#I am not responsible for any crows behaviour...

[nadinenc]

How to make friends

How to make friends, when you move to a different area or in general:

Find a group of crows that live nearby

Show them kindness: feed them regularly, help them out when you can, respect them

The crows will remember your kindness, they will come up to you and maybe even bring you stuff..

You look super cool to other people now, I mean, you've got your army of crows when you go outside. They will come up to you and you don't have to go up to them!

[freakystrashdump]

🔮The Oracle Bakery🔮

Emperor Belos|Phillip Wittebane/OC

Slow burn, enemies to lovers, Belos is a content warning by himself

Read on AO3

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Chapter 18: Calm before the Storm

She was going to open up the bakery that morning. Honest she was. Selena went to bed earlier, right after she set up the bakery kitchen last night. Giving it a thorough clean and organising anything that was out of place. She mopped the floors in the shop and wiped down the counters, cleaned up any stray crumbs in the display window. The entire shebang.

But her bed the next morning just felt so soft and warm , that getting out of it felt like an impossible task all together.

Truly, it was times like this that perfectly showed off that she was still, in fact, a bit of a spoiled brat at heart.

“Leave me aloooone.” She whined as Pip pulled at strands of her hair, attempting to get her out of bed “I was nearly dead, I can take another day off if I wanted to.” As her palisman spoke with a beak full of hair, she scoffed “I am entitled to it! The Emperor said so!” She finished in a mocking tone.

The crow responded in kind, and his response made the woman scowl deeply. With a final groan, Selena sat up and raised her arm, summoning Pip to it and gently persuading him to turn into staff form.

“There! I'm up!” running her free hand through the mess that was her bed hair, she let out a big yawn. “But I'm still not opening today. There,I compromised.” she tapped the staff against the night table nearby, as a reprimand for forcing her to get up.

One more chill day, she could afford that. Honestly, she could take months off and not go under - Rich family privileges come in handy sometimes.

But, and she grumbled under her breath at the thought, she compromised. Because she was the bigger person, of course! Not because Pip was throwing out some wild accusations about her attachment to the Emperor, and in making said compromise she was proving his accusations wrong, oh no. Not at all, never because of that. And part of that compromise was actually getting out of bed and putting on clothes that weren't pyjamas - after forcing herself through a shower and the strenuous task of detangling the mess that was her hair.

With staff-Pip still in her safe hands, refreshed and presentable, Selena made her way down into the bakery, deciding that maybe spending all her free time only in the apartment was a bit of a shut-in type of behaviour. Sure, she cleaned the downstairs and kitchen last night when she still was optimistic about opening shop today, but that task took maybe 15 minutes with magic. No way was she scrubbing things down manually, she was a witch, after all. However, she could probably invest some time into cleaning out the one drawer that was overwhelmed with knicknacks she tended to just throw in whenever she came in.

Nodding decisively, she walked behind the counter and got to work on the junk drawer.

It was less than ten minutes later that she finally emptied it out fully, the counter now filled with enchanted gems, candles, bundles of herbs for potions, a couple of hand-held scrying mirrors, a small crystal ball, an altar tablecloth she thought she had lost and a tarot deck she hadn't seen in almost a year. There was also a tangled mess of scrying pendants, evil eye charms and illusionist stone necklaces. That one was gonna take some time to detangle, so she set it aside for later, instead focusing on wiping down the drawer (it was absolutely filthy, the cloth came out covered with gunk), and placing the items back in, but in a more orderly fashion. She saved some of the things to take upstairs, and the tangled mess was gonna be something she worked on later, however she did take the tarot deck with her once she finished up, going to one of the comfy couches inside and taking a seat.

“I was wondering where you went.” Selena muttered as she absentmindedly shuffled the deck. “I was gonna use you the first time the Emperor's Coven came to take me to the palace, but I guess the drawer was too cluttered for me to find anything but the one illusionist stone to hide what a mess I was.” She huffed a little laugh through her nose as she spoke.

At the memory, Selena let out a deep sigh, moving sideways and letting herself fall onto the couch, the deck placed on her chest as she stared up at the ceiling from where she lay.

“Everything has been an absolute mess since then, hasn't it?” She continued talking to the cards, holding her hand securely over them, pressed above her beating heart “Maybe gran was right, maybe I wouldn't be in this deep if I spent more time doing divinations. Prepare myself for possible outcomes and all that.” She hummed to herself, fingers now tapping against the deck.

“What do you think?” She asked, eyes scanning the ceiling above, finding patterns where there were none.

Selena felt herself grow calm, fingers moved from tapping a steady rhythm to tracing unknown patterns onto the back of the deck, and she let her eyes close. She steadied her breathing, feeling the air flow in and fill her lungs, expanding her chest. She held it in, let it linger, before slowly exhaling, the cards lowering along with her ribcage.

In, and out. And in, and out.

The feeling of weightlessness overtook her for a moment, head feeling light, and her mind emptied. Whatever tension she had in her muscles, it released, the little wrinkles in her expression, the slight furrow of her brow, it all straightened out, as calm overtook her. The sounds of the street outside became softer, drowning out completely until all sound that filled her ears was her breathing and the rhythmic rushing of her own blood. Her index finger continued tracing patterns on the cards, not forming a circle, not quite.

What to do? What to think? What will happen? What should she know? So many questions to ask, but none crystallised fully in her mind.

Selena suddenly felt her head tingle, starting behind her eyes, spreading all the way to the back of her head, and finally a thought filled her mind, clear and loud like a bell.

Gold. Gold in his mask, gold in his hair. And his eyes, bluer than anything she has ever seen, blue eyes burning into her from mindscape.

Belos

Her finger, as the thought of him invaded her meditative state, closed the circle, magic flowing from it and into the deck. The cards started to glow a dimmed purple, spinning in place, each card turning on its own accord but all following the same centre axis, before finally stilling and expelling one single card out of its midst. 

As the card flew out, hanging out clear for the picking from the deck, so too did Selena's eyes snap open, the controlled breathing being interrupted by a gasp for air as she woke from the trance she was in. She took a couple of seconds to steady her breathing again, letting her mind adjust to the return back to the physical world.

And she picked the expelled card fully out of the deck, bringing it up for inspection.

Only for her entire face to twist in shock and outrage, the appalled gasp so loud it practically ejected her to her feet. Which sent the tarot cards that were resting on her chest flying everywhere.

“Wha- what do you mean ?! Is this a joke? Are you having a laugh?!” Selena hissed, face turning red “Upright Ace of Cups, you can not be serious right now!”

The Cups. The minor arcana suit. Water pure and crisp, flowing from abundant gold chalices, the ruling element of the suit was, to no one's surprise, water. And as such, the suit was connected strongly to intuition, emotion, and relationships.

The Ace of Cups, in particular, showing a chalice overflowing, five streams like waterfalls sprouting from its confines, a dove flying in from above to bless the abundant chalice with the gift of coin. It is a card that would, in normal circumstances, bring good tidings. Emotional fulfilment, opening up, happiness, spiritual growth, all flowing in abundance. As well as new beginnings, new relationships, true love.

However, in her circumstances, when she was searching for advice on the Emperor…

Selena held out her free hand “Is this a joke to you?!” she stomped her foot in anger, and the cards that were scattered on the floor twitched, a dim glow sparkling shortly in them as they reacted to her magic. Only one, however, started floating in mid air, still glowing, and it flew into her outstretched hand. Selena looked at it and let out an irritated scream “I am not in denial !”

Two of Swords. The suit of Swords being connected to air, it is the communicator, giving sharp, clear messages. It is logic, clear and transparent, it is knowledge and it is clarity. And the Two of Swords, as it so happens, presents a blindfolded woman, with two swords in her hands pointing in different, opposing directions. She is unable to perceive the problem, and she can not perceive the solution either, she has no clarity nor understanding. The swords give the impression of her being pulled in two different directions, of being forced to make a choice.

It marks the feeling of being pulled in two. Of being stuck in the middle, and difficult choices being forced upon you. Of something being hidden from you, whether by choice of others, or by ignorance of your own self.

And like the woman in the card, Selena got the clear message. She is willingly blinding herself, ignoring the problems before her. Connecting to her rant earlier, the card was telling her you are in denial .

“I don’t have to listen to this- this rubbish!” Selena huffed, arguing with the cards in her hands. “Maybe this is why you were banished to the trash drawer in the first place, because you’re chock full of it!” she continued her rant, now directing it to the rest of the cards scattered on the floor “Stupid, this is so stupid! Love? A blossoming relationship? And I’m the one who is blind?! I should throw you into the kitchen’s hearth! In fact, you can take those readings and shove them right up your-”

Before she could throw the two offending cards on the ground along with their fallen brethren, she was interrupted by a sharp knock on the bakery doors. The sudden sound took Selena fully by surprise, actually making her jump and withdraw her arms to her chest protectively, a little ‘eep’ escaping her. Selena’s head snapped towards the door, eyes squinting as the adrenaline waned off, and it took her a moment or two to recognise who was standing out there. Eyes widening, she made a half-jog towards the doors, letting the visitor in.

“Steve, what brings you here?” she asked, ushering the man in “I’m not open yet.”

“No, I know that, I just-” Steve started casually, but was cut off mid sentence when he saw the tarot cards littering the floor “Woah, what happened here? Bad reading or something?”

“Something like that.” Selena muttered under her breath and spun a spell. The cards flew into the air, pirouetting above her and Steve and, one by one, landing in a neat deck on her open palm. Giving them one last glare, Selena went to put them back into the “junk drawer”. Once she did, she straightened out her clothes and ran a hand through her hair, an attempt to make herself look more presentable, before smiling at Steve “So? What brings you around these parts?” the smile widened into a grin “Did the Emperor send you to drag me back from my impromptu vacation?”

“No, well uh, yes, but not like that.” Steve, realising he was tripping over his words in a very un-cool way, cleared his throat “Mostly, I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Well aren’t you sweet?” she said “As you can see, coven head Hettie did a fantastic job, and along with the help of coven head Vitimir’s potions, I am fit as can be!” she playfully flexed her arm “Watch out so you don’t get on my bad side, Tholomule!”

“Woah, put those guns away!” the scout joked, putting his hands up in front of him defensively “Steve is intimidated!”

This felt nice. Just laughing with Steve, he always is such a cool guy to be around, Selena thought. Darius is intimidating, and seems to enjoy making her angry. She still felt out of sorts with the residents of the Owl House, they’re way too cool for her to feel this relaxed around them. Katya was fun to be around, sure, but with how often she had been away lately due to her bard mentoring, it was getting lonely.

And Belos. Well, she’d rather not get into that pile of worms.

Clearing his throat, Steve spoke “And as for the Emperor, he did send me, wanting to inquire about your condition. But I would have come either way.” Selena let out a soft affirming hum, prompting him to continue “Emperor Belos wanted to know how you felt, and when you would be back to making deliveries.”

“Does he now?”

Nodding, Steve took out an envelope from under his cloak “He also wanted me to inform you that, as soon as you feel up to the task, that he’d like to switch deliveries from morning to afternoons. Specifically, after you close up shop.”

Selena wrinkled her nose at this “Any reason as to why?”

“Something about not imposing on your business hours.” he offered the envelope to her “In any case, he wanted me to deliver this to you.”

Fingers gently took the expensive paper, brushing over the royal seal as soon as it was safely in her hands. “Oh, this looks very formal. How exciting!” Selena let out a little laugh through her nose, words somewhere between mocking and sincere. A very weird combination, yet somehow she achieved it.

It was very fine stationery indeed. The paper of the envelope was nice and finely pressed, her full name embossed in the back with gold lettering. The royal seal at the front was done in red wax, the silhouette of the Emperor’s coven sigil embedded neatly. She hated to break such a pretty seal, but alas, there was no other choice. It cracked so nicely under her fingers, with a satisfying snap , and she took the letter out, unfolding the paper, her eyes quickly flying over the words

My Dearest, Selena;

I hope you are doing well. Your company has been dearly missed during my mornings. I am eagerly awaiting for your return, once you have made a full recovery.

As for my order once that day arrives, I leave that fully up to your imagination. So far, your judgement when it comes to the matters of pastries has never been wrong. 

I, however, need nothing more than your delightful presence.

Sincerely, your dear friend;

Emperor Belos

As Selena read the letter, Steve took notice that it was taking her a while. Maybe the letter was longer than he expected? Or what if she was a slow reader, you never know. He watched carefully as her eyes flew over the lines of text, over and over, then resetting back to the top, all the while bringing the letter closer to her face, as if doing that would somehow change what was written.

He couldn't really place her expression. Was she outraged? Embarrassed? Flustered? Steve could not tell, especially after she brought the paper so close to her face he could barely make out her features anymore.

“Uhh, Sele-”

He was interrupted by Selena ripping her face away from the letter, face straining as she tried to school it back into a more neutral reaction “Well!” She boomed, before clearing her throat “What a sweet letter, how… nice of the Emperor to keep me in his thoughts!”

Steve wondered if she was going to accidentally rip the paper, what with how tightly she clenched it.

“Would you care for some human muffins?” Selena asked, her focus on the letter as she carefully folded it and put it back in the envelope, then placed it in a pocket on her skirt “I have a lot of test batches I have to do away with, couldn't possibly eat all of them alone.”

“Why not, I would if I were you.”

Her nose wrinkled a bit as she smiled “That would be a serious danger to my waistline.”

~*~*~*~*~

My Dearest, Selena

With a coma. After dearest. He wrote “My dearest ,” pause “Selena.”

Selena, after bidding her farewell to Steve, had spent the better part of the morning pacing in circles whilst she worked on detangling the bundle of necklaces and charms she found earlier, interjected only by throwing herself onto her bed in frustration, before bouncing back up and repeating the cycle.

“What does he mean, My Dearest?!” she huffed, glaring hotly at the tangled mess in her hands. “Did he do it by accident, or did he intend it?” She paused in her pacing, one hand running through her hair “He couldn't have. Right?” She looked at Pip, who had been observing this weird breakdown she was having with both interest and worry.

The lack of any helpful answer from Pip left the witch huffing and puffing with frustration. With a final groan, she threw herself into the peacock chair positioned near the rose window, slumping in it with very little grace. In front of the chair, a matching rattan coffee table, and on it was the letter (and its accompanying envelope) which was giving her such a hard time.

“And this-” Selena threw the tangled necklaces and charms on to the table next to the two pendulums she already managed to somehow weasel out of the ball, the entire thing jingling and clanging loudly as she did, and took the letter in its stead. She gave the flimsy paper a hit with the back of her free hand “- I, however, need nothing more than your delightful presence .” She read out loud “What is he thinking, waxing poetic like this?!”

Selena quieted down, her attention now fully on the letter as she proceeded to read it fully once again. And again. And once more, for good measure. And with each read, her face twisted in reaction, an open book for no one, except her palisman, to see. Once it was apparent she was re-reading the letter again, Pip cawed. It did gain her attention, somewhat, but it didn't draw her gaze away from Belos’ words.

She scoffed, “The cards said that just to annoy me, and you know it. That's why they were banished to the trash drawer in the first place, I would think!”

Her free hand rose up to support her head, index finger placed on her temple, the thumb at her chin, and she continued her intense dissertation of the Emperor's letter. Truth be told, she could not get it out of her head, not for the lack of trying of course. She tried occupying herself with something else, hell, there was currently a batch of fresh human muffins in the oven, the consequence of her trying to get over it.

Her apartment was slowly being overtaken by human muffins and cupcakes, but man did they ever smell nice while baking.

Selena didn't realise how tension left her muscles as she kept reading, her face losing its scowl. “All he needs, huh?” she muttered so softly it sounded more like a sigh than anything. Still slouching horribly in the peacock chair, she had slid out halfway out of it by this point, holding herself on it just barely by digging her heels in. “Well. I mean. My presence is delightful.” at this, Pip sounded off, and she huffed “Stop laughing, twerp!”

This was her fault, wasn’t it? She was the one who crossed the business boundary first, asking him outright for his friendship. Instead of leaving it in a vague, unlabeled limbo of awkward interactions, like any wise witch would. But no, they were officially friends now. Even more so bound by her heroic actions of self sacrifice. It’s no wonder his words are spelled out so fond of her, the man probably feels touched and indebted to her by now.

The little hero who saved the Emperor.

Selena scoffed. She was supposed to overthrow him, not save him. How in the world did she manage to fuck up this severely?

Nothing more than your delightful presence .

She felt something in her gut clench. Adrenaline up her spine and tingled the back of her head. It made her fingers itch with anticipation, and she flexed them to get rid of the rising urges. The words from the letter repeated in her head, in a perfect replica of the Emperor's voice.

It's a day off, dammit. She's taking one last day off. This isn't going to ruin it. She won't let it, damn it!

Selena finally slid all the way out of the chair, turning as she did to dramatically drape her arms and upper body over the seat. Her fingers continued to itch, twitching, nails tapping against the wood. She closed her eyes, focusing on the rhythm she set with her tapping.

Your company has been dearly missed.

“Titan-” Selena groaned loudly and buried her face into her arms “-damn it!”

She jumped onto her feet and continued cursing, a plethora of “damn it” leaving her mouth in fast succession whilst she once again started pacing the room in circles. Only this time, she pulled out her penstagram scroll, furiously scrolling through the private messages until she found the one she shared with Steve.

Oracle_Baker: Hey Steve

Oracle_Baker: So (ง ื▿ ื)ว

Oracle_Baker: Uh 

Oracle_Baker:  What are the chances of you picking me up for a royal delivery today? 

Oracle_Baker: Like, after bakery working hours?

Oracle_Baker: No pressure ofc

Oracle_Baker: You don’t gotta

Oracle_Baker: Actually never mind |ω･)ﾉ

Oracle_Baker: The emperor is super busy I don’t want to impose _(:3 」∠)_

About to hurl the scroll out of the window in embarrassment, she was only stopped by it pinging, letting her know that she had gotten a response. She squeaked, feeling more anxious than before, and it took all her willpower to check the message

HailThexXEmperorXx: 👍

HailThexXEmperorXx: pick u up at 5

HailThexXEmperorXx: will let the emperor kno 

HailThexXEmperorXx: c u then 🔥

This time, she did hurl the scroll, but thankfully only across the room and not through the window. Selena whined, rather loudly, and slid down to her knees, burying her face in her hands. “Why did I do that, what is wrong with meeee?!” she continued to wail, comically so, as she continued her descent onto the floor until she was fully horizontal and kicking her feet up in the air. As if that will somehow help her shake off the weird rush of ick-fueled energy she was experiencing.

“This is stupid.” her voice was muffled behind her hands “This is so stupid, by the gods I am stupid!”

Meanwhile, poor Pip watched, his beak agape, as Selena had an emotional breakdown worthy of a teenager going through witch puberty. He would tell her that he told her so, but right now, that would be the equivalent of signing his own death sentence.

So he just sighed, very dramatically, facepalming with his wing and continued watching Selena rolling around on the floor.

Today was going to be a long day, wasn’t it?

[crowttore]

Crow's rules and guidelines

Welcome to a fanfiction blog run by a weird creature (me), here are some guidelines to read before following or otherwise interacting with me:

General stuff

Be 18+. I block blogs that have no age indicator, state that they are below 18, or have no reblogs/posts on them.

I write and reblog dark content

Do not repost, reupload, translate, claim as your own, use for AI, or similar with my writing.

You are responsible for your own comfort, I tag using 'cw [trigger]' If you see me miss a specific trigger, politely notify me and I'll add it. I'm only human.

Be nice. I won't tolerate hateful behaviour of any kind.

I am against censorship, if this bothers you, perhaps this isn't the right place to be.

Writing stuff

If you just ask me for a 'part 2', I will block you. It's wildly discouraging.

I won't block you for spam liking, but I will probably squint.

Won't write: urophilia, scatophilia, emetophilia, pedophilia, zoophilia, bestiality (will add as I remember)

Ask stuff

I can take a while to answer depending on my energy level. If I delete an ask I'll typically make a post to say why.

However if something truly makes me uncomfortable, I'll just delete it and block the sender.

If you try to start/bring drama you'll be blocked

You're free to send in suggestions for writing, not guaranteeing I'll actually write it

[underestimated-heroine]

as for the shit about Zionism, which I am not going to get into on that post, here's most of Lessons of growing up black and Jewish By Chanda Prescod-Weinstein

It was in this context that I attended a peace vigil organised by a new friend: a Palestinian German who also happened to be president of the Harvard Society of Arab Students (SAS) when the Intifada began. The peace vigil was largely unremarkable; nothing controversial was said by any of the speakers, who instead hoped for peace. My friend, the president, called for a moment of silence for all those who were dead. We bowed our heads. The moment was disrupted by a woman who began yelling. I don’t remember her words exactly except the phrase “you people”. And whatever it was she said, it established her in my eyes as a fellow Jew. I was filled with shame and with anger. How could any of us disrespect the dead like this? My best recollection is that I felt responsible for her behaviour, and I approached her to intervene. She, a white woman, looked at me and said, “You Arabs don’t want peace.” I was disgusted by her premises: the erasure of my Jewishness and the racist claim about Arabs. When I explained that I too was Jewish, she seamlessly proposed instead that I was self-hating. That was my entrée into black Jewish adulthood: at a peace vigil organised by Arab students, I was too brown-skinned to be visibly Jewish and was told that only a self-hating Jew would attend a peace vigil with Arab students. In hindsight, this was a preview of some elements of what life would be like in the post-9/11 world, where I would regularly be taken for an Arab on the street and felt my safety was constantly in question because of it. In Jewish spaces my presence was always a question mark too. My skin colour meant I did not fit into any preconceived categories. I experienced a profound ideological disconnect between the Judaism I found at Hillel, the Jewish campus organisation, and the lessons I had learned in a family of white Jewish labour organisers and black civil rights activists: enacting solidarity at all times, and identifying and struggling with the oppressed – honouring fellow Sojourners. In Jewish spaces I found that the primacy of Israel and Zionist ideology was preached side by side with otherwise progressive values; Palestinian humanity was nowhere to be found. I believe millennials such as myself were the last generation to experience this kind of propaganda without challenge. Younger millennials and Gen Z Jews have rejected compulsory Zionism in large numbers, and it is under us that the Open Hillel movement has shifted the conversation. Millennials and Gen Z take seriously the lessons we were taught about equality. We are also the most racially diverse Jewish generations in US history. Many Jews of colour interpret the language of Zionism through our experience with racism and colonialism, and we recognise the familiar supremacist logic that underpins it. An ideologically coherent Jewish left must reconsider the stories we have been told about safety, security and what it means to live without terror. We must take seriously the idea that none of us are free until all of us are free, and to understand that the “us” includes Palestinians. This means rejecting the supremacist logic of liberal Zionism, that it is possible to build a multicultural sovereign state where Jews are uniquely, legally entitled in ways that others are not. As a black Jew, I find it easy and rather natural to repudiate this premise, which has the same basis as American Jim Crow laws. Instead, a coherent Jewish left must return to core progressive Jewish values: standing with the oppressed, even if the face of the oppressor is Jewish. It is the duty of every Jew to do work mip’nei tikkun ha-olam, for the sake of repairing the world. We are commanded by Deuteronomy, Tzedek, Tzedek, tirdof, justice, justice you shall seek. The Jewish left must seek justice, peace and liberation for our Palestinian siblings. We must take seriously – as so many millennials my age did – the idea that “never again” means never again for anyone, ever.

I am not being mean to Zionists. ethnonationalism is a bad thing when everyone does it. no free passes. unfollow me if this does not entirely resolve your disagreement. good luck with your shit.

hello. i actually already unfollowed you after your response to my addition on that post, so no need to worry there. i've always appreciated your perspectives on things so it makes me a bit sad, but i don't want either of us to have negative energy between us going forward, which would be difficult now because it is very obvious you felt attacked by my addition.

that was not my intention at all. I truthfully had no idea you'd reblogged the post in its original form and was not speaking specifically to you, but trying to add to a broader conversation and warn others against doing something i, too, have mistakenly done. i am not "without sin" as you put it. that's literally part of the reason i made the addition.

this is a very fraught issue where a lot of harm could be done unintentionally--and I do know a lot of it is unintentional. but unintentional harm is still harm. that's something i had to have a talk with myself about while trying to speak out for Palestinian liberation. all i was trying to say is that we should all be more careful moving forward. that's literally it.

this was genuinely a great read! and one i completely agree with. In my pinned post, I have linked posts and in one of the indirect links I actually believe that person is cited but I may be wrong. In any case, the talking points are much the same.

I brought up defining terms with Zionism on THAT PARTICULAR POST because of how bad and inaccurate it was in its original form. another addition there pointed out that it read like some qanon shit and I'm sorry, but they were absolutely right. People are out of their minds if they think Zionism is never used as code for just "Jews" by white supremacists and the like. More importantly, they are ignorant and unresearched.

I also want to point out acknowledged that you don't want to guilt people and explicitly agreed with that sentiment. i truly believe that guilt only serves a function insofar as it helps us grow. again, all I'm saying is that I think many of us are being too trigger-happy with the reblogs for good reasons...but also some less-easy-to-pinpoint, ignorant, guilt-panicky bad ones. people are just not being as careful as they should here, not fact-checking. no one's perfect and of course that's okay, but Jewish people are begging us to be more careful with this stuff and I think we need to listen more.

good luck with YOUR shit.

[lilisouless]

I already posted this, BUT season 2 is coming next year and i need and updated version, rebbloging the old one is not enought

Don’t-harrass-the-actors-or-crew 2.0 (A lot of this is the same text as before, but updated)

If Ben Barnes likes Darklina ,no bashing ,no calling him an abuse apologist or anything like that (again)

If Jessie Mei Li likes Darklina,Malina , Nikolina, Genyalina,Zoyalina, Alina/Tamar or even single!Alina, it´s their experience as an actor,their perspective ,their opinion and must not be treated as a “feminist traitor” or something like that. NEW: Also leave alone conspiracy theories that when they shows liking for Darklina,they are being genuine but if they speak in favor of Malina, they are being manipulated by netflix (yes, people already did that)

If Archie Renaux likes Malina, don't bash or harrass him (AGAIN)

If you don’t like Mal remember, Archie didn’t wrote the script

If you don’t like Alina, Jessie didn’t wrote the script

If you don’t like the Darkling,Ben didn’t wrote the scripts (you get the idea)

And since fandom (not this in particular,just any fandom) will take any excuse to do girl hate: Don’t  hate on Sujaya Dasgupta as much as you could dislike her character. NEW: She didn't wrote the script (something people doesn't seem to get)

NEW: Whatever they do with Nikolai: Patrick didn't wrote the script, and he wasn't the one who had a hand over being choosen over Robert Wilde, he only auditioned.

Also, take in count Patrick probably had to do chemistry tests with Jessie but not Sujaya AND he will spend way more time with the first one. So there is a high chance he may ship Nikolina over Zoyalai and thats okay! there is no need to hate him for that.

NEW:

As much as i want Show!Tolya to be canon aroace and for Leigh to confirm it as canon after all those hints: If Lewis ships Tolya with someone, or if the show gives him a LI (we don't know if Vanessa Grace is actually playing a character, the imdb is incomplete since it doesn't have Adrik nor Jordie) don't hate him for it, since is not completely confirmed on the books and the blame would be on netflix for wasting representation material.

NEW:

Have you seen people giving Amita, Freddy,Kit or Dani a bad time, for bad things that were done with their characters and focussing the critism on the script and/or casting directors? Also: Freddy,Amita and Kit all support Malina, have you seen people attaking them? (other than a couple of joke responses to Kit)? Well, you can do the same! Not harrasing people doesn't hurt. I have the feeling this is because everyone knows the SoC part of the fandom won't let them live if they touch any of the crow actors (reason i am not too worried about Jack). The only i have seen is that person who put down Amita´s acting in order to highlight Ben´s , which fortunetaly was just one person and even Ben Barnes fans called them on that one. If you can show decency to them, you can do it with the other actors.

And Kuwei hasn't been casted yet but i´ll get ahead: don’t bash on his actor ,even if they cast someone who ships Kuwei and Jesper, he´ll deserve respect.

I know there are more new characters but, i am mostly sure no one will have a problem with Anna &Joanna and/or Kit & Jack liking their character´s ships , nor that Zoyalai shippers would come after Alistair for Adrik´s canon crush on Zoya.

Oh yeah, almost forgot: Don't give Joanna a hard time for reemplacing Gabrielle

We are never going to agree in a lot of things,but lets not be that fandom that harrases real people over ships or characters. NEW: Lets say the fandom was mostly tame, but the toxic behaviour should not be "low" it should be "zero"

[sweetestpopcorn]

not to be that person (and I always thought that there had been nothing between rhaenyra and criston) but in AFFC, arys' pov, it says: “A few whispered that Ser Criston had been Princess Rhaenyra's lover[...]”. the book tells us it happened before cole took the white but that might just be george changing idea in the years.

Anon I don’t want to be that person but literally my last post answers your question if you read it until the end. 🤦🏽‍♀️ And on this note, if I have answered something anyone is asking before, or if the answer is in one of my posts from now on I will straight up delete the asks. Come. On. I already spend enough time writing as is and searching up things. I have about 70 asks again. Fics to update. People left and right asking “when is X being updated”. On top of this I work a full time job that actually pays me (good) money. I have a house and responsibilities. 

I love interacting with you all but I expect that you at least do the bear minimum and search for recent posts before sending me asks... 

But let’s go. Friendly reminder you can check here for a more extensive explanation.

The only book that calls Rhaenyra and Criston lovers is indeed “A Feast For Crows”. Neither in “The Rogue Prince”, “The Princess and the Queen”, “The World of Ice and Fire”, or in “Fire and Blood” does anyone call them that or suggest that. Comparing it now let’s see with the rumoured (lol rumoured) romance between Rhaenyra and Harwin we have multiple sources saying that they were indeed lovers, and more than once Harwin is referred to in such terms as for instance the “purported father of Rhaenyra’s sons” between other terms. Honestly y’all can go to the books and check because at this point I am tired. Never, not once is Criston referred to in such terms (believe me I checked multiple times - or don’t believe me and check yourself). Never. Not once. And indeed none of the sources in any of the four books I have cited refer or suggest that they were ever lovers. 

There is only one person who says something that could be a hint (maybe?) that something was going on. You know who that was? Someone want to guess? *ding ding ding* Alicent Hightower. When does she says it? Before 111 AC, to be more precise somewhere between 109 and 110 when Rhaenyra was between 12 and 13. When did Daemon return to King’s landing? 111 AC. 

What does Alicent say *opening my very used ratty copy of Fire and Blood* 

“Ser Criston protects the princess from her enemies, but who protects the princess from Ser Criston?” (Fire and Blood, pg. 365)

Now, Alicent was no fool, and in my opinion I think at around this time she was catching some weird vibes from Criston. Given his behaviour later on in the books I think this is what makes most sense. At the same time at around this time, Alicent and Rhaenrya were not on good terms and many young men were already starting to be interested in her, so saying something like this at court, would be a way to cast a bit of doubt about Rhaenyra’s reputation. 

But ok no problem, let’s say that even with a (very) big stretch and little to no evidence, what Alicent is implying that they were lovers and that they were indeed lovers before Daemon returned to King’s Landing in 111 AC -> Friendly reminder that no one and nowhere implies anything went on between them between 111 AC - 114 AC check here or check Fire and Blood pages 369 to 373. Don’t take my word for it. - So the sequence of events would be at around 12 or 13 Rhaenyra starts an affair with Criston. If this is true, then Mushroom can’t be right because if they were having an affair then she can’t at the same time want to seduce him and being rejected. That would be like saying I ate at 9pm and then at the same time saying I couldn’t eat at 9pm because I had no food at home. Those things are contrary hence cannot exist simultaneously. Thus, Septon Eustace’s version has to be correct and Rhaenyra had an affair with Daemon. For arguments’ sake let’s say Eustace didn’t know or lied about her and Criston (though this is a dangerous route to go with because then you can make this argument literally about anything. I could even say Rhaenyra’s brother Baelon lived until he was 2 and then died but the Maesters changed the history books) and so he thought she was still a virgin when Daemon came along. Our sequence of events would be Rhaenyra and Criston become lovers when she is between 12-13, then Daemon comes along in 111 AC, she decides to ignore Criston and spend her whole days for 6 months (Fire and Blood, pg. 367) with her uncle, they become lovers, she asks to marry Daemon to Viserys, he says no, Daemon is exiled. Now I ask, wouldn’t Criston find it odd that his lover now acts like he doesn’t exist and spends her entire days with another man? Wouldn’t he mind? Wouldn’t he say something? How could he find it all well? Because we know that either he or her scorned the other yet this only took place in 114 AC. So wtf happened? It was like “ah yeah I was with my uncle but I am back now :D���.

Uh?! Is this a believable sequence of events to anyone? Is this how anyone thinks humans would act?! Especially considering everything that happened afterwards? 

It would also make Eustace’s claim that he confessed his love for her in 114 AC (before she wed Laenor) very strange since they were lovers before 111 AC.

Now about the claim in “A Feast For Crows”, Anon. 

Criston joined the Kingsguard in 105 AC -> check Fire and Blood pg. 359. What age was Rhaenyra Targaryen in 105 AC we now ask? Check Fire and Blood pg. 352. And according to Fire and Blood pg. 352 Rhaenyra was born in 97 AC. At this point I don’t know if anyone wants to say that this was another lie by the Maesters and that she was actually older. Honestly at this point I don’t put it past people. 

So, now we turn again to the year of 105 AC and we ask the books and gods of Math. “Books and gods of Math, pray tell how old Rhaenrya Targaryen was in 105 AC”? 105 - 97 = 8. Answer: 8 years of age. 

Conclusion: When Criston and Rhaenyra met he was 23 and she was 8, and he joined the Kingsguard that same year. So before he joined the Kingsguard Rhaenyra Targaryen was 8 years old.

Repeating what I said in the post that answers your question, if they were lovers before he joined the Kingguard and people want to suggest it fine by me, but please be aware that Rhaenyra was a child of 8 and so that would make Ser Criston Cole even by the asoiaf standards a pedophile.

And now, because I have already written extensively on this I will go ahead and use the copy past function and answer the rest. 

“Oh but we are told as such in Feast for Crows!” 

Ok I’ll bite. You are also told in “A Game of Thrones” that Rhaenyra was one year older than Aegon II and that Viserys II was Aegon III’s fourth son. 

You also have zero mentions of Daemon anytime the City Watch is shown yet you keep having mentions of every Targaryen who did X thing every book - like Baelor and the Sept he built.

Rhaenyra was once planned to be married to a Lannister and then to Lyonel Strong.

Alysanne was meant to be tall, and later was changed to be petite.

Alyssa was meant to be older than Baelon. 

Alysanne was first written as Maegor’s daughter.

Should I go on?

A Feast for Crows was written in 2005. The Princess and the Queen was written in 2013. The World of Ice and Fire was written in 2014. The Rogue Prince was written in 2014. Fire and Blood came out in 2018. 

Clearly to me the story has been changed. Even though is also important to make a note of the fact that a Maester telling the story quoting multiple sources of people that lived during the time the events were taking place versus Arianne Martell or Arya Stark talking about whispers. I would say the first would be the one I think would be more knowledgable of what indeed took place. Kind of like if a Doctor tells me I am sick and my friend who has no degree tells me I am fine, I would go with the Doctor’s opinion. But that’s just my take.

I am tired. 

Another important point I wish to make. With how much Mushroom sexualises Rhaenyra and says this person was f_cking this person - hell he even says Alicent was in bed with JAEHAERYS! - do you think that if Rhaenyra was doing (lol) Criston Musroom wouldn’t have yelled it to the seven winds and beyond? This f_cking dude had everyone in bed with everyone but he would lie about Rhaenyra and Criston? Why? He literally makes her look like a desperate Lolita thirsting for d_ck -> only until 120 AC and until she marries Daemon curiously. Makes sense. - So why would he lie about this? This all said and even his version makes a lot more sense than redacted.

Important Note: All of this information is related to the asoiaf/book canon and about canon Criston Cole and canon Rhaenyra Targaryen. The g*t version of events is following g*t canon which is very different. So anyone considering g*t canon please now I am not discussing the same characters and events you are seeing. 

All the best to you!

[thefirstknife]

Some of the more interesting bits of today's reset and dialogues. I loved this from Mara. She acknowledges her participation in steering Uldren towards his downfall AND she realises that she will have to do better with him in the future. This is from the ending dialogue when you finish the exotic quest for the Ager's Scepter.

I want to mention something from the start of the week because I've seen people get angry (but when do they not when it comes to Mara?)

Long post under read more:

It's about the discussion she and Ikora have at the terminal. Hot take, but both Mara and Ikora are right and wrong in the argument. Transcript:

Mara: "How long have your Hidden been privy to Uldren's resurrection?" Ikora: "Long enough to watch over him in your absence." Mara: "And you didn't direct him home. Why?" Ikora: "There was a concern he'd pick up some old habits." Mara: "You know the Garden made him sick. Riven twisted his mind. Eris would have seen it. She is not so easily deceived by skin-deep tricks." Ikora: "It's true I made mistakes, out of an idea of justice... out of grief. Are you leveling this same scrutiny toward Petra? Wasn't she supposed to be watching his grave?" Mara: "Petra has paid her dues. The Vanguard murdered him and has yet to pay theirs." Ikora: "We both lost family. I am sorry for my part in yours, but... Crow has been treated --" Mara: "My brother is dead. He was exhumed; his body twisted into a caricature. You had your vengeance." Ikora: "Is that what you're after? Cayde... I still feel that grief like a stone caught in my chest. Some days, it's more pronounced than others. Vengeance didn't erode that grief." Mara: "Then tell me. Who am I to blame? Who sent him to Savathun's clutches? Who bludgeoned Uldren into a scared animal and drove him from his home?" Ikora: "You did, Mara. And those Guardians that hurt him, did so out of misguided anger. Don't make the same mistake. Don't make my mistake."

This is some heavy stuff and there's a lot going on. First, I like that Mara doesn't respond at the end. It's uncharacteristic for her. It shows that Ikora's words did something to her. This is evident in the exotic quest later which I've already put at the beginning of the post. She's had time to think and she's admitting the part she played.

I dislike some of Ikora's arguments a lot. First, "concern that he'd pick up some old habits" goes entirely against the Vanguard policy and belief that Guardians are new people. They were only concerned because of bias towards Uldren due to what he's done. And Crow knows this! He said so last week when he wondered why is he the only Guardian judged by his past life. No one else is subjected to the same way of thinking. This is the reason why Guardians aren't supposed to dig around their past lives. Obviously with Crow, there's no way for him to avoid it, but the argument that, if he knew, he'd just magically become Uldren (and not just base!Uldren, but murderer!Uldren who will... I don't know, go after Ikora and Zavala or the innocent people in the City?) really shows how much the Vanguard mistreated Crow.

I also dislike the move to Petra. As Mara says, Petra has paid her dues. She really has. Let's not forget that Uldren was not just some guy to her or just her Prince; he was her friend. She had to watch him spiral out of control due to things she couldn't help him with, she had to make the choice to put him away until Mara comes back and at the end she had to make the choice to kill him. This trauma has shaped her.

The Vanguard hasn't paid any dues. That's kinda the whole point of Mara's questioning. Ikora tries to explain that this was due to grief and losing family, but pray tell Ikora, has Mara not lost family too? Mara mentions this immediately as expected.

Ikora is however right to say that it was ultimately Mara's actions that led to the situation we're currently in. The Vanguard had no say in Awoken royal family affairs. Mara knows this, she said as much in the past few weeks and other lore in general: she spoke at length about the distance she pushed between them out of perceived necessity, the need to shape Uldren in a way to make him less like himself (since she disliked his recklessness and dangerous behaviours), but ultimately that only made things worse. She's aware that his venture into the Black Garden was fuelled by Uldren's need to prove himself. Ironically, in an effort to make him loyal and devoted, Mara pushed him into more recklessness instead of stopping it. She's aware of this. Asking Ikora "who am I to blame" was just waiting to be roasted.

But Mara is also right to ask about how the Vanguard treated both Uldren and Crow. How they washed their hands from killing him "officially" by hiding behind the Guardian, how nobody in the Tower answered for this. Their treatment of Crow as well: forcing him into hiding, isolating him. Excusing all the suffering he felt at the hands of the Guardians as "misguided anger." The torture he endured from Guardians just for showing his face was so much more than just "misguided anger" and Mara is right to feel heated and enraged when she talks about this and when she asks her questions. She expressed similar distaste and anger in a voice line with Glint in regards to how the Spider treated Crow.

I got an interesting dialogue at the end of my Shattered Realm run which also made me really irritated on behalf of both Crow and Mara when it comes to the Vanguard. Ikora asks Crow why didn't he send his latest report and Crow replies that he's had a lot going on and a lot to deal with. Which is true! He's not the Drifter who doesn't send reports out of spite; Crow genuinely wants to help but he's struggling with a lot of things that we can't even begin to unravel. He deserves patience and understanding. However, the following then ensues.

Ikora:

Crow:

Ikora:

This last part is a nice sentiment. But excuse me. Crow has literally been resurrected, isolated, tortured, enslaved and then "rescued" only to be thrust into a cage in the Tower and given "responsibilities." He is not obliged to be the Vanguard's errand boy. It's honestly quite rude from Ikora to tell him that he has to take his responsibilities seriously. The man hasn't lived a single day in his life without anxiety over whether he'll be tortured to death in the street if he shows his face.

I know the Vanguard gave him protection from the Spider and stuff to do (which he enjoys) and accepted him into their ranks. That's all good. But there's very little empathy here that acknowledges the life he's lived. Crow deserves to experience things that aren't isolation, imprisonment and following orders.

And most of all, he deserves to know the truth. Something the Vanguard has denied him for almost a year now. I know Savathun's schemes were involved and specifically, they were involved through impersonating Osiris which made a lot of people turn a blind eye. But now that this is known?

Crow can't share his burdens without knowing the truth. That's the whole problem. Everybody, except him, knows who he was. Everyone looks at him and treats him through that lens. He can't unburden himself without being told half-truths and being denied information. His burdens exist precisely because he doesn't know while everyone else does. So while the sentiment is nice, it reads more like a "that sucks buddy" than a genuine offer to help him with what is really bothering him.

On the other hand, obviously sharing the truth is difficult. His past life is more complicated than for most other Guardians. He's been through things that other Guardians haven't. The situation is complex on every single level and every character has a reason for the choices they've made.

Sometimes those choices are wrong and they are mistakes. And Mara isn't the only one who made the wrong choices and mistakes, consciously and unconsciously. It's a disservice to the complexity of the situation, Ikora, the Vanguard and Uldren to boil everything down to "Mara bad." Doesn't make for a compelling story.

That's what I wanted to address in detail because on the surface, it's easy to just dismiss either of the character you dislike more. And that's just reducing the story to a spectrum of black and white that Destiny really, ironically, isn't about.

[ultimatetrashyfanfic]

Non-despair AU! And ever since I watched that thirty minute anime clip with Nagito’s perspective on things, I’ve really liked the idea of him being buds with Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko. And Nagito openly talks about his past trauma on a plane so… what better way to bond than bonding over trauma? Anyway, I love these three so much. Also Komahina because I love them - Circle

(Also forgot to add this, sorry, but it’s on AO3 too) https://archiveofourown.org/works/33483538

Warning: descriptions of panic attacks, nausea, motion sickness, very mild vomiting (like barely any).

Fuyuhiko always thought Nagito was spouting a whole load of bullshit when he lamented about his talent being useless; he would’ve loved having Ultimate Luck right now.

“Haha! You got the short straw, Fuyuhiko!” Akane crowed. “Tough luck!”

“Wait, no! Can’t we do a best of three?”

“Somebody has to sit with them, man,” Nekomaru said. “You guys are already friends, it’ll be a great bonding experience.”

“I don’t want to bond with them in that situation. Because you all know it’ll be a shit show. That’s why we’re fucking doing this,” Fuyuhiko growled, glaring at each of his classmates in turn. Only two were missing, the pair who’d triggered this whole unfortunate drawing of straws in the first place.

“Why can’t you sit with them, Hajime? Nagito is always hanging off you anyway. And Kazuichi is your friend too,” Fuyuhiko said.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Fuyuhiko.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I didn’t draw the short straw.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Fuyuhiko stomped away, his classmates’ laughter echoing behind him. This class trip was already more trouble than it was worth and it hadn’t even started. He was almost tempted to skip the plane journey with the rest of them and hop on a different flight to Novoselic, just to show them. It wasn’t like he needed Sonia to pay his way. But she’d been so enthusiastic about taking her friends to see her home country, and Fuyuhiko couldn’t think of any way to tell her without causing offence. He couldn’t really say he just didn’t want to be stuck babysitting Kazuichi and Nagito on a flight.

It wasn’t that Fuyuhiko didn’t like Kazuichi and Nagito. Sure, Kazuichi could be a real pain in the ass sometimes, and Nagito would go all weird and self-deprecating if you didn’t watch out, but Fuyuhiko still considered them close friends. But the flight to Novoselic was long. Kazuichi could get motion sickness on a fucking bicycle, and Nagito hadn’t set foot on a plane since his parents died on one right in front of his eyes. There was no way it could possibly go well. Fuyuhiko pictured hour after hour of Kazuichi puking and complaining and Nagito… well, he wasn’t sure what the hell Nagito would do. He’d never seen Nagito get flustered before. Hell, that was much more terrifying. He had to get out of this.

In the days before the trip, Fuyuhiko kept trying to convince his kinder classmates to take responsibility for at least one of the other men. “It’s gonna be impossible to help them both,” Fuyuhiko said. “It’ll be better for them if you help me.”

“You could sit between them,” Mahiru said. “And I’ve already promised Hiyoko I’ll sit with her. Sorry.”

Asking Twogami was a no-go too. “It’ll be more considerate to the other passengers if they’re both in one area,” he said. “To limit the disturbance if they become distressed.”

“I’m the one who’ll be feeling fucking distressed,” Fuyuhiko snapped.

Peko overheard, and came over at once. “I’ll take your burden, young master.”

“No, not you!” Fuyuhiko hated the whine in his tone - and he hated the smirk on Twogami’s face too. “You don’t have to do it. You sit with Gundham and pet his hamsters or something. I… I want you to be happy,” he mumbled, blushing fiercely.

Damn it. He could be as bad as Kazuichi sometimes.

There was no way to wriggle out of it. The morning of the trip dawned bright and sunny, and Fuyuhiko’s ticket set him directly between Kazuichi and Nagito. Fantastic.

At least check-in and security went by reasonably peacefully, the walk to their gate quiet. Only Akane and Nekomaru seemed to be properly awake this early in the day, and they stuck with each other. Fuyuhiko glanced at his two friends. Kazuichi still seemed half-asleep, curled on one of the uncomfortable chairs by the gate, watching the planes take off and land in the distance through the huge windows. Nagito was much more concerning. He was smiling brightly… but he didn’t look happy at all.

“Hey, Fuyuhiko, want to know how a plane engine works?” Kazuichi asked.

“No,” he said, but he sat down with a sigh as Kazuichi started talking anyway. He tuned out after a second, though Nagito looked like he was listening.

“Seeing you talk about your ultimate talent is so inspiring, Kazuichi,” Nagito said - and smiled. That weird smile again, desperate and strained.

“It’s nothing. I just think planes are interesting. From an engineering point of view. I really wish I didn’t have to fucking ride one,” Kazuichi groaned.

“Aha, I can’t help feeling apprehensive too. The last time I was on a flight, both my parents died.” Nagito spoke emotionlessly, as if reciting a shopping list, but that smile was still fixed on his face. “But it’s okay. That bad luck brought me a lot of good luck later on. You just have to have hope that things will work out.”

Kazuichi stared at him, mouth open. “Um. Okay. Sorry.” He caught Fuyuhiko’s eye and mouthed what the fuck? Fuyuhiko wasn’t sure if Kazuichi was just now hearing the story or if he was confused by Nagito’s weird behaviour. He shrugged helplessly.

There wasn’t much conversation after that. You couldn’t really carry on your casual chit-chat right after somebody brought up their dead parents. Fuyuhiko kept an eye on Nagito. He was bolt upright in his seat, his eyes staring straight ahead, hands clasped so tight in his lap his knuckles bleached white. With his pale hair and ashen face, he looked like all the blood had drained out of him completely.

Their flight number was called far too soon, and Fuyuhiko dragged his motley crew to the right aisle, pondering where to put everyone. Kazuichi should probably be on the end if he’d be passing vomit bags to some poor stewardess. Fuyuhiko needed to be in the middle, so that left Nagito by the window. He’d have to keep the shutter pulled down.

Hajime passed them on the way to his own seat, and stopped short when he saw Nagito’s face. He leaned right over Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko, ignoring their complaints and curses, and took Nagito’s hand. “Are you alright? You look… off.”

“Don’t worry about me, Hajime.”

“Your hands are clammy.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. How disgusting for you,” Nagito said, smiling. Always smiling.

“That’s not what I meant… Look, do you want to sit with me?”

“Can we move it along please?” somebody called irritably down the aisle.

“You’re holding up the line, Hajime. Don’t worry about me,” Nagito repeated. Hajime looked like he was worrying dreadfully, but he was forced to move along. Nagito clasped his hands again and fixed his gaze on the seat in front, smiling smiling smiling. It was freaking Fuyuhiko out. He looked like he was wearing a mask and his eyes were the only real part of him, swirling with turmoil.

“Hey.” Kazuichi nudged Fuyuhiko’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Are Hajime and Nagito… you know. A thing?”

“Mate, you told me you’ve seen them leave Hajime’s cabin together in the mornings.”

“They could just be having a sleepover. As bros.”

“I don’t think it’s that, Kazuichi.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I don’t want Hajime to get a new best friend,” Kazuichi said.

Fuyuhiko sighed. “I think you’re safe.”

There was a pause. Then another shoulder nudge a second later. “So Hajime and Nagito? Seriously? Am I the only person on my own in this class?” Kazuichi muttered.

Fuyuhiko was spared from responding by the flight attendants starting the safety briefing, demonstrating how to use the oxygen masks and the life jackets in case of emergency. He had to admit, it was pretty eerie to think that you could, however unlikely it may be, crash into the ocean or need extra oxygen to live long enough to get to land. He glanced over at Nagito nervously. His arms were now curled across his chest, hands gripping his elbows. His head was bent, a cloud of puffy hair hiding his face. Maybe that was for the best.

“Can you try not to puke as long as possible?” Fuyuhiko whispered to Kazuichi. “I feel like I might have a situation to deal with.”

“I’m never trying to puke,” Kazuichi said, but he seemed worried too, glancing past Fuyuhiko. “Hey, Nagito, you doing alright?”

“Don’t worry about me, Kazuichi,” Nagito said, eerily calmly.

“That’s not the same thing as saying you’re fine, is it?” Kazuichi whispered to Fuyuhiko.

“He’s clearly not fucking fine,” Fuyuhiko snapped.

“Should I ask Hajime to swap?” Kazuichi asked.

Fuyuhiko nodded, but before Kazuichi could even undo his seatbelt, the plane jerked and started reversing out of the gate. Fuyuhiko heard Nagito draw in his breath sharply - then he was the one fumbling for his seatbelt, standing unsteadily.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Fuyuhiko yelled, catching onto the back of Nagito’s coat as he tried to clamber over the seats. “Sit down!”

“I’m afraid I need to get off,” Nagito said, voice still calm despite his frantic movements.

“It’s already moving, for God’s sake! Sit down before a flight attendant sees you!” It wasn’t hard to force Nagito back into his seat - he seemed light enough for a strong gust of wind to knock him over - and Souda hastily got the belt fastened again just as the plane rolled onto the runway.

“Okay. It’s fine. You’re fine,” Fuyuhiko gabbled, trying hard not to shout or swear or scream at all his classmates for making him deal with this. “Just sit still and… I dunno, plug your ears. The takeoff part is the worst.”

There was a cacophony of whirring as the engines roared to life and Fuyuhiko would be very grateful for all that noise in a second, because Nagito started to laugh. Dry, hysterical laughter, his eyes over-bright and manic, lips bared in that grisly parody of a smile.

“Has he lost his fucking mind?” Kazuichi asked, sounding genuinely frightened.

“You must really hate me, Fuyuhiko,” Nagito gasped. “To restrain me here… You must despise me.”

“I’m not restraining you!”

“Then let me off.” He locked eyes with Fuyuhiko and for a second the manic grin faded. “Please…”

The engines roared to a crescendo and the plane shot forward so quickly everyone was pinned to their seats with the force, zooming on and on until they could feel the entire structure lurch into the air. Kazuichi groaned softly, shutting his eyes, but Fuyuhiko was far more focused on Nagito. He had his eyes squeezed shut too, but his hand clamped hard onto Fuyuhiko’s arm. Really fucking hard. Shit, maybe Nagito wasn’t as weak as he looked. Fuyuhiko cursed as his terrified companion started digging his nails into his skin, actually drawing blood. The pain prompted Fuyuhiko to try prying the hand loose a little, but Nagito clamped on harder, carving several new scratches. Fuyuhiko didn’t dare attempt again; he’d get his arm cut to ribbons.

When the plane was flying high and the swirling, disoriented feeling had eased, Fuyuhiko checked on both men. Kazuichi had his head in his hands, but he gave a shaky thumbs up when Fuyuhiko prodded him.

“‘M okay,” he mumbled. “Got through takeoff. Gets better when it’s levelling out.”

“Right, good. Try to stay that way, yeah? I’ve got a lot to handle right now,” Fuyuhiko sighed. Nagito was still shredding his arm up, but he could feel one finger tapping for attention.

“What? What do you need? Please, no bullshit, Nagito. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do,” Fuyuhiko said. He was practically yelling in his panic, and the people across the aisle turned to glare.

It was several seconds before Nagito could gather enough breath to speak. Fuyuhiko saw that awful smile stretch across his face again, like somebody had twisted his frown the wrong way round. “Aha, I’m sorry to trouble you, Fuyuhiko, but I think I might be having a panic attack.”

“What?” Fuyuhiko felt like he was going to have a panic attack too. “Why? What’s going on?”

“I can’t seem to catch my breath. And the cabin has been spinning for several minutes.”

“Jesus Christ! Why didn’t you say anything?” Fuyuhiko hurriedly pushed Nagito’s head down as far as it would go before it bumped the seat in front. “Fucking… think of things you can see or something? Shit, I don’t remember.”

“Five things you can see,” Kazuichi chimed in. “Is he really gonna pass out? Hajime is gonna kill us.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill him for leaving this shit to us! How stupid can you get?”

“Ahh, I’m such a nuisance. If I’d known I’d react in such a shameful way, I’d have been sure to take a seat away from all the Ultimates. Why are you taking care of someone like me?”

“Nagito, shut up, this isn’t your fault,” Fuyuhiko said shortly. “Stop babbling on about ultimates and do the panic attack thing. Listen to Kazuichi, he knows how to do it.”

Nagito did as he was told, working through the grounding techniques with Kazuichi while Fuyuhiko held onto his shoulders feeling helpless. Nagito was shaking so hard it was difficult not to drop him altogether. He didn’t pass out, but even after the grounding Nagito looked far from what you’d consider calm. He was grey-white when Fuyuhiko carefully hauled him back upright.

“Are you okay..?”

The smile came back, though it seemed a lot more tired than manic this time. “Ah… I don’t think so, Fuyuhiko.”

“Well. At least you’re honest. Can you tell me how you’re feeling? Physically, I mean. Clearly I see you’re fucked mentally. And please stop smiling like that, you’re creeping me out,” Fuyuhiko said.

Nagito finally released his grip on Fuyuhiko’s arm, his nails coated with blood. He bent forward slowly, carefully, like he was terrified any sudden movements would send him spiralling again, and let his elbows rest on his knees. “I still feel slightly lightheaded. And nauseous. I’d still like to get off.”

Fuyuhiko examined the long scratches on his arm, sighing and mopping the blood with his sleeve. “Well, you’d have a long drop if you tried to get off now. You should cut your damn fingernails too. I’m going to get Hajime.” He turned to Kazuichi. “Watch him for a minute, okay? I don’t fucking care about drawing the short straw anymore, I can’t handle this.” Fuyuhiko scrambled over Kazuichi’s lap into the aisle, ignoring the flight attendant yelling for him to remain in his seat until the seatbelt signs went off.

“Hey! What did you mean drawing the short straw?” Kazuichi called behind him. Fuyuhiko didn’t look back.

“Hajime!” Fuyuhiko yelled when he was still more than six aisles away from the startled man. “You’re swapping with me!” He lowered his voice when he reached Hajime’s seat, but only marginally. “I can’t handle this. I don’t know how you expected Komeada to react to this shit, but whatever you thought, it’s worse. Way fucking worse. And I can’t help him. So go fucking do it yourself.”

“Well, I was going to swap as soon as the seatbelt signs were off,” Hajime said pointedly.

“I don’t give a shit. Look at my arm! Your fucking boyfriend nearly ripped it off at the elbow.” Fuyuhiko brandished his scratched, bloodied arm, and Hajime looked genuinely shocked.

“Oh my God…” He stood up hastily, clinging to the seats in front as the plane was still slightly off-balance. “I’m sorry, Fuyuhiko. I didn’t expect him to panic so much. He never said anything much about it when I asked.”

“Yeah, well, no offence, Hajime, but you can be as thick as three short planks sometimes. So if he implied anything, I don’t doubt you missed it,” Fuyuhiko snapped, taking Hajime’s empty seat - next to Chiaki, thank goodness. She hadn’t even looked up from her Switch this whole time. Perfect.

“I have taken some offence…” Hajime mumbled, then turned to go back down the aisle, trying hard not to catch the eyes of the other passengers staring like they were all part of a circus act. He was pretty sure the whole class was going to get banned from this airline. Gundham had been in trouble already for taking his hamsters out of their little travelling cage - several times. He was insulted by the insistence of the staff that all pets had to be contained, both by their labelling of his hamsters as mere pets and from their implication that his dark devas could ever be contained.

Hajime followed the sounds of more disgruntled passengers to Nagito’s seat. He was in the middle now, hunched over one of those white sick bags, while Kazuichi awkwardly patted his back. He looked relieved to see Hajime, beckoning frantically. “Come help me! I think he’s gonna spew. Weird that it’s not me for once.”

Hajime sighed, struggling to shuffle past his friends to get to Nagito’s other side, squashed by the window. Nagito didn’t acknowledge him. Hajime could see he had his eyes closed, his face strangely calm and smooth, though his breathing was erratic.

“Hey, Nagito? You hearing me?” Hajime called, tapping the other man’s pale cheek.

“Did I drive Fuyuhiko away?” Nagito said, voice strained. “I’m not surprised. To bother the Ultimates with the problems of an insignificant nobody like me.”

“Dude, shut up,” Kazuichi groaned. “Nobody thinks that. Stop being so weird. Fuyuhiko just doesn’t know how to look after people.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit up? I doubt you’ll throw up, you wouldn’t eat anything this morning,” Hajime said.

At that exact moment, almost as if to pointedly prove him wrong, Nagito made a choked retching sound and ducked his head down further, cringing.

“Oookay. Or not. Um. You’re okay,” Hajime muttered, placing a wary hand on Nagito’s hair to keep it out of the way. It was strange hair; soft yet thick at the same time, and it poofed up determinedly no matter how many times Ibuki tried him out with different hairstyles.

The seatbelt signs were now off, so Kazuichi stood up hastily, trying to shield Nagito from the people hurrying up the aisle to the bathrooms. Hajime was grateful, but part of him wished he could switch places with Souda. He didn’t think he’d be having to coach Nagito through something so strangely intimate so soon into their… relationship? They’d never come out and actually said they were boyfriends, not even to each other, but their classmates seemed to think they were a couple.

As Nagito really hadn’t eaten much of anything all day, the actual vomiting didn’t last too long, but the dry heaving continued for several agonising minutes, and the nausea remained indefinitely. But Nagito felt safe to lift him head, his pale cheeks dusted with pink. He smiled shakily at Hajime. “How embarrassing. I caused a scene in front of all these people. You must be lamenting the day you set eyes on me.”

“Stop,” Hajime sighed, taking the soiled bag and handing it to Kazuichi.

“Hajime!” Souda squealed, hastily handing it off to a flight attendant, who offered a bottle of water for Nagito in response. Her smile didn’t slip once. Hajime was impressed by her poker face.

“Drink,” Hajime prompted, forcing the bottle into Nagito’s hands. “I want you to try eating something later too. You’re going to pass out.”

Kazuichi sat down again, glancing at Nagito. “You feeling… okay now? Like as okay as you can?”

Nagito took a long drink of water, eyes blank. Then he smiled again, that strange, forced smile. “I really am pathetic, aren’t I? Causing such a dramatic spectacle over something that happened years ago. I don’t deserve such attention from the Ultim-“

“Stop!” Hajime took Nagito’s face in his hands, forcing him to meet his eyes. Hajime thought he saw something flicker in them, some semblance of an honest emotion. “Nagito, can you please stop trying to act like you don’t have feelings. I know you’re scared. And you know what? It’s okay. It’s completely fucking normal to feel like this right now. I shouldn’t have left you. That was me being dense, and I’m sorry. But you can stop pretending. It’s just me here - and Kazuichi, but he’ll understand too. He’s scared of everything.”

“I am not!” Kazuichi cried, outraged.

Hajime didn’t break eye contact with Nagito, both breathing heavily. Nagito glared back at first, his face twisting into a scowl, but Hajime didn’t falter.

“Let me in,” Hajime muttered. “I know you, for God’s sake. You’re not gonna scare me off. It’s okay to need help. Please.”

Another silence for several long, tense seconds. Then - finally, amazingly - Nagito made a soft frustrated noise, lunged forwards and wound his arms around Hajime’s neck so tightly that for a second Hajime thought he’d messed up so badly Nagito was trying to throttle him.

“Hey, careful,” Hajime said, but his voice was gentle and he didn’t try to pry Nagito off. Nagito let his forehead rest on Hajime’s shoulder, his hair falling to shield his face completely. Hajime snaked his own arms awkwardly around Nagito’s slender waist. He could feel Nagito shaking, feel the warm puff of his breathing against his shoulder. The shaking never eased, but as time passed the breathing seemed to calm slightly.

Nagito didn’t speak as he clung to Hajime for dear life. Not a single word. But Hajime hadn’t really expected him to. This was already a degree of vulnerability that Nagito was completely unaccustomed to showing anyone, let alone his almost-boyfriend, his classmates and an entire plane full of strangers. It was a good place to start.

Kazuichi watched them slightly bitterly. “It’s alright for some. I wouldn’t mind someone to cuddle up to,” he muttered.

“That’s your other talent. Ultimate Third Wheel,” Hajime quipped.

Their row of seats was reasonably peaceful after that, though Hajime could hear the laughter and yelling from their classmates further back. He hoped the sensible members of the group could stop them causing too much trouble. Hajime couldn’t go tell them to knock it off himself; whenever he moved at all Nagito would tighten his grip.

He sat there, hour after hour, until he had to pry Nagito off him for a bathroom break. It wasn’t easy. Nagito fought him and clung on as much as he could, though Hajime explained he’d be back in five minutes.

“Look, cling onto Kazuichi while I go pee,” Hajime suggested. Kazuichi didn’t look overly enthusiastic about that idea, but he didn’t protest.

Nagito sighed. He slowly drew back his arms, and whispered three breathy little words into Hajime’s shirt before he went, perhaps the most raw, vulnerable words Hajime had ever heard Nagito say: “Please come back.”

“I will. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured.

Nagito shifted shakily in his seat, turned to Kazuichi and lunged at him too, wrapping his arms around his neck. Kazuichi squealed and whined that he was being strangled, but he didn’t shove Nagito away. Hajime almost felt like they were new parents, passing their newborn between them: “I’ll hold him for a bit, you go to the loo.”

There was a queue for the tiny airplane bathrooms. Hajime stood impatiently, wriggling his cramped shoulders and rocking back on his heels; he was glad Nagito seemed to be trusting him more, but he was pretty stiff after sitting in the same position for hours.

Two women ahead of Hajime in the queue seemed to be having an animated discussion about something, and when Hajime caught the word “school” he started to listen properly.

“I don’t know what sort of school they come from, but they’re a strange bunch,” one lady hissed. “There’s an odd boy in the row ahead of me, one of that lot, who has a collections of rodents, all free from their cage! Running all over the seat trays! Well, that’s not very hygienic, is it? But when I told him as much, he gave me the most incredibly rude answer.”

“Young people have such foul mouths these days,” the other lady agreed.

“No, he wasn’t swearing. It was ever so strange, almost as if he was… well, you’ll think I sound silly. But it was like he was cursing me.”

It was a good job for Hajime that the toilet became available and the lady rushed inside, because he was biting his cheeks to contain his laughter. When he’d used the loo himself and gone back to release Kazuichi from Nagito’s vice grip, he recited the story for both of them.

Kazuichi laughed, poking Nagito gently. “There you are, Nagito. No need to worry. No matter how weird we are, we can always count on Gundham to be weirder.”

Nagito didn’t respond, but Hajime saw a hint of a smile - a real smile - on his lips before he buried his face in Hajime’s neck again.

[fics-n-stuff]

Home

Pairing: Kaz Brekker × Reader

Summary: Y/N and Kaz were once childhood friends, later reunited in the Barrel. After a business dealing went awry, Y/N has been in hiding for almost a year and the time apart has brought up a lot of feelings for Kaz.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: touch aversion, alcohol consumption

A/N: I haven't actually read SoC yet but I have done my research so I really hope I wrote Kaz accurately enough 🤞🏽 Let me know!! I left the reader gender neutral so all parties can enjoy 😁

Update: Pt 2 here!

You stared out of the window, watching the nightlife of the Barrel in full swing below you. It had been almost a year since you had been able to be a part of it all and, even though you had lived in Ketterdam all your life, you felt like an outsider now.

There was a knock on the door and you froze, head tilting to listen out for any threat. After a moment there was another knock, loud and heavy – certainly not the result of somebody’s knuckle hitting the wood. With a sigh, you stood up from the window ledge and crossed the room to the door.

Kaz was waiting on the other side, looking unamused as ever, and you waved him inside quickly and hurriedly shut the door behind him.

“I am one of three people that knock on your door, Y/N.” He said flatly, removing his hat and placing it atop your desk.

“I can’t be too careful, never know when someone might come sniffing around here.” You replied with a shrug. Kaz hummed shortly in acknowledgment before producing a small stack of envelopes from his coat. You snatched them from him eagerly, but careful to ensure that your fingers made no contact with his gloved ones.

“I’m getting tired of being your courier.”

“Well, I’m getting tired of being in hiding.” You huffed, leafing through your letters. “But I’d rather not walk around in a city where I’m actively being hunted.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten caught then.” Your head snapped towards Kaz at that, and you raised your eyebrows challengingly.

“I should slap you for that.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Kaz’s face remained largely unchanged but you could see the shine of amusement in his eyes.

You had first met Kaz as a child, while visiting family in the village where his family lived. He was a sweet child, and you had struck up a fast friendship in the few months you spent there. You had even written letters back and forth for a couple of years until one time you never got a reply.

When you met again years later, entirely by chance, Kaz was a changed person. Your family’s fortune had taken a steep downturn and you found yourself alone, living in a tiny room in a boarding house in the Barrel, when Kaz came across you pickpocketing outside the Crow Club. He had recognised you, but you hadn’t recognised him at first. Everything about him was so departed from the sweet boy that you had known as a child.

He refused to tell you what had happened to change him in this way. He never gave you a cause for the ruthless person he had become to climb the ranks of the Dregs and earn the name Dirtyhands, never even told you what had brought him to Ketterdam at all other than that his father had died. He never pushed you away though. Kept you at arms length, yes, but he never tried to dissuade you from sticking around.

The longer you knew him the more you realised that he wasn’t as cold as his demeanour portrayed. He was fiercely loyal, you could see it in the way that he was with his Crows, and you were certain that he would do anything to protect those he cared about most. You admired that about him.

“You don’t have to come, you know. You could send Inej with my letters, she already delivers me food.” You said, turning away at the realisation that you had been looking at each other in silence for a few seconds too long. You went to sit down, picking up the envelope from the top of the pile and pulling up the wax seal. Kaz didn’t respond for a long while. You tried to read your letter but found yourself distracted with anticipation of what he would say, if he said anything at all.

“I commend your commitment to your business.” He said finally, and you smiled at the compliment. “Eleven months trapped in this apartment and you’re still keeping up with it all.”

“Being in hiding is no excuse to get lazy. If anything, it gives me more of a reason to keep on top of things. Work keeps me sane and keeps coin in my pocket.”

“And how long do you intend to keep conducting your business through letters and underlings?”

“For as long as I have to, Kaz. You know that.” You answered with a quiet sigh, setting down the letter that you definitely hadn’t been reading and turning your head to face him again. You saw his jaw tense and the grip on his cane tighten, but you didn’t know what it meant. You were worried that somehow you had done or said something to upset him.

You had learned, in the few years since your reunion, that sometimes even the most seemingly innocuous things could put Kaz in a black mood. You had caught on quickly to the way that he avoided touch at all costs, and adapted your behaviour accordingly. He had still never told you why being touched triggered such a strong reaction in him, but he knew that you would always respect that fact.

It didn’t matter to you what traumas Kaz had suffered to create these traits in him, only that you knew how to navigate being in his space without violating his boundaries, because deep down you knew that Kaz was the most important person in your life. He took you in and offered you support when you needed it, given you structure and taught you skills to survive without even necessitating that you use those skills to serve his gang, all because of the friendship that you had shared as children. It didn’t matter how heartless people said the Bastard of the Barrel was, you knew that Kaz cared; perhaps not in the same way that you had come to care for him, but he did care.

“Maybe you should go, I’m sure you have work of your own to do.” You mumbled, your eyes drifting downwards anxiously. “And anyway, I have letters to read.”

“I could protect you.” He blurted. His voice was a little louder than usual, his tone less flat, and your brow furrowed in confusion and curiosity. “We could. The Crows, and the Dregs.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“But you’d have it.”

You turned fully in your chair, straddling it with one leg either side of the backrest, and leant your forearms on the top of it. There was something in Kaz’s eyes that you’d never seen before and, although you prided yourself on being able to tell how Kaz was feeling and what he might be thinking about, you couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Do you know something that I don’t?” You questioned.

“Of course not.”

“Do you suddenly not trust my ability to keep myself safe?”

“Nothing like that, Y/N.”

“Then what?” You rested your chin on your arms, looking up at him expectantly. He held your gaze, but you could see the cogs turning in his brain as he calculated his next sentence. You were preparing for an argument to start, so you certainly didn’t expect the words that came from him next.

“I’m concerned about how long you’ve been alone here.” He answered. You blinked.

“Concerned?” Your voice cracked a little with your surprise, and Kaz clenched his jaw as he averted his eyes from you.

“I just thought that maybe all this time on your own might have had some affect on you. And I... hold a certain sense of responsibility.” His voice never wavered or faltered, other than the one pause there was no suggestion in his speech that the words held any significance to him, but you could see the tension in his shoulders and the tight grip that he maintained on his cane.

You narrowed your eyes, taking a moment to examine his face and his demeanour. Everything about him was wound tight, like he was making a particularly tricky deal rather than talking to a friend – you hoped that he considered you a friend – and though he was looking in your general direction you noted his avoidance of eye contact.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were saying that you miss me, Mr Brekker.” You said, your mouth turning in a small smirk. You saw Kaz’s chest tighten as he silently took in a sharp breath, and you chuckled lightly. “I’m fine, Kaz. Inej visits often enough, and I’m happy to see you when you deliver my letters. I will say though, I miss drinking with your Crows.”

Truthfully, you did feel rather trapped in your tiny apartment. For almost a whole year your entire world had consisted of only three rooms, and even if you didn’t admit it you were going slightly mad. Not being able to leave was frustrating, and living your whole life in one room (because really, who spends that much of their day in the bathroom or kitchen?) made you feel like a caged animal.

He didn’t reply. He also didn’t move. You watched him, standing straight and stiff as ever in the middle of the room, for a few moments. Usually he would have said something or made a move to leave, so you knew that he was deep in thought about something. You slouched further down against the backrest of your chair.

“If you’re planning on sticking around then you should at least sit down.” You sighed. “I have some kvas, or whisky if you’d prefer.” Kaz shook his head no to the drink but made a move towards the window seat. You watched him cross the room and sit down, his grip remaining on his cane as he placed it between his knees. “What’s on your mind, Kaz?”

“It’s not important.”

“That can’t be true.”

“And why is that?” He questioned dully.

“Because you’re still here, with me, staring into space like you’re waiting for the wind to tell you a secret.” He looked at you then, and you could see a conflict swirling behind his eyes. You resisted the urge to furrow your brow in worry. He still didn’t say anything, and that didn’t do anything to ease your concern because Kaz Brekker was not often one to be at a loss for words. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes.” He murmured, his head nodding slightly.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” You asked softly. He looked into your eyes for a few seconds before turning his head away, clearly deciding not to answer. You were almost expecting him to get up and leave the apartment right then, remove himself from the uncomfortable situation like he had been known to do before, but he made no move to stand.

You stood instead, abruptly moving through to the tiny kitchen and pouring a glass of whisky for yourself. You took a long sip as you came back out into the living space, picking up a wooden staff on your way. You kept up your combat training while in hiding, though it wasn’t often that you got an opponent.

“Humour me, will you?” You smiled, spinning the staff in your hand and setting your drink down.

“There’s not much space in here.” Kaz commented.

“Then we’ll be careful. Get up and fight me, coward.” You goaded. He gave you an incredulous look but stood anyway, tossing his cane up and grabbing it at it’s middle as he came towards you. Your grin broadened, and you waited just until the was in your range before you swung at him.

Your staff collided with his cane, moved up just in time to block your attack, and he watched you with challenging amusement. You let him make the next attack, knocking his cane away when he swung it towards you.

You exchanged blows, each of you managing to block all of the other’s attacks but you were starting to corner him. It seemed like you were about to get the upper hand when he swiped his cane towards your middle, making you jump back, and before you could move to swing on him he had pushed the crow’s head handle into your chest, not so hard that it was painful but with enough force to knock you backwards.

You landed on the edge of your bed with a groan, letting the staff drop from your hand in defeat.

“No fair, your cane is basically an extension of your arm.” You grumbled. Kaz let out a short breath, the closest thing to a laugh that anyone could get from him.

“You picked the fight.” He shrugged, lowering his cane and righting it at his hip. “I could have told you that you wouldn’t win it.”

“Mean!” You exclaimed in exaggerated offense, sitting up. When you looked at Kaz his expression was soft, the worry behind his eyes seemingly eased, and you smiled. “I could beat you if it was hand to hand.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He replied, the almost compliment catching you by surprise once again.

It had been a while since you and Kaz had spent any significant amount of time together. He was a busy man, particularly so over the last few months it seemed, so other than his brief drop-ins to deliver your letters you hadn’t seen him. It was nice to have his company again, even if he was a little off.

“Do you remember those drawings of Ketterdam that I used to send you with my letters?” You questioned softly, tucking your knees up to your chest. “I used to walk around the city looking for spots to sketch. I’d spend hours sitting on the street with my pencils trying to get the picture perfect to show you what it was like. I think, now, you probably know the city better than I do.” You smiled wistfully, resting your head on your knees as you looked up at Kaz. You saw his Adam’s apple bob with a swallow.

“You miss it, don’t you?” He asked.

“Of course.”

“You could go out there, stop hiding. You know I would look out for you.”

“I can’t put that burden on you, Kaz.” You chuckled lightly. “Enough people want you dead already, you don’t need to be looking after me while I’m being actively hunted.”

“How long do you plan on staying locked in here then?”

“As long as it takes, we went through this earlier. I have a big deal coming up, with the money from that I’d be able to smooth over some edges and maybe I could come out of hiding in a few months.” You theorised. “I’d still have to watch over my shoulder all the time but it would be an improvement.” Kaz’s jaw tightened again, and he bristled with agitation.

You hugged your knees tighter, doubt and worry overcoming you. Was Kaz not okay with coming to see you here anymore? Was he trying to get you out of hiding to lighten the burden it had put on him, getting your letters delivered to the Crow Club and having to bring them to you? The thought of not being able to rely on his short visits was enough to fill your chest with a mixture of dread and guilt.

“Like I said before, you don’t have to keep coming if that’s the problem.” You added, hiding the dejection in your voice. “Inej can-"

“No.” He interrupted bluntly. You blinked, pressing your lips together in contemplation. Was he upset that Inej was bringing supplies for you? Or worse, had something happened to her? Was that what was bothering him so much tonight?

“Why not?”

“Because I-" He cut himself off. He took a step back as if regaining his balance, his gaze falling to the floor, and you watched him flex his fingers around his cane as he organised his words. “Do you remember how you got sick while you were visiting your family?”

“Kaz.” You murmured tentatively, craning your neck to try and get a better look at his face that was turned away from you. Kaz didn’t like to talk about the past. Even bringing up the letters that you sent each other had been pushing it, but for him to choose to talk about your childhood was something he had never done before. Still now, it looked like the mention of the past was making him nauseous as he moved to sit down in the window once again. Your curiosity was growing by the second.

“You got sick and you could hardly get out of bed for almost a fortnight.” He continued, dismissing your concern. “I went to visit you every day. I picked flowers for you to make you feel better, and your mother baked oatmeal cookies but I refused to have any unless you did because you weren’t eating enough.”

“I remember.” You nodded. “You never let my glass of water get empty. It was sweet. But why does it matter now?”

“I can’t... I can’t stop worrying about you. But unlike when we were kids, I can’t just walk up the street and check on you every day.”

You felt as if all the air had been knocked out of your lungs and for a second you genuinely wondered if you had made that up in your head. Kaz very rarely expressed any emotion – the mask he wore hardly ever slipped – but here he was telling you that he worried about you. For Kaz, that was practically him baring his soul for you to see.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” You said shakily. “I’ve been fine so far, haven’t I?”

“But what if you’re not fine for much longer? As long as you’re holed up here I can’t keep you safe, and I can’t come to check on you because if I come here too often people might notice. Honestly, it’s a miracle that they haven’t already.”

“I didn’t think you believed in miracles.” You mumbled. Kaz glanced up at you, and the vulnerability on his face was unlike anything you’d seen before. It struck you in the heart and made you feel a need to comfort him, to put him at ease. “I can take care of myself, Kaz. I promise."

He was silent for a moment, his gaze downcast once again, then he took a deep breath and spoke.

“I think I’ll take that drink now.”

You watched him for just a second before you got up, crossing over to your desk and picking up the glass of whiskey that you had left there. The glass was half full since you had admittedly poured a little too generously.

You held it out to Kaz, who reached for it without looking. Although you were careful to hold the glass at the very top, his gloved fingers still brushed slightly over yours as he took a hold of it. He immediately stiffened, and you were quick to pull your hand away, taking a step back to give him space. He downed the drink in one, his face scrunching just slightly at the burn it left in his throat as he set the glass down by his feet.

“I just want to be able to watch over you.” He said, his voice barely more than a whisper, and you could practically see how difficult it was for him to verbalise his feelings.

“I think... I understand what you mean, Kaz. But I’m safer staying here than being out there, even with the Dregs protecting me. You have to know that, right?”

Kaz pushed a peice of hair out of his face, his gloved hand smoothing over his head as he let out a long and quiet sigh. Finally, he looked up at you.

“I know.” He answered.

“I appreciate your concern though.” You smiled. “Honestly, I didn’t think you cared about me that much. Or, well, I knew you cared but I just didn’t think... nevermind.”

“You didn’t think what?” Kaz’s question made you pause, anxiety pooling in your chest as you contemplated coming clean about your feelings. You thought about lying, about keeping your secrets to yourself, but Kaz had been so sincere it only felt right to return his honesty. With a deep breath, you worked up the courage to finally tell him the truth.

“I didn’t think that you cared as much as I do.” You replied. The sentence hung in the air for a moment as you moved back to sit in your desk chair, heart pounding in your chest. “I’ve kind of found myself caring a lot, actually. I think it’s only fair, really. I mean, I kind of owe you my life and all so it makes sense that I care. That’s not to say that it’s sensible but it is at least understandable, I guess.”

You bit your lip to stop your rambling, dropping your head so that you didn’t have to look at Kaz. There was a long stretch of silence.

“I care more than I might show.” He spoke softly, much more softly than you think you’d ever heard his voice. When you looked up Kaz was gazing right back at you, your eyes locking and his stare going deep into your soul. He didn’t need to say more, that simple sentence and the look in his eyes were enough to tell you what he was confessing. A smile pulled at your lips.

“Be careful what you admit, Brekker, or I might think that you’re going soft.” You joked, and he shook his head lightly in amusement. You leaned forward with your elbows on your knees, letting go of the anxiety that had been coursing through you.

“I'm serious, Y/N."

“I know. You don’t make a habit of saying things that you don’t mean.” You nodded. You glanced up at the clock on your wall with a sigh. “You really should get going, it’s dangerous for us both for you to stay too long.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” He muttered.

He stood after a moment, his hand flexing over the crow’s head handle of his cane. You reached back to pick his hat up from the desk, and he held a hand out for it, but instead of passing it to him you placed atop your own head. It was too big, and you had to push it back on your head so it didn’t slide over your face.

“You know, I rather like you without the hat.” You smiled.

“Is that so?”

“Yep. I can see your face better this way so I can tell when your emotions manage to break through.” Kaz’s lips quirked upwards a little as he took the hat from your head and put it on his own. You jutted your lip out in an exaggerated pout and he let out a huff that seemed suspiciously close to a laugh.

“Do you have any letters you need me to send out?”

“No, not this time.”

“Alright, then I’ll be on my way.” He gave a quick nod and turned towards the door. He had only taken a couple of steps when you twisted in your chair and called after him .

“Kaz.” He stopped and turned back to you. “I’m doing what I can to get out of this apartment, I promise.”

“That’s not something that you owe me, Y/N. It’s your freedom and your safety. But I await the day that you come waltzing into the Crow Club ready to make Jesper lose all the coin in his pocket.” He replied lightly, making you smile. “And if you need anything then I’m here, all you have to do is ask.”

“Thank you, not just for this but for everything. Everything that you’ve given me since that night outside the Crow Club. I might be dead if it weren’t for you.” You let sentiment out freely, finally feeling able to show your heart to Kaz now that you knew that your affections weren’t one sided. His expression softened, and he seemed to contemplate something deeply, before he took a single step back towards you and held out one gloved hand.

You hesitated, unsure if he was initiating what you were thinking, but he maintained eye contact. He gave a small nod, a mix of permission and encouragement, and you tentatively reached for his outstretched hand.

Kaz took in a deep breath when your hand made contact with his, and you watched him carefully ready to pull your hand away. After a moment he released the breath, wrapping his fingers lightly around yours and running his thumb over your knuckles.

“You’re the closest thing to home that I have.” He croaked. “I didn’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t.” You affirmed. Kaz released your hand, and you found yourself missing the feeling of the leather glove. He took a small step back, trying to hide the shake in his breathing.

“I’ll come back soon, as soon as it’s safe to.”

“Okay.” You smiled. “I’ll see you then.”

Kaz left the apartment without another word between you, he paused before closing the door after himself just to look at you for a moment longer. You watched out of the window to see him leave the building and start off through the street, a broad smile on your face.

[writtenbykat]

Meet the Parents

My short little wip ficlet of Lily meeting the Potters, but her perfect evening is thrown off by the appearance of one Sirius Black, and his insistence on rehashing Lily and James’ tumultuous start to their relationship. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Potter, welcome! It’s so nice to meet you!” 

The Potters both greeted her with warm smiles and kisses to each of her cheeks; but when she looked up at a strangely silent James, his eyes were focused on something behind his parents, and a look of dread on his face. 

“What Evans? No kiss for me?” 

Sirius spoke in his usual boisterous manner as he moved past the Potters to brush a kiss on each of her cheeks as well. From behind her, James addressed his friend; “Pads. I told you not to come. Remember? I specifically told you not to come.” 

“Oh, I know you told me not to. But the house was so empty without all of you, and I know Evans would never turn away a stray.” His response was punctuated with an overdramatic, and insincere pout. 

He had come just to stir up trouble. She narrowed her eyes at him for a fraction of a second before giving her most saccharine sweet smile she could muster. “Of course not Sirius, the more the merrier.” 

---

“Prongs, remember when you wouldn’t leave her alone for an entire week fourth year, and she used her newly learned stinging jinx on you?” 

It seemed that now that dinner was over, and they’d indulged in some wine– that led to the numerous stories of the tumultuous nature of hers and James’ relationship. Namely, his poor attempts to snare her attention, and the ways she’d resolutely shut him down. 

“And remember fifth year, when you asked Evans to Hogsmeade, and she quickly turned you down with a goblet of pumpkin juice down the robes?” 

She cringed at that particular memory. It was one of the more rare times that James had attempted to ask her out without his typical fanfare. 

He approached her at the Gryffindor table, without his usual entourage. He stood behind her, silently, until Marlene had cleared her throat and gave a pointed head nod in his direction. 

“Yes Potter?” 

“Could I have a word, in private?” 

“I imagine whatever you have to say to me, you are fully capable of doing here,” she’d told him rather coldly. 

He shuffled in place, keeping his eyes firmly down towards his feet. 

“Iwaswonderingifyou’dliketogowithmetoHogsmeadethisweekend.” It came out as one word. 

“Sorry, I don’t think I caught that.” 

He cleared his throat and tried again. “I was wondering if you’d like to go with me to Hogsmeade this weekend.” 

This was the latest in Potter’s campaign to get her to go out with him. If he hadn’t been crowing in the halls, he’d been stalking her at meal times– and frankly she’d had quite enough. She’d demonstrated this with a goblet of pumpkin juice spilled down the front of his robes and a curt dismissal. 

“But nothing tops the Evans silent treatment of sixth year!” Sirius crowed, bringing her back to her present torment.

The blood drained from her face, and she couldn’t get rid of the lump in her throat. 

“Sirius–” James started

“No, it was amazing! I have never seen one person ignore another with such conviction. Took commitment Evans!” 

The silent treatment he referred to was, of course, the distance she’d endeavored to put between them following his stunt by the lake at the end of fifth year. But she really didn’t want to hash that out in front of James’ parents right now. 

Sirius, of course, either didn’t know or didn’t care; and launched into the story of how Lily had essentially given James the could shoulder for the better part of a year. 

Just as the story was reaching its peak, Lily found that she could take it no more. She couldn’t sit next to James and hold his hand, as her misdeeds were reported to his parents. She murmured an excuse about fetching more wine and rose from the table blinking back embarrassed tears, and ignoring James’ questioning glance. 

She quickly closed the door to the pantry and took several deep breaths. She knew she and James had taken a while to get to where they were now; but hearing the stories strung together, one after the other, was too much. She was awful. He had always had feelings for her, and she had shut him down at every turn. His parents probably hated her. She hated herself, listening to the stories from the boys’ point of view. 

Straightening herself out, she grabbed the bottle of wine she had ostensibly come in here to get. Her fingers had barely brushed the neck of the bottle, when the sound of another round of raucous laughter made her jump, knocking the bottle to the ground. 

He found her in the pantry, the bottle of wine she’d gone to fetch at her feet in shatters. 

“Oh, Lily,” he murmured, drawing him in against his chest. 

He dried her face with his sleeve, and pressed a comforting kiss to a forehead. 

“James, darling, could you join the boys in the dining room?” 

They both started apart as Euphemia poked her head into the pantry. 

Great, now James’ mother probably wanted to tell her exactly what she thought now. She steeled herself to face the verbal lashing, she rightly deserved. 

“I know my son isn’t perfect,” Euphemia started, “but I’m quite proud of the man he’s grown to be.” 

“I know. He–” 

“Though I am proud of the man he’s become, I am not unaware of the absolute terror he no doubt was at school.” She waved off Lily’s protests. “We received more letters than I care to admit from the headmaster and the head of house about our sons’ behaviour.” Lily didn’t miss how she casually lumped Sirius in as one of her own. 

“That is to say, my son has been a bit of a prat up until recently, and I think you are a large reason as to why he’s finally decided to grow up. I hold no ill-will towards you Lily, darling, in fact I rather commend you on how you’ve dealt with them over the years. He is stubborn in his convictions, and it would take someone of equal strength of conviction to impact any change on James Potter.” 

“And I don’t mean to scare you, dear, but if things continue much in the way I think they are, I more than eagerly anticipate welcoming you to the family.” 

This is 100% a work in progress, but i’m trying this thing where I actually post the things I write- even if they aren’t “ready”. I’ve had this one in the works forever and a half trying to get it ‘Perfect”, but here we are.  

[betterdaysareatoenailaway]

RANDOM REVIEW #2: ANY GIVEN SUNDAY (1999)

“This game has got to be about more than winning. You’re part of something.”  Any Given Sunday (1999), directed by Oliver Stone and featuring Jamie Foxx, Dennis Quaid, Cameron Diaz, Al Pacino, LL Cool J, James Woods, and Matthew Modine, is my favourite sports movie of all time. Of all time.

I’m not betraying my favourite sport by saying this. The Mighty Ducks is a kid’s movie. It’s okay, but it’s not a timeless classic. I don’t like the Slap Shot series, Sudden Death is fun but silly, and the Goon movies were a missed opportunity. The only truly good scene in Goon is the diner scene where Liev Schreiber tells Seann William Scott: “Don’t go trying to be a hockey player. You’ll get your heart ripped out.”

  Such is the sad circumstance of the hockey enforcer. They all want to play, not just fight. Here’s a link to a video in which the most feared fighter in the history of the NHL, Bob Probert, explains that he wanted to be “an offensive threat...like Bobby Orr,” not a fighter: https://youtu.be/4sbxejbMH4g?t=118 Heartbreaking. But not unusual.

Donald Brashear, Marty McSorley, Tie Domi, Stu “The Grim Reaper” Grimson, Frazer McLaren: they all had hockey skills. But they were told they had to fight to remain on the roster, so they fought. As Schreiber says in the film: “You know they just want you to bleed, right?”  If the players don’t bleed, they don’t get to stay on the team. So they fight, and they pay dearly for it later. Many former fighters have CTE or other head injuries that make day-to-day life difficult. The makers of Goon should have taken that scene and run with it. I was so disappointed they didn’t, especially given what happened right around the time the film came out, with the tragic suicides of Wade Belak, Derek Boogaard, and Rick Rypien, all enforcers, all dead in a single summer. So Hollywood hasn’t even made a good hockey movie, let alone a great one. Baseball has a shitload of good films, probably because the slower pace of play makes it easier to film. Moneyball has a terrific home run scene, Rookie of the Year does too. Angels in the Outfield was a big favourite of mine when I was a kid, plus all the Major League films, and Bull Durham. 

Football has two good movies: The Program (1993) and Rudy (1993).    

And football has one masterpiece. The one I am writing about today.

A young Oliver Stone trying not to die in Vietnam. ^ Now, I know Stone is laughed at these days, given his nutty conspiracy theories and shitty behaviour and the marked decline in the quality of his films (although 2012’s Savages was underrated). I know Stone is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but do you want a football movie to be subtle? Baseball, sure. It’s a game of fine distinctions, but football? Football is war. And war is about steamrolling the enemy, distinctions be damned, which is why Any Given Sunday is such an amazing sports film. I love the way it shows the dark side of football. In fact, the film is so dark that the NFL withdrew their support and cooperation, forcing Stone to create a fictitious league and team to portray what he wanted to portray.

This is not to say the movie is fresh or original. Quite the opposite. Any Given Sunday has every single sports film cliché you can think of. But precisely because it tries to stuff every single cliché into its runtime, the finished product is not a cliched mess so much as a rich tapestry, a dense cinema verite depiction of the dizzying highs and depressing lows of a professional sports team as it wins, loses, parties, and staggers its way through a difficult season.  Cliché #1: The aging quarterback playing his final year, trying to win one last championship. (Dennis Quaid) 

Sample dialog: Dennis Quaid (lying in a hospital bed severely injured): Don’t give up on me coach. Al Pacino: You’re like a son to me. I’ll never give up on you. ^ I know this sounds awful. But it’s actually fuckin’ great. Cliché #2: The arrogant upstart new player who likes hip hop and won’t respect the old regime. (Jamie Foxx) 

Cliché #3: The walking wounded veteran who could die if he gets hit one more time. Coincidentally, he needs just one more tackle to make his million-dollar bonus for the season. (Lawrence Taylor) 

Cliché #4: The female executive in a man’s world who must assert herself aggressively in order to win the grudging respect of her knuckle-dragging male colleagues (Cameron Diaz). Diaz is fantastic in the role, though she should have had more screen time, given that the main conflict in the film is very much about the new generation, as represented by her and Jamie Foxx, trying to replace the old generation, represented by Al Pacino, Dennis Quaid, Jim Brown, and Lawrence Taylor. Some people think Diaz’s character is too calculating, but here’s the thing: she’s right. Too many sports GMs shell out millions for the player an individual used to be, not the player he presently is. “I am not resigning a 39-year old QB, no matter how good he was,” she tells Pacino’s coach character, and you know what? She’s right. The Leafs’ David Clarkson signing is proof positive of the perils of signing a player based on past performance, not current capability. Diaz’s character is the living embodiment of the question: do you want to win, or do you want to be loyal? Cuz sometimes you can’t do both.

Cliché #5: The team doctor who won’t sacrifice his ethics for the good of the team (Matthew Modine).

Cliché #6: The team doctor who will sacrifice his ethics for the good of the team (James Woods) 

Cliché #7: The grizzled, thrice-divorced coach who has sacrificed everything for his football team, to the detriment of his social and familial life, who must give a stirring speech at some point in the film (Al Pacino…who goes out there and gives the all-time greatest sports movie “we must win this game” speech) 

Cliché #8: The assistant or associate coach who takes a parental interest in his players, playing the good cop to the head coach’s bad cop (former NFL star Jim Brown). 

Best quote: “Who wants to be thinking about blitzes and crossblocks when you’re holding your grandkids in your arms? That’s why I wanna coach high school. Kids don’t know nothing. They just wanna play.” 

Cliché #9: The player who can’t stop doing drugs (L.L. Cool J).

Okay, so the first thing that needs to be talked about is Al Pacino’s legendary locker room speech.  Now, it’s the coach’s job to rile up and inspire the players. But eloquence alone won’t do it. If you use certain big words, you lose them (remember Brian Burke being endlessly mocked by the Toronto media for using the word “truculent?”). The coach must deliver the message in a language the players understand, while still making victory sound lofty and aspirational. This is not an easy thing to accomplish. One of my favourite inspirational lines was spoken by “Iron” Mike Keenan to the New York Rangers before Game 7 against the Vancouver Canucks in 1994. “Win tonight, and we’ll walk together forever.” Oooh that’s gorgeous. But Pacino’s speech is right up there with it. 

“You know, when you get old in life…things get taken from you. That’s parta life. But you only learn that when you start losin’ stuff. You find out…life’s this game of inches. So’s football. In either game – life or football – the margin for error is so small. I mean…one half a step too late or too early and you don’t quite make it…one half second too slow, too fast, you don’t quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They’re in every break of the game, every minute, every second. On this team, we fight for that inch. We claw with our fingernails for that inch. Because we know when we add up all those inches that’s gonna make the fuckin difference between winnin’ and losin’! Between livin’ and dyin’!” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_iKg7nutNY  Somehow, against all odds, Any Given Sunday succeeds. It is the Cinderella run of sports movies. You root for the film as you watch it. The dressing room scenes are incredible…the Black players listen to the newest hip hop while a trio of lunkhead white dudes headbang and scream “Hetfield is God.” There is a shower scene where a linebacker, tired of being teased about the size of his penis, tosses his pet alligator into the showers where it terrorizes his tormentors. There is a scene where a halfback has horrible diarrhea, but he’s hooked up to an IV so the doctor (Matthew Modine) has to follow him into the toilet cubicle, crinkling his nose as the player evacuates his bowels. There is a scene where someone loses an eye (the only scene in the film where Stone’s over-the-top approach misses the mark). There are scenes that discuss concussions (which is why the NFL refused to cooperate for the film), where Lawrence Taylor has to sign a waiver absolving the team of responsibility if he is hurt or paralyzed or killed. I wonder how purists and old school football fans reacted to the news that Oliver Stone was making a football film. If they even knew who he was (not totally unlikely…Stone made a string of jingoistic war movies in the 1980s) they probably thought the heavy hands of Oliver would ruin the film, take the poetry out of every play. But the actual football is filmed perfectly. The camera gets nice and low for the tackles. It flies the arcs of perfect spiral passes. It shows the chaos of a defensive line barreling down the field. When Al Pacino asked quarterback Dan Marino (fresh off his own Hollywood experience acting in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective) what it was like to be an NFL QB, Marino said: “Imagine standing on a highway with traffic roaring at you while trying to read Hamlet.” A great explanation. Shoulda made the movie. So the football itself is fabulously done. Much better than what Cameron Crowe did in the few football scenes in Jerry Maguire. The Program had some great football, as did Rudy, but neither come close to the heights of Any Given Sunday. In one of the film’s best scenes, Jamie Foxx insists that his white coaches have routinely placed him in situations where he was doomed to fail or prone to injury, and we believe him because white coaches have been doing that to Black players for decades. Quarterback Doug Williams, who led his Washington Redskins team to a Superbowl victory in 1987, was frequently referred to by even liberal media outlets as a “Black quarterback,” instead of just “quarterback,” as if his skin colour necessitated a qualification. Even now, in 2021, the majority of quarterbacks are white, although the gap is gradually closing. The 2020 season saw the highest number of starting Black quarterbacks, with 10 out of a possible 32.  Quarterback is the most cerebral position on the field, and for a long time there was a racist belief that Black men couldn’t do the job. Foxx’s character is a composite of many of the different Black quarterbacks who came of age in the 1990s, fighting for playing time against white QBs beloved by their fan base, fawned over in hagiographic Sports Illustrated profiles, and protected by the good ol’ boys club of team executives and coaching staff. Foxx’s character isn’t demoted because he can’t play the game. He wins several crucial games for his team en route to the playoffs. He’s demoted because he listens to hip hop in the dressing room, because he recorded a rap song and shot a video for it, and because he’s cocky. Yes, the scene where he asks out Cameron Diaz is sexist, as if her power only comes from her sexuality, not her intelligence and business acumen, but it’s meant to show how overly confident Foxx is, not that he’s a sexist prick. Any Given Sunday isn’t a single issue film. It’s basically an omni-protest piece. It gleefully shows football’s dark side, and there is no director better than Oliver Stone for muck-raking. He’s in full-on investigative journalist mode in Any Given Sunday, showing how and why players play through serious brain injuries. How because they are given opiates, often leading to debilitating addictions (this happens in all contact sports...Colorado Avalanche player Marek Svatos overdosed on heroin a few years after retiring from injuries). As to why, Stone gives two reasons. One, team doctors are paid by the team, not the players, therefore their decisions will benefit the team, not the players. And two, the players themselves are encouraged to underreport injuries and play through them because stats are incentivized. James Woods unethical doctor argues with Modine’s idealistic one because an MRI the latter called for a player to have costs the team $20k. But the player in question, Lawrence Taylor, plays anyway because his contract is stat incentivized and if he makes on more tackle he gets a million dollars. Incentivizing stats leads to players playing hurt. And although I loathe this term, a lazy go-to for film critics, Stone really does give an unflinching account of how this shit happens and why. When Williams is inevitably hurt and lying prone on the field, he woozily warns the paramedics who are placing him on a stretcher to “be careful…I’m worth a million dollars.” It’s tragic, yet you’re happy for him. The film really makes you care about these guys.  Thanks to the smartly written script, the viewer knows that Williams has four kids, and you’re pleased he made his bonus because, in all likelihood, after he retires, his injuries will prevent him from any kind of gainful employment (naturally, they give the TV analyst jobs to retired white players, unless Williams can somehow land the coveted token Black guy gig). Stone is not above fan service, a populist at heart, and he stuffs the film with former and then-current NFL players, a miraculous stunt given the fact that the NFL revoked their cooperation. Personally, I think this was a good thing because it meant Stone didn’t have to compromise (the league wanted editorial say on all issues pertaining to the league…meaning they would have cut the best storyline, which is the playing hurt one). It also meant that they had to rename the team and the league. While I’m sure this took away from the realism for some fans, I’m cool with it. It also allowed the moviemakers to name the team the Sharks, a perfect name for this roving band of predatory capitalist sports executives. In another example of fan service, the call-girl Pacino’s quintessential lonely workaholic character rents a girlfriend experience from is none other than Elizabeth Berkley of Showgirls, who had been unfairly blacklisted after the titular Verhoven/Esterhaz venture, a movie my wife showed me one day while I was dopesick, which I became so transfixed and mesmerized by that I forgot I was. As mentioned above, the only misstep in the film is one of the offshoots of the Playing Hurt arc, where a player loses an eye on the field. Not because he gets poked, but because he gets hit so hard his eye simply falls out. A medic runs onto the field and puts the white globe on ice. Stone cast a player with a glass eye in order to achieve this effect. No CGI! Still, the scene is unconvincing, a tad too over-the-top. But this is Oliver Stone. At least Any Given Sunday’s sole over-the-top moment is a throwaway scene lasting all of thirty seconds. It easily could have been a secondary plot-line in which government officials try to sneak a Cuban football prodigy out of Castro’s communist stronghold but the player is brutally murdered the morning the officials arrive at his apartment to escort him to the private plane. Or else the team GM is revealed to be a massive international cocaine dealer. Or the tight end is one half of a serial killer couple. The film follows its own advice, focusing more on the players growth, particularly Beamon’s (Foxx). The anonymity of the title, Any Given Sunday, elevates the game, not the players. Thank God, the movie doesn’t force Beamon to assimilate into Pacino’s mold. He buys into the team-first philosophy without renouncing his idiosyncratic POV or his fierce individuality. This is a triumph. One of my biggest problems with sports is the flattening effect it can have on creative individuals. Players take media training in order to sound as alike as possible during media interviews, a long row of stoic giants spouting cliches. It’s boring. Which is why media latch onto a loudmouth, even while they scold him for it. All sports are dying for an intelligent mouthpiece who can explain his motivations in a succinct, sound-bite-friendly, manner. Sports are entertainment. As much as I love Sidney Crosby, in my heart I have to go with Alexander Ovechkin because Ovechkin is far more thrilling, both on and off the ice. Unlike almost every other NHL star before him, all of whom were forced to kneel and kiss Don Cherry’s Rock Em Sock Em ring, Ovechkin defiantly told the media he simply did not care about Cherry or Cherry’s disgusting parental reaction to one of Ovie’s more creative goal celebrations (called a “celly” in the biz). On the play in question, Ovechkin scored the goal, then dropped his stick and mimed warming his hands over it, as if his stick were on fire. As cheesy as the celebration appeared to the naked eye, it’s both a funny and accurate notion. Ovechkin was the hottest scorer in the league for many years and his stick was on fire, metaphorically speaking. The only celly I can think of that matches up in terms of creativity and entertainment value came from Teemu Selanne in 1993, who scored a beauty of a goal, threw one of his gloves straight up into the air, then pumped his stick like a shotgun while “shooting” his glove. Of course, Cherry took exception to it. Cherry’s favourite goal celebration features Bobby Orr putting his head down and refraining from raising his hands over his head. Cherry’s idea of an appropriate goal celly is no celly at all. This from a man who claims “we’ve got to sell our game.” But when an arrogant player shows up and he’s not white, he’s in for a shitload of bad press. Foxx’s Beamon illustrates this beautifully when he yells at Pacino after Pacino cuts him for an older QB who has lost four games this season. “Don’t play that racism card with me,” Pacino warns. “Okay…okay…” Foxx nods, “Maybe it’s not racism. Maybe it’s ‘placism’…as in…a brother got to know his place.”

Here is the original theatrical trailer, featuring Garbage’s classic “Push It.”

Above Lawrence Taylor begs Matthew Modine for Cortazone.  There’s also a great scene where Pacino is trying to figure out where he has gone wrong and Diaz just looks at him. “You got old,” she says simply. No enterprise is more cruel to an aging human being than sports. And this movie makes football a big giant corporate machine that chews players up and spits them out, injured and drug addicted, after four or five years. Those who play for a decade are lucky. This is still how the NFL works. And the NHL is increasingly becoming a young man’s game. Experience matters less and less.

When I started watching hockey in the 90s, players regularly competed into their late 30s. Not so anymore. Players peak at 23-24 now, and are often out of the league by age 35. Thornton and Chelois are exceptions, not the rule. After more than two hours, Any Given Sunday finally lurches across the finish line, bravely refusing to give its viewers a traditional happy ending, in the great tradition of underdog sports films like Rocky and Rudy. The bombshell dropped by Pacino’s character at the end feels less surprising than inevitable, but by now the movie has explored so much of professional sports' seedy underbelly that you're glad it's over. The film is great but exhausting. Stone seems to be advancing the notion that the sport itself is pure, but the people in it are corrupt. If money weren’t involved, the game would be played for its own sake.

I agree with this. People playing pond hockey are engaging in wholesome fun, not necessarily practicing to make a professional league. Commerce corrupts the purity of the game, and the extent to which it corrupts is directly proportional to how badly the individual in question needs the commerce. Of course, the sport is highly racialized, with people in positions of authority white, and those being told what to do with their bodies Black.

Any Given Sunday is an important film, but it never sacrifices entertainment for the sake of moralizing. That it pulls off such a strong moralistic stance is a testament to the actors, who are all incredible, and the material, which is among the strongest of Stone’s career.

He never really made a great movie after this one. So check it out sometime.

[mimssides]

Life on Crow Avenue: Part 3

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“I swear to god, Patton, if you’re going to flirt with this man for the whole evening, I’m going to change tables,” Logan complained anew and shot Patton a dirty look.

Patton nudged the smaller man in the side and shook his head with a big grin.

“Come on, Lo” he said barely defending himself, “I’m not that bad.”

“You have been talking about this Remus since you saw him outside two days ago! What is it about this man that riles you up so much? The moustache? The absence of any body fat? The terribly orange beanie?”

Patton snickered and watched his friend before taking a deflective sip from his drink. He liked Remus’s moustache and thought that he was generally good looking and also could get behind the fashion statement of terribly orange beanies. But it was not what attracted him to the man. It was something else. Something sad and forgotten, something that usually attracted him in men.

And yet Remus was somehow different. He was odd and bold enough to speak freely without restriction, but then again was so patient and kind with his customers. Even when speaking with him, there was kindness in the core of his words. Something so gentle and hidden by so much loudness and a façade which Patton believed Remus did not want to hold up at all.

But probably Logan was right and Patton was all over his head again. It wouldn’t be a first and he turned to look to his friend, who was checking something on his phone. Logan was quite a bit shorter than him, had short orderly slicked back dark brown hair and wore a black turtleneck pullover and dark navy slacks. This particular outfit was meant for night outs, and Patton was very fond of it. It just was so nice seeing him not wear his tie and even put in contact lenses instead of his glasses. Not that he not liked the rectangular glasses of his friend, he just knew that it was a form for Logan to dress up, make himself feel a little special and Patton appreciated it that he did that every single Friday when they went out together.

Patton loved their Friday night outs. He loved the atmosphere of the little bar, the dark brick walls, the creaking floor, the posters of Jazz legends, he had never bothered to look up. Jazz music played pleasantly in the background through and Patton sat in their usual corner booth with Logan, where he had a general overview of the whole bar. It was always fun to do people watching here and the bartender, James, knew both him and Logan all too well. Patton always made an effort to go and talk with him, when it got late and most patrons had left for the night.

But now Patton looked over to the band at the other side of the room. Janus sat his chair, usual yellow shirt, black waistcoat and the black suit jacket hanging over the back lean of the chair. He was speaking with a few of his band colleagues and looked as suave and charming as ever. He had not been the worst man to have a fling with and Patton did not regret that one night at all.

Then Patton checked the time and glanced over to the door. It was about time for them to show up. Patton was certain they would. No doubt.

But it was almost half past seven and Patton started to feel a little nervous since-

Just then the door opened and two men entered, one with a not so orange beanie, who was clearly looking for him. Patton smiled widely and yanked his hand in the air to catch Remus’s attention. He probably had not needed to do that as Remus had started grinning before he had begun to wave and pulled his companion towards Patton and Logan’s table.

Quickly, Patton nudged Logan in the arm not looking away from the two men. He had seen them both from afar in their work attire but this hit quite differently. Remus wore make-up and a different beanie than this afternoon. And his clothes were so fun and colourful! And he wore pink shoelaces!

Meanwhile, next to him, Logan was about to ask what Patton was so excited about when he spotted the two men from the florist shop. The one in front was Remus, Logan recalled. He looked a little less pale than he remembered and seemed to have cleaned himself up quite a bit. He looked almost presentable; Logan had to admit to himself.

The man behind ought to be Roman. Remus had told Logan so at least at the opening, since the other had been occupied with some middle-aged women, who had come to inspect the new flower shop in town. Next to each other Roman and Remus looked rather similar and Logan’s suspicion that the two were related grew. Yet before he could muse longer the two had reached the table and Patton slid out of the booth to stand up and greet the pair.

“You made it!” Patton exclaimed happily and pulled Remus in a hug.

Logan rolled his eyes, as Roman’s expression changed from a surprised one into a smug one and he crossed his arms casually.

“I said we would, Poppy,” Remus said just as joyously when they parted and stepped to the side to introduce Roman. “Ro, this is Patton. Patton this is Roman, my brother. Think, I didn’t mention that before.”

“Figures that he’d forget that. Hello Patton! It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Roman greeted the tattoo artist with a wave followed by a light bow of his head.

Patton made a funny face but then grinned and said: “Pleasure is all mine, Roman! You’ve met Logan here before?”

Roman and Remus turned their attention to the small man behind the table, who simply nodded at the two. Roman smiled cordially and Remus smirked with mischief glittering in his eyes.

“That’s the guy, who’s glared this terrible woman down who was complaining about the little pride flag we have on the counter! Never saw someone turn around and walk away so ridiculously like her in my whole life!”

Remus grinned and Logan just stared at him in slight disbelief. How could this man believe that this was an acceptable way to start a conversation?

“Oh, now I get behind why you said Lo has rage in his eyes! If that was the first thing he did when you two first met, he’ll definitely made an intimidating first impression!” Patton said oddly cheerful.

And as both men in their colourful attires stared at each other, Logan exchanged a look with Roman who seemed to be just as frustrated as him. Then Roman gave him an apologizing shrug and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“You know, you could just have said that he had come to the opening instead of mentioning - this woman first thing when we get to know new people. Anyway, I’m sorry for his behaviour, Logan. He has little filter in his best day and less than none at his worst,” Roman tried to smooth the tides with the bookstore owner.

Logan raised his eyebrows and looked form Roman over to Patton, who did not seem to understand what the whole fuzz was about but looked concerned ever the less. Certainly, he had sensed Logan’s unpleasantness by now which was probably the source of his concern.

But then again, Logan had been insulted far worse in his life than by this misplaced comment from a strange man in an eye staining outfit. He did not need to concern Patton just because of one jab that did not really sting and ruin their Friday jazz night with it.

“It is quite alright, Roman. I’ve been insulted worse before,” Logan said and put his glass up to his lips to take a drink.

“Lo-” Patton started but was promptly cut off as Remus took the word.

“Insulted? That wasn’t by any means an insult! That was rad! I would have loved to listen what angry words flew through that big brains of yours as you glared her down, but am kinda grateful that you held back and didn’t make a scene at our opening day. Would have been bad for business, I guess.”

Taking a sip had not been the smartest move, as the liquid now was stuck in Logan’s throat. Only with great control he managed to swallow it and then cleared his throat, immensely grateful for his darker complexion, so the strange florist could not see his flush.

“Well in that case,” Logan uttered in the hope to play his awkward pause down, “excuse the misinterpretation. Yet I do not see how my actions were in any way remarkable or “rad” as you put it.”

Remus shot him a lopsided grin and then looked over to Patton who shrugged in response. The tattoo artist then started sliding back into the booth and motioned Remus and Roman to sit with them. Remus was quick behind Patton, as Roman took the seat to the edge of the table next to Remus and gave the place a look through.

“Well, to me the whole thing was totally rad! You’re an interesting guy and the pastel cutie, here -” Remus patted Patton on the shoulder – “only kept mentioning you, so I’m even more curious!”

Logan’s demeanour shifted and with something that could have been interpreted as amusement and raised his eyebrows and looked to Patton as he rested his chin on his hand.

“Well, I can’t miss a chance to show off my best friend, can I?” Patton said a little sheepishly.

Logan rolled his eyes as Remus quirked up his eyebrow. That stoic façade of the bookshop owner broke down quickly. There must be some history in between the two of them, Remus suspected but did not get to muse longer about his whim, when Roman nudged him in the arm and let out a gasp.

Both Patton and Logan looked curiously over to Roman who now turned to Remus. Quick he pointed over to the jazz ensemble at the other end of the room and asked: “Which one of them we’re here to see?”

“Guy on the chair with the saxophone, if my eyes don’t betray me,” Remus answered and shot a quick look over his shoulder to Patton to confirm that he was indeed right.

“Yes,” Patton said and set his arms on the table, “that’s Janus right there.”

As the name fell Roman’s eyes lit up and he looked back to the man on the chair for a moment.

“Janus, you say? Funny.”

“Yeah! J-anus is a really funny name!” Remus cackled and promptly earned a heavy shove into the side by his brother.

Offended Roman glared at Remus, who rubbed his arm, blinked a few times before it dawned on him and he let out a groan.

“I did not mean that!” Roman hissed and pressed his lips together as Remus nodded with an annoyed expression.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it now. But since when are you falling for guys you’ve seen from like a 50 feet distance? You’re usually a lot pickier.”

“I’m not picky! I have taste,” Roman said smugly and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Also, I’ve already seen him today. However, I didn’t think we’d meet so soon again.”

Roman’s voice trailed off as he turned back to look at the man with the saxophone. He did not look over to their table but was intertwined in a conversation with the bassist and the banjo player, talking smoothly and readjusting the hat on his head. Patton had seen him like this many times. This was the most relaxed but also the most enthusiastic they usually got to see Janus and he could see very well, why Roman was so fascinated with the man. Patton himself had been charmed by his flair and charms as well but somehow, he doubted that Roman really understood what kind of man Janus was. What was kind of character he had beyond the persona, which he played so well.

“Oh, apparently today we’re honoured by the Virgil’s presence,” Logan ripped Patton out of his thoughts and he looked over to the bar’s entrance.

The brother’s turned to see about whom they were talking and spotted a thin, tall man entering the bar. He had an undercut and the black hair on top of his head was braided in small braids, in which some purple beads were woven in. He wore a black hoodie with purple sleeves and black leggings with a spider net pattern on it, as well as a pair of black sneakers. He seemed nervous, looked around and froze for a moment when he noticed the twins sitting next to Patton and Logan.

Patton knew instantly that he was thinking about just turning around and leaving again, but as he started waving, the tall man sighed and continued walking towards them. As he came closer Patton smiled happily and greeted him warmly: “Virgil! It’s so nice of you to join us tonight!”

Virgil rolled his eyes and only barely managed to make fleeting eye contact with the brothers, as he took the chair next to Logan and then focused back on Patton. Roman and Remus assumed that he was a bit younger than the two other men and they themselves. Probably something around twenty.

“Yeah, yeah, Pops, hello to you too. Promised uncle J to come by tonight. Thought, I could not always turn him down,” Virgil replied and fumbled on the wood at the edge of the table.

“That is very nice of you! Do you think you have two more greetings for our guests in you?”

Had anybody but Patton asked this question, they would have come off as sarcastic and belittling. But the tone the tattoo artist used made it crystal clear that he was genuinely asking for Virgil to greet Roman and Remus properly.

Virgil sat up a bit and squinted over to the brothers. He scrunched his nose a little to which Roman leaned back while demonstratively crossing his arms in front of his chest, as Remus tilted his head curiously.

“Sup’? I’m Virgil. Good to see ya and stuff,” Virgil mumbled and looked down on his fingers.

Promptly Remus started to chuckle and scratched his nose. This man was a mess. And Remus loved to mess with messes.

“Hello, beanpole! I’m Remus and this is my brother Roman and you look as excited to be here as a fish slowly drying out in the desert. So, how does it come that you got your ass out of your hole and sit here with four old geezers like us, huh?”

“We’re not old!” Roman protested offendedly as Logan supressed a snort and Patton just pressed his lips together.

“To this one? We’re probably ancient,” Remus slurred and shot a look to Virgil.

Virgil frowned and said as he shook his head: “How old do you think I am? Twelve? None of you are old, evil Luigi.”

Remus laughed at the comment and slammed his fist on the table while doing so. Virgil shot a look over to Patton and Logan who both did not know what exactly was so funny to the florist. Meanwhile Roman simply buried his head in his hands. He loved his brother but there were days when he just wanted to end him on the spot.

Yet before anyone could say or do anything else, the playlist from the loudspeakers stopped and was replaced by the jazz ensemble on the other side.

And Roman forgot to be annoyed at his brother and just glanced over to the little ensemble, which started playing. Jazz was not what he usually listened to. He was not sure what instruments belonged into a jazz ensemble and on the top of his head he couldn’t recall any jazz musician except for Louis Armstrong. But that could not bother him any less at the moment. Not when he felt himself drift away and get looped into a rhythm that felt a little otherworldly to him.

Remus noticed quickly and grew quieter. It has been a long time, since they had been at a life music event and he did not want to ruin that for his brother. Logan too seemed rather captured by the music and Remus kept his voice down as he started to converse with Patton for a bit. A few minutes in Virgil said he’d get a few drinks and asked Remus if he wanted something as well, who then asked for a beer and any sweet mocktail they served. Virgil nodded and got their drinks, as the music played and time passed.

Waiting for their drinks Virgil leaned against the bar and watched his uncle play, before he glanced over to their table. When was the last time he had someone seen stare so smitten at his uncle? And why did this particular guy have to have the weirdest man for a brother? What was it with Janus and his ability to draw chaos into their lives with his stupid flings?

Virgil’s beer came and he took a sip and sighed. Maybe he’d find out tonight, he thought, and took the two other glasses and went back to their table.

___

@aprincehasgotoslay

@varthandi

@sickeningly-deceitful

@sammy-is-obsessed / @exhaustedfander

@unoriginalgayboyalex

@alexisrealgay

@softie-sushi

@wolfs-feder

@just-a-neoclassical-painting

For this fic:

@frawkeye

@arodynamic-enby

@espepspes​

@ladysuperheros

@bullet-tothefeels

@fukindork

@shadeofadye

@magic-but-its-green

@liv-is-a-fander

@croftersjam15

[tyronebeerbohm]

He and every other competitor who reached the semifinals advance to the state tournament, which begins May 18 in Lexington.

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[formulatrash]

hey hazel i know you said you're swamped so seriously no obligation to answer but do you have any thoughts on will buxton's recent chronic inability to stop digging himself into holes, esp on twitter? i'm not so much of a buxton-hater as a lot of people i've been seeing but he has been dropping the ball constantly as of late. what's up with him

Hmm, well. I want to couch this in saying I think some of Will’s meltdowns have been truly appalling (the ‘racism is now about me’ one, in particular) and that however nice and human compared to a lot of F1 people he seems, he does come from an enormously privileged background. I really like Will - but I think it is worth acknowledging both that his behaviour goes well beyond having a bad day sometimes and that one of the reasons he’s been able to present a personable, friendly attitude in the paddock is that he’s from a class where that’s a comfort zone.

I really empathise with him at the minute. He’s been quite publicly open about struggling with mental health issues and this year has been really difficult for most of us in the industry, especially freelancers. Losing the thing your life revolves around is a major disruption, especially when doing your work in it is what gives you a sense of reward and worth and idk if that’s the problems Will’s having (I’m not his psychologist) but I know it’s hit me and other people in motorsport really hard. Like what do you do, wait? Give up on the thing you’ve been fighting to stay in for so long (and it’s always a bit of a wrestle) - and then to go back in weird, stressful circumstances is hard too. 

But I think what gets to Will is what gets to me, too, which is just like skull-caving-in overwhelmedness at the internet. If you can’t post anything without a million people jumping on you then it’s really hard to tell if you’ve actually posted something bad or if it’s just the standard pile-on, which lets things escalate into the sort of Dick Tantrum incident* which was like, mostly harmless but all got a bit silly. (the person arguing with him was also being genuinely unpleasant and brought Will’s daughter into it, which is very uncool)

And I see the things that used to drive me mad when people asked me about when And We Go Green was coming out and I’d be like “I don’t know, I’m not the production company, I don’t know anything please stop asking me it’s not funny” because I was worried about it myself. So when the F1 show moved from YouTube to wherever (as far as I can tell it’s still on YouTube) and a load of people were moaning at Will, whose job it is to present it not schedule it, I really sympathetically winced. Like it’s hard enough having work at the minute, let alone being held responsible for all of FOM’s decisions.

There’s also just a sort of assumption that media people are invincible. Like there’s these irrelevant anime fanboys I should spend absolutely 0% of my brain ever thinking about on Twitter who are convinced I hate men because I don’t think fangirls should be bullied for liking Lando Norris or think their shit edge lord memes are funny. I should not care about this, it shouldn’t bother me and the more I let it the more they crow about getting rent-free space in my head and like. Fine, you fuckers, you have managed to irritate me. Because I’m just trying my fucking best and having a seriously bad time doing it and when I was on an upwards career trajectory I could ignore it but right now everything feels like a kick. Like if I can’t get the jobs, do I have to take the bullshit?

When I got people nitpicking my Tumblr I stopped posting here because it made me so miserable. I had to basically get off the whole internet because I was so wound up because if I had an up moment and said something enthusiastic, it felt like it would get chewed out and dissected and disapproved of. And I’m nowhere near as famous as Will, obviously so I do get that he feels very under it.

And he loves being online and interacting with people and being able to be meme-y and jokey and a bit more human and sympathetic than some other presenters, a little less hardline masc in the traditional F1 sense than the strict shirts-and-slacks Sky Sports team. So when that then turns into something miserable it’s like well how much fucking more of me are you going to take: I can’t work or work is complicated, can’t tool around online...

So yeah. I do get that Buxton is Going Through It. And I’ve used examples of me there because I don’t know what’s going on in his head and I’d rather not speculate but to give you an idea of how it is. 

Will’s a nice person, he’s not as educated on social issues as, idk, me or Chainbear or whoever but he is a long way ahead of a lot of F1 and I also get that it’s been very distressing in the last few months having to argue with colleagues and discovering the true, unpleasant colours of people you know. 

So I have a lot of sympathy for him. I have to walk away from the internet a lot at the minute, which is really hard when we all live on it all the fucking time and it’s like ok taking a break to maybe speak to friends and oh fuck here I am again in a Grandpa Simpson taking his hat off gif loop.

Anyway, short version: lot of people really going through it right now. I really hope Will can get some support and also maybe someone to do his social media for him for a bit, which sucks because he obviously enjoys it but like, I think I would if I was in a position to right now. Even though people’d probably phone the police in suspicion I’d been kidnapped when my tweets started being spelt right and shit.

*Dan is literally called Dick Tantrum in the paddocks and by his engineers so Will was actually right that it’s a nickname. Not a nice one but there it is. 

[maggyme13]

Why Licking (7/?)

Why Licking-Masterlist

Masterlist

part 7

The next time you saw the dwarf, his eyes had changed. No longer did he look at you with pity, but with pure disgust.

You did not know what was worse.

Azog was a monster who had killed and raped hundreds of women before you, you knew that, he had killed your father right before your eyes, and yet had he never harmed you; not as much as he could have.

He had cared for you.

Once your inner heat and cravings had subdued, you started to feel even more conflicted.

Now that you were purely willing, Azog used any possibility to either sleep with you or bring you to your own release; though always careful that no other orcs were around to witness him claiming his mate.

You were no longer afraid of him, and became to enjoy these times as well and a few times even started one of those times.

You were just returning from your quarters , where you had relieved yourself (Ankarth as always at your side), when you noticed that Drago had returned.

But he wasn´t alone. A handful of women kneeled in front of the pale orc as well, one even offering herself to him it seemed.

The male himself was taking a good look at her, his eyes roaming her exposed body and you felt jealousy rise.

Until know he had been yours.

You could not stand the view and thoughts that came with it, and decided to not join him- for now- and started for a way to escape.

Finding it in the form of the other pale orc you knew: Bolg.

“Bolg.”, you whispered submissively and not looking him in the eyes, “Can you take me outside to get some air? I am not feeling well and I don´t want to interrupt Azog´s meeting with Drago.

The orc in question looked you over, trying to find out what might be wrong, before nodding and grabbing the rest of his meat he had just been eating.

“Come. Ankarth, go back to Azog.” , he growled, though you only had been able to figure out the meaning of the first word during your time here.

     Bolg took a position on your right, walking you to the hidden walkway Azog used to bring you to.  

     The warg had reluctantly walked back to her master.  

     For an hour you watched the stars, trying to calm your thoughts. With passing time, you noticed Bolg staring at you and so you sighted.  

“Thank you, Bolg. I feel better now.”, you lied, already walking back to the hidden doorway.

“You are a bad liar.” ,he chuckled, but otherwise kept quiet.

     Back in the great hall, Azog was still speaking to Drago, the woman still in front of him.  

     I can´t run from this.  

“(y/n), where have you been?”, Azog growled, motioning for you to take your usual seat at his side.

“I was not feeling well, so I asked Bolg to escort me outside to get some fresh air.”, you answered truthfully, having a feeling what he just had demanded to know.

The woman sneered at you, her eyes burning with hate. You were in a place she wanted to be in.

The male orcs eyes flickered over you, trying to figure out what had been wrong with you.

Greeting Drago with a curt nod, you began to scratch the white warg behind her ears.

“Drago has returned with his riders and bought presents with him.”, the leader rumbled into you ear, motioning at the larger orc and the woman in front of you.

     The dwarf had been brought to the smithies earlier that day.  

     Please no more slaves. Especially not her.  

“He brought you clothing as well. It was already brought to our chambers.”

His eyes kept wandering to the prisoners in front of them, an evil glint in them.

“What do you think we shall do with these slaves. I promised some to Drago and his men. He offered us one-”, he rumbled and even though you couldn´t understand him, you had a strong feeling what he wanted, due to his body language.

“I don´t want them.”, you told him in a hushed tone, at once fearing you had crossed a line, “I – I mean, there won´t be any use for them. Why not gift them to your men as a reward.”

     His silence was deafening, until a deep rumble vibrated through his chest. He was laughing.  

“You heard my mate. See it as a reward and once you and your men are finished send one or two of them to the kitchens to serve there until you need them again.”

“Yes Azog. My men and I will enjoy your mate´s generous gift.”, the wargskin wearing orc growled, and at once did his orcs grab the women and dragged them through the cheering crowed.

     The one that had tried to woo Azog was silent, though her eyes set with anger towards you. She had heard what you had said.  

     Once you were alone with the giant orc again, you felt the jealousy leave your system with every passing second.  

     You felt his hand move around you side and not a second later you were seated in front of him; his chest strong and warm against you back. His mouth was pressed against your scalp.  

“I know why you did this. Fear not, for I chose you as my mate. Her behaviour just amused me, for she thought she could play me. You will be the only female, as I am your only male. Maybe I need to remind and show you.”, he licked his mark, “The day was long. Come, we will retire to our room and I will remind you of your place at my side.”

Having already learned the words for what you assumed were `your room´, you figured he wanted to leave for today.

Standing up, you walked by his side to your chambers where you found a huge pile of clothing laying on the table.

You felt exited about looking what had been brought for you.

Azog at once got rid of his armour and prosthetic, only to return at your side; his hand was roaming over your body to the hem of your shirt to lift it over your body and leave you naked in front of his eyes.

Arousal burned through your veins and you leaned into his touch.

“You became so responsive since we first met. Join me in the bath, and then I want you to show me what Drago brought for you.”, he caressed your body, almost worshipping your mere existence, “Why should I chose that woman over my own Mate? You were made for me. I don´t want anyone else and one day you will carry my offspring. But for now I will just enjoy having you.”

  It was the next morning.

You laid snuggled against the male´s chest and side.

The Dwarf was still sleeping in his corner (he had returned later that evening and you made sure he was well fed).

“What has you thinking?”, Azog kissed against your skalp.

“I can not understand what you are saying, but you seem to understand me.”

“I understand you just well. But can not speak your tongue. Do you want to learn our language? I will teach you happily.”

“Can you teach me?”, you breathed, your fingers trailing his muscles and scars, earning yourself a soft purr.

His hand took a hold on your blossom.

Laying on his back beneath the furs, his member was visibly erected and you felt arousal gather between your legs; you had come to like riding him, and straddled his hips. A approving growl left his throat.

Rolling your hips, your coated his member with your natural lubrication, before letting him slide into you- very slowly.

“What you are calling me- mhm- what does it mean?”, you moaned.

“Mate?”

“Yes that one. What are you calling me?”

“Mate. Mine.”, he growled, his hand reaching above your chest and then moving to his.

“Love? Partner?- mhm.”

“No.”

“Wife?”, you asked further, “Yours?”

“Yes. Mine.”, he growled, moving to a sitting position, changing the angle of his member inside of you in the process.

“Ohhmhmmm.”, you moaned, letting your head to a rest on against his chest.

     Your breathing became more and more laboured.  

     His hand tangled into your hair, pulling and exposing your neck and his mark to him.  

“Mine.”, he growled one more time before his teeth embedded themselves into your skin, drawing blood and him cuming inside of you.

     Your release followed soon after.  

“You smell even more delicious than usual,”, he breathed into your ear, “I can not keep away from you.”

He stood behind you, while you got dressed into one of the new dresses. His hand and mouth never leaving your skin.

The whole morning he kept touching, licking and nibbling at your skin. A bulge beneath his loincloth.

He could not take his hand of you and when you felt his seed from the morning session leave your body, his whole behaviour changed.

His hand cupped your mound, his prosthetic lifting your dress on your backside and pressing you against his middle. His erection pressed against your core.

 Is he going to take me in front of all these orcs?

“Azog, wha-”

“So delicious, your scent. I will show everyone who you are. I have to have you now.”

Not able to comprehend what was going on, you only realized he had pulled his loincloth aside, when his dick entered you. He kneeled behind you, pushing you to fall forward.

Relentlessly he pounded into you, with such a force, your arms gave out beneath you and your chest rubbed over the furs. Your lose hair covering your eyes.

The orcs hand had a painful grip on your hip, you knew would bruise.

With a roar he emptied his balls, only to sit down again- still inside of you.

“No. We will stay like this.”, he rumbled when you wanted to slip off him.

Embarrassment and heat rose in your face; his little need had caught the attention of every single orc and now the whole cave was staring at you and their leader.

Whimpering in discomfort under their gazes, you felt humiliated even more than the first time Azog had seen you naked.

You wanted to run and hide.

“One more time.”,he growled ,”Than we will go to watch the new wargs. Maybe we can find you your own.”

He hadn´t even stopped talking when he once more pounded into you in front of everybody.

Unbeknownst to you, did this strengthen your place within the orc. With his mark and him claiming you like this, were you proven to be his mate and almost like a queen to them. If anyone would try to harm you, every single orc would come to your protection. Would you give orders, they would follow them.

Now you were really untouchable.

What you did not know, was hoe important that would be in the future.

Finally Azog slipped out from beneath you, straightening your skirt again, before gently pulling you to your feet.

He guided you through the crowed of bowing (?) orcs and into the larger entrance cave.

In the distance you could see the sun shine through the hole in the wall.

Wargs were running freely, and you even saw a mother with a young litter.

 Cute.

It was that female you walked towards, another orc joined you soon.

“Hello Azog. This litter is promising. The father is Grey Fang. Drago´s Warg. They will be strong and loyal, and ready to be trained within the next three moons.”,the new orc stated.

     The mother warg looked manacing, though she tolerated you standing this close to her and her pups. She was of an beautiful brownish-red colour, with her eyes being the colour of honey.  

     She is so beautiful.  

 The pups were of different colours: one looked like it´s mother, two were grey and one was almost black with dark grey dots.

 It was the last one who was the most curious, it tabbed towards you, its head held high in interest.

 You just wanted to coo of cuteness, when its sharp baby-teeth embedded themselves into your calve.

“Ouch!”, you jerked away, unfortunately ripping your skin open in the process. It whined and tumbled away, rolling over it´s back and making itself as small as possible. The mother growled threateningly, making a step towards you, but stopped once she realized no harm had come to her kid.

“That pup will be trained for my mate. It will make a good protector.”, Azog ordered, smiling at the small warg.

“I will see to it.”, the other orc nodded, bowing his head. Their conversation was deaf to your ears. Your own concentration on the pulsing pane in your leg.

     How sharp are these baby-teeth? By the Valar.  

“Show me your leg.”, Azog rumbled, reaching for your leg, “It is not deep, but needs cleaning. Come I will take care of it in our quarters.”

Part 8

[randomrainman]

american conservatism and the minds of people: a black man’s perspective.

Hi, it is I.

I often think long and hard about the mind states of the people around me, and my inevitable conclusion is that the vast majority of people are monumentally and irrevocably fucking stupid.  As it turns out, people have a really hard time letting go of things with which they have grown familiar or fond, and therein lies the basic principle of conservative thought.  

“But aren’t some things okay to keep?”

Well, obviously, not everything needs to be thrown out in order for improvement to occur.  In the Army, we have things labelled “sustains” and “improves”.  The two terms are pretty self-explanatory (as are most things in the military): sustains are the things that work, and the improves are the things you either completely nix or need to, erm, improve.  Of course, this begs a question: as it relates to a society of living, (mostly) breathing human beings, how does this apply?

"Don’t throw out the baby with the bath water,” it is commonly said.  I am not entirely sure who was throwing away bathing children, but that’s a discussion for a different time.  The baby in this idiomatic expression is whatever it is we are supposed to be maintaining.  Let’s start with an example: police.

Obviously, it is entirely infeasible to literally abolish police.  We absolutely need the police force as an institution, and good and effective policing is a pillar to a modern, functional society.  However, we can abolish unprofessional, unnecessarily violent, racist, or otherwise unbecoming behaviour from police departments, and also demonstrate that such things are intolerable and met with appropriate punishments every time these rules are broken.  NWA didn’t make “Fuck The Police” because they wanted to express interest in having thoroughly arresting cop sex; it exists because they don’t trust the police.

Above: An Autistic Swedish dude spitting shockingly accurate commentary-by-proxy about American society. Flames!

Due possibly in part to dubiously worded slogans such as “defund the police”, modern conservatives balk at the thought of changing anything of significance about how policing in many communities in the United States is conducted, even going as far as to label the reform for which we call as an attack on the very idea of police.

That said, historically, the very pillars of police forces in the United States have their foundations in slavery and post-slavery racist institutions, which means that, while much has changed on the surface, the way police implement policy reflects structural and societal racism.  As a result, simply attacking individual instances of misconduct will almost always fail to elicit any meaningful progress, which is why some do seek to dismantle police departments (an option I cannot fathom as being realistic, especially not in the short term). 

The lack of a centralised police organisation from which to implement policy certainly does not help, and while some police departments, to include the Department of Justice itself, have introduced implicit bias training, it would appear that change was difficult to measure. Additionally, many police departments have not addressed the more overt problem of explicit racism in law enforcement, which is a nigh-impossible thing to tackle expeditiously without a top-down structure to deal with it. It has improved steadily overall, however, but not without significant disapproval...

Pictured: “disapproval”.  A civil rights demonstrator is attacked by a police dog in Birmingham, Ala., in 1963. (Photo credit: AP)

The Origins

As I noted earlier, there is plenty of shit people want to keep, and most for relatively understandable reasons -- after all, those things provide a sense of familiarity.  “It’s always been this way -- why change it?” they ask.  One needs only to look at our, um, flowery history to see countless examples of things that required change...

The transatlantic slave trade transported up to 12 million forcibly enslaved Africans to the Americas, many of whom arrived in what is now the United States.  As unspeakably horrifying as the actual journey was, this was only the beginning of the tribulations that would befall the slaves and their descendants in the future.

While Europeans played a large part in introducing the idea of race-based caste systems into colonised lands, the American brand of discrimination is different in the fact that the idea that Blacks and Native Americans were genetically inferior to whites was endemic to our inception, and thus, formed the basis of the things enshrined into American democracy.

Photo credit: Alexander Gardner / Wikimedia Commons

Abraham Lincoln entered the chat.

Naturally, having someone even so much as threaten the idea of racial dominance after literal fucking centuries of treating Black people as property did not sit well with the slave-owning populace (even if Lincoln’s motives were not exactly altruistic).  While the Southern states did in fact operate an agrarian economy heavily dependent on chattel slavery, it was that notion of superiority combined with societal comfort they felt that ultimately catalysed the secession of the Southern states from the Union...

Pictured: Civil War reenactors (from the Confederate side) simulate the Battle of Antietam, the bloodiest battle in US history.  Also, why the fuck is Civil War reenactment a popular thing to do? It’s deeply weird. (Photo credit: MPRNews.org)

...and then they decided to have the deadliest fucking war in American history over that comfort.  Spoiler alert: the Confederates lost both the war and their precious bullshit institution of slavery -- but even after the Emancipation Proclamation was issued, many Southern slave owners did not even pass the news of freedom to their slaves for months.

In keeping with the preservationist and racist mindset which occupied most Southerners’ brains, any attempt to integrate Black people into society during the Reconstruction period was stymied at every turn.  To them, despite Black people being de jure full citizens in accordance with the Civil Rights Act of 1866, we were still subhuman.  Due to Jim Crow laws, Ku Klux Klan terrorism, and other assorted nonsense, we made virtually no progress toward equality until the Civil Rights Movement and resulting laws such as the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and the Fair Housing Act of 1968.

“Well, you got what you wanted!  YOU’RE EQUAL!  Quit yer bitchin’!”

Ah, if only things worked that way in real life.  As previously noted, even if things are codified into law as changes, there are still people who try really hard to keep everything exactly the fucking same, so it does not end up happening in practice.  Things such as residual effects of redlining and continuing disproportionate and excessive imprisonment of minorities, amongst other issues, still affect people in the present day. In other areas, people exploit loopholes in order to lawfully discriminate against others they might deem “undeserving”.

Lots of things, especially when it comes to role of minorities in society, have historical precedents.  When arguing said precedents with conservative types, the conversation almost always leads to one of several (predictable) conclusions: the person believes that 1) negative historical events (e.g., slavery, Native American genocide, etc.) were not that bad; 2) those things did not happen at all; or 3) those things were bad, but somehow do not affect modern society.

Obviously, all three are emphatically wrong.  This is why typical conservative behaviour, even in this modern era in which information sharing is instantaneous, does not surprise me: often, the rhetoric is not rooted in reality, and often resorts to appeals to emotions to elicit a knee-jerk response.  This is not to say that this does not occur on liberal ends of the spectrum, but modern conservative rhetoric is rooted primarily in unjustified fear of change and anti-intellectualism.

Pictured: A screenshot I took of someone on a pro-President Biden post desperately trying to be oppressed.

This kind of shit is utterly exhausting.  Neoconservatism, in a nutshell, is people literally inventing problems and subsequently getting angry at their own creations.  It is the equivalent of setting up a bear trap, immediately stepping in it, and wondering why the fuck you’re stuck in said bear trap and your foot doesn’t work anymore. During the Obama administration, the only thing I would witness is people insisting (without any evidence, of course) that President Obama was the Antichrist and that he would usher in the New World Order and take everyone’s guns.  All zero of those things happened, of course, but when Donald Trump assumed the presidency, the rhetoric completely reversed, and he was named “God’s chosen" by evangelical figures, despite him having broken perhaps all of the Old Testament’s Ten Commandments.  Of course, as you can see with the above screenshot, clearly, they have returned to the Obama bitching method, but diminished, partially because President Biden is also an old, white male, and they don’t need to ask where he was born.

Pictured: what happens when you fuel millions of self-victimising people with QAnon conspiracy theories and possibly loads of Bang energy drinks.  Photo credit: ABC News

The hypocrisy is absolutely palpable amongst these types of people, and if I tried to sit here and continued to provide examples of conservative figures contradicting themselves, I would die either of old age or myocardial infarction, whichever happened first. The difference in the reaction to Black Lives Matter protests versus the storming of the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021 makes the double standard quite transparent: justice and equality, while technically codified into law, are clearly are not administered equally in modern-day America.  We’re still not like the others.

Our brand of conservatism, by and large, is the enemy of those two very important American ideals.

|the kid|