more appropriate yet nevertheless annoying response." His voice came from the other side of the door. "Your bed is quite comfortable for a Midgardian one, though I do suggest you use less quilts and linens."

"Why are you here?! Please leave my apartment!" You finally yell, the effects of your hangover making you sound weaker than you intended.

"Like you deserve to know,."

"You're in my apartment!" You emphasized, throwing your arms out like he could see them.

"Our apartment now, mortal. You best get used to me until Odin lets me return." He muffled through the door. "Let me in."

"You can't stay here!"

"And who are you to say? You readily welcomed me in last night."

"I'll call the Avengers."

"Oh, the same Avengers that can't even agree on what's left and what's right? Grand idea. Listen, this is for the benefit of both of us. I get sheltered, fed, and bathed. You get to be in the presence of a God."

You pinched your temples, looking down at the carpet to see you were stepping on photos.

Photos?

You lifted your foot, seeing the slightly crumpled image of you squished in between your father and grandfather. All of you ten years younger.

"How much stuff did you go through?" You said, picking up the trail of photos that led to the bed where a whole stack was spread out on the quilt.

"Only what I needed to." He replied, jiggling the door handle. "Let me in, that is an order."

"What? No! You could kill me!"

"If I wanted to do that I would have done so during your rather heavily intoxicated slumber." He retorted, jiggling the handle once more.

You cursed yourself, fighting between giving in to him and unlocking the door or attempting to run through the fire escape outside. He was a God, a proven murderous God. If you opened the door, it could very well be the last thing you ever do.

You searched around for your phone to call the police, but you had to have left it in your bag in the living room. You were at a dead end.

Instead, you opted for your pistol in your bedside drawer. You inched back over to the bedroom door, drowning in possible outcomes.

You took a deep breath in, finally unlocked the door, and swung it open to hold him at gunpoint.

There he stood, annoyed as ever. "I'm glad you've finally come to your senses, but you are as egregiously annoying sober. You haven't proven any different at least."

"Weren't you literally just taken back to wherever you came from last month? Like, jailed? Executed?" You asked as he made his way to the foot of your bed, the barrel of your pistol following suit. The sweatpants were way too small.

"Odin is clever and cruel with his punishments, girl. I am stripped of my powers, and cruelly banished here to live amongst you scum."

"You're saying this to the girl that is graciously lending you a place to stay."

"Not like you exactly consented."

"Ew! Don't put it like that." You cringed, sneering at his comment. "You're just like us now?"

"No, I still have the strength and aging of a God. Plus some minor magic that not even Odin can cast off me. So don't even think about being sneaky around the God of Sneakiness." He gave an exasperated sigh. "And put the toy down. That silly thing won't even land a scratch."

You rolled your eyes, if he hadn't hurt you yet, he wouldn't hurt you now. You threw up your hands and turned to your nightstand. That's when you finally had the chance to see a clock.

9 a.m.

Shit.

"God I need to tell Lauren I'm not making it to class." You muttered to yourself, jogging off to the living room to finally retrieve your phone.

"Who is Lauren?" He questioned, following you.

"My friend and coworker." You made it to your purse, fishing your phone out to find her contact.

After a few rings, the phone picked up.

"Heyyy, where are you?" Lauren greeted, making your face contort awkwardly.

"At home. Can you tell McAbee it's an emergency? Please, Lauren, it's a real emergency." You pleaded, bouncing your leg up and down while picking at your lip.

"Being hungover is not an emergency." She teased. "Plus I had to make up for your absence for like, the past month. Are you seriously asking me to cover your ass?"

"Lauren, I'm serious. I'll explain later but it's a super intense emergency." You urged. It hadn't yet sunk in still that Loki was in your apartment.

"I'll tell her, but you better be in class tomorrow. You're not dropping a semester behind me, I promised Kim." She replied, referring to your mother. You cried out in joy and relief.

"Thank you thank you thank you, Lauren. I promise it is totally worth it and I totally promise I'll get you back."

You hung up the phone, turning to Loki.

He still simply stood in front of you, arms crossed. "Well? Where's breakfast?"

You scoffed, standing back up. "Not really a breakfast person, sorry."

"You expect me to starve?"

"I kinda expect you, a God, to be independent enough to find your own breakfast."

"Watch that mouth, you quim." His eyes narrowed at your response, stepping closer.

"I just got back here! I literally have no food. You can check yourself." You motioned to the pantry that was never really stocked, to begin with. "I went home because of your attack on New York."

How were you doing this? How were you just so casually bickering with the man who almost decimated your entire city less than a month ago? How were you not dead?

"Listen, I really need to find some Aspirin and cold water." You mentioned, walking back to the bathroom.

Once inside, you turned the faucet on and began to splash freezing water right in your face to try and alleviate some of your head pain. You put a brush through your hair, brushed your teeth of the alcohol from last night, popped a few pills, and turned on the shower to let the water heat.

You walked back into your bedroom to retrieve some clothes for the day, but instead, you found Loki lounging on your mattress, inspecting the picture frame of you and your mother.

"My mom." You answered before he had the chance to pop the question, picking out a shirt and some jeans.

"You look like each other."

"Is that not common where you're from? Kids looking like their parents?"

"Not quite."

You shrugged. "I'm going to go shower, uh, if that's cool?"

"As you please." He waved you off, not bothering to look at you.

You rolled your eyes once you turned around. How was this the same guy that killed so many people? Was that all just propaganda?

The combination of hot water and the smell of your herbal concoction of body washes made your headache wash away with the rest of the ickiness on your body. Yet, it still wasn't exactly registering. Nothing about this entire ordeal was registered with you. How were you going to tell your mom? Were you going to tell your mom? Were you going to tell your friends? Oh god, you're going to have to leave him here to go to classes and work eventually.

As awkward as it already was, it was even more awkward knowing that this guy was just chilling in your apartment right now, and you were butt naked. It just felt so odd and almost creepy. You didn't really know who he was or what he was entirely capable of even without powers. He was lanky, but he was still 6'4 regardless. He could choke-slam you with one hand. He was some random grown-ass man taking advantage of you while you were drunk just like any other guy.

And you had no idea how to get rid of him.

You exited the shower in a fresh pair of clothes, taking a deep breath in and out before facing the monster in your bedroom again.

There he was still, lounging on your bed and flipping through one of your many books.

"I have a guest bedroom." You mentioned.

"The bed was stale." He replied, flipping to the next page.

"Okay, listen, you can do a lot of things, but you're not stealin' my bedroom." You sternly said.

"You should be grateful." He quipped, resting the book on the sheets.

You scoffed, feeling your stomach pit and groan, reminding you it had almost been twenty-four hours since you last ate.

"Let's find something to eat." You left your bedroom, entered the kitchen, and began to rummage for something that may satisfy both you and the spoiled God.

You managed to scour out some mac n cheese cups, popcorn, and ramen noodles.

Grocery shopping was on your rather long list of things to do since you returned home.

"I don't have much here." You muttered, rather embarrassingly. Why were you embarrassed? He should be glad you're even providing him food to begin with in this economy.

"We can go find something to eat, I'm sure." He suggested.

You stared at him, dumbfounded. "That costs money that I do not have, Loki." His name felt foreign on your tongue. "I'm a college student, and wouldn't the Avengers fucking dogpile us?"

"I am capable of the funds. I told you there would be benefits to providing me." He smirked. "And no need to fret about those pesky Avengers. They have themselves to fight over right now. Besides, consider it a gracious and rather rare treat until you pull yourself together. I was hoping I'd be luckier in my search of the vulnerable, but I will take what I can get." He shrugged.

You scanned the room back and forth, worried to ask where in the world he could have possibly gotten money from. You didn't even bite the back-handed compliment he was giving you. Then, you scanned him up and down. He was still wearing flooded sweatpants and a stained Grand Canyon shirt. Both of which were stolen possessions of failed dates.

"Okay, but first, you need to change."

[bm-blog01]

Out and About with the Bridgerton Cast in March

March was another busy month for the cast of Bridgerton, out and about during March. I may not have all work and appearances and if I have missed an appearance 

To begin, Jonathan Bailey and James Phoon were continuing in their respective Shakespeare productions on stage - Jonathan in Richard II and James in Much Ado About Nothing - both of whom have received great reviews. Richard ll is on at The Bridge Theatre until 10 May. Much Ado About Nothing is on at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane until 5 April.

For new appearances lets being with our most recent lead, Nicola Coughlan who recently attended the Netrogena influencer event 'A Night of Main Character Energy' as part of her partnership with Neutrogena.  In addition to attending at the Neutrogena influencer event, Nicola also attended the BFI Flare viewing of The Wedding Banquet along with Jessica Madsen, Jack Murphy, and Michelle Mao. The Wedding Banquet is a film directed by Andrew Ahn, who also directed two episodes of Bridgerton season 3 (episodes 3 and 4).

We saw some of the amazing supporting actors out and about in March. Everyone's favourite footman, Oli Higginson, performed in a workshop of Austenland the musical at The Savoy Theatre in London, Kathryn Drysdale attended the Smiley Charity Film Awards recently, Martins Imhangbe attended the European Premiere of the movei The Alto Knight and Sam Phillips began the month in a limited run of the play A Man For All Seasons at the Marlowe Theatre in Canterbury. 

Adjoa Andoh was in attendance at the press night for the play Dear England at the National Theatre during the month, and ended the month at the Dr Who season 2 premiere, for those that don't know she played Martha Jones's mother in Dr Who in the early years of the reboot.  Before Adjoa had a date with The Dr she had a date with Royalty (real Royalty that is), attending a reception to launch the Queen's Reading Room Medal hosted by Her Majesty Queen Camilla, joined by His Majesty King Charles III, at Clarence House.  

March was the month of Paris Fashion week and Bridgerton cast members attended some of the events. Victor Alli was the first to be seen at Paris Fashion Week when he attended the McQueen Autumn Winter 2025 show then season 1 lead Phoebe Dynevor attended the Louis Vuitton show and a day later we saw the season 2 and season 4 leads, Simone Ashley and Yerin Ha, attended the Chanel show. 

During March there were a number of film premieres that Bridgerton cast members were in attendance at, in addition to the premiere that Martins attended some of the Bridgerton cast had the own movies premiere. First up, Florence Hunt attended the premiere of her new movie Mix Tape at the SXSW festival, and she was also busy with associated press and promotion, however, the two biggest movie premieres for the Bridgerton cast in March was of course Picture This starring Simone Ashley and Black Bag with Rege Jean Page.

Picture This, starring and produced by Simone Ashley released this month on Prime Video at the beginning of the month, with Simone being highly visible throughout the month with the promotion for the movie.  In addition to the world premiere in London Simone also attended a special screening of the movie in New York followed by a surprise appearance at a Bollywood dance class in New York, as well as doing a number of interviews both online and on more established shows and podcasts. She also had a number of magazine interviews and photoshoots, including for Variety, and a cover for Defined and WhoWhatWear.  

As mentioned above, Simone wasn't the only one who had a big movie released in March as the movie Black Bag staring Rege Jean Page was also released. As with Simone, Rene was very present with promotion for his movie in interviews and on talk shows, as well as a cover for Icon  magazine. Before the release of Black Bag Rege kicked off his busy March at the Vanity Fair Oscars party.

Whew! That is alot, and as I said I am sure I have missed some appearances and work during March for our favourite Bridgerton cast members.

[nodutra19]

Recommendations Based Off RGU

I already cobbled together Polyphony Garden (I saw someone else do an RGU pastiche based off Othello by Shakespeare, so I hope it's a valid work), but I wanna make a whole post recommending things I think fans of the Revolutionary Girl Utena anime would like based off themes and style. It's mostly books though. And of course, I'll provide trigger warnings.

Absolute Recommendations

The Pike: Gabriele d'Annunzio: Poet, Seducer, and Preacher of War by Lucy Hughes-Hallett

This is a biography on a man named Gabriele d'Annunzio, a progenitor of fascism who codified not just fascist ideals, but also aesthetics, including the Roman salute which would become the Nazi salute. He was one of the first major propagandists, a spearhead in aviation and the decadent literary movement, and much more. He was initially famous as an author and poet obsessed with beauty, but he emerged from the same strains as other Europeans. He directly inspired Mussolini, and Mussolini inspired Hitler. The biography is beautifully written, if somewhat poorly paced, a great examination of masculinity, fascism, the relation between reality and art, the strength of propaganda.

I do give an SA warning for it though.

Beloved by Toni Morrison

I get the feeling most American fans of RGU have read this but I figured I should list it anyhow and for anyone not familiar with American literature, or for people who aren't readers. This is a historical fiction novel about a woman named Sethe who is haunted both by her time as a slave on a plantation and the death of her baby. It's one of the saddest but greatest books I've ever read. I would love to teach this to a class one day.

I do give several warnings for SA, racism, and bestiality.

xxxHolic by CLAMP (as translated and adapted by William Flanagan)

It's not as deconstructive, parodic, dark, or abstract as RGU, but I think most people would like this. It's about 17-year-old Kimihiro Watanuki who possesses the ability to perceive and interact with spirits. Having grown tired of this over his short life, he one day meets Yûko Ichihara, the space-time witch who runs a wish-granting shop. In exchange for the shedding of this ability, she asks for something of equal value: to work for her. And so begins his service at her shop.

I should also mention that the sequel series xxxHolic Rei has been hiatus for nearly a decade. The series also has a sister work called Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle but it's honestly not worth reading if you ask me.

We Shall Now Begin Ethics by Shiori Amase

This is an episodic series about Mr. Takayanagi, a high school ethics teacher. It's a great crash course on philosophy, although I say that as someone whose only experience with philosophy has been Camus (and now Tolstoy).

I do give TWs for SA (especially the first three chapters, and one or two later on), self-harm, and general out-of-pocketness.

Me and the Devil Blues: The Unreal Life of Robert Johnson by Akira Hiramoto

Robert Johnson was a bluesman rumored to have made a deal with the devil. This is a fictionalized biography on him. Sadly, the series has been on hiatus for damn well a decade at this point and official copies are hard to get your hands on. But hey, the art is superb. I'm not Black, but it's refreshing to see manga portray Black characters that don't look like cartoons that Dr. Seuss grew up with.

Although seeing as how I'm not Black, I can't really judge the quality of either the official or fan translation (the image above comes from the fanscans.

I never did finish it so I can't give any TWs beyond "It takes place in the antebellum south."

And yes, it's that Akira Hiramoto.

The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York by Robert A. Caro

I want everyone U.S-born or U.S-residing, and everyone who hates car dependency to read this book, especially New Yorkers (especially especially the NY transplants). This is a biography on a man named Robert Moses who was New York's park commissioner for 39 years. Over his near-half-century tenure, he shaped much of New York. Many of the bridges, parks, and highways began with him. But over the years he cemented class and racial lines by prioritizing drivers and gutting public transit. He had "urban renewal" which displaced poor people from the few affordable neighborhoods around into "temporary housing," which he crowded with those people as he rebuilt their previous neighborhoods. By the end of the "renewal," the new housing was far out of the reach of the original tenants, and so they stayed in their new slums. This was a man who knew to maneuver the preexisting power structures and the court of public opinion. This is a book that examines not just a powerful person but the people on whom that person exercised his power. Robert A. Caro is a biographer I think Tolstoy would admire.

The only TWs I can give are for racism and general inhumanity. There's also one mention of SA iirc. Also, this book was published 1974. I guess at the time society hadn't made the complete transition to referring to African-Americans (and by extension other African diasporas and Black Africans) as "Black," so it uses the old word for them.

[igotanidea]

Essay : professor!todd x student!reader part 1

A/N: this is a completely new verse, I just couldn;t stop myself, so if you ever get ideas for that one I'll take them in a heartbeat.

A/N 2 : I was wondering whether to finish it here of give you more spice, but decided to just whet your appetite for part 2 ;)

***

Do you know how they used to call her in high school?

The unsullied.

Like in a freaking “game of thrones”

All because while her friends were partying, getting drunk and scoring, she was far more focused on her education and school work. And damn, that girl was sharp. Her writing and literature skills and instincts were something people would admire if they weren’t shallow and judgmental.

Instead she got the teasing nickname and all her peers treated her like she didn’t exist.

And of course it hurt, not having girlfriends or anyone who would even try to understand why she would rather spend her time in the library in the company of Shakespeare or Emily Bronte or Charles Dickens instead of drinking and having accidental sex. It was painful to admit that she never had a boyfriend or that she lacked experience in so many social areas. But she just clenched her teeth and pushed through, telling herself that she didn’t have to have all the answers at the age of 17.

She worked hard for a couple years and that got her a scholarship and entry to the college of her own choice. And while her parents and family were pushing her to choose something big, like New York or other big city, much to their surprise and displeasure, she decided to stay in the state and attend Gotham University.

“Why?” her mother almost got a heart attack upon hearing the revelations, choking on the fancy cake served at the tea.  (one more word about the girl – she came from the really fancy, new-money family, where she never fit, being way to feisty and fiery. She could never be described as a lady despite her mother’s best efforts).

“Just because” she shrugged

“watch your tone, girl.” Her father warned “never speak to your mother like this.”

“sorry, sir.” She smiled apologetically, but it was meant more like a sarcasm then a real word of remorse “ Gotham has one of the best university literature program. And since it’s something I want to pursue….”

“I think we should let her make her own choices, father. Y/N knows what she’s doing.”

Thank god, for her older brother, Tom, who always had her back. He was the only person she was going to miss when leaving. But he was right. She knew what she was doing. And Gotham did have the best literature course. And that was because of one of the professors, Jason Todd.

At the young age of 26, being only a couple years older than her, he managed to finish his studies summa cum laude and having a few awards on his account decided to dedicate his life into teaching and shaping young minds. Y/N couldn’t wait to attend one of his classes.

Yeah, college was going to be life changing for her.

Only she didn’t know how much when she first stepped into the hall of residence.

***

Soon enough she found out that first years were not supposed to attend Todd’s classes. Apparently something about heavy and mature content on different levels.  To put it simply, no one below 21 were allowed to engage in those discussions.

But Y/N was sly and determined enough to sneak into the evening lectures, making notes to herself and being an original thinker she got so much ideas and inspirations just by sitting in the corner of the classroom and listening. It went like that for half a year and she believed herself to be clever enough to not get notices, but apparently professor Todd was even better in the art of deception. And it all started when she lost her notebook while leaving and figured it out on the way to her room.

“Shit!” she hissed turning around immediately and looking for the lost item on the way. If it were to get into unfit hands, in the worst case – dean’s – and her secret would be uncovered , she would be expelled immediately due to not abiding the rules “Fuck!” she whispered-yelled again, having reached the classroom and still not finding it.

“don’t creep there, miss Y/l/N, come on in.” Professor Todd’s voice echoed through the empty hall and she shivered. How the hell did he know she was there? And more importantly, how the fuck did he know who she was?!

“I’m sorry to interrupt professor.” She started “I’m just …. I mean, I…..”

“Lost something?” he asked, his green eyes meeting hers and it was like a spark of electricity through her. God, was he handsome. Only now, she understood  the rumours on the campus, something about girls attending his course just for him, not really for the books and stories. Shit! She didn’t really have much opportunities to watch Todd while sneaking out and watching her every step.

“Yeah, I …. I mean, I…..” she stuttered “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be here, and what I’m writing there is just stupid and …..”

“The only thing stupid here is that no one under 21 can join my class.” Todd laughed sonorously “come here, miss Y/N, please, sit, I won’t give your secret away.”

“You won’t?” hypnotised by his voice and eyes she took a few steps forward and perched on the first desk, out of instincts waving her legs in the air in a child-like manner.

“No. Sure not. I read some of your notes, forgive me that” he apologised quickly seeing the terror on her face “and those are good. Like really good. I don’t think I have such an original thinker here in like …. ever, to be honest” he smiled brightly “how old are you again?”

“almost 20 now.” She sighed in frustration. Here she was, sitting in front of her idol, unable to get full advantage of his knowledge.

“such a shame. Would love to know your brain more.”

“Can I just have it back and be on my way? I won’t bother you anymore, I promise I don’t want any trouble." she reached for her notebook, but did it so clumsily that it made her lost her balance in the process and she started falling to the ground, when her weight overbalanced the desk. She would probably end up on the floor, if it wasn’t for Todd’s reflexes. His strong arms found a way around her waist holding her tight, her hands locking on his arms and all of a sudden feeling safe and not so eager to leave.

“You good there?” he asked as their gazes met.

“Yeah…. I…..” once again the spark flew between them. Maybe it was just her imagination but she saw something predatory and …. lustful(?) in his eyes. “I… I really should be going now, professor. It’s late and after curfew and ….. sorry.” She grabbed the book from his hands, fixed her shirt and bag and rushed out the door.

“Miss Y/L/N?” he called after her and the girl spun around to face him.

“You can keep coming to my classes. Like I said, it’s a stupid rule and your secret’s safe with me.’

“Um, yeah, sure, professor, thank you.” She mumbled and practically took off running to her room, having absolutely no idea what was happening to her .

***

She didn’t get much sleep that night, instead taking care of the urge and itching between her legs, imagining green orbs and silky voice calling her good girl and a one particular man touching her. Good thing she had a single room with pretty thick walls.

***

It became pretty clear that classes were not enough for either of them. All things considered they kept it professional for a long time, only meeting in public places, discussing some teacher-student stuff, not really making any of the stuff suspicious. Apart from some additional rumours, nothing new on the campus, they were extremely correct and hesitant to do anything stupid.

But.

Literature talks and exchanging beliefs and ideas quickly led to getting to know each other on way more personal level. She learnt about his family, his adopted father and brothers and he got the whole story of how she was treated in school and why she chose to specialise in literature.

They were getting close.

Arguably closer than teacher – student should, but the more time they spend together the less they cared.

Soon enough their meetings moved from the classrooms and campus to the outside places. And from the days to the nights, always being careful not to get caught. But the urge and the sexual tension between them was making them slip.

It was only a matter of time before someone would lose the war of nerves and needs.

***

Since the dean was tuned in to everything that was happening on the uni ground, after a couple of months Todd was called into his office and had to some heavy explanation of why he was doing nothing less but hanging out with a student that was still under the legal age.  Barely, but sill.

And with the natural ease and smoothness the young professor talked and talked about y/n’s talent and insight and how she was wasting her potential while waiting to be admitted to his classes. He used some pretty convincing arguments about the fame and reputation the uni would get if she becomes the exception to the rule and get the permission to attend despite her age.

And all that seemed to convince the dean.

Y/N was allowed to attend Jason’s course.

And that meant more time spend together.

***

“I almost forgot. I got your essays graded.” He stated one Tuesday evening almost ending the lecture,  holding a bunch of sheets of paper in his hands and waving it around “as usual, most of you should have read between the lines, but apart from that it’s better than before. I see some progress to some of you.” He started walking around, giving the papers to the students.

Was it her imagination again or did he really brushed over her shoulder while passing her? If it was a dream she didn’t want to wake up, feeling that familiar aching in her body. God! She was still at class, acting like a horny teenager! About the teacher! That was completely inappropriate!

“That would be all for today.” Jason stated “class dismissed.”

“But….” She objected. She didn’t get hers back.

“As for you miss Y/L/N….” he trailed, waiting till everyone left  “We need to talk about your thesis. But we’re gonna need the library to prove the point. Meet me there in half an hour, all right? Take your coat with you, the night is going to be cold.”

“but…. But it’s like 8 p.m.” she frowned “I thought the library was closing at 7?”

“I got a special pass. Now go, Y/N.”

Something was telling her that this was not going to be about her writing. And she couldn't wait to discover the double meaning.

[denimbex1986]

'David Tennant and Cush Jumbo walk into the Donmar Warehouse’s offices, above the theatre’s rehearsal rooms in Covent Garden, and sit down on a sofa, side by side. Tennant has that look his many fans will instantly be able to call to mind of being at once stressed – with a desperado gleam in his eye – yet mischievously engaged, which has to do with the intelligence he applies to everything, the niceness he directs at everyone. He is wearing a mustard-coloured jersey and could be mistaken for someone who has been swotting in a library (actually, he has been rehearsing a fight scene). If I am right in supposing him to be tense at this mid-rehearsals moment, I know – from having interviewed him before – that it is not his way to put himself first, that he will crack on and probably, while he’s at it, crack a joke or two to keep us all in good spirits. But some degree of tension is understandable for he and Jumbo are about to perform in a play that explores stress like no other – Macbeth – and must unriddle one of the most dramatic marriages in all of Shakespeare’s plays.

This is star billing of the starriest kind. Tennant, at 52, has more triumphs under his belt than you’d think possible in a single career (including Doctor Who, Broadchurch’s detective, the serial killer Dennis Nilsen in Des, and the father in There She Goes). Jumbo has been seen on US prime time in The Good Wife and The Good Fight and in ITV’s Vera. But what counts is that each is a Shakespeare virtuoso. Jumbo, who is now 38, won an Ian Charleson award in 2012 for her Rosalind in As You Like It and, in 2013, was nominated for an Olivier for her Mark Antony in Phyllida Lloyd’s all-female Julius Caesar. More recently, she starred as a yearningly embattled Hamlet at the Young Vic. A dynamo of an actor, she is described by the former New York Times theatre critic Ben Brantley as radiating “that unquantifiable force of hunger, drive, talent usually called star power”. Tennant, meanwhile, who has played Romeo, Lysander and Benedick for the RSC, went on to embody Hamlet and Richard II in performances that have become the stuff of legend.

Jumbo settles herself cross-legged on the sofa, relaxed in her own body, wearing a white T-shirt, dusky pink tracksuit bottoms, and modestly-sized gold hoop earrings. She looks as if she has come from an exercise class – and she has in one sense – no need to ask whether rehearsals, at this stage, are full-on. As we shake hello, she apologises for a hot hand and I for a cold one, having just come in from a sharp November morning. She is chirpy, friendly, waiting expectantly for questions – but what strikes me as I look at her is how her face in repose, at once dramatic and pensive, gives almost nothing away, like a page waiting to be written on.

Max Webster, the director, is setting the play in the modern day and Macbeth, a taut and ageless thriller, is especially friendly to this approach. I want to plunge straight in to cross-question the Macbeths. Supposing I were a marriage counsellor, what might they tell me – in confidence – about their alliance? Tennant is a step ahead: “There are two versions of the marriage, aren’t there? The one at the beginning and the fractured marriage later.” And he then makes me laugh by asking intently: “Are they sharing the murder with their therapist?”

He suggests Macbeth’s “reliance” on his wife is unusual and “not necessarily to be expected in medieval Scotland” (another excuse for the contemporary production): “I look to my wife for guidance: I don’t make a decision without her,” he explains. “We’ve been through some trauma which has induced an even stronger bond.” Jumbo agrees about the bond and spells out the trauma, reminding us the Macbeths have lost a child, but hesitates to play the game (I have suggested she talk about Lady Macbeth in the first person): “I want to get it right. I don’t want to get it wrong. I don’t know what to say… If I improv Lady Macbeth, it will feel disrespectful because you don’t know if what you’re saying on her behalf is true. And then you’re going to write what I say down and she [Lady Macbeth] is going to be: ‘Thanks, Cush, for f-ing talking about me that way.’” She emphasises that, as an actor, you must never judge your character, whatever crime they might have committed. And perhaps her resistance to straying from the text is partly as a writer herself (it was her play, Josephine and I, about the entertainer and activist Josephine Baker, that put her career into fast forward, opening off Broadway in 2015).

She stresses that the great problem with Lady Macbeth is that she has become a known quantity: “She is deeply ingrained in our culture. Everyone thinks they know who she is. Most people studied the play at school. I did – I hated it. It was so boring but that’s because Shakespeare’s plays aren’t meant to be read, they’re meant to be acted. People think they know Lady Macbeth as a type – the strong, controlling woman who pushed him to do it. She does things women shouldn’t do. The greatest misconception is that we have stopped seeing Lady Macbeth as a human being.”

For Tennant, too, keeping an open mind is essential: “What I’m finding most difficult is the variety of options. I thought I knew this play very well and that it was, unlike any other Shakespeare I can remember rehearsing, straightforward. But each time I come to a scene, it goes in a direction I wasn’t expecting.” He suggests that momentum is the play’s great asset: “It has such muscle to it, it powers along. Plot-wise, it’s more front-footed than any Shakespeare play I’ve done.” And is it ever difficult for him as Macbeth to subdue his instinctive comic talent? “Well, yes, that’s right, there are no gags! But actually, there are a couple of funny bits though I’d never intentionally inflict comedy on something that can’t take it. I hope I’m creating a rounded human being with moments of lightness, even in the bleakest times.” Jumbo adds: “Bleakness is funny at times”, and Tennant, quick as a flash, tops this: “Look at our government!” (He is an outspoken Labour supporter.) Later, when I ask what makes them angriest, he says: “Well, she [Suella Braverman]’s just been sacked so… I’m now slightly less angry than I was.” Jumbo nods agreement, adding that what makes her angriest is “unkindness”.

It is Tennant who then produces, with a flourish, the key question about the Macbeths: “Why do they decide to commit a crime? What is the fatal flaw that allows them to think that’s OK? I don’t know that they, as characters, would even know. Has the loss of a child destabilised their morality?” In preparation, Tennant and Jumbo have been researching post-traumatic stress disorder. “PTSD is a modern way of understanding something that’s always been there,” suggests Tennant – and the Macbeths are traumatised three times over by battle, bereavement and murder. “We’ve looked at postpartum psychosis as well,” Jumbo adds. They have been amazed at how the findings of modern experts “track within the play”. Tennant marvels aloud: “What can Shakespeare’s own research process have been?” Jumbo reminds him that Shakespeare, like the Macbeths, lost a child. She relishes the play’s “contemporary vibe which means it’s something my 14-year-old niece will want to see. Even though you know the ending, you don’t want it to go there. It’s exciting to play that as well as to watch it.”

A further exciting challenge is the show’s use of binaural technology (Gareth Fry, who worked on Complicité’s The Encounter, is sound designer). Each audience member will be given a set of headphones and be able to eavesdrop on the Macbeths. “The technology will mess with your neurons in a did-somebody-just-breathe-on-me way,” Jumbo explains. “You’ll feel as if you’re in a conversation with us, like listening to a podcast you love where you feel you’re sat with them having coffee.” Tennant adds: “What’s thrilling is that it makes things more naturalistic – we’re able to speak conversationally.”

Fast forward to opening night: how do they manage their time just before going on stage? Tennant says: “I dearly wish I had a set of failsafe strategies. I don’t find it straightforward. I’ve never been able to banish anxiety. It can be very problematic and part of the job is dealing with it. I squirrel myself away and tend to get quite quiet.” But at the Donmar, this will be tricky as backstage space is shared. Jumbo encourages him: “When I’ve played here before, I found the group dynamic helpful,” she says, but explains that her pre-show routine has changed since her career took off and she became a mother: “These days, I no longer have the luxury of saying: I’m going to do five hours of yoga before I go on. When I leave home at four in the afternoon, I might be thinking about whether I’ll hit traffic or, whether my kid’s stuff is ready for the next day. You get better at this, the more you do it. The main thing – which doesn’t sound that sexy – is to make sure to eat at the right time, something light, like soup, because when I’m nervous I get loads of acid and that does not make me feel good on stage. I have a cut-off point for eating and that timing has become a superstition in its own way.”

In 2020, Tennant and Jumbo co-starred in the compulsively watchable and disturbing Scottish mini-series Deadwater Fell for C4. How helpful is it to have worked together before? Tennant says it is “hugely” valuable when tackling something “intense and difficult” to be with someone you are “comfortable taking chances with”. Although actors cannot depend on this luxury: “Sometimes, you have to turn up the first day and go: ‘Ah, hello, nice to meet you, we’re going to be playing psychopathic Mr and Mrs Macbeth.’” And Jumbo adds: “I’ve been asked to do this play before and said no. You have to do it with the right person. I knew this would be fun because David is a laugh as well as being very hard-working.” He responds brightly with a non sequitur: “Wait till you see my knees in a kilt…” Are you seriously going to wear a kilt, I ask. “You’ll have to wait and see,” he laughs.

It is perhaps the kilt that triggers his next observation: “We’re an entirely Scottish company, apart from Cush,” he volunteers, suggesting that Macbeth’s choice of a non-Scottish wife brings new energy to the drama. He grew up in Paisley, the son of a Presbyterian minister, and remembers how, in his childhood, “whenever an English person arrived, you’d go “Oooh… from another worrrrld!”, and he reflects: “Someone from somewhere else gives you different energy.” And while on the Scottish theme, it is worth adding that Macbeth is the part that seems patiently to have been waiting for Tennant: “People keep saying: you must have done this play before? I don’t know if Italian Shakespeareans keep being asked if they have played Romeo…”

I tell them I remember puzzling, as a schoolgirl, over Macbeth’s line about “vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself and falls on th’other” – the gymnastic detail beyond me. Tennant suggests that what Macbeth has, more even than ambition, is hubris. But on ambition, he and Jumbo reveal themselves to be two of a kind. Tennant says: “Ambition is not a word I’d have understood as a child but I had an ambition to become an actor from tiny – from pre-school. I did not veer off from it, I was very focused. When I look at it now, that was wildly ambitious because there were no precedents or reasons for me to believe I could.”

“For me, same,” says Jumbo, “I don’t remember ever wanting to be anything else.” She grew up in south London, second of six children. Her father is Nigerian and was a stay-at-home dad, her mother is British and worked as a psychiatric nurse. “At four, I was an avid reader and mimicker. I got into lots of trouble at school for mimicking. My ambition was similar to David’s although, as a girl, the word ‘ambition’ has always been a bit dirty…” Tennant: “It certainly is to a Scottish Presbyterian.” “Yes,” she laughs, “perhaps I should have said Celts and Blacks… Girls grow up thinking they should be modest, right? But I had so much ambition. I knew there was more for me to do and that I could be good at doing it.”

And what were they like as teenagers – as, say, 14-year-olds? Tennant says: “Uncomfortable, plooky…” What’s plooky, Jumbo and I exclaim in unison. “A Scottish word for covered in spots.” “That’s great!” laughs Jumbo. “Unstylish,” Tennant concludes. Her turn: “At 14, I was sassy, a bit mouthy, trying to get into a lot of clubs and not succeeding because I looked way too young for my age. And desperate for a snog.”

And now, as grownups, Tennant and Jumbo are, above all, keenly aware of what it means to be a parent. Jumbo has a son, Maximilian (born 2018); Tennant five children between the ages of four and 21. Parenthood, they believe, helps shape the work they do. “Being a parent magnifies the job of being an actor,” says Jumbo, “because what we’re being asked to do [as actors] is to stay playful and in the present – be big children. As a parent, you get to relive your childhood and see the world through your child’s eyes as if for the first time and more intensely. We don’t do that much as adults.”

Tennant reckons being a parent has given him “empathy, patience – or the requirement for patience – and tiredness. It gives you a big open wound you carry around, a vulnerability that is not a bad thing for this job because it means you have an emotional accessibility that can be very trying but which we need.” But the work-life balance remains, for Tennant, an ongoing struggle: “Just when you think you’ve figured it out, something happens,” he says, “and you have to recalibrate it because your children need different things at different times.” Jumbo sometimes looks to other actors/parents for advice: “To try to see what they are doing – but you never quite get it right.”

And would they agree there is a work-life balance involved in acting itself? Is acting an escape from self or a way of going deeper into themselves? Tennant says: “I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive though they sound as though they should be – I think it is both.” Jumbo agrees: “On the surface, you’re consciously stepping away from yourself but, actually, subconsciously, you have to do things instinctually so you find out more about yourself without meaning to.”

And when they go deeper, what is it that they find? Fear is another of the motors in Macbeth – what is fear for them? “Something being wrong with one of my kids,” Tennant says and Jumbo concurs. And what about fear for our planet? Tennant says: “There is so much to feel fearful and pessimistic about it can be…” Jumbo finishes his sentence: “Overwhelming.” He picks it up again: “So overwhelming that you don’t do anything.” Jumbo worries about this, tries to remind herself that doing something is better than doing nothing: “If everybody did something small in their corner of the world, the knock-on effect would be bigger.” Tennant admits to feeling “anxiety” and distinguishes it from fear. Jumbo volunteers: “I recognise fear in myself but don’t see it as a helpful emotion. It’s underactive, a place to stand still.”

As actors who have hit the jackpot, what would they say, aside from talent, has been essential to their success? Tennant says: “Luck – to be in the right place at the right time, having one job that leads to another.” Jumbo remembers: “Early in my career, I had a slow start. You have to fill your soul with creative things, which is not always easy if you can’t afford to go out. You have to find things that are free, get together with people who are creative and give you good vibes and not people who are bitter and jealous or have lots of bad things to say about the world. This tends to bring more creative things to you.” Tennant observes: “As the creative arts go, acting is a difficult one to do on your own – if you’re a painter, you can paint – even if no one is buying your paintings.” Jumbo chips in: “Because of that, it can be quite lonely when it’s not happening.” “Tennant concludes: “It’s bloody unfair – there are far too many good actors, too many of us.”

And are they in any way like the Macbeths in being partly governed by magical thinking – or do they see themselves as rationalists? (I neglect to ask whether they call Macbeth “the Scottish play”, as many actors superstitiously do.) “I am a rationalist. I’m almost aggressively anti-nonsense,” Tennant says. Jumbo, unfazed by this manifestation of reason, speaks up brightly: “I’m a magical thinker, I’m half Nigerian and that’s all about magical realism and belief in energy. If something goes my way, I think: God, I felt that energy. And the thing that drew me to theatre as a kid was its magic.” And now Tennant, alerted by the word “magic”, starts to clamber on board to agree with her – and Jumbo laughs as they acknowledge the power of what she has just said.'

[got-a-new-recipe-for-poundcake]

Two New OCS:

Left: Linus Nelson Right: Laverne Adonis

Template by @jimothy-hopkins

Art by Me

More info under cut

Name: Laverne Adonis

Birthday: September 17th

Grade During Main Story: 12th

Hobbies: Theater, Dancing, Literature, Embroidery

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Favorites:

Color: Periwinkle

Food: Lemon Bars

Artist: The Cure

Musical: The Boy From Oz

Class: Art

Carnival Activity: Ferris Wheel

Outfits:

Background: Grew up in the Philippines, raised by her mother, father, and nanny. Was homeschooled until 14. Her family would take a lot of vacations so she got to see the world. Her father took her to the theater a lot as child. Was in New York when the towers were hit, and has trauma around her birthday because of this. Her therapist suggested that she needed a change of setting so that's why she transferred to Bullworth.

More about Laverne: Has a signet ring her father gave her on her 10th birthday, wears it always. Loves her father a lot, and shadows him when they are together. Can speak, English, Filipino, Tagalog, Spanish, and French. Sleeps in the girls dorm even though she'd much rather sleep in Harrington House since she spends a lot of time there anyway. Loves Shakespeare, but is more of a fan of his Sonnets than his plays, her favorite being Sonnet 130. She works hard in her classes and disapproves greatly of cheating. She is a quiet extrovert, and is very confident in social situations. She also is a very big fan of Edgar Allen Poe, her favorite of his works being The Fall of The House of Usher. She is not very fond of digital things and likes doing things analog whenever possible. She does have a flip phone but only uses it in emergencies. She doesn't like a lot of movies but one of her favorites is Amadaeus. Has a diary with flowers on the cover, and signs her name in cursive with a heart at the end. Is in the school drama club and loves it a lot.

Relationships:

Jimmy: Treats him like an errand boy like most of the school.

Trent: The only bully she is on good terms with because of the drama club

Derby: Not super close to him, but they are cordial around each other, Derby also disapproves of her boyfriend

Bif: Same as Derby but they know each other a bit more, and he doesn't really mind that she's dating Linus

Bryce: She likes hanging out with him at cafes in Bullworth Vale where they will chat about whatever comes to mind

Chad: Likes spending time with him in the yard at Harrington House

Cherub: Thinks he's adorable and loves babysitting him

Gord: He's always asking her about her relationship with Linus

Justin: Actually finds his egg puns amusing, doesn't like that he sells test answers

Parker: She is a bit concerned about his gnome but she doesn't say anything

Pinky: They get their nails and hair done together a lot

Tad: She likes him but usually only hangs out with him in group settings

Chester: Loves him to death and will always give him treats, tummy rubs, and scratch behind his ears, she will also put little bows in Chester's fur to which Chad objects that Chester is a boy dog

Greasers: Only respect her at all because she's with Linus

Earnest: Gets weird vibes from him and avoids him as much as possible

Beatrice: They study together in the library and are on good terms

Cornelius: Is close with him because they're both in the drama club

Thad: She got angry at him about the Mandy posters

Jocks: She doesn't like any of them that much, and they only really like her because she's pretty, rich, and not annoying in the way that Pinky is

Angie: Finds her charming and enjoys her company

Christy: doesn't really like how gossipy she is but otherwise they're on good terms

Constantinos: Doesn't really like him that much but hangs out with him when Linus wants to hang out with both of them

Dr. Bambillo: Is Laverne's therapist at the moment and she doesn't trust him very much

Name: Linus Nelson

Birthday: December 13th

Grade During Main Story: 12th

Hobbies: Theater, Music, Reading

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Favorites:

Color: Forest Green

Food: Sour Cream and Onion Utz

Artist: They Might Be Giants

Musical: Into The Woods

Class: English

Carnival Activity: Ferris Wheel

Background: Raised by his Aunt and Uncle in New Coventry. Mostly kept to himself as a kid but also enjoyed hanging out with the kids there.

More About Linus: He is very chill, and mostly hangs out in town. His favorite genre when reading is mystery books. He's always wanted to Travel but has never left Bullworth before. He is on the autism spectrum. Is interested in Archery but hasn't gotten a chance to learn it. Some of the teachers think he's a slacker based on his appearance, even though he does well in most of his classes. He enjoys Theater but is in tech crew. He also is a very much loves medieval history, and The Renaissance and info dumps about both a lot, or will make references to them in casual conversation. He tried to start contacts, but had a very hard time putting them in, they felt too uncomfortable, and he had an even harder time removing them. He tries his best to avoid fights but it's inevitable at Bullworth, his fighting style is similar to the Greasers. He is surprisingly good at sports, but doesn't enjoy them.

Jimmy: Thinks he's really cool

Pete: They are good terms and will hang out sometimes in the library

Trent: Is the only bully he likes because of drama club, he is a bystander though when his friends pick on Linus

Preps: Most of them like him (although they probably wouldn't even talk to him if not for Laverne), except Derby dislikes him, and Tad tolerates him.

Greasers: They were friends as kids and are still friendly

Bucky: They enjoy spending time together a lot

Cornelius: Close because of the drama club

Melvin: They are friends, and Melvin will ask him questions about the historical accuracy of his G&G campaigns

Jocks: They respect how good he is at sports but dislike his nerdy side

Constantinos: He is Linus' closest friend at Bullworth

Linus and Laverne

About Linus and Laverne:

They met in freshman year during the school's production of Fiddler on The Roof, and became friends while working on it, and starting catching feelings. Laverne asked him on a date in March of their Sophomore year and they've been dating ever sinceThey both have bracelets with an L on them, Linus' is in fancier script than Laverne's. They are that type of couple who annoys everyone with how lovey dovey they are with each other. They dressed as Gomez and Morticia for Halloween (drawing of them here)

Their song:

Feel free ask for hcs or OC interactions :)

[desmon1995]

Masai's Othello complex and how marginalized men go astray

Masai is a very important character the Warriors although at least in the original film adaptation his rule is incredibly minor and he only really has a big purpose in the actual book and concept album.

Masai is the second in command of The Gramercy Riffs, and the right hand of Cyrus and although not much is known about their relationship it stated in supplementary materials that the two are childhood friends and basically found it the Riffs to metaphorically rise up against the powers that be.

Cyrus and Masai are said to be childhood and presumably grew up in Manhattan which I stated in the opening of the concept album, is essentially the bougie area of New York.

Manhatten itself during Survive The Night mentions that Cyrus's gang is so powerful that it's even rivaling the cops which is causing unease among the predominantly white pedestrians.

The Riffs were THE gang to the point that Cyrus herself was considered the Don of the City by many but during the summit as revealed by the video game, Masai was already questioning whether or not something like this would be possible.

This would end up being Chekhov's Gun because Cyrus is murdered by Luther and he ultimately ends up convincing Masai that the Warriors are the ones who are the ones who committed the act.

From there Masai not only has his gang captured and start brutally assaulting Cleon for several hours but puts a hit out on the Warriors themselves via the radio hostess DJ Lynn what's the promise that those who end up killing the girls will receive a cash prize.

Masai single-handedly ends up completely spoiling the legacy of his partner and effectively ends up throwing the hood into a capitalistic hellscape.

From there, Masai in " Still Breathing" ends up brutally assaulting Cleon while simultaneously dropping misogynistic remarks which he claims is because of what she took from not only him but the entire state.. Cyrus.

Masai compare Cyrus to Jesus himself and has morphed into a complete doomer, believing that everything that the woman stood for died with her and feels to see the irony in all of the awful things he's doing.

It isn’t until Cleon pushes him to see that a dream transcends any individual—that it breathes and endures in spirit—that he begins to cling to her with the same fierce devotion he once reserved for Cyrus.

That's with a lot of things from the concept album, this version of Masai is based on the classic Shakespearean character Othello (which for those who don't know is probably one of the earliest works to really center on a black main character for better or worse).

Othello tell the story of a Black Moor who is highly respected within a Italian army but despite his Acclaim and being the second hand man to the king, but despite all of this he's often viewed as an outsider and exposed to the racism that you would expect of the era and the only person who keeps him together is his beautiful partner Desdemona.

However, it's thanks to the very jealous and also very white Iago why his life ends up getting ruined as Othello is manipulated into more or less killing his partner and the dream that she had which results in everything being said ablaze including the progress that he was making.

Othello does end up finding out from iago's wife that he was more or less just using everybody and all he says in response to his actions is that he likes doing stuff like that.

Just like a Shakespearean counterpart, Masai is a person who is making genuine progress despite the bigotry he he faces but because an important woman in his life is killed he ends upsetting everything ablaze messing up things not just for him but other marginalized people.

Iago shockingly has a lot in common with Luther right down to the point of their explanation as to why they did what they did

I think the lesson that we can learn from Masai is that it takes a village to truly move things towards progress and his initial weathering because of a literal white lie.

It makes you wonder if most of Cyrus's gang even really truly believed in her vision or they just went along with it because she could act as a visual representation before they all scattered when that light was blown out (so they thought).

I think there are a lot of Masai's out there who are probably lost hope in there being any real progress or one who's going to another, but dissent never goes away even in the most fascist of times, and progress will happen regardless of what the powers of the want so you have to keep on fighting the good fight

[star-scroll]

Danny Fenton has 1 (One) Nerve Left, and it is Almost Fried

WC: 13,865

Ao3

Summary:

“Boss?” Asked FRIDAY. Tony looked up from the hologram he’d been staring at for the last two hours. “Yes?” He replied. He grabbed a smoothie from DUM-E's waiting claw, checked it for motor oil, and took a sip. It wouldn’t be the first time he made that mistake. “Danny Phantom has entered the building.” She informed. Tony grinned. “Let’s get the show on the road then, yeah?” Tony had a personal intern to coerce to and a tour group to stalk. aka; A re-imagining of the "Stark Industries Trip" trope starring a very anxious half-ghost :)

Read the first chapter below the cut!

“I have great news!” Mr Lancer was unusually cheery for a Monday morning. Danny certainly was not feeling the same.

Danny's feet dragged as he stumbled into class, fifteen minutes after the bell. Desiree had decided to go on a wishing spree during lunch and he had to track her down. She was easy enough to defeat- just wish she would go into the thermos- but this time she had taken to wearing earmuffs so she couldn’t hear him, and he had to knock those off first.

It was a hassle he had not been looking forward to this early on a Monday.

Lancer sent Danny a scathing look, but it was quickly wiped away and replaced by a smile. 

…weird.

Tucker looked concerned as Danny as he took his seat with a slight limp. But Danny waved the concern away. He was fine. Nothing he hadn’t suffered through before. He’d just taken a hard landing. Totally his own fault.

“Well, there is a touch of bad mixed into this news. The senior trip to Washington DC has been canceled.” Lancer announced. A chorus of complaints rang out. Danny was relieved. He hadn’t been looking forward to spending a long weekend away from Amity Park. No, he did not have attachment issues. (Lie.)

“Sh-Shh! That’s not all!” Lancer looked vaguely annoyed. The class barely quieted down at all. He seemed to resign himself to the chaos he’d created.

“It has been replaced.” Oh, no. That couldn’t be good. What, were they gonna go on a field trip to the Ghost Zone or something?

…

No, no. Danny could see that actually happening. He wiped the thought from his recent memory, pretending it had never existed in the first place. Best not to tempt fate, for it was cruel.

“A wondrous chance has arisen.” Said Lancer, sounding like he’d walked right out of one of Shakespear’s poems. Or wait, was he a poet? Or did he write something else?

Danny had sat through far too many of Lancer’s classes with raging concussions to remember such minute details.

”Instead of Washington DC, we are going to New York!” Lancer grinned. The class broke out into whispers yet again. Though they weren’t really whispering anymore. Lancer seemed to have given up. He collapsed into his desk chair, head cradled in his hands. If he was already this defeated, how would he handle this many teenagers in a whole other state?

‘That might be even worse than the Ghost Zone.’

See, Danny (Phantom) and New York did not mix very well.

New York was the home of superheroes, and well, that was really the most accurate title for Danny and his ‘ghostly protector’ MO. It wasn’t really all that likely he’d stumble upon an Avenger on the street, but he didn’t want to chance it. He had no interest in being a part of that band. Or worse, they might think he’s a criminal like the GIW do. His inner, childhood Iron-Man-fanboy wouldn’t be able to handle that.

Maybe with the change of plans Danny could fake an excuse? His parents had already signed the Washington DC permission slip, but they hadn’t checked off on this one yet. He could still weasel his way out.

Paulina raised her hand.

“You mean, like, New York, New York, right? The city that never sleeps?” She asked. Danny could hear the stars in her eyes. Lancer seemed relieved to actually be being paid attention to.

He nodded vigorously. His widened smile was almost disturbing.

“This school has been giving the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually tour Stark Tower! The base of operations for Stark Industries in New York!”

‘Oh Ancients, kill me now.’

~linebreak~

“Moooom! Daaaad!” Danny called down the lab stairs. There was no response, but Danny wasn’t really surprised. The GAV was in the driveway, so his parents had to be home. And he could hear their heartbeats in the lab. They probably just had hearing protection on.

Danny’s footsteps echoed heavily as he descended. (On purpose.)

Sure enough, there were his parents. Dad had on a welding mask and earmuffs, and was loudly yelling. On the other side of him was Mom, who sat on a rolling stool that was pulled up to a workstation. Danny could feel that she was buzzing with annoyance.

The portal glowed dimly from the other side of the room. Danny tried his best to avoid staring at it for too long. The eternal swirling and dance of ectoplasm had a mesmerizing effect. He’d lost hours of his life right after The Accident, fixated on the surface of the portal and yearning just to touch-

“Honey!” Mom exclaimed. She slid past Dad and wrapped Danny up in a hug.

“How was your day?” She asked. Which clued Danny in to the fact that something was definitely up. She never asked him anything like that. Usually they just shooed him out of the lab when he paid them a visit. It had been a hassle to get them to sign the original permission slip.

“...what’s going on?” Danny asked. His suspicion was plain to hear.

Dad finally removed his earmuffs.

“Oh,” He chuckled sheepishly. 

“We have good news!” Mom said cheerily. After the day he had, Danny didn’t need any more ‘good news.’ Not to mention that what was ‘good’ for his parents was usually ‘horrifically bad’ for him. Usually it had to do with new inventions. And if they were this happy, it had to be something especially dangerous and/or lethal. (Either worked.)

“We’re chaperoning your trip!” Dad exclaimed. Mom shoved him playfully.

“You weren’t supposed to tell him yet!” She chided. But the smile didn’t leave her face.

Danny’s first thought was, ‘I’m going to die (again) on this trip, aren’t I?’

“The New York trip?” Danny was already traumatized. And they hadn’t even gotten on the bus yet.

Dad nodded his head. His smile was shockingly similar to the one Lancer had been wearing earlier.

“They sent out an email last night, asking parents not to spill the beans. They also asked for any chaperones, since your entire grade is going. So we volunteered!” Mom looked up at Dad and he shared her grin. 

Dad wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Danny begged his knees not to give out under the force. Sometimes his Dad forgot his own strength.

“Aren’t you excited?”

Danny tried not to let the terror show on his face. Not too much, at least. He’d never been very good at telling his face what to do.

“Yeah!” His voice shook.

“Sure- sure am. Can’t wait.” For this to be over already.

~linebreak~

Which was how Danny ended up here.

He and his classmates took up a whole two cars on the Subway. Why the school decided to stuff a bunch of teenagers on public transport was beyond him. Mr. Lancer was having a hell of a time trying to navigate. He squinted down at an app on his phone and tried to figure out where they needed to be going. He’d already led them astray twice. They must’ve traveled under half of New York by now. 

Oh, and they were officially ten minutes late for their tour of Stark Tower. Would they cancel the tour if they were late enough?

Dad stood behind Danny, taking up the entire width of the doorway. He looked queasy, and was holding onto a pole for dear life. Mom was trying to comfort him, but he looked like he was gonna hurl. They drove the GAV over curbs and took out cones like they were bowling pins, how did this make them sick?

The subway car screeched to a stop and Dad’s face turned a sickly shade of green.

“Next up is our stop, everyone!” Lancer announced suddenly. There was about a… 17% chance of him being right. If Danny had to guess. Just picking a random number.

Classmates around him buzzed into action, collecting their things and themselves. Dannywas surrounded by laughter and smiles. Kids happy to be away from their parents and home, with their friends.

It was a stark (heh) contrast to Danny’s own loneliness.

Tucker was having a big family reunion- the first in years- so he couldn’t come. He would’ve been able to go to DC, but there was a date change and he couldn’t just ask all of his family to cancel. And his parents wanted him there to help out and socialize.

Sam’s mother Pamela had just straight-up refused to let her go- “to that rubbish bin of a city! What could happen to my little Sammykins?! So far away from home!”

It probably didn't help that Pamela wasn't allowed to be a chaperone. Not after what happened last time at the Zoo.

Danny shuddered at the memory. Giraffes could be surprisingly vicious.

Valerie was the only familiar face around, but things were still iffy between them. Danny had finally come clean to her about his identity last fall, but ever since then things had been… stiff. Awkward. When they were both out ghost fighting at the same time they’d work together, but aside from some fight banter they’d barely said a word to each other.

Which was fine with Danny, usually, but he was finding himself wanting someone to talk to that wasn’t his parents.

They weren’t very good conversationalists, unless he asked about ghosts. But he wasn’t in the mood to hear about all the ways they’d tear his ghost half apart ‘molecule by molecule.’

Danny had tried to sneak off at the last moment before they got on the bus out of Amity Park, but it was Sam and Tucker who convinced him to go. They had shown up to see him off. Which he greatly appreciated, seeing as the sun hadn't even risen yet. It was a nice gesture. If a little inconvenient, because Tucker showed up with his new-and-improved ‘Foley Gauntlets’ and physically refused to let him go. It was the most evil hand-holding he’d ever experienced.

His best friends- no, traitors- weren’t about to let him dip. They said he needed a break and some time off from being a ghostly protector. But how was spending half a week in another state with his parents supposed to be a break? If anything, it would be more stressful than staying home. But they seemed to be convinced that this was best for his well-being, and they wouldn’t give up.

Sam and Tuck assured him that things would be fine, and they could handle any ghostly threats. Danny wanted to have faith in their abilities. After all, they’d been at this just as long as he had. But he couldn’t help the worry, the nagging feeling at the back of his head.

Danny weaseled them into promising they’d give him a call if things got out of hand. It was only a two-hour flight! He could probably shave off 15 minutes if he really pushed it. But Danny didn’t really trust them to alert him. His idea of safety and theirs were vastly different. And yes, Danny knew how hypocritical that was. But he couldn't find it himself to care enough to change it.

Danny had already checked the Amity Park News a dozen times since he got on the bus.

All of this to say, Danny was alone. Alone and with his parents, to be exact. Danny took a picture of Dad looking ready to puke and sent it to the group chat titled ‘Loser Trio.’

The doors opened and everyone around Danny hopped into action. Welp, here it went. Danny slipped his phone into his pocket. He hoped nothing disastrous happened on the tour.

He probably just jinxed himself there.

Ugh.

~linebreak~

“Boss?” Asked FRIDAY. Tony looked up from the hologram he’d been staring at for the last two hours.

“Yes?” He replied. He grabbed a smoothie from DUM-E's waiting claw, checked it for motor oil, and took a sip. It wouldn’t be the first time he made that mistake.

“Danny Phantom has entered the building.” She informed. Tony grinned.

“Let’s get the show on the road then, yeah?” He clapped. Tony had a personal intern to coerce to and a tour group to stalk.